Page 6 of Cursed Shadows 5

Two heartbeats; my knees creak under my sagging weight as I stumble back some steps from the tree.

Three heartbeats; I mutter a string of gravelly curses before I lift my good hand out in front of me and slide my steps forward.

That is easier.

No lift of the knee, then thud of the boot, impact reverberating through me. Instead, boots sliding, easing, my body gliding with it, that works.

That keeps the dizziness settled, somewhat.

I find the path, the shift beneath my boots from padded earth to stripped dirt.

I turn my chin and squint down at the faint gleams.

I follow them.

My soft, sliding steps are slow, boots scraping over the path, and I have the fleeting wonder why Samick left me there on the grass.

Mind, it’s a wonder he saved me at all.

And, really, dumping me on the grass served him better. Probably didn’t want to be responsible for an unconscious, injured me down in Kithe, assuming that is where he went, so he just hid me in the woods that line the sloped path, then ditched.

I’m grateful.

He saved me from certain death. A slow, painful one.

But I don’t yet feel the safety I perhaps should.

I don’t feel relief that I am alive.

Something about the Sacrament hasn’t left me yet, the shock of it maybe, the fight to survive, the horrors…

I am not rushed by the overwhelming relief that I am here, alive, survived. I am not brought to tears with sentiment.

I am still in the mode of mind I was in on the mountain.

Maybe I need a moment. Time with a healer, some phases spent in bed, meals to fill my belly… and then I will be flooded with all the gratitude and relief in the realm.

Until then, that frown has taken permanent residence on my face, and my stepsdraggggg, so slowly, down the sloped trail towards the light.

And there is reluctance kneading into my shoulders, stiffening them against the closing distance of Kithe.

Not just the light I inch closer to, or the sweet scent of fresh bread and the mouthwatering stink of charred meat on skewers, or the promise of folk to tend to my wounds, but towards the chaos of the fae.

That’s what it is.

Chaos.

Names shouted over heads, cries and snarls, the frantic calls of healers, the screeches of younglings.

The closer I stumble, the louder it is, and I can soon make out the distinction between fae snarls and the grumblings of kelpies disturbed on the roads.

And they are disturbed.

I see that as I hobble my deadweight down the lane, my good shoulder dragging over the course, damp wall.

Streams of fae.

More than there is space for, the fae from Comlar are a sudden plague rushing the streets, the roads, climbing onto carriages and pushing through doors at random to escape the tide of the crowd.

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