I may be a girl made of storms.
But I am no one’s weapon to wield.
ten days and three territoriesof overland travel leaves Brielle cramp-legged and short-tempered. Leicena wasn’t so terrible. The post carriage ran like clockwork, the roads were quiet and well maintained and every few hours they would stop at an inn for refreshments. But Skylan, with its sprawl of mountainous tracks and lack of reliable coaches, never failed to dampen her mood.
She’s questioned agreeing to Nova’s idea more than once since they left the isle of Ennor, but thoughts of Lowri always brought her back to the plan. To create a true Tresillian coven, one unlike the coven in which they both grew up, something to which Lowri could return home, a new future for them both, on their terms. A purpose, a plan, to rescue as many wraiths as they can, turning them into the witches they should have become. Idealistic, perhaps foolish, but she wants to try. She has to know if what Nova – Lowri’s familiar – and Tanith – Ennor Castle’s resident librarian – believe is possible can actually be done.
Now, two days deep in the thick southern forests of Stanvard, Brielle has to remind herself hourly why she agreed to this assignment. She is very ready for a warm bath, a roaring fire, a decent meal and to no longer be sitting in a box on wheels.
If you offered a bribe to the driver, we would be there by now, Hunter.
She glares at Nova, who gives a suspiciously un-catlike meow and begins licking her paws. Nova chose Lowri as her witch when Lowri was just a young witchling, and ever since she’s accepted Brielle, though Brielle is not convinced the familiar altogether likes her. It’s a mutual acceptance, if anything, balanced on the fact that they are both fiercely loyal to Lowri. And while she is gone with Eli in another world they need a purpose, a distraction from dwelling too much on whether Lowri, the burned-out witch they both love, will make it back to them, whole and well. They need to give her something to return to, a new coven, renewed hope. A future.
Their shared anxiety does not soften one to the other, though, especially now the journey is dragging on. And Brielle, usually so measured and calm, cannot help but show her irritation more frequently. ‘I’ll offeryouas a bribe, shall I?’
Nova yawns, slouching on the seat across from her.Give it a try. I’m sure Lowri would love to hear how you frittered her beloved familiar away for a bit of comfort and faster travel.
‘Oh, shut up,’ Brielle snaps, crossing her arms and turning pointedly to face the window. The trees flash bythe carriage in a sea of dark green, and she ponders how Lowri is,whereshe is. Has Eli managed to get her to his father’s world and has he found someone to help her? Burnout in a witch can be fatal. And the way her sister was the last time she saw her, listless and ink-veined, her grip on the world around her tenuous at best … Brielle swallows, blinking quickly to shift the image away. No use dwelling on what she cannot control. All she can do now is keep moving forward, and trust in Elijah Tresillian and his strange, otherworldly magic.
Whatisin her control, though, is proving more frustrating by the hour. They should have crossed the border by now and be well on their way to a tavern of which she is particularly fond in the northern region of the principality of Lorva. In fact, they should have left this stretch of the forest behind some time ago.
‘Driver,’ she calls, knocking on the ceiling of the carriage. ‘Driver, a word!’
Three hours later, with a considerably lighter purse, Brielle and Nova arrive at Tavern Lomask as night falls. Much like the Inn Melusine on the Far Isles, Tavern Lomask has slumped and sagged since her last visit, as though weary of the world. The plaster no longer gleams white, a beacon along this stretch of road for tired travellers, but instead sports a greyish hue, the colour of thin, autumnal rain. The windows appear dingy, with only the faintest light shining through them, stiff curtains mostly drawn against the encroaching dark.
Looks friendly, Nova comments.I’ll be catching mice.Then she stalks off towards the back of the building before disappearing into the gloom beyond.
‘Friendly as a witches’ tea party …’ Brielle murmurs, reminding herself that she’s here for a rest and to gather any local gossip. The five principalities of the Middenwilds are always rife with tales of wraiths, so when Nova suggested the idea, this seemed like the best place to begin. She tries the dark wood front door and the hinges give with a groan. She stumbles inside, finding a scattering of locals from the village a mile or so away, hidden off the main road through the forest, and the tavern owner with a polishing cloth slung over his shoulder.
Recognition softens his features, shoulders dipping in apparent relief as he makes his way behind the bar. ‘Hunter Tresillian. If I’d known you were coming …’ He scratches his grey-streaked beard, sunken eyes swivelling to hers. ‘’Tisn’t safe at night. Not alone. Your driver should have known better.’
Brielle smiles, leaning her forearms on the bar. ‘I paid him handsomely to get me here before midnight.’
‘The main road is rough between Valstra and Lorva now. No money for repairs, or so they say, and many avoid the nights and what lurks beyond the treeline.’
Nowthissounded interesting. ‘You’ve had some trouble?’
‘Trouble is a polite way of putting it,’ the owner says as Brielle manages at last to fish his name out of her memory. Gregor Kain. Kindly widower withtwo daughters. The last time she visited, though, he was quicker to smile. She could hear the music and merriment now, spilling from every corner. Or, at least, the ghosts of them.
‘How are the family?’ she asks.
Gregor stiffens and blinks. ‘My oldest girl, she turned seventeen a month ago and …’ He sighs then reaches for a bottle half full of a thick mauve drink, pours himself a tiny glass and downs it. ‘She changed. Became agitated, fearful. Had these outbursts she couldn’t control and then …’
‘The forest took her,’ a voice says. Brielle turns to find a girl with wild black curls, scrunched fists and gleaming eyes. ‘My sister, Liska, hasn’t returned since.’
‘Sad times indeed,’ Brielle says softly, eyeing the slightly younger sister. ‘Dreska, isn’t it?’
The girl bobs her head, not taking her eyes from Brielle. ‘She’s been gone two weeks.’
Brielle asks for a room to be prepared, orders a plate of pie and mash, which tastes of the woodsy herbs grown in the loamy, rich soil thereabouts, and washes it down with a glass of ruby blackcurrant wine. She watches Gregor as he polishes glasses, grumbles with the other patrons about the trees being felled to make way for a new landowner’s plans a few miles away and sends Dreska off to bed. In everything, he seems absent. As though his mind wanders, deep into the thickening night.
Pudding is a sweetened milk and bread dish, filling but burned at the edges. Brielle chews it mechanically,listening to a group in the corner murmuring about the woods, the mist and the recent cries heard in the night. She takes her leave as they do, all of them moving together in a pack, glancing behind their backs with chalky faces, lanterns held aloft. Brielle walks slowly to the room prepared for her up the creaking staircase, just as Gregor bars the front door with a sturdy dark wood bar laced with metal after the last patron bids him goodnight.
She finds Nova waiting for her, curled up on the windowsill, eyes pale moons, flashing in the gloaming. ‘Told you the Middenwilds were our best bet. I believe we’ve found our first wraith.’
It appears so.
When she’s sure the innkeeper and his daughter are asleep, Brielle leaves the inn through the window, Nova like a shadow at her heels. With a full set of blades in the sash across her chest and magic at her fingertips, ready to be released with a pinch of words, she walks into the foreboding forest. It seems to close in their wake, the moonlight soon extinguished, as though a great door made of leaf and bark has swung shut, trapping them within.
