Running Toward Illumia: Illumia, #1

Chapter 1

Astrea stalked the pure white creature, wondering how she would live with herself if she caught him. Unicorns were a rare sight in the Mist Valley. This was the first one she’d ever seen. Vapors swirled away from its glittering silver sword of a horn as if he had the power to dispel the fog entirely.

A too-orange curl tickled her forehead, sticking to the sheen of sweat. The mud caked on her skin started to dry and crack, little dots of sap she’d tattooed on her arms had turned to a sticky mess. She longed to scratch it off, but she didn’t dare move a muscle and spook her prey. So much for her impromptu makeover, a by-product of her earlier boredom in the empty forest. Not that she’d set out to add more freckles to her pale skin, or more curls to her limp hair, but really, what else was there to do?

Her lungs strained against the warm blanket of wet fog, so low today. It wrapped around her like an old friend, and she knew just how to use it to conceal her presence.

The unicorn grunted, unaware of her watchful gaze. Was he as intelligent as the stories said? Was the horn truly magic? And if he’s killed, will he curse us? That was the real question. Yes, the tribe needed the food, but what would be the cost for killing a creature so pure, and to eat, no less?

Still, he was the first beast she’d seen for weeks. With the forest emptying of life, she couldn’t afford to pass up such a large mark. They’d be feasting for days on that magnificent meat. Not that she’d be able to stomach a bite. The empty gurgle in her stomach turned sour as she imagined his flesh passing through her teeth. Astrea shuddered.

Taking another careful step forward, she gripped the reed tighter. She had loaded it with a poison dart as soon as she caught sight of the white hair, but switched it from a red killer to a green sleeper when she caught the glint of the horn. Such a beautiful creature, she had nearly dropped her reed as awe radiated through her. What business did a unicorn have in the Rudan’s land? The Mist Valley was a place of exile for those marked as the Banned, not Illumia’s elite. It took her nearly a full minute to recover from her shock. Thank the fog he hadn’t spotted her and bolted already.

She was close enough now to pierce his sweaty hide. His musty smell ambled through the still air, and his flank twitched, the silky white tail slapping away a couple of flies.

It seemed wrong to capture him. She could let him wander away, disappear into the steely fog from which he came. But her village . . . the unicorn would be an answer to their prayers, and she would be the hero. Surely her differences would be forgotten in light of such a massive haul.

Resolve tightened her grip and quieted her quaking heart. Silently, she lifted the reed to her lips, her cheeks filling with air. One shot. She wouldn’t have time for another. Her hand shook. Stay true. For the tribe.

The white head rose, ears swiveling, big blue eyes trying to penetrate the dense forest and murky air.

What was that?

The voice echoed in Astrea’s ears in an odd sort of way. She tensed, willing herself to pick up on the approaching footsteps, but the forest yielded no unusual sounds. If one of the youngers spooked the unicorn . . . Her face grew hot, her lips tightening, but no further sound came.

Astrea breathed out a silent prayer. Please don’t go. The unicorn grunted, then dropped his head to continue grazing on the patch of moss he had found.

No more stalling. Astrea breathed in through her nose, and then released the air stored in her cheeks. The dart found its mark in the unicorn’s flank, and his eyes bulged as he took off.

Astrea raced after him. The creature wouldn’t make it far, but if she lost sight of him now, she might never find him in the layers of fog and forest.

She dodged through the familiar twists and turns of the terrain, slapping away branches, her canteen thumping against her leg. Fallen moss-covered logs, brambles, and low hanging branches were no match for her lithe movements, even with the limited visibility. The blur of white had nearly disappeared, the pound of hooves fading under the cloak of fog when he slowed.

She caught up with the creature as he fell to his knees.

"Please, don’t."

That voice again. Astrea glanced around, but still didn’t see anyone.

Dropping the reed, she retrieved the canteen hanging at her side and splashed some water on his lolling tongue. She didn’t want the creature to die—and if he had to, she didn’t want it to be by her hands. The unicorn’s eyes closed, and she could almost convince herself he was asleep.

She moved his head onto her lap, her fingers running through the soft mane. Pausing above his horn, she wondered if she could feel his magic while he slept. She shook her head, snatching her hand back to her side. It would be cruel to take so much.

I’m so sorry, she whispered. She began to hum, an old tune from her village. The notes floated through the air, sad and eerie, and as grey as the ever-present fog.

Where do the Banned go when home’s no longer home?

Cast out and alone, fated to roam.

To the land of fog, sent to die

But fire survives much longer than ice.

Where do the Banned go when home’s no longer home?

The tune died on her lips, the words sticking in her throat as she wrenched back a sob. What a fool she must seem to be, sitting here, nearly in tears over a sleeping unicorn. She had stalled long enough. Taking a deep breath, she let out a shrill whistle.

Several minutes passed before she heard the crash of branches. Rosin’s red mop came into view first, her youngest brother nearly tripping on a branch when he caught sight of her and the unicorn. "Whoa! How’d you get that?"

Saw it feeding, Astrea replied, giving a shrug that belied the torrent raging within. You have any luck?

No. Nothing. These woods are quieter than a cat in a tree.

Astrea and Rosin both glanced up. Lynx attacks had been on the rise, carrying away unsuspecting villagers in a flash. A shiver ran down Astrea’s back, though there was no sign of the predator. Too bad the lynx were so smart; if catching one wasn’t so dangerous, the tribe might not be in the shape they were in now.

Another set of approaching footsteps brought Tiki, Astrea’s other brother. Several copper curls flew free, despite the band of leather he used to keep his hair tied back. Whoa! Nice find. Sure we can use it?

Astrea shook her head. I’m bringing him to the council to see what they say, though I don’t think they can afford to turn him down.

Rosin had his hand on the flank. Just doesn’t seem right.

I know. Astrea stared at the big white head in her lap once more, wondering if she’d made the right decision. Of course I have, she chided herself. It’s for the tribe. She placed his head on the ground, then stood, retrieving her reed and slipping it into her belt. We should get moving. Don’t want sleeping beauty here to wake before we have a chance to get him in the cage.

Tiki slapped his hands together. Right. Let’s get to work.

It took about an hour to get the travois strung together and another hour to load and drag the unconscious animal to the village.

They came in panting, greeted by shock and wonder as they took their captor to the cage at the center. Astrea watched the little ones hover around them, their tiny frames so gaunt and frail. They needed this meat. We all do, she reminded herself, though it did little to ease her guilt.

The unicorn began to stir shortly after they locked him up, and Astrea cast a regretful eye at the beautiful creature. Maybe the tribe council would spare him. She had the feeling that if they did eat him, he’d be tough and gamey, and bitter with the taste of the forest’s loss.

Chapter 2

Rosin and Tiki ran off to tell the elders about their find while Astrea dropped her reed and darts in the hunter’s hut. She loved the smell of that place—warm wood with the sting of metal, and a hint of blood and decay to remind her what the weapons were for. Astrea emptied her pouch of darts on the table and began cleaning them with an old rag, kept on the bench for just that reason. When they were cleaned, she’d stick them in a cloth lump filed with the poison, allowing them to soak up the contents. Red went in the red ball—more brown than red these days—and green went in the green ball. Such an efficient system. Astrea loved the routine of cleaning her tools, how it put a stamp of finality on the day, a pleasure that was growing as scarce as the food.

She pulled the knife from her boot and began cleaning that as well. It was hers to keep, but she wanted to get the rope fibers off before they dulled the blade.

Ah, the mighty huntress is back with her kill. Seneca leaned against the doorway, her arms crossed. Fading red hair pulled into a bun made the severe angles of her face even sharper.

Astrea smiled at her mentor. I’m surprised you already know. My brothers just left to tell the council.

Word travels like dragonfire when such an abundance of food arrives in the middle of a famine.

I suppose so. But he’s not a kill. Not yet. I thought it best for the council to decide. Astrea wiped her blade once more, turning it in the light to search for stray spots.

Seneca’s eyebrow shot up, but she nodded. I suppose that’s the wisest course of action.

You don’t agree?

Seneca was the first huntress in the village, and Astrea treasured her advice. As a child, she’d looked up to the confident and daring Seneca. First to beat the boys with sticks. First to kill a lynx and escape unharmed. Astrea wanted to be like her, to prove she was a vital part of the village.

We need food, not arguments. If he’d been brought back dead, we would’ve been forced to eat him.

Astrea slid the knife back into the sheath and straightened, careful to keep her face tilted away. You’re on the council. What do you think will happen to him?

Same outcome, more time. But at least your conscience is clear. Who knows? Maybe the unicorn’s curse will fall on the butcher instead of the hunter. Seneca smiled, patting Astrea on the shoulder.

Astrea’s stomach churned. The thought had crossed her mind, but she wasn’t a coward. She’d butcher the unicorn if that meant the curse would fall on her.

Go clean up. The meeting will be starting any minute. You’ll want to at least be clean when everyone starts hugging you.

Right.

Oh, and Astrea?

Astrea looked at Seneca, who hung in the doorframe, hand on the knob. I’m proud of you, even if you didn’t kill it.

Thanks, Astrea whispered, then cleared her throat. She stared at the closing door as Seneca’s spindly frame slipped from the hut. She swelled with pride at Seneca’s praise but deflated as quickly with the thought of the unicorn’s curse. She had to figure out a way to fix it. The meat would do no one any good if it killed them.

***

Astrea wove her way to the well, against the flow of people headed for the center. The concentric circles of staggered huts provided a shell of sorts, designed to withstand the hazards of the fog. Not that the village was attacked often; the fearsome reputation of the band of outlaws provided nearly as much protection as their carefully built defenses.

But today the twists and turns grated on her, and she huffed at the bother of it all. Why couldn’t the paths be in straight lines? This mess slowed her down, and she needed to get the mud off, like ten minutes ago. She glanced over her shoulder. Her body tensed, ready for the council horn’s blast. All that met her ears was the throng of voices and shuffling feet, but it would come any minute now. Just a small breath of time; that’s all she needed.

She quickened her pace and inhaled the soothing pine and earthen scents of the village, the long shadows created by the darkening day sending a chill through her. The puffs of smoke from hut stoves billowed through the sky, adding a burnt smell, though it lacked the meaty aroma that used to flavor the air. She sighed. It was the only home she’d ever known, and she loved it dearly, despite its convoluted paths and withering people. She’d do anything for them, to feel like a part of them. It didn’t matter that her hair was paler or limper, or that her skin was far too unfreckled.

The tribe, the whole valley, was home. It didn’t matter that the fog was lethal to most. It didn’t matter that this place was basically a prison, hemmed in as it was between the Dragon Range to the north, south and west, and the treacherous ocean to the east. This was where she’d spent her entire life, and this was where she wanted to grow old. Assuming the forest allowed for their survival. The Rudan were tough, but the famine was slowly accomplishing what the fog hadn’t.

Arriving at the well, she sat on its low wall, pushing the bucket into the hole. Rope snaked behind it, secured to a stake in the ground—it didn’t take long for some village idiot to lose untied buckets in the well, so they kept one or two tied there constantly. A satisfying thunk rang from the hole, and she waited a moment for the water to catch and fill the wooden contraption.

As she hoisted the bucket from the well, Mavin sidled up to her, arms crossed. Think you’re pretty great, bringing in a unicorn?

Shut up, Mavin. Everything about the boy—only one moon her elder—drove her insane. The way his curls always got in his eyes, his tall, gangly body, the flappy ears that stuck out, even under that unruly mop. Her fingers itched from the restraint it took not to touch the scar on her leg, her prize for daring to attempt to beat him in a race to the top of a tree several summers back.

Are those . . . He poked her arm, his finger sticking in the sap momentarily before it let go with a muted pop. . . . freckles?

Astrea rolled her eyes. What do you think, genius?

Mavin clucked his tongue. Even with all that muck on you, your skin still looks too clean, love.

Well maybe you’re too dark. She pulled the bucket onto the ledge and off the hook before turning to face Mavin, wishing she still had her sleeping darts on her. She wouldn’t mind a few hours of assured peace.

A smile slid up one side of Mavin’s face. My skin is a galaxy of freckles. You? You’ve barely enough for a constellation.

You’ve never even seen a star, she mumbled. "How would you know?" The thick fog clouded the sky. Only the brightest of light could shine through. He was as ignorant as her, but it never stopped him from making the comparison.

I’ve heard stories. Same as you.

And I’m just as Rudan as you are. She plunked the bucket on the edge of the well, the excess force spilling water onto the dirt. Maybe more so.

Says your ma. He stepped closer, his hot breath on her face.

Astrea glared at him, but he didn’t flinch. The Mist hasn’t killed me yet, has it? If she were lyin’, I’d be dead. Like oil and water, outsiders don’t belong in the Mist Valley. The old saying stuck in her throat, the same as it did every time she heard it.

She scooped some of the water and splashed her face, aiming to drench Mavin with a bit, but she only succeeded in getting herself wet. Eyes closed, she grabbed for more, but nearly fell into the empty space where the bucket had been. Mavin laughed as she attempted to wipe the muddy water from her eyes and regain her sight.

Mavin! Give it back. Now!

He laughed again, and she staggered toward his voice. Pale white, she makes a great hunter, because fog and skin match each other, he sang.

She stumbled, a quick attempt to open her eyes confirming that she couldn’t. Her fists rolled into balls, and she growled at him, beyond words. This wasn’t the first time he’d picked on her. By now, he had it down to an art.

A tug at her hair let her know he was behind her, and she spun and lunged, nicking something. Maybe his arm?

He laughed again. You’ve got the temper of a Rudan, but not the color to go with it. Carrots, not fire. Did you make those curls with your fingers?

A splash of cold water doused her, and she wiped it from her eyes. Her drenched gray tunic clung to her, and fat drops ran from her hair down her back.

You must be oil. Just look at the water bead on your skin.

Another swipe of her eyes cleared enough away to open them again. I’m dirty, dork.

Mavin smiled at her, then dropped his crossed arms and sauntered toward her. Eyes of the sky, not of the forest. And a rather exotic shape, not at all Rudan. I don’t know what your mother did, love, but she’s been lying to you.

Astrea growled. She slammed into Mavin, sending them both to the ground. A thudding breath flew from Mavin, and Astrea took advantage. She punched him across his smug, ugly face, and his green eyes went wide, brimming.

Everyone who doesn’t belong dies. I’m not dead; I’m almost seventeen. And talk about Mamaa again, and I’ll make that nose a little more crooked. She wiped her face again, and with a flick of her wrist slung the water at Mavin. He flinched, one hand now cradling his jaw as he rocked back and forth.

You’re just jealous that I’m a better hunter than you, Astrea murmured as she stood and gave him a half-hearted kick. Mavin groaned and rolled over. She forced herself to turn and leave, running her hands over her sopping curls. She sulked through the outskirts of the village, trying to walk off her anger and hoping to dry a little before the meeting began.

There was truth to what Mavin said. She did look different, but it wasn’t like she could do anything about that. Except maybe the hair. She pulled at a limp orange strand. Perhaps she should tell Mamaa to give up on that carrot rinse she kept making for Astrea.

But Astrea was still very much alive, so Mamaa couldn’t have been lying. She was part of the tribe. All oil, no water. The unicorn proved that. Heck, everything she did proved that.

Didn’t it?

She bit her lower lip hard to keep from crying. A lazy wind blew past her moist skin, making her teeth chatter, and she crossed her arms. No matter how much Mamaa reassured her, doubt always crept back in. Not only did she look different, but she felt different.

The council horn blasted, shaking Astrea from her muddy thoughts. She redirected her wandering feet toward the center, speeding through the winding paths. Her stomach groaned, though whether in anticipation of meat or protest, she couldn’t be sure.

Chapter 3

Astrea stood near the back of the circular council hut, leaning against the rough wood wall. Torch light flickered and swayed on the perimeter of the room, the fire in the middle dancing to the thrum of hushed conversations. The wet tunic now cooled her in the sweltering throng of bodies. Good thing she hadn’t fully dried on her walk.

Mavin spotted her and came over, the first whispers of blue and purple mottling the knot on the side of his face. He smiled at her, then winced as his fingers grazed the spot. Nice job back there, love, he said as he settled on the wall next to her, so close his arm brushed hers.

Why? You want more? she asked, her dark tone mirroring her face. Tempted to move away from him, she held her breath and refused to budge. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

Lay off, Mavin, Tiki said, inserting his lean, muscular frame between the two. Astrea flashed her brother a half smile, mouthing her thanks as the tribe council called for quiet. Mavin scowled and slunk off.

Astrea spotted Mamaa and Pawpaw seated a little closer to