Chapter 015

It’s the living that’s hard.

It took a long time for dawn to come.

Whether it was stress or some dark Talent, the dark seemed to stretch until it was as thin as his linen clothes. Harker made a quick change into his woolens, which did a far great job at keeping his body heat contained, though he felt a deep panic at the delay. No matter the quiet, it felt as if an Illwrought was two steps behind him at all times. They weren’t. His plan to keep mercenaries and monsters busy with each other seemed to have worked better than he anticipated.

Don’t rely on that. He ducked beneath another branch, his legs pumping steadily along the river. Stay ahead, stay alive.

He was just off the Southroad, staying inside the riverwood where it hugged the banks of the Gallant. It traced a similar route, but where the rutted Southroad branched wide to avoid the bending river, Harker clung close. Winter kept the worst of the undergrowth from sprouting, though he still needed to keep clear of thorn tree copses and other murderous flora. Despite it all, he started to make good time.

The Chartermark was a constant distraction. It tingled, like a burn two months faded, reminding Harker of its presence every dozen steps. Yet as the dawn finally arrived, he found himself far more distracted by the leaden exhaustion in his limbs and the gnawing hunger in his belly. He foraged as he ran, snagging nuts and berries that he recognized, but mostly he chewed on the dried meat he’d snagged from Garon’s. It wasn’t good, but it was enough.

The day rolled onward, the sun banishing the morning’s lingering cold while the gurgling rush of the Gallant offered constant companionship. Birds trilled, and the soft susseration of insects pressed close, uninterrupted by howls or the baying of hounds. His caution threatened to bleed from him with every step, but Harker had not survived eighteen years by being careless.

Law 3D—Follow The Plan.

The first step was getting to Haver Hill. It wasn’t as large as Vale but he could resupply there, find transport, confuse his trail…

Wrack and ruin, it’s happening again.

Harker had learned the tells since fleeing the Vale. A swelling in his gorge and a tingling in his chest and limbs that presaged a blunt agony. The Sea was rising up through him.

Swiftly as he could, Harker stripped. Pack dropped along with trousers and socks, though the sweater was a tougher ordeal. He very nearly lost it as the garment came up over his head, but he held on.

Just before the feeling consumed him, he dove into the Gallant.

The Sea rushed out of him, and the river rushed in. Harker choked, vomiting Water in a billowing rush that leaked from his mouth, nose, and eyes. It vented from him like glowing silt, and was immediately carried downstream. Northward.

Toward Vale.

Half drowning and wracked by bone deep exhaustion, Harker held onto his grim satisfaction. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it kept the Water from lingering in his clothes or in an obvious puddle in the woods. The Illwrought were tracking him by his Water—-it stood to reason that anyone else could as well.

Without the Sea’s stink on me, they won’t know where I am. Well. They would know he was by the river. But that was the point.

Law 1C—Become Nothing. It was far past time he set a false trail.

While he avoided the Southroad, his enemies wouldn’t. Whatever was holding them up wouldn’t last, and soon they would overtake Harker if he stayed in the same spot.

With a final shudder, the reflux of Water fled Harker’s system and he swam his way toward the shore. The currents weren’t strong in this bend, but adrenaline pumped through his veins regardless. One of the first lessons anyone in the Vale was taught was that the dark beneath the swift currents were not to be trusted. It was the same reason the Southroad didn’t cling too closely to the Gallant. Fear of the old ways. Unless you mazed rivers with salt and cold iron you never knew what could swim out of them.

Harker kept his cool until he’d climbed back onto the bank, where he made sure to put a solid five feet between him and the water. He was nearly spent, frozen from the river, and his insides felt scraped raw by the Sea…but he turned and watched the Gallant for several long seconds.

Illwrought, Aberrants, even the Great Beasts could be stopped by walls…but the Deep Children had far less restrictions.

He touched the iron chain around his neck. “Thank you, Anuan.”

It was silly perhaps—the Deep Children were tales told round Winter fires to scare children to sleep. Still, Harker wasn’t against a little superstition if it helped. A little lip service to the Ancestor of Chains to keep him safe from Tidelings was a bargain that couldn’t be ignored.

In short order, he collected his discarded clothing and set off at a right angle to the Gallant. Harker crossed the Southroad, but only for a moment, then was off into the depths of the forested valley.

Mid-afternoon brought him close to Haver Hill. He could see it in the distance from between the trees. Walls rose up around the crown of a tall hill, filled with closely packed timber houses and streaming with woodsmoke from hundreds of chimneys. The Gallant bent around it, leaving it far to the west, and Harker could even make out the iron posts driven into the soft soil.

Dozens of folks moved through the gates, bullhounds pulling wagons laden with family. Others walked out on foot, packs overstuffed with food and handmade gifts. Here, Threllsnacht had proceeded without a single hitch, same as every year.

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Standing amid the Winter forest, Harker was suddenly hesitant to get closer. His cloak and sweater were marked by tugging thorns, his skin was streaked with dirt and sweat, and then there was his reflux. Harker put a hand to his chest.