This, the fourth and final selection of stories, completes the Seasonal Paths series created by a consortium of best-selling and award-winning North Atlantic writers.
In this anthology you will encounter unintentioned consequences, love in later life, the pull of family dynamics, misguided assumptions and murderous soulmates.
Enjoy this excerpt from S C Eston.
The Huntress
By S. C. Eston
Day 6 of Harmony, year 790
THE SUMMER SUNLIGHT PIERCED THE LEAVES to reveal a rounded mass tucked behind a green thicket. Broken twigs and trampled moss created a trail on the spongy ground, leading from the road to the hidden niche.
“There,” Tarlia said, pointing with her crystal sword. A white glow danced on the tip of the blade.
“Alive?” asked Dahran as he touched the medallion at the clasp of his cape. A shining hourglass decorated the golden disk. It seemed the god of destiny was with them this morning.
“Barely, if so,” said Tarlia. She shouted at the form on the ground, announcing that they were here to help, hoping to rouse it. The mass didn’t move. “Cargon, check it out. Be careful.”
The minotaur moved off the road, giant bow in hand. He made his way to the form and knelt, gently nudged it.
“A woman,” he said. “Bruises on her face and hands. Very pale.”
“Armed?” asked Tarlia.
Cargon looked over and around the inert shape and shook his head.
Tarlia scanned their surroundings, found a flat spot on the ground farther up the road. She sheathed her blade, took a blanket from her shoulder bag, and spread it on the thick moss.
“Bring her,” she said. “Dahran, see what you can do.”
Laying his walking staff on the ground, the seer knelt by the blanket and waited until Cargon placed the woman in front of him. She didn’t stir. Her chest barely rose and fell.
“She’s weak,” said Dahran, frowning at her bruises.
Tarlia had seen worse. “Quickly, then,” she said.
Fingers on his medallion, Dahran murmured prayers to Karma. Tarlia couldn’t say that she had known many seers in her lifetime. In fact, Dahran was the only one, the only true seer, that is. Many pretended.
A flash of light jumped from the medallion to the seer’s hands, the blessing of the deity of destiny and omens. Dahran delicately moved his fingers over the motionless woman. Red bruises paled, turned pink. Smaller cuts disappeared, healed.
Some color gradually returned to the woman’s face. Her breaths grew stronger and more regular.
Dahran wrapped the blanket tightly around her. “Now she sleeps,” he said. “And we wait.”
