It still was inconceivable to think that his mother had crossed over, and even more so that she had found her way back. What had she discovered there? Had she really fallen in love with a Lamorian? If so, why had she left him? But the real mystery that now plagued him was why she had not said a single word about it to him. In fact, she’d rarely mentioned her past at all. Most of what he knew of his family was from conversations with Shemi. Not that there was anything of particular interest—millers, weavers, and other various professions. All told, Lem’s mastery of music made him the most noteworthy member of his entire line for at least as far back as Shemi could recount. This only served to deepen the mystery.
After his mother’s death, Lem had searched through her papers and books, hoping to know her better, to understand why she had been so distant—particularly just prior to her sudden illness. But no answers had been forthcoming. He’d found drawings of strange creatures and places, images he’d dismissed as pure imagination at the time, but now he wondered if they might be things she’d seen beyond the barrier. Otherwise, he’d found only a few letters, mostly casual correspondence from her sister and her cousin, and none containing anything useful. There was only one letter that had seemed out of place—a request for his mother to visit the home of someone called Yularius. As far as Lem knew, no one by that name lived in Vylari; though it was always possible that Lem simply hadn’t heard of him. He had considered asking Shemi, since his uncle had walked the length and breadth of Vylari many times throughout the years and knew just about everyone. But bringing up his mother’s name always put the old man in a somber mood, and after a time, he had decided not to pursue the matter. It wasn’t as if there was anything he could do about it. His mother was gone, and that was that.
The balisari strapped across his back felt heavy and awkward. It was the only thing of real value he had brought with him … the only thing apart from the locket he could not bear to leave behind. Will there be musicians in Lamoria? he wondered. Surely there would be. He couldn’t imagine a place so brutish as to lack the ability to enjoy the pleasures of music. For Lem, life without music was a life not worth living.
Time passed unnoticed as he wound his way through the thick of the forest. The birds’ songs went unheard, the voice of the wind ignored, as the narrow, seldom-used trail led him irreversibly away from all he had ever loved. He almost didn’t see the marker carved into the ancient oak. Lem halted abruptly, his eyes fixed on the ominous symbol. It was a warning; a plea to turn back.
He strained his eyes to look as far beyond the oak as possible. Nothing appeared to be any different. There were no foreign trees or strange shrubs. A squirrel, looking just like any other squirrel, was leaping from limb to limb in the high reaches of a pine. Could the elders have been wrong? Was the border there at all? Maybe it was nothing more than a story told to scare people into remaining at home. Or maybe the magic was gone, withered away by time. Perhaps he would be able to return one day after all. Yet there was the dead stranger to give the story credence. Passing through the barrier had killed him. Or had it? There was no way to know for sure. If the stranger had been a wielder of magic, perhaps it was a spell gone wrong, or …
He scolded himself for his foolishness. Magic or no magic, there would be no return for him. Not while the possibility of the vision coming true existed. Taking a deep breath, he clenched his fists and willed himself forward.
For a moment his feet felt like lead weights fastened to the end of his legs. The finality of his decision was paralyzing. A wave of nausea had him gripping his stomach, making it a struggle to remain upright.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to regain his self-control. You can do this, he told himself. Just pick up your feet.
The first step beyond the oak was uneventful. He felt no different, and a quick glance back revealed nothing out of place. After three steps it was the same. He allowed himself a tiny smile. That he could return was a comfort. Perhaps one day he could solve the riddle of the vision. Surely Shemi would be forgiving, even if angered by Lem’s unannounced departure.
He took another step. This time, a rush of wind filtered through the treetops, wrapping itself around his body and giving him a mild shiver. He had been sweating, and he wiped his brow on his sleeve. He always perspired when he was nervous, and at this moment, he was bordering on total panic.
Turning back toward the oak for a final look at his home, he was immediately horrorstruck. It was no longer there. He had done it. He had crossed into Lamoria.
“That’s impossible,” he whispered. He had barely left the tree’s shadow. Even so, it was true. Where the oak had once stood, there was now nothing but a patch of thick grass surrounded by a cluster of sapling pines.
He began searching the area, frantically tearing his way through the heavy brush. His breaths were coming in short gasps, and his heart thudded madly in his chest. The trail had completely vanished. He set off in the direction of what he felt sure was home, but could find nothing familiar. There was not so much as a footprint or bent blade of grass to show that he had passed through. After more than an hour, he was forced to accept the truth: He had stepped beyond the border. This was what he had set out to do, but the reality of it was more crushing than he had expected. The magic was real, and he could never go home again. He was now and forever exiled.
Staggering over to a small clearing, the realization overcame him. He would never see Vylari again.
“What have I done?” Helplessness and fear reached into him with cruel fingers, digging their way into the pit of his stomach. He sat with his head in his hands, wishing he could take it back, that he had never stepped across the divide.
But his cries went unheard, his voice swallowed up by the trees and wind without so much as an echo. No one would come.
It wasn’t until he heard the chirping of crickets that he looked up again. Overhead, the dimming sky heralded the coming of the night. Already tiny pinpricks of starlight were shining through. About this time back home, Shemi would be dragging him down to the banks of the Sunflow. A moonless night always made stargazing better. His friends would likely be there too, begging him to play a song while they danced and sang and laughed until their legs grew tired and they collapsed in a weary cluster of fraternal smiles.
But he would never wet his feet in her cool waters again. Nor would he lie on her banks and call out each time the spirits tossed down the sands of heaven, watching in wonder as they streaked across the sky only to disappear into nothingness just before they reached the ground.
As the night set in, a chill wrapped around him. He was alone, truly alone for the first time in his life. He tried to tell himself that he’d known it would be this way. But he hadn’t. All he’d felt was the overwhelming need to leave Vylari. Sure, he had tried to imagine what the world beyond would be like, but that hadn’t prepared him for this feeling of complete isolation.
Unable to penetrate the shadows of the forest, he cast his gaze east toward the unknown. Another gust of wind sent fresh shivers through him, and for a moment he imagined he could feel death pressing in to offer the comfort of eternal sleep. No, he told himself, a small measure of courage returning, that’s not the answer. He rubbed his arms to stave off the cold. As lonely and afraid as he was, he knew that he must endure.
“Your mother didn’t raise a weakling,” he said aloud, as if the sound of his voice would be enough to chase away the fears closing in. “She made it in Lamoria. So can you. But not if you keep up with this sorry display. If you do, you’ll die before you’re barely a day away from home.”
After unslinging his pack and balisari, he set about gathering firewood. Though not as adept as Shemi, he could damn sure survive in the forest. He had brought a bow for hunting, though he wasn’t sure what the game would be like here. And he had no idea how far he would need to travel before reaching a town or village.
One thing at a time, he thought.
Once the fire was lit, Lem unwrapped his balisari a
nd plucked out a familiar tune: one his mother had taught him when he was learning to play as a child. Though he now had the skill to embellish and improvise, it was still basically the same song. Playing it had always made him feel better when he was sad. Closing his eyes, he lost himself in the melody.
As the final note faded away into the night, Lem felt the strength in his heart renewing. He would not shame his mother by giving up. He would find a way to survive. Whatever was out there, he would face it head-on, with the courage of a true Vylarian.
Even if he wasn’t one.
4
THE LETTER
Do not cling to those who seek to fly far. In time they will return. For all journeys end at home.
Book of Kylor, Chapter Four, Verse Seventy-Eight
Clutching a folded piece of parchment tightly in her hand, Mariyah stormed up onto the porch of the cottage and flung the front door wide. Just inside, Shemi was sitting at the table, puffing on his long, slender pipe, a cup of wine and a bowl of cherries in front of him.
“Where is he?” she demanded, cheeks flushed and wet from recent tears.
Shemi jumped at her abrupt entrance. “What has gotten into you? Lem’s not here. But I’m sure he’ll be along.”
Her lips trembled as her eyes darted searchingly about the room, as if the old man might be lying. “Lem!” she cried out.
Shemi placed his pipe on the table. “I told you he’s not here.” His long gray hair was tied up and tucked beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat. This, together with the worn trousers and shirt he had on, said that he’d only just arrived himself. “Now calm yourself and tell me what’s wrong.”
Mariyah flung the parchment onto the table. It bounced once, hitting Shemi in the chest before rolling onto his lap. “He gave this to Mother,” she told him. Her hands were still clenched, and fresh tears were starting to fall.
He picked up the parchment, carefully smoothing it out on the table. As he ran his eyes over the message, his face gradually darkened. “I see. Did your mother read it?”
“Yes,” she said, wiping her eyes. “That’s why she waited until now to give it to me.”
Shemi nodded slowly. “I understand.” After taking several deep breaths, he looked Mariyah directly in the eyes. “We need to move quickly.”
“Is it true?” When Shemi didn’t answer, she stepped in closer. “Is it?”
He hesitated another moment. Lem had confessed everything in the letter, explaining that he had to leave in order to keep her safe. “And if it is?”
“If it is, I don’t care. But I need to know all the same.”
The old man’s shoulders drooped, and a long sigh slipped out. “It’s true. We hid it from him and everyone else as best we could. Until now, we were successful.”
“So Lem didn’t know?”
“He found out last night. I had hoped he would never need to. If the stranger hadn’t come, he likely never would have known.”
“Where is the stranger now?”
“Dead. We think crossing the barrier killed him.”
Mariyah staggered into a chair, face pale, expression afflicted. “And the rest … the danger. Is that true?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to believe it. But the more I think about it … maybe it is.”
“Maybe?” she snapped, a torrent of anger surfacing out of her pain. “You mean Lem abandoned me on the word of the stranger?”
Shemi looked back down at the letter. “Lem said that he was sure. Something else must have convinced him. He wouldn’t have left otherwise. That much I am sure of.”
“I … can’t believe it. He can’t be gone.”
Shemi stood and held out his hand. “Perhaps there’s still time. Lem is a stubborn one. If he thought he had to leave to protect you or me or Vylari, there’s nothing that would stop him. But the thought of venturing into Lamoria would frighten him as much as it would anyone.”
“You think he might still be in Vylari?” she asked.
“Let’s hope so.”
She sprang up, ignoring the offered hand, and rushed toward the door. Shemi grabbed his walking stick from near the hearth, pausing to snatch up a small pack hanging on the wall he kept prepared for short journeys.
“He could have made it to the border by now,” he said. “But if he hasn’t crossed, we’ll find him.”
The sun was waning as they hurried across the meadow beyond Shemi’s cottage. A line of pines to the north swayed and groaned under the force of a wind that touched only the treetops. At ground level, it remained still and calm. It was as if Vylari itself were trying to attract their attention. But north was not their destination. The border leading to Lamoria was to the south. Shemi blew into his hands and rubbed them on his upper arms in an attempt to combat the cold.
“We can make the border by dawn if we hurry,” he told Mariyah. He could see the look of doubt and concern in her eyes. “I’m fine,” he added. “These legs aren’t so old yet that they can’t carry me where I want to go.”
They started out at an overly fast pace. He was determined to prove to Mariyah that he meant every word. Having reached his one hundred and tenth year, he was in fine physical condition for someone of his age. He often went on long treks lasting many days to visit friends and relatives. Occasionally, he would accompany Lem on a hunt. Well-preserved; that was what he called himself. Stubborn and thickheaded was what the other elders said—a fool unwilling to accept old age. Tramping about the hills and forests was a pastime for the young.
Though it was not uncommon to live past one hundred and fifty, the days of vigorous adventure were usually long gone by the time someone reached one hundred, replaced by a life of relaxation and simple pleasures. Shemi, however, refused to allow his age to slow him in the slightest. He would often joke that should he ever slow down, death might well catch up with him.
The road to the border was little more than a wagon trail, pocked and pitted by erosion and poor maintenance. The few residents living out this far kept pretty much to themselves. These were tradespeople, mostly, without the need for large tracts of land or well-kept roads to transport produce to market.
They stopped by the home of Hron and Dansya. Hron was a potter, though they relied mainly on his wife’s income as a tailor to support their family. This was just as well, seeing as how his skills at the potter’s wheel were not exactly what anyone would consider masterful. Shemi bought a few jars from him from time to time, to be neighborly, and Lem had taught their children how to play the balisari in exchange for the odd shirt or pair of trousers whenever Dansya had extra cloth to spare.
The house was the last one along the road, and the only place that Lem might have thought to stop by. He was fond of their children, remarking that the youngest, a dimple-cheeked boy named Valian, had a natural talent for music. Hron was only a few years older than Lem, and though the pair were not exactly close, they were on friendly enough terms to go hunting together every so often.
The door opened before Shemi could knock, and Hron stepped out onto the porch, his dark complexion and eyes made even more pronounced by his light tan jerkin. His brown, shoulder-length hair, tied back into a loose ponytail, was sprinkled with tiny flecks of sawdust. He folded his arms over his chest, a sour expression on his face.
“I’ve no time for a visit today,” he declared, without a hint of courtesy. “Too much work to get done.”
Given Hron’s relationship with Lem, this greeting came as a surprise.
“And a good day to you as well,” Shemi responded. “Don’t worry. We aren’t staying. But I was hoping you might have seen Lem pass by here today.”
“Why would he come this way?” Hron asked, his frown deepening.
“Please,” begged Mariyah. “We think he might have come through here. Could you ask Dansya? Maybe she saw him?”
“She didn’t.”
“Would you mind asking her?” Shemi pressed, struggling to maintain his polite smile.
“She would have t
old me.”
“What do you mean by that?” Shemi demanded, his smile now fading.
“I think you should go talk to Byrn. I want no part of this.”
Hron began to close his door, but Shemi rammed his walking stick into the frame. “I think you had better tell me what you know, boy, before you catch a beating. Lem is your friend. Or have you forgotten?”
“I haven’t forgotten. But I’m not getting involved. Do you hear me?” He looked down at the walking stick still wedged in the door. “So if you don’t mind…”
“Actually, I mind quite a bit,” Shemi growled. “Now tell me what you know, or so help me, you’ll live to regret it.” His tone and posture suggested that he had every intention of carrying out the threat.
After a long moment, Hron threw up his hands. “What do you want from me, Shemi? You want my family to be ostracized? We already struggle to earn a living.”
“Why would anyone ostracize you?”
Hron sniffed. “You know good and well why. Byrn’s been going all over the valley telling folks about Lem … about who his father really is. Don’t bother denying it. He told me about the stranger crossing the border. And about the message he carried. You think I’d let a wielder of magic in my home, around my children?”
Byrn was a close friend of Chaud, and a few years back he had tried unsuccessfully to win Mariyah’s affection. It was no surprise that he would be spreading the word, if for no other reason than to get back at Lem for capturing Mariyah’s heart.
“Lem is not a wielder of magic,” Shemi stated emphatically.
Hron snorted. “He’s always been different from the rest of us. You know that as well as I do. And now we know why. So please, just leave. I have work to do.”
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