“I thought Alon Rhist was the home of…” Raithe stopped before revealing his own ignorance.
Malcolm smiled, not a gloating grin or pretentious smirk but a look of understanding. Raithe reconsidered his earlier impression about Malcolm resembling a weasel. The man did have a pointed nose and narrow eyes, but other than that he wasn’t weasel-like at all.
“No, Alon Rhist, though far more impressive than that dahl over there, is small by Fhrey standards. The Fhrey’s homeland is Erivan,” Malcolm said. “A vast and beautiful country of ancient forests more than a week’s hike to the northeast. It’s on the far side of a great river called the Nidwalden. Few Fhrey ever leave Erivan. Significant portions of their population have never left the capital city of Estramnadon. They see Erivan as the center of the universe, the source of all things good, so there’s no point in going anywhere else. Alon Rhist is the largest of five fortresses built during the Dherg War. The Fhrey out here patrol these lands and ensure there’s a safe buffer between people like us and them. It’s actually a source of some friction in their society. The Instarya don’t like being the only ones forced to live in what most consider a wasteland.”
A breeze picked up. All around them leaves rustled, whispering to one another—a gentle sound. Across the field, the pillars of cook fires began to lose shape, blurring as they blew to the south.
“I don’t know why the Instarya complain. It’s really quite beautiful,” Malcolm said.
Raithe stood, taking his snare with him. He cut down a small tree, pruned off the branches, and laid it across the opening of a tiny path. The trail through the brush was the perfect size for a rabbit, and little pebble droppings were everywhere. He hung the loop down from it, keeping the noose off the ground. Then he stuck pruned branches in the dirt before the hoop, ensuring that the rabbit would need to jump over them and would land in the snare.
“Bless me with three rabbits, Wogan, and I’ll make a burnt offering of the last one to you.”
“Bargaining with the gods again?” Malcolm asked. “Wouldn’t it be more enticing to offer the first rabbit in order to prove your faith?”
“Wogan isn’t a god; he’s a spirit, a guardian of forests.”
“There’s a difference?”
“I know you were a slave for a long time, but did they keep you trapped in a hole, too? Is there a difference? Is there a difference between a cow and a goat, between the sun and the moon? Tetlin’s Witch! I swear—”
“Don’t.” Malcolm’s tone was abrupt and serious.
Raithe paused. “Since when are you against swearing?”
“I’m not. Just choose another name to swear by.”
“Why? Using a god or a spirit would be far worse.”
“Call me superstitious.”
“You? Malcolm of the Rhist, who scoffs at the idea of manes and leshies? You’re afraid of the Tetlin Witch?”
Malcolm didn’t reply. He pulled his legs up tight to his chest and stared out at the hill and the walled village of the dahl. “You know, rather than praying for rabbits we could just check out the dahl. It worked out all right at the roadhouse.”
“You call that all right? Did you forget Donny?”
“What if I promise to keep my mouth shut?” Malcolm asked.
“Is that possible?”
Malcolm frowned. “I meant no storytelling. Aren’t dahls supposed to be generous to strangers? Isn’t that a thing? They’ll at least give us a little to eat, right?”
“Maybe…if they follow tradition. Hard times among the clans these days. And it could be dangerous for us. What if someone from the roadhouse is there? A group of traders might welcome the God Killer, but dahls are different. Dahls have chieftains tasked with keeping everyone safe, men who agreed to live by the Fhrey’s rules and force others to do the same.”
“But I don’t see that we have a choice. We can’t keep running like this, especially without food.”
“Our only hope is to keep moving south and stay ahead of the Fhrey. We do that and we’ll stay alive.”
“No man can escape death,” Malcolm said. “But it’s how we run that defines us. And aren’t you getting a bit—” Malcolm stopped, and his eyes narrowed as he stared at the sunny field between them and the dahl.
“What?” Raithe whispered, trying to see what Malcolm was looking at.
“I think they’re women.” Malcolm pointed out a pair of figures coming from the dahl and heading their way.
They were women. The taller one wore a long black dress that made tramping through the tall grass a struggle. She had wavy black hair that whipped behind her, exposing a lovely face. Beside her walked a girl with painted markings, short hair, and a battered cape dyed the color of red clay. Bounding by their side was a white wolf.
—
It’s just a forest, only trees, Persephone assured herself as they approached the meadow’s edge.
But people have died inside it.
Her son had been killed while hunting deer with his two best friends—both able men. And an entire war party had accompanied Reglan.
I should have brought someone along. I could have asked Konniger to send Sackett as an escort, but what would I have said? “I’m afraid of the forest, so I want to borrow the Shield of the chieftain. Oh, and by the way, the reason I’m going into the woods that terrify me is because I feel it’s important to talk to a tree. For the good of the dahl, of course.” Yeah, that would go over well.
The murky forest grew larger as they approached. Persephone had hoped the trees would appear smaller than she remembered. Things usually shrank when people grew older. The steps of the lodge used to seem mammoth and the stone foundation it sat on had been a veritable cliff when she was a child. But the trees hadn’t gotten smaller. If anything they looked bigger. Since her son’s death, Persephone hadn’t left the dahl, and after Reglan died, she rarely left Sarah and Delwin’s roundhouse. But the forest was another matter, and she hadn’t entered it, not since…
It’s just a forest. Only trees.
When Persephone was seven, she and the other children would goad one another to venture deeper into the wood and touch certain trees. Everyone managed to reach the white birch, but only she and her best friend, Aria, had managed to touch the elm beyond the shade line. Then one of the children, perhaps Sarah, dared them both to touch the black tree. No one knew what sort of tree it was. They could barely see it from where they stood in the safe warmth of the afternoon sun. Sarah, if it had been Sarah, hadn’t been serious. Everyone knew it. That tree was too deep, farther even than where the grass turned to ferns. It lived where the undergrowth loomed and darkness reigned. The whole idea was silly—crazy, really—and Persephone had laughed. Choosing that tree was a sort of revenge because they’d all been humiliated by Persephone’s and Aria’s courage.
It couldn’t have been Sarah, Persephone concluded. We’re so close now, and I hated the little girl who made that dare.
She hated her because Persephone had laughed but Aria hadn’t.
It didn’t matter that Aria was two years older; they were best friends and had always agreed on everything, but this time was different. Aria had taken Persephone’s hand and said, “We’ll do it together.” Her friend had been serious. Persephone, shocked at the words and frightened by the prospect, ripped her hand away. She could still see the disappointment in Aria’s eyes, inside of which Persephone’s reflection became smaller.