“Do it,” Eamon said. “We’ve been in tough situations before. I have faith that you’ll find a way. The Hawkvale is worth the risk. We owe it to him to try.”
“My life for the Hawkvale,” Wilhelm said, his words making it clear he found the potential risk in this plan acceptable.
“If we make it out alive, it may very well be our lives when he finds out we let her do this,” Trenton said. He sighed. “Oh well, at least it means we’ll be alive to face his wrath.”
Shea took a deep breath and released it.
“What now?” Eamon asked.
“Everyone needs to be as quiet as possible,” Shea said.
“Understood.”
The others settled, only the faint sound of feet scuffing against the ground letting Shea know that she wasn’t alone. The rope tugged gently in her hand as someone shifted.
Shea’s breath rasped in her ears as she breathed deep and exhaled. She stared out at the whiteness, unseeing. Her eyesight worthless.
Humans have many senses beyond vision— hearing, touch, taste, smell. None of which were any more reliable here where the mist caused sound to echo, the warmth of the sun to be a faint memory, and the only smell that of damp earth and desperation. No, the normal senses would be all but useless, waiting to betray you at the soonest opportunity.
In the last test before an initiate was elevated to the rank of pathfinder, they were led deep into the wilds and abandoned in an area that was constantly ravaged by the mists. Their only hope was to find their way out on their own. Many lost their lives, some made it out but were mentally broken from their time spent in its grasp. Only those remaining gained the ability to navigate its treacherous heart.
The ability gained was hard to describe to the uninitiated. The closest Shea had ever come was likening it to a homing pigeon. There was some sense that enabled her to hone in on the direction that was home, whether that be the Highlands or the Lowlands. It was a tug in her heart that pulled her from the mist even when it was at its thickest and most dangerous.
She resisted that tug, trying instead to hone in on something closer. Something that could keep her friends safe until the mist relented.
She strained, sensing things in the mist that she hoped would continue to ignore the small existences of her and her friends. There were creatures here that made beasts look like tame puppies. She had no desire to run into them.
There. Her sense caught on something bright and warm. It felt big, an immense presence eclipsing the denizens of the mist by many factors. Her mind’s eye sensed that it wasn’t just of this world, its branches reached into many. Her curiosity sparked. If there had been time, she would have liked to study this effect. Perhaps explore those branches—see where they led.
“Follow,” Shea ordered, moving forward. Her footsteps were sure and confident as she headed toward what she hoped was a soul tree.
The others made no protest as she led them through the whiteout. There was the faint nicker of the horses as someone tugged on the lead. Their hoof beats echoed in the air, seeming to come from everywhere.
Time passed, slow and fast at the same time. That was the way of the mist though. It was hard to judge how long you spent wandering. It could be hours or days as they made their way to the tree, a shining beacon in this colorless world. Shea had to push down the sense of urgency growing in her chest. If Fallon was caught in this too, time would have that weird distortion to it as well. She sensed that if too much time passed, her opportunity to find him would close.
At last, the great tree loomed in front of Shea— a dark figure that rose high above them. Shea tugged on the rope, sliding it through her hands until Daere’s hands touched hers. Daere looked up at the tree with trepidation.
Shea caught her hands and placed them on the tree. “As long as one of you is touching this, you should be fine. Wait here until the mist dissipates or I come for you.”
“How do you know this will work?” Daere asked.
“I don’t. It’s the only hope I’ve got, but it’s better than nothing.” Shea didn’t mention she’d based this theory off two sentences of a tale that was so old that her people didn’t even know when or where it had originated from. It was a story Shea’s mom liked to tell her when she was younger—a cautionary tale about a man who’d been separated from his wife by the mist. Shea hoped their outcome was a little happier than that man’s.
Whispers echoed through the mist. Voices barely heard, their words indistinguishable.
“What is that?” Buck asked, his voice hushed.
“Ignore it,” Shea ordered.
Damn, it looked like something had found them after all. She’d hoped they wouldn’t have to deal with them.
“I think I recognize that voice,” a man she didn’t know said.
“You don’t. They’re shadows taken from memories. Whatever you hear, whatever you see, it’s not really there. They’re temptations meant to make you stray from safety. Don’t fall for it.”
“Will they attack us?” Eamon asked.
“They shouldn’t. The shades don’t have form. They attack by imitating the voices and faces of loved ones, usually those lost in tragedy. As long as you stay with the soul tree, you should be safe.”
