that bad going back.”
Nonplussed, Aerin made a sound. “I don’t know. There are other things to worry about first.”
Lara groaned, “The trials,” and Aerin, cautiously, said, “Among other things. Lift your gaze, Truthseeker. See what I see.”
“That tone suggests I’d rather not.” Lara coughed again, then raised her eyes to look over the Drowned Lands.
An army of ghosts marched on them.
They were men and women and children, and they bore no weapons. But neither did they need any: even from a remove they were cold, drawing warmth and life from the air. Lara hitched back, knowing the sea lay behind her and that ultimately she had to go forward, but reluctant to let the dead close the distance.
“Are they real?” Aerin’s hoarse whisper barely carried to Lara’s ears.
Lara, dismayed at her own conviction, said, “Oh, they’re real,” before wondering how they could be. She’d been told time and again that the elfin races had no afterlife, no soul to continue on after death, but each of the undead pacing toward them was an individual, loss and horror written on their faces. If they had once had color, it had been bleached from them, the way relentless sun might bleach bone to brittle white. Some carried farm tools and fishing materials; others led skeletal horses, skin tight over protruding ribs.They left no mark on the earth as they passed, nor made any sound, but the air grew colder, and Lara, shivering in her wet Unseelie garb, thought she might freeze before they even reached her.
Beyond them, beyond the black fields they crossed, stood the remnants of a city. Broken obsidian towers jabbed at the sky, ugly where they should have been graceful. Details were lost to the distance, but a single ragged banner flew from one of the ruined towers, a testament against oblivion. Lara abruptly liked them for that, even though defiance had never been her way.
“They draw closer, Truthseeker.” Aerin was on her feet, sword in hand. If her injured shoulder bothered her, Lara could see no sign of it. “What do we do?”
“We can’t fight. There are hundreds of them.”
“Thousands,” Aerin disagreed, truth ringing in the assessment.
Lara gritted her teeth. “So maybe you should put the sword down.”
“And let them come at us unhindered? We have two days and a little, Lara Jansen. We cannot stand here and wait on them if we wish to revive Dafydd or bring back the Unseelie king.” Aerin’s lip curled with the last words and she wove a figure with her sword, making it a threat to the oncoming ghosts.
Dafydd. Lara closed her eyes, building an image of the Seelie prince. Warm-skinned, shaggy-haired, delicately elfin even hidden behind a mortal glamour. She hadn’t forgotten him, but he had fallen from the forefront of her thoughts. There had to be a way forward, because he lay somewhere beyond the ghost-ridden fields, and it was much too early to give up.
Emboldened and feeling entirely unwise, Lara repeated, “Put the sword down,” and strode past Aerin to meet the approaching undead.
She met a woman first, and offered a hand as she would to a human. The woman gazed at Lara’s extended hand, while behind her the masses came to a slow halt. Their stillness answered anylingering doubts of whether they lived or not: no living thing could be so eerily motionless. Only the woman before her moved, looking again from her hand into Lara’s face.
“My name’s Lara Jansen. I’m a truthseeker.” Barely a month ago Lara had never heard the word, but describing herself that way, especially within the Barrow-lands, came naturally. They understood, here, what it meant, maybe more profoundly than she herself did.
And even the dead, it seemed, knew what to make of the word and its portents. A flush of color ran through the woman, enlivening her a little. Then her jaw dropped, gaping like a vampire’s, and the woman surged forward, fingers clawed and hunger in her gaze.
Lara shrieked and fell
Nonplussed, Aerin made a sound. “I don’t know. There are other things to worry about first.”
Lara groaned, “The trials,” and Aerin, cautiously, said, “Among other things. Lift your gaze, Truthseeker. See what I see.”
“That tone suggests I’d rather not.” Lara coughed again, then raised her eyes to look over the Drowned Lands.
An army of ghosts marched on them.
They were men and women and children, and they bore no weapons. But neither did they need any: even from a remove they were cold, drawing warmth and life from the air. Lara hitched back, knowing the sea lay behind her and that ultimately she had to go forward, but reluctant to let the dead close the distance.
“Are they real?” Aerin’s hoarse whisper barely carried to Lara’s ears.
Lara, dismayed at her own conviction, said, “Oh, they’re real,” before wondering how they could be. She’d been told time and again that the elfin races had no afterlife, no soul to continue on after death, but each of the undead pacing toward them was an individual, loss and horror written on their faces. If they had once had color, it had been bleached from them, the way relentless sun might bleach bone to brittle white. Some carried farm tools and fishing materials; others led skeletal horses, skin tight over protruding ribs.They left no mark on the earth as they passed, nor made any sound, but the air grew colder, and Lara, shivering in her wet Unseelie garb, thought she might freeze before they even reached her.
Beyond them, beyond the black fields they crossed, stood the remnants of a city. Broken obsidian towers jabbed at the sky, ugly where they should have been graceful. Details were lost to the distance, but a single ragged banner flew from one of the ruined towers, a testament against oblivion. Lara abruptly liked them for that, even though defiance had never been her way.
“They draw closer, Truthseeker.” Aerin was on her feet, sword in hand. If her injured shoulder bothered her, Lara could see no sign of it. “What do we do?”
“We can’t fight. There are hundreds of them.”
“Thousands,” Aerin disagreed, truth ringing in the assessment.
Lara gritted her teeth. “So maybe you should put the sword down.”
“And let them come at us unhindered? We have two days and a little, Lara Jansen. We cannot stand here and wait on them if we wish to revive Dafydd or bring back the Unseelie king.” Aerin’s lip curled with the last words and she wove a figure with her sword, making it a threat to the oncoming ghosts.
Dafydd. Lara closed her eyes, building an image of the Seelie prince. Warm-skinned, shaggy-haired, delicately elfin even hidden behind a mortal glamour. She hadn’t forgotten him, but he had fallen from the forefront of her thoughts. There had to be a way forward, because he lay somewhere beyond the ghost-ridden fields, and it was much too early to give up.
Emboldened and feeling entirely unwise, Lara repeated, “Put the sword down,” and strode past Aerin to meet the approaching undead.
She met a woman first, and offered a hand as she would to a human. The woman gazed at Lara’s extended hand, while behind her the masses came to a slow halt. Their stillness answered anylingering doubts of whether they lived or not: no living thing could be so eerily motionless. Only the woman before her moved, looking again from her hand into Lara’s face.
“My name’s Lara Jansen. I’m a truthseeker.” Barely a month ago Lara had never heard the word, but describing herself that way, especially within the Barrow-lands, came naturally. They understood, here, what it meant, maybe more profoundly than she herself did.
And even the dead, it seemed, knew what to make of the word and its portents. A flush of color ran through the woman, enlivening her a little. Then her jaw dropped, gaping like a vampire’s, and the woman surged forward, fingers clawed and hunger in her gaze.
Lara shrieked and fell
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