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As the horses set off, she studies me with wary eyes. Our escorts still haven’t spoken to us.
It seems wisest not to break the silence. I’m not sure what I’d say anyway.
At least no one’s pressed a cup of mind-addling drugs into our hands.
I close my eyes as if to get some more rest, which honestly I could use. But instead, I do my best to chart every shift in direction, every slight sound that reaches my ears from beyond the cart.
As far as I can determine, we’re heading on a northeasterly course from Florian. As we leave the city farther behind, the cart veers more to the east, and the driver taps the horses to a faster pace.
The cart jostles, my tailbone jarring against the boards. Would it kill these people to give their newest recruits a cushion or two?
We must travel longer than last time. We’re still moving when I pick up the second-hour peal of a bell from some distant temple, and we keep going for long enough after that I start listening for the set of three peals.
The cart slows. One of the scourge sorcerers ducks into the covered part of the cart with us, carrying a lumpy bundle.
“Put these on,” he says, handing part of the bundle to each of us. “You’ll become part of the Order of the Wild by tapping into your most primal self. Welcome to the salvation of Silana.”
These murderous assholes do think highly of themselves, don’t they?
I restrain a derisive snort and paw through the objects I’ve been given. There’s a black cloak, thinner but longer than my own, folded around a simple clay mask designed to cover the upper half of my face.
A quiver of magic radiates off the mask into my soul. It’s been enchanted in some way.
The consequences of refusing to put it on are almost certainly worse than the consequences of wearing it, though.
I ease the mask over my eyes and fasten it in place with the two ribbons that wind around the back. Then I swap my brown cloak for the black one.
The billowing wool fastens down the front with a series of clasps, covering my clothing completely. I pull up the hood instinctively.
The girl across from me has donned her own costume of sorts. I can’t see any magical effects from the mask on her. Perhaps the vibe I got had to do with how the clay was sculpted rather than any continuing impact it might have on the wearer.
The cart continues on for several minutes longer, until I do pick up the bell for the third hour. Moments later, the wheels jar to a stop under us.
I hear the fire before I see it. We step out from under the cart’s covering to see an enormous bonfire crackling only twenty paces away.
It wafts not just heat but prickles of magic as well. The conspirators are probably using their sorcery to conceal the light. I can’t even imagine how much power that’s taking.
Power they mostly stole from their sacrificial accomplices. Are some of them here too? How soon will they reveal that horrifying part of their practices to the new members?
A softer tingling of magic flows down over my body. I tense instinctively, just as the girl next to me lets out a gasp.
When I spin toward her, her form has changed, and not merely because of the eerie, wavering light from the bonfire. Her mask appears to have stretched and morphed, covering her whole face and jutting up above her forehead with the pointed ears, mottled fur, and yellow eyes of a wild cat.
She’s staring at me with as much shock as I feel. I touch my face, but can’t feel anything strange about my skin. My mask is still where it was before.
Oh. Her mask won’t have changed either. Her new “face” must be an illusion, triggered by our arrival.
More cat-like features sprout from her cloak—furry stripes and a sinewy tail, a flash of claws when she reaches her hand from between the folds. A little of the light shines through those surfaces, confirming that they’re illusionary rather than solid.
What creature have the scourge sorcerers concealed me as?
My skin itches at the idea that their magic is all over me. But our guides usher us forward, and I push myself toward the fire.
Now that my vision has adjusted to the blaze, I take stock of the ring of figures around the fire. Some twenty figures are waiting for us, all dressed in the same black cloaks we are, their faces obscured with images of wolves and bears, owls and falcons.
Tapping into our inner wildness. That’s what the conspirators told us in the cart.
Which means I still can’t see any of my new colleagues. How long are they going to keep us new recruits in the dark about who we’re actually working with?
