Diaspor Aspenwind's Arc

Chapter 8 of 11

Diaspor backtracked along his own ruined trail until the hive rose again through the ferns. He stopped at the treeline and watched. No swarm moved at the windows. No scouts cut the air. On the moss before the hive, a faint shimmer hung in the shape of an arch — a residue of dark passage, sparkling at its center where she had stepped through and gone. Nightshade was not here. He had one window. He crouched and studied the twisted tendrils. Near the base, the woven roots gaped open into a black hollow, ringed by pale yellow blooms. A gap the swarm had left unguarded because the swarm was not home. He could see straight up into the hive's hollow throat from there. From his pack he drew the torch he had bound days ago — pitch and pine-sap wrapped tight in lavender cloth. He struck flint to it. The flame caught yellow and tall, brighter than the hive's windows. He pulled his yellow scarf up over his mouth and walked in low. He shoved the torch deep into the root hollow and held it there. The dry tendrils caught at once. Fire climbed the inner walls in quick yellow lines. A few stranded falconbees dropped from the upper combs, burning. He backed out and watched the twisted shape sag, then fold, then collapse inward in a roar of sparks. The pivot point of her hunt was gone. Then the shimmer-arch on the moss pulsed once, hard. The starlit center brightened. She had felt it. She was turning back. Diaspor lowered the spent torch and faced the trembling gate, sword drawn, knowing he had bought the kill — and called her down on himself in the same breath.