Harmony For A King
An Archewood Story
Note, this story takes place during the final chapter of “Travel By Star.” It references significant characters and events in that story.
The clouds had rolled thick for a fortnight. The Arborland stood silent and white. A horse and rider made their way along, while the mountains towered in the distance, sentinels ringing round the valley, intermittenly lost in the steady moving grey or briefly and suddenly stark against bright skies, snow spinning and whipping from their peaks like the spray off wind-harried ships cutting through an inverted sea. The occasional roar of a great cat broke the stillness.
Travel of Occam was weary in a way that would not show.
He led Bracken back into the stables, the stallion’s coat steaming from a mix of sweat and snowmelt. It had been a month since they’d returned from Archewood, or what was left of it. He and Nichole had walked a perilous and broken road back to that old city. They had fought wolves and worse at its doorstep. They had lost, and they had won. Yet for all Travel had seen, his time remained a mystery to him. He knew he had met Someone there. He knew there was work to do.
And he knew this was only the beginning.
The stables were warm and dry. Not a drop of water found its way through the roof. By now, Travel expected as much from the Caelan and their craftsmanship. Their land and their labors had been singularly blessed on account of their fidelity to things Travel only knew the scant part. It was a realm that pushed back against the world, by being what it should have always been.
Which is why the dreams troubled him so.
Travel had slept well a month ago, when he and Nichole first passed through the Arborland, and the hall of its great home, Harmony. It had been a rest like he’d rarely known, one he could just barely recall from his earliest childhood when his mother and father had been whole. He had expected the same when he and Nichole returned from the mountain. He had felt a sense of building courage upon reentering Harmony’s doors. And, at first, all was as it had been. Yet, little by little, the fissures reopened in his mind. Little by little, the road had crept back into his body. He was seeing things he could not explain, and memories he wished to forget.
Bracken snorted roughly as Travel absently removed his saddle.
“Don’t worry about me,” Travel said, hanging it on the wall.
He set to brushing the horse down and clearing the mud from his hooves. In the next stall over was Jemma, the mare he and Bracken had found in the Eastvale. Nichole’s horse.
She hadn’t been ridden today. Or yesterday, from what he could tell. Nichole had been busy working on something with Callik and Marlie. The Caelan women had been her frequent companions this past week, while Travel had hardly seen her. He missed her company, but he did not press. They both understood a much longer road lay ahead of them in the Spring, and he had determined to give her whatever time alone she needed while she worked through the loss of her father.
Her father, Hatchet. The hidden Octant. The Protector of Occam. The last son of Archewood. A man fallen at the doorstep of his own long lost city, then secreted away by an angel. Travel would probably never put it all together.
He finished with Bracken, then headed back outside. In the time he’d been in the stables, the sun had slipped behind the mountains, once again, the day closing its doors early. A shallow layer from a late day’s dusting had fallen on the stony path back to Harmony, remindng Travel of the snow that had fallen on Archewood’s Ledge, where so many had made their last stand.
The Solstice week was still two days away, but the clans were already arriving. The first night of the Solstice – the longest night – was known as the Reckoning. It was a time for grieving, for making peace with what has passed, and peace with the unknown days ahead. Yet this year would be different. For the Caelan had also fought at Archewood’s Ledge, and nearly every family had lost someone. It had been a long time since the inhabitants of this land had seen the breaking of battle. Still, in every conversation Travel had with them, from youngest to oldest, there was no resentment. They had always been prepared.
He wished he could say the same for himself. As he reentered the path, listening to his own footsteps crunching the snow beneath, he felt a tightness in his back, one he’d become used to from long days on the road, but one which he’d not believed possible in a place like the Arborland. He could see shadows beginning their dance with warm flickering light in many of Harmony’s North-facing windows, and he anticipated the fire in the great hall, where he might lose himself in a deep leather chair, reading into the night or sleeping out the knot in his neck.
The first strums of music reached him, clear, bright… and heavy.
They were not coming from the massive inn.
He turned in the direction of the sound to find a well worn footpath running past the tack room and into the woods. It had not been cleared lately, and the snow lay thick in the depression. There was a set of hoofpints in the path, too close and too small for a horse. He looked again briefly to the West, seeing the sun spending its last, leaving only a faint outline of pale orange behind dark peaks. When he looked back, the footprints were nearly gone, filled with falling snow. He gave a sharp whistle, wondering if perhaps a foal had gotten loose. The music came again, plaintive and tender, stoking his curiosity. Setting his jaw he tromped down the footpath towards the notes, following the fading prints beyond the stables and up to the forest’s edge. There, he broke into a hard run, seeing little as the trees thickened and the eastern hills loomed up.
From a tall, dark window in a high, hidden nookroom, Mercinda, Alaian of the Arborland watched the Traveler disappear into the forest. There was no fire in this room. Her breath fell on the glass, slowly receding. She drew her shawl closer, her hand trembling lightly.
The cold descended sharply in the forest and within seconds, Travel could see nothing. He ran blindly, listening for the music, which for awhile remained just at the edge of his ear’s reach, falling, it seemed, between the sound of his own breath. How he did not stumble or collide at speed with a tree, he could not say. He almost felt as if he were in two places at once, running along an unseen path, while also looking down upon himself from the treetops, marking the turns before they came or slowing with some sudden ascent. This torn, yet tethered feeling only lasted for half a mile at most, and all the while, in both places he had the sense of clouds rolling and crashing above him like gentle shallow waves on some familiar shore. Slowly, he found himself again only running, with the music growing ever more elusive.
Utter darkness fell, finally bringing him to a stop, with every instinct chiding him for having entered a wood at night, alone. Yet, he was the Arborland. Wasn’t he? Even in the dark, he should be fine. He carried on, straight as he could determine, until a new sound met him.
Water, flowing somewhere off to his left. The sound of river.
A chill caught him then, a passing thing, but unexpected, for it came not from the damp cloister of the forest, nor from the wind bending the boughs, nor even from a sense of being lost. No, it had come from within, as if long ago some errant lick off a frozen sea had burrowed itself in his chest, and now, of all times and places, had chosen to awake. He tensed, trying to push it out. It would not yield, and he felt the sudden insistence to turn and flee back to the stables, back to Harmony, back to his friends. Back to Nichole. Yet, the water’s rush lilted and danced in his ears, and whether he realized it or not, his footsteps changed course.
Deeper in he trudged, the roots growing thicker and more raised in the floor, the branches interlacing, wet and clinging, dragging across his face and forcing him to grope his way along. His steps became slow, methodical, and unthinking. The sound of the water made his head hurt. The cold inside made his hands shake. A sudden shallow in the soil caused him to stumble, pitching him to the ground. He caught himself, but not before a root punched him in the side, knocking the wind from him. For a moment, he felt a sharp fire in his skin, remembering bruised ribs and torn flesh. As he lay on the ground, fighting to draw breath, it occurred to him he’d never questioned how easily it had all happened.
One moment, he had been bleeding and broken from a series of wolf fights, barely held together by stitches, which had inevitably torn. Then a Man – who knew everything about him – made him whole again. And for that brief time, it felt like nothing had ever hurt Travel or could ever hurt him. But it was over now.
Travel did hurt, still, even now. For the Arborland was only ever a respite.
The work still waited out there.
His breathing returned and he dusted himself off, following again the sound of the water, which would not leave him alone. Sbortly, he stepped from the treeline into a clearing, soft blue under a full moon that seemed out of its course, so bright as to be almost daylight, and yet so cold. The river rippled before him, steady, but far quieter than he would have expected. Ice stretched all along its edges on either bank, with a narrow and deep stream flowing deceptively fast at its middle. The rushing sound he’d heard earlier seemed to have moved away, upward, far above him. Across the stream, a lonely tree stood, spindly and dark, reaching upward with its naked, brittle branches, appearing to fracture the sky behind it like a glass painting.
Something else stood on the other shore, as well. Or, rather, someone.
She was tall and pale; a long, lean waif-like woman. Her hair was white and wild, looking as though she had lived and run along the wind-battered ridges for many, many years. Yet, she betrayed no age or wear in her skin. She was a woman, yes, but for one so obviously harried by exposure, she appeared impossibly smooth. Like thin milk, her limbs glistened, while her shadow fell over the snow, stretching sharper, deeper, and farther than it should, a hard black figure cutting and strutting along the gentle blue.
She was as bare as the tree behind her.
Travel felt sick, a certain knot doubling up in his gut. His heartbeat took on a rapid, ratcheting pace. He drew a sharp breath, fearing that if he did not, he would cease to breathe altogether.
“Tired already, are we?” she asked. Her rasping, song of a voice carried across the stream as if drawing strength from the water. It played and licked at his ears, warm and cold at once. His eyes seemed to go dull, then, seeing, but unable to focus, as if the cord between sight and thought had been twisted. He shut them tight, clutching at the back of his head.
“Who are you?” he said. “Why have you come?”
She laughed. “To finish what I’ve begun. The more important question is, ‘Why have you come?’”
“I heard something,” Travel answered, though now he struggled to recall anything other than her voice.
“I heard something, too, once.” She took a step forward, her shadow stretching out onto the icy bank. “A lay, you might call it. With a hero and and a maid, tuned for each other, called to carry a great l…” she stopped herself, as if her voice could not speak the next word. Another handful of silent steps brought her feet to the ice. “It does not matter,” she continued. “It never did.”
Her shadow now stretched across the river, reaching all the way to Travel, daring him to step forward into it. The cold in his chest became an ache that clutched at him, her lithe limbs promising warmth. A wind came tearing down from – what direction was it? He could not tell. Only that it seemed to slash through his Caelan coat, a feat no other wind had come close to. It closed around him, shoving him roughly. In its moan, he heard the squeak of wheels, the crack of a whip; he smelled old, ugly leather and filthy sweat. Glancing to the side, he saw his own shadow, or what he thought it to be. But it looked all wrong here, misshapen and hunched, down on all fours. Coils of rope strained to pull him on.
An inexplicable boyish sadness filled him. A feeling he’d not known since…
Angrily he forced his eyes to look toward her again. Her gaze had turned feral, her eyes burning like hot iron. Sweat beaded at her neck, running down to fall from her stomach. A subtle, unrestrained tremoring moved through her scooped torso, and the scent of her conquering ardor came rushing at him, resinous and full of cloves and cinammon.
His hand reached for a rifle he did not have.
She seethed at his resistance, then closing her eyes, she bit into her lower lip. Yet what began as a pouting plea, soft and slow and patient, demure and almost childlike, became a wicked grimace the longer she waited – demanded – biting harder and harder, till a line of dark red dripped from her chin. Travel tasted blood in his own mouth, and everything in him ached to end this by just stepping into the shadow, onto the ice, across the water to meet her.
Something big and strong slammed into him, sending him flying, then crashing to the snow. He heard the pale, wild woman scream – a vicious, denying cry met by a powerful roar which shattered the spell. It was a roar he’d heard echo from the peaks of the Arborland several times, the sound of a great leopard, issuing his warning to any who would dare enter his domain. Travel’s head flooded with bewildering pain, yet as he fought to regain his sight, he could see Breithem, the defender of Harmony leaping across the river. The waif raised her arms, and the dark, frost stripped tree behind her burst into violent grey flame. Breithem roared again, then as if a wound in the night had been immediately sewn shut, both waif and tree were gone. For a moment, Travel heard the lingering sound of a wave crashing above him, then it passed.
Breithem returned, standing a short distance from Travel as he climbed to his feet. It was nowhere near as bright as it had been, for the moon had resumed its shape, waning to half, and finding again its proper place in the sky.
“Thank you,” Travel said. The cat nodded, its cerulean eyes never leaving his. In them, he saw care and concern tempered by a capacity for unflinching violence. Without ceremony, Breithem turned and walked away, slow enough that Travel could follow through the snow. They followed the stream for awhile, its steady rippling the only sound. In time – Travel could not say how many hours – it bent back into the forest. Arriving at one end of an old fallen log, the cat motioned for Travel to cross the stream. He did, and reaching the other side, he found a game trail running further along, where the trees were not so dense. Looking back, he saw that Breithem was gone.
He walked on alone, the earlier events of the evening weighing on him, but almost in a forgotten way. For the waif, in all her menacing beauty, had slipped away, and now seemed little more than the whispered haunting of some old tavern. Soon, he heard the music again, strong and clear, and without any struggle or weariness, he ran again, easily moving through the forest. However, at the point he thought he might begin to climb uphill, he found the trail turned again, running downward till it emptied into a wide field which stretched as far as his night vision could take in. The field was wet with dew, and with the exception of a few patches of scattered snow, looked for all the world like a dark green sea gently lilting in the breeze. The sky was lit with more stars than should have rightly been there, gathered in bright strands as though they were clouds that some great bird had passed through. A multitude of sheep grazed in the field.
The wool of his coat had been made from these.
Stepping out under the stars he moved slow and steady through the sheep, remembering the few he’d once found grazing in another field just a month ago. A field by a frozen lake, with a cabin and an iceboat. He remembered the shepherd’s staff which had given him and Nichole entry to the cabin, its weight in his hand, and the words he’d heard.
For the one who comes after me.
Looking out to where the field met the sky, he saw a small uprising in the darkness. A light flickered there, as of a campfire. As he made his way towards it, he found a yearling ram wandering on its own. Taking it gently by the the head, he turned the ram and nudged it on back to the flock. Then he pressed on for the light, covering ground in eager strides.
The distance was farther than he’d thought at first, and while he never grew cold under that clear sky, he did find himself growing tired. Yet, still the music strummed, fine and resonant, melancholic, but never dour. Travel had heard the bawdy songs around the fire, and he had heard the dirges of loss – both were a staple of the mining life, when camps were well out from any town. This one was neither. It made him miss Occam a little more, the days riding in the Eastvale, and the hardy comfort of Grayshott’s pub. Not the false comfort he often sought after drinking, but rather the warmth of the stove deep into the winter, the witty kindness of Braia as she cleared things up, when he and Jase were the only ones left. The way they could say nothing and time never dragged. The chagrinned regret his friend often showed as he watched Braia from the corner of his eye. The quiet presence of the barkeep.
Hatchet had often left them to themselves, sometimes dropping off in a corner with a pipe and a tome, or else heading upstairs to sleep. He would only ask that they not break anything and they lock up when leaving. One especially rough winter, Travel had even spent several nights in the pub, sleeping in a chair. Hatchet never said anything when he came down other than, “Morning comes for us all.”
Drawing near the cave, Travel saw a man sitting on a log by the fire. Curled near him on the ground was a donkey, fast asleep. Travel recognized him as the “horse friend” who had met him and Nichole when they first sought entrance to Harmony. The man was dressed in a robe of gold and crimson, which, for all its regality, seemed humble and unfussed. A stringed instrument, which seemed vaguely similar to a mandolin, was in his hands. Hearing Travel, he stopped playing and looked up.
“Good evening,” he said.
“Same to you,” Travel answered.
“Oh,” the man smiled, “Forgive me. I am lost in my music. I meant this is a good evening. Yet also, I should add, ‘Welcome, stranger.’” He stood to dust himself off, then giving a sincere nod of his head, he motioned for Travel to come closer.
With both of their faces illuminated by the fire, Travel could see the man was younger than him by several years, with fair hair and bronzed skin. The brightness of his eyes was such that, even in the low light, Travel could see their stormy greyness, as easily as if he were staring out to sea.
“Where have you come from?” the young man asked.
“It’s a good question,” Travel replied. “Harmony of late.”
“A good question, and a better answer. ‘Of late,’ though, you say. I understand you to be a man of the road, then?”
“I am… was. I’m not sure.” He offered his hand, “My name is Travel.”
“This does not surprise me,” the man replied with a grin. He returned the gesture, firmly grasping Travel’s hand. “You may call me Adriach.”
“And where are you from?”
Adriach turned his eyes briefly to the West – Travel had regained his sense of direction since the enticement of the waif – and for those few seconds, a distinct and solemn sadness passed through his eyes. Then he looked to the heavens, a more puzzled, but peaceful look taking over.
“I am glad to say it has no bearing,” Adriach replied.
“But you are not from the Arborland,” Travel said.
“No, no I am not.”
“I would ask how you found your way here, but...” Travel looked at the donkey, still sweetly dreaming. “I think I know.”
The young man smiled as to laugh, “I was found by him, if that is what you mean. For the rest, though, I am afraid I can hardly describe it. I’ve been trying for some time to tell the story to myself, so as to make sense of it.”
Travel looked at the instrument in Adriach’s hand, and the thought occurred to him that he had not been playing the music with any intention of Travel hearing it, much less following it. Nevertheless, he had.
“I heard you clear across the miles.”
Adriach shook his head in disbelief. “What a wonderful place this must be,” he said. “I meant no distubance, mind you, but it seems I, too, am a traveler of sorts.” He held the instrument up. “Do you play?”
Travel shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Although, I wouldn’t mind hearing more, if you’re up for it. It’s been a long night.”
Adriach smiled genuinely at the invitation. “As fortune would have it, Sir, I was just coming to a point in my own musings. If you are willing, I would be happy to play on.” He motioned for Travel to sit, then resumed his own place. Slow and gentle, he began to work his way along the strings, letting the notes and chords lie and follow and blend, his eyes closed, his head moving in time. Before long, his voice joined.
Where on he fled, I never knew
Though many days I had sought
Long after mourning those he slew
Claiming vengeance for my lot
Yet in due time, however cut
I wakened dread at mercy’s thirst
And finding then a stag at rut
Forswore my anger at its worst
And thus I chose a sweeter spring
A well to dig with brighter might
To find ‘neath bitter, glistening
The brow that sweats with life’s delight
Yet quick they came, the stings, the blows
The little furies of small dreams
And mocked the songs of jealous crows
Till beauty’s effort tore her seams
Plunged again, my people rose
No lesson learned by the breaking
To seek where no clear river flows
The harder road their taking
Now driven here, I know not where
I plead my cause to this stone trough
Seeking drink of mercy fair
My strength I find, my pains laid off
With a final strum, Adriach brought the song to its end. Travel nodded his appreciation, for though he did not know what the song was about, he knew it came from a place of long thought and deep care.
“It’s good,” Travel said, “Like the evening.”
Adriach bowed, then both men sat silent for awhile, listening to the fire. A log crumbled to embers, and Travel moved to place another.
“Let it lie,” Adriach said. “We must be moving on soon.”
Travel looked to the east and saw the faintest of brightening. Indeed, had it not been for years on the road, and countless sunrises out in the open, he would have thought it still midnight.
“Where will you go?” he asked.
“Another good question,” Adriach replied, “One for which I have no answer. Though I am sure my guide will be true.”
At this, the donkey stirred and rose to his feet, shaking the dust from his back. Seeing Travel he gave a small, welcoming bray. Travel ruffled the mane between his ears.
“You said he led you here?” Travel asked.
“After a fashion,” Adriach said, then pursed his lips as if considering his next words. “We have no creatures like this where I come from. Nor horses, for that matter. We did, once, but... they were ruined.”
Travel knew of only one place where this had happened.
“You are from the Westvale, aren’t you?”
Adriach nodded. “It was known by another name in my time, but, yes, the same land.”
“Your time?”
Adriach looked again to the sky, his thoughts lost to Travel as they seemed to search for something in the stars.
“When I was a boy,” he said, “A man came to my city. An unstoppable man. A man from the North, bringing death. I had never seen the like of him... no one had. Yet still, I sought to defend my home. I shall never forget the pain and confusion in his face as I stood before my mother, my arms barely strong enough to wield a sword properly. ‘Why have you done this?’ I asked him. Giving no answer, he fled to the forest. I come from a people of blood, Travel, and though I wished to be better, I could not deny their demands. For a year I drove myself mad searching those woods, till one day I came upon a creature whose lore I’d known – believed – but whose form I’d never beheld. A stag, sharpening its antlers. A stag greater than any man has ever seen. I knelt before him, alone and terrified, yet... humbled. In seeing him, I knew myself to be only a small king. He told me to go home and finish what I had begun. I tried. I tried to lead them well. I tried to bring art and music. I tried to bring the horses back. I tried to heal the enmity with the North. They would not have it.”
Travel heard his voice, so placid in song, now hitching with grief.
“My mother betrayed me,” Adriach said, “And I was thrown down. I remember falling. I remember the ground, and the darkness, then the sounding of mighty waters. I do not remember pain, nor fear. I woke on the shore of an icy lake, with this fellow nearby.” The donkey wagged his head at the mention. “He bore me through the snow, on through the woods, bringing me to this place. To this cave.”
He paused, running his hand over the teardrop shaped body of his instrument. Suddenly, his eyes lighted on Travel, as if in all his perplexity, he had realized something.
“What is it?” Travel asked.
“I am not certain, but I believe you should see it. Come.”
Quickly, Adriach ran to the cave, returning with a long strip of cloth, with which he wrapped a branch’s end to light as a torch. Taking both the torch and his instrument he led Travel back into the cave. It was shallow, but tall enough to stand in, with a floor of scattered thatch, a few heavy blankets, and a stack of shepherd’s implements: a crook, a rod, a sling, and a shearing blade. But what immediately drew Travel’s attention was a stone feeding trough at the center. In it lay a thick bedding of thatch, carefully arranged, along with many more strips of cloth. Adriach pointed eagerly, a look of anticipation in his eyes.
“I’m not sure I understand,” Travel said.
“Nor I,” Adriach answered. “But I found this here.” He held up the stringed instrument again. “This is my gittern. They had broken it, you see, before throwing me from the tower. Yet, I found it here, whole. And it speaks better now than it ever did.”
Still unclear, Travel sifted through the trough, taking the cloths in his hand. As he held them, he felt what could only be described as the immense burden of newness, followed by a steeling relief. For the memory of another room, another fire, and another Man came back to him. He felt again his own body healed from the ravages of wolves. He saw Nichole, discarded to the depths, alive again, a bright star rising just outside the City.
“I don’t know how either of us came here tonight,” he said. “And I’m no musician. But, if you can, would you teach me that song. Just the last part.”
“It would be my honor,” Adriach said.
And so together, two travelers sang beside a manger, a donkey looking on.
Travel returned through the forest alone, arriving at the stables outside Harmony just as the sun broke. He was surprised to find Mercinda waiting at the end of the path.
“Morning,” Travel said.
“It comes for us all,” she replied. “How are you?”
“Tired,” he answered, “But not as tired as I’ve been.”
Mercinda smiled at him, yet for all her magnanimous vibrance, she seemed to be fighting the same feeling. Travel had never once seen her look even the least bit fatigued.
“Is everything alright?” he asked.
She closed her eyes for a second, taking a long breath. The bracing air of the morning seemed to fill her, driving away whatever tiredness remained.
“My apologies,” she said. “I am a mother whose children have never known a sleepless night. Yet, I am also a mother who knows when anyone in her care is troubled. I came to find you.”
Travel felt ashamed and saddened that he had been any cause of concern to her. “I’m alright now,” he said. “I had a long walk. Long, but good.”
She looked at him thoughtfully. She always did. “One hopes it was not too long, for you must dance soon.”
Travel laughed, “The first night of Solstice is tomorrow, I’m sure I’ll be ready.”
“You are mistaken. The Solstice begins tonight. You have been gone for two days.”
“What?” Travel said confused. But he felt the soreness in his feet, the heaviness of his eyes, the hunger in his belly, and he knew she spoke the truth. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Mercinda took his hand in hers. “There is no need,” she said. “I told everyone you would be well, and you are. But now I tell you this. Take your rest while you can, Travel. The Arborland will succor many of your wounds, even if it cannot heal them entirely. Let it do its work. The harsh sun will return soon enough. Do not let your worries hasten it.”
Mercinda watched Travel all throughout the Solstice dance. She smiled deeply when Nichole made her appearance. The grieving over her father would never truly end, but she was so like him that it would not keep her from her work... or her joy. There was a solidness to the way she and Travel moved together, in the way they held one another.
This gave Mercinda comfort.
She, herself, danced with her husband and her children till midnight, but knowing they would still be moving about the hall for hours, she took her leave, and retired to her private room. Standing at her window, she looked out on a clear night, seeing the Northern Wastes in the distance and the desolate peak that had once been Archewood. She remembered her days in that City, before its dreadful end. Her eyes drew back over the mountains and forest to her own land, now pristinely covered in white. A valley long hidden, long protected. A valley where the cold was never cruel.
“This isn’t over,” a voice spoke. A raspy, lilting voice.
Mercinda turned to see the waif standing in the corner, obscured by the dark, though not enough.
“Cover yourself in my home,” she said.
The waif’s eyes flashed slightly as she stepped forward. With a scoff, she pulled a dun colored cloak from the shadows and wrapped it around her shoulders.
“You must know I’ve broken better men.”
“I am aware. But not here.”
“No,” the waif said, “Never here. Never your fathers, your husbands, your sons... always denied me. The precious land, blessed, sealed.”
“Honest,” Mercinda said.
“Nothing is honest,” the waif returned bitterly.
“I care not what stories you tell yourself.”
“You never do.”
“Why have you come?” Mercinda demanded.
The waif walked closer till she was only a whisper’s distance. She stood almost a head taller than Mercinda, yet the Alaian of the Arborland was not the least intimidated.
“Because I can. At last... after all this time, finally, a crack in the wall.”
Mercinda narrowed her eyes. Both she and her husband had always known something would change when the Traveler and the Star came, and she recalled the gate in the south, where the Hunter of Shrian had left his mark. The waif’s taunting would only be the beginning. Nevertheless, she knew her children and her people. The Caelan need not fear this woman.
“If you are through with your mocking you may leave.”
The waif laughed. “The mighty Alaian grows weary, doesn’t she? Her Harmony broken.”
“My husband and I have held this land for half an age. We are more than enough for you.”
The waif’s eyes simmered at the mention of the Laian, choosing then to look out the window. A slow, thin smile spread across her over wide mouth. “Perhaps, but it will not matter. As for your Traveler, his reckoning comes, and neither you, nor your pet can protect him out there, alone. One way or another, I will finish this. I will find him, and I will ruin him. Lust is like water, Mercinda. It always finds the gaps.”
She turned and walked back toward the shadow, then she was gone.
Mercinda waited till the room became warm again, silently praying. Down in the courtyard, she could see Meghan, the sister of Travel’s father, walking toward the stables. A good woman, she was. A loving mother. A fierce defender. A woman who would remember. Mercinda had known it from the moment Hatchet brought her into Harmony.
Liah had spoken truly, in spite of herself. Mercinda could not protect Travel ‘out there.’ She could not wrap him in the weavings of this place any more than she could make the barren lands bloom. Danger would come for him, as it had come for Nichole, as it came for everyone who found the road through the world. It would come at him in ways he could never have imagined when he was wasting his days.
But he would never be alone.
Painting by John MacWhirter
