The Valley of Ten Crescents Series (Box Set: Books 1-3)

by Tristan J. Tarwater

  “We’re staying at the temple,” Tavera said. “We need it as soon as possible. We hope to leave at first light tomorrow morning. We’ve only got a few days to get there.”

  “Understood,” Gaela said, nodding her head. She rolled up the maps and held them in her hands, smiling at the pair of them. “It shouldn’t take long at all.”

  “What do we owe you for the maps?” Little asked. The map maker shook his head.

  “No, no charge, not for you,” the map maker said. “I couldn’t. Not considering what you are getting into. Goddess bless you both, may Her Black Hand bring you back.”

  “May your words prove to be Her will,” Tavera said, her stomach knotting. She took one of the glasses full of liquor and held it up for a toast. The map maker did the same and clinked his cup against hers, Tavera tossing her drink back. It was hot and dry and something about it reminded her of how parchment might taste if it was on fire. Little gulped his down; she saw him try not to shiver after he swallowed. Gaela hadn’t poured herself a drink, which was just as well, if she was going to get to work on their map.

  “We’ll bring it by the temple,” the man said. “We’ll ask for--”

  “Ask for Tender’s crew,” Tavera said. “Sister Cera is helping us with all this.”

  “Ah, Sister Cera is a good priestess, bless her,” the map maker said. He nodded and sighed again, his mood more melancholy after their talk. “I’ll have Gaela bring it by. If I don’t see you before you depart, know you’ll be in my prayers.”

  “Much appreciated,” Tavera said, putting her cup down on the counter. “We should be going now, we’ve a lot to do before we set out.”

  “Understandable,” the map maker said.

  “I look forward to making your map,” Gaela said with a nod of her head.

  “Right, see you later,” Tavera said. She and Little turned and left the shop, hearing the jingle of the door’s bells after the door was closed. Tavera hooked her thumb under the shoulder strap of her pack. “That was either very good luck or very good manipulation,” she said.

  “How do you figure?” Little asked. Tavera walked after him, glancing over her shoulder, back at the shop.

  “We just happen to get sent to a map maker who’s familiar with the whole…ordeal.” Tavera frowned slightly, thinking it over before she shrugged. “I’m not complaining. I think Cera knew the map maker would be of help.”

  “Well yeah, we needed a map.” Little opened his pouch and pulled out a pipe, poking at the bowl with a dirty finger. “Though…I guess, yeah, him being the cousin and all. I suppose Cera knew. Though he is the only map maker in town, truth be told.”

  “I wonder about the woman who is working for him,” Tavera murmured. She watched as Little filled his pipe, his light eyes looking about for someone who could give him a light. “You know. From…what was it, Black Sands? You ever heard of such a place?”

  “Never,” Little said. “But, well, where else do Valley folk know of? There’s us, Freewilders? Foresters to the south, or right beside you if some strange bit of fortune has come to you,” Little said with a smirk.

  “Fortune?” Tavera said, returning his slight smile with one of her own. “And strange, at that? I feel like I should be on display.”

  “Elves don’t wander about much. You’re the first half-Forester I’ve heard of,” Little said. He stopped at a food stall and had the cook light his pipe. The mix of tobacco he used was different from Derk’s, but it reminded Tavera of her father all the same. His hands, rolling his cigarettes, the way they dangled from the corner of his mouth when he talked. The way he would stop mid-sentence to get a light during one of their conversations and pick up where they had left off. If Little noticed Tavera’s nostalgia, he didn’t say anything. “But Haranians to the east, an ocean to the west, the Bones to the north. It don’t matter. We don’t need other people’s business to keep us busy. We’re fine keeping to ourselves.”

  Tavera nodded, thinking over what Little had said. True enough. Not having heard of Black Sands or seeing it didn’t mean it wasn’t there. Lights had never seen the Holy Bowl, being southern. As a child growing up in the ‘Wicks, she could see the holy mountain on clear days. Black Sands…maybe she’d try to catch the woman named Gaela when she dropped off the map and ask her about it. “Speaking of keeping to ourselves,” Tavera said, “I might stop by a bar on the way and sit for a bit and look over Kella’s journals.”

  “Is my company that bad?” Little asked, exhaling a long stream of gray smoke.

  “No,” Tavera said, though she considered saying the opposite. “I could just use some time to sort through what we heard from the map maker and to look through Kella’s journals.”

  “You can do that in the temple,” Little said.

  “I know I can,” Tavera said, narrowing her eyes at him. “I just don’t like their liquor selection,” she managed with a straight face.

  “What do I tell Tender if he asks after you?” Little said.

  “Tell him to fap off if he asks after me,” Tavera said. “You ain’t my keeper. I’ll be back before evening meal.”

  “Do you really want my brother going into every bar in Reedsend, looking for you?” Little asked. The way he said it told Tavera it was likely to happen.

  “Just tell him I’m doing some research…there,” Tavera said. She pointed at a bar farther down the street, its banner flapping in the wind.

  “Good choice,” Little said. “I know for a fact they have more types of beer than the temple.”

  Tavera rolled her eyes, trying not to laugh. “I’ll be back. We can pool our information after evening meal. By then we should have the map and know what we’ll need, where we’re going.”

  “I’ll probably try to get some provisions,” Little mused, taking another drag from his pipe, trying to keep it lit in the light rain. “We’ve some money. I don’t want to clear out the temple’s pantry.”

  “Right, so I’ll see you at dinner?” Tavera asked, raising her eyebrows. He nodded and Tavera chewed on the side of her mouth before she turned and headed into the bar. She looked back over her shoulder to make sure he wasn’t watching her but he was already heading toward the market, pulling his hood up to protect against the rain. At least someone trusted her by herself.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Bloody Pasts

  The bar was like many other bars; Tavera felt her shoulders loosen as the heady aroma of sawdust, brewing beer, food and smoke filled her nose. The temple was a different sort of comfort. The smell of incense, the feel of wooden seats, the beauty of the carved statues affected Tavera differently than the sound of chairs scraping the floor, the warmth of bodies sitting around tables and the clink of glasses. To be in the temple was to be before the Goddess, to lay one’s emotions bare for Her to see, for introspection. Bars were for making plans. For pulling in all the pieces while nursing a drink. Tavera nodded a greeting to the woman behind the bar and leaned against the bar top. “A mug of thinny and a roasted egg if you’ve got it,” Tavera said.

  “I’ve only got red eggs right now,” the woman said, putting a glass on the counter. “Barleycakes,lady curls in oil and vinegar. I’ll have whatever my son caught today roasting as soon as he gets back.”

  “I’ll take the greens,” Tavera said, pulling out her purse. “How much?” she asked, watching as the barkeep filled her glass.

  “Two blueies,” the woman said. “Want me to tell you when we’ve got meat on the fire?”

  “No, thanks,” Tavera said, putting the coins on the counter. She thought for a moment. “Let me get a pitcher of thinny, actually.”

  “Five blueies then,” the woman said, watching as Tavera put them on the counter. “Rough day, girl?”

  “Quite a few rough days, all in a row,” Tavera admitted, managing something of a grin. The bar woman laughed and poured the cup of beer into a pitcher, topping it off and handing it to Tavera.

  “Greens on the house,” the barkeep said, smiling. “B
ut don’t go telling everyone. If I gave things to everyone having a shit day, I’d be out of beer before moonrise.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me,” Tavera chuckled, taking the pitcher and the now empty glass.

  “I’ll have your greens out soon as I can get them in a bowl,” the barkeep said.

  “No rush, just can’t spoil my evening meal,” Tavera sighed, laughing. “I’ll be over there.” She pointed with the pitcher when she said it, indicating a booth off to the side. Tavera sat at the table, setting the pitcher down and pouring herself a glass before she opened her pack.

  There were six journals in all. Tavera made sure the table top was clean before she set out the journals, not wanting to stain their covers with beer or food. A cursory glance around the bar told her no one was watching her. Reading several books in a bar might draw attention, she realized but at the moment it seemed the bar was underpopulated. She’d be gone before it started to fill up for evening meal.

  The oldest journal was bound in leather, its pages the most discolored with time. Tavera opened it, noting the even handwriting, the careful penmanship. This was probably from before Sister Kella was abducted, Tavera reasoned. Tavera wanted to read it, in the hopes of seeing the type of person Sister Kella was before the cultists had changed her.

  Tavera sighed and turned a few pages in the journal, skimming the words, trying to glean a bit from the personal diary. A splotch of ink stopped Tavera as she turned the pages, cocking her head to the side. She took a sip of her drink and turned another page, seeing another splotch of ink. Without reading, Tavera turned the next few pages. It looked like someone had deliberately ruined some of the entries in the journal, dark ink spilling over entries, making their contents unreadable. She frowned, running a finger over the stained pages, wondering what had been erased and why.

  Four journals were bound books, leather covers protecting the pages, signatures sewn into the spine with a decorative pattern. Two of them were simple uncut journals, single pieces of paper, folded many times with book ends slipped onto the outermost pages. If they had cases, they hadn’t been in Kella’s trunk. These were less expensive journals, probably purchased from a stall somewhere in Ayilkin Barony.

  Tavera picked them up and turned them over, noting the circular seal on their backs. The workshop would have marked the journals they made. Tavera didn’t recognize the seal. Not too surprising. Journals and books weren’t things she paid attention to generally, but she noted this one. Two herons facing each other, necks bent so their beaks touched, forming a heart shape. Tavera turned to the first page.

  Second phase of the second month of spring, year 132 of the Valley’s reckoning. I forgot my journal back at my home temple and have purchased two fold journals in the market. I have to keep a record of our trip across the Valley! I have never been to the western Valley before and am excited to embark with Wing and the others. Wing tells me the market of Tyestown is dyed every color one can imagine. I’m hoping the rains dissipate in the next few days; the Mother’s Splendor is said to be breathtaking under a full moon and it would be a shame to miss it because of a few clouds. The benediction is tomorrow however, and so we are all excited for that, overcast or not.

  Tavera’s brows furrowed. The Mother’s Splendor was in Whitfield. Directly outside the walls was a proliferation of the most beloved flower in the Valley, the moonflower. It grew best on disturbed soil and overran graveyards throughout the region, crawling across the earth with its heart-shaped leaves. The round buds bloomed in spring, always at night for a few days around the full moon. Small, white flowers, the size of a fullie seemed to glow under the moonlight and while many spots in the Valley were known for having their own spectacle of flowers, Whitfield was the most popular.

  The head of the church lived in Whitfield and would give a benediction on the full moon, with many gathering to hear her speak. Tavera wondered who Wing was. Was Wing the cousin of the map maker? Tavera turned the page to read the next entry, nodding and mouthing a ‘thank you’ as the barkeep left her bowl of greens at the table.

  There were several illustrations, rather artfully done. Tavera raised her eyebrows at the depictions of the Her Luminance giving the benediction, a coil of moonflower wrapped around someone’s hand. A woman’s face, the corners of her lips curled upward slightly. She didn’t wear her hair like a priestess. Under the portrait was written ‘Wing of Little Bend.’

  The next page held two more portraits, these of two men. One had a long, saturnine face, the brush-strokes suggesting dark hair and a calm demeanor. The other man had a crooked nose but a smiling mouth, his head cocked to the side. Their names were Regick and Deril, apparently. Tavera thought the one with the crooked nose looked more like the map maker. They had the same curly hair and mouth, though their jawlines were different. Then again, she thought, looking at the darker man, perhaps he was the one. They could be cousins by vow and not by blood. Either way, they had all been taken by the cultists, all of them missed. And now one of them had been taken, taken away again.

  Tavera turned the page. A journal entry about the benediction, the High Priestess blessing them on their journey, Wing and Reg getting into an argument over how much food to pack. Pictures of landscapes ran across the top of the pages, framing Sister Kella’s careful and measured script. Words of rain and anxiety over sleeping out of doors for the first time alongside an image of Deril playing a stringed instrument. An entry read:

  Too much rain. Cart stuck in the mud. Not sure how we’ll get it out.

  The writing was smudged, probably from water damage. Dirt was smeared at the edges of the pages. The map maker had mentioned flooding that year. Tavera touched the pages, for some reason expecting them to be wet. She imagined the four of them, huddled together, their cart stuck in the mud, their animals probably miserable. Tavera remembered cold, wet days with Derk, sniffling under cloaks, trying to get fires started. At least they’d had each other for company. Tavera wondered what jokes they’d told under whatever shelter they’d made to lighten the mood. If Deril had sung a song or Kella a hymn. When had the cultists attacked? At night when they were asleep? Or had they ambushed them while they shivered around a fire, heavy rain drowning out their ominous approach?

  Tavera took a bite of the greens as she turned the next page, her chewing slowing as her eyes fell upon the words.

  They don’t know I have this but I have to record this. They have captured us all. Not sure where others are. Wing is with me, Thank the Goddess.

  The water is drugged. Trying not to drink it. Goddess, give me strength.

  Saw Deril today, Holy Mother, what have they done to him? Wing screamed. Give me strength.

  They took Wing from me. I hear her crying in the other room. I thought she was the strong one. The water is drugged.

  Deril came to see me. Mercy upon him, Goddess, help him. Why has this happened?

  Wing sang a song with me today. They gave her back to me. I’m so happy.

  Wing is dead. She killed herself. What could I have done to stop her? What could I have done? What could I have done? What? What? What?

  Tavera turned the page. Someone had poured ink on the next page. The writing she could make out was scrawled. The splash of the black liquid looked like blood. The ink that had soaked through had made the pages stick together a long time ago and it looked like someone had pulled them apart before Tavera.

  Tavera ran her fingers over the page, to see if she could feel the words on the page but they had been written so long ago in graphite and stains. What she saw was more of the same: short entries, the handwriting worse. Tavera was convinced Sister Kella herself had blotted out these books, trying to forget what had happened. Her firsthand account, stricken from the record by her own hand in the hopes it would clear her memory. But it hadn’t. Hence, the stack of journals written after the fact, the recollections, the bad handwriting, the drinking.

  The second fold journal was more of the same. Blotted out pages though Tavera mad
e out the frantic handwriting, the sketches, marred with black. Tavera wondered why Sister Kella never rid herself of the journals, never burned them. She had taken them to wherever her rescuers had borne her to and then carried them with her, kept them in her trunk in her little home in Whitend. Did she look them over, reliving them? Or did she keep them locked away tight, feeling secure with their placement in the trunk?

  The thing Tavera had owned the longest was the pin with the big blue head Derk had got for her all those years ago, before he had taken her on, and the rest of her lock picking set. Derk had always had his dagger. Fun things, useful things, things that got one out of trouble, not reminded her of bad times. Though Tavera still had the piece of gold ribbon from her initiation. It reminded her of Derk being cut away from her. It was buried in the bottom of her pack.

  Tavera flipped through the other journals. A journal that started off as landscapes and portraits only was next. There was an image of a graveyard; Tavera recognized the temple they were staying at. She ate her food while she flipped through the images, looking over the drawings. As the images went on, Sister Kella’s hand grew steadier. Tavera noticed the familiar folds of the priestess’ garments, their braided hair. Most of them were labeled. Sister Berka, Sister Derseel, Sister Pega. Next to a drawing of one woman, labeled Sister Mika, Sister Kella had written ‘I hate her.’

  Tavera frowned. The next page showed a journal entry.

  They want me to write about my time there. Sister Gilra says it will help me. That what happened must be exposed. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to share it. But I must talk to someone and no one here understands. They all treat me like an outcast. Like I helped Cyric. But I did. I had to. And I miss them. Or rather, I lack them. Being in the Valley is so strange. No one tells me what to do and my mind wanders and I think of him. And of Wing. Everything has been taken from me. What do I hold on to?

  Tavera finished her meal and turned through the pages. Pictures of the priestesses. A portrait of Cyric, criticisms and curses written in large, dark letters. Cruel. Controlling. May your soul go toothless to Her Hems. Disgusting. Cursed. The temple was depicted. Various buildings in Whitened, drawn so well Tavera recognized them despite her short stay. The courtyard where she and Tender and Little had waited for Cera, its trees smaller. The Goddess cradling someone in her arms.