I risk a glance behind me, my eyes narrowing toward the clearing where the shadow master still lingers on the precipice of death. When I turn back, the crone is gone, and my heart falters a beat as my head whips around, eyes searching for any sign of her.
I break, running as fast as I can, stumbling over an exposed root, scraping my arm against the sharp and uneven stones protruding from the forest floor. Cursing under my breath, I push back up to my feet and vault into a run, turning the surrounding forest into a blur of shadowed leaves.
I cradle the herb against my heart, as if it is the most precious cargo I will ever possess, unwilling to lose a single stem. The action in direct contrast to the ferocious determination and wild desperation building inside me.
I don’t slow until I reach the clearing. My knees wobble as I skid to a halt, falling to the ground beside the shadow master. Wrinkling my nose, I snatch the now limp body of the serpent and throw it into a nearby bush. Hands shaking as my fingers pluck the dainty leaves from the slender shoot, I crush them, turning them into a thick paste of deep green. This I add to his waterskin, shaking it violently until it dissolves, before tipping it against his lips and massaging his throat, encouraging his body to swallow the bitter tonic.
Once I’ve emptied every drop onto his tongue, I dump the contents of his pack on the ground, offering up a silent prayer as my hands shoot to the gauze he thought to pack. I pick through a variety of poultices, sniffing and discarding each one until I find what I am looking for. I slather a thick violet paste onto the bite, binding it tightly. It will help draw out the venom. That is, if I’m not too late.
There is only one thing left to do, wait and ruminate about the day. It’s sure to be the longest day of my life, a day that will shave years from the end of it, and it will all be worth it if he lives.
When the sun begins to reach its height, I drag his body into thecool shade of the trees, emptying the contents of my own waterskin into his mouth. Fear and frustration take turns vying for my attention as the hours pass. I can do little more than dry the perspiration from his brow and remain by his side, unwilling to leave him alone, even to fetch water for myself. I’ve never felt more useless.
I’ve never been more useless.
His breathing remains shallow long into the night. Only with great effort do I turn from him long enough to strike flint to kindling and start a fire, sending up a prayer that the rolling storms in the distance keep to the mountain tops. It will be no small task to craft a shelter to keep him dry, and I’m not sure I have the strength to pry myself away to go in search of materials. There is no use trying to sleep, I can hardly blink as I watch in vain for any sign of improvement.
The minutes that pass take on new meaning as they drag on in a tauntingly sluggish fashion. I now measure time by the faint tick of his pulse where his wrist rests below my fingers. Finally, with hours yet before dawn breaks the horizon, his breathing shifts. His chest rises high with the first full breath he’s taken since I found him unconscious, and a burdensome weight falls from my body, the tension unspooling from my shoulders.
Never again do I want to feel this way. Never again will I allow myself to be helpless when I can be strong, to be at the mercy of the fates when I can control my own destiny.
I haven’t taken time to wonder what I’d given up in the forest, but it doesn’t matter. I can’t bring myself to regret it, and I know that whatever it is I would give it again without a single thought, reckless as it might have been.
Late into the night, or perhaps early the next morning, the shadow master’s pulse becomes strong. Color returns to his cheeks and the unnatural, quiet stillness of his body turns to that of a deep and restful sleep.
I glance at my bedroll and discard the thought before it fully takes form in my mind. Despite the weight settling over my eyes, I won’t risk falling asleep and waking up to find him dead. I shake the fog from my head and sit by his side, pulling my knees against my chest and resting my cheek upon them. The warmth of the fire soaks into my bones and the stars blur in my eyes even as the sun dims their glorious light with the rays of its promiseto rise.
I rock on my heels as the subtle light of dawn falls across his eyelids and they flutter awake. It is, by far, the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
“Vakesh?” It comes out as a croak.
My stomach pits when a low moan is his only reply. His face twists with uneasiness as his eyes shutter in rapid succession, focusing on my face. I will myself not to cry, flicking a single rebellious tear from my cheek. I have cried before, out of anger and frustration, but this is something else altogether. Something about it weakens me, and I can’t help but hate it.
His brow creases and he shoots upright on his bedroll. I suspect the motion makes his head spin when his hand flies to his forehead, cradling it as he wobbles, struggling to regain his bearings.
“What happened?” he demands, his eyes tracing the wet skin on my cheek with a frown.
I haven’t prepared the story that tumbles from my lips. It is just the raw and unrehearsed truth of the last day. The first part he takes fairly well, considering he seemed nearly dead when I found him. He tenses, his eyes narrow and his brow drawn at my first mention of the crone. His stiffening spine and the rapt interest with which he regards me at the mere mention of the woman in the woods hollows my gut.
He lets me finish my tale, from beginning to end, without interruption, before asking pointedly, “Tell me again. What did she say? Her exact words.”
He makes me repeat myself three times before he’s satisfied that I have neither left anything out or forgotten a single word that was exchanged between us. He doesn’t ask me about the bargain or to explain what it was she took from me. Surely, he’d seen enough of my own confusion when I told him that part of the tale.
After my story has ended and he is finished asking his questions we both grow silent, losing ourselves to thoughtful contemplation. My stomach growls late in the morning, and though I try to demand he stay off his feet, he insists on joining me to catch a fish for breakfast and on cooking it after. His joke, that he is still obligated to cook my meals after losing our bet, falls flat. With every step he takes along the riverbank, I see the strain in his smileand the coil of his muscles. He is no longer at ease here.
By the time the sun sets and I’ve eaten an entire herb encrusted fish by myself, the last two days begin to feel like a dream. The shadow master is fine and whatever the crone took in our bargain, I can obviously live without. My lids finally close over my eyes and I’m lulled to sleep by the crackling fire and the knowledge that everything is going to be fine.
Blood. There is so much blood. My hands fly to cover my ears, and I scream, willing away the sound of the blade as it’s dragged across the flame licked floor.
A woman lies before me, unmoving, her hand stretched out toward me. Her beauty is striking, even beneath the wet, crimson ribbons adorning her cheeks. Though the light is gone from her eyes and her lips do not move, she calls to me.
“Shivaria.” The ghostly whisper chills my blood and my screams begin again in a key of true horror.
“Shivaria!”
Eyes flying open, my shaking hands clawing at my neck, I gasp for air. Bile creeps up my panicked throat, and I throw myself out of my bedroll into a nearby bush as I begin to heave uncontrollably. I lose my dinner to the knots in my stomach and the turmoil of my mind.
My nerves do not easily settle, nor do the tremors that wrack my sweat-soaked body. Once the constrictions of my gut have ceased, I wipe my mouth and take a seat by the edge of the woods. Keeping my back to the fire, I face the forest, closing my eyes, as I draw long, calming breaths through my nose.
