by Jeff Wheeler
Terror froze her in place.
“I have traveled to every kingdom within these lands. I have seen the Vaettir of Silvandom fly amidst their tall trees. I have visited the forges of the Cruithne and witnessed their experiments with chemicals and gemcraft. I abhorred my visit to Havenrook and the gambling Preachán who risk everything on a shake of the dice. I have supped with the King of Wayland and his many dukes and thought how the Aeduan race multiplies faster than the others. But I encountered no hospitality whatsoever in Stonehollow. They are a suspicious bunch and keep to themselves. I hardly learned anything during my first visit. With those in Stonehollow, you must earn their trust before you earn their hospitality.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
I startled you,” the man said in a firm voice and with an accent she did not recognize. As he stepped away from the shadows, Phae saw the black tunic and white collar marking him as a Rike of Seithrall. There were no Rikes in Stonehollow. His very presence startled her. She wanted to flee, but her muscles wouldn’t move.
As the light from the nearest window exposed his face, her shock increased. Not only was he a Rike, he was also Vaettir-born, meaning he had to be from Kenatos. He had dusky skin with slightly slanted eyes. A healthy crop of hair covered his head, though not long. His face was earnest and serious, his expression slightly disapproving. Was she required to kneel in front of him? How was she supposed to know what customs were proper in Kenatos?
She barely found her voice. “I…I must go,” she whispered, edging away from him.
“No,” he said, holding up a warning hand. He studied her shrewdly. “Yes, it is you. Even the hair marks you. Child, you are in grave danger. The Arch-Rike of Kenatos is hunting you. I found you first and must lead you to safety. There will be Finders set loose to track you down. He may even send someone to kill you. The Quiet Kishion. You must pack your things and go with me to a safe haven. Take me to Master Winemiller. I will explain this all to him.”
If his presence had not already terrified her out of her wits, the warning nearly turned her legs to water. Her stomach did a spasm of dread and she took a distancing step backward, ready to flee. Who was this man, and what sort of greeting was this?
“Are you not a servant of the Arch-Rike yourself?” She backed away from him but he followed her, his face vanishing in the shadows. Her power would not work with him in darkness. They needed to be able to lock eyes for her magic to work.
“I am Prince Aransetis of Silvandom,” he said, his voice growing more dreadful. “I was sent here on an urgent matter to save your life. To protect you from harm. What is your name, child?”
She was dumbfounded. “You came all this way, and you do not even know my name?” Distrust swelled inside her.
She glanced at the opening of the barn, trying to judge if there was enough room to sprint for it. Anger began to replace the fear, and her fingers started to tingle with pricks of heat. She was not totally defenseless, but she had never summoned the flames to harm anyone before. She was not certain she could do that.
“You do not understand the danger,” he said, reaching out and grasping her wrist, preventing her from bolting.
She struggled against his grip, but it was like iron.
“Pyricanthas. Sericanthas. Thas,” he said out loud. They were Vaettir words, words she had been taught as a child to control her anger and the fireblood. He put his other hand on her shoulder. “I know what you are. I know who you are. Your father sent me to find you. What we do not know is the name the Winemillers gave you. That was done deliberately to protect you. Your name, child.”
He was outmaneuvering her in every possible way. His approach was deliberate. He had purposefully sought to meet her alone. Everything he did was in reaction to her, anticipating what she would do next. She wondered if she should surprise him, stomp on his foot or something. His grip was hard, but not painful.
“My name is Phae,” she answered, not knowing that she had a choice.
He seemed to breathe it in. He was quiet for a moment. “You may call me Aran. I would like you to go back inside the house. Tell Master Winemiller to meet me here in the barn. I will explain to him the danger that will befall this place when the Arch-Rike discovers it. While he and I speak, you must prepare for a journey. We will travel far, to the woods of Silvandom.”
“I won’t go with you,” she answered firmly. “This is my home, this is…”
His voice hardened. “For your own protection and the protection of this family, you must come with me. Now do as I say. Send Master Winemiller to speak to me. Pack your things. We leave by moonlight.”
He released her suddenly and she nearly fell over. Phae chafed her arm and hurried away from him. As soon as she was free from the barn, she sprinted to the main house and slammed and locked the door behind her. She was shaking violently with fear and unspent anger. Her heart raced, making her dizzy.
Rachael saw her from the kitchen and her eyes crinkled with worry. They shared a room together and had become friends. “Phae?”
The commotion in the kitchen surrounding Trasen’s return quieted. All of the older children were there, the teens such as herself, gathered around to hear Trasen’s stories from his wanderings with Holt.
Dame Winemiller looked concerned. “She’s pale. Are you sick, Phae? Come into the light.”
Trasen sat on the edge of the table, the center of attention, and he quickly leaned off and approached her, his eyes suddenly serious. “Phae?”
The door handle jiggled and then a heavy fist began pounding against the door. Phae stifled an involuntary scream, her eyes burning with tears.
The pounding increased and Phae backed away from the door, staring at it in horror, as if a legion of soldiers were battering it down. Trasen opened the handle and Master Winemiller entered with a scowl of annoyance for being locked out of his home.
“Will someone tell me what is going on?” he said, gazing from Phae to Trasen to his wife, completely bewildered at everything happening at the moment.
She struggled to control her feelings, but seeing him brought a semblance of sanity back into her mind. Master Winemiller could fix anything. He was not an educated man, not like the Archivists of Kenatos, but he knew the ways of the world and he was wise and fair. He was very slow to trust anyone.
Phae pulled Trasen with her and dropped her voice low so that only the two men could hear. “There is a man in the barn. A stranger.”
Winemiller scowled. His wrinkled forehead furrowed even more. His skin was so weathered by the sun, he almost seemed he could be part-Vaettir. There was a liberal amount of gray in his goatee and hair. “A stranger?”
She nodded, out of breath from the shifting emotions. She felt like shaking her hands, but she was afraid fire might start gushing from her fingertips if she did. “He’s a Vaettir lord, but he’s dressed like the Rikes of Seithrall. He said his name is Aransetis. That the Arch-Rike wants me dead. He said many things. I’m frightened.”
Dame Winemiller’s voice came from the kitchen. “What is happening? Is she sick? I can bring a towel. What is wrong with Phae?”
Phae gazed at her adopted father’s eyes. He did not look surprised. In fact, he looked as if part of him had always been expecting news of this kind. He patted her shoulder. “He is in the barn?”
Phae nodded. “He bid me find you. He wants to speak with you.”
Master Winemiller nodded as well and turned back to the half-open door, but Phae caught his sleeve. “I don’t want to go,” she pleaded. “Don’t make me leave. I…I…”
Winemiller rested his hand on her shoulder. His eyes were smoldering with buried fury. “You will not go anywhere, Phae. You will not do anything until I come back.” He looked at Trasen. “Bolt the door while I am gone. Stay with her.”
The mood in the house was somber. The older children thronged the kitchen table, around Dame Winemiller, who was surprised and shocked to learn a stranger had come to the vineyard and no
one had bothered to tell her. When she learned it was about Phae, she frowned and shook her head, stroking Phae’s hand repeatedly and trying to assure her that all would be well. The words were said with a tremor in her voice that belied the assurance she was trying to bestow.
Phae rose from the table and paced the kitchen, clutching her stomach, looking at every face as if it might be her last chance. There were so many memories imbued in the home. She saw all the cobwebs in the nooks and the crumbs scattered beneath the table as well as the good times, the laughter, and the teasing. Trasen beckoned her over to the hearth. She joined him gratefully.
“Sit a moment,” he said, offering her a seat on the stone next to him. His eyes never strayed for long from the front door. He had been watching it like a cat since Winemiller had left.
She eased down, feeling her emotions close to the surface. She hated it when her feelings ran away with her. She was always the one that others came and confided in, always able to soothe a hurt or mend rifts between the children.
“I wasn’t expecting my fortnight leave to be so interesting,” he said in a conspiratorial voice. “Guarding caravans of peaches will seem downright boring compared with this.”
She tried to smile, but her mouth felt all wrong.
“How did the last harvest go?” he prodded, trying again to distract her.
“I know what you are doing,” she said, trying not to whine. “Let’s go back to our first conversation.” She gave him a level look. “I don’t like the thought of you being a soldier, Trasen. The Romani are dangerous.”
“So are the Wayland Outriders,” he countered. “I’m not going as a soldier. Finders are paid much better.”
“Why are you so suddenly interested in earning ducats?” she asked, butting his knee with hers. “Is there a fancy bow you are craving? A new blade?”
He smiled wanly, looking down at the floor suddenly. “It takes ducats to start a homestead, Phae. Of course, there are all those abandoned ones in Wayland from the last Plague. But I’ve heard they are haunted.”
“You would go to Wayland to start a homestead? Why not here?”
“Is this where you want to spend the rest of your life, Phae?”
“Not in the city. But yes, I love this country. I thought you did too.”
He nodded. There was something in his eyes again. Something he wasn’t telling her.
“Why do ducats mean so much to you now, Trasen?” she pushed again, unrelenting. “If anything were to happen to you…”
His eyebrow twitched up, waiting for her to finish.
She did not. There was a knock on the door and Trasen was on his feet. The others deferred to him, since he was the oldest and he opened the door cautiously, hand resting on his dagger hilt.
Winemiller entered, followed by the Vaettir prince. Phae’s heart fell to the bottom of her boots. The other children hushed at once, and even Dame Winemiller stopped her chatter when he appeared.
“Children, we have a guest tonight,” Winemiller said. Phae stared at his face in suspense, wondering what he would say. “This is Prince Aran of Silvandom. He will be spending the night with us. Devin and Tate—you will give up your room tonight and sleep in the kitchen. The Prince needs some privacy and he refused to take our room. All right, boys? Good. Everyone needs to go to bed. We have extra chores in the morning. Go on, now. No stories. You can hear more from Trasen in the morning. Sorry, lad, but you will sleep in the barn tonight. We don’t have any extra beds at the moment.”
Trasen waved it away. He was used to sleeping out of doors.
Phae bit her lip, meeting the Prince’s eyes as he looked at her, almost scowling. His expression was grave and disapproving. He bowed thankfully and declined Dame Winemiller’s offer of wine to drink. He stood aloof as the children began crossing paths, unused to heading to bed so early.
Winemiller approached Phae at the hearth and Trasen joined him.
“I must leave?” Phae asked, devastated.
He nodded brusquely. His voice was low, almost a whisper. “But not as this man wishes. I do not know who he is. I do not trust him. I am not letting you leave with him tonight.”
Her heart surged with joy.
“He says he knows your father, claiming he is a Paracelsus at Kenatos who is out of favor with the Arch-Rike. Some bad debt, probably. You never know with these things. He told me quite a tale. I don’t know how much of it is true.” He glanced back at the Vaettir a moment, saw the man in conversation with his wife. Winemiller half-smiled and dropped his voice even lower. “Mother will keep him distracted a while. You have a necklace, Phae. Made with a blue stone. The one that was left in the basket with you.”
She reached for it around her throat, but a subtle jerk from his head made her stop. “No, he can see you from there. When you go to bed tonight, leave it under your pillow. Apparently, that is how he found you. Then I want you to crawl out your window and go straight to the barn. Trasen, take Phae to the cabin in the mountains. Also take some bows, a few braces of arrows, knives, and short axes. Rope. It’s always good to have enough rope. A change of clothes too, but travel light. If you leave tonight, you might get there by nightfall tomorrow.”
Phae had not even thought of that. She wanted to hug and kiss him, but knew that it would attract the Prince’s attention. She needed to look forlorn and rejected. She put on her best pout.
Trasen folded his arms, nodding warily. “Will you send word for us?”
“I will come myself,” he promised. “If what Prince Aran told me tonight is true, the whole family is in danger. We might all need to go live in the cabin for a while. But it gives me some time to verify what I can from his story. I don’t care how many people the Arch-Rike can pay. This is Stonehollow. Our neighbors mind their own business. We won’t be as easy to find as Aran thinks.”
“Thank you,” Phae mouthed to him. She gave Trasen a hopeful look.
“No one threatens my family,” Winemiller said angrily. “We look after our own. We always have. We always will. You are a Winemiller, Phae.”
The other children had slipped away to their rooms. Dame Winemiller was still engaging Prince Aran in conversation, prattling on with her wealth of stories. Phae slipped past them into the corridor, looking downcast but secretly eager. She passed the ladder leading up to the loft and debated within herself if she should climb it one last time and peek in on the little ones. She chose not to, but opened the door and found Rachael nearly ready for bed.
When she started pulling together another shirt and pants and stuffed them into a pack, she heard Rachael gasp. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”
Phae nodded and then the two orphans hugged each other fiercely. Rachael kissed her cheek. “I don’t like sleeping alone. What will I do without you?”
Phae smiled. “Will you do my chores for me? Until I get back? The little ones need stories. Can you do that for me?”
Rachael nodded, wiping a tear from her eye. “Are you leaving soon?”
She sighed, nodding silently, and continued stuffing clothes in the pack. Fetching her cloak from a peg on the wall, she fastened it around her neck. The action reminded her of what she needed to do. Around her neck, she wore a simple chain necklace with a blue stone set in a gold band. The stone was light blue with a white cat’s-eye streak in it. Dame Winemiller had said she had been delivered to them with the necklace, that it was the only thing she had arrived in, save a blanket. There was no name and so the family had chosen one for her. Phae.
Phae unclasped the necklace and stared at the curious thing. She was reluctant to leave it behind. It was the only physical part of her past that was left as the blanket and the basket had fallen apart years before. It was heartbreaking to part with it.
Phae knelt by the bedside and rumpled the covers. She slipped the necklace underneath her pillow. Then, rising, she hugged Rachael one last time and unbolted the window. With a hard push, it opened outward on the hinges. The sky was black, dotted with shimmering star
s. The smell wafting in was the one she had smelled earlier coming from the vineyard. Planting her boot on the edge of the bed rail, she gracefully climbed up and swung herself out the window. She dropped to the ground outside with only a little puff of dirt. Rachael handed her the pack and shut the window behind. Pressing her face against the glass, she waved goodbye.
Fear and anguish were Phae’s companions. She did not want to leave the homestead. But the cabin was not so very far. Perhaps this would all be nothing. Perhaps the danger wasn’t real.
Perhaps it was.
Head down, Phae walked to the barn. She was so grateful that Trasen was going with her. It would make everything so much easier. What an adventure they would have together. Hopefully, by the time his fortnight of leave was over, it would all be resolved.
Trasen saw her approach and met her from the shadows of the barn. He was equipped with the items Winemiller had suggested and handed her another bow to carry. She saw the dagger in his belt.
She bit her lip, glancing back at the house. “Can I borrow your knife?” she asked.
He looked at her curiously. “Why?”
Her heart was suddenly very heavy. “You said there were rumors the Plague was coming. If it is, I want to do what I can for the family. I’d like to leave a little blood on the lintel. Just in case.”
He stared at her for a long time, weighing her words. In other parts of Stonehollow, a girl like Phae would have been publicly executed at the outbreak of another Plague. Her blood was the property of all and it was no crime to kill someone with the fireblood. She had no idea why that was, but it was commonly believed that their blood, spread on the lintel, protected a household from the Plague.
Trasen nodded and handed the knife to her.
“A great poet from ancient times put it this way: Love is the beauty of the soul.”
