Page 38 of Whisper Woods

Tarook wanders about the room, immediately nosing about. I stand back and let him look, thankful I haven’t actually unpacked yet.

“It didn’t seem like the time.” Because it would lead to questions. Questions that would have distracted the table from their rather interesting conversation. Questions, which would have made it terribly difficult to eavesdrop. But I had needed to let them know I was here, in which case the phone had provided an excellent cover.

Tarook knows better than to ask any further. Just like I know better than to ask why there was a compulsion to stay away from the mages’ camp last night when everyone returned from the search. It’s an understanding we’ve held for years and it’s served us well.

Tarook’s clan, the Aestoria, reside on the Overlands, islands that are a part of Ulydessia, one of my regular districts for trade. Over the years, we’ve become friends of a sort. In truth, mages are probably the closest to Tavishers. As traders themselves, it’s natural that we are in regular business with them. And their flare for blending mystery and magic means they enjoy our secretive nature. In short, they don’t ask questions and we supply them with magical items unable to be obtained in the Mundane.

With a burdened sigh, he straightens and the energy of the room shifts with him. If I’m not mistaken, he’s added an extra veil to the room, protecting us from eavesdroppers. “I must be quick before we leave. But there is something I need to give you.”

“Is this for a trade?” Quickly, I mentally catalogue the things I have in my possession. As this trip was never about trading, I have little of value, but I have some dragon glass and herbs that grow on our hills that the magesfavour. But Tarook surprises me by shaking his head. He stands on the opposite side of the room, the bed between us almost like a barricade.

“No. What I have for you is a gift. And a priceless one at that.” He grimaces, his tanned face going pale. “It pains me to hand it over. But the only price is safety. I have conferred with the Gods. The signs were clear.” Reaching within the many layers of his robes, he withdraws an ancient-looking leather tome. Closing the small rip in the physical realm he holds the book in a deathly tight grip.

“This… this book was retrieved from the Whisper Falls yesterday. It contains magic unseen for centuries. The power it could give a being…” He looks at me, and withdraws his hand, pulling the book closer to himself, obviously reconsidering his decision. Which is understandable. That must have been one powerful communication with the Gods to get a mage to not only part with power, but to do so without compensation.

But I want it. That grubby, tattered book has triggered my hoarding instinct.

“Why me?” I fold my arms over my chest, allowing me to tuck my hands and their grabby claws under my armpits.

“Because the Gods will it. The Whisper Woods will it. And it has been made clear the alternative would be… catastrophic.” Falyuk. That doesn’t sound positive in the least.

“For you or for me?”

“For all of us.” Is Tarook’s grim reply. It’s the reminder that he needs and he thrusts the book out, stalking towards me until the book is shoved into my chest. “Keep it safe from the witch, Edith. She’s been loitering around my camp all morning trying to take it.”

I take the book, the leather soft in my hands. Thankfully, Tarook is too busy adjusting his robes to notice the midnight blue scales on my hands. Or maybe he just doesn’t care.

“Why would she take it? And why don’t you stop her?” Tarook snorts, finally happy with his robes, he takes a large step towards the door, like he is consciously moving away from the book.

“It is what she does. And thisisme stopping her. Thanks to your quickthinking this morning, she has no knowledge of our connection and she will think we took the book with us back to the Overlands.”

“I will keep it safe, I swear.” I promise my old friend with a sincere nod.

Tarook assesses me, obviously hesitant, but whatever he sees must satisfy him, and he makes his way to the door, the room shifting again as the veil drops.

“Good luck, Rafe. For whatever is coming your way. May the Gods bless and favour you.” With that ominous goodbye, he takes his leave, his robes fluttering behind him as though in the breeze.

I lock and ward the door behind him. Leaning against it, I let my head thunk against the wood, the book heavy in my hand. At least I have one more piece of the puzzle. I learned some things last night in the tavern after the rescue. But not enough to form a clear picture. Everyone had been too shocked by the day's events to provide any actual information.

My eyes snag on the bag again. Brydon.

It’s been far too long since I’ve spoken to him, which is rather poor form.

I shove off the door to retrieve the small box from my bag containing my Tavisher’s altar, setting it up on the small round breakfast table by the window for easy access.

The altar is a smaller version of what every Tathissian has in their home. And while each being or family's altar is personal and reflects their association to the Gods and their magic, they all contain the basic elements—a white candle, a black mirror, and heatproof bowl. They are the items that allow us to send messages through the flame.

Rather like the Mundane postal system. Only harnessing the power of magic and accessing the astral realms.

My travel altar is arranged on a cloth hand woven by one of my ancestors or another, the protective magic still strong within the threads. Minimalism goes against my natural instincts, but I’ve tried to keep my collection of tokens to the Gods restrained. Charms collected over the years, crystals I have coveted, a beautiful pastel pink shard of dragon glass, created by the first dragon I ever cared for.

My hand hesitates over one item, a phoenix feather of the prettiest blues andgreens. I leave it in the box and light the candle, adding the herbs to the brass bowl that would act as the vessel.

Obviously, I have been remiss in my duties, as the moment the small portal is opened a series of sparks explode in the bowl, leaving a pile of messages.

A hint of a smile tugs at my mouth, easing the coil of anger still wrapped around me. I recognise the acid green of the paper immediately. I bought the garishly coloured notepads for Brydon as a joke, but he’s been insistent on using every single one.

Don’t forget to send me an update when you’ve been to Slash.

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