Chapter 33: Weary Wanderers

After thirty minutes of rest by a dying fire, Ronan stomped the embers out. Clove covered the charred sticks and kindling with torn thistle and brush, and Ike swept the leaves of a large branch over their footprints.

Insects buzzed in the bushes, and the four heard no signs that they were being pursued.

But they also knew that could change at any second.

Maritza boarded the white horse, and this time Ike mounted the beige.

“I’ll lead us through Butcher’s Bog,” Maritza said, lacking the stern tone her voice usually carried. “There, our tracks should be hidden by the low waters.”

“And then,” Ronan added with the map in his hand, positioning himself on the white horse behind Maritza, “We should take the tough trail of Loner’s Crag, and cross around to the merchant path near Lover’s Lake.”

Clove joined Ike and put her hands on his hips. He jolted with joy at her touch.

“At that point,” Clove said, “We’ll be near the Temple of the Seahorse, if it still stands to this day.”

“Or if it hasn’t been overrun by Hellsworn,” Ike shrugged.

Silence chilled the group.

“Let’s get moving,” Ronan said strongly, trying to ignite some life in his comrades. “We can be at the temple in three days if we keep pace.”

The two horses whinnied as Ike and Maritza tugged their reigns forward, and they creeped into the low, green water of the swamp. Maritza pet the side of the white horse’s head, and stroked its ear. Although it hadn’t been much, the dinner of oatcakes and sugar had made the two horses take a liking to the strangers, as it was far more food than they were used to seeing back in the poor, failing stables of Augustate.

In the moonlight that trickled through the branches of the trees arching over the swamp, Maritza grimaced. She thought of the stable owner, yet another casualty of greed, deception, and power-hungry tyrants like Lord Wallace. For somebody so accustomed to hunting monsters, it amazed her that after all this time of collecting bounties and slaying beasts, the most wicked monsters of all were her fellow humans, always looking for an opportunity to better themselves at the cost of others.

She shut her eyes and focused on Ronan’s fingers wrapped around her stomach. He was different in every way, valued her life and efforts towards decency, but he too made her feel insignificant. After all, she had gone her life trying to live up to the prophecy of being the chosen one to use The Shroud’s abilities, yet Ronan outmatched her in his adeptness with its powers.

Maritza sighed, aching.

The Shroud hurt her to use, and drained her both emotionally and physically. Ronan, on the other hand, seemed to be able to use The Shroud with no negative consequences to his body or mind. Maritza thought of when she held his Hellblade.

Only then did The Shroud’s Runes spread across her skin and she felt no pain whatsoever from them.

“Feeling alright?” Ronan asked her.

The horses continued to trudge through the swamp water, and bits of shiny green floating moss collected on their legs.

“Not at all,” Maritza confessed.

She checked over at Ike and Clove, who were having their own serious conversation. Maritza didn’t want them to realize how scared and shaken she really was. Those two had risked their life for her and Ronan to escape, and a part of her still viewed them as Trainees under her tutelage.

She knew she had a responsibility of keeping herself together for their sake.

“It’s just that,” Maritza continued, out of Clove and Ike’s earshot, “I felt a tremendous strength when I held your sword. I felt like all the uneven parts of me leveled out. That kind of rush, that sort of power, it’s exhilarating. Addicting, even.”

Ronan took a moment to respond, and guided Maritza’s head down as they ducked a fallen tree branch hanging into the swamp.

“I can’t say that I’ve had that experience,” Ronan said. “But from what I’ve observed of you, you have held back The Shroud rather than embrace it.”

Maritza exhaled sharply and dry-swallowed.

Ronan told her, “The Shroud is our curse. It’s been given to us for whatever reason. It seems you could unlock your magic without it. I couldn’t, and it has only made my life better. In your case, it put you in the shadows.”

He mulled over what to say next, feeling foolish all of a sudden.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not trying to overstep my place.”

“You aren’t,” Maritza assured. “And you’re right. I have kept myself hidden, and it’s been terribly exhausting.”

“Then think of the Temple of the Seahorse as a new beginning,” Ronan assured. He pulled her hips closer to his, as if to say that he had her back.

Maritza stopped herself from questioning whether the Seahorse Nightblades were even still around. So many rumors had entered through the Butterfly Nightblade council, and she didn’t know what word to trust anymore. Where the Seahorses really dispersed and killed off for being such a small, weak group? Or where the Butterflies simply jealous of the Seahorses’ prosperity?

The truth could be either of the two, or any option in the middle.

Maritza decided that, for the moment, she was going to occupy Ronan’s position of hope.

The group’s trip through the Butcher’s Bog was taskless, and although there was no sign of an active pursuit, the four rode through the night at a steady pace.

By sunrise, they had made their way to Loner’s Crag, a large gray, stone mountain covered in uneven patches of dirt and grass. They cantered their horses along the crag’s curving cliffside and about through the flatter portions of natural pathways.

“Well,” Martiza said, guiding her horse along the cliff. Small stones collecting on the cliff’s edge tumbled into the deep abyss below the four wanderers. “At least we may rest assured that most Butterfly Nightblades would not be able to endure such a journey.”

Clove and Ike cracked up.

“That’s right!” Ike said. “Can you imagine Lord Wallace riding a horse without worrying over wrinkling his trousers?”

Maritza snickered, and she and Ike and Clove seemed in great spirits, all things considered.

But Ronan couldn’t muster even a fake laugh.

He thought back to Wallace on the stone floor of the alley, badly burned and unable to move. Ronan had done that with The Shroud’s magic, and as terrible as the damage to Wallace had been, it was such injuries that allowed Ronan to escape.

Still, it was not easy for Ronan to hurt others.

While the tumbling and tumultuous roads of Loner’s Crag made the group move much slower, they navigated the dangerous paths cautiously, and paused only once to camp at night, refill on food and water, and share stories to ease themselves to sleep.

Ike swigged from a waterskin, passed it to Clove, then said, “I always dreamt of living out in the woods, away from two different types of forks to eat meals with, and buttons that glimmer in the sun. I wanted to chop wood, and build a house as my father had on his own estate when he was my age.”

Clove smiled, then nestled herself up against him. “I once met a traveling artist who sold scrolls of her poems. They were simple, yet resonated with experiences we’ve all had as people.”

She bunched her knees up to her chest, and the campfire reflected in her big blue eyes.

“I hid away my own scribblings in a journal after I met that artist,” Clove said, “and now that journal is back at our old temple, along with everything and everyone I ever knew.”

She looked up at Ike and grinned.

“Still,” Clove said, “I don’t think I’ve made the wrong choice, and can always start a new journal.”

“I’d love to read that one,” Ike said to her. He kissed her cheek.

The couple cuddled up against their big traveling packs, and looked to Maritza and Ronan for another story.

But the two were out cold, sprawled out on their two bedrolls spread into one, and snuggled together under a wool blanket. Maritza slept with her head on Ronan’s chest, and Ronan kept a protective arm around the side of Martiza’s body.

“We should let them rest,” Ike said.

“I’ll take first watch,” Clove said, poking the embers with the toe of her boot. “You get some rest too.”

“You sure you’re okay by yourself?” Ike asked.

Clove nodded, “Yes, deary.”

“Besides,” she added, ruffling through her traveling bag and pulling out a notepad and charcoal stick. “I’ve got enough light here to keep myself occupied.”

Ike burrowed himself in a blanket and leaned close to Clove. “Well, alright then. Wake me when it’s my turn. We’ll let Ronan and Maritza sleep the longest.”

“That’s a good plan,” Clove responded. “Now sleep well, Ike. We’re making for Lover’s Lake in the morning, and we’ll see if the Temple of the Seahorse still stands.”