Who could sleep after that?
Mertle lay on the still-cooling ground, eyes wide open, watching the Mother moon above. Her ears pricked at every sound from the forest, every swish of cloth from the three on watch, every crackle of the fire. They’d lit one this time, and had fashioned and set torches to form a rough perimeter.
It didn’t help her feel any safer.
The prince had only gone to sleep at Quistis’s insistence. He would’ve taken first watch—probably second as well—and then kept going the next day if the wild look in his eyes was any indication.
If he was spooked, what could Mertle expect of herself?
She tried to sleep, but try as she might, she couldn’t get her eyes to close, nor could she ignore the soft scraping of boots on ashen ground or the way the earth crackled beneath her bedroll, heat still escaping into the chill night air.
Tummy and the prince were both asleep, but she was certain it would take the gentlest prod for both to spring awake.
What was that? She resisted the urge to rise and peer into the depths of the forest for the seventh time. Another animal or bird—or, she shuddered, some large insect skittering through the burnt underbrush.
Faces of the dead scrolled past her mind’s eye. Her imagination always snagged on that most terrible detail: the beetles inside their heads, the sound they made as they moved, the gurgling and the cracking and the snapping. Her flesh crawled and it was all she could do not to gag. She pressed her hands to her face and rubbed aching eyes.
She turned away from the fire to face Tummy’s back.
Tummy had fought. The two soldiers had fought. She’d cowered behind the invisible walls with Quistis, little better than a despairing wench. Had life in Valen made her that soft and useless?
But really, what could she have done? She didn’t have the brawn to smash heads, nor could she fling lightning from her hands. Her knives had been useless against the enemy they’d faced.
It had been a long, long time since Mertle had last felt so helpless as she had today. It was a sobering reminder that, for all she could do, there was only so much she was prepared for. She hated everything about this day.
Rust-red beetles. The walking dead. A priest that had survived magic that had chilled Mertle’s blood. She’d been face down in the mud, arms covering her head, eyes clenched shut, and she’d still felt the power the prince unleashed then. Hair had stood on end, and her clothes had cracked with electric sparks even afterwards. The air had hurt to breathe.
Should she be more afraid that Tallah and Sil were being hunted by this monster?
She rolled onto her other side and faced the fire. Barlo’s large shadow fell across her sight as the vanadal prodded the embers with his bloody mace. Vial sat next to Quistis, his face turned away from Mertle, the two talking in low voices.
Was Barlo part of Quistis’s cabal? Did he know of the traitors in their midst? Or was he loyal to the prince?
How sad that would be, for Falor to be the only one among them excluded from the conspiracy against his mother. Part of Mertle thrummed with pity for the man.
Another part of her was terrified to bits. The people of Valen had no idea of what beast they worshipped and celebrated. How could someone be that powerful? How could he simply be let loose onto the world?
Tossing and turning, her mind aflame with questions and too-loud thoughts, the night was barely at its mid point—and her bladder felt ready to burst. She ignored it as long as she could, unwilling to leave the light of the fire. In the end, she rose and approached the night watch.
“Not yer turn yet, chit,” Barlo rumbled.
She reached over his shoulder and grabbed the torch stuck in the the ground at his feet.
“Need to take a piss,” she said.
Quistis rose quietly and accompanied her as she headed to the side of the devastated area, where singed vegetation clung to the forest wall.
“I think we’ve bigger things to worry over than propriety,” Quistis said as Mertle dropped her britches behind a fern.
“Aye,” she answered, squatting and sticking the torch into the soft earth. “Never been one for an audience.”
Quistis grunted something unintelligible as Mertle went about her business. The night was chilly. Closer to the remains of the forest, life had begun returning.
A bird took flight as Mertle finished her business, its wings beating loudly among the canopy and startling her. Something sniffled the ground nearby. A centipede crossed her boot, and she nearly leapt up, ready to scream. That would’ve been unfortunate.
The light of Quistis’s torch shifted around as the healer paced. She, at least, was as unnerved as the rest of them, the veneer of cool detachment flaking off.
When Mertle rose and pulled up her trousers, a hand clamped over her mouth.
“Shhht,” someone hushed her gently from behind as a second hand grabbed Mertle’s wrist before she could reach for her knife. “It’s me. Don’t scream,” Deidra said.
Mertle let out a muffled gasp of breath through her nose and yanked her hand free of Deidra’s grip. She clung to her trousers with the other hand, still only half pulled up.
“Call Quistis,” Deidra whispered in her ear. “Softly, please.” With that, she took her hand away from Mertle’s mouth.
“Could’ve waited for me to pull my bloody knickers up,” Mertle hissed at the night weaver as she spun around.
The light of the torch revealed a harried Deidra looking as if she’d been crawling on her belly for days. Twigs clung to her hair, and her clothes were crusted with filth. Heavy purple bags hung under her eyes, suggesting she hadn’t slept at all since they’d separated.
“What’s happened to you?” Mertle asked.
“Just call Quistis, please. I’ll explain.”
Mertle did. The healer picked her way through the thicket, torch in one hand and staff in the other, ready to swing. She gasped when she saw Deidra’s condition.
“What’s—” Quistis began, but Deidra held up a hand. Shadows crawled around her, boiling as if alive.
“Even in his sleep, he’s still alert,” she groaned. “I don’t have long. He keeps trying to locate me so I have to distract his senses. It’s harder than you’d think.”
“Have you seen what’s happened here?” Mertle asked. “The… monsters?”
“I’ve seen them, yes. And I saw that thing flying away. I wanted to give chase, but your princeling was wide awake just then.” She gave them a tired, pointed look. “The two of you can’t be travelling together.” She turned to the healer and narrowed her eyes. “Why are you even here, Quistis? This wasn’t the plan.”
The captain sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’ve already gone over this with Mertle. We had a change of plans. We’re going to Drak’s Perch.”
If Deidra had looked pale before, she now turned a shade that made Mertle worry she might faint. Even in the dim light of the torch, the night weaver seemed ill.
“Y-y-you can’t go there!” She stammered. “Why are you going there?”
“I have no idea,” Quistis said. “Cinder said something to Falor when they clashed. He’s dead set on reaching the prison now, if what happened here hasn’t changed his mind.”
“Has it?”
Quistis shrugged. “Doubt it. Like it or not, we’re committed. Never seen him so driven before.”
Deidra sighed and leaned against a nearby tree. She gave Mertle a long look. “You need to head to Aztroa. I can’t even describe how important it is that you get there as soon as possible.”
“Why? Have you seen what’s been happening here?”
Deidra waved it all away. “Yes, yes, it’s tragic. But it’s an expected tragedy. Luci and I have watched for this for years now. The dam was always going to break somewhere.”
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Mertle and Quistis exchanged a quick glance, then looked back out towards the camp. One of the torches was headed in their direction—Vial, most likely. They didn’t have much time left. Deidra noticed as well; shadows began gathering tightly around her.
“Get to Aztroa, Mertle. Whatever you do, you must be there when Tallah arrives.”
“We don’t even know where Tallah is,” Mertle replied in a terse voice.
Quistis slipped back into the scorched land beyond. She and Vial exchanged quiet words as they met.
Deidra grasped Mertle’s hand and pulled her close. “Go to Aztroa. Everything will happen there. If you go to Drak’s Perch, you will die, and your lover will never know what became of you. Be smart, Mertle. Stick to the plan.” Her words had the tinge of fanaticism to them and Mertle couldn’t help being drawn into that intense gaze. Even though the rest of the sorceress appeared weary, her purple eyes shone with purpose.
“I… I’ll try. He’s watching us. I don’t know how to run.”
Deidra nodded. “Leave that to me. Be ready. You’ll know when.”
Mertle pulled her hand free. “He’ll kill you.” She gestured at the devastation behind them, her voice still low. “Have you seen what he can do? Even Tallah feared him.”
Deidra retreated into the gathering pool of shadows. “Remains to be seen,” she whispered before disappearing into the tar-like portal.
Right, then. Now this is a proper lemon to suck on. It wasn’t enough that they faced something horrid, now she also had to worry about the prince’s destination, how to escape his notice, and how to reach a city unreasonably far away. No pressure at all.
She emerged and forced some colour into her cheeks as she passed Quistis and Vial. Both nodded. She marched straight to the campfire and sat down where Quistis’s robe had cleared away some ashes. There was little point in trying to sleep now; it wouldn’t happen, and she’d only be more exhausted for it.
“I can take the watch,” she said to Barlo.
The vanadal sat hunched towards the fire, one meaty hand rubbing the spot where a monsters had bitten him. Quistis had healed him, a nasty scar remained on his thick hide.
“Nah, ’m good,” he answered absently.
“You look tired.”
“I’m angry,” he said simply.
The other two Storm Guards joined them around the fire. Vial dug into a satchel and handed Mertle a flask. She took it, eyeing him curiously.
“For your… digestion,” he explained. “It’s got a kick, but normally it helps a lot.”
Mertle’s gaze shifted to Quistis, who shrugged. “Don’t look at me. I’m not wasting a single allotment slot on a watery stomach. That ‘poisonous’ booze works better than most of my concoctions.”
Ah, that was their excuse meant for Barlo’s ears. She took a long swig from the canteen’s contents.
It had some kick, Mertle had to agree—not as strong as grimesh, but better than most human brews she’d sampled. She took a second swig and the soldier’s eyes widened.
“It’s good,” she said as she wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. “For a human drink.”
They sat in silence around the fire, the day weighting heavily on them all. Mertle finally broke the quiet, whispering her question to Quistis.
“Will you go to Aztroa now? Report what’s happened here?”
“No,” the healer answered, casting a glance back at Tummy and the commander sleeping nearby. “I assume we’ll pursue the creature from yesterday and see where that leads. The commander isn’t one to call for reinforcements.”
“Even after… what we saw? There are only four of you.”
Barlo rumbled a short laugh. “Three too many, if ye ask ‘im.”
Something crackled in the forest, followed by a crash of splintering wood. They all turned. Barlo was on his feet in an instant, mace in hands, scanning the vast dark. He sniffed and grumbled.
“Animal,” he finally said, pointedly remaining on his feet.
“What if there are more where you’re heading?” Mertle asked. She reached over and took the canteen from Vial’s hands for another sip. “He can’t go around just destroying everything in his way.”
“Watch him,” Vial said.
She couldn’t figure if he was joking or not.
Still, should she stay with them? Or do as Deidra had demanded? Now that she thought on it—and it was clear Quistis was plagued by similar concerns—why had that one been so adamant about Mertle staying away?
She recalled an aelir she’d once killed, the name and face tattooed on her right shoulder blade. He’d attempted to resurrect an ancient art that aelir’matar Sarrinare deemed too foul to exist. Mertle had seen terrible things on that mission, and had done terrible things in turn just to get close to the aelir’sar named Belorre. Killing him had been a mercy she still felt he didn’t deserve, given how she’d found him at the heart of what remained of his Olden tree. The mission had cost her three seasons and nearly killed her seven times.
He’d been performing his work on elends. She’d had to kill several of her own people just to get close enough to the Olden.
What was driving the prince? Disgust at the horrors inflicted on his people, or fury at someone amassing obscene power?
Mertle had driven a blade into Bellore’s heart out of hatred for what he’d done to her people. Sarrinare had sent her to stop him out of concern of his strength rivalling her own.
You should stay with them. The voice was inside Mertle’s head, spoken in Sarrinare’s tones rather than own. A power shift. A god’s name has been invoked. It cannot be ignored. Your… friends’ goals may be better served by what you discover here, not in the human capital.
“Be wary of the shadow’s pawn.”
Mertle glanced around for whoever had spoken.
“Sorry?” she said aloud.
Quistis raised an eyebrow. “I said nothing.”
Vial looked equally confused.
“I… thought I heard…” Mertle trailed off, peering at Barlo several paces away, patrolling the fire’s perimeter. “Something?”
Hadn’t she?
“Are you all right, Mertle?” Quistis asked, leaning over the fire to place a hand on Mertle’s forehead.
Mertle pulled back.
“It’s nothing. Just thought I heard something.”
The voice had been familiar. Maybe it was merely a trick of her imagination. She sipped more of the liquor, drinking more deeply this time. It smudged some of the day’s horrors—enough to dull the edges, if not erase them. Perhaps she could manage a bell’s worth of sleep now.
“I’ll go rest,” she said finally, rising and heading back to her bed roll. She swayed and left behind a bemused Vial who wagged the now-empty canteen.
Collapsing onto the dirt felt pleasant. She settled with her back to the fire, trusting the three on watch. Her stomach grumbled; she hadn’t eaten since the previous morning and hadn’t felt hungry until now. She resisted the urge to rummage for food. Sleep first.
She forced her eyes shut.
Something… glowed. Right in front of her, turning the bacjs of her eyelids blood-red. She opened her eyes in a panic—
And couldn’t move.
A flower hovered before her face, its radiant petals casting a soft, mesmerising light. Mertle tried to speak, but her mouth was clamped shut. Something constricted, and her arms and legs were bound.
How?
She struggled, but it only tightened the bonds. Glancing down, she saw thin green vines, like long blades of grass, coiled around her arms where she lay.
The flower turned towards her, and Mertle gazed into the iris of an eye.
She wondered if Vial had truly poisoned her. Several plants that could cause paralysis, and with the right additives, induce hallucinations. Yet she felt too lucid for that.
“Daughter of the dying land,” the flower whispered, cutting off her ruminations. “I am watching you. Do not trust the shadow weaver. She is being misled.”
What? The vines around her head loosened, freeing her mouth. Should she cry out or listen?
“I don’t understand,” she whispered.
Tummy grumbled in his sleep. Falor’s breathing settled into the cadence of deep sleep.
“You do not need to,” the flower went on. “You need to obey, or perish.”
Mertle’s heart thundered. This was the second time she’d been threatened with death in less than a bell.
“You vouched for her,” Mertle protested. “You—”
The vines clamped her mouth shut again. Someone was speaking over at the fire; it sounded like Vial, trying to lighten the gloomy mood.
“Aliana vouched,” the flower said. “I came to deliver a message. To you.”
What fresh insanity was this?
What’s going on?
“Do not trust the shadow maker. She deceives you, and she herself is deceived. Her goals are not her own.”
What does that even mean? Mertle tried to break free but it only made the bondage worse. She could barely breathe now.
“Follow the prince. Keep him safe. He is needed. You are needed. Say nothing. We… have concerns.”
Who’s ‘we’? Already, her head swam with drink and anger and confusion. It had all gone wrong after Valen, and the deity was not helping. Mertle needed a straight answer and thrashed against the vines to demand it.
Falor jerked awake that moment, just three feet from Mertle.
The flower withered and disappeared; the vines disintegrated into dust. She was free, though her head reeled.
What could the Dryad want with her? She looked up at Falor as he rose, lighting crackling around his hands while he spun, scanning the darkness. Tummy grumbled and woke as well.
Quistis arrived heartbeats later. If Mertle had drifted off, the trample of feet scampering would have woken her. She… she…
What was she to do now? The phantom touch of the dead vines lingered on her skin, cold sinking into her hands and feet. She stared at the shrivelled petals as Quistis’s torchlight played across them.
“What happened?” Quistis demanded, swinging the torch around.
“I felt something,” Falor said. “Something… someone…” He turned, the buzz of his power filling the night. “Someone was here.”
Mertle swallowed a lump in her throat and stood. She steadied herself as the prince looked to her, eyes narrowed.
“Didn’t you hear it, too?” he asked.
She shook her head slowly, feigning confusion. “I heard nothing.”