by Kara Jaynes
He still looked a little wide-eyed, but continued to follow me down the slope. We had to find shelter soon, or risk a horse breaking its leg in the dark.
I peered ahead in the deepening gloom. There. Through the trees was a faint glow. I thought I might be imagining it, but as we rode through the woods the glow grew to become a lamp, shining from the kitchen window of a cottage. Aaric and I shared a grin. We hadn’t seen another human since entering the mountains.
We eagerly urged our horses to the small homestead. A dog frantically barked from the barn, warning the owners of our arrival. Aaric dismounted and helped me down from Sorrel, and together we walked up to the front door. Aaric knocked and stepped back. I stood behind him.
We heard shuffling footsteps approach, and the door opened a crack. “Who’s there?” a man’s voice asked.
“Two weary travelers, sir,” Aaric said. “We’ve been traveling for some time and are in need of a place to sleep and food to eat. We can pay.”
“Who’s your companion?” The door didn’t open further. If anything, the man sounded even more suspicious.
“My wife, sir.”
The door did open then. A man and a woman stood in the doorway, a cluster of young children peering at us from behind them. The woman held the lamp up to get a better look at us, and made a soothing sound when she saw me. “You poor dear,” she said. “You two will catch your deaths out in the cold like this.”
The farmer hesitated only a moment before opening the door to allow us entry.
The house was warm, deliciously so. A fire crackled in the hearth, and the aromas of baked bread and chicken filled the room. Children seemed to be everywhere I looked, crawling on furniture or hiding behind their mother’s skirt.
“Eight,” the woman said proudly, “and the oldest only twelve.”
After the horses were put in the stable, silver was passed to the farmer, and Aaric and I were seated at the table. Hot bread, chicken, and some root vegetable I didn’t recognize were given to us on tin plates and we dug in.
Dinner was a cheerful affair, the farmer’s wife and children chattering nonstop. They talked about everything: the weather, the family dog, the neighbor—who lived five miles away—and everything in between. The farmer occasionally got a word in edgewise, but for the most part was content to sit back and let his wife do the talking.
It was pitch black outside now. The fire crackled merrily, filling the home with a flickering light and homey feel.
“So where are you two from?” the farmer asked when his wife paused for breath.
“Ruis,” Aaric replied, using his bread to soak up the chicken juices left on his plate.
“Where’s that?” the man asked, puzzled. The children watched us, big eyes shining in the firelight.
“It’s over these mountains,” Aaric flapped a hand in the general direction of our city. “It’s quite far. We’ve been traveling for several weeks already.”
“Over these mountains?” The farmer looked impressed. “They’re near impassable. I’m surprised you two made it.”
Aaric shrugged. It had been difficult. There were times when there wasn’t much of a path, if any, and the going was slow, but we’d persisted, and had come through. A party much larger than ours would have a hard time of it though.
The farmer scratched his chin. “Now that I think of it, my grandfather left me a map of the lands beyond the mountains. Let me see if I can find it.” He stood and walked over to a large chest, and after rummaging through it procured a worn scroll. He rolled it open on the table and leaned over it, eyes squinting in the dim firelight.
“Here, let me help.” I called up the magic, and a small ball of soft light appeared in my hand.
The reaction I received was not at all what I expected. The farmer fell backward out of his chair with a startled yell, and the children screamed in shrill terror. The mother started weeping. “Please don’t hurt us!” she wailed. “Don’t take the children, they’re only babies.”
Aaric and I stared at them in confusion. “It’s . . . just a light,” I said, perplexed. “It won’t hurt you.”
The farmer stared at me in horror. “You’re one of the Twyli,” he whispered. His face hardened in determination, though stark fear showed in his eyes. “I won’t let you take my children. I won’t!” He stood and pointed a shaking finger to the door. “Get out.”
“What?” Aaric sputtered. “Speak sense, man. What in blazes is a Twyli?”
“Are you one too?” the man said turning to him, hands balled into fists. “What kind of sick, twisted game is this you’re playing, pretending to be a Denali?”
Aaric’s face was so bewildered I would have doubled over laughing in any other situation. As it was, I felt ill; the children were scared out of their minds. Five of them clutched their mother’s skirts like a lifeline, sobbing. The older three were trying to be brave, but their faces were ashen, their eyes wide.
I stood, placing a hand on Aaric’s shoulders. I wanted to know what was going on, but these people were in no state to answer any questions. “We need to leave.”
Aaric’s face twisted in indecision. He clearly wanted some questions answered, but he could also see these weren’t the people to ask. He nodded curtly, and rose. The family leaned away from us as we did so.
“We won’t hurt you,” I said soothingly, but their terror-filled expressions didn’t change. I sighed and followed Aaric outside.
Continue reading Adaryn and Aaric’s story in
Twisted Enchantment
by Kara Jaynes
About the Author
Kara Jaynes is a fantasy and children's book author. She lives in Colorado and loves taekwondo, long walks, and fairy tales. She's been writing since she was very young and has more stories in her head than she could possibly write.
Please visit the author's website for more information on upcoming books and news at www.karajaynes.com.
The adventure continues in book 5: Twisted Enchantment: Coming soon!
Connect with the author online
Divided Enchantment by Kara Jaynes
Copyright Kara Jaynes 2015.
All Rights Reserved.
Cover Designer: GermanCreative
The stories, characters, and incidents mentioned or depicted in this publication are entirely fictional.
No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the copyright holder.
