Page 36 of Steeling Light
And liquid silver seems to run down them to drip onto the cavern floor.
Each night, for weeks, I’ve experienced this. Each night, the spider has come, and when I wake up, I find at least a single strand of web connected to my bed or the ceiling. At first, I tried to run. Then I’d refused to talk. Now… Well, now I’m just angry.
“What do you want?” I snarl.
Its fangs chitter together, and the sound is nearly deafening in the cave. Spiderwebs cover the walls and ceiling, the threads woven into sheets so thick the walls aren’t visible. Only the ground lets me know where we are.
You must hear me, Daughter of Brightness. The time comes sooner than any would like. Darkness like never before. The web draws you closer to the apex of this era, and you act like prey, running from your destiny. The lines draw together too quickly, and your strands are too close. You will not be able to escape this time. You must turn to face what comes.
“I can’t do what you want! Why can’t you see that? I’mnobody. I’m no warrior like Cole or Rhion. I’m not a shadow walker like Maeve. All I can do is shine a light, and I doubt any of Gethin’s soldiers will fall down petrified by that.”
More chittering. The hairs along the spider's face rub together, and a soft squeaking fills the cavern, the webs catching the sound and holding it just as easily as they would a fly.
You must. There is not another. You must Steel the Light, Daughter of Brightness. It will never be a weapon except against the darkness, but it can protect and heal. A sword can cut; flames can burn. But only Light can save the ones who are lost to a world of nightmares; only Light can guide them from the places in their minds where there is no path.
“You speak in riddles,” I snarl. “You come into my dreams and tell me I’m supposed to be some kind of hero, but you don’t even explain how I’m supposed to do it. If you want me to be someone special, then tell me how to do it.”
The web does not speak clearly. Even to me. I cannot tell you how to do this; I only know that you must. A single line upon which the multitudes must cross. And only your strands can keep that line from fraying. Your Light must show the path. Your Steel must hold the path in place.
And everything disappears in an instant. The webs, the cavern, and even the spider who’d been talking to me. In their place is darkness and a terrifying scent. Smoke. My eyes snap open, and I see it. The strand of spiderweb that connects me to the ceiling. Except that, unlike every other morning, it’s burning along with the roof.
I roll out of bed and curse the fact that Cole isn’t around to put out the fire. My knees hit the ground hard, but I’m on my feet instantly, bruised knees forgotten, as I grab my pack and sling it over my shoulder.
Out the door I go, shouting “fire” at the top of my lungs every step of the way. Doors swing open, and wide-eyed couples look at me as I flee. Smoke is already spreading along the ceiling in noxious black clouds.
This had to have been magical. Someone purposefully set that strand of silk on fire, and now an entire inn is going to burn because of it. Why would a flame waker be trying to kill me? And why would he burn a spiderweb instead of just directing it at me specifically?
The innkeeper passes me with a bucket of water, and more people follow him with their own buckets. Without a second thought, I go to the trough they use to water travelers’ horses.
Pride fills me, and I shift, not into another person or even into an animal. No, this time, I need something very specific. Goose wings sprout from my back, long and strong, capable of flying for extended periods of time and of carrying something far larger than the average person.
My hands and arms become long and snake-like, the bones shifting inside me to become so similar to the spine—flexible and strong. They snake their way to the trough, each “arm” wrapping around it and gripping itself. My wings pump, and I have to strain to maintain my grip on the container holding hundreds of gallons of water, much less fly with it. But I have to. The smoke is rising into the sky, black and sickening as the pitch-covered roof catches. It’ll spread far too quickly to contain if someone doesn’t stop it right now.
My muscles bulge, becoming bigger as thepossibilitiesrush to fill my needs. The goose wings become larger, more capable of lifting the impossibly heavy trough. The vine-like extensions from my arms tie themselves into knots, locking into place even as the flesh threatens to rip.
Pain rushes through me, but Cole’s taught me to ignore it—to ignore the sensations and do what must be done. Someone was trying to kill me, and now a very kind innkeeper is going to lose everything they have in the world. Is there still someone asleep after too many drinks? How many people were staying at the inn? How many could be lost to the fire? How far will it spread? To the neighboring buildings? To this entire section of the city?
No, I can do this. I can help. My wings beat harder, and pain rips through my arms. They grow to better handle the stress, becoming nearly as large as Rhion’s, but still the pain only gets worse. But it works, and inch by agonizing inch, we fly upward.
The roar of flames and shouts of people mingle into a panicked cacophony of destruction. The sound of hissing water being poured over flames is continuous, but it doesn’t compare to the roar of those flames consuming the pitch-covered roof. Already, pieces are falling off the roof into my room.
A shriek fills the air as one of those pieces lands on someone trying to fight the fire. I’m almost over the roof, and I see it happen. A piece of wood the length of my arm snaps off, the entire thing covered in flames, and it catches a woman in the shoulder. Someone immediately throws their bucket of water on her.
This has to end, and the bucket brigade is only going to stop the fire right here. It won’t put out the fire when it jumps to the inn next door. My wings are struggling, my shoulders aching almost as much as my arms. I push forward, and the legs of the trough scrape against the eaves. Water sloshes out, and a roaring hiss fills the air as the water instantly turns to steam.
The heat is nearly unbearable. My vine-like arms are too close to the fire, and it brings back memories of when I was burned by Casimir thirty years ago. Bound to that steel pole and set alight, I remember the way it’d felt to have my skin peel back.
Instead of filling me with fear, pride surges inside me. I survived that. I’ll survive this, and newpossibilitieslend their strength to my fatigued muscles, giving me the strength to rise the last few feet above the roof.
I twist my arms ever so slightly, and water pours from the trough onto the roof. It’s a chain reaction; the more water that leaves the trough, the more it wants to turn, and the more water pours onto the roof.
In seconds, the roof goes from roaring flames to a dizzying amount of steam that scalds my skin. Pain surges inside me, and I get lightheaded. I’ve pushed too hard. I’ve spent too much of my power too quickly, and the burns and torn flesh covering my body are only making it worse.
I try to fly back toward the ground, but my wings won’t work like they should. Shaking my head to clear my blurring vision, I get off balance, something that’s disastrous to do in the air.
Then, I begin to fall. I expect the trough to crash through the charred roof and crush the people trying to put out the flames still burning inside the inn. Except it doesn’t, and I don’t fall, either.
My wings aren’t beating anymore, yet I’m hovering above the inn. The sound of wings beating the air is still loud in my ringing ears. “This isn’t what I expected when I came to see you this morning,” a voice whispers in my ear, and I turn to see why I’m not falling. Rhion caught me.
