he yawned and reached for the robe tossed on the chair beside the bed.
He stilled when he saw the black mark on his arm, felt the familiar frisson of fear, followed immediately by anger. He pulled his arm back and covered the mark with one hand, rubbing the skin over his wrist, as if he could massage the mark away. But when he withdrew his hand, it remained. Like a bruise, but deeper, darker. The discoloration was beneath his skin, not on the surface, and it swirled like oil, as if black blood had pooled there, pulsing with his heartbeat.
And it had grown, was now nearly the size of his thumb. Seven years ago it had only been the size of a grain of sand. He’d almost dismissed it as a mole or freckle, but when he showed it to Osserin and the rest of the Faelehgre…
He grunted, reached again for the robe, the motion laced with anger. He pulled the robe up over his head, settled the folds with a disgruntled jerk And his stomach clenched with pain.
He paused, closed his eyes, and pressed one hand against his side as the pain intensified. Through the cloth of his robe, he could feel his aged skin grow hot, as if with a fever. But then the pain peaked and faded.
He let his held breath out in a sigh and straightened, massaging his side as the heat in his skin dissipated. The pain hadn’t been this bad since those first few years in the forest, when he’d begun experimenting with the water and its effects, with its powers. He’d gone almost a year without going to the Well then, to see how long he could last without drinking it, how long he could suffer through the pain. A year.
He’d have to go much longer than that this time.
He frowned at the thought. How long had it been since he’d been to the Well? Two months? Three? More?
He didn’t know. The days blurred into one another in the forest, weeks and months passing without notice. But it didn’t matter. Not anymore, not now that the black mark had made its appearance. The Faelehgre had warned him that this would happen, that eventually the Well would claim him. He hadn’t believed them, even when the first pains had begun. He’d ignored them, ignored all of their warnings. He’d stayed, certain that they were wrong, that he’d be able to resist, that he could remain here, within the forest, near the Well, unchanged. Or if not unchanged, at least human.
Then the black mark had appeared.
He had to leave. Now. But leaving was proving to be difficult. He didn’t want to go.
And the Well was more powerful than he’d thought.
Troubled, he reached for the cedar staff that leaned against the end of the bed. His fingers closed about the worn wood near the grip, and he unconsciously reached out and touched the remnant life-force that imbued the staff, felt it twine around his own. The scent of cedar overwhelmed him, and he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, drew the scent into his lungs. For a moment, he literally felt the tree that had sacrificed part of itself to form the staff, felt the wind brushing through its needles, the roughness of its bark, the musky earth that fed its tangle of roots…
Then the sensation faded.
He exhaled with a huff, scanned the confines of the room he had claimed for his own decades ago here among the Faelehgre ruins, running through what he’d need to bring with him. He moved to the corner and dug through layers of discarded clothing; he tossed most of it aside but chose a few pieces to take with him. He’d wear the robes if he could, but he packed a shirt and breeches, sandals, boots, stowing it all in a satchel he could sling across his back; he’d need them once he reached the Escarpment and the edge of human lands. He’d take the staff, of course, and his sling, but what else?
Standing, he surveyed the room, spotted the bowl he used to hold tinder, the flint beside it. A lantern he’d salvaged from the wagons after the Shadows attacked so long ago sat next to them. He shoved the bowl and flint into the pack, then began sorting through the rest of his supplies. Most of it he’d had no use for in the forest, although he hadn’t known it at the time. But some of it could be used for trade-pots and pans, brooches and other jewelry. He’d need some coin once he passed beyond the plains and dwarren lands. Everything had come from the chests and crates stacked in the wagons. He’d taken nothing from the bodies of those the Shadows had killed except the vial of pink-tinged water he’d found in his father’s pocket. He wrapped this in cloth and stowed it away.
Then he ran across the knife.
He paused, setting the bolt of cloth that had covered the blade aside distractedly. He reached for the knife, hesitated a moment, then picked it up. It was meant for eating, its blade no longer than his fingers, although the edge was sharp and would cut flesh easily. He knew. After he’d awakened in the forest, near the Well-after he came to realize that he’d been saved but that everyone else had perished-he hadn’t wanted to live. So he’d slid the knife into his heart, had felt the warmth of his heart’s blood spill over his hands when he pulled it free with a shuddering gasp and then collapsed. He’d heard Osserin cry out in shock, had smiled as the Faelehgre’s light hovered over him, the Faelehgre yelling, You fool! You utter fool! He’d gathered the encroaching darkness to him willingly, succumbing to it with a grateful sigh.
And then he’d woken up, leaves blowing into his face, the bloody knife half fallen out of his grasp. The ground around him had been saturated with his blood. His shirt had been matted to his body, a rent in the fabric above his heart where he’d shoved the knife through it. Blood had coated the inside of his mouth and he’d rolled to spit it out To discover that his chest hurt. A pain so deep he’d gagged, then curled up into a fetal position and shuddered with its intensity. There wasn’t a mark on his skin, but he could feel the wound deep inside, a wound that hadn’t completely healed yet, a wound that should have been fatal.
It’s the Lifeblood, Osserin had explained as he healed. When you drank from the Well, the Lifeblood saved you from the Shadow’s touch and in the process it… changed you.
Colin turned the blade over in his hands in his room, then slid it into his pack as well. He hadn’t tried to kill himself since that day, didn’t intend to try again. That had been a dark moment, not even two weeks after he’d drunk from the Well. A moment of utter despair.
And it had been the first sign that the Lifeblood hadn’t simply saved him from the Shadows. It had altered him in some fundamental way.
He thought of the black mark on his wrist and grimaced. “And it’s changing me still.”
Slinging the pack over his shoulder, he scanned the room, but he saw nothing else he needed, nothing he wanted. Grabbing an empty flask and the lantern, he turned and left without looking back.
There was still one more item left to collect.
He passed through the darkness of a few other interior rooms before stepping into the dawn. The air was crisp, sharp with autumn, the pervasive smell of pine and cedar underneath. Mist hung between the trees and what remained of the rounded grayish-white buildings that had once formed Terra’nor, the central city of the Faelehgre when they had ruled the forest depths, when they had been flesh and blood beings. The ruins were surprisingly intact-a consequence of the proximity of the Well-but there were signs that the abandoned buildings were crumbling here and there. Colin could see where a pedestal that had once supported a statue was now half subsumed by the earth. Drifts of leaves and pine needles had mostly covered the paved white roadways between the buildings, and here and there one of the balustrades of a balcony in one of the myriad towers had shattered. Few of the glass windows or doorways remained intact, although in his explorations over the years he had found one or two, the glass itself nearly flawless, without the typical bubbles and imperfections he’d seen in Portstown and Trent Colin stilled, his earlier troubled frown returning. He hadn’t thought about Portstown, let alone Trent, in ages. He’d tried hard to forget Portstown-Sartori and Walter and all the rest-had succeeded for years on end. Yet now he woke from an age- old dream, one he hadn’t had in a long time, one that he wished he could forget. And he saw Portstown in the ruins he’d called home for decades.
Uneasiness crawled across his skin, and the muscles in his shoulders tightened. He drew the staff closer, his eyes darting around the sunken plaza before him, searching the mist tinged with the first signs of sunlight, the shadows of the open doorways and windows of the buildings.
Trees rustled in the breeze, and the mist began to lift.
His uneasiness grew. He suddenly wanted to talk to one of the Faelehgre-Osserin or Tessera. Now.
As if he’d reached out and called to him, Osserin’s voice exploded in his mind.
Colin! The sukrael! They’re at the Well!
Colin was moving before Osserin had finished, uneasiness transformed into motion. The mask of age-a physical affectation-sloughed away. Wrinkled skin tightened, slack muscles firmed. A slight limp in his right leg
