For the first time that she could recall, Elisandrya had lied to her sister. She gripped the reigns and spurred Morningstar to greater speed, galloping through the muddied plain beyond Brookhollow's walls, followed by several others. These few who doubted the high oracle had left secretly in the dead of night, flirting with blasphemy in the face of Sameska's edict. Riding behind her was Rhaeme Fallow, with whom she'd discussed the late night ride after the gathering's disturbing conclusion. Though they agreed on the necessity of their actions, the pair's tumultuous history with one another had caused curious stares from passersby. Rhaeme had vehemently cautioned against speaking with Dreslya before leaving. Reluctantly, Eli had agreed. She had left a note for Dreslya, attempting to explain her absence, but guilt rode with her as she headed north along the forest's edge. There were more reasons than she could justify that spurred her to action.
Most of these had little to do with Sameska's recent performance and much to do with that one day. The day Eli's world had died and after which nothing seemed right anymore. Dres would not understand, she thought. I barely understand myself. Rhaeme and the others had their own reasons, but all of them had agreed, soon after the gathering, that something was wrong. Lord Hunter Baertah was too trustful of the inconstant Sameska and would never violate her word, especially if it threatened to involve getting dirty. They all watched the forest on their left warily, wondering what new horror lay within its tangles and thorns. None of them doubted Sameska's claim of encroaching evil, but these were warriors of action, unable to sit still. Several moments passed in which Elisandrya had almost stopped to turn back, still unsure of her own instinct and fearful for Dres. She never pulled the reigns, however, never acted on fear or insecurity. She sought the guidance of Savras many times but did not truly expect an answer. His answer had already come-plague and evil and mysterious warriors from the north. All that was left for her in that answer was nothing, to do nothing. No, she thought, I'll do what I can, prophecy or not, Savras forgive me. She would seek the Hoarite, the ghostwalker. New rain lashed her face as she rode. She felt a little freer, a little more in control of her own life as the ground rushed by beneath churning hooves, carrying her farther and farther from Brookhollow. Temple life would never be hers, not now and maybe never.
She left those concerns to Dres and the oracles. Her sister's green eyes came to mind, Dres's faith and fears, her words of caution in every endeavor. She loved her sister and respected her decisions, but quietly, under her breath and drowned by the noise around her, she said apologetically to the image in her mind, "I'm not like you." The storm grumbled overhead, churning as she rode against its winds.
Khaemil sat on a section of the fallen wall of Jhareat, proudly reflecting on his successful meeting in the forest while licking the blood of the offered fawn from his lips and teeth. The last he'd seen of the Order's new ally had been their yellow eyes, tiny pinpoints of light disappearing into the folds of twisted and cracked trees. He raised his head and gargled as rain filled his open mouth, feeling wild and blooded on fresh kill. It had been many years since he'd conversed with a kindred spirit, even a half-breed, and he longed a little bit for the hunting in Avernus. The tracking and killing of lost souls, howling at a burning sky and playing assassin for devilish lords, were sports he would always remember. Perhaps one day to which he might return. Much of the malice he saw in those long ago devils he also saw in Morgynn from time to time. He knew she was well versed in the Gargauthan dogma, but her heart never really invested in what might pass her lips to quell Talmen's doubts. Power was her thrall, though what use she intended to make of such dominion he was not sure.
True evil did not seem to rest in her nature-it was simply an afterthought, the place where she could comfortably work toward her own ends. The tower in the center of the wasted clearing had ceased its crimson dance. Khaemil knew Morgynn rested within or lay enraptured by her own blood and magic. He wondered if she actually slept this time. He decided to wait a bit longer, to enjoy the view and his full stomach. If Morgynn slumbered, it would be folly to wake her. Morgynn's nightmares rarely stayed in her own head, and her blood saw little difference between friend and foe.
CHAPTER NINE
Morgynn descended the spiraling stairway in a daze, feeling the tingle of magic across her skin and the heat of its passing in her veins. She cast as she skipped down the steps, twirling the words of her spell gracefully past her lips. The warmth of the magic flared on her bare throat, humming on her vocal cords. Her body trembled, flesh rippling as the power took shape. The tips of her fingers blackened, becoming shadowy and transparent. The transformation crawled up her arms, leaving an ephemeral darkness in its wake. She smiled and gasped as the change reached her throat, turning her lips and mouth into a ragged hole and condensing her eyes into tiny points of white light.
Her hair was a black flame tossed in unceasing winds in a realm beyond the tower. The change complete, she felt her bare feet escape gravity and she floated above the floor, an incorporeal shred of staring darkness. She was the very picture of the soul she imagined she still carried inside, lost in time, possibly still buried in the dirt of Narfell. She looked to the distant ceiling, the floor of her chamber above, and remembered a time when she had been in another hole, looking up into the eyes of righteous barbarians. The Sedras had come to lay waste to all that she'd accomplished since leaving them. Her mother, brandishing mace and shield, summoned fires from that god of dawn and flame, Lathander. She blinked, as best she could without true eyes or lids in her wraithlike form. Her vision adjusted back to the present shadows above, showing her old stone and the fine, spidery cracks of age. She looked down and floated toward the wall, melting through it and peering out its edge at the mumbling priest who drew smoking runes into the surface of the stone. He could not see her. His eyes fluttered behind a mask of sinewy muscle and bone, lost in arcane mumbling and malignant prayers. She slunk downward and drifted along the ground beneath him like a stream of brackish water, barely a shadow among those cast by the glowing orbs of the wizard-priests. She wished to avoid Talmen, keeping her secrets to herself. Taking the wraithform was less efficient than teleporting, but she enjoyed the sensation of weightlessness and the constant chill of its nature. The cold was as familiar and numbing as the windswept plains of her childhood. Across the stones she flowed, under and through them, making her way to the forest and the pale trees Khaemil had told her about. She'd sensed them before and had thought of ignoring them, but her mind changed along with her mood. Their presence intrigued her more than their defiance made them a nuisance. A use could be found for such allies-their obvious fear of her made them perfect for service. Well away from the eyes of the Gargauthans, and Talmen in particular, she glided past the first few trees, sliding through low-hanging limbs and clawlike branches. Tasting their bitter bark through her misty form, she sensed ancient magic still pulsing in the sap and roots. She envied the kind of power that had changed this once peaceful forest into a haven of monsters and perversions of nature. A Calishite, she'd been told, had cursed the forest and the city of Qurth hundreds of years earlier during the Mage Purges of the Shoon Dynasty. That fallen wizard's spell had destroyed the cities now buried in the Qurth Forest. The forest's magic became centered on the city of Qurth, where the Calishite had been executed. The lingering potency of that magic clung like an invisible mist to everything around her. She swam in arcane currents that thrived and spread like a living creature, born of a mob's righteous vitriol and the Calishite's violent death. Close to her destination, she stopped her vaporous travel and cancelled the spell, feeling well protected from prying eyes. She regretted ending the magic even as blood flooded her limbs and breast, an onslaught of beating warmth that blushed her skin for a moment as it returned. She stood on a thick carpet of dead leaves, dark green grass, and vines that flourished in the forest's interior.