Page 128 of Starside

Until I see someone join me in the mirror. I whirl around, fangs up.

Nothing.

I see it, though, next to me. In the reflection.

A woman with long dark hair and deep green skin. Some sort of forest wraith. A blink—and she falls away, into a small puddle of water dark as night. I frown, about to open my mouth and say something, but just then the puddle ripples, and someone else comes rising out of it. An immortal in a fine dress, ready for a ball, her golden hair tied up into an intricate style. Her outfit is ornate, dazzling. The fabrics are like water turned to silk, stitched through with rare metals and diamonds. I blink, trying to get a closer look. What is this? An illusion? I step closer to Raker, lips parting to tell him, to say something, when suddenly, the puddle ripples again, and the woman turns into a warrior. In full armor. He lifts a sword.

Raker turns in a flash and throws his sword through the illusion. To my surprise, his blade pierces something real. The warrior. Whereas the illusion was invisible just seconds before, now it’s solid.

It melts away, back into the dark puddle, and Raker’s sword falls with it.

In a flash, Raker’s blade is in his hand again, and he’s stabbing through the puddle. It seizes—then slithers into the ground. Disappears.

“What—”

“It’s a lusk.”

“A … what? How … how do you know?”

He looks over at me. “Do you really think I came into the Questral as unprepared as you?”

Right. He knew about the pixie too. He must have sought access to one of those traveling storytellers, or maybe some of the king’s own orators. Of course. I remember their conversation, in the castle, and think about what he told me later, about wanting revenge. Is it revenge for the king?

Or … revenge against him?

I swallow down my irritation, knowing details could help me in the future. As if Raker can anticipate my next question, he sighs, and says, “It has a faint sound, if you listen. A shimmering rattle.”

I didn’t even hear it. I was too distracted by the beauty of the illusions. Which, I suppose, is the point.

“If you look at it, it becomes real. It feeds off your focus, your energy. It gets stronger.”

Right.

He starts to say something else but seems to think better of it and stops. He just shakes his head and keeps moving.

I keep following.

We walk for a few more hours, only encountering a handful of other creatures, each of which Raker quickly cuts to shreds.

Then, all at once, the mist is ripped away, and my jaw goes slack.

23

Beyond the mists is a forest of trees like giants.

“Skyquills,” I breathe, only knowing the name through stories. Whispered legends about trees tall enough to scrape the sky itself. “Silver skyquills.”

The trunks are thicker than both Raker and me combined. The needles are silvery green in the sun. I stop and look up. I just look, and look, gaping.

“What?” Raker snaps.

I shake my head. “Do you ever feel … utterly insignificant? In … in a good way?” Tears prick my eyes, stupid tears, because we almost just died a half dozen times, but this world … this world with claws and teeth is beautiful. I look over at Raker, only to see him looking at me. His stature says unimpressed.

“No” is all he says, before he turns around again.

Of course not. Harlan Raker, famous warrior, is anything but insignificant.

We made it through the mists. Part of me was sure I would die there, lost forever, like that hidden sword.