It was past the middle night when she made the village outskirts on the far side from the keep. The hard, rutted roads belonged to Leaf and a few scavenging dogs. She slipped down alleys and narrow lanes to the wayhouse where she had taken a room. It was a hulking building with a single lantern still lit outside its door; the flame was nearly obscured by the grime on the glass panes that encased it. It squeaked rhythmically in the breeze, which swept up bits of rubbish from the gutters. There were few windows and they were all dark. The smell of urine and ferment came from the place. It was not a pleasant house, but its gap-toothed owner also did not ask why a girl would travel on her own, or sniff at the brass she offered in payment. He most likely thought she was another joyende looking to turn a coin; he had enough of the women about the place and they had the lean look of the traveling kind.

Leaf also appreciated that there was only one lock on the alley door, a crude mechanism crumbling with rust. It was bulky iron work, of northern fashion, and no doubt impressed the swagmen and hirelances who bedded down in the place. Leaf also knew that their only other security was a pair of gray Illomen hounds, lean and yellow-eyed, chained to the taps and with enough lead to have the range of the greatroom. She could hear one whining through the gaps in the door’s planking as she knelt down in the muck where the kitchen refuse was thrown.

She stilled herself, closing her eyes, letting the night air swirl into her. The voices rose up once again, answering her seeking. Her skin tingled cold from within. She whispered, and almost as in a dream, she opened her eyes to find the night thrown into sharp contrast, the pale blue moonlight radiating out of every object, every angle glowing, and she just one shadow moving among them. She plucked up a few loose straws that had fallen from the thatch overhead and placed them in her hair, one by one, muttering sleep to the hounds. After only a moment with the old lock, the wards gave. Leaf leaned on the free latch and eased the door open.

And suddenly a hand laid hold of her neck. A harsh rasp scrawled on her eardrums. Leaf leapt back from the door, her hands flying defensively before her face. The flow of the darkness which she had moved through so seamlessly twisted out of her again and she was exposed, no shadow now but a red flare of light. Someone had seen her. Someone was watching her. The walls closed in. She spun around.

The alleyway was empty. The hollow hush of the breeze between the buildings was the only sound, save for the door which slowly creaked open behind her.

Leaf stood still for long moments, trembling. She turned her eyes over the street, pressing every corner, two and three and four times.

Slowly, the feeling faded from her skin; the impression of the hot hand melted from her neck. The hair along her forearms lay back down. Still, Leaf’s stomach was turning slowly and a lump lingered in her throat. The moon began to slip down behind the far roofs. The shades of night crept back, but they were darker and harder than they had been. The dog in the wayhouse had stopped whining.

Without thinking, Leaf slipped inside. The voices in her mind had scattered. Every shadow in the badly-lit taproom leapt out at her and did not offer haven, but was an empty hollow filled only with the breath of the sleeping dogs and snoring drunkards.

She stepped up onto the stairs, half-climbing over the rail, and though the dog at the foot stirred, it did not wake. Blinking, she began to pick her way more carefully, and the odd, misplaced feeling faded with each step. By the time she reached her poor room and shut herself in, Leaf nearly felt herself once more.

She unwrapped the sash from around her waist and dropped it with her belt and its pouches to the floor. The leaning tallow candle she had lit before she left had drawn down almost to a stub but flickered still, and she checked the corners of the room by its orange light. The shock was dying, but it still hummed on her skin. Everything was as she had left it. She pushed the rickety basin stand against the door—as little good as it would do her—and lay down on the pallet bed.

Leaf did not know how long she stared at the close, dank ceiling, the straw scratching at her neck and back. It was long enough for her breathing to slow, for the voices to collect and hush, for her heart to beat steadily once more.

Eventually she sat up, crossing her legs and brushing the earlier moment away as she did the straw on her shoulders. She leaned over the edge of the low bed and took up her belt, setting it on the coarse blanket before her. Within the larger pouch she found the necklace and drew it out across her open palm. It coiled in the dim glow like a silver snake with one great, green eye. The facets threw off tiny specks of reflected candlelight and Leaf turned it to watch a dozen green flames dance in her vision. She let the chain slide though her hand, feeling each cold link as it slithered through her fingers and down her wrist.

Blinking the necklace from her vision, she perched it on to her right knee. She reached up and pulled off the leather thong, then unplaited her hair with quick motions. The long, oiled strands swept over her sharp cheekbones and covered her eyes. She let her hair hang there, watching the candle from behind the swaying curtain. She rolled the oily thong between her thumbs, turning it gently until the ribbed stuttering of the embedded needles rubbed against her fingers. She plucked out the one in the center, a long silver pin she had from a lady’s dressing gown three towns away. Holding it up, Leaf examined it as intently as she had the necklace. That lady had been more slender but less elegant than she who had worn the chain, and dozens of such pins had pinioned her vast dress to her frame. The loss of one had gone unnoticed. It had been her only stealing in that town; the voices had lead her to no other there.

Leaf pulled the rough sleeve of her dark shirt up to her shoulder, searching her dusky skin. Finding no spot that would suit, she pulled the shirt off completely over her head and dropped it on the floor. She craned her neck to the left, searching her collarbone and back. Nothing. She twisted her head to the right. There, just where the shoulder blade jutted out as she turned, she saw her place.

Murmuring once more, this time to her own bones and sinew, she took the needle in her left hand and brought it under her right arm and around to her back. Her spine popped once, then several times; the position made blackness dance at the edge of her vision as her muscles strained. She could move only when she exhaled.

Leaf chose the first position as carefully as she was able, then blew out her breath and drove the needle into her skin. The familiar bite sent gooseflesh up her back, and the involuntary jump brought a shivering satisfaction that she could not put words to. Warmth spread through her stomach. The necklace slid off her leg and into the straw.

She pulled the needle out, leaving behind a tiny, perfect sphere of blood. Still curled about herself, she reached and put the needle into the candle’s flame. The room filled with the pop and hiss of burning blood and its sharp odor. When the needle turned black, she drew it out and watched the ephemeral wisp of smoke curl up and dissipate. Before it cooled, she brought it to her back again and reinserted it into the same tiny hole.

Now the searing pain made her wince, but still she did not stop, taking short, shallow breaths through her nostrils. The quick hiss sounded as it had a thousand times before.

The voices rose, roaring, in response.

Next Chapter: Chapter 3