The Goblets Immortal by Beth Overmyer (highly recommended books txt) 📗

He thought of his dream, wondering what he ought to do. Meraude had made no subtle allusion to her intents: if he did not provide her with the Goblets Immortal, life was going to get worse for him. But if he helped her…. Could she really bring his family back, as she so claimed?

Find the Questing Goblet, the mage had said before Slaíne woke him. There might have been something else, but the more he tried to grasp at the details, the hazier the memory became. Maybe his mind had conjured images and promises of things he wanted, rather than images of things that were. He’d been thinking and speaking of Meraude earlier, hadn’t he? Surely it was the power of suggestion influencing his sleeping mind.

And yet Aidan knew he had a poor imagination. To invent something so particular as the shape of the room, the woman and her fiery eyes, the unclaimed throne…it did not feel right. Something either was changing inside him – which, at the age of two and thirty, was ridiculous – or he really had been transported in his sleep to a different place and had conversed with this elusive witch. He looked at the girl. Perhaps he should share what knowledge he had with her. That, plus some persuasion, might convince her to open up.

Before dawn’s breaking, the air grew unbearably cold, and he was forced to build up the fire again, which he’d been feeding handfuls of dry grass since waking. Where had Triumph gone to? Aidan feared he was right about the iron mine. If that blasted horse had fallen into anything, there would be no rescuing him.

Shuddering, he looked over at the girl. That can’t be comfortable, he thought, seeing her arms and legs turned out at odd angles. He clambered to his feet and, seeing that she was shivering, threw his cloak over her small form.

When the sun overcame the horizon entirely, he tapped Slaíne with his boot. “Girl. Are you awake?” With care, he shook her by the shoulder, but she did not wake at first. “Slaíne, will you not help me find my steed?”

Her eyes blinked open a crack. “How long I been alseep?” Shaking, she sat up, and Aidan’s cloak fell to her lap. She looked him full on in the face, and it was startling to observe that a blood vessel had burst, making the white of her left eye crimson.

“Are you all right?” He scarcely could wait for her answer; he needed to find Triumph, the poor beast.

Slaíne started to stand and crumpled to the ground. “I’m fine.” Her voice was rather soft. “I’ll be up and about presently.”

Wasting not another moment, Aidan ran off into the woods surrounding their alcove, feeling for Pulls. When there were none significant to be found, Aidan closed his eyes and felt for the absence of things. His senses slid over the ground, probing and grasping at what could not be grasped. All the while he listened. Birds. Blasted birds twittering in the sky, fouling his mood further. He pushed his explorations deeper and wider. Nothing. No absences, no possibility of an iron mine, no Triumph.

He opened his eyes. He hadn’t gone nearly as far as he’d done the night before, but was there a point? Surely the horse—

Aidan started. There, leading toward his camp, were hoof prints in the soil…clustered with another set of strange ones. He followed them back to camp.

“Any sign of—” She stopped herself when their eyes locked.

“Do you know which way he went?” Aidan started off in the opposite direction that he had just explored, and he could feel from her Pull that she was trying to keep pace with him.

“Sir, please wait. I ain’t not meself again just yet.”

Without looking back, he frowned. “How’s that?”

She seemed unwilling to speak at first, and when she did, it came out more of a croak. “The curse, sir.”

Aidan held up a hand for her to stop. “You may return to camp.” The smell had just met his nostrils; no woman should be forced to witness what was downwind of their fire. “Please return at once.” It was all he could do to keep his voice from breaking on the words. He hoped he was wrong. If he were a religious man, he’d be praying that he was wrong. “Go back.”

Slaíne ignored that and continued her approach.

Handkerchief drawn, he looked back over his shoulder and handed her the cloth. “You’re going to need this, then.” He Summoned the sword he had taken from her and, parting a cluster of branches, stepped toward the source of the stench.

What he saw had not been the sore sight he’d expected, though it was indeed a disgusting mess. The mangled corpse of a sun-rotting goblin littered their path. Limbs here, heart there, it was a gruesome sight. But there was no sign of Triumph, other than hoof prints that grew fainter and finally disappeared into nowhere.

“Sir.”

Aidan turned to face Slaíne. “What is it?”

“There was a struggle here, if you don’t mind me sayin’.” She pointed at the ground a stone’s throw from where she stood. “The goblin’s body was dragged.” She took a few steps into a heavily wooded area, and emerged hauling a saddle.

Aidan groaned. “Anything else over there?” He felt for Pulls. There was nothing. But how could he not feel the goblin’s? They must have none.

Slaíne frowned at him as she handed over the saddle. “There’s no blood on the girth or any part of the saddle really.” Slaíne bit her lower lip.

“Go on.”

“Looks like they took your steed alive, sir. Goblins, they’re good at hypnotizin’ creatures. I’ve seen it done before.” She shuddered, and Aidan began to wonder at her. Who went around watching goblins?

She seemed to have read his thoughts. “Elves are cousins to goblins. I’m lucky the four didn’t let them eat me.”

Aidan sighed. “And I’ll be lucky if they don’t eat my