“I’m not certain of that, but it’s the only heading we have.”
Ava closes her eyes as if paying for patience. “But you’re certain she’s in Barr na Cahar.”
“Yes. Unfortunately.” I’m aware that the city is right in the heart of Mainland, the closest to Paramount and, therefore, the most dangerous.
Ava sighs and points to the map at the mountain range that we’re nearest to. “There seems to be a pathway that leads straight to Dubh Carrig. We don’t have the supplies to scale this damn mountain range, so everyone better start praying that this pathway hasn’t been eroded or something. If it has, we’ll have to backtrack into Diadun and start again.”
If anything, Chiyo looks more excited. “At least we know we’ll have a place to stop in Dubh Carrig,” she says. She looks to Tiernan and smiles, a warmth flooding her eyes.
But I groan inwardly. I’ve led us here, indeed wasted precious time—three weeks—and resources, plus set everyone on edge. Perhaps I should’ve insisted on gathering even more information before leaving the Verge. We could’ve had more time in comfort. I could’ve had more training.
“I’m sorry,” I say, tears clinging to my eyelashes. I get to my feet quickly before the tears can fall. The throb in my head intensifies.
Between the dreamwalking, training, and this travel, my body is sick and tired of me. I just want to be back home in the Verge with Taig and the others.
As I walk away, pain stabs through my head and my vision swims. Tiernan appears in front of me, scaring me half to death. I press my hand against my stomach as nausea threatens to empty it. As much as I want to hide it—to pretend that I’m well—it wouldn’t do anyone any favors if my ailment flares and I collapse or decline into a full episode.
I open my eyes when I feel Tiernan’s gentle grasp on my upper arms. “You should sit down,” he says as my body goes warm and clammy at the same time.
He helps me to the ground. I press my head between my knees and remain sitting there with his arm around my upper back. Slowly, I breathe in and out as the ground seems to move beneath me, as my head throbs, and my mouth waters unpleasantly. I have only a few more tinctures left. I’ve been using them sparingly, but in the constant activity of today, I forgot to take one.
A gentle squeeze and a prod of Tiernan’s power against my mind has me lifting my head, but instead of Tiernan’s face, I find Alys’s. My eyes burn from the overwhelming headache rapidly intensifying. I squint and swallow the bitterness that rises in my throat.
“May I?” Alys asks, holding up her hand. Light already shimmers on her thick fingers.
“Please,” I sign silently.
Alys’s fingertips gently rest on my temples and my eyes close. The cool sensation morphs into warmth, the piercing ache in my skull fading to a dull throb. The nausea slowly dissipates and the dizziness settles. I release a deep breath of relief and reopen my eyes. Alys sits back on her ankles, looking absolutely worn. She blinks, sluggishly at first, then a little more alert as she asks, “Better?”
I nod, though guilt gnaws at me. “Thank you.”
She smiles. “No thanks needed, sweetling.”
Tiernan helps her up as she starts to get unsteadily to her feet, then he helps me up. I study Alys, noting her weariness.
Again, I feel awful. This could ruin everything, and suddenly, all the answers about the prophecy and every chance that we should have to help the state of Erleya seem farther away than ever.
Chapter 35
My hands won’t stop shakingas I stare at the canvas. What started off as a painting of that damn tree is now a series of incoherent brush strokes. The moment my brush touched the canvas, my mind fell into a dreamscape. At least it seems that I didn’t actually terraforge anything given that everything is still intact around me. My heart races as I replay the Dreamwalker’s words.
Siad Nahar. I’ve heard the name a few times from the Purists. The fools are obsessed with this mysterious place—and I’m convinced it’s purely myth. Even though Nimue claims she’s been there. That the main ingredient of the Cleanse is straight from the River Daehan.
Again, nothing but folklore.
I set the ruined canvas aside and pick up a fresh one, placing it on the easel. I lift my paintbrush again and try to envision what I want to draw. Time ticks by, and the next thing I know, grey paint is smeared across my canvas in the likeness of a figure with a tattered cloak. Eyes like shards of ice peer out from beneath a hood, white hair spilling out. In angry, grey strokes the wordBewareis written—though I don’t remember writing it.
A flash of an image fills my mind—a black-cloaked figure with glowing red eyes and a flaming axe. With a gasp, I reel back and nearly fall off my chair—my knee hits the canvas instead and, with a loud crash, the easel and canvas fall to the ground.
I leap to my feet just as there’s a knock on the door. Snatching the canvas from the floor, I flip it, holding it so that the image is hidden.
A concerned servant peeks into the room. “Lady Gwyneth, is everything alright?”
“Yes,” I say around the boulder in my throat. “Just a clumsy moment. Everything is fine.”
“She’s a liar, you know,” a voice calls from outside. The door is pushed open wider, and Neris stands in the doorway, twirling some of her blond hair around her finger.
The servant curtsies and dismisses herself, rushing off while I do nothing but clutch the canvas to my dress. I’m certain by now I’ve smeared paint all over my clothing.
