—Where ... to ... now?—
At Shade’s memory-words, Chap looked to her watching him. All of this had been another feeble attempt by his kin to sway him to obedience. All that was left was to follow the course he had already set for the others. Tomorrow, they would resupply and then head southeast as quickly as possible.
He answered Shade ...
—Bäalâle Seatt—
There was only one thing he had heard that nagged at him—enslaved.
What did this mean?
Chane slipped out of his room at the inn.
Leaving Ore-Locks behind, he headed for the great tree arch through which they had first entered a’Ghràihlôn’na. Out on that road, he broke into a jog toward the grassy plain beyond the Lhoin’na forest.
That was the only place he had ever encountered the white flowers called Anamgiah, the “life shield.”
Though he had a nearly full bottle of the healing potion—which he hoped was correctly made—he had used up the other ingredients necessary. However, there were still two possible uses for the white blossoms themselves, one being their own natural property to bolster life itself.
As for the second potential use ... well, he did not care to think on that just yet, but he might never have reason to come here again, and he could not waste the opportunity to gather more of the petals.
Along the way, he passed many dwellings and buildings out among the trees. The moon was bright above, and lights from dwellings high in the trees marked them as he passed. He saw no one, for everyone would be high above, in their homes, this late at night.
He broke into a run once the last of those passed out of sight, and he finally saw a break in the trees ahead. Then he slowed and turned off into the immense trees, weaving through to the plain’s edge far away from the road. There, he stopped short of the tall grass and crouched to listen. He heard no hoofbeats nor smelled anything made of flesh in the low breeze. Tonight, he had no desire to be seen or questioned by a Shé’ith patrol.
There was only the scent of the golden grass shifting gently in the dark—Anamgiah had no scent.
Still crouched, he looked in all directions one last time and then crept out beyond the trees.
The sensation of a thousand insects crawling over him vanished, and he half closed his eyes in relief. Holding off the forest’s fear-laced prodding as it tried to seek out what he was had been so pervasive that its sudden absence was bliss.
Chane crept forward in a crouch, spreading the grass with his hands, but only the tops. He did not dare touch what he sought with his hands. He did not have to go far, and he flinched when moonlight raised a tiny white glare between the grass stalks.
It was almost too bright to look upon as he spread the stalks even more.
A dome of white flowers sprouted with the tan grass. Tiny pearl-colored petals—shaped like leaves—looked as soft as velvet, as delicate as silk. They appeared to glow, though the stems and leaves below and around them were a dark green that would have looked black to anyone without his night sight.
The last time Chane had come to gather Anamgiah blossoms, he had been foolish enough in his ignorance to touch the white petals, even to hold one in his palm. That had almost ended him there and then.
Black lines had spread through his hand from beneath that one tiny flower. They twisted and threaded through his skin where living blood no longer flowed. He felt his skin began to split underneath those marks as they spread up his forearm beneath his shirt’s sleeve.
He had begun to grow cold ... frigid.
Paralyzing, icy pain filled his black-veined hand and quickly followed those worming lines up his arm into the nearer side of his throat and face. He had cried out and then fallen into darkness.
Ore-Locks and Wynn had found him quickly enough, but he remembered little more than agony.
Tonight, he would not make such a mistake again.
He took a pair of well-oiled gloves from Welstiel’s pack, put them on, and dug for the tool kit. Opening the kit, he removed the single pair of tweezers it held. Carefully—cautiously—he began harvesting petal after petal and dropped them onto a piece of waxed paper. When he had finished plucking clean seven blossoms, he folded the paper many times and tucked it back into the pack.
Then he stalled, studying the small tool in his right hand.
How much residue from Anamgiah might remain on the tweezers and gloves? He could not afford such a mishap again. Using the tweezers, he peeled the cuff with one glove enough to pinch and pull it off, letting it drop. He then did the same with the other glove, but for the tweezers, he dug for a scrap of cloth and wrapped them up in that to store away for later cleaning. Nothing that had touched the petals ever touched his skin.
Just as he was at last satisfied, hoofbeats sounded out in the darkness. Quickly, he slung the pack over one shoulder and backed his way through the tall grass so that he might hide among the trees. Once again, he winced as the sensation of invisible insects crawling over his skin returned.
Dawn was far off, so he had time. He waited for and watched a trio of Shé’ith ride past at a leisurely pace. Only when they were out of sight once again did he head through the trees for the road.
Chapter Eleven
Magiere walked through the desert foothills—more conflicted than she had ever felt. She couldn’t speak of this to anyone, not even Leesil. Not that he wouldn’t listen or care. Of course he would. It simply wouldn’t do any good. He couldn’t change the situation, and neither could she.
Scouting now seemed futile.
But even if they found the Enemy’s hiding place, her hands were tied until they had all five orbs. So they—she—kept searching for any signs of an undead or other servants of the Enemy that might lead them ... somewhere other than more wandering.
Tonight, the scouting team was larger than normal. Those left behind at camp had become more restless of late. So they’d found a site between foothills with a solid overhang and a deep rear to leave Wynn on her own for a while—at her suggestion. There was little chance she’d be spotted if she kept any light source dim, and she had her sun-crystal staff in case of emergency, though that was good only against the undead.
Magiere now followed Brot’an and Ghassan a short distance ahead, and Leesil strode along beside her. His tan complexion had grown even darker, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him without that muslin cloth tied around his head and draped down his back.
In a sidelong glance, he caught her watching him.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re starting to look like a Suman.”
“What does that mean?”
Magiere shook her head. “Nothing. Forget it.”
Before he could press her further, she spotted Brot’an stopped up ahead. He stood motionless, as if not even breathing. Ghassan had halted as well. Magiere hurried on with Leesil.
An instant later, a familiar hunger built inside her.
Moonlight grew brighter in her eyes. She almost expected Chap to break out in an eerie howl, but he wasn’t here. Thinking became difficult as hunger flooded through her and she heard Leesil’s steps slow. When she glanced over, she found him staring at her.
Even in just the moonlight, he must have seen her irises had gone black.
Without a word, he hooked the leather string around his neck with one finger and jerked out the topaz amulet. It was glowing. At the extra light, Brot’an glanced back.
The first scream tore the silence of the night.