The Valley of Lies (Lightkeepers #1)

Chapter NINE: Zan

The elixir gleamed pearly beige in the cook pot on the tiny wood-burning stove in Zan's cottage–-a glorified tree-hollow just large enough to fit the stove, a narrow storage cabinet, and a bed of salvaged timber and sticks. Steam rising from the pot vented through a hole carved through a thinner section of the tree's trunk, between a forking branch.

Zan sat on his bed, rehearsing what he'd say to the satyrs by the Blackwater gate in less than an hour. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, staving off the exhaustion that was his constant companion. Lately, he hadn't been getting much sleep. How could he, when the Triumvirate held Ayer captive and stole her powers for their own tainted use?

Their mother's clan, the proud and stubborn Yansu, believed their crown princess was dead and would not come looking for her. The queen herself hadn't believed Zan when he'd told her Ayer was the witches' slave, that he'd seen her alive and was trying to get her out of the Coven. But that wasn't surprising. Zan's mother had cast him out as a youngling, as soon as she'd realized what he was and how his father had tricked her. But Zan had his own plan. He always did.

The Gidaran were a nomadic tribe of satyrs, staying in one place just long enough to sell their colorful wares alongside their equally colorful stories. Tales of treason, forbidden love, courtly intrigues, whatever they had heard on their travels that a desperate man would pay decent coin to know. Zan hoped they might have a story for him, something he could use to help Ayer. Maybe, somewhere he could travel to find allies willing to follow him back to Blackwater. He didn't care how long it might take, he would go to the ends of the world and back to save his sister. Ayer was the one person who hadn't looked down on him for being a bastard and a changeling. More than that, she loved him. She called him brother when all others had shunned him.

The last tendril of steam curled away from the cook pot, disappearing well before it reached the vent. Zan went to the stove and pulled the pot off the burner, stirring the bubbling liquid with a ladle until it was cool enough to pour into his clay cup. He drank the elixir quickly, both because it was rank and made him gag, and because it would crust if he didn't.

"That was bloody terrible," he mumbled to himself, dropping the empty cup into one of two small buckets of boiled rainwater by the stove. Later on, if he remembered, he'd scrub it with leaves. Once it was dry, he'd rinse it off a second time in the clean bucket. It was the best and only cleaning system he had.

His fingertips tingled, signaling the beginning of the Change. Nut shells crunched under his boots as he stepped over to his cabinet. A cracked mirror was mounted to the inside of the door, long enough that he could see his full reflection. He peeled off his boots and socks, then his trousers and shirt. The nudity wasn't for vanity's sake, though. He just didn't want to damage his clothes. The Gidaran were considered men, but their bone structure was nothing like an elf's. They were big, burly, and furred from the waist down, with the legs and feet of a goat. A very large goat. As a changeling half-elf, Zan hadn't been graced with an imposing frame, although he was quick and lean. He was even smaller than his sister, which wasn't all that uncommon among the Yansu, especially among those who possessed a dragon form. Nonetheless, it rankled him sometimes.

The Change washed over him quickly, unalterable once it had begun. The tingling in his fingers gave way to their lengthening and stretching. Dark brown fur spread across his lower half. The muscles and bones in his legs bent and twisted, becoming those of a satyr. The pain was exquisite, but Zan had spent years coaching himself to withstand the torture and could now bear these more taxing Changes with only mild grunts of discomfort.

When his vision returned, he breathed easily. The Change was a success. He was at least a foot taller, and several inches wider, every aspect of his body increased to massive proportions. He laughed at himself as he flexed in the mirror, then ran a hand through his hair, which was no longer black with auburn streaks but an abundance of rich brown curls. His skin was different too, darkened from its usual olive tan to burnished gold with ample tufts of body hair.

Zan stepped closer to the mirror, inspecting his eyes. They were brown, not terribly different from their natural amber color, but duller and hopefully less memorable.

He tapped one hoof on the bare dirt floor of his cottage–-he hated to call it a hollow–-and considered his nakedness. Some male satyrs didn't bother wearing loincloths, but Zan was not about to walk around Blackwater with his hairy goods hanging out. His new body was impressive and big everywhere, but that was a step too far.

What could he wear, though? It wasn't as if he had loincloths stashed away.

With a heavy sigh, he took a blade to one of his three serviceable shirts. No one had better ever accuse him of lacking imagination!
He grumbled as he threaded the makeshift garment onto a thread of thick twine, then surveyed his creation in the mirror. Crude, but it would do.

"Now then," he said, testing out his altered voice. It was sufficiently beastly. "Time to party." He slung his leather coin pouch across his massive shoulders, frowning at his ridiculous reflection. "On second thought..." He peeled off the pouch and hung it over one shoulder. Easier access.

"Much better," he growled. "Now it's party time."