“I’m listening,” he said, realizing he spoke not only to the dirt but to himself as well. And to Dehlyn. That had been her message—to listen—and its meaning no longer seemed as hidden to him. Though he did not yet know how to make that connection again or how to hear what he was meant to hear, he did listen. Trees were far easier to focus on; they made their own sounds in the wind and beneath the wildlife among them. The dirt remained silent and still.
Then the moment passed, and Kherron found himself glancing about for other travelers. He was talking to the road. If anyone passed him here, standing still and muttering to the dirt at his feet, they’d think him mad without question. But he saw no one, and no one saw him, and he allowed himself a nervous laugh. Accepting his unknown ability with some amount of understanding had taken this long and had been hard enough. He could submit to the fact that he needed to discover this on his own, that he could do these things, but not feeling like a fool when his efforts garnered no results would be even more difficult.
At least now, he knew this first attempt did nothing. There were other ways, and he hoped he would not have to wait until his life was threatened to figure it out.
Kherron sighed and continued down the road, allowing himself the freedom to not push his limits too far in this. The sun warmed his face, the breeze gently ruffled his hair, and he briefly touched the hilt of the knife at his belt for reassurance.
THAT NIGHT, HE CAMPED again within the shelter of the forest and ate his last meal of the day. Hours of journeying with neither dangerous interruption nor debilitating dread gave him hope for a peaceful night as well. Eventually, he lay beside the smoldering fire and once more tried to listen. But he heard only the crackle of logs, leaves sighing on their branches around him, and steady rhythm of his own breath. The combination lulled him into a dreamless sleep.
ON THE MORNING OF THE next day, a doe and her two fawns emerged from the cover of the forest and stepped out into the road. Kherron stopped before they did, feeling like an intruder in their path instead of the other way around. Three pairs of dark, glassy eyes stared at him, long eyelashes unblinking. One of the fawns took two shambling steps toward him on its spindly legs; its white spots had almost faded before the winter, but its movements still carried a hint of awkwardness. Kherron released his breath slowly, and when the doe made no move to either continue or retreat into the trees, he cautiously moved forward along the road, angling toward the far side to give them enough space.
The doe took one step, then another, and fully emerged onto the packed dirt, her young in tow. Kherron thought they would cross the road and head through the few trees and into the fields on the other side. Instead, they followed him.
For half an hour, three wild deer trailed behind him in the cool autumn air. They came no nearer than a few yards. When Kherron stopped, they stopped; when he started again, they did the same. He moved slowly at first, not wanting to frighten the creatures, but they seemed as far from frightened as any wild animal could possibly be. Cautious, perhaps. Curious. But unafraid. When he turned to face them and walked backward, the fawn that had stepped toward him—distinguished by a large patch of white around one eye—jumped side to side, all four hooves leaving the ground at once. The second fawn stayed beside their mother.
With a surprised chuckle, Kherron turned around again. Three more times, he looked back to watch them. Part of him marveled at their reaction to his presence on the road; the other part of him kept expecting them to bolt at any minute. If Dehlyn were here, he realized, she would have approached them. He’d never seen a creature shy from her touch, she was that gentle. The thought set a bittersweet lump in his throat, and he pushed it aside. Dehlyn was different. He knew his place—respectfully removed from the wild things around him. The fact that they kept their distance felt more comfortable.
The last time he turned around, the deer had stopped. They stood behind him now at three times the distance of that at which they’d pursued him, staring at him again with those liquid eyes. He stopped once more and stared at the doe. One of her ears twitched briefly forward, but she did nothing else. In a moment of humor—lacking since he’d lost Dehlyn—Kherron briefly dipped his head at the trio, as if thanking them for the company and acknowledging their decision to stop. It was a silly gesture; he imagined Siobhas might have repeated it with a flourishing bow and a tip of his top hat. He did not expect the doe to respond in kind. She lowered her head, her long neck bending in a graceful dip, then rose again to fix him once more with her gaze. Only the fawn with the white patch running circles around its mother disturbed the unexpected solemnity of the moment.
A dangerously familiar sensation came over Kherron, some pull of anticipation, like the moment just before resting a cloak atop his own shoulders; he thought he felt a presence there. But it was gone before he could truly grasp the feeling, and he faced east once more to resume his journey. When he stopped by the side of the road for a midday meal of salted meat and roasted chestnuts, the deer were gone.
TWO DAYS LATER, A FEW hours before sunset, he spotted the wide stone wall of a building seemingly standing on its own. It looked misplaced along the road, as though it had been intended for one thing but the builder had decided to continue the settlement elsewhere. A large stable rested beside it, a wide well within a thin grouping of trees on the other side of that. But smoke rose from the single chimney on the side in lazy puffs, which meant the place was, at the very least, not abandoned.
Kherron was almost upon the stone building when he realized why it had struck him as so odd; it sat in the middle of the Watcher’s Road. No, he realized; the Watcher’s Road ended here, intersecting with another narrower road. This made him stop just before the crossing, where he could now read the sloppily painted words on the faded, rotting wooden sign—Gileath Junction. How would he continue traveling east if the road ended here? He did not favor the idea of making any part of his journey through uncharted land; trouble had not yet found him on the road itself, and he preferred not to test his fortune.
On his left, a mule pulled a large wagon towards him from the north, led by three hunched, bundled figures. They moved slowly, two of the figures ambling beside the pack animal, the third a few paces behind. The crunching of wheels turning in the dirt grew louder as they approached, and Kherron watched them stop the wagon in front of the stable. Large patches of white dotted the wagon’s sideboards, which looked wet and warped. Only a few indeterminable bundles rested in the back. One of the figures stroked the top of the mule’s muzzle with a gloved hand before unhooking the animal’s harness from the wagon hitch.
Kherron hadn’t realized he’d been staring until one of the newcomers crossed his path, heading toward the stone building. Blinking, he turned his gaze on this figure instead, instantly met with a wide, brown-eyed stare within a wrinkled, heavily hooded face. The old woman, bundled tightly in layer upon layer of thick furs, turned her head as she shuffled toward the building’s entrance. That piercing gaze lingered on his face until she reached out to grasp the door’s handle, as if she’d done it a thousand times and could do it blind. Then the door swung inward, and she disappeared inside.
This broke him from his indecisiveness; perhaps someone at Gileath Junction could tell him the best route for traveling farther east, or at least where he would find the next road in that direction. The place was obviously occupied—at least now. So he crossed the intersecting road and stepped inside the stone building after her.
Chapter 3
The building had no windows, and at first, he saw only complete darkness after the light of early evening outside. But a fire crackled in the large fireplace to his left, helping his eyes adjust with the aid of several small, low-hanging lamps along the far wall. Then he made out the four square tables, the wooden counter serving as a divider into whatever rooms lay beyond, and the old woman, who now sat upon the raised stone hearth. She’d removed her gloves and held wizened, reddened hands to the flames.
For a few sec
onds, he just stood there, thinking he had perhaps stepped into the woman’s home instead of a place of business, despite all signs pointing to the contrary. Without lowering her hands from the fire, the woman turned her head briefly toward the back of the building and shouted, “Cor.” The sharp croak of her voice startled Kherron, and he took a reactionary step back.
A grunt of irritation came from the back. Something clanged noisily across the ground, followed by another few grunts and the uneven thump and shuffle of someone with clubfoot. Kherron recognized it instantly; one of the younger boys at the Iron Pit had been cursed with the deformity, making it nearly impossible for him in the already miserable place. No doubt it had been the reason for the youth’s delivery into such servitude, and Kherron suspected the Pitmasters still priced the boy’s bond as high, if not higher than, the others’. “I know, I know,” a new voice called amidst the slow rhythm. “I saw you coming a mile away.” A man stumbled through the opening from the back rooms to the front, lurching toward the counter and just barely stopping himself from hitting his head on its edge.
“But you didn’t see him,” the old woman replied, not bothering to turn around and address the man she obviously knew.
“Ah.” The man grunted again, slid something heavy across the ground behind the counter, and seemed to grow by half a foot. Only then did Kherron realize the man stood on some sort crate or step, hunched over and peering around the room from behind a large set of spectacles. His neck craned forward between his shoulders, like a vulture. Likely either the two deformities had appeared together, or he’d been born with them. He was younger than the woman beside the fire by ten or fifteen years, but his short hair was greying, and his spectacles obviously needed replacing. It took him a full twenty seconds of searching across the counter before his eyes fell on Kherron. “Ho.” The weight of his exclamation jarred his entire body, but he grinned. “Where’d you come from?”
“The Watcher’s Road,” Kherron replied, both amused by the curiosity in place of hospitality and wary of it.
“A Westerner.” The man pushed his spectacles back up the bridge of his nose and squinted. “How is it out there? Nice and quiet and peaceful, eh?” His grin morphed into a sneer, and he leaned farther over the counter. “Lazy days and nothing to do, huh?”
“Cor,” the old woman repeated in the same gruff voice, though this time it carried a patient warning with it.
“Flat land and straight roads and high towers and—”
“Cor.”
“When are you going home?” Cor pushed his neck out toward Kherron by another inch, which had seemed impossible until he did so.
“I’m not...” Kherron started with a small, confused shake of the head. He’d meant to say he wasn’t a Westerner—surely a night spent in Hephorai didn’t qualify—but it sounded as though he meant he wasn’t going home. Which was just as true, but Cor’s questioning had left him confused and speechless.
“The man’s not a Westerner,” the old woman said, answering for him. Kherron turned to look at her and found her already having squared her body his way from where she sat. She’d also removed her thick hood and the multiple layers of furs, which had been strapped across her body with lengths of thin rope. These she coiled deftly in her gnarled hands as she spoke. “He’s no stranger to labor and hardship.”
“Of course he’s not,” Cor replied, raising his hand at an uncomfortable-looking angle to acknowledge Kherron with a sweeping gesture. “Look at him.” He slammed the hand down on the counter. “What do you want?”
“I’m headed east,” Kherron said slowly, hoping that didn’t set off another of the man’s irritated tirades. There was no reply. “I was hoping someone could tell me the best route to continue that way.” Long seconds passed, and for a moment, Kherron thought something had broken inside the man’s head; Cor blinked rapidly behind his spectacles, fixing Kherron with a harsh glare and doing nothing else.
“He spends all his time here,” the old woman said. Kherron turned once more to look at her and found her bent over, resting her forearms on her thighs and studying him. A long, thick white braid—which had been hidden beneath the furs and hoods—dangled over her shoulder. “And we see very few travelers these days, especially from the West.”
Before Kherron could say anything, the door creaked open, and the other two figures who had arrived with the mule cart stepped inside. Both men stripped back their hoods and removed their gloves, then they froze when they caught sight of the traveling stranger in their midst. “Well who’s this?” one of them asked, putting both gloves in one hand so he could begin untying the thin rope binding the furs around his arms as well. The man had a long white ponytail, and his thin, wispy white beard fluttered when he spoke.
“Haven’t made formal introductions yet,” the old woman replied, still eyeing Kherron.
“A not-Westerner from the West,” Cor mumbled.
The second man shuffled to the counter to drop upon it his gloves and the furs he’d already untied himself. “What does he want?” he asked, rubbing a hand vigorously over his bald head, which shone in the lamplight. Cor shrugged.
“He’s headed east,” the old woman said, then stood and placed one booted foot upon the benchlike hearth. She deftly untied the furs bundled around her leg, then switched to do the same with the other leg. The stark whiteness of her hair and the countless wrinkle lines on her face and hands belied her apparent flexibility. Kherron caught the glance she shared with the bearded man, noticing immediately how little their profiles differed.
“I would be grateful for any information on how best to keep moving east,” Kherron said, wondering just what he’d walked into at Gileath Junction. This was hardly a welcome and hardly an inn, and he couldn’t help wondering why all three of the bundled travelers—who each seemed far too old to be walking on foot—had covered themselves for weather far colder than the current early-autumn crispness. With a sigh, the bald man slumped into a chair at one of the tables and finally looked at Kherron, his lips tightly pursed. “Seeing as the Watcher’s Road ends here,” Kherron added, feeling the urge to clarify. He glanced from one elderly stranger to the next, increasingly disconcerted by their blank stares.
“What’s your name, son?” the bald man asked, slinging one arm over the back of the chair. He looked much younger than the woman and her white-haired counterpart—closer to Cor’s age but perhaps a bit older.
“Kherron.”
“Sid,” the bald man added, bringing his hand to his heart with a small nod. “Cor, Mattheus, and Nina.” He indicated each of the others with a flick of his wrist.
Kherron found himself avoiding Cor’s judgmental gaze, but he nodded at the others. Mattheus had joined Nina on the other side of the hearth, and the resemblance was strikingly apparent now that they sat together.
“What takes you east?” Mattheus asked. His voice was far clearer and gentler than Nina’s, and his patient smile instantly set him apart as the most endearing.
With a small frown, Kherron shook his head almost imperceptibly. He wasn’t certain how best to answer that question; he could hardly tell them the real reason, and nothing more fitting came to mind. So he said, “That’s my own business.”
“Oh, really?” Cor leaned across the counter again with a raised brow.
“Of course it is,” Nina said, stopping whatever more Cor might have said before he’d even begun. “And he’s asked for our assistance.”
“I really only need to know how to get to another road that will take me east,” Kherron said, finding he addressed Mattheus now as if the man had told him he owned Gileath Junction. “Nothing more.”
“What of a meal and lodging?” Mattheus asked, his brown eyes glinting.
Kherron felt Cor’s gaze on him, and a hot flush crept up the back of his neck to the tops of his ears. “That isn’t necessary.” He didn’t want to overstay his welcome, which seemed almost nonexistent. The thought occurred to him that perhaps he’d traveled farther along
the Watcher’s Road than was meant for anyone but these four.
There was a moment of silence, then Mattheus punctuated it with, “Nonsense.” The word boomed out of him, and Kherron nearly jumped in surprise. “We have more than enough to share with those passing through.” Cor groaned behind the counter, and Mattheus silenced him with a glance. “You may stay here tonight, and over supper, we can tell you how to get where you need to go.”
Kherron nodded, then found he had to lower his gaze. “Thank you.” He felt incredibly foolish for not having thought to ask for a map before leaving Hephorai. If he had, he surely could have avoided also feeling the intruder in such an oddly empty place.
Mattheus grabbed both his and Nina’s furs and ropes from the hearth, said, “Have a seat,” and headed toward the counter, where he dumped his armful of heavy winter gear. Nina rose to follow him, and together they walked around the counter and headed through a doorway into the back. Kherron chose the table in front of him and sat. When he glanced up, he found Cor staring at him once more. Then the man grunted, pushed his spectacles back up on his nose, and grabbed the bundles from the countertop. With an uncoordinated, lurching step off the crate, he ambled toward the doorway to join the other two. The sound of his lame foot sliding along the wooden floor faded behind him.
Secret of Dehlyn (The Unclaimed Book 2) Page 2
