Laika Belle's Arc

Chapter 1 of 5

Laika Belle had been staring at the same footprint in the moss for an hour, trying to work up the courage to follow it out of the grove. The print was cloven, larger than a deer's, and pressed deep as if the walker had paused to look back at her hut. Laika crouched over it with her white hair falling into her eyes. Twenty-two years in this grove, and she had decided this morning she was going to find someone to love. She had also decided, less bravely, that she would do it without leaving the trees. The trouble was that no tiefling suitor had ever wandered past her creek. No one had wandered past her creek at all. Her mother, before she died, had chosen this grove for its quiet, and Laika had inherited the quiet like a heavy coat she could not take off. Every morning she practiced hello in the mirror. Every evening she unpracticed it by talking to no one. A branch cracked. Laika bolted for the hut and pressed her back to the door. "You can come out," a voice called. "I saw the smoke from your chimney a mile off." The speaker stepped into the clearing on two hooved legs. She was shorter than Laika, brown-furred, with a canine snout and two clean fangs showing when she spoke. A pale antler rack rose above sharp brown eyes. A green cloak hung off one shoulder, and a belt of small pouches clinked at her hip. Behind her walked a tall four-legged animal, a deer's body under a dog's watchful face, antlers wide, ears pricked toward Laika. "Felicette," the stranger said. "I'm a courier. You're not on my map." Laika opened her mouth. Nothing came out. She pointed at the footprint in the moss. "That's his," Felicette said, nodding at the staghound. "He wanted to know who lived here. He's nosy." She studied Laika's horns, her tail, her bare feet. "You've been in this grove a while." "All my life," Laika said. Her voice sounded rusted. "There's a market three days east. Tieflings trade there. Musicians, mostly. A few looking for company." Felicette tilted her head. "I'm going that way tomorrow. I don't usually take passengers. The staghound decides." The staghound walked to Laika and pushed his warm nose against her palm. "He's decided," Felicette said. "Pack light. I leave at dawn, whether you're at the creek or not." She turned and walked back into the trees. The staghound stayed a moment longer, watching Laika with steady dog-eyes above his deer's chest, then followed. Laika stood in the doorway. Her hand was still warm where the animal had touched it. She went inside, pulled her mother's satchel from the hook, and began putting things into it: a knife, a comb, three apples. Her hands shook. She kept packing. Dawn was only a night away, and for the first time she knew where to go.