Page 25

Talysse

T here’s barely time to wash the scent of the nightly encounter off, don my old clothes—freshly laundered and pressed—and head to the courtyard.

The crowds are cheering behind the steel-plated lines of Unseelie soldiers, their armor sparkling in the rays of the morning sun. Banners with the coat of arms of the crown fly in the warm breeze, and the royal couple is already walking among the contestants. Gale waves at me when our eyes lock. The Odryssian man and the blonde woman at his side watch me like hawks. Betting those two have some sinister plan. The prince is there too, standing tall before his knights in black armor, his face cold and beautiful.

Mage Aernysse Stargaze emerges, her white hair shimmering pink in the rays of the morning sun. Silence sweeps the crowds as she raises her frail arms.

“You are all wondering what the next task will be,” she says with a dramatic smile, revealing rows of sharp, black teeth. “The Elders revealed it to me during my meditation at the River of Fire. You will be escorted to the Bone Coast, where you are charged with finding the Candle of Azalyah.”

A murmur ripples through the courtyard. Not much is known about the Seelie Princess Azalyah, who lived on one of the islands around the Cradle long before the Hex. She loved reading so much that she often spent her nights lost in a book. Someone gifted her a magical blue-flamed candle, which, once lightened with enchanted light, can burn forever. It’s been rumored that its light would probably hold Shadowfeeders at bay, but as it’s been lost for centuries, nobody knew for sure except, obviously, Aernysse Stargaze.

“May the Elders be with you.” Her voice, rasped by the centuries, scares the birds from the roofs nearby.

This voice—

Recognition paralyzes me. This was the voice from the Room of Reflections. So this is what Aeidas meant. The hag has some sinister agenda of her own.

Black, windowless carriages pull over into the courtyard, and we are all herded to different vehicles that will take us to random parts of the Bone Coast.

Finally, I will get to see the sea. Will it sound like the shell Mother owned?

The monotonous sound of the wheels and the hoofs pulls me into a deep, dreamless sleep.

As soon as the carriage comes to a screeching stop, the door swings open, letting in swirls of fog and some odd, putrid smell. There are hot springs close to the Bone Coast if my memories from Friar Ben’s geography classes were right. The water has healing properties and there were many bathhouses and beautiful villas here before. Nobody is mad enough to wander this Elders-forsaken place anymore. The hot spring water spills over the even area of the coast now, creating treacherous swamps that swallow the poor shipwrecked who survived the deceiving waters of the bay.

The carriage disappears into the white shroud, leaving me alone. A lonely howl drags into the night.

I shudder. Welcome to the Bone Coast.

The fog is so thick it feels almost palpable, consuming all sounds. How to search for a magical artifact here when I can barely see my own feet?

After a few uncertain steps, a faint sound reaches me. It reminds me of cinnamon-flavored milk and evenings around the fireplace while Father is reading, and Mother is braiding my hair; it reminds me of a certain magical seashell that made this sound when pressed against the ear.

The sea!

The grass beneath my feet gives way to rocks, and when the moon rises somewhere above the mists, my boots are sinking in fine sand. The sea breeze picks up, clearing the fog around me, and the sound of the surf grows louder.

There it is, powerful and endless, foam framing each wave biting the shore. The moon extends a silvery path over the unruly water, daring me to enter. Shipwrecks stretch their bones out of the indigo waters, a morbid reminder of just how treacherous the bay is. Their skeletal remains stretch into the horizon, the distance between them dotted with dark, swirling holes—the legendary maelstroms of the Bone Coast. Nowadays, ships sail protected by multiple magical beacons against the long nights and captains make sure they avoid the dangerous bay. Yet, the currents are so powerful that sometimes they are sucked in and crushed against the razor-sharp rocks.

Debris are scattered all over the moonlit beach: crates, rotting boats, and even some ships broken and torn as if by some unknown sea leviathan.

Maybe the relic is somewhere here? Searching all these piles would be time-consuming. What’s more disturbing is that there’s no sign of magic around, no light buzzing in the air, no metallic taste in my mouth.

The moisture of the sea air soaks my clothes and hair, and the evening breeze makes me shiver. Nights around here seem to be cold. I’m poking the piles of rubble around, overturning boats, opening rotting crates, and disturbing colonies of crawling, wiggling coastal creatures, but there is nothing. There are many corpses around—skeletons picked clean by the animals, their bones still covered in tattered remains of clothing are scattered around. In the hollowed chest of one of them still sticks a rusty dagger—the last witness of some unknown tragedy. I pull it out, pleased with my find. Its blade is dull but still potentially useful. It’s a small comfort in this hopeless landscape.

My feet are already aching when I near the hot springs, their putrid smell stinging my nose. The fog still lingers here, reaching to the middle of my calves. A distant howl sends chills down my spine. This isn’t an ordinary wolf. The normal wolves have adapted to the long nights and learned that they should remain silent if they want to live. This beast is probably tainted, so if I don’t perish by its fangs, its taint will turn me into one of the Shadowfeeders’ thralls. The hair on my nape and arms lifts.

A low growl reverberates through the mist just behind my back, and cold sweat trickles down my back. From the dark veils of the fog emerges a wolf. Its eyes glow a menacing red, its fur hanging in tattered patches, its teeth bared in a snarl. There’s a shamble in its step, a certain mindless ferocity that confirms what I feared. This is definitely a Tainted One.

The wolf lunges, jaws snapping shut with a sickening crunch where I stood just a heartbeat before. I roll to the side, the cold ground scraping my arms, breath choking in my throat. I’ve landed badly and pain explodes in my shoulder, sharp and unrelenting, threatening to drag me under. Every muscle screams as I scramble to my feet, my vision blurring with the effort. The beast is already recovering, its glowing eyes locking onto me.

Panic has never saved a life.

The monster is much stronger, but I have other advantages. All Tainted creatures are husks driven by mindless ferocity. They’re easy to trick.

I call upon my magic, and the silvery waters inside me weave an illusion around me to blur my form. The wolf hesitates, confused by the sudden distortion.

My limbs trembling, I hurl an illusion of myself charging at the beast. The demonic wolf snarls and leaps at it, passing through the phantom form and landing in a heap of confusion. Taking advantage of its disorientation, I close the distance, the dagger clutched tightly in my hand.

Now or never.

Atos take it! It recovers much faster than expected, swinging its massive head toward me. That was close! I leap back, narrowly avoiding its snapping jaws. My heart races. Cold terror courses through my veins. Exhaustion weighs my limbs, and my magic will soon be depleted.

So precious little resources in these Wastelands! Rocks! I crouch and grab a handful of round pebbles strewn between the patches of grass and toss them into the swirls of mist. The beast whips its head in that direction when they hit the ground.

Heroy, guide my blade!

This is my chance.

I dart forward, aiming the dagger at its vulnerable neck. The beast senses my movement and twists, but I manage to drive the blade into its shoulder, penetrating its patchy fur. The rusty metal bites into flesh, and the wolf howls in pain and fury.

The wound isn’t fatal, but it slows the beast down. It turns on me, black blood dripping from the gash, its eyes burning with rage like glowing embers. Its jaws snap terribly close to my hand, so all I can do is yank the blade out and flee.

Atos take it.

There’s no time for a calculated, planned move. The demon tenses its muscles for a leap.

Summoning the last drops of arcane power, I create an imperfect illusion of myself right in front of it, feinting an attack. As the beast lunges at my distorted image, I dive to its side, driving the dagger deep into its neck, aiming for a vital artery.

It thrashes wildly, trying to dislodge the blade, but I hold on, ramming it deeper and twisting the dagger until my palms bleed. With a final, bloodcurdling howl, the beast collapses, fountains of black ichor coloring the grass.

Breathing heavily, I pull the dagger free, wiping it on the grass before collapsing next to the monster.

This Trial makes the first one look like a walk to the Temple of the Five.

No time to linger around the cadaver, spreading its tainted ichor around. There might be more lurking in the mists around. I push myself up, massaging my sore shoulder, and scan the foggy coastline for any more threats. The rusty dagger, though battered, has proven its worth.

I head to the sea and kneel in the shallow water. Its salty coldness bites my shaky fingers. Its touch—so purifying and fresh, washes away the taint and the aches in my muscles.

The night has grown quiet, only the soothing sound of the waves disturbing the silence. No more howling, and, thank the Elders, no human voices or steps. I splash my face, braid my hair, and sit a little in the silence, trying to calm my still-racing heart. The sulfuric stench of the hot springs grows more intense, it tickles my nose, reminding me it’s time to go.

It’s probably past midnight as I sharpen that weird sense inside me that can pick up on magic. And aim it at the nearly impenetrable wall of fog. Nothing, just distant bubbling of water and stench that makes my eyes water. My feet feel heavier—I should’ve probably walked for miles. Each step gets trickier: reeking puddles of green water gape before me. It’s the marshland, and one wrong step could be lethal.

The blow to the back of my head comes suddenly and sends me flying forward. The mud rushes to meet my face. Then a starry explosion blurs my vision.

What is the name of—

“Finish her!” a cold female voice commands just behind me, and rough hands grab me, turning me around like a rag doll. The white flashes of light reside, and I face the hatred-twisted Odryssian man, the Warrior Pony Princess’s loyal shadow. As expected, she’s right there, peeking behind his shoulder, her eyes glittering with malice.

“And here ends the story of the girl from the stables, who thought she could charm the prince,” she hisses. The Odryssian raises a rusty sword, going for my breastbone, and all I can do is stretch my left leg and kick him. Hard.

Damn it, I missed the golden spot, but this throws him off for a moment. The blade slices into my left thigh, and I gasp; visceral, mind-numbing pain searing through my flesh. I press a hand against the slash and wince when I feel the hot gush of blood. Clumsily, I roll to my side and leap to my feet. An apocalyptic headache erupts in my head, and my surroundings blur—that blow to my head was really something.

“You just refuse to die, don’t you, you flea-infested peasant!” WPP aims a spell at me, which hisses into the fog like an angry viper. Elders, that was close. Summoning my own magic, I seek cover in the thickening mist. It buys me the moment I need to come up with a plan.

Breathe, Talysse.

Breathe.

The last remnants of magic hum within me, ready to be spilled.

It worked with the wolf, it should work with them, too. An illusion of me charging at the Warrior Pony Princess appears; the fog veils make it even more realistic, and the woman swings at my doppelg?nger, slicing empty air with her thick stick. Still standing in my original spot, I squeeze my last droplets of arcane energy, creating more copies of myself, each moving in different directions before dissipating into a shower of sparks.

“Tricks and shadows won’t help you!” the Odryssian man shouts. Elders! He’s somewhere on my right, hidden in the thick mist.

“You know what they would do if they don’t find your body, stable girl?” the blonde woman asks. “They’ll assume you abandoned the Trial and ran away, and they’ll come for your family—” Her face is concealed, but I imagine the cruel smile curling her beautiful lips.

“And we’ll make sure they won’t find you, Talysse of Nowhere!” The Odryssian chuckles.

Tayna! My teeth grind painfully. I cannot let this happen.

Trying to put some distance between us, I navigate the fog carefully, blending in with the surroundings. A wide puddle of dark water gapes before my boots—it looks like one of the deadly ones that could swallow whole horses. Interesting.

“Fancy armor, fancy magic, and yet here I am, still standing,” I taunt. “The Flint still around my neck.” Just as predicted, my voice lures the blonde woman, and she charges at me, her silhouette cutting through the fog.

“Don’t follow her! She’s tricking you!” the Odryssian warns her with a snarl.

Very well. Those two are really easier to confuse than the Tainted wolf. All I have to do is take a step to the side and let the fury of the WPP do the rest. She splashes into the murky lake, and as if orchestrated by Seuta herself, a low, menacing growl rumbles from the mist nearby.

“Tomira! Where are you? The wolves aren’t real! Find her! She has the Flint!” the Odryssian shouts, panic rippling his voice.

The thick, reeking water rapidly devours his friend. Her scream for help ends with a bloodcurdling gurgle.

“Tomira? That’s not funny!”

Oh, I disagree.

From the shadows, a pack of frenzied Tainted wolves emerges, their eyes glowing with an unnatural light, teeth bared and dripping with black, venomous ichor.

And I know very well they are not an illusion.

“They are not real!” The Odryssian’s voice has dropped to a whisper. “The wolves are not—”

Pressing my palms to my ears, I run, stumble, fall, then rise and run again as far as possible from the fountains of red blood slicing the fog and the sounds of crushing bones and tearing flesh and sinews.

When his desperate screams and pleas die out in the distance, I realize that dreadful as it is, his death has saved me.

My heart is in my throat, and my legs are about to give in, but my mind is strangely clear. Blood trickles down my thigh.

Away from the mist, near the sea, I drop to my knees to wash my wounds and come up with a plan. Where am I? The rotting boats and piles of wood and algae appear the same, but this part of the beach is new to me.

The cut is deep and throbs in a very bad way. The salty water makes me gasp and nearly collapse in that foamy area where the sea bites the land with primal ferocity.

Clouds gather above, and the wind howls, whipping loose strands of hair against my face and tugging at my doublet. The waves swell from the depths, hurling themselves at the beach like vengeful sea demons, all teeth and claws.

The sea can be fascinating and terrifying at once. The ghostly bones of the shipwrecks scattered in the bay are still there, but something—

Something is different now. It’s faint at first, like the flicker of a dust speck in the sun.

The silvery lake inside me swells. It senses it, craves it, and reaches out to it.

My laugh is long and bitter, like that of a madwoman, and it scares the seagulls dozing on the beach. The flatter of their wings and their outraged cries are swallowed by the wind.

It’s there, on a half-sunken ship deep into the bay. Its stem piercing the starry sky, mocking me. The shimmer of ancient magic is brighter now. There, deep underwater, close to the keel, is the candle of Azalyah.

Too bad I cannot swim.