The stars in Hjeva had been so similar, and yet so very different. Here he could barely see their light, but he figured the forest and dancing campfire were to blame for that. He could see enough, and just for tonight found comfort in the memories.
“What are those light, mama?” he’d asked, pointing up at the sorcerer’s lights.
“They are spirits, Ginger. They are the souls of the departed.”
He still wouldn’t recall his name. He knew it was there, but just trying to think it hurt. 840 couldn’t convince himself to endure it. At least the voice was beginning to sound more like his mother again, and less like Doran.
“Why are they up there?”
“Because they are on their way to the Beyond, Ginger. They are moving on right now.”
“Why are they so colourful?”
His mother had smiled at him then, as she always did when he wouldn’t stop asking questions. In the village, curiosity had been a bad thing, and questions about the outside world had been punished. His mother had smiled.
“Because every soul is beautiful, Ginger.”
He tried to believe it now, but he couldn’t. The man who had robbed them that day hadn’t been beautiful. The people in the village, who had wanted to sacrifice him… It was difficult, but he couldn’t convince himself that their souls would shine as bright as the sorcerer’s lights had done. How would they differ? Would they be darker colours, barely visible against the black of the night sky? Would they be the moonless nights that had terrified him as a child?
His heart beat harder, rejecting his thoughts against the village. They had saved him. They had trained him and given him a small education when his parents hadn’t been able to pay for either of those things.
They had wanted to kill him, to use his blood as an offering.
He yearned for his mother’s voice, for his father’s tall silhouette in the door with the day’s catch in one hand and the bright sun at his back. He missed them so much it hurt.
“Ginger? Are you okay?”
“We always used to watch the stars. They are brighter in Hjeva.”
His voice sounded far away even to himself. When he realised what he’d just said, he blushed. In the village they would have—
But he wasn’t in the village anymore, and he didn’t want to go back either. He was better off here, away from the people who would have sacrificed him. Life had to be better than bleeding out in the already bloodied soil.
“Do you miss your home?”
He nodded. The movement felt wrong, like he was betraying a part of himself, but he wanted to be honest. Doran wouldn’t believe his lies anyway.
“We could get you back there, if you wanted to go.”
Did he want to go back? For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine it. Their small home on the cliffs. The waves below, crashing against the rock. The sound of seagulls above.
The smell of lavender and apple pie.
“Where are you from?”
“Me?” Doran’s eyes widened. “I’m from Ceidir, but—” His voice failed and he stared into the flames.
840 smiled. So Doran hurt when he thought about his home too. Maybe they weren’t that different.
“Do you want to go back?” 840 asked.
Doran held up his hand, his eyes no longer curious but focused. “Do you hear that?”
840 strained his ears. He heard the rustling of leaves, the cooing of an owl, but there was something else in the shadows too.
For a moment, he worried that bandits had found them after all, but then he realised the sounds came from the same direction Naavah Ora had walked into. He struggled to name what he was hearing. Like fire first bursting to hungry life. Like swords clashing against shields, but hollow.
An unnatural scream tore through the night.
Doran jumped to his feet, a dagger in his hand. 840 rushed to keep up with him as they darted through the branches and bushes, readying himself for whatever they’d find.
The girl…
Chapter 18
Doran
Doran pulled out his dagger and ran toward the scream. He was faintly aware of Ginger coming after him.
Following the sounds wasn’t difficult, but it was the smell that led Doran. Something was burning. He couldn’t figure out what he was hearing—there was something odd about the sounds, like they were muffled. Not quite there.
He broke through the branches of two thick trees and found Naavah Ora panting between two heaps of ashes.
Doran had never seen anything like it, and he prayed he’d never have to again either. In Vaska, parents told their children stories about ghosts eating them alive if they didn’t finish their dinner or do their chores. In Ceidir, they told stories of restless spirits preying on careless travellers. That’s what he saw now—a haunting nightmare come to life. A grotesque, thin abomination glowing with an ethereal green, and all important features which made Doran human—arms, legs, that sort of detail—misty and dissolving like candle smoke.
And Naavah Ora was fighting it.
By the looks of it she’d already killed two, but she also looked and sounded exhausted, standing hunched over and grasping her staff for dear life.
One spirit spotted him, and grinned. Ancients, it grinned. There wasn’t enough left of its face to tell for sure—the whole spirit was more vague silhouette than detail—but he be damned if that infernal thing wasn’t grinning at him.
It charged, and he gulped. For all he knew, his daggers wouldn’t do anything. But Naavah Ora’s magic had done damage; maybe they could be hurt with conventional weapons too.
The spirit raised its sword and threw itself at Doran. He prepared to dodge—where could he stick his knife? There was no substance to the spirit, just a faint hint of a ribcage and more unsubstantial green glow—pushed his leg back—
And the spirit burned to ashes right before his eyes.
Behind its still smouldering leftovers, Naavah Ora shouldered her staff.
“What was that?” Doran turned around to see if Ginger had caught up with him. He was right there behind Doran, his eyes wide. Doran knew exactly how he felt.
Naavah Ora placed her staff back over her shoulder, but didn’t move.
“A spirit of the dead.” Her voice wavered. “By Ithrean. What have I done?”
He didn’t like the sound of that. “What happened?”
Naavah Ora looked away like a chastised child. “I tried to open a gateway. I thought it didn’t work, but—”
“Ancients, why would you do that?”
“I didn’t mean to lead the Spirits through, I only meant to go there myself. Ithrean, they can’t follow. It’s not possible.”
In the forest, when the dryads had poisoned him, he’d gained a new respect for magic. Seeing Naavah Ora fight these spirits now—hearing what she was capable of doing—put a whole new fear into him.
But that wouldn’t stop him from pointing out that she was being naïve.
“And this Ithrean was supposed to stop anything bad from following you, I take it? Because it looked like they can follow you to me!”
She glared. “It doesn’t work like that. Ithrean is the Goddess of spirits and their realm. Dunhă is her home, we—”
“And that seems like a good idea to you? To travel into the world of the dead, ruled by the queen of the dead?” So much for cooling their anger. Doran was making things worse, but this—what Naavah Ora had tried to do—he couldn’t comprehend. Ceidiree history taught them better.