The Knave of Souls - Fantasy - Sequel to The Jack of Souls

Chapter 37b

Harric's plan was to take the horse north up the yoab trails and then down to the trail beside the toothed canyon. Once through the canyon, he'd look for those settlements on the other side, and if he got through before dawn, he might be able to spot their morning cook fires. And a settlement would have information and a road. Traveling alone, he'd be less conspicuous than the group with its Phyros and auroch and Wandering Priest, not to mention a female knight. So he could scout and leave messages when he learned of dangers.

But his escape would have to wait. Before he left, he had one more mission: he'd check on Brolli and his talking cup. It was a day of burning bridges, after all. Couldn't leave this one standing.

Peering through his oculus into the Unseen in order to navigate the darkness of the Seen, he led Snapper north along the main yoab run. A half mile on, the run forked toward the river and the Toothed Canyon, just as Mudruffle's map predicted. There he departed the runs and hobbled Snapper in a low basin of thimble berry and fern.

"Fink, you here?" Harric whispered. Climbing to the top of a log so ancient it was now more hill than log, he opened his occulus and peered about the bright spirit-lit forest.

"Nebecci, Tasta, Tryst."

After a few heartbeats of waiting, he wondered if he had pronounced the words to the summoning incorrectly. Nebecci, Jasta, Tryst? But then a shadow of black smoke formed against the essence-light of the moss, and Fink materialized before him.

Fink's grin flashed as he looked around the grove, but when he saw Snapper saddled and packed, his wings drooped along with his expression. "Kid. What are you doing? What happened?"

"Hey, Fink." He shook his head apologetically. "I'm leaving. The Compulsion has her thinking of weddings and throwing up when she tries to resist it. It's hurting her, but if I get out of her sight, it should be better, like you said. I can still help them; I'll stay a day ahead of them and scout out danger."

While Harric spoke, Fink's taloned hands twisted together like a tangle of fishhooks. His bald head bobbed up and down. "Scouting ahead. That could work. Sort of with them but not with them. And we could take Missy back tomorrow night to take a look at the weaves."

Harric's gut knotted. "Maybe you should tell her to hold off a while—"

"Kid." Fink's voice hardened. "We don't tell Missy to wait."

An edge of panic crept into the imp's tone, and it lodged a burr of dread in Harric's heart.

"Then tell her it's off," Harric said. "That was our deal."

Fink cringed and twisted his talons. "This is a mistake, kid."

"I know what I have to do, Fink." He sucked a deep breath and sighed. "I have news, too. I just watched Brolli talking into a witch-silver tea cup. And I think it talked back."

Fink's brow wrinkled. "Talking to it? What'd it say?"

"I couldn't hear it, but I think he could." Some of Brolli's words—locusts, and what we must to survive—came back to gall him. He stood. "Come on. I have a feeling about him tonight."

A sound made them both freeze. A soft crack, like a boot on a rotten branch.

Fink vanished, and Harric followed him into the Unseen.

The burden of maintaining himself in the spirit world fell on Harric so hard he nearly fell to one knee.

"Your clothes, kid," Fink whispered. "Take off your clothes."

"No time. Look." Brolli moved between trees, heading north. His huge Kwendi eyes turned in their direction as he hiked not fifty paces away, but he did not pause or change direction.