Chapter Text
Kestrel MacDuff breathed a sigh of relief, running a hand through her wavy auburn hair. She was bruised, but strong, and had no doubt this would lead somewhere exciting…
No, that wasn’t right.
Kestrel closed her hazel eyes tightly, ignoring the unpleasant squirming behind the right one. Had she truly left home just to become a monster, when she’d craved only romance and adventure?
Still pretty awful.
If she wrote an honest story about her current circumstances, Kestrel thought, it would have to begin something like: Kestrel MacDuff, aged twenty-nine yet as naive as a child, was trapped on a ruined beach with a worm in her brain and maybe two days left to live. It was entirely her own fault, and there wasn’t much chance she’d get out of this intact.
Accurate, but not encouraging.
The air smelled…unpleasant. Like grease and smoke mixed with rotten fish. It made sense; if that ship-thing had been alive, after a fashion, then of course it would now be decomposing. One could only hope that it would eventually dissolve into the soil and be forgotten completely. For now, it made going for a dip in the river unthinkable, no matter how much Kestrel would have liked to.
Where in the hells was she, anyway? No longer literally in the hells, at least. The climate and vegetation didn’t look too different from where she’d started. If this river was the Chionthar–and she prayed to Selûne it was–then she might only be a few days’ walk from home. Maybe, just maybe, she could make it home before this thing ate her brain, or turned her into a monster, or whatever brain parasites did. Mama Bettina was the best healer for miles, she might know what to do, or perhaps Mama Vickrey had encountered these little worms on her travels.
I’m like a little girl, Kestrel thought, running home to her mothers at the first sign of trouble. If only she hadn’t been snatched up by that ship two days into her journey, she might be in the city by now, gathering stories and soaking up culture. Instead, she was turning tail and heading back to the place she’d been hoping she wouldn’t see for at least a year.
The settlement of Hargrave–it would have been a stretch to even call it a village–had sprung up as a stop along a half-forgotten pilgrimage route. Its only building of any significance was the old temple of Selûne, where travelers received medicine and blessings, children got their schooling, and all town business was handled.
Kestrel hadn’t been unhappy there. She hadn’t really been anything. For most of her life she’d gone through the motions, assisting her mothers at the temple, looking after her sisters, drifting through her days half-asleep. There was always that embarrassing itch of yearning for something indefinable, but books and songs had kept it at bay long enough.
Ironically, it was the dream that had shocked her awake. A nightmare so vivid she could still recall its every detail, of being trapped inside a glass casket in a burning pit, vines wrapping around her body so tightly she couldn’t even scream. When she’d finally awoken, it had felt like a prophecy, a warning–that her talent and passion were beginning to atrophy in Hargrave, and if she stayed much longer, there would be no getting out.
In retrospect, running down to the breakfast table and screaming “I can’t do this anymore!” at her family had been somewhat overdramatic. They’d been supportive, though, when she’d stumbled through an explanation.
If I want to write about romance and adventure, I’ve got to actually experience those things, and I can’t do that in Hargrave. Because nothing happens here.
Mama Vickrey had said she’d been expecting something like this for years– “we can’t keep a bright young person like you cooped up here forever, it’d be damn immoral.” Mama Bettina had worried, in her own gentle, serene way, but even she had agreed that a dream like that must have some meaning. The twins had, as always, been helpful.
“You’re going to die immediately,” Noretta had said encouragingly. “Probably eaten by a wolf.”
“Or a werewolf,” suggested Velma.
“Or a were bear.”
Looking back, Kestrel was sharply aware of two things. One, that her sisters hadn’t come even close to guessing what would kill her. And two, that her dream had been prophetic.
She’d just misread the prophecy.
–
On the beach, Kestrel paced back and forth on the sand, tortured by indecision. Was it better to set out immediately and look for some sort of civilization, or to stay put and see if any of her fellow prisoners had survived? There was no sign of the golden-skinned, reptilian-looking woman she’d met on the ship, which was a bit disappointing. The githyanki had been terrifying, but she’d been helpful in her own way, and seemed knowledgeable about the whole tadpole situation. And if there was one thing Kestrel needed, other than a surgeon’s knife, it was knowledge.
With a deep sigh she stopped pacing and turned determinedly to her left. Faced with a solid wall of black-and-pink ship-flesh, over which it would have been impossible to climb, she sighed again and turned right, setting off down the beach.
The few travelers and fishermen who’d been out here hadn’t fared nearly as well as Kestrel had. Some had been crushed by alien machinery, others clawed to death by those brain creatures, and a few poor souls seemed to have been melted. It was tragic, and she would pray for them later, but she couldn’t afford distractions.
She nearly jumped out of her skin when one of the bodies moved.
Someone else had survived.
She rushed over to the figure, boots slipping in the sand. The other survivor was a young woman, pretty, with black hair and unusual spiky armor. With a flood of relief, Kestrel recognized her. The girl from the stuck pod, with the improbable name of Shadowheart. She still appeared to be in one piece, though unconscious–maybe she’d been caught by that invisible net as well. And one slightly-familiar face was far better than none at all. Cautiously, she bent down and tapped the dark-haired woman’s shoulder.
Shadowheart’s eyes snapped open. With surprising agility for someone who’d just been knocked out, she scrambled to her feet and backed away from Kestrel, hand going to the mace at her side. “What are you doing?” she demanded.
Kestrel took a step back, hands raised in peace. “You looked injured. I wanted to make sure you were alive.”
“I’m alive, yes. Thank you for the concern.” Her fierce expression faltered. “Um…I don’t suppose you know how we’re alive, do you?”
Kestrel shrugged. “Search me. The last thing I remember is being caught by something I couldn’t see.” She gestured to the sky. “Maybe someone up there likes us.”
Shadowheart’s lips twitched upwards. “Optimistic. But stranger things have happened, I guess. What’s really important now is getting our bearings, not to mention finding help. Do you know where we are?”
“Not as such, no. But if this is the Chionthar, and I hope it is, we might as well head east. My hometown is near Scornubel, and if we can make it in time, my mother might be able to help us.”
“Your mother?” said Shadowheart incredulously. “What exactly does your mother know about brain parasites?”
“She’s a cleric of Selûne, actually, and a very good healer,” said Kestrel, mildly offended on Mama Bettina’s behalf. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she could think of a cure.”
Was it her imagination, or did Shadowheart’s lip curl just a tad at the mention of the moon goddess? “I’m sure your mother is very clever, but I doubt some provincial healer knows anything about our condition. If you’re right about the river, then we’d do better heading west, toward Baldur’s Gate. Surely they’ll have more resources, and I have…business there, anyway.”
“You’re not going to tell me what kind of business, are you.”
“No, I am not. But I am going to start walking.” She crossed her arms resolutely. “Are you coming or not?”
Kestrel hesitated. Hargrave was home, and felt safe, but Shadowheart’s condescending remark wasn’t entirely wrong. Bettina MacDuff might not know anything about tentacled aliens and cerebral worms.
And Kestrel had so very much wanted to see the city.
And it wouldn’t count as being disloyal to her family, not if Baldur’s Gate really was closer.
“All right, then,” she said. “West it is. Let’s try not to step in any brains.”
–
It was a warm, slightly humid day, which was decent for traveling and unfortunate for Kestrel’s appearance. She had what Mama Bettina politely called “vivid coloring” and what her sisters less politely called “tomato face.” Heat and emotion both had a tendency to turn her embarrassingly scarlet, not to mention turning her chin-length hair into a wild cloud of frizz. Her new friend seemed to be immune to such effects–Shadowheart’s long black plait stayed sleek and tidy, and her pale cheeks didn’t show a hint of flush. Kestrel suspected that if she touched the girl’s cheek, it would be as cool and smooth as a marble statue.
“What were you doing before you got scooped up by that ship?” she asked spontaneously. “And what does it have to do with that little box?”
Shadowheart’s dark eyebrows drew together suspiciously. “Nosy one, aren’t you? I don’t see how my personal history affects you.”
Kestrel shrugged. “I’m a writer, I like stories. Of any kind, really. You seem like you might have a few good ones.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t,” Shadowheart said shortly. “None that I’m at liberty to tell you, anyway.”
“How unfortunate. But you must be able to talk about something. Like…” Kestrel thought deeply. “You’re half-elven, aren’t you? Like me. Which side of your family was which?”
Shadowheart sighed deeply. “I don’t know, all right? I’m an orphan, I don’t remember my parents. I don’t suppose it matters if it was my mum or dad who was human.”
“I suppose not. I mean, I’ve got two mums–Mama Vickrey is the human one, Mama Bettina is the elf–and my sisters and I are a fairly even mix of both of them.”
“Wood Elf, I’m guessing. You seem sort of…” Shadowheart gestured vaguely at Kestrel. “Woodsy.”
Kestrel pondered whether this was an insult or a compliment, and decided on the latter. “That’s right, actually. And you’re probably half High Elf, right? You seem lofty.”
“That seems a reasonable guess.” Shadowheart looked her up and down, lips pursed. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a bit odd?”
“Lots of times. Though you’re one to talk, secretive-orphan-named-Shadowheart- and-her-mystery-box.”
“Quite.” Shadowheart’s lips twitched. “Seems we’re two of a kind, then.”
Smiling, Kestrel mentally rewrote the opening of her story yet again.
Kestrel MacDuff had no money, no idea where she was, a worm in her brain, and maybe two days left to live. But, quite astonishingly, she seemed to have acquired a friend.