Blood & Shadows

Eleven

"We have tea," the last one offers. Curious that she doesn't rhyme with the rest.

"Great Ladies of the Wicker Wastes, we have traveled far to seek your aide. A wizard most foul has placed upon us a spell which threatens our very lives. Ladies, will you help us?" Geraent asks, his voice booming with authority, as his eyes shimmer with inner radiance as though he's full of the might of Decerys--for all I know he is. He doesn't merely ask them; he beseeches them, and watching it makes my stomach sick. What pathetic desperation. No, he wants us safe.

Shaking the thoughts away, I hold myself.

"Let us speak plainly, for the price of such things is grave. Brave and noble paladin of Decerys, your might is the key. Head to the ruins of the tomb of the Lost King's Bride; the secret to ridding yourselves of the bond lies with that Ancient King's most treasured prize."

"That is all?" Geraent's brows knit.

"That is all." She repeats, and I don't like it one iota.

"What's your price?" I inquire, crossing my arms, and all she does is grin.

"I already spoke it. The Paladin's might," The crowned one answers.

"It's just a test," Geraent assures us, but I'm not stupid enough to think that's all it is. They're playing a game.

This isn't good. They could take his arms. They could sever his connection to Decerys. Might is general, but it's not going to be as easy and as simple as a test. The Ladies don't test they take. Vrythien and I exchange looks like we can feel the invisible knife dangling above Geraent's head.

"Pay the price, retrieve the book; it's that simple." The one on the chair speaks, and Geraent bows to them.

"Thank you, truly." He's the first to leave; Faeriel lingers a few moments longer, wearing a pout on her lips that says she suspects the same as we do. Vrythien shrugs and leaves; I remain.

Once the door shuts behind Vrythien, I rip the illusion from the cabin, revealing the truth. Only the fire lights the room, and the shadows are long, hiding much that I can see. Roots weave through the walls, roots dripping blood-red sap down the dark, wet boards. They weave between the stones of the hearth, coating all in their sickly red. Those roots wind through the ladies themselves. The one with the crown has them grow out of one eye socket and into the other. Their shredded gowns are tangled in those vines as sickly black veins trace up pale throats and across paler, still cheeks.

I've stood here before, in front of this door, wearing this gown. The memory is a faint echo, a scarcely tangible thing. The more I try to focus on it, the further it fades, but it's too familiar.

"Ladies," I say before passing through the door.

"The clothes are a gift. In memory of your father, may he bask in Azaratha's embrace." I don't look behind me; I roll my eyes and leave instead.

Geraent and Faeriel are gone already, and Vrythien is mounted. Without a word he holds his hand out for me, and I take it, letting him pull me into the saddle before him. For whatever reason, I can't take my eyes off that cabin. We'll be back. Or, at the very least, I will be.

"He's excited, thinks this will all be over in a matter of days," Vrythien grumbles as he leans over me, the horse dashing swiftly through the swamp as rain continues to fall. "I can't decide which one is the bigger fool. Her for agreeing with him or him for suggesting it."

"Both are fools," though I speak, my voice comes cold and disinterested.

"And the clothes? The ladies do nothing for nothing, so why did they change our clothes and armor? I don't like this... not one bit."