Page 9 of Ember and Eclipse
Leaving was an entanglement of grief, sadness, and regret. Her freedom had been too short, and her life just beginning. Lingering in the doorway, she took in her home one last time.
Closing the door felt like a fate worse than death.
The moment the door shut, the ever-present coldness crept from her core out to all her limbs. She pulled the cloak tighter around her but knew it would do very little.
Moving silently toward the storage room, she peered into one of the unfinished windows. The hunter was sitting against the wall, his head leaning back as if in slumber.
Her stomach roiled. It was a cruel thing to do, keeping him locked up to die. She considered the options but found all of them lacking. They’d do worse to her if it were the other way around. With that knowledge solidly deflecting any guilt, she turned away.
The moment both feet left the isle, her body half over the edge, she looked at her home one last time. The lop-sided frame of the cottage made it appear dejected, shredding her resolve.
“I will return,” she whispered. It was a vow to her home as much to herself. Some day, she would. Even if it was as an old woman, just so that her bones could rest there.
Once across the water, she strode through the night. The moon was high and clear enough to leave tendrils of light even in the denseness of the swamp. She efficiently dodged intricately built webs, the silhouette of large spiders at their centers, and listened for the tell-tale warning signs of snakes that would strike with little provocation.
Bringing herself right to the edge of her favorite swamp, she peered into its murky waters. Shadow against shadow and the slightest of sounds was her only warning. Then, two fire-lit orbs, much closer than she anticipated, glowed. Even more appeared until she knew that the entire swamp was her audience.
Rel attempted to speak, but her voice cracked. Clearing her throat of the sudden emotion, she said, “I have to go away for a while. I don’t know when I can return, but I just wanted to thank you.” It wasn’t enough—no words would be, and yet she knew they had no need for long goodbyes.
Aloysius pulled himself from the waters, moving toward her with lumbering steps. Only his eyes and teeth were noticeable, reflected by pale light. She knelt and pressed her palm to the middle of his head. “I’ll miss you. But I will come back,” she vowed. “Be good.”
She stood and turned away before any emotion could settle for too long.
They had found her. A year and half later, they had come into her home and violated her sanctuary. The question of exactly how they’d found her was still a mystery, but it didn’t matter. If they could find her once, they could find her again. She would only be safe in coven territory, which wasn’t an option. Would fellow witches protect her if the Romulan Empire came looking for her? She had a strong inclination to think they wouldn’t.
There was only one place she could go—the Mark. For all its faults and dangers, it was also an excellent place to disappear. And the one on the border of the Marsh Coven was also a port.
She moved through the trees like a ghost, retracing her steps from days ago to where she had found the hunters. By the time she passed the dead one, her knife still protruding from his eye and his body already showing signs of the swamp’s consumption, she was deep into the wetlands, the moonlight unable to pierce the thick canopy. She stopped to pull a charmed lantern from her pack. It released no heat, just a constant glowing light that gave the greenery of the swamp a fire-cast hue.
It wasn’t until the golden light dusted over the trees that she came to the outskirts. Here, the land’s magic receded until it was nothing but ordinary earth beneath her feet. Along with the swamp’s essence, she left all the hopes she had cultivated over the last year behind. In their place, she armed herself with what would keep her alive—the cold and harsh things she had known for many years.
She skirted the perimeter, following the hunters’ tracks, until she came upon what she was looking for.
Horses.
It took her longer than she would have liked to release the other horses and mount the one she chose. Rel wasn’t a skilled rider, and the stallions were Romulan war horses—bred to be larger and hardier than any other breed. Not to mention, their endurance was unmatched. She recalled stories about how the enemy would estimate the arrival of the Romulan army, only for them to show up days or weeks before.
The horse would cut her time to the Mark in half.
She pushed him hard. Her body was sore within hours, but she didn’t stop—not even to sleep. The horse showed little sign of tiring, and when he did, he slowed his gait or stopped briefly to eat the tall, sweet grass before moving on again.
When she reached the Mark two days later, exhausted and hungry, the bustling streets did nothing to soothe her nerves. Through the fog of not sleeping for three nights and the buzz of being on high alert, she felt sick as she led the horse through the streets. It was far slower on horseback than on foot, as people couldn’t make room for them both as easily, but she didn’t think she could walk if her life depended on it.
Witches marked the stallion and then her, their schemes hardly concealed on their features. A horse was worth money, but a Romulan war horse was worth a small fortune. Either she ignored them, holding her chin up with feigned confidence, or she met their stares until they looked away. Showing any weakness here was a death sentence.
The Mark itself had an unsettling air about it that was a unique property of it. No matter how many times she had been to parts of it, it always felt like she was entering another realm of existence. She never found it the same way she left it. Outside of the dangers lurking in every nameless shop, black alleyway, and odd-colored home, there was a wonder, too. Not only was magic possible here, but things beyond magic were. Rel imagined that people came here to find the answers to all sorts of impossible questions. Can someone be brought back from the dead? Can immortality be achieved? She had already witnessed more than one witch claiming they had the best love spells and potions, guaranteed to make someone fall in love in under one moon cycle—rather impressive.
When the streets became too cramped, she took them down an alley instead. It was empty except for a mage and witch who seemed to be debating something furiously in whispers and glared at her as they passed.
The alley spilled into a much narrower one with the backs of shops and homes lined on either side. It was overgrown with weeds and smelled of decay and waste. As they trampled through the muck, a sign caught her eye. She was certain it hadn’t been there a moment ago.
Fortuna Bakery.
Her stomach was hollow, and she needed to eat. She’d go to the docks immediately after and ask to be put on the next ship out. Dismounting was difficult, and she was forced to lean against the side of the shop for a long time, willing her legs to work. When she thought she could at least make it inside without falling over, she left the horse tied to part of the building and entered.
Rel expected the bakery to smell like fresh-made goods. Instead, the shop had a layer of herbal-scented smoke that would permeate her clothes and hair for days.
“Be there in a moment,” a witch called, and Rel relaxed a bit. The narrow space was filled with glass jars and vases, assorted tinctures and potions, tomes, and dusty statues of various creatures that seemed to follow her as she moved through the entrance slowly. A flicker of movement caught her eye, and she turned to track it, only to find nothing was there.
