Page 120 of Vasmora

“The alewife. She’s the one who alerted you that the bloodbinder was there with the mage and soldiers.” Zevander’s voice held a guarded edge.

“We’ve got eyes everywhere.” Lothare handed off the clothes to Zevander, his gaze skimming over the blood and gore still clinging to me.

“So it seems.”

The blond chuckled. “I did not mean to spy. We heard her scream earlier.”

“I was calling for my Corvugon.”

Lothare tipped his head. “Corvugon?”

“An exceptionally large bird,” I clarified.

He smiled and winked. “We call them dragons.”

“Well, it’s more bird than dragon.”

“Have you ever seen a dragon before?”

I huffed, not entirely in the mood for the playful exchange.

“Are you going to talk all night, or show us where this hot spring is?” Zevander grumbled, clearly growing annoyed as well.

Lothare whistled with a shake of his head and turned to me. “Is he always so full of piss and vinegar?”

Zevander made a sound of disapproval, and I bit back a reluctant smile.

Lothare pointed to the west of us. “So, go on, then. Up the path there, just through the trees. When you come back from the springs, I hope you’ll find your accommodations more comfortable. A gift to show our gratitude.” As before, he regarded me with a nod. “And thank you again.” Both men bowed and vanished into smoke.

In the distance, the glow of eyes watched us from the dark tree line. Wolves, I’d venture to guess.

“Do you trust him?” I asked, gaze locked on those eyes.

“I don’t think he means us any harm. Particularly now. In spite of what happened earlier, it’ll be safer here than in Gildspire. The city’s probably crawling with Solassion soldiers by now.”

“You don’t think they’ll attack us here?”

“Not with those wolves. They’d smell them the moment they set foot in the forest.”

I nodded, glancing down at my hands and dress again. Drefan’s blood.

Dead. Killed. Gone.

Mindlessly scratching at my arms, a jolt of pain streaked across my forearm, drawing my attention to where I’d cut myself. My lips curled with disgust, seeing blood trickle from the wound mingling with Drefan’s.

Get off me. A cold sickness dragged at my guts, and I hurried toward the path. Get off me. Twigs and underbrush crackled beneath the soles of my feet, the rough terrain never slowing my pace.

“Maevyth, slow down,” Zevander said from behind, but I kept on through the trees, rubbing at my arms that’d begun to itch.

His blood was everywhere. Up my forearms and in my fingernails.

Get him off me!

The forest parted around the edge of a rock, and I ground to an abrupt halt, arms flailing back. My feet slipped from under me, the ground crashing into my bottom, feet dangling over the brink. I stared out over a vast darkness hundreds of meters below me, moonlight illuminating a textured blanket of tree canopies. A path wound down the cliffside to a jutting rock shelf that spanned at least fifty meters over a steep drop. Its surface, covered in thick vegetation, held a pool of water, situated below my dangling feet, where white curls of steam rose skyward, and beyond it, stars shimmered in a black sea.

The crackle of underbrush alerted me to approaching footsteps.

I turned to see Zevander striding toward me, unhurried, carrying the change of clothes. “It’s breathtaking,” I whispered. A far cry from that dark, dank cell where I’d been certain I would die. “I wondered if I’d ever see the world again.” Tears stung my eyes.