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cicada-bones · 3 years

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The Warrior and the Embers

Chapter 12: The Skinwalkers

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The sun set over the Cambrian mountains, turning the silvery mists into a luscious golden haze. Rowan flew through it heedlessly, idly circling the woodlands surrounding the fortress, purposeless and brooding.

After Aelin had left him standing there in the quiet drizzle, Rowan had shifted, taking to the misty winds for answers he knew they couldn’t give him.

The girl was an enigma. She didn’t make any gods-damned sense. And Rowan didn’t want to have to put the energy in to understand her.

He had wished she would vanish, would just up and leave. Taking her bullshit along with her. But now that she had, Rowan found himself equally irritated by her departure.

Rowan soared still higher while rain tumbled all around him, ruminating. He was relieved, he told himself forcefully. He was relieved that the girl was gone. That she’d returned to whatever gods-forsaken place she came from.

But he didn’t quite believe it.

It felt…unresolved. This thing between them. And it grated on him like an unscratched itch.

Darkness fell, but still he flew. Not wanting to return to the fortress and deal with the others’ questions. To face the reality of her departure and what it meant for him. What he would have to endure when he returned to Doranelle empty-handed.

So instead he continued his circling, thinking his useless, repetitive thoughts.

The girl hadn’t said much, but what she had said painted a strange picture. Though she had spent the past ten years hiding away in Adarlan, learning to be little more than a paid cutthroat, she was now in Wendlyn to make a deal with the Queen of the Fae for some esoteric piece of information that she said could help bring about the demise of the King of Adarlan.

Who she currently served as champion, and whose court she had lived in for the past year. Who she had killed for, and promised to assassinate the Ashryvers for.

Why a mortal king posed enough of a threat that she needed to bargain with Maeve for information to help destroy him, was beyond Rowan. And at that, so was her strange need to destroy him in the first place.

Why had she made such a vow? And to whom? Had she in fact become the King’s Champion to spy – or to otherwise work against him? And if she cared about the loss of human lives, why had she become an assassin in the first place?

The thoughts spun uselessly around in Rowan’s head, dragging his muscles and weighing down his wings. The girl’s words and actions didn’t correlate – were completely at odds with one another. She was a coward, but she faced Maeve down without hesitation. She was a killer, but she had apparently come to Doranelle to rescue a people that weren’t even her own.

It was exhausting just to think about.

And Rowan didn’t think he had given another person so much thought this decade – this century even. He hated feeling like there was something he didn’t know, something he didn’t understand. And this girl made absolutely no gods-damned sense.

It was beyond frustrating.

The moon began to rise, Deanna shining her pale light through the pouring rain and streaking silver over the blue-tipped mountain peaks. Rowan turned to look, but that was when he spotted it – an orange spark partially hidden on the side of the mountain to the northwest of the fortress.

He swooped towards it, his gut tightening in fury as it came into view. A fire flickered in the mouth of a shallow cave, and sheltered behind it was the huddled, sleeping form of Aelin Galathynius.

If he could have, Rowan would have groaned. As it was, he let out a short screech of exasperation.

The fire was like a beacon, a signal flare for anyone and anything in the vicinity that might be interested in a stupid, irresponsible, arrogant demi-Fae female. He closed his eyes and sighed, shaking his head. Hadn’t he told her? Hadn’t he warned her?

Rowan had not lit one single fire during their journey from Varese. Wouldn’t that have been enough to get the message across? Hadn’t she been listening to the stories Emrys told around the hearth each evening?

His beak clicked as he settled on a branch overlooking the cave mouth, deliberating.

The fire was dwindling, its wood nearly burnt out. The night had nearly reached its height, was about to pass over into early morning. The female had made it this far without something coming, perhaps her luck would hold, and Rowan could avoid having to rouse her and face dealing with the angry, idiotic girl.

But before he allowed himself to hope, a sudden, unnatural silence stole over the surrounding forest. Rowan pulled a breeze towards him, and it carried with it a familiar rancid, festering scent.

Rowan cursed, diving from his perch towards where the princess lay, but she was already gone.

He cursed again, this time out of dread. Skinwalkers. Another curse, barely a huff of breath from his beak. He flew back out over the woodlands, flying low between the tops of the oaks.

Rowan was immortal, a warrior who had served Maeve for nearly three centuries and had been sent to almost every corner of the earth. He had faced a great many foes, and while the skinwalkers were far from the worst of that bunch, that didn’t mean he looked forwards to an encounter with them.

Particularly because his magic was completely useless. The creatures were made of darkness clothed in stolen skins – they did not breathe, and did not rely on their piecemeal bodies to sustain them. His ice and wind could not stop them, only slow them.

He tracked the girl within seconds, her path straight and unwavering through the trees away from the cave and down the mountainside towards the north. Her scent would be as easy for the creatures to follow as it was for him.

Rowan stopped his advance, hiding within the branches of a tree about fifty feet above the princess as she crept through the foliage below. She had obviously been trained to move quietly, to avoid detection. But it had been to mortal standards – her every step was a crack, her breaths much too loud.

Rowan mentally cursed again.

He pulled a wind towards him, dragging her scent away from her path through the undergrowth and instead pushing it to the southwest. Away from him and the girl and anyone who might be outside the fortress. But it wouldn’t work for long.

A flash of lightening, and Rowan could see three tall, lanky silhouettes lurking in front of the mouth of her cave. They stood like humans, but they were barely pale imitations. Wolves in sheep’s clothing – literally.

As he continued to push away the girl’s scent, disguising her actual trail, ever more pungent wafts of the creatures’ stench poured over him, wrapping him in the scent of leather and carrion and blood and earthy darkness.

It was revolting, and it took every bit of his self-control not to gag. Or to cut and run. But he couldn’t leave the girl here alone, not with the skinwalkers so close. No one deserved death at their hands.

But Rowan couldn’t hide her for much longer, the creatures were stirring atop their perch, and soon would discover that the scent trail was false. And with her weak, human legs, the princess wouldn’t even make it half a mile before they caught her and killed her. Tore her apart, bit by bit.

She didn’t even have anything to help her in defense – Rowan had taken her weapons upon arriving in the fortress, and she hadn’t left with them. She was unarmed. Defenseless and vulnerable.

And there was nothing he could do, nothing, except dive down there and die next to her. Because he couldn’t leave another female to face their fate alone.

He reached her within moments, swooping down and transforming in midair.

She had started to run between the tree trunks, having given in to the terror he could smell swirling around her. She was swift and strong, but nowhere near fast enough.

It was dark, and she was blinded by her weak mortal senses, so she didn’t notice him until she crashed right into him. Without looking, she slashed a wooden spear at his chest, but he ducked out of the way before she could make contact.

She moved to stab him again, clutching a pair of rudimentary stakes she had fashioned out of oaken branches. But before she could, Rowan grabbed her wrists hard. She twisted in his grip, bringing up a foot to smash into his chest, but Rowan just dragged her against him and pressed them into a hollowed-out tree.

She finally realized that he was a friend and stopped her useless struggling, instead curling in on herself and panting franticly against his chest.

Rowan gripped her by her shoulders and shoved his mouth as close to her ear as possible, keeping his voice low and steady. “You are going to listen to every word I say,” he could barely hear himself over the pattering of the rain outside. “Or else you are going to die tonight. Do you understand?”

She nodded, and he let go, needing his hands free to draw his sword and hatchet in preparation for the fight that inevitably drew upon them. He could hear the skinwalkers drawing closer, their stench overwhelming.

“Your survival depends entirely on you. You need to shift now. Or your mortal slowness will kill you.”

Rowan’s eyes were intense, forcing his words home. She took them blankly, shoving down the panic that threatened to overwhelm her with a deceptive ease. While she was no stranger to fear, the very idea of having to shift was enough to cause her chest to rise and fall in shallow breaths, for her palms to sweat and her jaw to clench tight.

Rowan’s mouth tightened imperceptibly. He didn’t really believe that she would be able to do it. But still he tried to convince her, made one last attempt to guide her around those iron bars in her mind. To avoid the bloody battle that loomed over them, carrying their certain doom along with it.

He tensed as the sound of stone of metal shrieked through the rain – the creatures were sharpening their blades. His fingers twitched.

The girl found her voice, “Your magic – ”

He interrupted. “They do not breathe, so have no airways to cut off. Ice would slow them, not stop them. My wind is already blowing our scent away from them, but not for long. Shift, Aelin.”

She just looked back at him, eyes wide and breaths uneven, while her terror coated his mouth with its copper tang. Her embers shifted and rose within, responding to the stress.

Lightening flashed once again – they were close. Very, very close.

“We are going to have to run in a moment. What form you take when we do will determine our fates. So breathe, and shift.”

She closed her eyes as he drew a stream of cool air towards her, a soothing thread, filling her lungs and calming her racing heartbeat. She breathed deep, but remained stubbornly, infuriatingly mortal.

Rowan gritted his teeth and steeled himself for the coming battle. If she couldn’t shift, there was almost no point in running, no point in giving up the advantage of surprise. If she couldn’t shift, he would attack. But he wouldn’t win.

Rowan breathed with her, in and out, accepting his fate. If she couldn’t shift, he would die at the hands of the creatures. At least he would die at someone’s side, protecting them.

Die as he should have two hundred years ago.

But then there was a bright flash, and Rowan slammed his body against hers, attempting to cover up the light before the creatures could take notice, and mark their hiding spot.

Sharp canines pierced her gums, points sprouted from her ears, and keen senses overwhelmed dull ones as she made the shift from mortal to immortal. Rowan’s eyes widened slightly, almost in wonder. She had actually done it.

Confusion descended almost immediately. How? What had been different this time?

But before he could let the emotion distract him further, the female gagged, finally smelling the true stench of the creatures, and he could hear voices drifting from the trees above them.

“There are two of them now,” one hissed. “A Fae male joined the female. I want him—he smells of storm winds and steel.”

Another voice. “The female we’ll bring back with us— dawn’s too close. Then we can take our time peeling her apart.”

Rowan clenched his jaw, stepping back from the girl and turning to assess the forest beyond, altering his plan. They would now have to flee, to run as fast as their limbs could carry them. But there was still no guarantee that they would get away.

“There is a swift river a third of a mile east, at the base of a large cliff.” He pulled two long daggers from their sheaths at his forearms, not looking away from the surrounding forests as he handed them to her. She immediately discarded her makeshift weapons and tightly gripped the ivory hilts of his steel, her knuckles white with tension.

“When I say run, you run like hell. Step where I step, and don’t turn around for any reason. If we are separated, run straight – you’ll hear the river.” He lay down each order with an unyielding finality, not leaving any room for argument. “If they catch you, you cannot kill them – not with a mortal weapon. Your best option is to fight until you can get free and run. Understand?”

She nodded, steeling herself.

“On my mark.” Rowan prepared himself as well, the wind whispering to him, revealing the locations of the three creatures and showing him the lay of the land. The cliff was nearly fifty feet up, while the river large and swift, swollen from the falling rain. It wouldn’t stop the creatures, but perhaps the water could slow them. Giving him and the girl a chance to escape, to flee back underneath the protective wards around the fortress.

“Steady …” They both settled onto their haunches, moments from launching themselves into the mossy undergrowth.

Then, what he had been waiting for – one of the creatures hissed, so close they could have been in the tree trunk with them, “Come out, come out – ”

And Rowan sent a bolt of wind over to the branches in the west, carrying their scents and rustling the brush – a false trail, a distraction.

The skinwalkers bought it, racing after the diversion as Rowan said, “Now,” and burst out of the tree and into the waiting forest, racing through the pouring rain for the river beyond.

Aelin followed after him, but she couldn’t keep up – she was too slow, much, much too slow. Rowan lessened his racing pace to allow her to catch up, but still, the creatures were beginning to realize that the trail he had laid was false, they were turning back, hearing the sounds of their actual escape to the east.

And she was tripping, stumbling over roots and loose stones. She hadn’t adjusted to her new speed and strength, her limbs were awkward and uncooperative beneath her, and even though he slowed, she lagged behind.

She slipped, almost falling, but he shot a hand towards her elbow to steady her, “Faster,” he growled, fear making his words tense and harsh.

They shot forwards, breaking through the underbrush, but they were slow, much too slow, and far too soon, the creatures’ smell began to envelop them once again, cloaking them in the rancid stench of leather and carrion.

But they were so close now, the darkness of the forest beginning to brighten ahead as they neared the treeline and the waiting cliff, soon they could jump into the waiting water and flee –

A fourth skinwalker leapt out of the brush ahead, somehow managing to remain undetected in the undergrowth. Masked by their overwhelming scent and Rowan’s own carelessness.

It lunged, and Aelin shouted in warning from behind him, but Rowan didn’t falter as he ducked, slashing with the sword in his right hand and slicing with the hatchet in his left, severing its arm and removing its head.

It fell to the ground with a soft thump, but Rowan didn’t stop to look, still sprinting towards the river. He knew that at that very moment, its leathery limbs would be stitching themselves back together – skinwalkers never stayed down for long.

The other creatures closed in from behind, shrieking in rage, Aelin still at his heels. They were so close, only a few hundred more feet –

“You think the river can save you?” one of them hissed at Aelin, laughing coldly. “You think if we get wet, we’ll lose our form? I have worn the skins of fishes when mortals were scarce, female.”

Rowan gritted his teeth. He had worried about that – but the river was still their best chance. Not a good chance, but their best chance. There, he could use the water to freeze the creatures, to trap them and allow them a few moments to escape to the other bank. Give them a head start in their mad rush back to the fortress.

The scent of Aelin’s terror wafted over him, carrying with it the feel of her rustling embers, her gathering power. “Rowan,” she breathed, worried, and seeking some kind of reassurance. But he had none to give.

Rowan didn’t acknowledge her, and instead answered by launching himself off the cliff and into the roiling water below.

He breached the surface, rising up and hurling himself onto the other bank in preparation for the girl’s fall, and for the creatures that were only feet behind her. Then Rowan felt Aelin’s power rise up in a tidal wave, spilling from the near-infinite well of magic hidden in her small frame. He could finally see her on the cliff, and she did not hesitate before throwing herself over the edge.

He readied himself, digging up his own well of magic, but before he could act the girl twisted in midair, turning to face the creatures on the ridge and shouted “Shift!” Rowan obeyed without question, transforming into his hawk and flying out of range as she released a torrent of fire that spread from her in a great flood in every direction.

She had no control, no precision, but the force she released was powerful enough that it burned the three skinwalkers to ashes, and set large swaths of the surrounding forest alight.

Then Aelin hit the water, and the torrent of fire choked out. But the flames consuming the oaks burned on, and though they were hindered by the rain pouring down from the heavens, they still spread from branch to branch, the girl’s raging wildfire writhing and dancing and multiplying.

Rowan’s power ached, not just to be released, but to join the girl’s flames. To dance with her sparks. It wanted to play. Rowan ignored it, instead sending out his wind to douse the flames, slowly choking them of the necessary oxygen.

Aelin pulled herself from the water, soaking wet and shivering. She sat down on the bank, curling in on herself. The fear he’d felt around her had lessened its copper tang, her embers settling down once again. Rowan couldn’t scent much of anything wafting from her. She was blank. Empty and exhausted

Though the power she’d shown was a mighty force, Rowan could still feel an ocean churning within her. Her well of fire was near-bottomless – she had barely let a drop out of the faucet.

Rowan’s magic twitched and writhed, while that strange thirst yawned deep in his gut. Just like all the males who served the Queen of the Fae, Rowan was drawn to power. And the might of this female was unlike that of any other he’d encountered.

He shoved the feeling down, submerging it deep within and locking it away, icing over his limbs. He didn’t want to deal with the uncomfortable call, didn’t want to face it. The female was already confusing enough.

As he continued to choke the fires still eating the surrounding forests, Aelin finally spoke, her voice tired and soft, “Can you put it out?”

“You could, if you tried.” When she didn’t respond, he added, “I’m almost done.”

As he spoke, the flames nearest to them finally vanished, and Rowan got to work on the rest of the smoldering trees. Rowan gritted his teeth, his own exhaustion drawing out a simmering irritation. “We don’t need something else attracted to your fires.”

She remained silent, too tired and cold to respond to the taunt, watching as Rowan slowly extinguished her flames one by one, the lights dying out like snuffed candles.

For a moment they waited as silence and darkness settled in over them, a soft, light blanket.

“Why is my shifting so vital?”

The question rose gently from her, a quiet plead for information. She had asked it before, so many times, but there was always an edge of command there, of entitlement. This felt different.

“Because it terrifies you,” he responded gruffly. “Mastering it is the first step toward learning to control your power. Without that control, with a blast like that, you could easily have burnt yourself out.”

“What do you mean?”

He looked at her, brows scrunched together. She didn’t know?

“When you access your power, what does it feel like?”

She paused for a moment, thinking. “A well. The magic feels like a well.”

“Have you felt the bottom of it?”

“Is there a bottom?”

His eyes tightened imperceptibly. Had she never felt the bottom? Even as a child?

“All magic has a bottom—a breaking point. For those with weaker gifts, it’s easily depleted and easily refilled. They can access most of their power at once. But for those with stronger gifts, it can take hours to hit the bottom, to summon their powers at full strength.”

“How long does it take you?”

Rowan’s lips tightened at the personal question, but his irritation was more at having to answer at all than the question itself. She should know these things; she should have been told. Even the youngest Fae children understood the basics of wielding magic, whether they had it or not. It was common knowledge in Doranelle, so Rowan hadn’t even considered that this princess from the west might not know it.

“A full day. Before battle, we take the time, so that when we walk onto the killing field, we can be at our strongest. You can do other things at the same time, but some part of you is down in there, pulling up more and more, until you reach the bottom.”

“And when you pull it all out, it just—releases in some giant wave?”

“If I want it to. I can release it in smaller bursts, and go on for a while. But it can be hard to hold it back. People sometimes can’t tell friend from foe when they’re handling that much magic.”

Her eyes shifted, darkening, almost…remembering. But before he could ask, she said, “How long does it take you to recover?”

“Days. A week, depending on how I used the power and whether I drained every last drop. Some make the mistake of trying to take more before they’re ready, or holding on for too long, and they either burn out their minds or just burn up altogether. Your shaking isn’t just from the river, you know. It’s your body’s way of telling you not to do that again.”

“Because of the iron in our blood pushing against the magic?”

He nodded. “That’s how our enemies will sometimes try to fight against us if they don’t have magic—iron everything.”

Her brows rose, so he explained. “I was captured once. While on a campaign in the east, in a kingdom that doesn’t exist anymore. They had me shackled head to toe in iron to keep me from choking the air out of their lungs.”

She let out a low whistle. “Were you tortured?”

“Two weeks on their tables before my men rescued me.” He unbuckled his vambrace and pushed back the sleeve of his right arm, revealing the thick scar that lay there. “Cut me open bit by bit, then took the bones here and – ”

“I can see very well what happened, and know exactly how it’s done,” she interrupted, looking at the ground as if she could tear up the earth with her very eyes. That relentless, roiling grief poured from her once again, anger and pain stiffening her limbs.

He thought he knew, but Rowan still quietly asked, “Was it you, or someone else?”

“I was too late. He didn’t survive.” She was silent for a moment, then, “Thank you for saving me.” Her voice was hoarse, and reluctant.

He shrugged, uncomfortable. “I am bound by an unbreakable blood oath to my Queen, so I had no choice but to ensure you didn’t die.” He didn’t know why he was lying. He just knew that it was easier than any other explanation.

“But,” he added, hesitantly, “I would not have left anyone to a fate at the hands of the skinwalkers.”

“A warning would have been nice.”

“I said they were on the loose – weeks ago. But even if I’d warned you today, you would not have listened.”

She just shivered, seeming to acquiesce. Then a flash of light, and she shifted back, her ears rounding, canines vanishing. Her shivers became more violent, the cold much more intense in her mortal form. Once again, the shifting was uncontrolled, seeming to have no rhyme or reason behind it.

“What was the trigger when you shifted earlier?” he asked, needing to know, even if the girl left and he never saw her again.

“It was nothing.” The girl distractedly rubbed at her arms, her voice hollow. But it belied concealed knowledge – she knew why she had shifted, she just didn’t want to tell him.

He stared at her, a silent demand for information.

She sighed, and answered. “Let’s just say it was fear and necessity and impressively deep-rooted survival instincts.”

He pursed his lips at the half-truth. “You didn’t lose control immediately upon shifting. When you finally used your magic, your clothes didn’t burn; neither did your hair. And the daggers didn’t melt.” He grabbed the blades back out of her hands, only just remembering that he had given them to her.

“Why was it different this time?” he pressed.

She looked away, and answered reluctantly. “Because I didn’t want you to die to save me,” she admitted.

He cocked his head. “Would you have shifted to save yourself?”

“Your opinion of me is pretty much identical to my own, so you know the answer.”

She stared into the churning depths of the river, shielding herself from his probing gaze, her own eyes blank and unseeing.

Rowan narrowed his eyes, forcing the pieces of her together – bit by confusing bit. She hadn’t wanted him to die to save her. At the very least, she didn’t want to owe him that debt, hadn’t wanted to have another life hanging on her the way so many already were.

He had misjudged her, had dismissed her as a ruthless killer, had mistaken her coldness for heartlessness. But this female was far from cruel. She cared, cared far too much for an indifferent world that had stripped her of everything that mattered.

Rowan didn’t know what had happened in the intervening years after her family had been assassinated, but he did know that they couldn’t have been easy. So little was.

And so she had become this – a writhing mess of a person, clothed in her arrogance and grief. Barely surviving.

Rowan had thought her a coward, but she had faced Maeve, had faced the skinwalkers, had faced him day after day. Her fears weren’t normal, weren’t average everyday horrors for such a person to run from them. To piss and vomit on herself when faced with them. To force her into a cage of her own making.

Her power slumbered, once again trapped beneath those unyielding iron bars. An ocean hidden within her. But Rowan could still feel delicate tendrils of its writhing flame, poking and prodding at him, longing to get out.

They didn’t make him as uncomfortable as they used to.

He shifted slightly. Regardless of his feelings about her, the princess was obviously a scion of the gods. A power like that was a force unleashed onto the earth by their hand – for wrath or for kindness no one yet knew. And Rowan couldn’t find it within himself to allow that power to remain on its leash. It called to him, ached to be let out. To be free.

Though the girl infuriated him like no other, he was starting to see beyond her biting insults and flashy armor. And he couldn’t let her walk away, not without having escaped the cage she was trapped within.

Rowan crossed his arms. “You’re not leaving,” he said at last, “I’m not letting you off double duty in the kitchens, but you’re not leaving.”

“Why?” she turned to look at him, brow furrowed, still shivering violently.

“Because I said so, that’s why,” he retorted, unfastening his cloak. She looked like she was about to protest, but then he tossed her his cloak. And then his jacket.

When he turned to go back to the fortress, she rose to follow him. And Rowan found himself feeling…relief. He was relieved that the girl was choosing to stay.

Because no matter how much she infuriated him, he wanted the girl to learn, wanted her to escape and grow into who she was meant to be. Not because Maeve had ordered him to, but because he, Rowan, wanted to see what she would become.

He couldn’t let the girl leave without having felt the true might of Aelin Galathynius – free and untethered.

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