Romeria
The wagon stops as I’m marveling at the flame dancing along my fingers, skipping from one tip to the next.
Marveling, while trying to shed the disquiet of having a corpse nearby.
We’ve been at this for hours, Gesine helping coax my caster affinities out of hiding as they seem to do when I’m not under direct threat. We’ve had some success, at least with my link to Malachi. I have yet to find so much as a drop of water. What that means, I can’t imagine. Gesine swears the fates can’t cut anyone off from the affinities they’re born with.
But I’ve tried my hardest to keep her mind busy on training me, and in return she has kept her composure with surprising skill.
The tiny window behind the driver’s bench slides open, and Pan’s face pokes in. His mouth hangs open. “How’re you doin’ that?”
“Magic.” I grin. “Why are we stopped?”
“There’s a town up ahead. The king wants you both up front with him.”
“Why?”
“Dunno, but there’s a lot of smoke.”
Gesine and I share a look.
“That sounds like trouble.” But why would Zander want me in the thick of it, then?
“Trouble, yes. But also fresh air.”
We climb out of the wagon, Gesine on my heels, as eager to escape our little box as I am.
I shudder against the chill as I survey our new surroundings. We’re in a dense swath of lofty trees a hundred—maybe more—feet tall. While I know those formidable mountains have embraced us into their fold by now, the view of them is blocked.
“I believe they call them Blackwoods.” Gesine’s eyes follow mine, taking in the sturdy ashen-colored trunks and evergreen canopies that allow in only dappled light. Their roots crawl along the ground, creating gnarly bulges that no wagon could pass over. The path we’re on must have been carved out over the centuries.
Our long convoy has stalled, curious heads poking out of wagons while the legionaries’ acute concentration remains outward, on every twig snap and animal call.
A mortal girl of no more than five peeks out from a gap within the wagon boards. I wink at her, hoping the simple act offers some reassurance when I have no idea why we’re stopped. It must have something to do with the fifteen-foot wooden wall ahead, blocking our passage. Beyond it, multiple streams of smoke curl into the sky.
“That’s Kamstead, the last of what they call civilized villages before things get real wild.” From atop his horse, Fearghal escorts us to the front of the line where Zander waits, holding Eros’s reins for me.
“What’s going on?” I collect them, and despite the somber mood, my stomach flutters as Zander slides his thumb across my palm. The simple touch feels like a reminder of this morning and a promise for later.
“I do not know yet, but that is far too much smoke for simply expelling a draft.”
I hoist myself into my saddle.
“Thank you.” Gesine settles onto the back of Elisaf’s horse. In the daylight, there is no hiding the sorrow wilting her features.
Zander looks to me, his unspoken question hanging in the air, and I offer a subtle nod.
His shoulders sink. “I am sorry for your loss, High Priestess.”
She swallows hard, her eyes watering. “What do we know of this village?”
Zander looks to Fearghal.
“Like I was sayin’, it’s called Kamstead. Maybe sixty livin’ there. Used to be all mortals, but then Isembert decided he wanted his kind here to collect a tithe on the trade that comes through. It’s the one main road between north and south. Rumor has it Isembert promised ’em he had a deal to protect ’em from the saplin’s and that they’d get a cut of the coin.”
It’s not so much rumor as fact. “What are these elven like? Anything like Isembert?” Self-proclaimed lords who don’t deserve the stations they’ve climbed to?
He shrugs. “Maybe fifteen of ‘em. I don’t care much for any of ’em for what they are, but the times I’ve been here, the lot seemed reasonable enough. None of ’em like anyone from the south, but that’s most of the north. The village is built around the road, and they control passage through either side with their gates. Sometimes they can be thorny about who they let through.” He peers over his shoulder at the long line of mortals and legionaries. “Not sure they’ll take kindly to this.”