Celeste
The road south carried the weight of my choice with every hoofbeat. By midmorning the fields had blurred into one long stretch of mud and grass, the rain from the night before still clinging to the earth. My cloak was heavy on my shoulders, damp at the edges, but I pressed the mare on, following the signs they’d left behind.
Hoofprints pressed deep into the softened earth. A broken branch where riders had forced their way through. I told myself it meant I was close, that if I rode hard enough I might see the dust of their march on the horizon.
But the doubt chewed at me as steadily as the road stretched ahead. The trail looked right, but what did I know of following soldiers? I was no scout, no ranger. Only a girl with a horse and a stubbornness for company. For all I knew, they’d turned another way, leaving me to chase ghosts in the mud.
Still, I kept south. Every league I gave them was another league Art walked without me. I thought of him among their ranks. The Magister’s prize without truly knowing his real value.
The sun climbed higher, heat sharpening the smell of wet earth, and I slowed my horse to spare her. The road widened between two low hills, a shallow valley where grass grew high on either side. At the base of the dip, something cut across the track: a rope strung tight between posts, the shimmer of iron links hanging from it. A crude gate.
A squat hut leaned to one side nearby, smoke curling thin from its crooked chimney. Men sat outside on stools and overturned barrels, three or four of them, their voices carrying in low laughter until they noticed me. Then the sound died, and their eyes fixed sharp on the road.
My reins tightened in my hands. A toll.
I could have cut around them. The land was flat enough; brush and field stretched both ways. If I made a wide arc I’d lose only minutes. But soldiers would have passed here. If there was news to be had, it would be at this gate. If they had gone this way, these men would remember.
I drew a slow breath and urged my mare forward.
The rope sagged under rusted links. One man rose, broad-shouldered and thick, a spear balanced lazy in his hand. “Halt,” he called. “Levy of Lord Carrow. Toll for the road.”
Another smirked, tilting his head as his eyes swept me. My mare shifted while I reined her in. My hand went to the purse at my waist, the weight of it suddenly heavier than before. “How much?” I asked.
He spat into the dust. “For you? A silver.” The others chuckled like they were daring me to argue.
A silver was more than I’d expected, but the rope was tight and the spears ready. Better to pay and be done. I reached for the pouch, then the question forced itself from me. “Did soldiers come through here?”
They went still. The smirk faded from the spear-bearer. The men traded glances and the air soured like milk left in the sun. “Aye,” he said at last. “They came.”
“Last night,” another added, slower. The word landed like a stone in my stomach. They’d ridden through the storm, all night. Art was somewhere among them, walking that pace while I’d slept under another roof. My grip faltered.
“They came fast,” the man said, scratching his jaw. “Rain hid their banners. We thought raiders at first. Too many, too sudden. We stepped out to take our due.” His lip curled. “Roderick called to the one at their head, plume in his helm, proud as a cock. Asked who claimed the road.”
“He was too slow,” the younger man on the barrel said. “Too slow to see who we’d stopped.”
“And then…” the older man spat. “He was down. Dropped like a stone in the mud. Blood at his head. But the man with the plume… he hadn’t moved.”
“He looked at us like we were dogshit on his boots and kept on riding,” the third said, teeth yellow.
The purse felt heavier than ever. The spear-bearer stepped close, the point a quiet reminder. “Why do you ask, girl? What business is it of yours?”
Another chuckled, humorless. “Silver’s the toll,” he said. “But questions cost more. Maybe much more.”
My breath snagged. What casting felled a man without a gesture? To split a skull in an instant… the thought pressed again to the front of my mind, but I shoved it back. I was in their sight, thinking too much might cost me more than coin. “My husband was taken,” I said quickly. “I was following them.”
Laughter cracked across the road. “Following them?” one jeered. “And what did you mean to do when you caught up? Whisper sweet into that feathered cock’s ear?”
Their laugh sharp and mean. “If that’s who’s got your husband, he’s as good as gone,” another said. “Naught you can do but spread your legs for another. Better men than him’ll keep your bed warm.”
Heat flared in my face, but I let my anger wane.
The spear-bearer’s grin turned ugly before he barred my way. “Three silvers. For passage and your pretty questions.” He let his gaze roam over me. “Else you can pay another way. Might even be cheaper.”
My mouth went dry. “You said one,” I snapped, heat sharpening my voice before I could swallow it back. “One silver was what you called out. You’re charging two more for information?”
The spear-bearer’s grin widened, ugly. “Rain changes prices,” he said. “Gold’s for merchants, silvers for riders, and pretty mouths cost more.” He jabbed a thumb at a leaning board nailed to the post, the lord’s name a watery scrawl. “That’s business.”
“That’s blackmail,” I said, the word tasting like bile.
It would be easy to burn them all where I sat. Blow their faces clean off with a single breath of Light.
I let the thought die. Not now.
I loosened the purse and let the coins spill cold into the younger man’s palm. Each silver clinked like a small betrayal. He counted slow, stuffing the pouch into his shirt. “Five,” he said, final as a knife.
The rope unhooked before me, moving like a net being lowered just for me. I tugged the reins and rode on before my mind had time to break. The mare’s flank warmed under my thigh and the motion steadied the tremor in my hands. Halfway through the gap, I let the words slip, soft and hard both. “May your feathered cock return soon. When he does, you’ll remember what kneeling was meant for.”
I rode quickly and didn’t look back.
The mare settled into a steady rhythm, her hooves drumming out the silence the men had left behind. I let her stretch, let the distance grow between me and that crooked hut, but the coins still felt heavy against my hip, lighter though they were.
For a while I kept my eyes down, following the faint churn of prints in the mud. But as the sun climbed higher and the road lay bare ahead, the truth pressed in. Those soldiers hadn’t only passed here, they’d passed in the night without pause. I had thought myself close, a day behind at most. But every hoofbeat now reminded me I was chasing shadows long since fled.
They had rode through the dark while I had lingered in warmth and light. Even with my horse beneath me, I was trailing men on hoof and foot who had a half-day’s start, and more. The gap between us was turning into a widening gulf.
I slowed, hand brushing the mare’s damp neck, and let her breathe. My eyes searched the horizon as if they might conjure dust, a banner, a glimpse of him walking among their lines. Nothing but empty road and the hush of the fields.
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The doubt whispered sharper than before. What if I never caught them?
Still, I set my heels to the mare again. Because if I turned back now, the gap would never close at all.
By afternoon the mare’s stride had lost its spring, each hoofbeat landing heavier than the last. Her flanks darkened with sweat, her head bobbing low as she breathed. I’d pressed her hard all morning, harder than I should have, but every thought of easing back had felt like betrayal. Now the choice was made for me.
When a hollow dipped off the roadside, I guided her down, where a pond sat quiet in the shade of leaning willows. The water rippled under her nose as soon as I let her rein fall slack, and she drank greedily, muzzle dark with foam. I swung down stiffly, my legs half-numb, and loosened the straps across her back. She needed more than a mouthful of water. From the bundle tied behind the saddle I pulled what feed I’d packed, scattering it into my palm before setting it in the grass for her.
I pressed a hand to her side as she ate, letting Light stir beneath my skin, the same way I’d done for cuts and bruises. A warmth passed into her muscles, and she shifted beneath my touch, easing as if the ache had dulled. But her sides still heaved, breath dragging fast and heavy. Soreness I could mend but exhaustion was something else. No glow of Healing could give back what the road had taken.
The pond’s surface shivered as a breeze passed, cool against the damp of my own skin. I raised my canteen, tipped it, and caught barely more than a swallow. The sound of emptiness echoed louder than I liked. My eyes strayed to the water’s surface, green-tinged and still. Stagnant. Fit enough for the mare, maybe, but not for me.
I thought of Art, and how he would have solved it. Most Water Casters needed a source, but he could do more.
If only I could do the same. Light I could call, enough to blind and burn, but not a drop to drink. My throat tightened at the irony. If what Art said of Healing and Ardor opened other doors, then let water be the first.
I knelt by the mare, brushing sweat from her coat as she chewed. Her breath came steadier now, but I knew we couldn’t linger long. Rest and feed, then the road again.
Always the road.
I’d just finished tightening the mare’s straps again when the sound of wheels and braying drifted down the road. A small caravan rounded the bend. Two oxen pulling a cart piled high with canvas-covered bundles, a handful of folk walking alongside. One of the women raised a hand as they drew near, her brow furrowing at the sight of me lingering by the pond.
“You all right, miss?” she called, slowing her step.
I straightened, brushing dust from my palms. “We’re fine,” I said quickly, though the mare’s lowered head and darkened flanks told another story. My hand hovered at her neck, steadying. “Did you happen to see soldiers pass this way?”
The caravan folk exchanged glances, heads shaking one by one. “No soldiers,” the woman said. “You’d be the first rider we’ve met on this stretch.”
A man in a broad hat shifted his pack higher on his shoulder. “We’ve just come from a small settlement not far from here. If soldiers went through, the folk there would’ve noticed.”
The word pressed against my ribs like a promise. A settlement. A place where the trail might take shape again. I offered them a nod. “Thank you.”
The woman gave a faint smile, then urged the oxen on. The cart creaked forward at its patient pace, dust rising behind. I watched them a moment longer, then swung into the saddle.
The mare’s ears flicked, reluctant but willing when I set her forward. South again. Toward the village, and toward answers.
The settlement was little more than a scatter of homes along the road, a crooked fence circling a garden patch, smoke rising thin from chimneys. I would have ridden past if not for the voices, which were hurried and anxious, and the sight of a knot of people gathered in the lane.
At the center, a middle-aged man walked with a purposeful stride, his traveling cloak flared wide as though he wanted the world to notice him. Beside him, a man and woman clutched each other, the woman weeping openly, while others followed close behind. Ahead of them, a boy was being carried limp in another man’s arms, his head lolling, skin pale as wax.
Snatches of words reached me as they hurried past. Biter. Osteon. He won’t last the night.
My breath caught. I’d heard the name before. Osteon, a slick-bodied vermin that prowled reed beds and river shallows. Its bite blackened flesh, poison seeping fast. A grown man could be dead in a few days. A boy wouldn’t see the sun again.
The group veered toward one of the houses. The man in the cloak pressed through the doorway first, speaking loudly, assuring them, “Your son is fortunate indeed. You found me just in time.”
I reined the mare in at the edge of the square, uneasy. He’d called himself a healer. That much I’d caught. The word tugged at me, sharp as a hook.
Inside the house, light flared. I slipped from the saddle and crossed to the dooryway, drawn against my better judgement. The air inside smelled of sweat and sickness. The boy lay on a cot, skin beaded with cold sweat, lips already turning gray. Over him stood the stranger, one hand lifted, radiance spilling from his palm. It shimmered pale and glittering, catching the eye like sunlight on glass.
The crowd gasped softly, reverent. To them it looked holy. To me it looked wrong. Not Healing. But it did look… familiar. Too familiar.
The light stirred something in my chest. It looked almost like my casting. Not Healing, not the steady warmth I knew that soothed and mended. This burned brighter, showier, sharp-edged. Like Ardor, but not the same.
He lowered his hand with a flourish. “There,” he said, breathless as though spent by the effort. “The poison is cruel, but I have slowed its course. My gift will need time to work through him. By tomorrow you’ll see the difference.”
The father clutched his hand like a lifeline, already speaking of payment.
The words tore free of me before I could stop them. “That wasn’t Healing.”
Silence fell. Heads turned toward me at the door. The man stiffened, his eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”
Heat rushed to my face. I should have kept my mouth shut. But I couldn’t step back now. “What you cast, that wasn’t Healing. I’ve seen Healing. That wasn’t it.”
The mother clutched her son tighter, her voice trembling. “How would you know?”
The man sneered, recovering quickly. “This girl doesn’t understand the art. Healing is subtle, unseen at first. The venom is deep. It will take time for my work to show.”
Murmurs rippled through the onlookers. Some doubtful, some defensive. My stomach knotted. I hated their stares, hated the way my tongue felt too heavy, but the lie burned worse.
I stepped forward, voice unsteady but firm. “Healing draws sickness out. It steadies breath, eases pain the moment it touches. What you did, it was for show. Nothing more.”
The man barked a laugh. “And you are what? A scholar? A priest?”
I shook my head. “No. But I know the difference.” My heart hammered. I should have turned away, mounted, and left the lot of them to their lies and hopes. But I’d already spoken, and the boy’s shallow breathing filled the silence.
“I can prove it,” I said.
The father raised a warning hand. “Who are you?”
The man in the cloak folded his arms, a smirk tugged at his mouth, but his eyes betrayed the worry. “Yes, girl. Prove it.”
I swallowed, crossing to the cot before I lost my nerve. My knees bent at the boy’s side, my hands hovering over the bite wound, angry and swollen, already streaked toward his ribs. Light stirred in me – not the sharp blaze he’d casted, but the steady, quiet current that had been mine since the first moment I’ve ever called it. I pressed it into him, warm and sure, sinking deeper than any topical could reach.
The flesh beneath my hand cooled. The black streaks faded like ink washed clean. The boy drew a sudden, long breath, eyes fluttering open, color rising quick to his cheeks. He coughed once, weak but alive, clutching at his mother’s sleeve.
She fell to her knees, sobbing, hands covering mine. The father’s eyes were wide, stunned, his mouth working soundless before words tumbled out. Thanks, blessings, promises.
Behind us, the man in the cloak paled. His sneer faltered, bluster catching in his throat. “A trick,” he spat finally. “The venom was fading already. Anyone could–”
No one listened. The crowd’s gaze was on me, and that was worse than any curse. Their whispers swelled with awe and fear.
I pulled back quickly, shaking, bile rising at the attention. Too late now. I’d shown myself.
The father’s thanks still rang hollow in my ears when the charlatan found his voice again.
“She’s no healer,” he spat, curling. His eyes cut sharp toward me, venom dripping from every word. “A witch is what she is. She’s brought this sickness with her! Mark my words, you’ll see your boy struck down again by morning. And the rest of you will suffer too, if you let her stay.”
Gasps rippled through the crowd, some flinching back as if his words had weight. Heat coiled in my chest, shame and fury knotted together. My mouth opened, but the father moved faster.
His fist cracked square into the man’s jaw. The sound of it was solid, the kind of blow born from dread and fear. The false Healer reeled, hitting the floorboards hard.
Then the dam broke.
Men surged forward: boots, heels, fists, curses raining down. The fraudster curled in on himself, arms raised, his cries lost under the thud of knuckles and leather. I staggered back against the wall, heart hammering. At first, I wanted them to stop, then feared they wouldn’t.
They were going to kill him.
A thought sliced through the panic – his casting. If he truly could summon what I’d seen, if it was Ardor Light after all, then–
The world exploded white.
A searing blaze filled the room, pouring from the man’s hands, sharper than the noonday sun. It stabbed through my eyes, turned the air itself blinding. I staggered, arms up, useless. Even I couldn’t look straight into it.
Shouts turned into screams. The father groped blindly, cursing. Another man crashed into a stool, wood splintering under his weight. Women covered their children, their faces, but there was no shelter from the light.
And then… silence.
The glow vanished as sudden as it had come, leaving only the stench of sweat and fear. Spots swam in my vision, the world swimming like I’d been staring at the sun too long.
“He’s gone!” someone shouted hoarsely from the doorway.
I blinked through the haze, and staggered outside with the rest. My sight wavered, shapes melting together. Enough to know what was missing.
My mare.
Do you think Celeste made the right choice chasing after Art?
