Wonder flicks those preposterous scenarios from her mind. Malice is many noxious things, but a nincompoop isn’t one of them. Wherever in the Peaks he is, he’d calculated his destination in advance. What he’d neglected to do was inform her where that is!
Using the stars as channels, her mind calls out to him, but he doesn’t answer. They’re off to a promising start. Suffice it to say, she’ll have to get moving before someone sees her.
The overhead swell of violet indicates nighttime. Stellar Worship aside, her people will have retired for contemplation and sleep by now.
It is Stellar Worship, right?
Wonder assesses the sky once again, trepidation leaking into her chest.
No matter what, it’s best to travel quickly. She winds her hair into a bun, an onslaught of wild tendrils sneaking out. To the matter of clothes, she shuts her eyes and fixates on an alternative. When next she looks, bare feet and a gown of herb green have replaced the boots, harem pants, and blouse, the shade perfect for camouflage during her sojourn. It’s a precaution that Wonder tops off with a cloak.
She cannot alter the quartz arrows, but this half-hearted disguise is better than nothing. The woodland canopy will have to do the rest, shielding the details that identify her.
She’s going to flay Malice when she finds him. And she will find him, or he’ll find her, though she’d rather be the one who does the finding.
At least they’re headed for the same place. Hopefully, he shall make himself useful and avoid getting apprehended or maimed. And hopefully, she will stop fretting about that, because outside of this mission, he doesn’t warrant her concern.
Wonder descends the precipice. As hyacinths caress her toes, she smiles at the puckered stalks embellished with dew and midnight. When was the last time she did something simple like roam the fields and pick flowers?
She keeps to dense areas, flitting from tree to tree, shrub to shrub. The lower the elevation, the more congested the wild becomes, tangling itself up into knots.
At the cliff’s base, beeches arc their heads over an avenue that leads into the sylvan landscape. A human would say it’s the border of a faerie dimension, which is a fine guess. This region breathes magic and majesty.
Her unshod heels sink into the ground as she steps into the woodland. Some things don’t change between worlds, such as the twisting arcades of trees, age gnarling the trunks and moss embroidering the boughs, and the sumptuous tufts of grass. Also, the wildflowers—lilac stems and crocus blooms.
Whereas some things do indeed change, such as the lavender toadstools and the mesh of leaves trimmed in amethyst. Likewise, the violet sky—which will shift to hydrangea blue come morning—and its panorama of planets. The Peaks float in the galaxy, an ethereal islet of cliffs, dales, forests, and seas.
Has she missed it? Has she been gone long enough to miss it?
Birds warble from above. The music settles her stomach, slowing her pulse to a normal tempo. Deities can cross long distances instantaneously, but not short ones. With any luck, she’ll reach the Archives within a couple of hours, so long as she makes it though this first stretch.
A school of young dragonflies whisks between the foliage, glowing within the murk and much tinier than their elders. As rays filter through the crochet of branches, the insects synchronize, corkscrewing around her. Twisting, she follows the choreography, sweeping her hand amidst the creatures, tickling the air and teasing them.
Nearby, a twig snaps. As the crack ricochets through the brambles, Wonder freezes.
Malice? She wouldn’t put it past him to sneak up on her.
But no, he’s too agile to abuse so much as an offshoot. She’d concluded that while appraising his pace in the library.
A shadow swims in her periphery. Wonder whips behind a trunk, wedging her back against it. Craning her neck, she glances around the bend.
However precarious, peace still reigns in the Peaks, cleansed of misfits and rebels such as herself. The quandary is, even if she comes across a stroller—perhaps a Guide or an archer-in-training—and even if that wanderer fails to recognize her or the quartz archery within this shrouded atmosphere, they might recognize Wonder’s voice. They might step close to her face, far too close for comfort.
Or they might have been following her all along.
Wonder drags her tongue across her teeth, her pulse resuming its pound. Someone malicious will obligate her into a messy conflict. Someone harmless will consider her stance oddly paranoid, which will alert them to a problem. And she doesn’t want to harm anyone.
A map of her heart appears in her psyche, with veins and arteries threading through like rivulets in marble, each one representing a moment, an unforgotten pain or desire. A new channel breaches this map, thin as a splinter piercing through sinew, making her wince.
So this is how it feels to become an outsider, banned from one’s home.
The footfalls get louder, nearer, louder, nearer. Grass sinks beneath the person’s weight as he or she approaches. If innocent, they shall call out or stride forward with trustworthy purpose. If suspicious, they shall do neither.
Wonder staunches her breath. The stranger’s pace slows.
Snatching a pebble off the ground, Wonder aims and lobs it as far as she can, targeting the pillar of a trunk. The rock thwacks against the surface, inciting an avalanche of debris, a safe distance from where she stands.
The footfalls halt. After a moment’s deliberation, the presence shifts, attending to the disturbance. It backtracks toward the tree, seeking out the noise.
Time slows, prolonging every second. Wonder’s heart drums inside her chest until the figure’s gait retreats, the sound tapering off and receding farther into the forest. A whoosh spills from Wonder’s lungs, her body slumping.
Just in case, she waits an additional pocket of time and then bolts. Light on her feet, she springs into the woodland, electing to stay off the main path. Veering around columns and bushes, the miles extend before her.
Who had it been? Someone she knows? Someone who knows her?
Someone who—
She staggers backward, the pouch of her hood yanked by a hand.
—who had been faking it?
Wonder yelps. She stumbles into a body, and that body clamps onto her, seizing her shoulders. The assailant begins to pivot Wonder, about to get a full, starlit view of renowned, outlawed features, about to make an inconvenient discovery.
It’s a female, one advanced in years, by the shape and strength of her.
Wonder’s forearm snaps upward. Her elbow connects with the female’s face, cranking her head sideways. Grunting in shock, the stranger flails, lashing a hand toward Wonder, who ducks and switches arms, driving the opposite elbow into the attacker.
A shout of offense leaps from the figure. Sadly, it’s the prelude to a match.
They fight. This goddess is assuredly older, which accounts for her speed; she’s fast, whereas Wonder is nimble. Each time a limb or set of knuckles launches in Wonder’s direction, she dodges with a pirouette.
There’s something…transparent about the way this adversary maneuvers, as if they’ve done this before, with Wonder able to predict the female’s moves and countermoves.
Perhaps the goddess senses the same thing, because confusion and hesitation impede her actions. But this doesn’t stop her altogether, so neither does it stop Wonder. She spins from the goddess’s fists and rams the flat of her palm against the goddess’s lower back, shoving her into the barrel of a tree.