As he walked, he tried to imagine what lay beyond the hedge. A mansion? More snow-covered fields? A sprawling farmhouse?
Before he realized it, he’d come to the abrupt end. He peered around the edge, only to find that it was no edge at all. It was a corner. At this one, the hedge wall looked exactly as it had at the first corner. He groaned and cast a wary glance at the stand of trees where he’d started.
“No point going back now,” he mumbled, continuing on.
“Switch?”
The Mustang’s hooves had ceased their soft thumping behind him. He turned to find her chomping on a section of the hedge.
“Switch. Come on,” he sighed. “There will be real food when we get to the house.” I hope.
She eyed him as if to say she’d heard that last part.
He frowned. Well then, maybe she’d understand: I am hungry and impatient. I don’t want to eat hedge and I don't want to wait on you. Please come on.
Switch snorted and stamped her foot, but trudged toward him.
He smiled.
When they reached the corner, Switch rounded it before him with eagerness.
He followed after her. Then halted and stared.
Hedge.
Lush green walls of hedge.
His shoulders fell.
But there was nothing for him to do except push forward, following the verdant barrier that stretched before them. He didn’t bother to count the minutes it took him. He didn’t want to know. He just followed the hedge, keeping his mind on putting one foot in front of the other.
When he reached the edge, he tried to tell himself that he was too tired to care what was on the other side.
But he did care.
He eased around the green wall, squinting—as if that would soften the blow from the sight of more hedge.
Relief fell over him like an avalanche.
There was a gap in the hedge, flanked by two trees.
A small laugh escaped him as he stepped onto the stone path that peeked through the grass at his feet.
Grass?
He looked around. There was snow in every direction. But when it reached the first stone, the white powder gave way to patches of green-gold grass. His eyes followed the stones along the path, which stretched a full mile, it seemed, of hedge wall. It was lined with trees sporting silvery leaves that dangled like mossy icicles from branches that arched over the meandering line of stones. The effect was tunnel-like.
It was as though winter didn't reach here. A perpetual Spring or Summer. The idea warmed him, and his thoughts turned from the aches in his legs to the possibility that food and a proper shelter was only a lane’s length away.
His heart skipped with excitement.
Part of him wanted to race down the lane, too eager to wait even that long. The other part of him was too sore even to attempt it. So he trudged along at the same pace he'd been at for so long already. At the end of the lane, he was met with another opening and, beyond it, a circular courtyard. In the gently curving wall of the hedge were five openings. Directly in the center was an archway rimmed with brightly colored blooms. It was as if the entire place was impervious to the snow. But that couldn't… he tilted his head, reminding himself that indeed it could; the place was maintained by etâme.
Beyond the blooms appeared to be another row of hedge, but it was as if he were gazing at a distant scene through a sheet of heavy green rain, so it was hard to tell.
The next two openings, flanking the center, were full gaps in the hedge. Beyond each was an intricate, weaving landscape of flowers, shrubs, and fruit-bearing trees. The sides mirrored each other exactly, except that the color palates were different.
The left gap led to colors of a warm Autumn sunset: russet, red, gold, yellow, white, brown. It reminded him of Tehya.
The gap on the right held colors of a stormy mountain morning: deep hues of blue and purple, greys, browns, and the darkest greens.
The last two openings, both unadorned archways, showed glimpses of vegetable plants and vines. An entire town could be sustained by the crops in these gardens.
Which way was he meant to go? Was he even in the right place? There was no house here, no directions to it. But this is where the maps had led him. This had to be it.
He moved forward, drawn toward color in the middle three openings. From the center of the courtyard, he could see that there was no house or shed of any kind in the outermost openings. And the two a step closer to the center appeared very grove-like. He had a feeling the center was his best bet. But as he made the decision and started toward it, Switch veered away from him.
"What are you doing?" he began to ask, but he thought he knew. They hadn't eaten in a day. His snacks, shared between them, were not nearly fulfilling enough. And here they were in a garden. Several gardens. "Have at it," he chuckled dryly, hoping that this Madame Veren lady would have a giant dinner ready and waiting for him. He had no doubt that Switch could find him if he went on ahead. He was certain now that she had been following him since he appeared from the book. Whatever it was about him was like a beacon to her.
As he crossed beneath the center arch, he closed his eyes and stopped, inhaling deeply. It smelled almost like Tehya's hair. He smiled. But the smile soured. He hoped they would be here soon. If here was where they were meant to be. He missed their company.
With a sigh, he opened his eyes and took a better look at what lay beyond.
Another hedge.
This one stretched to his left and right, perpendicular to the arch hedge, creating a hallway. Small gaps of light interrupted the otherwise seamless green wall, and beyond them, more hedge, more corridors.
“A maze?”
Well. There was nothing for it. If he wanted to reach the checkpoint, he had to try it. Why wouldn't Bardoc warn me of this? He wondered, turning left into the corridor.
As he traversed the grass-carpet hallways, marveling at the sheer volume of vivid green around him, a lethargy settled in his bones. He tried to shake it off. But it only grew stronger.
A nagging paranoia suggested perhaps the flowers were laced with something, and when he'd breathed in the scent, he'd breathed in a poison. But, no. More likely, he was exhausted from the days of hard travel and very little food. Within these lush passages there was no winter nip in the air—just the lulling warmth of Spring. The combination was deadly.
He followed the corridors in a fog, not sure whether he was successfully navigating the maze, or losing himself in it entirely. But then he wandered through another bloom-laden archway into a vast courtyard, several acres long and wide.
There were stone steps, fountains that peeked through hedges and spilled water into a lazy river that encircled an island in the far center of the open space, ornate wooden bridges, grassy knolls, sprawling trees that looked like a cross between Southern Oaks and Willows—all set below the plane of the rest of the garden maze.
The sheer size of the place, coupled with what he’d seen of the other gardens, suddenly made sense of his lengthy trek around the outer hedge.
But his sleep-starved eyes zeroed in on the house atop the island. A rickety one-story shack of a building, all but the door and wide front window swallowed by vines. It looked somehow at once abandoned and inviting. Perhaps the latter was his weariness talking, and the prospect of a couch or even a bed. Whatever it was, he didn't care. He was finally at his checkpoint. At least, he was pretty sure he was.
Chapter 31
Ariana,
You're alive!? Yes, Hunter split from the group. There was an incident with Huntsmen at a checkpoint. Father was involved. He met with them. I don't think it's for the first time, either. I listened in. They showed him proof that my mother is alive. They promised her to him in exchange for Hunter. He's walking into a trap and Falken Fyrenn is at the end of it.
Father is missing now. Grant is on his trail. I alerted the others. They’re the closest to LaRuze Valley—where my father has sent Hunter—but he’s got half a day’s he
ad start. He's due to arrive by Win 5. I don’t know if they’ll reach him in time. It can’t be safe for them to go after him but there’s no one else I can turn to. Stay safe. Let us hope they do likewise.
William
Killian growled and slammed his fist on the little desk. Ariana startled. The dragonfly took to the air, wings aflutter.
A static built around him. It pressed into the air around her.
He snatched the letter from her, but she didn't protest. Her mind reeled.
“How could Bardoc be so... how could he? Why? I mean, I know why, but... why?” she rambled. "I trusted him. We all did."
“It doesn't matter why or how. It only matters that it happened,” Killian answered. There was almost a sadness in his words. She turned to him, but his face was set. Grim. Stony. Void of sadness. “None of it matters at all if they're too late to save Hunter,” he added bitterly. "My father will kill him.”
A chill shot down her spine. Without Hunter, there was no way to destroy the Onyx Vial. Not in time to keep Falken Fyrenn from getting his hands on it, anyway. “We have to find Hunter. LaRuze Valley is in Kember. Not far northeast of here. We could get there in time. If we go now. All we need is...” She sucked in a breath and stood. “Where is the Stoalvenger?”
He straightened. “Why?”
She huffed, stomping her bare foot with impatience. “Do the Strattons have it or do we?” she insisted.
“I do. She’s hidden in an abandoned barn behind the inn.”
“Then let's go,” she said, crossing the room and stuffing her feet in her boots. She laced them quickly, then checked under the bed for her satchel. It wasn’t there. She’d felt the bite of the cold winter air seeping through the old inn since she woke, but it wasn’t uncomfortable enough to put something over the thin straps of the dress. Outside, however, this far north, she’d need at least sleeves to survive.
She stood again, peered around the bed, and spotted her satchel and coat lying in the corner. As she started toward it, Killian spoke.
“No,” he said, his voice gruff.
Ariana froze. “No?”
“Let’s wait for Harold.”
She gaped at him. “That could take hours!”
“You don’t understand.” Killian stood firm. “We have to wait for Harold.”
She couldn’t believe this. Every minute could mean the difference of whether his brother lived or died—whether the Onyx Vial became the property of Falken Fyrenn—and he was going to sit around waiting for Harold Stratton to solve his problem?
“You’re right,” she said, striding to the corner and snatching up her coat. “I don’t understand.” She stuck her arms in the sleeves and buttoned up tight.
“What are you doing?” he asked, inching over to block the door.
“I won't stand here and let your brother walk the greatest weapon of our time right into your father's hands.” She barreled toward him, intent to run him over if she had to. To her surprise, he stepped obediently out of the way.
"I'm sorry," he said as she stormed into the hall.
"You will be," she replied, not looking back, "if your brother dies and you weren't there to save him."
Chapter 32
The front door hung like a loose tooth, half attached, useless, out of position. Hunter stood in the open frame and peered into the darkness of the house.
“Hello?”
Only his echo answered.
Then something metallic clanged in the bowels of the house.
“Madame Veren?” He reached for the dagger. Clutching the handle of a weapon he hoped he wouldn't need, he stepped inside.
By what little sunlight crept in with him, he could make out a hallway of closed doors leading away from him on the left and a wide opening to his right.
He peered into the room beyond it, his eyes adjusting, to find a sea of paper. Ottoman-islands and couch-corner crags were all that broke the jagged beige surface.
A swirling, tugging sensation formed in his stomach, but it wasn't from Switch.
What had happened here? Had Madame Veren been attacked?
He waded across the room, creating waves of potential paper cuts. He saw no blood, no obvious signs of a struggle. This was not the scene of an attack; it was just a giant mess, at the end of which he found himself standing in the doorway of a tiny kitchen.
The smell of cooked vegetables wafted from the small brick oven at the far end of the room. The scent overwhelmed him, setting his mouth watering.
A squat little woman shuffled over the stone floor.
He startled.
She yanked on the handle of a cabinet above her and the door groaned as she swung it open.
“Um. Madame Veren?”
The woman stopped and turned to face him.
Hunter was hit with the sudden, distinct image of a mole.
The woman’s eyes were irisless black dots in her round face. Her puffy curls of reddish brown hair were dirty and unmanaged. Her pointy, protruding nose and equally sharp, narrow lips convinced Hunter she was part rodent.
“I am,” she replied.
Hunter stared at her, confused.
“What can I do for you?” she prompted, her voice the pitch of a rusty hinge.
It reminded him of her front door. The woman’s house had been ransacked and she stood, unconcerned by the stranger who’d appeared in her kitchen? Hunter stumbled over his reply. “I—I thought that—” he jabbed a thumb in the direction he’d come from, “did you know your door is busted down?”
Madame Veren closed her largish eyes and nodded. “Has been,” she said, her lids popping open again. “You didn’t come all this way to tell me that, Hunter.”
“How did you…?” Bardoc must've told her.
She turned away from him and stuck her hand in the cupboard. “Hungry?” she asked, eyeing him over her shoulder. She removed two plates and set them on the stone counter. Then she pulled open a drawer, stuffed her hands in some mitts, and plucked the cookware out of the oven.
Hunter swallowed the saliva collecting under his tongue as she placed the dish—brimming with a glazed assortment of vegetables—onto the counter. He forced his eyes away. He didn’t want to be hungry. There was something discomforting about this woman—this house.
"You're late," she growled, grabbing a serving spoon from a drawer and scooping the myriad of vegetables onto the plates.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I couldn't have gone any faster. Also, you live at the center of a maze. That doesn't exactly make the front door easy to find."
Madame Veren shrugged. "That is the point." She gestured at the table. "Sit. You must be hungry."
Hunter gritted his teeth. His stomach said stay, eat, rest—there's nothing to worry about. But his mind was itching with wariness.
Madame Veren was next to him in a blink, her small hand clutching his wrist like a python. For such a tiny woman, she had a mighty grip. “Sit. Eat,” she said.
Hunter stared at her, the scent of the vegetables invading his nostrils, anxiety constricting his throat. He couldn’t deny he was hungry. But he couldn’t deny that she made him uncomfortable either. Switch's wind whorled inside of him. She must've sensed his anxiety, because he could sense her worry for him.
“I’ll not let you starve,” Madame Veren insisted.
Hunter frowned. He willed Switch to relax, but realized he’d have to relax in order to convince her. In the end, his stomach won out. “Alright."
Madame Veren smiled—her small teeth not nearly as sharp and rodent-like as he imagined—and released his arm.
He sighed in relief.
She took the plates from the counter and carefully walked them to the table. "Don't make me force you to sit, Hunter," she warned, setting a plate in front of him.
This time, he obeyed her, and tried not to drool at the sight of the food.
Once he took a bite, he practically inhaled the rest. He ate so quickly he barely recognized what the vegetables were—even as he tasted
them on his tongue. All he cared to know was that they were crisp and juicy with flavor.
By the time he'd cleaned his plate he was stuffed and drowsy.
He looked over. Madame Veren had barely eaten two bites. She stared at him, almost bewildered, her forkful of vegetables hovering halfway to her slack mouth.
He grinned sheepishly. "Sorry, I haven't eaten real food in a while."
Madame Veren blinked and placed the fork back on her plate. "Would you like more?"
"Actually," he said, realizing just how tired he was, "is there somewhere I could rest for a while?" He hoped she didn't say the living room. He didn't feel like cleaning anything just so he could sit on it.
Madame Veren nodded. "First room on the right," she said, pointing to the hallway opening behind her.
He started to stand, but his legs felt so heavy he almost didn't want to.
"I'm sorry," she added.
Hunter frowned. "Why?" But then his eyelids drooped and his arms got heavy.
She stood, pulling his plate away from him and catching his head as it fell forward. "I didn't realize you'd be so tired," She laid his head gently on the table. "I wouldn't have had to drug you."
Chapter 33
Hunter stirred, registering the sounds of banging. Shouts.
He opened his eyes. Panic shot through him. He stood too fast and blood rushed behind his eyes. He gripped the chair back and blinked hard to reorient his vision.
A golden glow stretched across the house. Sunset? The room was cold, empty. Madame Veren was gone.
He reached to his hip, heart in his throat. But the dagger was still there.
"Hunter!"
"Tehya?" he croaked, voice rough from sleep.
"Hunter!" Several voices at once. The pounding grew insistent.
He rushed to the door as fast as his spinning vision would allow, and flung it open.
Perry, Tehya, and Dilyn crowded the doorway.
"We have to get you out of here," Perry said, grabbing his arm.
"Why?"
"It's a trap, Hunter," Tehya whimpered.
The Onyx Vial (Shadows of The Nine Book 1) Page 32
