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Chapter 6: The Escort
Part 2
June had already explained the technique to Bettine and her senior leaders. She hesitated a moment, debating the security risk of telling two more Falsesparkers. But it wasn’t as if Plasivé wasn’t aware of the system, and she needed to win favours from as many people as she could manage.
“In every town, there is a stone,” she began. “Bigger town, bigger stone. Every stone can talk to us, and every stone can talk to one another. They are all connected. Like the trees: you see the individual trunks, yes, but underneath the ground all the roots make up one big system.”
Mossa nodded, glancing out at the forest.
“We know how to control this system. It is the source of all that you consider witchcraft, to oversimplify. Now, to find someone, you… you need to know a bit about them. If they use the system and you have the right Artwork in there, then boom, they light up like a torch. Of course, someone who’s hiding has ways to counter this, but the only way to avoid the system is to stay out of it entirely.”
Swinn wasn’t even bothering to be coy now. Both he and Mossa were looking at her, enraptured. They didn’t look confused, at least not yet. She went on, trying to remember to avoid words like Artwork and cycles. “It’s tough for us to stay out of the system entirely, for any length of time. Unfortunately, the witch I’m hunting is very, very tough. Xey… I mean they… are something of a specialist at this.”
“So then how’re you to track them?” said Swinn.
“My particular group of people—my triad I suppose—have skills in connecting two stones in a special way. Like a rope tied to two trees. Even if you’re off the system, we can tell if you’ve passed under the rope, unless you do some serious work to… cut it down. Now, there are several hundreds of our stones in this forest region, most tiny, but that doesn’t really matter. Lots of roping options, you see? My quarry has dodged many ropes since entering your realm, but not all of them. Based on the patterns, I’ve narrowed down xir whereabouts to a small sector. This sector.”
They were quiet for a moment, eyes distant.
“A hundred stones? You mean to say there are a hundred witch towns in the Great Leaf?” said Swinn after a while.
June shrugged. “It’s a big forest.”
“Sounds not the case for your prey,” said Mossa, who half-squinted at her with an attentive, quizzical gaze. Then she turned to the driver. “All this talk of hunting has me famished. Swinn?”
“Hopjack or fowl?” he asked, standing.
“Catcher’s choice.” Mossa took the reins from him and he leapt off the cart. She straddled the bench, half of her facing June.
Soon, the boy came back with some dead animals. They stopped the cart and roasted them up while June munched on vale nuts. The aroma of flaming fat and flesh was quite interesting; she’d grown accustomed to it during her time with the Falsesparkers. However fascinating, the ritual was too barbaric for her to consider putting any of it in her mouth. She wondered if the dwarf-ox had any misgivings about it.
Travel for the next few days was about as uneventful as she’d dreaded. Conversation was scant, though after some time Mossa felt content to let June out of her sight for entire hours at a time, so long as she was perfectly quiet. At night, she slept in the back of the cart while her companions roosted away from her in the trees. They passed a few carts heading back towards the camp with little fanfare. The woods marched by, bugs zizzed and darted about, and somewhere to the right, the big river splashed and rolled.
On the morning of the third day, they came to a crossroads. A few tents were set up here, as well as a pen for dwarf-oxen. In one of the rare conversations, Mossa had explained that they would need to cross the river, leaving the cart behind and switching to a new one on the east side of the Rainroot. It was a bit of an inconvenience, since the town was actually west of the river, but the geography forced it: if they continued north, the woodlands petered out into a massive, flooded marsh. They had to cross, head north through passable trails to the outpost, then cross back.
Swinn led her down a windy, near invisible path toward the river while Mossa followed, unseen, from behind. She felt a wonderful relief at the growing scent of the water. Though she’d visited it many times at the encampment, it had always been tainted with Falsesparker industry and recreation. Here, upriver, it was fresh and natural. Not as welcoming as the salty grit of the great sea, but a friend indeed in this isolated wilderness.
They emerged on the bank, and Swinn signaled for her to wait. June knelt and placed her hands in the rush, letting her crystals sync. The Rainroot grew bright in her mind, a huge winding tunnel of life and billowing ecosystems. It felt her too, and recognized her as a child of water.
“We have a problem,” said Swinn. He walked back towards her, holding a piece of wood. It was waterlogged and rotting.
“Problem?” June asked.
“The float. It’s wrecked. It’s supposed to be up in a tree but it came loose and fell half in, probably a half season ago.”
“Oh, lovely,” said Mossa, who’d appeared beside them without so much as a rustle. She planted her hands on her hips and looked skyward. “It means we have to backtrack maybe two hours get to a potential crossing point.”
“What’s wrong with right here?” asked June. The river was calm, and the distance to the far shore was no more than a thousand paces.
“Here?” Mossa blinked and looked out at the water. “Did you fashion a spare raft on the way up?”
“Witches don’t melt in water, my dear.”
“You want to swim. With that.” Mossalea jerked her head at the bulky satchel slung low on June’s back.
“In a manner of speaking. I've spent more than half my life on the sea.”
Swinn had edged a little bit closer. “Are you going to… like use…”
“Artwork?”
“Uh, well… I was going to say bloodlight.”
She remembered the term from her little wonderment with the triadic heads. “Is that what you call it in these parts?”
Swinn looked confused. “Well, it… the eyes, I’ve seen it myself.”
She looked back to the water’s edge. “What would you call it if were blue instead?”
“Um… waterlight?” ventured Swinn.
“Skylight.” Mossa came to stand beside her, also looking out. “The sky tells the water what shade to be.”
June chuckled. “Folks in Iskiss would delight in hearing that little bit of philosophy. My people, not so much. You’ve heard of Iskiss?”
“They dance there,” said Swinn, moving up to her other side.
“I’m surprised you’ve heard that much.”
“There are travelers that come through,” said Mossa. “And there are stories of Greatsparkers who live there, who have lost their way. They mingle and breed with your people. They don’t form triads, they abandon spark and seed and root.”
“Let’s take care not to lose our way then. I can cross here easily enough. With your leave, of course.”
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