She stood and faced him. For a moment, a silent moment, they only stared at each other. Heart thrumming harder than ever, she worried she may have revealed something herself, something she hadn’t meant to, though she couldn’t say what.
He broke the silence. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”
“Well.” She brushed a hair behind her ear. “Others have been through worse.” She carried her treasure to the table: Johanna’s handmade map of the Lichtenwald, crafted on thin calfskin and drawn in blackberry ink.
She folded the map open. It felt strangely tacky to her fingertips; she used her sleeve to brush it free of dust, but didn’t see any. As she spread it on the table, she wondered if she had sap on her hands from the lumber wagon. She rubbed her fingers together.
“Stunning.” She looked up; the wizard’s owl eyes had spotted Goose. He admired the bird’s emerald neck and ruby breast. “Such rich jewel tones. Did you kill it yourself?”
Hot embarrassment colored her cheeks. He mocked her. Pheasant was not a difficult sport; not even the ones in Augur Meadow, where she’d killed Goose. Not even for an eleven-year-old girl who’d just learned how to handle a shotgun without dislocating her shoulder. His wealthy friends bagged them by the dozen on their estates every spring; he may have too for all she knew, though he didn’t seem the type.
But his owl’s eyes, trained on her, were full of genuine interest.
She considered the stuffed bird with new eyes. Regal, slim. Jewel toned. Goosewasquite beautiful.
“My first kill,” she provided warily. “Johanna taught me everything she knew, then sent me off on my own. She wasn’t one for vanity, but she had him stuffed for me.” Remembering her first hunt, alone, in the depths of the Lichtenwald, her pulse quickened. She could feel the sun’s radiant heat; smell the sun-drying grasses. “Five pounds, he was. Big, even for a cock. They’re not hard to shoot if you’ve the eye for it, but they’re fast and they remember. If you miss, they’ll take off and aren’t like to come back to the same spot in a hurry. They fly, but they can run fast, too. Swim, dive. I’ve even seen one slip into a rabbit’s burrow.”
Goose had slipped her net and made for the stream nearby. He was a clever bird. Not clever enough.
At last, she was back to the chords of a familiar song, not a note out of place. She spoke freely. “In the wood, you can find their runs, lay snares or nets. Out here, farmers lay bait, a sheath of wheat or a sprinkle of barley. If you stay hidden, they’ll come right up to you. Andthatis how we’re going to catch the phoenix. I’ll bring my net and we’ll lay a trap. If it’s gone this long without being caught, it’s smart. But everything gets hungry.”
“And do you know what it eats?”
“The same as any other bird, I’d wager. Worms, roots, nuts.”
“Not the souls of unwary travelers?”
Nowhe was mocking. But – the corners of his mouth upturned. Not mocking – teasing. She met it with a lifted eyebrow. “No, that would be the spirits.”
Deflated, he put his hands behind his back. “And do you know where to find it?”
“Not strictly.” She gestured to the map. He stepped closer to her, leaning over her shoulder. His own shoulders were quite sturdy, she noticed. His slim neck framed attractively by the length of his hair, which he pushed behind his ear as he leaned over the table. She could smell hyacinths and, faintly, his sweat.
She pinned her eyes on the map. “Johanna never saw it herself. Didn’t think it was real. But in the winter, hunters gather at this lodge.” She pointed to the edge of the map; Hivernal Lodge, high in the Accentor Mountains. “When hunters gather, they drink.”
“They talk.”
“Right.” She cast a glance at him. His own eyes were fixed on the map. She pointed. Augur Meadow, a flat, pleasant stretch in the Chough Valley to the southeast. Nearly in the center of the map. “Here’s where I think it might be. A favorite haunt of the prettiest ringnecked pheasants I’ve ever laid eyes on. Nothing like the drab, stupid ones that bother the farmers. It’s where Goo– where the one on my wall came from,” she corrected, flushing and taking a step away. “And,” she added, voice laden with meaning, “some say, on warm evenings, you can spot one there the color of a sunset.”
His brow furrowed as his eyes roved the map. “That’s very deep. Miles.”
“Yes.” She folded the map and faced him. For a moment, the calfskin again seemed to cling to her fingers. Perhaps she’d left honey on the table. She tucked the map carefully in her messenger bag. “We’ll leave tomorrow, at first light.”
He nodded. “Before we set off, shall we set terms?”
“I’ll guide us there, find us food and water, hunt for us. You heal me if I’m injured, keep me safe from other wizards. We owe each other nothing but to help keep each other alive.” She watched his expression carefully; it didn’t change. “I have my weapons; you have your pen. We’ll both need all our tricks. And,” she hastily amended, having nearly forgotten, “when it’s done, we split the prize. Down the middle.”
“Agreed,” he said, extending his hand. She took it; it may have been her imagination, but it seemed her hand stuck to the skin of his glove.
He didn’t seem to notice and spoke haltingly. “The phoenix. I don’t know if it can be killed, but I do need it alive.”
“I won’t kill it,” she said, happy they shared at least that goal in common. “And I’ll do my best not to hurt it unnecessarily. Only if I have to.”And I may have to. Mira’s arrow must pierce its flesh, whatever it took.
He nodded, surely picturing mislaid snares or clipped wings. Though he clearly didn’t relish the thought, one could not remain in his line of work and be particularly squeamish. He’d been prepared to hurt someone in the park the night before. On her behalf. No; on behalf of his prize ticket. What would he do to the one who stole his prize? To her?
Will I have to hurt you, too?
The clang of leaking raindrops into the pot had slowed to a drip. With the rain past, she wanted to be ready to set out at dawn’s break. Leaving Sylas upstairs, she took her quiver and a lantern and journeyed to the cellar to gather a sack of her and Johanna’s standard trail food, hard but delicately sweet biscuits made of walnut flour.
