I stared at the person in the bizarre boat. The heavy pack combined with my fatigue to anchor me to the graveled riverbank. Pinned, as it were, in the center of the strange traveler's attention.
'Bones! What I wouldn't give to fly away right now!' Sweat beaded on my brow, gluing too-long strands of hair to my face and neck, and I adjusted my weight to ease my aching feet. I couldn't shift — had no strength to with the lingering vestiges of fever — and couldn't abandon the deer meat. Running wasn't viable, either — the forest's cover well behind me and my back to the cliff. The best the graveled riverbank offered was a patch of scraggly willow, thin and ragged, as if the river swept them away each spring and they were forced to regrow from their roots.
'Why am I worrying about spring floods now?' Gritting my teeth, I forced my attention to the present.
The figure in the boat continued paddling backward, keeping the craft from riding downstream.
'Give up! Why don't you?' I ground my teeth, locking them against the words that wanted to spill forth. 'Whatever else, don't speak first. You can't afford to.'
As if they could hear my thoughts, the person's head tilted, and the hat's brim revealed the glint of one pale green eye while the other side of their face remained in shadow. Another tilt obscured the entire face.
"Milord Butterfly." The voice, distorted somewhat by the volume required to be audible so that I still couldn't tell if the speaker was male or female, jolted me back a half step.
'My denims are covered.' A quick inspection confirmed this. 'My crystal, more so.' The comforting weight rested against my breastbone. 'What does this traveler see?' My fingers twitched, wrapped as they were around the pack's straps, and itched for a knife's hilt. But I'd left both the broken hilt and the worn stub behind.
"Have you seen anyone along the river?" the person continued, either not noticing or pretending not to notice my alarm.
"You ask me?" I danced around, attempting to imply I was no Flit without saying so. Sarcasm tasted bitter as I said, "Do you count?"
"No, Milord." The traveler waggled the double-ended paddle, and the boat slipped closer to the shore. "I seek one who passed this way…" The head tilted again. "Perhaps a fortnight past."
Easing across the gravel, I edged away from the stranger, but stopped when I realized I was retreating. I planted my feet at shoulder width and my chin jerked up.
"What makes you think I was here a fortnight past?"
"Apologies, Milord. I had but hoped."
'Why do they keep calling me 'milord'?' My nostrils flared, and I consciously dropped my chin. 'I know I'm not that flat-chested, even with this stupid tunic.'
When I didn't respond further, the traveler continued, "Do you know what lies downriver?"
I glanced toward the lowering sun, tracing the river's path in my mind. After the cliffs opened up, it curled around the bases of three hills, zigzagging between them, before striking out across the plains. There, it spread out into a wide, placid ribbon, and provided water to a series of farms, including that of Old Man Johnson. A solid afternoon's walk after the farms began — 'unless they've expanded since last year' — the tamed river joined a much larger watercourse. At that juncture, the town prospered.
A sour flavor rose in my mouth, and I glared at the stranger, scraping sticky hair off my face. Only then did I realize that they had taken advantage of my distraction to paddle closer and, with a sharp grating sound, the boat came to rest on the bank. I snarled silently and backed away, noticing too late that I'd gone upstream — toward the too-distant forest — and the traveler lay between me and the festival.
'Bones and feathers!' I tried circling wide, but the gravel ran into the cliff, leaving perhaps three wingspans between the rock and the boat. 'Far too little.' I hesitated, out of reach but unable to progress, and took a different tack.
"And you?" My narrowed eyes swept over the stranger and I put as much scorn as I could muster into my face. 'Bravado, but they don't need to know that.' "Why are you here? Have you seen any travelers?" 'Unlikely. The only reason I follow the river with impunity each year is the falls ahead. Boats can't pass them, and if you don't know the trick, it's impassible by foot as well.'
"Oh, I haven't seen anyone but you." Now that the boat was grounded on the bank, the paddle rested across the top, and the stranger tipped the hat's brim up, revealing wide eyes and sharp features. Features that, combined with the softer tone permitted by closer proximity, gave a distinctly feminine slant to the stranger. Her torso seemed to meld into the boat, sealed to it with a sort of skirt. "But I was following a trail and hoped to be gaining."
'No hunter could be so guileless. What game is she playing?' I studied her face, seeking the betrayal I knew lurked within it, and said, "No one travels here. And what Flightless leaves a trail that can be read from the middle of a river a fortnight later?"
Too late, I realized my words betrayed me, but the girl didn't acknowledge my slip.
"Ah. Perhaps I should introduce myself? I'm no one." Her lips quirked in a wry smile. "Or at one time, I was. Now I'm Kit Nemora — a little bit more than no one."
A snort escaped before I could quell it.
"As for the trail, it's scribed in blood, which you reek of."
The loathing in Kit's last words drove me back another step, and I gaped. Snapping my mouth shut, I dropped my pack and retook my ground, and two more strides as well. I loomed over Kit, still in her boat and with no visible means to extricate herself, and growled as if putting the lynx cub in his place.
"Do you suggest I killed whoever you seek?" Anger lent me strength and my quartz responded, pulsing a promise to back me in whatever I chose to do.
Kit jerked back, the paddle and boat wobbling uncertainly, and blinked several times before speaking.
"No, Milord Butterfly! This one wouldn't dare suggest such a thing." She swallowed and her eyes darted to my pack. "The blood — it's not the same."
Shame swallowed me whole, leaving a pathetic bully who stepped away from the trembling girl in her boat.
'Bones and feathers, how dense can I be? If she can trace fortnight old blood, the deer meat I locked must be unbearable.' What little energy I'd regained before departing my post had been spent reinforcing the preservation lock; Mitry wouldn't trade for week-old meat, and few deer strayed close to town without the farmers' dogs chasing them off.
'Unless they could bring it down — then the farmers feast like fat merchants.' Regardless, I'd have no chance to replace it if it went bad, so the effort had to be expended.
I raked damp hair out of my face and stepped back.
"Yeah, look…" I searched the far bank of the river, checking upstream and down. "I just…" I shook my head. "Sorry."
"Why?"
Startled, my eyes returned to Kit's face, which had crumpled into an unreadable expression.
'Unreadable, or are you just too stupid to understand?' Tamping the voice down, I spun around and knelt next to my pack.
"Doesn't matter," I said. "I don't have what you're looking for, and you don't have what I'm looking for. Call it quits." The pack settled on my back as I stood, the straps biting into the bruises they'd ground into my shoulders, and I couldn't help but wince.
Kit hummed a snatch of unfamiliar melody, drumming her fingers on the paddle's handle, and her narrowed eyes traced my face.
"Are you sure? We could help each other."
I blinked.
'She can't be serious. I threaten her, drag blood scent all over her trail, and she thinks we can help each other?'
"How?"
"You know this river, right?" At my nod, Kit continued. "I don't. The kayak isn't big enough for us both as-is, but your… bag… would fit." Her brow furrowed, and she glanced at my pack as if it were a dangerous animal. "Then you can shift to your butterfly form and ride along. It'll be faster."
A thousand responses rolled through my mind. 'What's your problem with meat? What's the point of a guide if you're following a trail? Can you even follow an old blood trail while sitting on top of a pile of bloody deer?' None of those questions popped out of my mouth.
"What makes you think I'm a Butterfly?" That was the most important question. Whatever I had done, whatever hint betrayed me — if the townspeople caught wind of it, they'd burn me on the steps of their precious church.
"Aren't you?"
I opened my mouth.
'Never be ashamed of who you are, Sorcha.' The achingly familiar voice cut through my mind like talons through rabbit fur. 'We have a purpose, and we will serve whether the world wants us to or not.'
My mouth snapped shut, bile drowning the half-formed denial. I swallowed hard, once, twice, and sucked in a deep breath. My fingers dragged through my sweat-drenched locks and something snapped.
"Whatever. I'll help if you grant me one thing."
Kit tilted her head in inquiry.
"You have a knife, right?" 'Only an idiot would be out here without one.' "Let me borrow it."
Wariness danced through Kit's eyes, and her mouth opened. I cut her off.
"Just for a bit. I swear I won't harm you." My breath froze as I waited for her response.
Pale green eyes watched me as nimble fingers reached inside the loose right sleeve. After a small pop, a blade as long as my hand appeared and Kit passed it over hilt first. I dropped my pack to the gravel before accepting it.
Then I grabbed a hank of my hair and began sawing.