Page 23 of To Dance with Death

Everything in me rebels at the thought of abandoning Sundar and Copelan, but I force myself to leave the holding cell. This is the only chance we have to save Anton, and therefore everyone else.

It’s only a matter of time before they realize I’m missing. I make my way back the same way I came, allowing myself moments to pause and regain my strength—both physically, and to phase. I need a way to make it outside the fortress without being noticed.

A breath of relief escapes me when I find the kitchens. The doors out back are swung wide, men bringing in crates of local produce for the day. The sun somehow rose while I traversed the palace, and the kitchens are preparing for the day ahead. I sneak past them, out the door—and onto the back of the wagon. Phasing inside a large barrel, I relax back into my physical form, hidden from view.

Not long after, the wagon moves.

It’s a bumpy ride, the little dinner I ate what feels like an age ago now rising with each jolt of the wheels. We reach the town some twenty minutes later. The wagon lurches to a halt, sending the barrel I’m hiding in toppling to the ground before I can phase. I ease out and make a run for it, sliding behind a nearby stall.

Peeking out, I notice we’re in a market, just setting up for the day as vendors bustle about. Taking advantage of the commotion, I break for the forest nearby.

I take a moment, leaning against the trunk of a nearby tree, and search for a reflective surface in which to find Illian. I soon locate one in a half-frozen pond.

Saying his name aloud feels like a curse. I make it a demand instead, and say, “The veil to Morta’s Lair. Tell me how to find it.”

His smirk inches up from the still, cold water.It’ssimple, really. The veil between our realms is tightly woven, like the finest silk. Death, however, is like the prick of a needle. It tears through it, leaving a gap that only heals with time. Stand close enough to where a death occurred, and it’s rumored you can even see through that gap,he says.But of course, not just anyone can come and go. Mortal flesh cannot enter. You, however…

I can channel my spirit.

“You are saying I can slip through such a gap.”

Indeed.

“So I need to find a place where death has occurred. But like what? A battlefield? Ours are age-old. The gaps would be long since closed, wouldn’t they?”

The veil is a living thing and will stitch itself back together, though it can take a few decades. But centuries will not do. My thought is to go back to Anell, where the both of us died. You must know the exact spot; otherwise you won’t find the hole.

“I won’t make it out of Brisendale without being caught. It’s impossible—” But I stop myself.

A place where death has occurred. A death not unlike my own, just over a decade ago.

I know where I must go—if only I can find a way.

But I’m in a market in Sira of all places, and surely merchants must travel to all the different towns.

Among the stalls, I barter off one of three silver bracelets the queen gave me in case I need coin. I earn enough for a new cloak with plenty left over. I ask a few vendors where they are headed next to no avail. Finally, when the weariness is too much to bear, I settle in for a bowl of chowder in a nearby tavern.

There I overhear two artisans discussing the route they’ll take back to Borov, a small village just south of my father’s home.

They’ll remember me should they be questioned later, but I have no other choice. After paying for my meal, I approach their table. “Pardon, but did you say you are traveling to Borov? If so, might I travel with you? I can give you this for the trouble,” I say, pulling off the second bracelet.

“Sure, miss,” says the one on my right—a portly man with brows as thick as his beard. “But we’re not leaving until the morning.”

“No need for payment,” says the other. “We’ve plenty of room in the wagon, though the ride might not be a comfortable one. You’ll want to bring some blankets.”

I withhold a sigh. Staying here until morning is a risk, but I can’t make the journey on foot. It’s at least five hours on horse. We agree on a meeting place the next morning, then I barter my final two bracelets to the innkeeper in exchange for both a room and her silence.

My sleep is fitful. With every voice I hear through the walls, every creak of the inn, I am certain someone has come for me. Thankfully, when morning arrives, I emerge undisturbed, albeit sleep-deprived. The ride to Borov is bumpy and frigid. I bury myself beneath a pile of blankets with their blessing, and after a few hours, the rhythmic clatter of the wagon manages to lull me asleep.

By the time I wake, we’ve made it to Borov.

After thanking them, I depart swiftly. The trouble is finding a way up the mountain, and already evening is approaching, the sky a dusty pink with the sun’s descent. Luckily, though, I come upon a stable on the outskirts of the town. Behind one of the stalls is a horse, saddled and ready, tied to a post. Guilt churns within me, but I see no other option.

It’s been years since I’ve mounted a horse; I barely remember how. He snorts and shuffles at my approach. Tentatively, I stroke his muzzle until he warms to my touch. At least he isn’t as afraid as I feel.

I test the saddle, stirrups, and girth strap to ensure they are secure, and all the while the beast is patient with me. I breathe my gratitude into his ear, giving him a final pat, then hoist myself up, my foot digging its way into the stirrup. When finally I find purchase, I swing myself into place and grip the reins.

I manage to veer the horse from the town and back into the forest. On the main road, I keep my ears peeled but press on, following its curves and bends.