“So to create an illusion of a storm cloud and to cause it to surround and blind a Goblin ship, you have to imagine it into being? Is that how it works?”
“Something like that. I can try to show you sometime how to reach into your inner self and bring a bit of magic to life. At least I think I can. I am not sure how it might work with you, but would you like to try?”
I am not at all sure about what this might require, but I nod anyway. To have magic would be incredible. “Can we do it right now?”
He smiles and shakes his head. “So impatient, Auris. No, I think it had better wait. It requires your full attention and works best when you are settled. We can see about your inish potential in Viridian Deep.”
So we drop the subject, and I am left to consider how channeling your inish might work and to imagine the sort of control you must possess in order to make the magic happen. I consider myself strong-minded and determined—I do not think I would still be alive otherwise—but I sense that using magic demands something further. I cannot put a name to it, but I know it is there, waiting for me to decide what it is.
I am looking forward to discovering more. And I am anxious to learn it with Harrow as my teacher.
Oddly, I am no longer thinking of trying to go home. Instead my thoughts are fixed on spending more time in this new country. With the Fae—but with Harrow, in particular. With my rescuer and safe haven. We have bonded over the past two days, through our shared experience and my deep sense of gratitude. How could I feel otherwise? But even more important, we have become friends. I presume a bit here, but I do believe it is so. And I cannot help wondering if maybe it isn’t something more. I find something wonderful in the warmth of his amber eyes and the fleeting charm of his rare grins. I find myself wondering what it would feel like to touch that strange leafy hair. Would the leaves be bristly or soft? But then I also wonder if I should even be considering such a thing. He is an alien creature—a Faerie. I know nothing about the Fae and very little about him in particular. I know what he did for me, but I also suspect he would have done the same for anyone. He is built that way; he has that kind of heart.
As I settle down for sleep, I realize how foolish I am being, and how deeply deluded I am about these fantasies I am entertaining. I understand, in a rational way, why I should let go of all this and just keep myself to myself.
Yet I don’t want to. After so long in a cage, I thought I wanted nothing more than to feel free. But now I think that is not enough. I want to belong somewhere, too—and will do whatever it takes to make that happen.
Even if the end result causes me pain. If nothing else, the pain will make me feel more alive than I have in years.
Our sleep is undisturbed, and the next morning, we reach a forest that stretches like a wall across the land—so thick with closely packed conifers, it is impossible to see more than a few yards ahead. The path becomes harder, yet Harrow does not seem bothered. He simply pushes his way through the shaggy boughs and calls for me to follow. Overhead, the limbs from even larger trees begin to blot out much of the sky and sunlight. I must pay closer attention to stay with him, to keep up and not let him out of my sight. If I were to lose him in this morass, I might not even know which way he went. Concentration of this sort quickly gives me a headache, and pushing past endless clusters of needled boughs, coupled with a constant avoidance of the exposed tree roots seeking to trip me up, forces me to stay tightly focused.
“How much longer?” I ask finally, breathing hard as I watch his back while he continues to forge ahead, seemingly tireless.
“A bit,” he answers, his voice muffled. “Do you need to rest?”
I do, but I refuse to admit it. I want to be strong in the way he is, not showing any sort of weakness. It is enough that he has saved me twice already and brought me this far. I do not care to demonstrate that I require even more from him.
We have gone a considerable distance when he abruptly stops and holds up his hand. He freezes as he does so, and I do the same, listening. Wind blows through the upper branches, rustling their needles, but I hear nothing else. We wait, still frozen, me watching him as he searches the forest for whatever has disturbed him.
“Wait here,” he whispers, glancing back at me. “Do not move from this spot.”
And then he is gone, fading into the trees. I will be helplessly lost if he does not return. I trust him to come back and do not think for one instant he will do anything less.
But still…
The minutes pass with agonizing slowness. I cannot tell how long I wait but it seems like forever. There is no sign of Harrow or of anything else. I listen intently and glance about now and then, just in case. What would I do, I wonder, if something threatened me? I can run, but it will be futile; I have no chance of escaping any creature that is familiar with these woods. And I was told to stay where I am, wasn’t I? Isn’t Harrow counting on that in order to find me again?
But blind trust is a fickle lady, and she can turn on you in a second. Hands come around my face and cover my mouth, sealing away the cry of shock I emit. The hands are cold and webbed—that much I can tell before the gag goes into my mouth.
I struggle in vain, overpowered by who or whatever has hold of me. In the next instant I am picked up like a sack of feed and carted off into the trees.
I am carried for some distance, struggling the whole time, trying to break free but unable to find the leverage to do so. Many hands hold me fast, several pairs on either side. They belong to a strange collection of small Fae. I don’t have to guess at this. Even though my mouth is gagged, I am not blindfolded. Their distinctive features tell me right away what they are. As to their particular variety, I can only guess. These creatures have webbed hands, along with angular faces that sport thick crests of spiky black hair running from their foreheads to their necks. Their eyes and noses are narrow slits that look as if they could entirely seal off their vision and smell when closed. They have no visible ears, but what they do have—what I notice right away—are gills on their necks.
Didn’t Harrow say something about Water Sprites? Perhaps that’s what these are. But aren’t they supposed to be friendly?
They talk among themselves the whole time they carry me, but their words are unintelligible. After a time, I realize they are not speaking in any language I have heard before. Much of what they are saying comes across as grunts and other odd sounds that do not approximate words. I try to make sense of them at first, but eventually I give up. It just sounds like gibberish.
We reach an unexpected clearing in the forest and they lower me to the ground, keeping me pinned in place as they gather around for a closer look. They are studying me. More words or sounds or whatever all those other noises are meant to be are exchanged—along with curious glances—and then one leans close and removes the gag.