Sable Vorn's Arc

Chapter 8 of 8

Sable walked by her arm through the last of the reeds. The bright edge of the mark pulled her north, past the stone shelter, into cattail she had never mapped. Then the reeds thinned. She stopped at their edge. Ahead lay open ground, flat and bare under gray morning light. No stalks, no cover, nothing to hide the glow. She looked down at her wrist. The green shone hard now, past her elbow. Out there, it would shine like a lantern for anything that hunted her. Gandalf came up beside her, leaning on his staff. He studied the empty flat and shook his head. "Step out there and you're a candle in a dark room," he said, low. "The wolf lost you once. It won't forgive a second gift." He had trusted her reading for days now. But he had no answer for open ground. Therisia slid out of the reeds behind them, wiping mud from her sleeve. She had cheated Sable years ago and still held two days of Sable's map work as a debt. She smiled too wide. "Poor scribe. The land ran out of hiding places." She glanced at the glowing arm. "I could tell you what fixes this. It costs." "No," Sable said. Her voice was flat. "I'm done buying from you." She had one thing Therisia never bothered to sell. She knelt and yanked a fistful of the swamp cattail, the last that grew here. The dark reeds bled a bitter smell in her hands. She crushed them hard, working the pulp against her wrist until the glow dimmed under the smear. She had done this before, in the tower. She knew it lasted only until morning. So she would not wait for morning. Therisia's smile fell. "That won't hold. You know that." "It doesn't have to hold," Sable said. "It has to hold long enough." She looked at the flat ground and measured it with her eyes, the way she measured distance on paper. She could cross it before the pulp dried and the light broke through. She rolled her sleeve down over the smear and stood. Gandalf gripped his staff. "Then we run," he said. They ran. Sable kept her wrist pressed to her ribs, holding the dim glow tight against her body. The open ground stretched under her boots, bare and endless. She did not look back for the wolf. She fixed her eyes north and let the mark's pull guide her stride. Halfway across, the smear began to fade. The green crept back through the cattail crust, thin at first, then bright. By the time the far ridge rose ahead, the glow burned free again. But she had crossed. Her boots hit rising stone. The reedland was behind her now. Ahead the ground climbed toward the shrine, and the mark pulled harder than it ever had, brighter with every step. She had beaten the open flat. The wolf had lost its chance. But the mark that saved her was climbing faster now, past her elbow, reaching.