CH165 · Rewrite
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Chapter 165: Chase

The goggles changed everything.

Lightning had been flying survey routes between Border Town and the southern hills for two weeks — back and forth across the same terrain, sketching topography while Soraya waited at home to render the rough outlines into the precise painted maps that her magic pen produced. Alone, Lightning could cover the full range; with Soraya she couldn’t fly high enough over the forest. So she carried parchment and charcoal and came back with what she could.

After months of training her speed had built to something close to a hundred and twenty kilometers per hour at full extension. At that speed the wind was a physical problem: it pressed on her eyes until they ran, forced her to half-close them against the pressure, made precise observation impossible. She had started believing this was her limit.

Then Roland had given her a headband.

Two copper rings set in cowhide, the rings holding discs of clear glass. The leather was double-layered where it gripped the rings, so the fit was firm without cutting. A small buckle at the back adjusted for her head size. Pull the lenses down over her eyes and the wind was gone — or rather, she moved through it as if it existed for someone else.

He had called it windproof glasses, and said they were easy enough to make from melted glassware, and she should look like some person named Ezreal wearing them, whoever that was. She had put them on immediately and not taken them off since. She wore them pushed up on her forehead when she didn’t need them, like a second pair of eyes waiting. She had considered sleeping in them and decided she probably shouldn’t.

She was dropping toward Border Town on a delivery run — a roll of completed parchment tucked under one arm — when a shape crossed the edge of her vision.

A pigeon.

A large pigeon. A very large pigeon. Its wings were extended to a span that no pigeon in the bird’s long and unremarkable evolutionary history had ever achieved.

Lightning watched it bank toward the Longsong road.

She had eaten pigeon before. She had eaten pigeon often on the island — caught them with her hands, roasted them on sticks over driftwood fires. This one, given its size, would keep her full for the better part of a day. She reached for the salt and pepper packet at her waist and made a decision.

The moment she turned toward it, the pigeon saw her. It folded its wings and dropped, aiming for the tree cover.

Oh, Lightning thought, the grin spreading across her face. It’s smart. Smart prey was better prey.

She dove after it. The goggles sealed against the speed; she could see perfectly. The pigeon skimmed the treetops, trying to use the branches as cover, weaving between trunks in the lower canopy — a maneuver that would have shaken off any normal pursuer, but Lightning had spent three months learning the Concealing Forest at low altitude during the Months of Demons, and close-quarters flight through dense cover was something she did casually now.

The pigeon burst into a clearing.

Lightning hit maximum speed and wrapped both arms around it.

They tumbled. She kept her grip. The pigeon struggled — more strength in those wings than any normal bird, which she had expected — and she had her knife half-drawn when the thing opened its beak and said:

“Don’t, goo! Help me, goo!”

Lightning froze.

The pigeon didn’t move, which she appreciated, because her knife was still drawn and her reflexes were faster than her reason.

“Are you a witch?” she asked.

The pigeon nodded.

She put the knife away and sat back. “I thought I was finally going to eat something different.” A sigh. “My name is Lightning. What’s yours?”

The pigeon expanded — feathers into white light into white hair, the small shape resolving into a woman who looked considerably younger than she probably was, short and light and trailing hair that nearly touched the ground.

Maggie.” She pointed at Lightning with considerable feeling. “You wanted to eat a bird!”

“I’ve eaten plenty of them,” Lightning said cheerfully. She reached down to help Maggie up, and something small and red skittered out from inside the woman’s collar and bounced twice across the ground before dropping into a divot in the earth.

Lightning picked it up.

A bead. Glass-like, dark red, with letters carved into it in a pattern she recognized before she understood why she recognized it. She was already reaching for the string around her own neck before the recognition finished forming — pulling out the pendant her father had given her years ago, holding both objects in her palm.

Same pattern. Exactly the same.

What—” Maggie had gone very still.

“Why do you have a trace?” the witch asked.

“I don’t know what that is.”

“It responds to a magic stone — lets the holder of the stone locate whoever is carrying the trace.” Maggie stopped. “No. Why am I explaining this to someone who just tried to eat me?”

“Do you have the stone?”

“There are stones.” Carefully.

“Could you find me with it?”

“The stone has to match the specific trace. And only witches can use them.” Maggie’s eyes narrowed. “How did you get one if you didn’t know what it was?”

“My father gave it to me.” Lightning handed the bead back. “What about yours?”

“I’m not telling you.” But the wariness had faded somewhat. She looked at Lightning with something closer to curiosity. “You’re with the Witch Cooperation Association. Ashes says you won’t leave.”

“You’re with her?” Lightning’s expression shifted. “I thought you were a new witch, attracted by the rumor.” She considered. “We have a good life here. Why would we leave?”

“The Church.”

“An explorer doesn’t run from danger.” Lightning’s chin came up — and then, privately, she thought: the Stone Tower doesn’t count, that was tactical retreat, I’ll go back when I’m ready and I’ll be the first one into the basement. “And His Highness has things you’ve never seen. Weapons that can hit targets from a thousand meters.” She watched Maggie’s face. “Do you know how far a thousand meters is? Far enough that a person looks like a branch on a tree. One of those weapons makes a ball the size of your fist into something that tears people apart.”

Maggie’s eyes went wide.

“Can I see one?”

“Not unless you join the Witch Union.” Lightning hooked an arm around her shoulder, which required going up on her toes slightly. “But if you come back later, after your trip — there’s also the Concealing Forest. Honeycomb raiding. Mushrooms. Wild boar hunting.” She paused for effect. “You roast them over the fire and put salt and pepper on them and eat until you can’t move.”

Maggie was already licking her lips.

“Why would I lie to you,” Lightning said. “Come on. We might find a bird right now.”

The morning light came through the trees in broken angles, warm and gold, and the two of them walked into the forest, and Lightning had completely forgotten about the map.

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