Page 2 of HeartTorn

He looks down at the wound. “The stitches itch, but it seems to be healing well.”

“Shall I have a look?”

At the warlord’s grunt and half-shrug, I get up, brush out my skirts, leave the blanket in a pile, and cross to his side of the fire. Taar turns to offer me a view of his arm, his own gaze fixed on the dancing flames. I inspect my handiwork. To my surprise the flesh knitted well overnight, leaving only a pale scar. Perhaps the song I sang last night, when my voice joined with the profound magic of his unicorn, healed more than just the poison in this man’s veins.

“I’m no expert,” I say musingly, “but I think it should be safe enough to remove these stitches.”

I look up to find his face suddenly so very near, I can count the squint lines framing his eyes and see the way his lashes curl, thick and dark. If I lean closer, I might just be able to discern the difference between his pupils and his impossibly dark irises.

“Go ahead then.”

I catch my breath and pull back slightly. “Wh-what?” My voice is a little puff of frosty air from my lips.

He shrugs and nods to his arm. “Remove the stitches if you’ve a mind to. I’d as soon not be itchy throughout the day ahead.”

I bite my lip then nod. “Have you tools to remove them?”

“You’ve still got my knife on you, haven’t you?”

I do, and I find the razor-sharp tip more than adequate to the task. It’s oddly satisfying to see those stitches come loose and the puckered flesh relax into its new shape around the scar. All the while Taar keeps his eyes fixed on the fire, never once flinching, though I spot gooseflesh rising on his skin where my fingertips brush.

“So,” I ask, as I pull the last of the threads free, “what happens next?”

He glances sidelong at me.

“Today, I mean. Do we travel to your country?”

“Cruor is not my country. The Licornyn dwell on the edge of the land of Cruor, but it is not our home.”

“Sure.” I back up a step or two as he moves his arm experimentally. “But that is our destination, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And how long is the journey exactly?”

Satisfied with his scar and his range of movement, Taar settles his elbows on his knees, his huge back slightly hunched as he sits before the fire. “I hope to meet my people on the borders of Cruor by sunset.”

“Sunset?” I blink. “Are we really so near as all that?” Looking around at the cold landscape, there’s nothing but wild forest surrounding us on all sides.

Taar chuckles softly at my confusion. “No, indeed. We are far from Cruor, farther than you can imagine. But we will venture back into Wanfriel and take one of its paths to the gate.”

“And what does that mean, warlord?”

Another one of those sidelong glances. “Ah! I forget sometimes that humans have forgotten the Ways of the Wood.” He picks up the stick he’d used earlier and lifts the lid from his kettle to peer inside. A delicious aroma rises from within. Grunting, he sets the lid back in place and plucks the kettle from the coals. “Wanfriel,” he says, “is the common Eledrian namefor the Wood Between Worlds. It is the very forest we traveled through yesterday, which exists in a thin place between veils of reality and can, for those brave enough to dare its depths, lead to innumerable realms. Including Cruor. It was by traveling through Wanfriel that we journeyed so swiftly from the temple to the Grimspire and the encampment of Prince Ruvaen’s host.”

I’d wondered about that. Though I was unconscious for most of the journey, it had seemed like no more than a day. Surely word would have spread throughout the region of such a large fae host encamped so near one of our centers of worship. Yet not even a whisper of rumor had reached my father’s ear, leading him to believe I would be safe enough to embark on my Maiden’s Journey. More fool him. More fool all of us.

Shaking these darker thoughts away before they can overpower me, I ask, “How do we enter this Wanfriel?”

“Through the same gate we used yesterday.” Taar pours steaming hot liquid into a wooden travel cup. “If it is still intact, that is, for it was already beginning to collapse. Otherwise, we will have to journey across the country in search of another point of entrance.”

“You’re telling me there are gates to and from this miraculous forest—gates that lead to other worlds—spread across Gavaria?”

He grunts and hands me a cup. I accept it, turn it round in my hands, and inhale the steam. It’s a floral scent, one I don’t recognize. Though I am usually more inclined to strong black brews, I’m too parched this morning to be picky. I take a tentative sip and relish the warmth and sweetness that slides down the back of my throat.

“If what you’re telling me is true,” I ask after a few swallows, “why is it that my own people—humans that is—aren’t aware of these gates? I’ve only ever heard of one portal to and from the fae worlds. It appeared in our world five hundred years ago, initiating our interactions with the fae.”

“That gate was created by a fae king of ages past in a tremendous act of power.” Taar pours himself his own brew. “It leads not only to this world, but potentially to all worlds. But humans have interacted with the fae since time immemorial.” He takes a swallow, heedless of the heat, and swirls his warm cup so that steam curls around his face. “All those tales of poor souls lost in fairy woods are testimony to the history your kind has simply forgotten. Even now humans may stumble upon a lesser gate by mistake and find themselves wandering through Wanfriel. Few return home again to tell their tales, and those who do are often mistaken for madmen.”

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