“In an ordinary forest,” Johanna had instructed her that first day, “at my age, I’d know every leaf, every tree like the back of my hand. I could tell you the size and shape and exact spot of an oak by the look of its acorn. But the Lichtenwald is not an ordinary forest. It’s playful, except when it’s vengeful.”
Tonight, to Anya, it was neither. Nothing disturbed her as she followed the river to the meadow. She heard no screaming, no wailing spirits, no foul buzzing. Only the chirp of a cricket, the faraway screech of a lynx, the splash of night-feeding fish, the lonely song of a nightingale calling out for a mate.
Mere hours passed before Augur Meadow opened up before her. She crouched in a clump of gorse, surveying the gently rolling grass from edge to edge. With her new sight, she located a patch of buttercups, their petals dipped in glowing white-violet light.
Buttercup roots were a favorite food of pheasant.
If she had more time, it wouldn’t be much to go on. As it stood, it was the best she could do. She found a tall patch of heather across from the patch and crouched in it, waiting for the birds to come graze at dawn, hoping the phoenix would be among them.
For hours, she crouched beneath the clouded sky, the warm wind lulling her to sleep, her knife in her skin jerking her out of it.
As the sun rose, the clouds remained. The light hurt her eyes, but not so much she couldn’t keep them open.Good luck,she thought without enthusiasm.
But as dawn crept into midmorning, not a single bird had appeared – not in the buttercup patch, and not anywhere nearby. Something was wrong.
On its surface, nothing seemed amiss. But a closer look told another story. Flattened grass, the lingering scent of gunpowder. She followed the mussed grass, the stomped buttercups. Spent bullet casings, from a rifle. Perrine. Or Aquila. Or some other hunter. How far had word spread?
No blood; no feathers. Dozens of frantic pheasant tracks making for the trees.
Someone had tracked the phoenix here, shot at it, and let it get away. It was long gone from this place and would not soon return.
Complacent, again. In her anger, she kicked a stone, stubbing her toe. She should have noticed it sooner. She didn’t have time for this kind of amateur mistake.
Near the meadow’s edge, she spotted a boot print in a patch of shaded ground still soft from the rain two days ago. The wind whipped strands of her hair from her loose binding as she bent to inspect it, pushing aside the grass. Faintly, she could make out the name of the cobbler from which Sy had purchased his new boots.
In reaching for the ground, her shirt sleeve had slid up her wrist, revealing the white skin underneath.
Ivory white. Her skin had never been that color. She looked at it; then looked again. Felt it. Yes – there was no mistaking it. Her skin was covered in a soft, white, downy fur. Heart thumping, she yanked her sleeve up. It crept up her wrist, to her elbow.
She threw aside her pack, her quiver, her bow. Ripped open her jerkin, and her shirt. The fur grew all over her – her shoulders, her neck, her heaving chest, where most alarmingly, it seemed her breasts had receded. She ripped off her gloves – her hands were hairless, still – and felt her face. No fur, but on either side of her forehead, she felt two small, round bumps.
A small sigh escaped her, a short, helpless sound.
Her small, desolate breath was snatched from the air by a long, shuddering roar of thunder.
Drops fell on her head, and she quickly gathered her belongings and headed for the trees. A dead branch knocked loose by wind was easier dodged than a bolt of lightning in an open field.
She pulled Johanna’s hat from her pack and tugged it over her head. It kept the light rain off, but soon the drops upon the leaves overhead gathered into a downpour, soaking her. She sheltered under a wide, sturdy oak, trying to think, trying not to think.
Through the tumult of wind and rain, she caught snatches of voices. Men, several of them.
Quietly as she could, she followed them, pulling down the brim of her hat and stopping occasionally to orient herself by the sounds of their shouting. She spotted them sheltering beneath a narrow stone outcrop, and ducked behind another wide oak, out of their sight. There were four – she immediately recognized David. Aquila was there as well, pointing his rifle at the man with the bright red glove. The other, Claude, carried a pistol.
“You know more than you’re letting on,” Claude was saying. “You have the entire time.”
“I swear, I’ve told you all I know,” David protested.
“I’ve had enough,” said Aquila, stepping forward. Anya then saw his clothes were torn, and half of his face was scarred a brilliant red. His gaze was livid. Feral. “We’re out here in thefilthy mud because of you. I’ve lost thousands of sovereigns worth of equipment, because of you. I’ve seen foul things I’ll never unsee. Because ofyou.”
He leveled his rifle, his finger on the trigger. He aimed it at David’s chest. At this range, one shot would kill him instantly.
“Sy knows the spell,” said the other man abruptly, his voice strained. Anya inhaled sharply, at the same time David turned on him.
“Bertrand,” he said, voice thick with disappointment, heedless of the rifle pointed at his heart.
But Bertrand pressed on. “The paraglyph on his palm. His bond with the king. The spell has something to do with it. Sy’s the reason we’re out here – not David. He’s probably figured out what part you need the phoenix for, too. It’s him you want.”
Aquila lowered his rifle and turned to Claude. “Can you track him?” Claude asked.
