Arrow of the Mist
“I did it for the alicorn.” And in exchange for your life, she kept to herself. “It’s unicorn horn dust.”
Wynn smiled and squeezed her shoulder. “I knew you’d figure it out. Strange trade, though.”
Yes, she thought, it certainly was.
Lia gathered her knapsack contents and the duo departed the Tinne grove, finding an easy passage out. It was as if the trees had pulled their branches inward to let them pass. Birdsong and the rush of the river replaced the eerie silence from before, and they fetched Merrie and Nolan huddled in the clearing.
Lia reached out with her mind to give thanks to the Tinnes. She knew this time there’d be no pain, no lessons, no sacrifice. She’d proven herself well enough and departed with the gifts to show for it.
She respected the Tinnes’ magic, however difficult it proved to be. Never again would she hear the name of Wynn’s little sister, Holly, without thinking of the grove. But unlike the holly trees, her eleven-year-old cousin was gentle and kind, traits more akin to the enchanted beasts that dwelt there.
They rode down the hills and Lia was certain that Nolan pouted for Gypsum. His head drooped and he distanced his muzzle from Merrie. Like threads of moonlight, unicorn magic could be fondly admired, but never captured. However, Gypsum’s mystique would linger within each of their memories forever.
“How close do you think they are—the dwarfs I mean?” Lia glanced up at the midday sky.
“I’d guess a few hours. The river crossing’s just ahead, and once we’re on the other side, we’re safe, at least from dwarfs.”
“I’m gonna refresh a bit then.” Lia veered Merrie to a grassy patch along the river’s edge. She left her there and edged the waters, peering into the liquid mirror. Ma would pale at the sight of her. Lia’s crowning glory, her long coppery mane, was chopped away.
She dipped her head in the cool river. The waters poured over her like a healing balm, washing away dried tears, soothing her nicks and scratches. She took a deep drink before she lifted back up.
Wynn’s jaw dropped and he pointed at her head.
“What’s wrong?” A jolt of worry shot through her.
He stammered, “It’s, uh, all silver.”
Confused, she bent again to look at her reflection. What was left of her hair now matched the color of the river. Lia immediately jumped up and grabbed one of Wynn’s skins containing ordinary water.
“Maybe it just coated it.” She poured the water over her head and rubbed it vigorously.
Wynn shook his head, his brows pulling downward. “It’s still there, but I don’t understand. Why doesn’t the water stick to our skin or color the horses’ muzzles?” Before Lia could respond, Wynn dunked his head under the water. He rose back up with his blond locks dripping, but still yellow.
Lia’s stomach knotted. She reflected back to the only explanation—the touch of the unicorn’s horn. Her whole scalp had tingled. Brume’s waters must’ve responded to the alicorn residue.
She swallowed over the stone forming in her throat. She cared nothing for fancy clothes, adorning trinkets, or face paints, but she loved her hair. Now hacked away and dyed silver, her blazing tresses were transformed into something odd and garish.
“Maybe the color’ll wear off. Or I’m sure it’ll grow back in normal,” Wynn offered.
Lia mounted Merrie, swallowing tears for her one vanity. It was fodder for more ridicule, she figured, and then she thought of Kelven. What would he think of Wynn’s fiery cousin now?
“Nothing I can do about it. Let’s go.” Lia gritted her teeth and rode down the hill as if she were a soldier in a shining helmet.
They sped back to the Coll grove and Lia spotted a wild Quert tree tucked at the edge of the wood. The knots in her stomach hid her hunger, but she knew they hadn’t eaten since the trout and their food stores were gone.
She approached the tree, motioning for Wynn to wait, and placed her hand on the gnarled trunk. The tree answered her touch, filling her mind with a sense of its bounty, sweet and full, as if she would never feel hunger again.
She tugged at one of the rosy apples, snapped it from its stem, and tossed it toward Wynn. She grabbed one for herself and bit into the crisp, juicy flesh. Her mouth came alive with its sweetness.
“Thiff if the beff apple effer,” Wynn mumbled. “But wait: what if they’re enchanted?”
“I’m sure they are.” Lia continued to chomp away and some of her tension eased. “The tree’s roots draw water from the Seren River.”
She devoured several more of the fruits, her body energized by the fare, and she gathered a supply to take with them.
“What about the nuts?” Wynn headed into the grove. “Is it all right to gather them, too?”
Lia followed him, leaving their horses to nip at the lush undergrowth. The long branches of the hazel trees entwined together, making it hard to tell where one tree began and the other ended.
She reached out to the Coll community, and like a bubbling brook, the trees murmured gentle greetings. Their effervescence tickled her mind, sparking thoughts of all the things she enjoyed: gardening, working beehives, crafting remedies, and studying legends. Muses of the wood, the Coll trees offered food for inspiration.
“Gather away,” she replied, and they both scurried to the task, gathering dozens of the smooth, round hazelnuts.
They retrieved their horses and set off across the river. The swift waters narrowed at the twist, barely passable on horseback. Even with the river flowing at its lowest—these days between summer and winter—their horses walked chest deep in the silver liquid. Several large fish jumped out of the water, their pinkish-red bodies shining in the sunlight.
“What I wouldn’t give for a salmon. What d’ya think Gobann meant? What would happen if we ate one?” Wynn asked.
“I don’t know really, but these fish live and breathe in the magic waters. One swig of it gives us a boost; can you imagine being steeped in it as they are? They’re probably as old as the river itself. To kill and eat something that special seems as wrong as … eating a unicorn or something.”
Wynn grimaced. “There goes my appetite.”
They reached the opposite shore and headed south along the riverbank edging the dense woods.
“Over there, that’s where we first came upon the river.” Wynn pointed to the opposite riverbank. “I think we should start heading east.”
Lia eyed the gloomy forest as she followed him. They maneuvered the horses through the bracken, undergrowth, and roots, making unhurried but steady progress. The farther they distanced themselves from the life-giving river, the bleaker the woods became.
Lia had closed off her senses to the wood, not wanting to become overwhelmed, but the forest called to her anyway. She peered at the tall trees, some the palest gray, others dark as pitch, and all covered with eerie black diamonds pitted along their bark.
“Is that noise from the trees?” Wynn’s face aimed skyward. The whisper of countless leaves shivered from the limbs.
“Uh-huh, these are the Eadhas, aspen trees.” Lia recalled Grandma Myrna’s summons from deep in the mountain stream, “Find me at the headless Eadha …”
She hesitated before reaching out to them, searching her memory for their lore. Their inner bark and roots were useful on cuts and wounds, and skillful hands could craft fever tonics. A shiver crossed her shoulders as she remembered a verse from the Grimoire:
Quaking tree with leaves a flutter,
Your whispers I do hear;
Taunted by doom, endless tests of courage,
And battles waged against fear.
Lia related to their fear. The edge of Straif territory filled her with plenty of it.
Very slowly, she reached out her mind to them. She immediately heard their calls, their warnings of danger and torment, and she felt them tremble in fright. Sorrow pressed on her heart as their whispers turned to sobs. They cried of their plight as prisoners, cried about their wretched fate, how they never knew wh
en their time would come, never knew when their torture would begin, the pain, suffering, despair …
Enough! Lia commanded, and she released from the trees before they revealed any more of their woes.
“What is it?” Wynn asked. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”
“The trees are tormented.” She breathed deeply. “Something very dark and dismal haunts the Eadhas.”
His brow creased and his jaw set hard, and he grasped the hilt of his sword. They trudged on for hours through the dreary woods. Lia grew hypnotized by the steady gait of her horse. The dense forest and mist blocked out the sky, hiding the sun’s passage, but she guessed by her incessant yawns that the day waned toward its end.
“Let’s find a place to camp,” she said.
Wynn nodded beneath the hood of his cloak.
They found the largest clearing they could, which barely contained them, and they scraped through mounds of pungent, mildewed leaves to create a smoother surface.
Lia’s hands turned red and numb with cold as they fished under arms of entwining ivy for remnants of firewood. After persistent scavenging, they claimed a decent supply of dry tinder, and she retrieved her kettle while Wynn struck the fire. The flames cut through the dreadful mist, but the heat barely took the chill from their shivering bodies.
Wynn held his mug close. “Dare I ask what I’m drinking?”
“My two sleepy friends—maythens and melissa.”
They drank their tea and ate roasted hazelnuts in silence, and then huddled close to draw added warmth from each other. Lia reached up to pull her hair across her chin, but her hand came back empty and cold. She squeezed her eyes shut and fell asleep amid the tremulous whispers of the trees.
Chilling mist drapes across her sight and she stumbles to find her way. Horrid, relentless fog! Sinister laughter pierces her ears, that same mirthless cackle she’s heard over and over before. Wretched Straif! But wait. Can it be? Then a strange, haunting voice echoes through the haze, “Ahhh, child of enchanted blood,’tis your fate that beckons you to me. Daughter mage, kin to the doomed, your time draws you near.”
“Up already?” Wynn grogged, peeling one eye open. “What is it, what’s wrong?”
“Another dreadful fate-dream, but this time it, or rather he, spoke to me.”
“Who, the Straif?” Wynn persisted, rubbing his eyes.
Lia shuddered. “I had thought it was—always with that horrid laughter—but now that I know the voice of trees, I realize it’s something else. Something worse.”
Wynn untangled himself from his bedding, grabbed his water skin, and handed it to her. “Here. You look queasy.”
“Thanks.” She took a drink and shrugged. Whatever haunted her dreams would not stop them from pressing forward. “Best get moving.”
They packed up their things under the pre-dawn sky like two dragons puffing smoke into the icy air. With an apple between her teeth, Lia mounted Merrie. The charmed fruit brought renewed vigor to her senses, helping to purge some of the gloom from her mind.
The horses moved slowly through the mist while Lia’s mind took flight. She thought about the Grimoire, about her dreams, her connection with trees, and about the visions that her quartz had bestowed. All gifts, tools to help her. The last quartz vision had shown her grandmother’s birth and her great-grandmother’s death. It was a bittersweet day to mark the beginning of Grandma’s magic.
With her legs held firm against Merrie, Lia yanked forth her pack, dove both hands into it, and began combining herbs. She drew from her memory what the old widow used. Ailm needles, sage, candlewick, dew of the sea, muggons, and, yes of course, fennel, dead-nettles, and elf leaf. She placed the blend in a pouch dangling from her wrap belt, the same concoction thrown over the grave of Grandma’s mother.
Now, to recall that strange chant the widow rattled off. Lia searched her mind and the voice of the crone resounded in her head.
“Expello captivus phasma,” Lia murmured. The words rolled from her mouth as if she tasted their strange, yet familiar sound. The second part of the chant echoed forth and she spun out the words like silk: “Arcesso imperium caelestis.”
She nodded in satisfaction against the frigid mist, continuing to run the incantation over in her mind. It was old magic and powerful enough to reach the dead.
So, why hadn’t the valuable chant been included among the passages in the Grimoire?
She was certain the old women had passed their knowledge onto Grandma Myrna. Maybe Grandma thought it best to guard those secrets, believing the words too potent to scrawl on parchment. Or perhaps they were a part of her writings, but the pages were hidden like the scroll found in Granda’s cane.
Lia had so much to share, so many questions to ask Granda. His familiar image pressed on her mind, his woolly beard and sapphire eyes, his steady voice and manner. She thought of him working in his gardens, carefully tending to the herbs, and she choked back a rush of tears.
A sennight had passed—seven long days—since they left Granda and Kelven behind. So much time. She refused to think the worst; Da and Granda held strong, Ebrill’s herbs fought the poison, and she and Wynn would be home soon, away from this place with the elixir in hand.
Her mind continued to wrestle her worries, as she and Wynn forged through the thickening mists, unable to tell the time of day, and barely able to see past one another. When the haze finally lifted, Lia noticed the change.
The Eadha trees stood pitch-dark, as if charred, and she opened her senses enough to feel their trembling life forces ebb into nothingness. The entire forest had grown black as death, including the soil, suffused by the ghostly mist that hung like a pall. Birdsongs and the hurried scuttles of animals ceased, and Nolan and Merrie became jumpy in the stillness.
“Mighty grim landscape,” Wynn grumbled. “Looks like heavier mist ahead, too. If it persists, we won’t be able to tell where the woodland mists end and the wall of Brume begins.”
A cold chill crept up Lia’s spine. Brume’s eastern border had to be near, along with its torrent of shades. She’d hear them, see them, and this time she didn’t hold Grandma’s amber—
A great rustling stirred below. Merrie reared up and Lia held tight to avoid falling backward. “Whoa!” she shouted, the leather reins slicing into her palms.
The frantic mare came down stomping as numerous roots coiled up like black serpents before them.
The Straif!
A great beam of light pierced through the haze, and Wynn swung his glowing sword through the tangled mass. The Straif’s arms slithered back in retreat, vanishing underground as quickly as they came.
Lia scoured the ground, catching sight of a segment that Wynn had cut free. She slid from Merrie and dodged to grab it.
“Lee, no!” Wynn leapt down to her side.
“It’s a piece.” She scooped up the Straif’s finger, bending it gently, and a long thorn flipped upward. Tricky. The telltale spikes were held flat until needed, perhaps for better travel, or perhaps to better entangle a victim until ready to inject its poison.
She held it in her hand, raw from the reins, and the black misshapen member exuded the frailest bit of life. Within the few seconds before it faded away, Lia felt a wisp of its essence, and her heart skipped.
“It’s a prisoner, Wynn. The Straif tree’s a tool, controlled by another.”
“But what about that spiel you gave about the baneful Straif with wicked thorns that cut like a knife, and so on?” Wynn eyed her fixedly. “You know, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter who or what’s in charge because we have the piece, don’t you see? We’ve got what we came for to make the elixir. We can head south now, away from the Straif and this incessant mist before we make our way through Brume’s fog.”
He was right. She held the needed ingredient in the palm of her hand and it had come surprisingly easy. Too easy, she worried.
“We can’t turn back yet. We still have to find the headless Eadha where the black waters roil. Grandma
is waiting.”
“Waiting for what?” Wynn shook his head. “Grandma’s gone from this world, Lee. Your da, Granda, and all the others are still here fighting to stay alive.”
“Yes, I know,” she murmured. “And I wish for nothing else than to get home and help them. But we have to go on. I can’t explain it, Wynn, but I know if we don’t find Grandma first, it will all be for nothing.”
“So this is it,” he said, eyes as cold as the mists. “All is lost unless we find a ghost in this forsaken wood.”
Lia swallowed hard and nodded.
He ran a rough hand through his blond shag. “All right, Lee. You understand this shadow land better than I. Lead the way.”
Lia tucked away the Straif segment, gripped her loaded crossbow in front of her, and cantered Merrie ahead. They traveled onward, stopping only to give the horses a drink from the water skins. The view dragged on like an infinite world of murk, and Lia figured it had to be well past midday. She wondered if they’d lost all sense of direction and by some cruel trick travelled in circles. But when the forest shifted into a new realm of nightmares, she knew they’d finally arrived.
Miserable stumps replaced hundreds of once tormented Eadha trees. Now, only headless Eadhas filled the landscape. Sorrow washed through Lia, the kind of deep and woeful sadness that drowns all hope. Her mind and body shuddered in her struggle against the overwhelming misery. Then she spotted it—a massive black stump with clouds of steam pouring forth.
She slowly approached, scanning the ground, watching for any sign of movement. Wynn matched her stride, his sword and shield beacons of defense. Everything but the roiling steam appeared barren. The grove was like a silent grave. They approached the stump and slipped off their horses.
Lia stepped to the base of the headless Eadha, catching the slightest whiff of the fetid odor. “It’s some sort of cauldron.”
She drew her cloak over her mouth and peered closer into the boiling abyss, then whirled around at Wynn’s shout, “The ground, Lee, it’s moving!”