Page 11 of The Jester

I stumble forward, then someone catches my elbow. “Alana...” Kayan appears at my side. His eyes widen as he takes me in. He sees me. My heart flutters but then another scream breaks through the undergrowth. Blood curdling. Death.

“Alana!” Another voice. Rosalie. She runs towards me full pelt.

There was a time when the three of us were friends. There was a time when I thought she would be at my side when Kayan and I pledged our lives to one another. Now it is she who he clings to, letting me go and turning to pull her into his arms.

My dress is singed. The enchantments have been broken by the fire, but none of that matters now. What matters is... “We have to get out of here.”

“What’s happening?” Rosalie looks from me to Kayan.

“They’ve come for us. Gloomweaver. Fae traders.” I meet her eyes, willing her not to argue with me for perhaps the first time in her life. Feeling as though not a moment has passed since the three of us used to mock, and cajole, and adore each other.

A confused laugh escapes Rosalie’s perfectly pink lips. “But they’re just stories,” she whispers. “No one has ever seen them in real life.”

Ignoring her, I scan the crowd desperately, searching for the elders. For Rawk. For anyone who could take charge and get us to safety. But faces blur together in a sea of panic and confusion.

Fae run and fly in every direction, their screams piercing the night air, their wings fluttering uselessly as nets sizzling with dark magic slam down on top of them.

Some try to fight.

But they fall like flies, dropping to the ground as they are hit by arrows that quite literally drain the colour from their wings and the life from their bodies.

I look down at my gloved hands. I have no powers that can help. I have no elemental abilities. I can cast spells and enchantments, and read people’s emotions, but I can’t fight. Even if I pulled off my gloves, I’d have no idea how to replicate what I did to Kayan when we were –

“Rosalie, can you create a wall of fire around us? Protect us?” Kayan grips Rosalie’s forearms.

Her eyes dazzle and she nods quickly at him. But she has barely raised her hands when her eyes widen and her fingers fly to her throat. An iron collar snaps closed around her neck. Kayan lunges towards her, but he is caught, too.

And then it is my turn.

I feel the cold bite of iron around my neck. It constricts against my throat. I pull at it and try to break free but a rough voice says, “It’s pointless to try and resist.”

A face appears in front of me. Masked at first, but then he pulls his mask free, grabs hold of me, and leans in so close that I can smell his cabbagey breath and feel its heat on my cheek. He has scarred, pockmarked skin. Yellow teeth. Huge, bulky shoulders. No wings. Gloomweavers are not fae; they are something else entirely.

My captor licks his lips, spittle bubbling in the crevice at the corner of his mouth as he looks me up and down. “Well, well, well,” he drools. “What a pretty one I have here.”

Beside us, two more traders grab hold of Kayan and Rosalie and start to drag them away.

For a moment, I imagine the stranger from the waterfall might appear and slit the Gloomweaver’s throat. Leap onto his back, slash at his neck, grab my hand and set me free.

I have barely finished imagining when everything goes dark. A rough sack is yanked over my head, pulled down, and fastened tight around my thrashing wings, bending them in ways they are not supposed to bend, bringing tears of pain to my eyes.

Darkness engulfs me. My wings strain against the confines of the sack. But it’s useless. I’m lifted off the ground, my body thrown over a broad shoulder like a sack of grain. The scent of sweat and leather fills my nostrils, and I gag, my stomach churning.

I’m carried through the forest, the sounds of the raid fading behind me, replaced by the heavy thud of boots on damp earth. My captor moves swiftly but with the gait of a person who is not used to traversing the forests.

We should have outsmarted them. On any other night, we could have escaped them with ease. But our magic was focused on the ceremony. On our costumes and celebrations.

We were naive, and distracted, and now the Leafborne are about to become no more.

For I am almost certain no one escaped.

After what feels like an eternity, I’m tossed unceremoniously onto something hard and wooden. My body slams against the rough surface and I lie there, gasping for breath, my heart racing as I strain to hear the voices around me.

“Kayan? Is that you?” It’s Rawk, his voice tight with fear.

“I’m here.” Kayan’s reply is strained. “But Rosalie...” He swallows hard, and I can picture his shoulders sagging with the weight of not being able to protect her. “I lost her. I kept calling for her, and for a while she answered but –”

“Who else?” Rawk barks, taking roll call of those who are here too. “Can anyone use their magic?”

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