She cast her eyes around the dull light, seeing the haggard and worn expressions on all their faces. Purple bruises stained the eyelids. Annon walked, clutching his shoulder, and she could see the blood staining his tunic. His face was a mask of determination and foreboding. Hettie’s hair was tangled with snarls and brush, her look sorrowful. Prince Aran was wounded too, his black jacket shredded from the Weir attacks. He walked with sternness, his face hard and without compassion or suffering. Phae mourned when she looked at him, remembering the secret looks that Khiara had given the solemn man.
A preternatural silence hung over the air and Tyrus stopped short, holding up his hand. Something creaked in the trees, something massive and hulking. They all halted. Tyrus motioned for them to draw near him and withdrew the Tay al-Ard.
A chuffing cough sounded in the gloomy dawn. It came from above their heads. Branches snapped and crashed down. A tree groaned, coming up by the roots, and started to fall toward them, its huge branches sweeping down like an avalanche.
Phae clung to her father’s arm as the Tay al-Ard swept them away from the danger. When the spinning ended, Phae found herself on the ground, vomiting violently into the turf. It felt like the world was still spinning, even though the magic had already deposited them. Her ears rang and she wheezed and choked as every bit inside her stomach came out. The spasms clenched hard and painfully and she trembled with the efforts. Soon black bile was all she had left and she planted her palm on the ground, feeling a trail of it cling to her lip.
Shion knelt next to her, mopping her face with the edge of his cloak. She was so exhausted, so spent, she tottered against him, knowing she’d faint if she tried to stand.
“Drink,” Tyrus whispered, handing her his own flask.
She shook her head, waving it away.
“You must,” he said. He knelt beside her as well and pressed the flask against her mouth. She took a small sip and nearly gagged. It was awful, acidic. She waited a moment, hoping the pain would recede. It did—barely—and she took another drink. When she looked up, she saw the worried faces clustered around her. They were not looking at her, though.
Lifting her gaze, she stared at the woods, not recognizing anything. She knelt in a small grove of ancient oaks, but the limbs were glittering with freshly spun spiderwebs, thick as linen strands. The entire forest was covered in a veil of webs, from the trees above and between each.
“Where are we?” Phae whispered, stifling a moan.
Tyrus looked around, his face betraying his alarm. “Where we were yesterday. The Dryad tree is over there. I think I can make it out. But these webs were spun last night. By what, I do not know.”
“If you only believe what you like, and reject what you don’t like, it is not truth you believe, but yourself.”
- Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
XXVIII
The webs clung to every tree, forming an impenetrable mesh. Back at the Winemillers, Phae had often marveled at the webs spiders could weave during the night between the grapevines and the trellises. As a child, she had touched the strands, which caused vibrations down the lengths, summoning the small spiders—tricking them into believing they had snared some prey. These web strands were thick and haphazard in formation, almost like cobwebs in dusty corners. But these were no silken strands that could be torn with a breeze.
“You don’t know what caused these webs?” Annon asked, his voice grave and tremulous.
“No,” Tyrus answered. “I never encountered them. We didn’t make it this far.”
Hettie lifted her boot and sticky strands came up with it. “They are everywhere. We can’t use the Tay al-Ard again. What then?”
Phae struggled to regain her feet and leaned on Shion to stand. The webs were frightening, shrouding the view in every direction. What army of spiders had created it?
Tyrus frowned, stroking his beard. “The Arch-Rike knew we might return this way. This must be a direct path to the promontory, so he’s encircled the area with a net of webs. We must be cautious, for the spinners are probably still near.”
“There is a legend in the Druidecht lore,” Annon said. “A race of spirits that is half-human, half-spider. They’re called the Raekni.” He swallowed. “They’re quite large—the size of one of us. We should watch the trees above. They can move faster than us through this barrier and have stingers that paralyze their victims—” He turned around abruptly. “I heard something.”
“It was the wind,” Hettie said, touching his arm. “Let’s use the fireblood to burn our way through.”