—From Krass hy Mendl’s Under the Yoke of Gods & the Wrath of Daemons
45
TWO DAYS OF searching through the woods of Cloudreach had left Rhaif in a foul mood. He slouched in the bed of a hired wagon. The wain was driven by a Kethra’kai guide and drawn by a pair of foul-tempered muskmules. Pratik sat across from him, staring out at the misty forests spreading forever in all directions.
With each league they traveled, Rhaif felt his purse growing lighter, along with any hope of finding Shiya. For the thousandth time, he pictured her stepping out of the sailraft’s stern and vanishing through the clouds, her passage below marked by snapping branches and ringing bronze.
Afterward, Rhaif’s group had landed in Havensfayre, deflated their balloon, and bought the dockmaster’s silence with a gold march. It had taken nearly all of their remaining coins—even with Llyra pitching in—to hire the wagon, and two additional Kethra’kai scouts.
Rhaif glanced ahead to the pair of golden-haired tribesmen—his mother’s people—who rode bareback atop sleek horses. Llyra rode alongside them on a feisty mare. Earlier, he had questioned the guildmaster’s continuing allegiance to this hunt. Her answer was coldly practical: I cast my lot with you. There is no turning back now.
Still, they might all have to turn back soon.
If Rhaif’s group didn’t find Shiya in another day or so, they would run out of money. He pictured the scouts vanishing into the woods, probably their guide, too, along with those fecking muskmules.
He shook his head. “You’d think the bastards would offer a discount to someone who shares their blood.”
Pratik turned to him. “The tribesmen are still our best chance of finding Shiya’s trail.”
“That is, if there is a trail. She could’ve been battered to ruin or broken in half by the time she struck the ground.”
Pratik shrugged. “That may be true. It’s why I suggested we hire this wagon. If she’s damaged, we may need to cart her back to Havensfayre.”
The Chaaen still wore the princely garb of an imri tradesman, though he had shed his outer robe, leaving him in silks that were stained by the hard days of this trek. Pratik rested a map on his knee and continued to use a wayglass to chart their progress as best he could.
With only a rough idea of where Shiya had fallen—somewhere east of the Eitur—they had hundreds of leagues to search. Along the way, the scouts who accompanied them occasionally flushed out other tribesmen. Inquiries were made about a bronze woman marching or limping through the forest. Such a sight could not be easily missed, and word would have surely spread through the region’s Kethra’kai.
Still, no one had reported anything.
The silence left their group searching in an ever-widening spiral outward from the eastern shore of the Eitur’s green waters. Though at this point, Rhaif would swear they were simply being led in circles, with each pass draining more of their dwindling resources.
He frowned at Pratik and reminded the Chaaen of his claim aboard the sailraft. “Do you still think Shiya might be striking for the Shrouds of Dalal??a?”
Pratik gave him another of his damnable shrugs. “I can only presume as much. Back aboard The Soaring Pony, I noticed how she started her slow turn from west to east as we passed above the Shrouds. Then when our sailraft sailed over the Eitur, we turned the skiff’s stern to those same cliffs in order to land at Havensfayre. It must have been too much for her, to be so close only to be dragged away again. So, she acted rashly.”
“Jumping out of a perfectly good sailraft, yes, I’d call that rash.”
“If she landed safely enough to keep moving, I have to assume she will continue heading there. Then again, we must consider, even if she remains intact, she draws vigor from the sun.” His gaze swept up to the misty canopy. “There might not be enough sunlight here to sustain her progress.”
Rhaif pictured her frozen in place, a new statue decorating this forest, becoming home to nesting birds and growths of moss and lichen. Despite his frustration, worry for her iced through him. He felt foolish for such feelings. She was not a creature of flesh and blood. Still, he could not shake his apprehension for her.
What spyll has she wrought over me?
He focused on Pratik. “If you’re right, why would she be intent on reaching the Shrouds? There’s nothing up there but savage creatures, trackless jungles, and dark storms. Not even the Kethra’kai go up to that haunted place.”
“That’s not entirely true. They do ascend there, but only once. As part of a ritual. Pethryn Tol. Which means in the Elder tongue, listening heart. A journey that marks when a Kethra’kai child becomes an adult. They climb to the top of the Dalal??a and spend one day there. Afterward, they must return with a stone, which they carry in a pouch.”
Pratik nodded toward the leather cord hanging from their guide’s neck. “And many don’t return,” the Chaaen added. “Those who do come back are considered chosen by the Elder gods to be part of the tribe.”
“Still, if the only things of value up there are some stray rocks, why would Shiya want to trek there?”
“Maybe it is because of those rocks.”
Rhaif scoffed. “Rocks? Truly?”
Pratik turned his gaze to the east. “I can only speculate…”
“Speculate what? Where do you think she might be going?”
Pratik faced him, his expression worried. “Atop the Shrouds lies a dark henge, a group of standing stones that some hieromonks believe to be as ancient as the Elder gods. Not even our oldest Klashean texts offer any insight. So, if I had to guess where our bronze mystery might be headed, it seems not farfetched that one mystery might be luring another.”
Rhaif sighed. “I suppose we’ll have to simply ask her if we ever find her.”
He turned to the forest. They were passing through a grove of silver poplars, following some path known only to their scouts. He saw no rut in the leaf litter, no stones stacked as a guidepost. He tried to imagine his mother living here as a young girl. She had been hired to work in Anvil, contracted for eight years, due to her talent in bridle-song. It was there she met Rhaif’s father. They both fell in love, dying together in each other’s arms during a feverish outbreak of Firepester. Rhaif had only been eleven at the time, orphaned to the streets, where he eventually found a new home, as harsh as it was, within the guild.
He tried to picture his mother with her fiery hair and skin so pale that it never tanned. He had a hard time remembering her face, the details fogged over by time. Still, what stuck with him best, as vivid as ever, was her sitting at his bedside, singing to him, brushing soft fingertips across his brow.
He closed his eyes, lulled by the rock of the wagon. He again heard the lilt of her lullaby, singing in Kethra, a lonesome pining for quiet woods set against the pound and bellows of Anvil.
As he drowsed, the old song seemed to grow brighter, as if polished by another—then he shattered back awake as a boot kicked the side of the wagon near his head.
“Up with ya!” Llyra shouted at him from atop her mare. She pointed ahead. “We got company.”
He stretched up straighter as the wagon bumped to a stop. Ahead, one of the scouts had dismounted and was talking to a cluster of pale figures with bows across their backs or leaning on spears.