Darkened Light

Chapter 4

Perhaps it won't make a difference. It doesn't matter. I want the truth to be known, and I'm finally lucid enough to share it.

***

CHAPTER 4

Doran

The poison burned its way through Doran's system and bloodstream. His whole body felt on fire. He had found some jewelweed—a natural defence against most poisons—on the outskirts of the forest, but it wasn't enough. He never would have survived long on his own if it weren't for his basic knowledge of poisons and their antidotes. He hoped it would get him a little further. Sooner or later he'd need a healer, but it would do for now and hopefully last until he could reach a town. Or at least until he came across a carriage. Once he'd found a ride he could collapse and trust that the nearest healer knew what to do against corrupted forest spirit poison.

Sweat glistened on his forehead and soaked his clothes. Thanks to the jewelweed his vision was no longer blurred and his legs weren't shaking as badly. If only he knew how this poison worked; oddly enough, he'd never been attacked by angry twigs before.

The jewelweed had to be enough.

He stumbled out of the last bit of forest, saw lights nearby, and sighed. People were singing, but they were too far away for him to make out any words. Maybe they had a carriage, or even a healer. If they weren't too annoyed with him for interrupting their celebrations anyway.

Doran bit off another leaf of jewelweed—he'd stashed away a whole bushel in his bag—and made his way over to the lights and the singing.

In Ceidir, people always sang when they were celebrating. They sang to celebrate a bountiful harvest, to celebrate a marriage, or to celebrate the birth of a child. He was far away from the Ceidiree border, but it sounded like home regardless. Doran didn't know what kinds of things they celebrated out here in Vasael'In, but it didn't matter. Singing was something only good people could do well.

He hesitated when he got closer. The song wasn't in any language he recognised—in fact, he was reluctant to call it a song. He had heard many different songs since he'd left Cairdh, and they'd either been joyful or mournful. This was neither. This was—

He wasn't in a position to be choosy. He was dying, and the jewelweed would only slow the poison no matter how much he chewed.

"Excuse me." He stepped out from between the trees and into the light of the people before him. "I don't want to interrupt, but I was wondering if you could—" His voice froze in his throat as his eyes adjusted and took in the occasion for the song. Ten men and women—stark naked—and in the middle a young man, no older than eighteen, covered in nothing but loose trousers and scars.

This was common in the pleasure houses of the South, but they kept it inside and the sight didn't freeze his every thought. Or rather it did, but never out of fear. This was wrong.

His eyes darted from the boy—Hjevan, judging by his red hair and pale skin, and very far from home—to a dark heap on the ground. The soil under their feet reflected the moonlight in an eerie way, and with cold clarity Doran realised what he was seeing. The heap on the ground was a girl, so mutilated her blood had soaked the earth, wisps of her long hair caked to her face with drying crimson.

Doran's eyes shot back to the Hjevan and to the naked people. One masked cultist held a long, sharp knife, pointed at the boy's exposed belly.

Doran had seen rituals like these before—rituals with altars and terrified sacrifices. He didn't know what scared him more—their only altar being the bloodied ground underneath their feet, or the Hjevan's confused expression. Was he drugged? He looked nervous, but not outright terrified.