Rage sparked within her. Damn him! They had a pact. And he had just invoked it.
Aloisia lowered her bow a little, her gaze never leaving Tristan. “I want that man to swear he will not cause us any harm going forward if we help him.” For what little good his word would do.
The shaman smirked. “‘That man’ is called Inari. And he swears it, by the Gnarled Gods.”
“The Gnarled Gods?” Her eyes flickered to him. “Are those the cruel gods who rule this forest?”
“Nice try. No information until we have tended to my wrist. All I will say is the Gnarled Gods are the ones I pray to.”
“I suppose swearing by your own gods is as good as us swearing by ours. At least, it will have to be.”
“And now for your own oath.”
“What?” She quirked a brow.
“I have given my oath not to harm you. Now I would like the same from you.”
“We swear it,” Tristan said. “By the Nine Divines.”
“I would like to hear her say it.”
Aloisia ground her teeth. “I swear by the Huntress no harm shall come to you from my hand unless you break your word. At which point, I shall ensure you have a slow and painful death.”
Inari chuckled. “Well said. And so, our deal is struck.”
“You live in these woods?” Tristan asked.
The shaman gave a nod. “About ten minutes north, at most.”
“Then, by all means, show us the way,” she said through gritted teeth.
Inari strode off in the direction he’d pointed. He still clasped his forearm above the wound, and Tristan walked by his side, examining it. Aloisia followed behind them, her bow lowered but at the ready, unease taking root in her heart. She resolved, if anything were to go wrong, she would shoot Inari first, followed by Tristan – though she would ensure his shot was not fatal. After all, she could only tell him he was wrong if he was still alive.
The only sliver of hope within her was the knowledge that not only was this man a shaman, but he had encountered the shadow monsters first-hand. While shamans had long been gone from their land, along with magic, she still knew the word and what it meant from the old stories. Wielders of nature magic and healing abilities. He had promised to tell her more of the shadow monsters but, with the knowledge he may possess as a shaman, he might even shed light on the blue flames or even the markings on Brighde’s body and her own palm. If anyone would know such things, it would be a shaman. She only hoped this shaman would possess such knowledge.
ELEVEN
Truetohisword,afterwalkingaroundtenminutesnorth,theycametoasmallwoodenhut,whichtheshamancalledhome.AloisiatrailedbehindTristanandInari,herbowstillheldattheready.Someonelivinginthesewoods,soclosetotheguild,withouttheirknowledge,unnervedher.However,asdeepwithintheDeadWoodsastheywere,itdidnotsurprisehernoonehadfoundhimyet.Veryfewwouldventurewithinthisforest,andfewerstillwouldhavethenervetomakeitthisfar.
Wooden wind chimes clanked in the breeze, dangling from the bare branches surrounding the hut. A small spring lay beside it, covered in lily pads and reeds. The smell of sea salt in the air had intensified as they’d approached the hut, and Aloisia knew they were near to the cliff edge overlooking Feldkirk Bay.
Inari pushed open the door of the hut with his shoulder. With a click of his fingers, a small flame burst to life on the wick of a candle set upon a dining table, which was shoved against one wall. Aloisia’s breath caught in her throat.
Magic?
It shouldn’t have come as a shock to her. After all, he was a shaman, a practitioner of magic. Yet he had brought the flame to life as easy as breathing. She had never seen such things. There were no shamans in Teneria. At least, not until now. Any doubt she had of his abilities, of the truth of his words, waned a little at the display.
The small candle provided the only light within the hut. It was darker than the moonlit forest outside. Aloisia blinked, urging her eyes to adjust to the dimness without the use of her rune. It was cramped with the three of them.
Inari went to the small workspace at the back of the hut, set up beside a narrow wooden bed covered in furs. There, he gathered various herbs, ointments, and a mortar and pestle. He set them out on the dining table with one hand, still cradling his injured one to his chest.
“Do you have any thread?” Tristan asked. “And a needle?”
“No,” Inari answered. “We won’t need any.”
“How do you intend to close the wound, then?”
“I don’t.”
