Page 80 of What Is Dark Within Me

Violet had walked this trail, or one like it. Violet, who had confided in Aleja for years, except for this one important, deadly thing.

“Are you okay?” It was Garm’s voice, as soft as an owl’s call. “Your heart is racing.”

“Yes. It’s tough going, but I’m fine,” she lied.

It was another half mile before Garm sniffed and sat on his haunches. “Ironsalts. This is the farthest I can go. Aleja, be careful. There’s a foul smell about this place. Remember how I said everyone here looked healthy? That didn’t mean they weren’t covered with the stench of death.”

She kissed Garm on the top of the head, his fur sticking to the Chapstick on her cold lips. “Thanks, buddy. If I don’t make it back, I forgive you for puncturing one of my lungs. You’re a good dog.”

His tail wagged, rustling falling leaves. “And I forgive you for teasing me with those charcuterie boards.”

“Not quite on the same level, but thanks, Garm.”

It was quieter without the dog by their side. Aleja tried to focus on the sound of her breathing, because the scrape of wind against the trees and the near-constant yelp of nearby coyotes made her want to whip her head in every direction. After a few minutes, Nicolas motioned for her to crouch. The trees opened to a clearing dotted by buildings. A few had candles flickering behind their shades.

The cabins reminded her of a school trip she’d once taken to a pioneer village. The houses were squat, rectangular, and undecorated. Aside from the dim candlelight, the village was dark. Sheep huddled together for warmth behind a low fence.

At the center of it all: a small stone well.

It appeared so natural, so unassuming, that she almost didn’t notice it.

This town hadn’t been on any of the maps she’d studied before her phone lost service. It should have been a liminal space. An empty pass. A place where travelers could cross from one end of the mountain range to the other, co-existing with the hardened creatures that lived in the snow, but only briefly.

“What do we do now?” she asked.

“Reconnaissance, as you suggested. We try to figure out how many there are, and if they have magicians among them. And we try to figure out what Roland is doing.”

“But Violet—”

“Is still alive, according to my scrying mirror. Roland is a Dark Saint. If his plans include my death, then strolling into his camp without an idea of what we’re facing is a wonderful way to oblige him.”

She swallowed. “If you die, who becomes the Knowing One?”

“Taddeas, in the interim, until he appoints someone else.”

“He would hate that.”

“That’s not the only problem. The passing of the title from one Otherlander to another is… fraught. The Hiding Place is already destabilized with six Dark Saints instead of seven. It might fall apart completely at five.”

“Oh,” she said softly, remembering it wasn’t only Violet’s life on the line. Her grandmother would lose the dream she’d crafted at the top of the tower. Bonnie, Taddeas, and Amicia might fizzle out, like matchsticks dipped in water. And every human who’d found refuge in the Hiding Place would die.

“Let’s find a better vantage point,” she told him.

She learned reconnaissance was boring, even as dawn broke and the villagers trickled out of their houses. The women wore long skirts and bonnets as they opened coops to let the chickens out. Aleja’s hands stiffened as a man came from the woods with a deer carcass slung over his shoulders, blood trailing behind him. There was something unnatural about the scene, almost as if she was watching a play.

Her mind constantly drifted back to Nicolas’s revelation. Knowledge was valued in the Hiding Place, but she wondered if this ignorance had been a life-saving piece of armor. Dozens were dead for the life she had traded away. Peace was temporary at best. And the blood was on the hands of the person sitting next to her.

Are you angry with him? she asked the voice.

I want to be.

“There he is,” Nicolas said, nudging her side. “Stay low. The humans may not notice us, but he will if we’re not careful.”

Aleja’s heart struggled against her sternum. For the first time in weeks, it felt like her magic might wiggle out of her control, like a thrashing animal she was attempting to hold against her chest.

A dog that had been barking at sheep through the fence went silent as a man approached from the other side of the village. What set him apart the most was his mask; six wings covering the upper half of his face, blocking his eyes from view. He was lanky, but he moved with an unnerving grace as the villagers parted around him. His golden hair was pulled back into a low ponytail like that of the other men, revealing rounded human ears.

“Calm down,” Nicolas said. “You’re sparking.”

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