Gold, page 25
Blush, the horse I’ve been riding, has pale gray hair with stripes of opal that run down her sides. The prism streaks are also threaded through her mane and tail, which shine beautifully at night.
Wick’s mount is the boldest looking. Instead of swirls or stripes or speckles like the other horses, it has a tri-color of harsh blocks. Brown for its hindquarters, black for its middle, and red at the front. Its muzzle and mane are completely red, the very same color as dripping blood.
It’s a bit off-putting.
As we gather around our horses, Ludogar, Wick’s right hand, comes walking over. He has shrewd teal eyes and ocean-spray hair the color of the sea, with a foamy white at the scalp. It’s in the same style as Wick, with the sides of his head shaved short, and a long strip down the middle that he leaves hanging over his right ear.
I haven’t been around him much. He often travels ahead or patrols while we rest. He seems to be as busy and serious as the leader himself, always with some job to do.
I give my horse a pat while Ludogar stops beside Wick. “This is the second group that’s been headed in the same direction as us,” he says, voice dropped. “Where do you think they’re going?”
Wick wipes at his muddied shirt. “Has to be the capital.”
I peer around my horse to see Ludogar frown. “But why? There have been way too many reports of him calling for more guards to return there. Why has he drafted so many over the past couple of months? What the hell is Carrick doing with so many soldiers?”
“We’re going to find out when we get there,” Wick tells him, and I feel his eyes flick over to me. I pretend that I’m not eavesdropping as I swing myself back into the saddle.
“I don’t like it,” Ludogar says. “Something is happening and we need to find out what it is.”
“We will.”
Wick’s determined answer seems to satisfy Ludogar, because the male nods and walks off to his own horse. Within minutes, we’re all mounted, and Wick leads the way, steering us in a slightly different direction than the soldiers without going too far off course.
I ride beside him, maneuvering around the trees and the thickest part of the glowing grass, gaze scanning through the heavy mist. My shirt is covered in mud and starting to dry against my skin in scratchy patches. I wipe at it, but it just smears even more.
Wick looks over and clears his throat. “We’ll get to the safe house by nightfall,” he assures me, expression looking sympathetic. “I know it’s been a hard week of travel as we head toward Werrith.”
“I’m not bothered by the travel,” I tell him, and I mean it. Because seeing more of Annwyn is…magical. Even when the mist feels like it’s trying to choke me, even when I’m covered in mud, I’m still very much taken with how beautiful it is here. The colors are alive, the air is sweeter, the breezes seem softer. The land itself thrums with life and power. It’s so very different from Orea.
Wick nods and we fall back into silence, which is what usually ends up happening. While things between us have been smoother, there’s an awkwardness that seems to exist, like he doesn’t quite know how to talk to me.
It’s not like the other Vulmin—they keep me set apart out of reverence. Wick seems to do it because he’s guarded. He watches me, and I watch him, and it’s like we’re dancing around each other, trying to figure each other out.
I don’t get a malicious sense from him, but I definitely don’t trust him yet either. That’s why I’ll keep listening. Keep trying to observe everything I can about him. Although, I suppose the leader of a massive rebellion would have reason to be guarded.
But so do I.
He’s true to his word though, because we reach the safe house by nightfall just like he said.
By the time the mist finally thins, I feel soaked, even through my cloak. The forest has changed, giving way to branched-out trees. They look more like the ones in Orea, with sharp green leaves and rough bark, and there’s a dusting of moss along the ground that has sprigs of purple flowers swirled through.
Our horses clomp over the stubby grass that no longer glows, and my stomach rumbles with hunger. I’m looking forward to eating and cleaning up and then passing out on any surface other than the dirt ground.
Stuffed right in the middle of the wooded area, we come upon the sprawled-out safe house. It’s in the shape of a horseshoe, and it seems like its sole purpose for being built was to wrap around a cluster of giant green boulders that match the moss at our feet.
The house is all one level, the roof low like it doesn’t want to compete with the towering trees. It has curved gray siding that’s only interrupted by the thin slats of windows as narrow as my arm, which doesn’t allow much of a glimpse inside.
Probably good for a rebel house.
We leave the horses in a corral and connected stable, its roof ribbed and speckled with fallen leaves. There are other horses already in the stalls, plus food and water waiting in the troughs.
When we head for the main house, I can see light coming from the skinny windows and hear noises from inside.
This safe house already has Vulmin in it.
I glance to Wick with questions in my gaze, but he gives me an indecipherable look before his eyes fall to the cloak around my shoulders. “Pull your hood up.”
My back immediately stiffens. “Why?”
“Just keep it up for now.”
He turns and starts walking off before I can ask him more, and my nerves skitter like tiny feet crawling down my back. I subconsciously pull at the ribbons wound around my waist, debating for a moment if I should stay behind, but then I tug my hood over my head and start forward.
I mentally list all the gold I have on me. Arm cuffs. Thick belt. Clasp at the end of my braid. Bracelets around my wrists. All this gold I have at my disposal to use at night, just in case. So that I’m not helpless even when the sun has set and I can’t call new gold forward.
It’s comforting, because I don’t like what’s happening right now. Don’t like this ominous order to wear my hood and keep concealed. This damn safe house was supposed to feel safe. Irritation prickles through me, and I glare at the back of Wick’s head as I walk.
As we head for the curved entrance, I keep my eyes peeled. My head swings left and right, and I’m half-expecting someone to jump out from behind a tree and attack me, but no one does.
We tread past the giant boulders, our reflections gleaming in their jade surface. There are spokes of glowing lanterns stabbed into the ground at our feet, their flames flickering in the breeze. At the inside center of the house’s bend lies the front door, and there’s a broken-winged bird symbol carved into the low-hanging eave just above it.
But my gaze hooks onto the fae standing there waiting for us.
I stay at the back of the group, watching as the male smiles at our approach. His hair looks like the head of a broccoli stalk, tufted in clusters of emerald-green florets, his eyes matching that very same hue.
“It’s good to see you again so soon,” he says in greeting.
Wick clasps his arm. “It was short notice, so I apologize, Dren.”
“No apology needed. The house is always full anyway, so what’s a few more?” he asks jovially before turning and opening the door.
I frown. Why is Wick making me hide if this fae seems so welcoming?
He leads the way, and our group files into a wide-open room with at least a dozen people inside. Some of them are eating at long benches, others are propped up against the walls, a few are sleeping in various spots along the floor, and there’s a group playing cards and drinking.
The bent room feels a bit like standing in the middle of a curving river, but it glows from the flames in the fireplace and a few sconces on the walls, making it feel warm and dim. There’s also a medley of furniture inside, with mismatched chairs and sofas, rugs and pillows, benches and tables. All different shapes, sizes, colors, and material. As if they gathered whatever they could and stuffed it in here to accommodate as many people as possible.
As our group clusters in, a few of the fae call out greetings, obviously familiar with one another. I continue to stay behind everyone, keeping my back to the wall, my every sense on alert. I make my gold bracelets melt down, pooling the liquid into my hands, tiny lines of rot swimming through it that flick against my skin.
“Got more of us here than usual. Did that repair up in Breeton Village like you asked. Took a lot of hands. The Stone Swords did a number on it,” Dren says with a shake of his head. “But we still have plenty of room. There’s food in the kitchen, and you can claim whatever open spot you want for sleep. Stay as long as you like.”
Wick nods but tells him, “One night will be plenty, and I’m hoping when we leave, you all will come with us.”
Dren looks over, frowning with confusion. “Come with you? Why would we all come with you?”
“Because we have a sign from the goddesses that it’s time to do more.”
Quiet confusion stuffs itself into every corner of the room. “What sign?”
Wick shifts to the side pointedly and turns around to face me, and the rest of our group steps aside too. “Auren?” he murmurs.
I blink in surprise, uneasiness shifting through my gut. But as he continues to look at me expectantly, I relent and tug back my hood, letting it fall.
The moment I do, all eyes swing to me, and I hear several people gasp.
Dren’s eyes have gone as wide as saucers as he stares, the blood draining from his face. “What… She’s gold. She…she has gold skin like…”
“Like the Lyäri Ulvêre,” Wick finishes.
Someone drops something to the floor, and a clatter fills the room. Seems to shatter everyone’s shock into a thousand pieces.
Dren shakes his head in disbelief. “But she’s dead. The little golden girl was gone. Is this some kind of a trick?”
“No trick, and she’s not dead.” Wick glances at me, something indiscernible in his eyes as he watches me. “She found her way back.”
Every gaze in the room is stuck to me, their unblinking regard clinging to my face. Even the fae who were sleeping have been kicked awake, so I truly have everyone’s undivided attention.
Irritation swivels up from the scrutiny, tension tightening in my shoulders as I give Wick a look. He didn’t have me wear my hood to conceal myself for protection, but so that he could make a dramatic spectacle out of me.
Anger claws down my back, leaving me to fume with the scrapes.
“Auren Turley,” Dren breathes. “How can this be?”
“The fates,” Wick answers, tone full of authority. “You know what this means, don’t you?”
Everyone waits, still and watchful.
Wick’s gaze seems to scan over each and every one of them. “It’s time for us to mobilize.”
Several fae look between each other with concern. A few nod in solidarity. Dren blanches. “Mobilize? But we work in the shadows, Wick. You know the Vulmin do everything we can, but what you’re asking…”
Wick swings a hand in my direction. “Look at her, Dren. This is the Lyäri Ulvêre. She’s returned, and she’s here for a reason. It’s our time,” he says with vehemence. “With her, we can finally take a stand. No more shadows. She’s brought the dawn with her. Every single Vulmin knows her story. She will help bring us together and forge the way.”
I grind my teeth to keep from snarling. I knew what Wick was hoping for when I joined him, but I made my stance clear on being treated like a tool or a prop, and I thought he understood that.
Obviously, he doesn’t.
It’s one thing to agree to help, it’s another to be exploited without consent. The gold in my hand grows hotter, flamed by my ire.
“We’re ready,” Wick goes on firmly, feet braced, shoulders back. “It’s time to fight. Time to take back Annwyn. We need everyone to band together now. Who will join us? Who will step out of the shadows and follow Annwyn’s new dawn?”
Silence squeezes between every fae. Their expressions wring out, divulging their inner thoughts, gazes still poring over my face. They’re full of surprise, acknowledgment, anticipation, and all of these things douse through the room. Beside me, I can feel Wick’s charged expectation like a bolt of lightning ready to surge into the ground.
At the back, someone steps forward, still clutching the cards he’d been playing. “I’ll step out of the shadows.”
“Me too,” someone else says.
“And me.”
“I will too.”
“I’ll stand with the Lyäri.”
One by one, they all give their oaths. Like a trickle of promises raining over us, saturating the entire group and buoying them. While for me, it feels like a weight, making it hard to keep my head above water.
Dren nods, one final drop from the downpour to condense around us. “Alright,” he says soberly. “The Werrith Vulmin are with you.”
I stand outside the rebel house, arms crossed, leaning against the smooth boulders. I’m tucked between a couple of the smaller ones, perfect to perch on as I watch the narrow window ahead. It shows a glimpse of the kitchen inside, shows the back of Wick’s head where he sits at the table with the others, his black hair molded in a tight braid and tied off at his neck.
We’ve been traveling together for a week. A whole week, and not once did he deign to tell me about this plan of his to incite more Vulmin to join us tonight.
I feel used.
Used and utterly pissed.
When I see him stand from the table and walk out of the kitchen, I stay right here, because I know he’ll come to me.
Sure enough, a couple minutes later, I hear the door open and shut. Hear booted steps. Then, he appears in front of me. An awkward silence blots the night air, staining us as we stare at one another.
“You haven’t eaten yet.”
“Too busy chewing on that display you orchestrated,” I retort.
A tic in his jaw jumps, but I can see he’s not surprised at my anger. He expected it. “I needed them to see you.”
“You should have asked me first,” I grit out. “What you did in there was not okay.”
His expression hardens with irritation. “You joined us, Auren. I thought you knew what you were getting into.”
I surge up, pushing away from the boulder to square off with him. “I was clear that I had no interest in being a symbol or being used, but that’s exactly what you made me feel like tonight,” I fume. “You had plenty of opportunities all week to discuss this with me. To speak to me about this plan of yours.”
“I don’t discuss plans with new Vulmin,” he says evenly, as if I’m being the unreasonable one. “I can’t divulge information to you. Especially when you turned me down the first time I asked for you to join us.”
My eyes narrow. “So because I didn’t leap at the chance to join the Vulmin when you first asked, you’re acting like an ass?”
Anger flushes over his cheeks. “You have to earn my trust. Just like anyone else who joins.”
“Trust goes both ways. And if you ever use me like that again without asking me first, you will regret it.”
He glares with intensity. “Funny. That sounded like a threat.”
“Oh good. Your ears are working, then.”
Tension mounts between us, braiding as thick and tight as his hair. I cross my arms in front of me, nails biting into my skin as I stare him down.
Wick blasts out a breath of frustration, his eyes glinting off the spokes of flame from the short lanterns dotted around the path. “You may be the Lyäri, but I lead the Vulmin, and I have to act in their best interest. Right now, I know that this is the time we need to strike. You’re here for a reason, and everyone will see that. As word spreads of your arrival—and it is spreading—I can finally get everyone to band together. To not solely work behind the curtains, but to oppose the monarchy head-on.”
I can see the fervency and belief of his words stitched into every line of his face.
“I respect your role as their leader. What I don’t respect is being used without you consulting me first. I’m not a tool, Wick. I’m not just going to stand still and look golden so that Vulmin will line up behind you. If you want my help, then you fucking ask me for it.”
After the eye-opening events of Geisel, I want to help his cause, but not like this. I’m also not foolish—I know it’s better to journey with him as I search Annwyn for Slade. I don’t want to travel alone, but I will if I have to.
Our gazes stay locked on one another, this battle of wills caught in a silent clash.
“Just give me the respect of talking to me about things that involve me. That’s all I’m asking. I’m not your enemy, Wick.”
My words seem to disarm him, and he finally drops his weaponized glare. “I know you’re not my enemy.”
“Then act like it.”
A puff of air escapes him, and the tense line of his brow eases. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Auren.”
His apology takes me off guard, and my arms drop as I shift on my feet.
He lets out a tired sigh and runs a hand down his hair. “You want to know the plan?”
“Yes.”
“The plan was to stop at all the major Vulmin houses. To avoid the cities where the Stone Swords have the biggest presence, until there’s enough of us that it won’t matter. To gather more and more of us together until we get all the way to Lydia—the kingdom’s capital. Then, challenge the Stone King,” he tells me, his eyes flaring with determination. “Show the Carricks that we won’t stand for their regime any longer. That we’re going to take back Annwyn.”
He’s talking about full-out war. Marching on the capital is no minor thing.
His eyes bounce between mine expectantly, but my lips are pressed tight. The only sound is faint chirping coming from somewhere in the forest, though my mind is loud with the reverberations of his expectations.
At my continued silence, his shoulders sag ever so slightly. I watch as he deflates, letting me really see the person instead of just the leader. Giving me a glimpse of who he is behind his stoicism and allowing me to see the vulnerability and desperation beneath.
