by J. J. Faulks
“He was watching us again,” Piprin whispered.
Orleigh frowned, her eyes narrowing on Scorlan. “Maybe he was just listening to the story,” she suggested and gave a light shrug.
Piprin shook his head. “No. He’s up to something. Remember Hayron and Raenia.”
“But Hayron was a spirit, an immortal,” she argued.
“Who took on mortal form!” Piprin said. “He’s up to something, I know he is.”
*
At the heart of the mountain was a cave that contained the mirror pool. It was in the water of this pool that the Seer had first seen Orleigh’s image, long before her birth. It reflected the world that would be if the Script were completed. But when her birth delivered her to the wrong place, the threads of fate had been cut, and looking in the water again, he found that her image was gone. The truth would have died with Alea, the Script left to unravel, were it not for him. He would not be content until he had righted Alea’s wrong, until Orleigh’s image lived in the water of the mirror pool once more.
The water in the terracotta bowl was clear, lacking the theatrical glow of before. It was perfect for communicating with the gods.
“Do you still watch over her village?” the Seer spoke into the water. “Do you watch over the girl?”
Teymos answered with silence. A ripple spread across the water, as if a long exhalation had brushed the surface.
“The villagers believe that Orleigh is cursed, and they are growing restless,” the Seer said. “They have prayed for better fortunes, but their prayers have gone unanswered. There is talk that they might soon resort to the old ways, to sacrifice.”
“I did not curse her!” Teymos’s voice shook through the water, causing the surface to tremor. The Seer pulled back from the bowl. “Why would I curse her?”
“Of course you didn’t curse her. I know that,” the Seer soothed, threads of silk spooling into his voice. “Your actions have been nothing but just and benevolent. But it doesn’t matter whether or not the girl is truly cursed; what matters is what these villagers believe. They believe that she is cursed, and they believe that they must make a sacrifice in order to appease the gods—in order to appease you.” He slung out the final word like an accusation.
The water fluttered, riled by angry breaths. The Seer imagined the Earth God’s frown hanging over the water with the sullenness of a thundercloud.
“What should I do?” Teymos said. “Bless the village with fertility and hope that that will protect Orleigh?” It sounded as though this was the last thing he wanted to do, that he would rather give up his own immortality than bring good fortunes to the village.
“No, it’s too late for that,” the Seer said. “They already believe that Orleigh is cursed, so as soon as another misfortune befalls them, they will blame her once more.” Though Teymos could not see him, he shook his head and tightened his lips into a considered grimace. “No, it is not safe for her to remain in the village.”
“Then we must remove her,” Teymos said. “At once!”
“But where will she go? She has no other family.”
“You’ve made arrangements before,” Teymos said. “What could you arrange now?”
The Seer paused, one idle finger dragging through the dust that had settled on top of the stone altar as he whittled away time, making it seem as though he was thinking, as though he hadn’t already constructed the solution.
“Perhaps I could persuade one of the villagers to deliver Orleigh to you. She would become your ward in the Land of Gods, where she would be safe.”
“And what will I owe you in return? What do I need to give you to ensure that this arrangement takes place?”
“There is nothing that I want right now…other than to see that the girl is safe, of course,” the Seer said. “All I request is that I receive a favour of my choosing whensoever I need it.”
“Fine,” Teymos said. He sounded reluctant, the one-word reply forced.
Before any more could be said, before any doubts could muddy the water, the Seer terminated their communication. Tipping the water from the bowl, he washed away the picture that he had drawn in the dust atop the altar. It had been the Sanctuary and its limitless wealth of knowledge.
Chapter Eleven
Piprin ran. The Hunters were closing in on him, their swords sharpened and ready to slay him at the slightest stumble. They had crossed the border into the Land of Gods and had hidden in the shadows of the Great Forest, biding their time, waiting to ambush the Guardians.
Many great men had fallen in their attempts to ward off the Hunters and protect the Key of Life. Now he was the last Guardian standing, exhausted and alone as he faced the two remaining Hunters. He had lost his own sword in battle and had no choice but to flee. He needed time to come up with a strategy.
He scampered up the wall of the tower as easily as he might have climbed a ladder, sure feet finding their hold on the edges of the stones. Once he reached the top, he peered down at the ground far below. The Hunters were at the base of the tower. They sheathed their swords and began to scramble up, but they soon slipped back down. They might have been stronger and more fearsome than he was, but they lacked his agility.
“That’s not fair!” the twins cried. “You’re cheating!” They beat the tree with their sticks, pouting up at him.
“It is fair,” Piprin laughed back, taunting them as he sauntered along the branch above their heads. “You can’t get me!”
As he neared the end of the branch, the wood starting to give a little beneath his feet, he caught a glimpse of someone through the canopy of green. The leaves fluttered in the breeze, dipping in and out of his view, so that he only saw the person in flashes, thundering towards the tree. It looked like his father.
“Piprin!”
At the shout, he stumbled, falling onto the branch. He wrapped his arms around the wood, clinging to it with all his might. His heart hammered against the confines of his chest, its beat surging through his ears, and his head spun as the ground lurched closer.
“Piprin!” his brothers wailed. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” he said, heat flooding his face. He edged down the tree trunk, feet brushing the dirt upon landing. By the time he made it to the bottom, his father had already crossed the field and was waiting for him.
“I told you to shut the gate when you fed the chickens!” his father shouted. Piprin shrank back, placing his brothers between himself and his father. “But you can’t even do that! Now they’ve escaped.”
“I’ll catch them again,” Piprin promised. “I’ll catch them now.”
“It’s too late for that,” his father growled, throwing his arms in the air. “The dogs have already had them.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Piprin said, his voice shaking. “I thought I’d closed it properly.” He remembered putting the feed down for the chickens, and then his brothers shouting, pouncing on him with their sticks, declaring him Guardian to their Hunter.
“We’re stretched enough as it is,” his father said. “We needed those chickens! You’ve got no clue, have you?” He shook his head. “I give up.” And he turned to the twins. “Come on, boys, we’re going home.”
The twins glanced back at Piprin, their mouths drawn into sorry pouts, but they followed their father without protest. They walked quickly, breaking into an occasional jog in order to keep up, sending frequent looks over their shoulders. Piprin stood frozen under the tree, the leaves whispering with the ghosts of their play.
Piprin lifted his hand to the door and paused. He took a deep, quivering breath and knocked. Three sharp taps followed by two more.
Orleigh answered almost straight away. She opened the door with a breezy smile, but it was swept away when she saw him. “Piprin, what’s wrong?”
In the safety of Orleigh’s room, Piprin told her what had happened. She listene
d to every detail of the latest encounter with his father, nodding along and reaching out to lay her hand on top of his when he stumbled. Just like his mother’s warmth, her touch blessed him with the courage to go on.
“I hate him,” Piprin said when he had finished. “I just want to run away. Then I’d never have to see him again.”
“But we can’t run away,” Orleigh said. She glanced at the closed door and lowered her voice to a whisper. “We’d have nowhere to go. This is our home.”
The walls that surrounded them seemed to creep closer, the room shrinking in on them, trapping them. In his mind, Piprin saw metal bars shooting up through the ground at the edge of the village, penning them in like livestock. He stared down at the floor.
“I’ll protect you,” Orleigh said. Her eyes lit up. “I’ll protect you from your father, just like the Guardians protect the Key of Life from the Hunters! Then, when we’re older, we’ll leave here and we’ll travel to the Land of Gods. We’ll visit the Sanctuary for ourselves and see all the wonders that it holds!”
A smile brushed his lips. “I’d like that. Do you think we’ll get to see the Key of Life?”
“Of course!” Orleigh grinned. “I bet the Guardians will even let us hold it.”
Piprin’s smile grew as he listened to Orleigh planning every detail of their trip together, narrating it all as if it were one of the great myths. It would be an adventure like no other, it would be their escape. She cavorted around the room, acting out all the gods and creatures that they would meet. Swept up by laughter, thoughts of his father faded to the back of his mind, that afternoon floating with the weightlessness of a distant memory. The years ahead in the village would be bearable now that they had a plan.
The village hall burned. Flames licked up to the sky and plumes of acrid smoke fanned out across the midnight blue, a peacock’s tail hanging ashen over the village. Scorlan lingered, watching his creation. The heat of the fire stung at his eyes, daring him to blink. A cold sweat spread across his body, prickling through the hairs on his arms and neck. He shivered. It was now or never. He tore himself away from the orange glow and stole down the path that led to Ormoss’s house. There he waited in the shadows.
Shouts echoed through the village, chipping away at the dreamlike lull of the night, “Fire! Fire! Fire!”
People emerged from their homes, like creatures waking from a long hibernation. Still Scorlan waited.
Then Ormoss joined the bewildered throng, bowling out of his front door and towards the blaze at the heart of the village. The door flapped open behind him.
Scorlan dipped his hand into his pocket, his fingers finding the vial that was stowed there. Though small and delicate, it weighed heavy in his palm. He looked back at the fire, its wrath wavering with the villagers’ efforts to put it out. He did not have long.
A sea of blankets and cushions covered the floor of Orleigh’s room. Orleigh was curled up on her bed, fast asleep and snuffling gently in her dreams. Retrieving the vial from his pocket, Scorlan stepped inside. He froze. Orleigh was not alone. On the floor, nestled amongst the mess of blankets, the moonlight revealed another child—the farmer’s son.
Scorlan’s heart pounded so fast that the beats merged into one, humming through his ears.
He fumbled with the vial, fingers slipping as he removed the cork. The scent of the potion wafted into the room. Sickly sweet, thick and smokey, it was distinctive and unforgettable. With one shaking thumb, he smeared a syrupy smudge across the lips of the farmer’s boy. The boy frowned in his sleep and then rolled onto his side, plummeting deeper and deeper into the silence of his dreams.
Scorlan turned to Orleigh. Unmasking her face from its veil of curls, he let three drops of the potion tumble from the vial onto her lips and then he waited until her breathing turned shallow, no more than a whisper on the breeze.
Though she was slight, Scorlan struggled to heave the girl over his shoulder. With lumbering steps, he carried her out of the house and into the cloaking darkness of the fields behind.
The boat was waiting for them, tethered to the bank of the river just as he had left it. He hauled Orleigh into the wooden craft and threw a blanket over her huddled body. He freed the boat from its tether and took his seat. With an oar clutched in each hand, he pushed off from the bank, setting them rocking towards the middle of the river.
The fire in the village hall was now dying. Glimpses of its final throes peeked out through the silhouettes of the houses as the boat sailed by, setting off on its course to the borderland.
*
The Seer pushed the sunflower and the porcupine along the blue line of the river, edging them closer and closer to the Land of Gods. He kept a bowl of water close by, frequently checking in on Scorlan and Orleigh’s progress. The girl remained asleep throughout the journey, blissfully unaware of Scorlan’s treachery. It would not be long before she was where she was meant to be. It would not be long before her image returned to the mirror pool.
He reached across the map, his fingers finding his own piece on the board. It had taken a long time to carve, and only the sunflower could rival it in ornateness of detail. The figurine was a fox, with its chest puffed proudly and a multitude of tails trailing majestically behind. He handled it with care as he set it on its course towards the Sanctuary.
Chapter Twelve
The room faded in and out. One minute Piprin was there, looking at the ceiling through a thick mist, and the next he was gone, consumed by an impenetrable blackness. Through it all a sickly sweet yet smokey smell stung at his nose. He coughed, uncontrollably.
“Piprin! Piprin! Piprin!” His mother’s voice undulated, softer, louder, softer. Her hand was clutching his shoulder, shaking it.
He blinked and forced his eyes wide open. His eyelids were heavy, determined to droop shut at any opportunity. A cold ache weighed down upon his body, as if he had spent a winter’s night beneath the stars.
“Where am I?” he gasped, his mouth dry.
“You’re with me and you’re safe.” His mother helped him ease to sitting, propping cushions behind him for support. He sank back into the cushions’ embrace. “We’re at Orleigh’s house. There was a fire.”
“A fire?” he frowned. The smokey scent washed over him again, overpowering his senses. “Where?”
“The village hall,” she said. “No one was hurt but, Piprin—” she paused, lifting her hand to cradle his head, her thumb brushing over the hair at his temple, “Orleigh’s gone.”
When Piprin awoke again he was in the familiar surroundings of his own room. He jumped up, trying to clamber from his bed. He had to find Orleigh. But his mother was at his side within seconds, hushing him and pushing him back down.
“Orleigh! Where’s Orleigh?” he cried, fighting his mother’s hold.
Her grip would not loosen. “Shhh, Piprin,” she soothed. “You need to rest.”
“I need to find Orleigh!” he protested, but stopped struggling. “Where is she?”
She sat on the edge of his bed, ready to catch him again if he tried to escape. “Scorlan took her. He set the fire in order to create a distraction, and then he took her away.”
“Where? Why?” he said. His head started spinning and he had to lie down again, shutting his eyes until the swirling stopped. “I need to go after her. I need to rescue her.”
“Your father and some of the other men have already gone after them,” she said. “You need to stay here and rest.” She stroked his hair, her touch as soft as a lullaby.
“But I need to rescue her,” he said, his voice growing drowsy again. “I want to be a Guardian.” He fell back into the cocoon of his bed. It was so warm and comforting that he did not notice the room slipping away.
In his dreams, he was a tiny mouse living at the heart of the Land of Gods. From his nest beneath the Outer Wall that enclosed the Realm of the Sanctuary, he saw the Hunters
storming the Sanctuary itself, slaying every last one of the Guardians. He stood on his hind legs, frozen, powerless to stop them. They broke through the Inner Wall and seized the Key of Life. With raucous cheers they fled, but not before they had destroyed every last artefact housed within the Sanctuary. All the rare texts filled with their ancient knowledge, all the treasures known only in the myths, all the elements found nowhere else in either the Land of Mortals or Land of Gods, all the magic and lifeblood of the world, it was all gone. He could do nothing but watch.
“Ormoss said something about Scorlan wanting to make a sacrifice to Teymos,” Pityr said. He trudged along the riverbank with the other men. There was no trace of the girl or Scorlan. Something moved amongst the reeds. He stopped to take a look, pushing the stalks back with his staff, but it was only a bird.
“I don’t see why we’re bothering to go after her anyway,” a man called Laeron spoke up. He was met by silence. “What? I’m just saying what you’re all thinking. The girl is cursed. We’d be better off without her.”
The other men began to murmur in bitter approval, and Pityr found himself nodding along.
“The way I see it, the gods have sent us an opportunity,” Laeron continued. “We get rid of the girl and we get rid of that weasel all in one go.” He stopped, turning to face them. “If he’s taken her to the Land of Gods, she’s as good as dead. So why don’t we just say that? Scorlan went through with the sacrifice, the girl is dead, we exiled Scorlan.”
“What if Scorlan comes back?” Pityr asked.
“He won’t,” Laeron said. “Not once we’ve caught up with him and made it clear what will happen if he does.”
Chapter Thirteen
The border between the Land of Mortals and the Land of Gods lay in a meadow filled with wildflowers. It was widely known amongst those that spoke of the borderland that every flower found in the Land of Mortals was represented in this field. Such a tale was easy to believe when viewing the rainbow of petals that bejewelled the fingers of jade green grass.
