‘What’s got into you?’ Astrophel says. He’s pale and drawn. ‘Did the hoarclaw teach you nothing? You almost got yourself killed again. Are you hurt?’
I shake my head. My pulse is jagged, my breathing jerky, and my ankle throbs. But in all the ways that matter, I’m fine.
Astrophel turns to Blayze. ‘You did well to reach her before she was trampled. You rode that horse at full tilt, practically winged your dismount to catch her in time.’ His lips press into a tight seam. ‘Thank you.’
For once, the Clanschief doesn’t lash back with a snarky retort.
Astrophel gathers his reins and clucks his tongue, urging his mount forwards. ‘I’ll go after your horse. Try to bring it back.’
He speeds away, mud splattering behind him.
‘Well, what do you know?’ Blayze laughs. ‘All I had to do to get that stuffed peacock to utter a civil word to me was save your life, Sparkles. Seems he’s not as indifferent to you as I thought. Or he knows which side his mooncake’s buttered, eh?’
‘And what doeshehave to do, to get a civil word from you?’ I say sharply, dusting myself down.
Blayze huffs out another laugh.
I lift my eyes to Galtair. ‘We’ll have to make camp now, I suppose…’ The dull throb of my ankle is growing more painful. My wrists are bruised too – there’s no way I can ride further tonight. Even if Astrophel rounds up my horse, I won’t be able to grip the reins or keep my foot in the stirrup.
‘Thank the Flame. Finally, she sees reason.’ Blayze brushes his hair back out of his eyes. ‘Let’s find somewhere to tether the horses. Get the blasted tents up, light a fire. I’ll crack open a bottle of flamead – that’ll warm us up quicker than all your blazing starfruit.’ Blayze rubs his hands together, starts to turn in the direction of his horse, then changes his mind and faces me again. The rough burn of his voice lowers to a whisper. ‘Loverboy’s right, you know. Something has got into you lately – you’re a woman possessed. Personally, I like it.’ He winks again. ‘But you need to be careful, Sparkles. That’s twice now you’ve found yourself in harm’s way.’
His words aren’t teasing anymore. They’re more like a prayer.
*
SHESURFACESAGAIN. Faceless. Nameless. A gaping void where her features ought to be. Wreathed in flame, making inhuman grunting sounds, trying to speak through a mouth she no longer possesses. But what is she trying to say? I want to ask her. Help her, if I can. But the flames engulf me before I can utter a word. Searing flesh from bone. I wake with a gasp.
I never know when the Faceless Woman will next appear, only that her visits leave me in a cold sweat, the scent of smoke lingering in my nose. A high-pitched laugh ringing my ears.
My heart is racing as I sit up. That sinking sense of being watched, which I first noticed ahead of convening the Council of Four, is stronger than ever. Instinctively, I reach for the tent flap. Peer outside. The moons are waning crescents, faint slivers overhead, but the stars are bright, silvering the world beneath them. An icy breeze rips through the tent as I peer into the darkness. I draw my furs closer. The hillside is quiet. The patter of rain has finally stopped, but only recently, judging by the ghostly arcs of moonbows ringing the sky. The air is still thick with moisture.
I’ve had recurring nightmares before. Dreams of being smothered by the frantic thrash of the night-birds’ wings, eyes pecked out by their pitiless beaks, talons tearing my face, blood running down my cheeks. The ferrous stench of torn flesh mingling with the must of feathers. And as a child, there were moonscycles I dreamt nightly of being handed a baby, only for it to turn to cinders in my arms. I never spoke of those dreams to anyone. I knew what they meant. But I’m less sure what these dreams are trying to tell me; the prickle creeping my spine suggests it’s nothing good.
I run my tongue over my teeth. For once, I don’t mind the lingering taste of ash. It masks the bitter aftertaste of flamead. Blayze made me knock back a large measure of the filthy stuff before turning in for the night, and my stomach is still tender. Or perhaps it’s cramps, and my moonsblood will arrive early.
Something rustles on the hillside. I stiffen, use my moonsight to peer harder into the night. I glance at the tents flanking mine. Is one of the others awake? But no, the sound’s not coming from the tents. It’s coming from a small copse in the distance. Frostfangs, then? My heart speeds. There’s a flicker of movement, and I see them.
A hunched, cloaked figure with its back to me, a pack at their feet. A lantern flickers in their hand.
The sight transports me to Meissa, to the night I saw that mysterious vanishing figure through the palace window. How many times since then have phantom eyes bored into my back? Is this why the Faceless Woman stalked my dreams tonight? A warning?
Hairs rise on the nape of my neck. My brandsong purrs in agreement. Someone is following us.
I yank on my boots, grab my cloak and crawl out of my tent, swallowing a groan when I place weight on my sprained ankle.
‘Are you sure about this? Maybe you should wake Astrophel and—’
‘I don’t need him. Not when I’ve got you to protect me, Orthriel. Come on, I don’t want them to get away.’
Hobbling or not, I will confront this figure of shadow here and now. They’ve plagued me long enough.
Orthriel’s sigh gusts my mind. Something’s wrong with them – has been, ever since their return. They’ve been cagey about their trip to Galtair, their movements after delivering the Kingswrit. Orthriel still hasn’t materialised to me, and even if they did, cielsylphs don’t have auras – or rather, theirs don’t change hue according to their emotions, not in any way I can read; they’re faint, silvery things. Perhaps their experience and spectrum of emotions is different from ours, or perhaps they’ve simply devised a means of obscuring their colours. Either way, I sense a strange heaviness in Orthriel. If they were human, I’d label it sadness. But now’s not the time to press.
I don’t feel the cold at first. It’s not till I’m halfway to the trees I realise I’m only wearing a nightdress under my cloak, that my hair is uncovered, unbound – spilling down my back. And I’m unarmed. My breath comes in faster heaves, fogging the air as I try to step lightly so the mud doesn’t squelch underfoot, and to protect my injury. I debate going back to my tent for my throwing star, but I don’t want this mysterious cloaked figure disappearing on me again. Not before I can question them, discover why they’re following us. What they want.
My palms itch as I draw closer to the trees. Perhaps I’m not unarmed. But can I even summon starshine? I’ve never tried to siphon it. Both in the ballroom and when facing the hoarclaw, it sprung unbidden – a defence mechanism – and snuffed out in seconds.
‘Try now. Test how much control you have over it. You’re sure you felt no ill effects when you summoned it last time?’My Guardian’s voice turns suddenly fierce.
