I knew it could come back at me, like a whiplashed spell. It is better this way. Julianos and the children should be safer for my appearances under his name. Easy for the Cavalarul to assume he is dead this way. Let it stay so. I hope they are well.

  From the journal of Drago? Buh?scu

  The forest thinned after breaking through the underbrush beside the road. Shadows of elder forests such as this jealously hoarded their murky shadows. Dragos's feet whispered over the duff of thousands of fallen leaves. Ages came and went in a place like this, but within the shade, time seemed frozen.

  The press of spirit, powerful and deep in the eldritch wood, alerted Dragos to its nature.

  P?durea Ielelor. Zgavra ran as fleet as a hare, bounding along, though not kicking up the duff to reveal the dark humus beneath, as Dragos did. They had precious minutes before the cavalry behind them could breach the thicket.

  He had to put as much distance between them as possible.

  Dragos sprinted, his pumping legs rattling his peddler’s box with obnoxious volume. He ground his teeth, frustrated with his own lack of stealth, but he had to catch up to the zmeu. Finally, as his lungs took on a squeezing burn, he barked, “Stop!”

  The creature skidded in the leaves, the gangly form it wore twisting as it slid to a stop and faced him.

  “What? Can’t keep up?” It laughed, its wide grin stirring Dragos's irritation.

  “Do you know where we are?” Dragos gasped, staggering to a jog. He came to rest before the monster, hands on his knees. He’d led too quiet a life of late and regretted it. His muscles complained almost as much as they had when he was starving, but used to running.

  The beast looked up, dark hair straggling in an eye. It pushed it away and humphed. “Not a safe place. For you, anyway.”

  Dragos flashed a hand backward, at the soft crack in the distance. Pursuers had broken through the forest’s natural barriers. If they were on foot, he’d be able to avoid them, but he heard the footfall of horses.

  He’d yet to outrun a horse in a footrace without interference.

  Though Zgavra said he wasn’t safe, the closeness of the spirit-wood soothed something else that had been itching in him. As if it had been waiting, something beneath his skin awoke, hungry for… he couldn’t say what. Unnamed want trilled through his body as he straightened and took in the woods with a more critical eye.

  Ancient trees soared overhead, boughs of oak and elm groaned against one another in the breeze. Dragos turned slowly, taking in the sloping terrain. The rapidfire crack of a woodpecker echoed through the forest. Something small rustled in the brush. It was too cold for snakes. Too early for owls.

  The forest floor was open, but perhaps he could hide in a tree if they got close.

  “This could be good. The forest spirits might drive them out,” Dragos murmured. Assuming it didn’t drive him out first. Or worse.

  Zgavra glanced around with a much less critical eye. “Hm. True. Or I could.”

  The boy’s figure fell apart like smoke in a breeze, swirling into the ethereal shape of a serpentine form, a shadow within shadows but for twin blazing orange orbs.

  It would be convenient to let the zmeu do as it liked. They were the fools who followed him into a haunted place, after all. Dragos rolled the idea over, but a part of him frowned upon it. Beyond their fear of strigoi, he knew nothing of them.

  “We should leave them be, for now.”

  Dragos attempted to orient himself, guessing where the sun hung and where the Aluta was. He started walking towards the Spineback. It was still several days away by foot, and losing the road may have slowed him, but the forest was easy going.

  Still, each step was made with awareness. The trees had presence, and the black knots on their trunks seemed to watch him like judgmental eyes. Every lungful of air tasted like mossy bark and shimmered darkly with pollen. Each breath he took in was one that the world around him exhaled.

  It was humbling.

  As he picked his way more cautiously, the crunch and crack of many feet behind him grew louder. The forest sighed with protest. The silence stirred.

  In his mind’s eye, he saw raw power surge. When he’d hidden in P?durea Manc?toare with the cerel, he hadn’t felt the same breath or intensity. The other world surged, and the veil, thin as a half-considered thought, leaked.

  Dragos halted. Zgava slithered through the air a ways ahead of him, unaware of the prickling he felt in his skull. He turned back to face the way he’d come.

  He could see figures down slope, through the thick, sparse trunks. Horses trudged. Surorile walked alongside their mounts, or pulled them. A frightened whinny echoed. It seemed some of their beasts recognized the danger ahead.

  Dragos gave in to the urge to call out to them, despite the poor wisdom of it.

  “Stop! This forest is too dangerous for you! Go back!”

  They may have had their armor, but it was as useful as wearing a hemp sack against a storm against spirits he sensed. Iele didn’t have to touch them; they merely had to convince nature to do their work.

  The woman in the lead looked up from the tracks he’d left behind. Another one pointed a sword at him and shouted something he couldn’t make out.

  He felt a breeze kick up from behind and glanced back.

  The zmeu’s shadow engulfed him. The beast came fully into the world, its long body snapping violently as it roared, flame dancing around its black teeth. Scales and mane blew over him, catching his cloak and the plume of his hair in its wake.

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  Screams rang out from the women below. Some of surprise. Many of genuine terror.

  Dragos stared as the Unspoken monster chased them. After the shrieks and roaring faded, he shook his head and groaned. Zgavra never ceased to confuse him. Sometimes it worked against him, sometimes it helped him.

  What exactly was its agenda?

  He stood there a moment, staring at the forest where the zmeu and the soldiers had gone, then turned back onto the course he’d chosen. The gathering eminence he felt was gone, like a wild wind that flew by. Dragos wondered if Zgavra’s presence had silenced it, or if chasing away the sisters had been all it wanted.

  For better or worse, he had to keep moving until he was out of the primeval deeps and into some woods less likely to kill him while he slept.

  It wasn’t long before Dragos came to the edge of a hollow. A placid pool reflected the falling sun’s rays with a charming intensity. Some urge tickled at the edges of his senses.

  A voice, not his own, whispered, “Come.”

  He adjusted the rope strap on his box. The contents rattled gently within as he turned to walk along the edge of the ridge beside the hollow. The voice, like wind in leaves, murmured, “Come.”

  “I’m fine up here,” Dragos replied flatly.

  Inside his chest his heart leaped. An urge compelled him to go down and investigate the pristine waters. He quashed them as thoroughly as he could. His curiosity wasn’t that easily piqued in a place such as this.

  As he walked the ridge, he thought he saw a length of bone on the water’s edge, half buried in the tall grass. A skull lurked just beneath the surface of the calm shore as he squinted down at it.

  He thought as much.

  Unfortunately, as he walked away from the ridge, something rose from the ground before him, forcing him to change direction. His guts sank into his boots. He’d hoped he’d avoided interaction, but it seemed the Forest of the Iele wouldn’t allow him any illusions. Or, none they hadn’t crafted themselves, anyway.

  A woman’s form, curvaceous as lovingly carved wood reached out to snag his sleeve. He wiggled away, only to be faced with another feminine figure, this time formed of moss. Another rose, and another. One by one, the iele surrounded him. Figures of water and stone, earth, and plant became a barrier to every step.

  Dragos's shoulders slumped.

  “What would you ask of me, dear spirits?” He asked with a kind tone reserved for children and animals.

  “Your…” One of the iele gestured at his garments. “Ugly man-touched metal. Remove it.”

  He glanced at his armor. The one thing keeping them from laying their hands on him. As lovely as they were, he was sure they wouldn’t grant him any wonders if he took his clothes off.

  “I apologize. I can’t. I can’t reach the buckles,” he lied. Not one of his best.

  One of the women hissed, splattering him with mud. Dragos blinked and wiped it from his cheek. He took a long breath and put his hand on his pouch. Going down fighting wasn’t really what he had in mind but—a new thought came to mind.

  The spell he’d written ages ago, with the help of his cohort. The spell to capture an iele. But he was surrounded by them, and not his cohort. No Mirel to oversee or step in.

  His gaze flicked around to the different feminine figures, desperation pinching the edges of his mind. What other choice did he have? He couldn’t fight all of them at once.

  The last time he’d tried to fight many, he’d ended up in a cage. Tortured. He’d lost what he wanted to save.

  “What else can I do to appease you?”

  Murmurs of ‘nothing’ echoed through the circle around him. Vines crept along his boots, skipping away from the bronze sigils attached to the leather. They sought to bind him, but they couldn’t. Yet.

  “I have some very nice things. Let me show you,” Dragos said, tone full of a confidence he did not feel. He shrugged his travelling box off his shoulders and crouched, setting it on the ground. His rummaging hands found what he needed, and then some things to distract them.

  They clustered around, not close enough to touch, but seemingly curious. Iele did like appeasements, though he had the feeling they wouldn’t accept anything he offered. He tossed a few crystals on the ground by a pair of mossy feet. A vial of lavender hydrosol was tossed at the boggy legs of another. A lump of fragrant resin was flicked toward barked toes.

  Box of iron filings in hand, he slid the lid open and grabbed a handful, then flung it around himself. The spirits shrieked, drifting back from him. He quickly completed the rough circle with another sprinkling, enclosing himself in a flimsy ring of iron.

  Dragos sat cross-legged, with barely enough room for himself and his box. It would do.

  Water splashed across the barrier. The water spirit shrieked at the touch of iron, but kept trying to wash the iron filings away. Seconds stood between him and the spirits.

  He took a steadying breath and closed his eyes against the assault of droplets and spoke. The itching hunger within him was replaced by a gathering energy. He welcomed it. It warmed his scoured soul, even as it grated against his being.

  The spirits howled. Wind roared through the trees, scattering loose leaves. The veil between the realms seeped once again, and what rushed by, he captured with his words.

  Dup? voia mea

  tu ce vezi

  Cin’ intr?

  ?mpletite prin urzeal?

  b?teal? ?i voin??

  Va fi al meu.

  This he recited three times, eyes shut, his whole being focused on the meaning, funneling the power within to bend reality to his will. When he opened his eyes, he brushed his hand over the faint circle to break it.

  “Enter if you dare,” He murmured, holding onto the maelstrom of power that he’d summoned. “Become one with me.”

  This time, there was no binding to a scroll. This time, it would be to himself. A dangerous choice, but he had no time to prepare anything. His gaze fell on the water in the circle, and rose to the str?luciele, whose wavering figure bubbled with frustration.

  The other iele vanished. There were no Solomonari nor cohort students to help. He risked the iele’s retaliation by capturing one. However, it bought him time to escape the forest. He hoped.

  She bucked against the spell, her waters rippling with her rage. Droplets flew as the str?luciele writhed and screeched. The female form vanished, and in its place a puddle shivered on the ground. Dragos snapped up the vial with lavender hydrosol and dumped it.

  He held the mouth to the ground.

  “Intra,” he murmured, willing her into the container.

  The water jiggled as if it weren’t pure spring water but made of gelatin. He focused on the inevitability of his command, channeling the power that surged all around him. Black and white spirits spun around the course of his focus, circling the direct line of his arm, around the vial, around the spirit. She had no choice.

  The others nearby remained hidden, silent. Watching, but not retaliating.

  Long minutes passed as the str?luciele inched toward the vial. Dragos let himself think of nothing else. Distraction would break the spell. She would certainly try to drown him, bronze or no. The others would likely come back if they saw her escape the spell.

  Dragos would be doomed, then.

  P?durea Ielelor: Forest of spirits.

  Zmeu: Romanian shape shifter dragon

  Strigoi: Beings considered unnatural. Is often applied loosely.

  P?durea Manc?toare: Devouring Forest

  Surorile: Sister

  Cerel: Sky Child in mortal form.

  Dup? voia mea

  Within my volition

  Tu ce vezi

  You who sees

  Cin’ intr?

  Who enters

  ?mpletite prin urzeal?

  By warp,

  b?teal? ?i voin??

  weft, and will

  va fi al meu

  Belong to me.

  Str?luciele: Spirit of spring waters

  Intra: Enter