the clearing. It was near, Mirianna thought, yet not near—at once behind her gelding’s tail and, a heartbeat later, echoing from a wall of aspen trunks. It was deep, reverberant, and full, and the sound of it sent shivers into the well of her stomach—long, spiraling shivers that ended in sudden flares of blue light. For one breath-stealing moment, she thought the lion had returned, but the voice, speaking again, was somehow different. And definitely masculine.
“They don’t know what they’re asking, do they, Gareth?”
The boy’s head twitched upright. His already pale face blanched. “N—no, sir.”
“Pity.”
The drawled syllables hung in the stillness, thrumming not in the ear but along Mirianna’s nerves. Beside her, Rees stiffened. The odor of his sweat, hot and pungent, rushed at her nostrils, followed by something more subtle, yet chilling. It’s only the night. It’s only the night, ran through her mind like an incantation. It’s only the night and the Wehrland.
“If you’re bound for Ar-Deneth—” The voice startled her with its sudden, precise closeness. “—you’ve come too far north.”
Mirianna’s gaze searched the shadows between spruce trunks. Beside her, Rees shifted in his saddle. She sensed him lean forward, and knew he, too, peered into the darkness after a voice no longer as large as the trees.
“You’ll find a path to the right as you leave this clearing,” the voice continued, the tone cool now, humorless. Even brusque. “Follow it about a league to a single large willow. The trail to Ar-Deneth runs past the tree.”
The words hung in the following silence like the memory of sound in a vacant corridor. There should be more, Mirianna thought. Shouldn’t there?
Confused, she looked toward Rees, but he was staring into the darkness, fingers still gripping his bow. Her gaze skittered to the boy who, standing now, hugged a stick to his chest with both hands. Not a stick, she realized, but a staff. He’s blind. No wonder—
Tolbert coughed. The plaintive sound brought her attention to him, and to the dry cold that had long ago crept into her feet and turned them to stones in the stirrups. I haven’t made his tea. He’ll cough for hours if I don’t. She glanced at the fire, saw how the flames had dwindled now the kindling was spent, and cleared her throat.
“ Might we,” she spoke to the wall of trees, “share your fire until dawn? We’re cold and the trail will be easier to—”
A twig snapped at her side, the pop ricocheting through the clearing.
Mirianna jerked around. Her gelding sidestepped with a squeal. A shape darker than the shadows detached itself from them. The gelding shied from it, half rearing. The animal blundered into Rees’s horse and staggered, throwing Mirianna sideways in the saddle. With a little gasp, she flailed at the saddle pommel, trying to right herself. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a phantom shape sweep toward the animal’s head, saw the gelding’s eye roll and flash white. She caught a handful of mane just as the gelding coiled back on its haunches.
She expected the plunge. She didn’t expect the sudden stop that flung her against the gelding’s neck and drove the saddle pommel into her stomach. She clung there, feeling the gelding quiver beneath her while her breath sawed in and out. When she could close her mouth, Mirianna pushed herself up. The gelding back-stepped, whinnying.
“Whoa,” said a voice. “Steady.”
Mirianna blinked. Her horse had no head.
Dry mouthed, she stared at the blackness slicing across the animal’s neck only inches above where her face had lain. Logic told her someone had thrown something—a cloak?—over her horse’s head. But logic couldn’t explain the shape now standing next to the gelding’s missing head, a man-sized tower of blackness. If she could discern even a hint of nose or chin, she could take the shape for a hooded and cloaked man, but what should’ve been face
“They don’t know what they’re asking, do they, Gareth?”
The boy’s head twitched upright. His already pale face blanched. “N—no, sir.”
“Pity.”
The drawled syllables hung in the stillness, thrumming not in the ear but along Mirianna’s nerves. Beside her, Rees stiffened. The odor of his sweat, hot and pungent, rushed at her nostrils, followed by something more subtle, yet chilling. It’s only the night. It’s only the night, ran through her mind like an incantation. It’s only the night and the Wehrland.
“If you’re bound for Ar-Deneth—” The voice startled her with its sudden, precise closeness. “—you’ve come too far north.”
Mirianna’s gaze searched the shadows between spruce trunks. Beside her, Rees shifted in his saddle. She sensed him lean forward, and knew he, too, peered into the darkness after a voice no longer as large as the trees.
“You’ll find a path to the right as you leave this clearing,” the voice continued, the tone cool now, humorless. Even brusque. “Follow it about a league to a single large willow. The trail to Ar-Deneth runs past the tree.”
The words hung in the following silence like the memory of sound in a vacant corridor. There should be more, Mirianna thought. Shouldn’t there?
Confused, she looked toward Rees, but he was staring into the darkness, fingers still gripping his bow. Her gaze skittered to the boy who, standing now, hugged a stick to his chest with both hands. Not a stick, she realized, but a staff. He’s blind. No wonder—
Tolbert coughed. The plaintive sound brought her attention to him, and to the dry cold that had long ago crept into her feet and turned them to stones in the stirrups. I haven’t made his tea. He’ll cough for hours if I don’t. She glanced at the fire, saw how the flames had dwindled now the kindling was spent, and cleared her throat.
“ Might we,” she spoke to the wall of trees, “share your fire until dawn? We’re cold and the trail will be easier to—”
A twig snapped at her side, the pop ricocheting through the clearing.
Mirianna jerked around. Her gelding sidestepped with a squeal. A shape darker than the shadows detached itself from them. The gelding shied from it, half rearing. The animal blundered into Rees’s horse and staggered, throwing Mirianna sideways in the saddle. With a little gasp, she flailed at the saddle pommel, trying to right herself. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a phantom shape sweep toward the animal’s head, saw the gelding’s eye roll and flash white. She caught a handful of mane just as the gelding coiled back on its haunches.
She expected the plunge. She didn’t expect the sudden stop that flung her against the gelding’s neck and drove the saddle pommel into her stomach. She clung there, feeling the gelding quiver beneath her while her breath sawed in and out. When she could close her mouth, Mirianna pushed herself up. The gelding back-stepped, whinnying.
“Whoa,” said a voice. “Steady.”
Mirianna blinked. Her horse had no head.
Dry mouthed, she stared at the blackness slicing across the animal’s neck only inches above where her face had lain. Logic told her someone had thrown something—a cloak?—over her horse’s head. But logic couldn’t explain the shape now standing next to the gelding’s missing head, a man-sized tower of blackness. If she could discern even a hint of nose or chin, she could take the shape for a hooded and cloaked man, but what should’ve been face
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