“Not profoundly,” he said lightly, trying to make her smile—and failing. “Worst case, my sister will get a great song out of this.”
“Your sister will never forgive me if you die.”
“She forgives easily.” Ven inspected his sword, tilting the blade so that it caught the sunlight. “But I don’t plan to die today.” He jumped to his feet.
“Me neither.”
“Glad we’re agreed on that.” He hooked Naelin’s hand with his and drew her in to kiss her. “If they’re still alive in there, we’ll find them. I promise.”
She smiled, though it was a shaky smile. “You’re very good at being heroic.” She drew in a deep breath, and Ven could tell she was about to say something difficult for her.She’s going to tell me not to come, he thought. Sure enough, she said, “But you don’t have to be. You should stay in Aratay. Return to being a champion.”
Knew it.He considered arguing with her, convincing her that his love was true and he’d follow her literally beyond the ends of the earth, but instead he leapt off the branch and skidded down the curved trunk of the tree as he called, “Last one in cooks dinner for a week!”
He heard her surprised laugh behind him, and he slowed so she could catch up with him—and then he saw her shooting past him, on the back of a tree spirit with mossy skin and six-prong antlers. She plunged into the mist, and the wild spirits streamed around her. Sword drawn, Ven ran in with them.
All laughter died.
Whiteness curled around him. He squinted into the haze, but all he saw was the shifting shadows, different degrees of whiteness, swirling and spinning around him—it was like the fog that builds when fire meets ice. “Naelin?” he called, and his voice came out as a combination of a whisper, a squeak, a growl, and an echo.
The ground felt spongy as he walked forward. Sword raised, he twisted his head in all directions, walking forward, then sideways, then backward, trying to see everywhere at once, but there was nothing to see.
A whistle of wind rushed past him. He readied his sword.
A cackle, high, unearthly.
The palms of his hands were sweaty, and he cursed himself for not holding on to Naelin as they entered. He didn’t think the haze would be as thick as this. “Naelin, answer me!”
He heard his own fear, tasted it, as thick as mucus coating the back of his throat. He gripped his sword tighter, then swept it through the mist. Bits of whiteness clung to it, like cobweb strands. He began slashing in front of him as he strode forward.
They’re here.
He felt spirits all around him, brushing past his legs, around his sword, and he heard them laughing at him. He couldn’t tell if they were Naelin’s spirits or other, wilder spirits from the untamed lands, and at that moment, he didn’t care. They were between him and Naelin.
He charged forward, clearing the haze out of the way with his sword—and as if his sword were the wind, the haze cleared for him, and he realized the mist wasn’t empty air at all.
It was full of spirits.
All around him, the world was choked with spirits.
“Ven!”
He ran toward her voice.
From his left: “Ven!”
His right: “Ven!” Higher pitched. A mad giggle.
It wasn’t Naelin.
He halted.
He couldn’t be certainanyof those voices were her. The mist curled closer to him. He felt a long finger stroke his arm. Steadying himself, he lifted his sword eye level. The spirits pressed in, murmuring and crooning and cackling.
He waited, counting his breaths.
He felt prickles on the back of his neck. A spirit was there, breathing close to him. Closing his eyes, Ven drew in air.
And then he exploded into movement.
