And then she straightened her spine and jumped tiredly back into the air.
She rose to the top branches of her tree and then spun slowly. She couldn’t keep going in the same direction with a huge silver blood trail pointing like an arrow straight at her. All she could see were trees and dark, clouded sky. She didn’t know where she was or where the forest led. Or where in Brythoria she could possibly go.
Eventually she closed her eyes for a few seconds while she spun. Then opened them at random, briefly checked that she was facing a new direction, and simply started flying again.
For the next hour, she was alone with the trees and the faint stench of burnt flesh. Beech gave way to horse chestnut, gold and fiery in the long bars of late afternoon sunlight as the sun dipped into the pale, clear band along the horizon. Beneath the ominous gray clouds that had lurked above her all afternoon.
By the time the sun began to sink, the trees had been replaced by gorse and heather. Then long rolling dunes down to an angry gray sea.
Far in the distance, she saw a glimmer of light shimmering against the darkness. It became her lodestar. Calling her forward. She was too physically battered, too mentally overwhelmed, to know where else to go.
Everything was lost. Everyone was lost. She was twenty-four and completely alone.
But she had the lights.
Their glow gradually solidified as she lurched ever forward. The one blurry orb slowly separated into strings of tiny colored lamps, leading toward a brighter cluster of lights. Some kind of structure, obviously massive, even from such a distance, lit as if for a carnival. Behind it, the twinkling spread of a seaside town.
She was slowing dramatically, flying erratically as her strength started to give out. Only her gaze fixed on the lights kept her moving forward.
Forward toward a huge pier flanked by colored lanterns, held proudly by their curling wrought iron posts. Ending in an opulent pavilion ablaze with lamps, their light reflecting off a hundred windows and mirrors.
The sound of giddy crowds spilled out into the damp, salty air. Beneath it all there was a deep pounding of drums and tambourines. The heavy, heady, pulse-like beat was woven through with a plaintive, mystical aria.
Nim flew raggedly along the side of the pier, staying in the shadows, following the music. Drifting dazedly with the haunting lilt of the soprano’s voice. Until, at the pier’s very end, deep within the struts below the pavilion, she finally found a perch.
No one would look for her there, miles from home, surrounded by iron, beneath an unfamiliar pier.
She pushed herself deep into the V of two joining girders, wedging herself tightly so that she wouldn’t fall if she closed her eyes. Finally, she patted her pocket to check Val’s ring, letting out a small huff of relief that it was still safe.
She had to close her eyes. She couldn’t go forward for even one more minute. It was as if, in reaching her nameless destination, she had also reached the end of her endurance. She groaned, partly in relief to not be flying, partly with the pain of her torn and burnt wing settling against the cold girders.
She shivered as the icy metal against her wings leached away her body heat, leached away her sense of self, the iron and the cold working together to drain whatever small amount of will she had left.
It was as if she was floating out of her body, following the strange, winding siren song from above. Drawn inevitably down, through the darkness, to the sea below. What would it be like to drop down into the murky depths?
She had lost so much. Mama. Papa. Val. Tristan. Not that she had ever actually had Tristan—he had been a dream. The kind of dream that hurt to think about.
No other man had ever been Tristan, so she had turned them all away. He hadn’t wanted her back, or even thought of her again once he’d left. But she hadn’t been able to let him go. She had kept her love for him close, her secret source of comfort and of pain.
Now, it was only pain. He was as dead to her as everybody else.
No one would ever know if she let herself fall. No one would ever care. Everyone who had ever loved her was gone. Why not do it? Allow herself to fall off the girder, close her wings and drop, then simply slide into the cold, dark water and let the sea take her.
Chapter Two
The camp wassilent in the pale gray light of early morning. They were surrounded by rough hills and still in deep shadow, but Tristan had a good vantage point—high up on a rocky outcrop with a clear view of the entire camp and the path through the hills to the local village.
For as long as he could remember, he had always sought out the loftiest lookout points. The best places to keep watch.
He could see the tents rippling slightly in the cold breeze. A fall of autumn leaves swirled in the dirt, but nothing else stirred. The fires had been banked before the last of the squad made their way to their tents, maintaining discipline despite the debauchery of the night before.
Maintaining discipline despite everything else they’d done. Everything they’d lost.
He had taken the last watch, giving his men a chance to celebrate their success, the coin they’d been paid for bringing in a local gang of poachers. Gods knew they needed it.
Truthfully, he needed it too. But he just couldn’t face it.
It had been a relief to have an excuse as to why he was staying sober. Well, relatively sober. And why no giggling woman from the nearby village would be staying in his tent. Expecting him to smile. To talk. To be vaguely friendly. He couldn’t bear the thought.
