by Lisa Rector
Meuric laughed aloud. Catrin was far from fluff. She was full of razors. All eyes turned on him, eager to know what the amusement was. Meuric flashed a smile at Catrin and wiggled his eyebrows. Catrin turned her head away. The seamstress pinched him again and clucked.
The artisans switched subjects. Meuric watched Catrin being measured, noting how silly he must have appeared pressed against the ceiling the way she was, yet she made the task look elegant. Iefan didn’t tickle Meuric’s toes or pinch his calves while measuring for boots. Meuric wanted to laugh again. The whole scene was hilarious. Little people had a way of making everything amusing, he concluded.
The crew of workers left as the rain relented and enormous flakes descended from the sky. Meuric shivered while waiting for the door to shut. He disliked snow and the dreadful cold that seeped into his bones, amplifying his frozen heart-center. In Morvith, pools of hot springs were gathering spots for swimming and bathing. The stronghold where Rhianu and Meuric lived was built around one such pool. He sure could go for a nice bath, but he had to settle for sitting before the fire.
The youngest child, Lili, had cozied up to him, and she lay on her stomach beside him with her head on his knee. Meuric didn’t mind. The hearth was the warmest spot in the house. Betrys took out her knitting and rocked before the fire. Dewydd pulled some fishing net out of a wooden box and spread it on the table. He worked with a thick needle and heavy cord, repairing holes.
Catrin retreated to a corner. Betrys had made Catrin a pallet of furs to soften the hard floor. The little boy curled against her, huddled in a blanket. Meuric heard her low voice telling a story.
“Dewydd?” Meuric asked with a sudden flash of inspiration.
“Mmmhummm?” Dewydd asked through a needle in his teeth.
“Given the history of your people, might your ancestors have kept maps of their journeys?”
“Ah, are ya interested in the history of our travels, or are ya a scholar of maps and topography?”
“Truthfully, I want to figure out where we are. The story you told on the boat piqued my interest in the area.”
“Our chieftain has the maps. In the mornin’, when the snow stops, he can bring them by.”
“That’d be most welcome. Thank you.” Meuric would get to the bottom of his suspicions.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT COMES TO THIS
The wind picked up and howled through the night. Dewydd and Betrys slept on their bed at one end of the hearth, and the children slept between them for warmth. The crackling fire and the moaning wind did little to drown out the low snore of one of the Eilian.
Meuric lay on a pile of blankets in front of the fire, scorching his back from the intensity. Catrin declined to sleep anywhere near the fire, so she lay in the corner on her pallet. Meuric assured Dewydd he’d keep the fire burning throughout the night as one way to repay the Eilian.
Anxious for his pair of boots to be finished, Meuric felt like a prisoner in the cramped hut, with the falling snow as his jailer. His heart lurched and raced. He cried out in his mind to Derog, Rhianu, and his mother in turn, expecting no response but stealing comfort from the thought of them. Meuric called on his darkness and pushed it through his body, willing serenity to take control, willing the blessed stillness to return.
When he closed his eyes, Meuric heard each separate crackle and pop of the wood with agonizing clarity. A long snore droned on for an eternity, filling his ears. The hum echoed throughout his head and buzzed behind his skull. Meuric pinched the bridge of his nose and pressed his fingers across his brow. His chest rose and fell painstakingly slow as the pulse thudded in his neck.
He groaned. It’s happening again—the drag of time that weighed on him. He had only recently come to feel this when his ability to ether jump emerged. When would it stop? He tried to roll onto his stomach and rise to his knees, proceeding with one jarring movement after another.
Time lurched forward. Meuric crossed the room, grabbed a log, and tossed it on the fire before realizing he’d done it. He collapsed on his pallet with his arm over his face and waited for sleep to pull him under.
Several times Meuric woke during the night to add wood to the fire. His anxiety didn’t return, and he found the morning had dawned with his next stirring. Catrin was nowhere in sight. The Eilian were long awake and busy. He couldn’t believe no one had roused him.
The door blew open, and Catrin entered. Though barefoot and wearing thin clothes, she smiled, emphasizing cheeks red from exertion.
“Get up, you lazy dragon.” A frown for him disappeared as soon as it came. “Let you sleep, did they? I’ve been shoveling snow and melting it with my feet. These Eilian have really never seen an emrys. They’re completely astounded by what I can do and stunned that I don’t grow cold. I told them you’d be no help until you received proper clothes.”
Meuric cleared his throat. “Thanks for making me seem useful.” He scratched his head and stretched. If these Eilian hadn’t seen an emrys, he and Catrin were certainly in serious trouble.
“For you, anytime. There’s a scrap of porridge in the pot. I had to fight young Meical to keep him from eating it. In the end, Betrys made the children pull on their boots and cloaks, and go outside in the snow.”
She saved me a meal? Interesting.
“What’s got you in such a great mood?” Meuric pried his unyielding eyelids open by lifting his brows.
Her smile twitched ever so slightly. “Your captivity.”
Meuric smirked. “Woman, you like to rub everything in. Rub lemon in my wound… please. Squirt it in my eyes. I knew I should have gone to another hut.” While stooping, he shuffled his way over to the table and whacked his head against a beam. He cursed. Meuric grabbed the pot and wooden spoon, shoving a cold, pasty bite into his mouth, only to promptly gag on the slimy, congealed mass.
Catrin smacked him hard on the head. “Master of Light, you’re a pig. Are you even housebroken?”
“Gaw,” Meuric said with the food plastered to the roof of his mouth. If he didn’t get away, he’d end up crippled. Meuric swallowed the lump of food. “You beat me up the other day. Give me peace, woman!”
The door opened, sending blinding light into the room with a burst of frigid air. Meuric recoiled as Dewydd entered with another Eilian Meuric had not yet met. The middle-aged man had quite a few wrinkles on his freckled face and a great, red beard hanging halfway to his belly.
“This is Chieftain Mihangel,” Dewydd said.
Meuric nodded as introductions were made. Mihangel carried several leather cylinders, which had been stamped with various symbols.
The chief spoke with a rough, crackling voice as he popped the cap off a cylinder and slid a map free. “This is the first map of our first forefathers—the ones who came across the continent from the western shores.”
Dewydd and Meuric helped Mihangel roll the map out on the table. Catrin grabbed several mugs to hold the curling edges. Mihangel pointed to the start point and traced his fingers along hashes that marked the trail.
Meuric gaped at the incomplete map. The edges faded away as if someone had become bored with finishing it. Understandably, the Eilian had not traveled in every direction. The map indicated land they crossed and the length of the river they followed for the most part, clear up to a mountain ridge spanning far north and south. The mapmaker had marked the gap where they crossed the mountain and the trail that curved north to the swamp, which had a sizeable X and the words Danger. Do not enter.
Nothing was remotely familiar to Meuric. This part of the world held nothing similar to Meuric’s homeland, so he knew they weren’t in Morvith. No settlements were noted either, except the one the Eilian started from. A skull symbol had been drawn to the left of the mountain range.
“What’s that mark for?” Meuric asked.
“Bandits attacked and killed a number of the explorers there,” Mihangel said.
“Anything familiar, Catrin?”
She leaned over the table
and studied the paper. “Well, yes. Most of the map is unfinished, but I know those mountains—the Great Ridge. The forest on either side is drawn incorrectly. The east side should reach all the way to here.” She pointed to an inlet on the map near the sea. “This is not a sea where I’m from. It’s a desert.” Catrin narrowed her eyes, and her creamy skin grayed. “How old did you say this map is?”
Here we go. The moment of truth.
“Nearly eleventy-hundred years old,” the chief said.
“Do you have a more recent map?” Catrin asked.
Meuric looked up from the map and peered into Catrin’s face. He wanted to see precisely when the truth clicked.
Chieftain Mihangel uncapped another cylinder and coaxed out a map. He laid it over the other one. The map showed a detailed sketch of the village, and the topography extended several miles up and down the coast and as far west as the Great Ridge.
“This is Rolant.” Catrin tapped the map. “It looks as though you’ve explored most of it, excluding the swamp. Why is there no documentation of settlements or of the Great Forest? For that matter, why does the map say your village is where the sea town of Islwyn should be? There should be another settlement here.” Catrin pointed near the ridge.
“My lady, no other settlements, as you call ’em, have been built,” Dewydd said. “Only a few small villages on the coast unless ya run across a barbarian encampment. Our village is the largest and most prosperous one on the east sea.”
“Did ya get a glance at the mountain range while ya were outside?” Mihangel asked. “That is this exact ridge. No other. No Great Forest, only a young woodland, which has grown since our forefathers, but it’s still a young woodland.”
Catrin shook her head. “So… you’re saying we are here.” She pointed to the village near the coast. “Do I understand you correctly? This map is accurate, and it’s your most current map?” Her forehead creased. “The sea we came out of is this one here, where the desert should be.”
Catrin dropped into one of the short chairs around the table and lifted her eyes to Meuric’s face. “I’m asking you one more time, where have you taken me? So help me, you’d better tell me the truth!” Her voice rose, her green eyes bulged, and her face turned a complementing shade of scarlet.
Meuric leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. He wanted to milk this. “Perhaps you should ask yourself, dear Catrin, when in time have I taken you. Or better yet, when have the Masters shoved us?”
She gripped the edge of the table. “What are you saying?”
That’s right, Catrin. Add it together. He shouldn’t receive this much pleasure from the color in her cheeks or the fire in her eyes. “It comes to this, Catrin. If I have an ability to cross through space, then why not time, and why not for the amusement of the Creators?”
“I don’t believe you. How can you be sure?” Her eyes narrowed, much to Meuric’s relief. They weren’t particularly attractive bulging out of their sockets.
“The evidence stares you in the face. We fell right through time, in the same spot as the battle, right here.” Meuric touched the spot in the middle of the ocean that was supposed to be desert. “We didn’t go anywhere, so to speak, but back in time.”
“Even if this is plausible… When are we then, if you’re so sure?” Catrin’s face paled.
As the two Eilian watched the emrys argue back and forth, their heads followed each speaker.
“What do the songs say—the old stories?” Meuric rubbed his temples. “You know them better than I do. I’m sure. You grew up with them in your culture. I have only the stories my mother remembered and told me.”
Catrin slapped her hand on the map, recalling the haunting tune and Meuric’s haunting voice. “You sang the song on the boat! You know full well!”
Meuric pounded his fists on the table and leaned in her face. “Say it, Catrin. Face it. When in time are we?”
Silence fell over the group as they waited for Catrin to speak. Her eyes fluttered down to the map and up to Meuric’s face. An inkling of sympathy slipped through Meuric, and he didn’t care if Catrin sensed it. He almost didn’t want to see her heart fall the way he knew it would.
He was too late to cushion the blow or delay the truth. Catrin worked through confusion, implausibility, and reality as her face changed from placid to rigid.
Her mouth slowly formed the words, moving before they became audible. Catrin cleared her throat. “Before the War Between the Masters and the imprisonment of Cysgod. Before the cataclysm that raised the desert and scorched the ocean. Before the dragons are killed.”
CHAPTER NINE
BURNED
The idea was ludicrous, yet the evidence stared her in the face. Catrin’s emotions moved from disbelief to horror and anxiety, but settled on rage. This was Meuric’s fault. He had the ability to ether jump. He brought her here! She had an impulse to smack him—knock him square off his self-righteous feet—because Meuric was enjoying this reveal as if he knew all along.
“Do it—if it will make you feel better,” Meuric said.
“Excuse me?”
Still leaning across the table, Meuric scrutinized her face. He overemphasized his words. “I said, ‘Do it.’”
Her hand trembled. “Don’t read me!” She didn’t want to give Meuric the satisfaction, so she fought for composure. With a final huff in his face, Catrin pushed away, retreating to the door.
“Where do you think you’re going? How am I supposed to keep my promise if you storm off?” Meuric called after her.
She stopped on her heel and gripped the side of the open door, hoping Meuric received a freezing blast of air for his insolence.
“Don’t overtask your thick skull. I’m just getting some air. I know you aren’t going anywhere.” She laughed, musing that he was stuck indoors because he refused to use his light. He can suffer for all I care.
Catrin stormed outside and left the stupid half-breed with the two Eilian. She knew she looked silly as she burst outside barefoot and scarcely clothed, but she didn’t feel the cold. As long as she called on her light, she could push it into her extremities and stay warm for as long as she desired.
Catrin wandered through the center of the village, ignoring the curious expressions of the Eilian children romping in the snow. She wasn’t sure where she was headed.
She was back in time before the War Between the Masters. What did this mean? How was this even possible? How would she get home?
In her current time, dragons didn’t dwell in the mortal realms. They lived in Gorlassar before Cysgod slaughtered them. No other emrys or half-emrys existed. The capital cities of the three realms weren’t established, and living inland was far too dangerous because barbarians roamed the countryside. The ocean still beat upon the eastern shores of Rolant.
According to Catrin’s calculations, if she went by the age of her mother, who was created after the death of the dragons, Catrin was at least four thousand and seven hundred years in the past. More, depending on when exactly the cataclysm struck—the catastrophic event that raised the ocean floor, upheaving the banks and draining the water into the earth to leave a barren wasteland between the three realms and Morvith.
Catrin neared the edge of the village. She counted at least two dozen huts. Several inches of snow covered humble dwellings and gardens surrounded by crude fences. The village sat along the river she and the Eilian had come up on their arrival. Young trees dotted the riverbank and extended upstream. Catrin paused and gazed over the water.
The Eilian village was where the capital Islwyn—ruled by men, not little people—was supposed to be. In her time, dragons and their riders patrolled the three mortal realms, and emrys worked closely with the mortals to keep the kingdoms safe. The desert they referred to as the wilderness ran along the entire edge of Rolant.
By Deian’s light. Catrin remembered a horrid truth from the mortal’s history. The ocean’s upheaval would bury the village, creating a watery tomb for the unsus
pecting Eilian.
She needed to warn them. In Catrin’s age, the Eilian prospered in the Great Forest in a treetop village. They must have moved inland before the cataclysm. This would be the only way they would have survived such a land-altering event.
Catrin followed the river and arrived at a fence, which stood at least the height of a normal man. The world beyond was hidden. Following the fence, she came to a gate, pushed it open through the snow, and stepped out at the edge of the young woodland Mihangel had mentioned.
Herein lay the problem. This wasn’t the Great Forest. The Eilian couldn’t build homes in these flimsy trees.
Having been grown and strengthened from magic, the trees of the Great Forest should have been massive, about the diameter of eight grown men standing with their arms outstretched and touching fingertips. These trees were no thicker than a hearth cauldron. If a single man hugged one, his fingers would touch. The giant trees that Catrin knew grew so close that barely a deer or human could squeeze between the trunks. In some cases, they had grown together, creating an impassable wall. This forest was sparse with much undergrowth.
Catrin sat in the snow and crossed her legs, staring straight into the forest, considering her options. Her most important objective was to return home, but the Eilian needed help. She could manage both. First the Eilian and then home.
She rounded her shoulders in defeat. Who knew how long relocating the village might take? When would the trees change and grow? She could be stuck here a long time—
With Meuric.
He claimed his gift had vanished. Catrin realized this was because his links had been severed to their current time, but he had brought them here without a link. How? She had to learn more. He was the key to returning home, so she’d stick with him no matter how long this took. If Meuric was equally clueless, she’d find someone else who’d help. Her mother had abilities that could aid them, but she had yet to be created. Who else? The tegyd. They had a gift for precognition. She’d seek them out. They should live in this time and in this realm because they were an ancient race.
