To Scale the Emerald Mountain (The Willowbane Saga #1)

9. CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER NINE

T ry as I might, Locane refused to tell me anymore after I pieced together why he has been adamant on not parting ways; why I suspect he helped me escape.

I’m so conflicted. I’m certain now that I was in that cell because of my gift of Sight. I’m happy and grateful to not be there anymore; but I’m forlorn about the fact that Locane is helping me for those abilities himself.

I tried to ask him more questions about what he expects of me, what he means to do with the gems, but he ran off upstairs to bed quickly. As he rushed away, he shouted to me about rest.

How on the fucking Mother could I rest now—with this new weight of expectation put on me? And still with so many questions? Do I even want to help him?

Locane is so familiar to me, and that familiarity is telling me to trust him. But there’s another small and quiet part of myself that is unsettled by him. My mind is so thoroughly overwhelmed, and for how badly I wanted answers, I miss being in the dark.

Spending several long minutes sitting in the quiet dimly lit room after Locane retires upstairs, I stare into nothing and try to wrap my head around what he is going to expect of me. I only have one memory of trying to control my gift. I’m certain now that what I Saw was very important. A vision of one of the gems of the gods being created and hidden.

The emerald.

Did Nana know about these gems of the gods? And if so, was she aware that my gifts might aid in finding them? She has Seeing abilities herself. The answers I received are now just bringing up more questions, and I can only hope that Locane will be as forthcoming tomorrow as he was tonight.

I sigh and look at the book he placed in front of me before starting our conversation. My brows knit when I take in the title of the red leather-bound book with black text.

Commonly Misinterpreted Quinndohsi Phrases

What?

Why would he think I need to brush up on Quinndohsi slang? Surely he doesn’t plan for us to go to Quinndohs, or at least not anytime soon. We just got here, and I desperately need time to rest, catch my breath, and try to get centered. I thought having any answers would help me be more grounded, but in the last hour I’m even more adrift, even more lost. I pick the book up and open it towards the center.

The pages are filled with handwritten text and small illustrations. I read a few random snippets and quickly figure out this is not a book on Quinndohsi slang at all. It’s a more detailed handwritten journal accounting for everything Locane just told me. The book also contains maps, graphs, and pictures of landscapes, plants, and animal life.

Laughing to myself, I flip through the book. Locane didn’t choose the best book binding to try to hide the handwritten journal, assuming it was him who did it. Perhaps an uninteresting, unassuming book to anyone deeply familiar with Quinndohs, but my interest—as someone who is not—was certainly momentarily piqued.

What kind of distinctive phrases do they have to fill a whole book with commonly misinterpreted ones? Shaking away the useless questions, I flip to the front of the journal and start to read.

I read all through the rest of the night and only pull myself from the book when I notice dusty gray sky through the windows, signaling that dawn is near. My neck and back are stiff from the hours of sitting curled up while I drank in the contents of the small book. Everything I read was far more detailed than anything Locane had told me and made it sound far more interesting. I found the portion on the Plains of Ire to be particularly fascinating.

On one page was a small drawing of cattle grazing in tall grasses, penned in by a wooden fence covered in blooming honeysuckles. In the background you can make out a small house with smoke billowing from a stone chimney.

The picture is captioned as ‘The Great Plain of Dhystros.’ No artist’s signature. I’m enthralled by the picture, completely awed by the talent it took to get such great detail into such a small, colorless picture.

Finally prying my eyes away, I watch as the dawn sun crests the horizon. I stretch wide, the red leather book still in my hand with a finger between pages, marking my place. Rolling my neck from side to side, it gives a satisfying pop. Stealing one last quick glance at the picture, I close the book and carefully set it down.

I ponder on the differences between that picture and what the Great Plain of Dhystros looks like now, with a new name and no life, now the desolate Plains of Ire. Closing my eyes, I see them so clearly in my head, as if I’ve been there before. Nothing but littaweed for endless miles, so thick that you can barely walk through them.

The weeds inflame your blood vessels and the red cells flowing within. A nuisance in small doses, the thick concentration of the Plains of Ire is too much, making you go mad trying to scratch an itch you will never reach. Some people will scratch and scratch, creating holes in their own flesh, digging down to their bones trying to find some relief. The urge is far stronger than the pain of destroying your own body. Special leathers and masks are required to pass through those endless fields for even a chance to not succumb to the itch.

Most agree it’s not worth the trouble.

My eyes sting with tiredness, and I know I will regret not going to my cozy new room to get more sleep, but my racing mind would not have allowed it even if I had tried. After my perusal of the journal, my mind has slowed and calmed considerably. I think about laying back to rest my eyes when a heaviness takes my mind, and my upper lip breaks out in a sweat.

In a second, I know what’s coming and try to remember anything I can about what Nana tried to teach me about control—but the vision comes on too quickly.

Darkness takes me.

Ringing calls to me in the distance.

Chimes of the large bell atop a stone tower just visible above the trees sing in time with palm leaves swaying in the fierce wind. The bells are meant to signal the time, but tonight it’s more like an omen.

My red cloak whips around my ankles, nearly snagging on my stiletto heeled boots, as I walk with purpose. My stride is undeterred by the sudden energy of discontentment .

It’s as if the air itself has come alive in warning.

The wind picks up and briny sea spray makes it from the shore in the angry gusts. I increase my pace to match, hoping to reach the seedy tavern before the rain arrives. A bolt of lightning illuminates the ominous sky, immediately followed by booming thunder.

“Fuck.” My high voice cuts through the galing wind.

My quick pace becomes a sprint in a race against the storm. The shapes of short stucco buildings with scalloped roofs come into view as the rain starts to patter on and around me.

The tavern is on the outskirts of the city, the rickety sign reading Syren’s Cove waving in the wind of the oncoming storm. Long, rusted chains holding either end of the sign squeak. I reach out a deep caramel hand; my fingernails are painted as crimson as my cloak. I open the torn screened door, damaged to pointlessness for keeping the relentless mosquitos and horse flies out.

The bottom falls out of the sky as the pitiful excuse of a door slams back behind me, bouncing twice before settling in its rotten frame.

The tavern is busier than usual with patrons seeking to escape the storm and using that as an excuse to find their ‘syren’ to warm them. Five shoddily partitioned rooms are conveniently for rent by the half hour in the low-ceilinged attic upstairs for anyone willing to endure the stifling heat to find their momentary pleasure.

The place stinks of stale sweat, smoke, liquor, and sickly-sweet sex .

The feminine back of a cloaked person sitting at the end of the bar catches my attention. I roll my eyes exaggeratedly at the covering, black as the void, with the hood drawn. At the clasped hands on the bar counter, covered in equally dark leather gloves.

Making my way to the empty seat next to her, I plop down on the stool. “Really, all of that is not necessary, my dear—“

“Don’t,” a raspy voice cuts me off. “Don’t say my name.”

I scoff, rolling my eyes again “Even more unnecessary.” Signaling the barkeep, I tell him, “Rum,” when he hobbles wordlessly to us.

The keep wipes a glass, sliding it across the bar with flourish before reaching behind him for a bottle. He goes to pour when I grab his wrist. “Tut-tut. You know better. I’ll take the bottle.” I flick a gold coin at him with my other hand, and he catches it against his chest.

The keep nods and returns to his original post, closer to the door.

“A man of few words. Is that why you chose this place?”

Throwing back the contents of my glass, I relish the delicious burn of alcohol and the warmth of it hitting my belly before I turn to my companion and smile.

“A man of no words. He lost his tongue many years ago. And he can’t read or write. It would take a lot of effort to get anything of value from that one.”

Winking, I pour another drink.

“I must say, I was quite surprised to get a summons from you.” She says nothing. “You know, if you wanted to see me you could have just told me. Or is this some new game? You haven’t mentioned any such kinks before, but it has been a while.” Placing my hand on her shoulder, I squeeze lightly. “We always did have a lot of fun together.”

I slowly walk my fingers down her arm, eliciting a slight shiver when I get to the crook of her elbow. My movements are slow and delicate.

Deliberate.

When I get to her wrist, I move faster than a blink. Grabbing the wrist with my left hand, I hold it up and remove the black glove in one swift movement. Before she can react, I bring her palm to my mouth, licking from the bottom all the way up her middle finger. The small gold ball of my tongue ring flicks softly over the tip of the digit.

“Don’t.” Her rasp is nearly gone and replaced with a lusty whisper.

“Mmmm,” I lick my lower lip, tasting the sweet saltiness of her skin. “After all these years, it’s still there. I can taste it. That sting. But there’s something new there, too.” The amusement I’m experiencing at the taste of the new emotion embedded in her skin has my face lit up. “What is that? The disappointment of the next best thing?” I ask, enunciating the last three words, the little gold ball clicking against my two front teeth.

My words come out crueler than I’d intended, but sometimes the truth does hurt.

The energy swiftly changes, and I get nothing but iciness from her. I throw my head back and laugh.

“Ceivise, I asked to meet you for a reason.” Her breathiness of desire is gone, and the ridiculous rasp is back.

“Oh, there you are, love. But what happened to the secrecy? I thought you wanted no names? Should I call you by a different name? Better yet, you can call me by a different one, too,” I grin at her mischievously. “I already have one in mind that you might find pleasure in.”

“Everyone knows who you are, Ceivise,” she says, replacing the black glove I had thrown on the counter—ignoring my remarks. “You were put on retainer years ago. You knew a job would be called in at an undetermined time. You’re needed. Now. Get your crew ready tonight. We leave at dawn.”

Head thrown back, I let out a chiming laugh. “Oh, come on.” I grasp a long yarn like lock the color of burnished silver, twisting it between my perfectly manicured fingers.

People are more likely to underestimate your claws when they’re shined to perfection.

“You cannot be serious. It’s been many years since I made that deal. I can’t be expected to just drop everything to do some royal errand," I tell her sharply.

“You were paid—handsomely and in advance—to do a job. You knew the terms when you accepted.”

“The terms I agreed to were possible short notice. Not absolutely no fucking notice. And this was a long time ago. No. I will need at least a week to get my affairs in order.” My patience is suddenly wearing thin. I pour another healthy drink and throw it back. “Or you can tell him to fuck right off.”

“Oh, I don’t think you want to do that.” She nearly turns to face me, then thinks better of it, pulling her hood further down.

“What is with the secrecy? The weird voice, not showing me your face? I know who you are. Intimately.” I stare at her with intensity, waiting for an answe r

“You never know who is watching, or when,” she says cryptically.

“Oh, Mother, do I even want to know what that means?” I rub a finger against my brow in exasperation.

“I will be at the docks at dawn, Ceivise. You will be ready with your crew. And we will set sail. If not, I hope you are prepared to watch all the money you took in advance be taken back, your crew killed, and your ship commandeered before you then pay for your treachery with your life. You know all those things will happen. This is happening. The board has already been set. You may pretend to be a skeptic, but we both know your curiosity is the reason you agreed in the first place, to see for yourself what is real and what is myth.”

Her voice is filled with such conviction it gives me pause before I make up my mind, far too quickly. Especially given the odd energy of static warning vibrating in the air.

I give her my signature saccharine smile. “There’s no need to pull out all the threats at once, love. I am a woman of my word. My reputation proves that. I will gather the crew, we will set out at dawn, and we will sail into the daylight to make history!” I raise my glass in mock salute and throw it back with exaggeration.

There is a vibrant streak of lightning just outside the door of the tavern, followed by a rumble of thunder that shakes my bones. Wind catches the sad screen door and pushes it against the outside wall of the building. The rain is now coming down in droves.

“You may act like this is all just funny and means nothing. This is everything. You will see. ”

“What’s funny is to hear you, of all people, speak of treachery like it is unacceptable.” I point a finger at her, the rest of my hand curled around my glass of rum. I take another drink, feeling well and truly buzzed at this point, but not quite drunk enough to accept what I agreed to years ago that has finally come to call.

“And what do you know of my experiences with treachery?” she asks darkly.

“You said it yourself, everyone knows who I am. Which makes it possible for me to know a little bit about everyone.”