She stood her ground a moment longer, sick of running and hiding. But trusting to the killoren’s instincts, she fell in step behind him, dashing into the shadows beyond the moonlight and the glowing flames. He led her to a curving spiral of rock, like the abandoned shell of something from the sea, and crawled inside cautiously. She waited impatiently at the opening, still looking back to the fire above and searching for Uthalion or Brindani to appear at any moment, but finding neither.
“Where are they?” she whispered. A shower of sparks danced toward the stars as some part of the old farmhouse collapsed. Cursing, she made to follow the killoren when she heard something crashing toward her. Muffled curses seemed to answer her own as the human and the half-elf rolled and slid into view.
Coming to a sprawling stop, they coughed and swore. The edges of Brindani’s cloak smoldered with sparks that he quickly beat into the dirt with a free hand. Smirking, Ghaelya ran to them, helping Brindani to his feet as Uthalion groaned and stood, bleeding from his shoulder and choking on swallowed dust.
“Well,” she said. “No one will ever accuse you of being graceful.”
“Fire …” he croaked, unable to say more as a fit of coughing overcame him, managing only a brief sign of “thumbs-up” before pressing an already bloody hand to the wound on his shoulder.
“Perhaps that will get them off our trail for a bit,” she said. Brindani limped at her side as she led them to the spiraling cave where Vaasurri waited, the fey’s eyes constantly on the sky.
“You do not know the half of it,” the killoren said grimly as they crawled inside the smooth-walled cave. Like a sea-shell, the walls were smooth and almost glassy; the evening breeze passing through the spiral made an excellent imitation of a rolling tide. Ghaelya leaned her head close to the entrance curiously.
“What is the rush?” she asked “The dreamers aren’t following. We should-”
“Listen,” Vaasurri said, cutting her off and placing a finger to his lips.
Reluctantly, she did as he asked, intending to give the fey a moment before renewing her argument. But the faint sound of beating wings sent chills down her arms. Wide-eyed, she leaned forward, watching as trees and bushes across the ravine shivered. Tiny blue-white lights blinked through the foliage, glowing brightly and launching themselves into the air, drifting up to the roaring flames. Large, pale insects crawled from beneath the bushes as the droning of wings grew louder. Thick mandibles clacked below multi-faceted eyes. Soft wings, their span as long as Ghaelya’s forearm, spread wide as the insects took flight, careening madly into the heat and smoke above.
“Bone-moths,” Uthalion whispered, grunting slightly as he bandaged his injured shoulder. “They use lightning fires in the spring to lay their eggs. And given half a chance, they’d chew through your arm.”
Ghaelya shivered at the thought of it, but could not turn away from the glowing swarms of white light streaking through the air.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, then tore her eyes away, leaning back into the little cavern. “Now what?” she asked.
“Dawn,” Vaasurri said before anyone else could answer, shooting a swift glance at Uthalion, who muttered and shook his head. “We sit tight until dawn. There are bigger wings in the dark than just moths.”
The dreamers bounded up the hill, whining low in their thick throats as they responded to their master’s summons. Their sparse fur rustled in the breeze, and their heartbeats were synchronous beats of muffled thunder as they settled in the cool grass, far from the roaring flames of the farmhouse.
Sefir knelt in the grass, wheezing in pain and attempting to catch his breath. The painful light of the roaring flames was little more than a glow at his back, and he could still feel it screaming across his skin, burrowing through his skull. Bent double, he gagged, spitting up streaks of blood across the green blades of grass. His stomach heaved even as his skin itched with its continuing change. Whimpering softly, the dreamers gathered around him, warily watching as waves of agony flowed through his limbs.
Quiet, wracking sobs left him near helpless as the blessing of the Lady and the song spread through him like an infection, settling upon him in his moment of weakness to make him stronger.
“I failed you,” he muttered shamefully, feeling unworthy of the gifts that had been bestowed upon him. Several dreamers growled, baring their teeth and creeping toward him like the wolves they resembled, as if sensing his weakness. Sefir quickly straightened, facing them though he was not yet brave enough to open his aching eyes. “Back!”
The command turned them away whining, a simpering mewling tone that only served to feed the impotent rage burning in his chest. Collecting himself, he stood, wavering on his feet and stretching his changing anatomy. New growths writhed on his back, constrained by his robes, and he shuddered at the acute sensation of touch they delivered. Rubbing his jaw and baring the strong needle-teeth that had pushed through, he caught a faint sound of buzzing from the south.
He smiled grimly, imagining the black wings that made the sound, far larger than the annoying moths immolating themselves in the burning farmhouse. Laying his palms upward in supplication, he spoke to the voice that filled his every waking thought, the music that lived in every part of him.
“To Caidris I shall travel then, my Lady,” he said and spread his hands to the assembled pack of dreamers, “We shall greet them beyond the lowlands and embrace those that survive through the valley of black wings. It is her will.”
Relief flooded through him, certain that his failure had been part of the Lady’s grand design all along and pleased that he could be of service. Khault had known, had told him as much, and Sefir felt blind for not seeing the truth. Attempting to open his eyes again, he winced, his left eye still fresh with a pain that was maddening. He pressed his palm over the closed lid feeling the tight thrum of the pulse behind the darkness in his sight, the veins squirming at his touch as if reaching for release.
Sighing in understanding, even smiling, he reached up and placed a dirty fingernail against the soft flesh beneath his eye.
It gave way to his strength easily, in a ritual he had imagined ever since the first soft touch of his Lady’s spirit had graced him. The pain was a price he willingly paid, eager to step closer into the fold of the Choir. Rolled clumps of tissue gathered beneath his nails as he led the dreamers southwest, tearing strips of filthy cloth from his robes and blessing each one with a light kiss before pressing them over each fresh wound.
Despite the falling moon and the long distant flames, the night became brighter than any day he’d ever known.
CHAPTER TEN
9 Mirtul, the Year of the Ageless One
(1479 DR)
The Akana, the Wash, Akanul
As the night crawled inexorably toward the faint light of sunrise, the flames above their hidden cave died to a smoldering pile of popping wood and ash. Vaasurri awoke and crawled out into the predawn air. Uthalion said nothing as the fey left to find his place among the stilled tides of rock outside. He was well used to the killoren’s morning ritual, though he could never have grasped the depths of the fey’s attachment to the wild places of the world.
Climbing high upon a spire of rock, Vaasurri searched the shadows of the rocky ravine, hunting for signs of movement. The pale bodies of the bone moths blanketed the northern hillside; their scattered eggs collected in snowlike drifts atop rocks and among the branches of trees. Already he could see the first of the scavengers crawling from the cracks in the rock to feast upon the annual bounty. They would gorge themselves, and still thousands of larvae would survive into the summer months.