His pulse said so much about him. Strong and stubborn, righteous and honest. Qualities she could respect, but merely a nuisance for her current intentions. The dagger responded to her twitching fingers, lifting and carrying the hunter's weight with it. His stoicism failed and he gasped, gurgling as a wave of vomit and blood flowed from his innards and into his mouth. She willed him to move slowly, allowing him a few moments to believe he would be disemboweled by the vile weapon, but it would not release him, however much he wished it might.

The blade pushed him against the trunk of a tree, pinning him to the wood. Morgynn followed closely with his lost sword. With a powerful thrust, she buried the blade just beneath his shoulder and deep into the tree. He gasped, his voice barely a whisper, his breath shallow and quick. "You would die for peddlers of visions and prophecy? Does your life mean nothing?" Morgynn twirled her fingers languidly and concentrated. The dagger worked itself free from his stomach and returned to her hand. "Kill me, witch! F-finish it!" he spat through clenched teeth. She glared at him and put a hand on his impaled shoulder. Caressing the bloodied flesh, she called to his pulse, feeling it roll and tumble in his distress. It pushed suddenly, fighting weakly against the walls of muscle and skin that bound it within him. She held it for a moment, exerting her control over its ebb and flow. He tensed as his body tried to right itself. She felt his body as if it were her own, though his pain did not register as sharply within her. Pressure built behind his eyes, and his skull felt as if it would burst. Needlelike spasms caused his limbs to twitch.

She could see the end looming in his mind, unreal and unbelievable.

His thoughts wandered, trying to escape what was happening. She watched, reading his thoughts, observing the landscape of his retreat and the emotions that lingered there. "You are Rhaeme, yes? And Elisandrya, that is her name." Morgynn spoke as if she stood beside him in that rain-drenched image in his head. "You still love her, but she seeks the Hoarite." Unbidden primal panic stole over Rhaeme in a sudden chill at her words. Morgynn withdrew her fingers, ceasing her pull on his blood, satisfied that fear of death still hung with him on the tree. His head drooped and he managed a single sob. Without a word, her hands melded into his chest painlessly, opening the doorway of the bloodwalk through his body. Rhaeme passed out. The warmth that her passing sent through him was gone almost in an instant and did little for the cold that would creep into his extremities. Then he was alone.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Alone. Mile after mile had passed and Elisandrya had not seen a soul. Littlewater was far behind her, and an invisible dawn was fast approaching. She searched the eastern horizon for cracks in the cloud cover, seeking some sliver of elusive morning. Morningstar was slowing beneath her. His muscles trembled with wear, his breathing became more audible. She feared the Ghedia's magic of speed had taxed him more than she'd expected. The ground was soaked with rain. Lightning lanced overhead, its branches stretching for miles, well beyond the perimeter of the powerful, southward-moving tempest. Her stiff muscles complained, aching and demanding rest despite her willpower. With a gentle tug and a tap on Morningstar's sides, Eli slowed him to a walk.

The sudden silence that fell in the absence of his hoof beats was oppressive. Her pulse pounded in her ears, an almost deafening cadence that rattled her eyes as heavy lids tried to steady them. Resentment floated in her thoughts, of herself, of Rhaeme, and of Sameska. I should have gone into the forest with Rhaeme, she thought. This is a fool's errand, chasing ghosts and the fears of an old woman. Her head lolled back and she reached up to hold the threaded fethra around her neck, beseeching Savras one last time, one more chance. Then might she turn back to find Rhaeme's tracks and join him as she should have in the forest. "Savras, I was blind-" the prayer passed listlessly across her lips, dry despite the damp all around her, and she could not finish. A wave of slumber rolled through her body and jolted her mind with an answer to her summons for aid. The vision was quick but awoke her in an instant of shock. Wings, hundreds of wings flapped noiselessly in a small cage. A beast of feathers and wingtips, raging against the enclosed space, fluttered in her mind's eye. Shaking her head and rubbing her eyes, the image faded, but remained burned on her memory. "What could it mean?" she asked aloud. Morningstar huffed and snorted at her. "I wasn't actually asking you, Star." As the vague vision played through her mind, rolling in the miasma of lost sleep, a tiny pinpoint of light became visible ahead. It winked like a firefly in the charcoal darkness that ruled the Reach. Her hands immediately reached to touch the pommel of her sword, the bow at her back, and the stiff feathers on the arrows hanging across her shoulder. Though reassured of her own preparedness, the sense of alert brought her to full consciousness. Bandits were not unknown to lie in wait for merchants and lone travelers, but she had seen few of their like on this, the lesser used Low Road. Angling toward the dancing light of the distant campfire, she straightened herself into the stance of a hunter. Exuding authority outwardly, she was inwardly enthralled by the many-winged beast in the cage in her head. Savras was rarely clear, but he was never arbitrary in those insights he gifted to his faithful. Briefly, she wished Dreslya had come with her, but touching her sword's hilt once again, she was grateful to be alone. The monster of wings continued to flutter and beat against its prison. Unexplained and unavoidable, the sound of its freakish limbs matched the pounding in her ears.

Khaemil knelt on the cracked flagstones of what had once been a courtyard. His bare arms hung loosely at his sides, palms up, in a mood of quiet meditation and supplication. He was not as knowledgeable in magic as Morgynn, nor so dutiful in prayer as Talmen, but Gargauth heard his call and answered his loyal servant. Though he'd served many lords and minor powers in Avernus, he had taken to Gargauth the Exile quite readily upon being summoned to the Realms. Though Morgynn's face had been the first he remembered seeing, it was Gargauth's essence that drew him to stay in the world, to serve so strange a mistress. At first this had been by request, but Khaemil became enamored of Morgynn over time, trusting in the devil-god's instinct about her. In the midst of his concentration, heat flushed his black skin, rising to a boil within him like a fever. Morgynn burned her way into his bloodstream, angry and prepared to tear her way out as she'd done with the first hunter she'd killed. It was not mercy that stayed her intention. Touching fresh air beyond his body, she emerged, fingertips and arms followed by the rest of her in a wet, warm rush. She stood before Khaemil, quietly at first, stoic as he matched her gaze. He noticed the small wound on her left arm. It did not bleed, nor did it pain her, but it displayed her current mood. His moment of quiet meditation and prayer ended as she cast cold eyes on his kneeling form. "Your crusader is neither gone nor dead. The Hoarite travels south even now, no doubt hiding in his shadows. Why is this, Khaemil?"

"I-I do not know, my lady, but surely-" "They are looking for him!"

Her anger was born anew as she witnessed his stammering and confusion.

"Their hope gives them courage, makes them move beyond their walls, scouring our forest and riding north in search of the phantom!"