Cora woketo morning sun kissing her eyelids. Even with just a sliver of light peeking in from the open tent flap, it was bright enough to tell her she’d slept in. She pressed a tattooed palm over her eyes, but it was no use. She was already awake. Not even the black symbols inked into her skin could ward away the evils of everyday responsibility. She rolled over and peered at Maiya’s cot. Her bedroll was empty, and her wool blankets and furs were neatly folded on top of it. How late in the morning was it? Cora rubbed her eyes to rid them of grit, but nothing seemed to soothe them. Her throat too felt raw, and she was almost of a mind to go back to sleep. However, she knew there was no use lingering in bed all because of a bad dream.
With a stretch, she forced herself to rise from her cot. Her arms prickled with gooseflesh beneath the cool spring air that drifted into the tent. Dressed only in her linen shift, she peeked outside and found her freshly laundered clothes hanging on a line. The smell of lavender wafted on the air, mingling with the earth, woodsmoke, and pine scents of camp. All at once, Cora felt a sense of calm. Of safety. She was protected by the Forest People. With their proficiency at wards and subterfuge, her enemies couldn’t find her here.
If only her dreams couldn’t either.
She tugged her patchwork petticoats and bodice off the line, then brought them back inside to get dressed. She’d have Maiya to thank for the clean clothes. Her friend had clearly been up working hard while Cora dozed.
Once dressed, she strolled between the tents of varying shapes and sizes, each structure draped with oiled hides, and tried not to look anyone in the eye. Her screams had to have been loud enough to wake half the camp, and she dreaded knowing what everyone thought of her. Did they think she was crazy? Or did they feel pity? Cora wanted neither sentiment and preferred no one thought much of her at all. Luckily, it seemed most of the Forest People were too busy with their daily tasks to pay her any mind, whether they were hunting, cooking, weaving, brewing tinctures and salves, or practicing the Arts—magic, in other words.
Magic was the lifeblood of the Forest People, infusing their way of life. The nomadic commune was once comprised of the last living Faeryn, ancient fae who practiced the Magic of the Soil. Nowadays, there wasn’t anyone left of pure Faeryn blood, as most had eventually mated with humans, but some within the commune still bore obvious signs of their heritage—petite stature, the slightest hint of a pointed ear, skin and hair in the richest earth tones.
In recent decades, those with human magic came to live amongst the commune too, making the Forest People an eclectic group. Most citizens in the Kingdom of Khero didn’t believe in magic, but they had no qualms about ostracizing anyone who possessed uncanny senses or an unusual fondness for nature. Whenever the Forest People came across these individuals, they welcomed them with open arms. They did the same when they found Cora, an orphaned girl wandering alone in the woods.
Cora nearly fit in with the Faeryn descendants with her dark hair, brown eyes, and warm tan skin, but she wasn’t of Faeryn blood. She was a witch. Even though this made her welcome with the Forest People, it didn’t make her feel like she belonged. She’d been with the commune for six years, but she didn’t think she’d ever stop feeling like an outsider. Probably because her new family might very well revoke their welcome if they knew who she was.
She made her way to the heart of the camp, her stomach growling at the smell of roasting meat and vegetables being heated over the cook fires. Once she reached the common area, a clearing surrounded by brightly painted wagons, she found Chandra on cook duty. The middle-aged woman was of stout build with dark eyes and a bronze complexion. Her hair was black with the faintest hint of dark green—a sign of her Faeryn heritage. Inked designs extended from her palms to her shoulders. Cora stared at the woman’s tattoos with longing. Unlike the cook, Cora’s ink only marked her palms and forearms, indicating the levels of the Arts she’d proven herself accomplished in. She wished to one day be covered to her neck with ink. Maybe then she’d be strong enough to banish her nightmares.
“Twenty-five years,” Chandra said.
She frowned. “Pardon?”
“That’s how long I’ve worked to get myinsigmora.”
Insigmorawas the Forest People’s name for the tattoos—a tradition passed down from the ancient Faeryn. The thought of spending two more decades honing her Art left a pit in Cora’s stomach. She didn’t want to wait that long. “They’re beautiful,” was all she said, forcing a smile to her lips.
Chandra’s expression turned wary as she eyed her. Cora held her breath, hoping the cook wouldn’t bring up her nightmares. The cook was known for her bluntness, and the last thing Cora wanted was for her to ask about the screaming that shattered the peace of the camp last night. She bit the inside of her cheek, resisting the urge to open her senses to the woman so she could read her feelings.
As a witch, Cora’s talent was clairsentience. Every witch had an affinity for at least one of the six senses—feeling, knowing, seeing, hearing, tasting, or smelling. Sensing the feelings of others had been a bane since she was young, but after she was found by the Forest People, they taught her to shield against constant outside stimuli. Now she could use her Art at will, but it didn’t always go undetected. Not when used on fellow witches or the descendants of the Faeryn.
“Stew or porridge?” Chandra asked, finally breaking eye contact and nodding toward the cook fires.
Cora let out a sigh of relief and turned her attention to the simmering cauldrons. The smell of root vegetables made her mouth water. “Stew.”
Chandra went to the nearest pot and ladled a hearty serving into a clay bowl.
Cora nodded her thanks as the woman handed over her breakfast. As she went to turn away, Chandra spoke. “What are they about?”
Cora paused. “What do you mean?”
“The dreams that make you scream at night. What do you dream of when that happens?”
Cora’s muscles tensed at the question, but there was only one answer she could give. “Death.”
2
Abow in Cora’s hand always felt like home. And a belted dagger at her waist felt like safety. Strength. Practical defense to fill the many gaps in her magic. There was only so much a clairsentient witch could do. Cora was determined to do more. Tobemore.
She donned her cloak and gathered her weapons from inside her tent, shouldering her bow and quiver of arrows, then securing her belt with its sheathed dagger. There was no doubt Cora had missed the day’s hunt, considering she’d slept in so late, but she could at least practice her archery. She rarely missed a day using her bow. Besides, she needed to harvest more valerian root for her sleeping tonic. She knew she could get some from the potions tent, but the Forest People kept up a stringent inventory of their ingredients during harvesting, stocking, and brewing. If Cora asked for yet another pouch of valerian, people would start talking. They’d know just how strong she’d begun to brew it. Which was why it was even more frustrating that her nightmares had become so persistent.
She left the tent but only made it a few steps before she pulled up short. Maiya stood just outside with her arms crossed. She was dressed in her most brightly patterned skirts and had pink cherry blossoms woven through two long black braids. An amused smile danced over her lips as she assessed Cora’s much plainer ensemble. “Really, Cora? On Beltane?”
Cora grimaced. “I forgot it’s Beltane.”
“Some witch you are,” Maiya said with a chuckle. She hesitated then, some of the mirth leaving her eyes as she shifted from foot to foot. “So…did you sleep all right?”
“I’m fine, Maiya,” Cora said with what she hoped was a reassuring grin. “You can stop looking at me like I’m made of glass.”
Maiya gave Cora’s shoulder a playful shove. “I just worry about you, that's all. I'm here if you want to talk. My mother is here for you too. Salinda’s an elder. She has more wisdom than anyone.”
