black moths fluttered around. But nothing more. She looked for a weapon. Nothing. Not even a sizeable rock or broken branch.
Then she saw it—a flash of red. A fox bounded out of the brush, its back almost arrow straight as it ran. It saw her, stopped, then bounded off again, disappearing as quickly as it had come.
Hweilan let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Her heart beat so fiercely that she could feel her face pulsing like the skin of a drum.
“Only a fox.” It came out a whisper, but still seemed very loud in the silence of the forest.
Hweilan kept going, following the lee of the hill. It was getting steeper the farther she went, and the light dimmer.
The trees grew even larger, and some of their roots broke out of the ground, forming arches under which she walked. Spiderwebs draped the low branches, and although the few spiders she saw were no bigger than her smallest fingernail, still she walked around the webs rather than through them.
The hill was getting steep enough that Hweilan was beginning to slip and had to lean against one hand as she walked. But she could hear the rush of water again and thought she might be getting close to the lake and Gleed’s tower.
Ahead of her a particularly massive root broke out of the side of the hill and arched over her path before seeking ground again. Sitting atop it, watching her, was the fox. Its golden eyes seemed very bright in the gloom.
Hweilan’s feet slipped out from under her. She went down and caught hold of a sapling before she slid down the hill. Lying there in the cold, wet leaves, she looked up and saw that the fox was gone.
In its place atop the gnarled root, a woman crouched. Like Hweilan, the woman’s feet were bare, but she was dressed in an array of stitched skins and leathers. She had the look of an elf—lean, angular build, a face of sharp angles, canted eyes, and ears that topped in sharp tips. Crouched as she was, her hair, thick as a pelt, hung past her shins, and in the gloom of the wood it seemed just a shade above black. Her skin was even darker than Scith’s, and black designs—whorls, waves, and vinelike twists sprouting thorns—decorated her hands, bare arms, and face. Seeing someone, if not human, then at least more familiar than Gleed, almost put Hweilan at ease. But then she saw that the woman’s eyes were a golden yellow, very bright in the gloom, and split by vertical pupils. And her toes and fingers ended in claws. A dark, wet something ran out of the corner of the woman’s mouth—that can’t be blood, Hweilan thought—and then the woman licked it away.
Gleed’s words sprang to her mind—
Tomorrow you will meet Kesh Naan. Kesh Naan will give you the Lore
.
Hweilan swallowed, took a deep breath, and said, “A-are you K-Kesh Naan?”
The woman canted her head to one side, expressing something between curiosity and amusement. “ ‘A-are you K-Kesh Naan?’ ” she said, in perfect imitation of Hweilan’s own voice. She licked her lips again, as if tasting the words, then shook her head, left shoulder to right shoulder, very slowly, and said, “No.”
“Who are you?” said Hweilan.
The woman’s lips peeled back, revealing sharp, yellow-white teeth.
Hweilan almost screamed, but her breath caught in her throat. She pushed herself carefully to her feet.
The woman jumped down, landed a few feet in front of Hweilan, then slowly stood and said, “I am …” She paused, as if searching for the word, then finished, “…
hungry.”
Hweilan turned and ran.
She made it perhaps five or six strides, then a weight hit her square in the back and two arms wrapped around her—one around her neck, the other under her arm. Claws bit through the cloak and into her skin.
Hweilan fell, the full weight of the woman coming down atop her, knocking all the breath from her body. But they kept moving. The slope was steep and they slid, gaining speed, crashing through bushes, over roots, breaking
Then she saw it—a flash of red. A fox bounded out of the brush, its back almost arrow straight as it ran. It saw her, stopped, then bounded off again, disappearing as quickly as it had come.
Hweilan let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Her heart beat so fiercely that she could feel her face pulsing like the skin of a drum.
“Only a fox.” It came out a whisper, but still seemed very loud in the silence of the forest.
Hweilan kept going, following the lee of the hill. It was getting steeper the farther she went, and the light dimmer.
The trees grew even larger, and some of their roots broke out of the ground, forming arches under which she walked. Spiderwebs draped the low branches, and although the few spiders she saw were no bigger than her smallest fingernail, still she walked around the webs rather than through them.
The hill was getting steep enough that Hweilan was beginning to slip and had to lean against one hand as she walked. But she could hear the rush of water again and thought she might be getting close to the lake and Gleed’s tower.
Ahead of her a particularly massive root broke out of the side of the hill and arched over her path before seeking ground again. Sitting atop it, watching her, was the fox. Its golden eyes seemed very bright in the gloom.
Hweilan’s feet slipped out from under her. She went down and caught hold of a sapling before she slid down the hill. Lying there in the cold, wet leaves, she looked up and saw that the fox was gone.
In its place atop the gnarled root, a woman crouched. Like Hweilan, the woman’s feet were bare, but she was dressed in an array of stitched skins and leathers. She had the look of an elf—lean, angular build, a face of sharp angles, canted eyes, and ears that topped in sharp tips. Crouched as she was, her hair, thick as a pelt, hung past her shins, and in the gloom of the wood it seemed just a shade above black. Her skin was even darker than Scith’s, and black designs—whorls, waves, and vinelike twists sprouting thorns—decorated her hands, bare arms, and face. Seeing someone, if not human, then at least more familiar than Gleed, almost put Hweilan at ease. But then she saw that the woman’s eyes were a golden yellow, very bright in the gloom, and split by vertical pupils. And her toes and fingers ended in claws. A dark, wet something ran out of the corner of the woman’s mouth—that can’t be blood, Hweilan thought—and then the woman licked it away.
Gleed’s words sprang to her mind—
Tomorrow you will meet Kesh Naan. Kesh Naan will give you the Lore
.
Hweilan swallowed, took a deep breath, and said, “A-are you K-Kesh Naan?”
The woman canted her head to one side, expressing something between curiosity and amusement. “ ‘A-are you K-Kesh Naan?’ ” she said, in perfect imitation of Hweilan’s own voice. She licked her lips again, as if tasting the words, then shook her head, left shoulder to right shoulder, very slowly, and said, “No.”
“Who are you?” said Hweilan.
The woman’s lips peeled back, revealing sharp, yellow-white teeth.
Hweilan almost screamed, but her breath caught in her throat. She pushed herself carefully to her feet.
The woman jumped down, landed a few feet in front of Hweilan, then slowly stood and said, “I am …” She paused, as if searching for the word, then finished, “…
hungry.”
Hweilan turned and ran.
She made it perhaps five or six strides, then a weight hit her square in the back and two arms wrapped around her—one around her neck, the other under her arm. Claws bit through the cloak and into her skin.
Hweilan fell, the full weight of the woman coming down atop her, knocking all the breath from her body. But they kept moving. The slope was steep and they slid, gaining speed, crashing through bushes, over roots, breaking
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