Diffraction

Chapter Eleven: Marked

"After the incident at the Tower, the Conclave conducted an inquiry and demanded explanations. At your direction, I followed the subject's trail and compiled eyewitness accounts into this report. I confess, the results are unsettling given the subject's current assignment. I've listed the major complications I found in collecting information—an issue I believe is telling in itself."

"I brought the girl you're after," Jahrin's voice boomed in the darkness.

The sun stood at its peak in the sky—Lyllithe could feel its warmth through her Devoted robe—but the burlap hood over her head blocked out all light. She strained her senses, hoping for a clue about her situation. A fire crackled close by, and the scent of pine trees was now concealed by a sweet aroma of roasting meat. No other sound met her ears but Jahrin's breath right behind her.

Lyllithe squirmed in Jahrin's grasp, but his grip on her bound wrists was iron. Her breath felt hot on her face, and her lungs protested spending so long in the hood.

Footsteps.

Leaves crinkled, and feet crunched on dry gravel. Someone chuckled. A sword slid out of its scabbard. Lyllithe's head whipped back and forth at each noise, though she knew she could see nothing.

"Prove it," a man said.

The sack flew off Lyllithe's bowed head. Sudden light burned her eyes.

She glanced around to gather her bearings, squinting to make out shapes in the light. Camp set in a clearing. We're surrounded by conifers and filthy men. Several makeshift shelters, a packed cart under some heavy boughs. A campfire burning in a shallow pit.

She breathed in the crisp mountain air and watched a cloud puff out when she exhaled. A beautiful day, if I wasn't facing death.

Jahrin's large hands shoved Lyllithe from behind and she fell. Hands tied behind her, she could only twist and take the impact on her side. She grunted and glared at him.

"Name's Lyllithe Aulistane," Jahrin said, ignoring her. "From Northridge."

His hand rested on his greatsword like a walking stick, planted point in the dirt. His black hair blew across his jawline prickled with stubble like a cactus. He looks every bit the bounty hunter out for reward.

One of the bandits stepped toward Lyllithe. "Could be anybody in a Devoted robe," he said, hand on his sheathed blade. He reeked of onion and sweat, his hair matted and oily.

Lyllithe flashed back to the attack on Northridge and recalled the man's cruel face as he cut down one of the town's few skilled guards.

She smiled. He has no idea what's coming.

Jahrin reached down and brushed aside Lyllithe's black hair, exposing her pointed ears. "Aeramental blood," he said. "Look at her. She's a Ghostskin. How many of them do you see around here?"

A different bandit pointed. "That's gotta be her," he said. "Matches the description Ymeer got from Kal."

Onion-stink turned a withering glare at his companion. "Hush, Fanaden." Then his gaze turned back to Lyllithe. "Show me her Mark."

Jahrin rolled Lyllithe over with a rough yank, and cut the cord around her wrists with his boot knife. He snatched her right wrist and pulled up the sleeve of her robe. A symbol like a crude figure lifting a sunrise shone on the back of her right hand in soft blue light, visible despite the sun.