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The thought drifted, floating away before he could catch hold. Beguiled by the spell, he sank deeper, hovering on the edge of consciousness. Eastbrook nudged him. Poking. Prodding. Ruffling his feathers against his cheek. A beak tugged at the ends of his hair.
His eyes opened and closed again.
Arching, shifting, digging his heels into mucky ground, Westvane wriggled side-to-side. Eastbrook was right. He couldn’t stay here, in softness and comfort. He must fight his way free. Find a way out, but as he twisted against his bonds, the beguiling voice came again, washing over him like warm water. The darkness thickened. His mind loosened, and he drifted, away from all he knew, into the bewitching arms of the unknown.
30
POSITIVELY MEDIEVAL
Catching the toe of her boot on a raised tree root, Truly stumbled sideways on the uneven trail. Her arm flew out to stop her fall. Her palm landed on a huge tree trunk. The rough bark scraped across her cuts and bruises, causing her to push off too fast and lurch to one side.
Her knee bounced off the ground.
With a hiss, she righted her balance, coming to an awkward stop at the bottom of a ravine. Doubled over, she looked uphill. She scanned the top of the rise, plotting her trajectory up the slope. Near the crest, Azalea turned to wave her on before disappearing over the other side.
Truly pushed upright, loose soil shifting beneath her feet as she began her ascent, following a woman she didn’t know deeper into Weeping Hollow, a place Westvane and Montrose insisted tortured and killed people.
The gamble was a big one, given the stakes. Her friends’ lives hung in the balance. Trusting Azalea, following her instincts, might get them all killed.
Climbing over a moss-covered log, she sliced between two enormous trees. Her feet slipped again. She grabbed an outstretched branch, pulled herself up, and forged on, even as she shook her head. Was she making the right decision? Or a huge mistake?
Her intuition was a powerful tool. She listened to it often, going with her gut, feeling her way through situations most of the time. Analytical people thought her approach to life qualified asnuts. Other intuits got it, understanding how she knew the path she took was the right one without looking at hard data. Now, though, she would’ve given anything for a spreadsheet. For a list of pros and cons. Anything that might land her in the vicinity of absolute certainty.
Instead, she began questioning everything in detail. Her choices. The direction she hiked. Along with her own goddamned mind.
As awful thoughts plagued her, worry gnawed on her. What if her friends were already dead? What if nothing she did now could save them?
“Shit,” she whispered, her throat tight, each breath coming hard as she crested the hilltop.
Thick woods thinned, opening up into a clearing along the ridgeline. Deep gloom lifted as clouds drifted and the moon came out to play. The shine settled like a blanket over the trees, painting bright green leaves with a silver brush. Old-growth trees with wide canopies swayed above her head, creaking in welcome… or was it warning? More questions. Another thing to worry about, as the smell of pine sap drifted and a brisk breeze cooled the sweat on her skin. Inhaling through her nose, she breathed in the forest scents and…
Picked up another.
Magic. Powerful. Potent. Different than hers, but also the same.
Watching Azalea traverse the zigzagging trail below her, Truly scanned the valley from her vantage point on the bluff. Her gaze snagged on the soft glow of faraway streetlights, then moved on to trace rooftops and roads. Civilization in the form of a village. Pretty and picturesque. Still and silent. At peace with the knowledge it sat nestled in the center of Weeping Hollow’s palm.
Her eyes narrowed, trying to get a better sense of it from afar. Large town? Or tiny hamlet? Single-story huts lined narrow streets. Angled roofs sloped to pointed eaves, some tall and peaked, others low-pitched and less-inspired. The ones she could see possessed nice-sized yards, wattle fences demarcating the space between homes. Looked like a spiral layout, streets circling, one rounding into the next, forming the shape of a Nautilus shell.
Her mouth curved.
Fibonacci would’ve been impressed with the precision.
Even the trees fell into the line, respecting the obvious mathematical equation.
At the shell’s center, however, stood an outlier. The singular anomaly — a statuesque timber-beam building surrounded by green space, fronted by a town square. A place people gathered to socialize. Large enough to host a marketplace.
Hours spent studying Art History allowed her to frame the scene. Her first thought — thirteenth century Norway. Viking revival with a hit of feudal lord. A throwback to the days before the invention of modern comforts. Truly shook her head. The place looked positively medieval.
Finding Azalea in the dark, Truly started down the hill after her. Her pace was fast, her stockpile of questions multiplying with every step. Hopscotching over a collection of flat-faced rocks, she continued her pursuit. She caught up with Azalea at the bottom of the slope, slowing to walk shoulder-to-shoulder with her.
“What are they?”
Azalea glanced at her. “Who?”
“Eblin and his ilk.”
“Sentries,” she said. “Protectors of Weeping Hollow.”
