“I miss them too,” Loplop stated sadly, but when Traven tried to meet his eyes, the boy looked down again, enraptured in his own thoughts and memories.
Tears threatened. Somehow over the years, the Hero had fooled himself into believing that he did not miss his family.
In this room, with its smells of the begone and its begging of memories to unfold, the Hero could not help but mourn the loss of all that he had left behind. Traven watched as tears dripped upon the leaves. To his surprise, the leaves bobbed and spun away as his tears made tiny splashes in murky water. He would swear the floor was solid, but the rug made it seem as if the leaves simply lay upon a sheet of water. It was so obvious now.
This blanket represented the Well of Fall.
“No fair! You cheated!” the boy exclaimed. “You said you’d never played this game!”
Traven was thoroughly disoriented. How could he win? He wasn’t even really playing. “I didn’t win —”
“Did too! You got to the bottom of the Well first!” The boy kicked at the leaves and sent a few scattering. “Ah, well. I’ll beat you with my army! Prepare your forces!”
Traven sat stunned, watching the boy rally his troops. It would have been amusing if Traven had not been struck by the oddest sensation. Something important was being played out here. The sense that the Hero was missing a terribly crucial point nagged at him. Where had he heard all these names? How did he know their significance? Again, all Traven had to do was search the past.
Long before the scholars tried to cram his head full of book learning, Granny had begun his education. During those late fall days, when the weather turned and the rain came down, Granny would gather all the girls and babes out on the porch and tell tales of romance and love. Traven would never have been caught dead in that circle.
What would a ten-year-old boy care of such things? Traven only wanted to hear of great deeds and spilt blood. For that matter, throw in a few snakes and decapitations for good measure.
Despite the unappealing subject, Granny’s storytelling voice was a siren’s call. Traven would find some chore, such as sharpening a knife, mending his uncle’s fishing nets, or anything that looked like work, just to bring him close enough to the gaggle to hear Granny.
Traven would do any menial task for as long as the sun crossed the sky. So long, in fact, that his mother worried he was becoming soft in the head. So there he had sat, listening, but not listening, to Granny’s dissertation on the turning of the seasons and the cycle of life. Little did he know exactly how valuable those stories would be. If only the scholars upon Mount Shrine had been so much help. By the sight, Granny had been far more accurate than anything the scholars had to say on the subject.
“Aren’t you going to mount any kind of defense?” the boy asked. “I don’t want you going easy on me, just cause I’m a youngin.”
“No, I’d never do that,” Traven reassured Loplop.
As the Hero finished arranging his “troops” for battle against the boy’s forces, Traven let his mind wander back and savor those afternoons, listening to the tales and raindrops.
During the most tragic moments in the stories, it seemed the sky itself had cried at the lovers’ plight. Despite himself, Traven had listened to every one of Granny’s tall tales. One in particular refused to be forgotten at him. It was one of the old woman’s favorites. She would get that gleam in her eye and even stop her knitting to finish the tale. But what had it been? When were the Folds, Pools, Keeps, and Well united?
The memory brought Traven to his feet, startling Loplop.
“What’s the matter?” the boy asked, frowning and rearranging his game pieces.
Traven was near panic. He never should have entered the room — for it was the Shaman’s. These things, these artifacts, were not painted nor spun by human hand. Traven’s shook his head to clear the cobwebs.
Granny had said the Shaman was an outcast of his tribe and a hermit. The old Marmo had wandered the earth hundreds of centuries ago. The legend began with the Shaman healing an old wound between the seasons. Some age-old grievance was put to rest. To reward the Shaman, each of the seasons had blessed him with a gift made by their own hand.
Not really works of art, but creation itself — duplicated.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Traven urged the child, but Loplop would not be budged.
“If you don’t want to play, just say so!”
If they hurried, their intrusion might go overlooked. “Loplop, we’ve got to —” Traven stopped in midsentence as a voice snapped in the hallway.
“I am Guardian of this Fold. It is decided!” The Faery’s voice was shrill and pointed. Even the boy tensed. There was nowhere to hide. The best Traven could hope for was that the Faery and Giant would barrel past the room. Which they might have done if it had not been for the wolf’s yawning at the most inopportune time.
The Faery was the first to fly into the doorway, hovering menacingly. “Is he daft? Desecrating the Shaman’s Abode?”
“It was Pale,” the Giant stated. “I assure you —”
“And smell him! The human’s eaten and...” The Faery flew up to Traven and took a few sniffs, then turned a dangerous shade of purple. “And he’s drunk our cider! The blasphemer!”
“Emerald—” The Giant tried to defend the Hero.
“Enough. He is to be escorted outside!”
“No! The boy —” Traven tried to interrupt, but the Faery only shook more violently with anger.
“Do you think feigning insanity will help your cause, human?”
Traven turned to find the child gone, along with all his toys. “But he was here,” Traven mumbled as the Faery and Giant again argued.
“At the least give him enough supplies to make it to the next township,” the Giant pleaded.
The wolf sent strong images of Traven staying in the Fold — all would be explained. Traven wished that he could stay, but it was becoming obvious who would win this exchange.
“And have him spread word of this Fold? We’ll have every...” It seemed the Faery could not find a word quite despicable enough. “Every human for fifty leagues upon our doorstep.”
“He will die if we let —”
“Then let him!” Her voice cut as deeply as any sword ever could.
Traven opened his mouth. Before he could utter a single word, the Faery flew up into his face and blew sweet Faery dust. Traven tried to back away and hold his breath, but the magic burned up his nose as the world went black.
***
Commander Jory Packard found himself, once again, staring out the eastern window. Years had passed since he last peeked out onto the Plains. Jory’s concern was always inward, towards the township and the people in it. Now, however, his waking hours were torn between the concern for the Hero and the evil that plagued his small berg. You could smell the corruption in the air. It was a taste that, no matter how much warm ale you drank, you could not get it out of your mouth.
A pounding on the door made Jory turn away from his view of the white wasteland. “Enter.”
A guard that Jory barely recognized entered. The commander’s lieutenant had taken to recruiting new soldiers without Jory’s approval. That would need to change. “Your name?”
“Squire Edwin, sir.”
“Your news?”
“The last of the doves have come in, sir. The blasphemer has not entered any shire within a hundred miles.”
The commander just nodded. It was no surprise. The only true surprise was that the trappers had not found a single remnant of the Hero’s existence.
“Alert the Master of Stables. We may need a party brought together. Have the horses well-fed and groomed.”
The squire did not blink an eye, only nodded. Now Jory just needed an excuse to send out a search team. His hands were so firmly tied by the rules of banishment that his wrists chaffed as if they were bound by rough cord.
“That is all, Edwin.”
The boy saluted and left the
room promptly. Surely, the young soldier would run and report his strange behavior to the lieutenant. Jory was wise to the junior officer’s ambition, but the commander needed the officer to put his chubby neck in a noose. With so many variables, Jory did not have the luxury of court-martialing one of his own senior officers.
But once this was over — once the pall had lifted from the town — then the lieutenant would feel the sting of real discipline.
Jory fingered the letter that sat upon his desk. How many times had he read and reread the parchment from Madame Hesper? She had thrown the bones as he had asked and, as always, got back an answer that was thoroughly unhelpful.
Unsatisfied with the news, Jory opened the envelope again and took out the satiny smooth paper, hoping that one more reading would bring about better understanding. But it did not. How could it?
He lives.
Prepare.
What in the goddess’ name did the medium mean?
Squire Edwin burst back into the room. Only at the last second did the boy skid to a halt, panting. It looked like the boy had scaled the stairs in a single bound. “Sir! Another girl is missing!”
Jory threw down the letter. “Who?”
“The shoppe girl, the one you saved from the mob.”
Jory stiffened. This boded poorly. Even though he was bereft of any magic, the commander could feel when events shifted and the world realigned. You either figured out which way the current flowed, or you were swept out to sea. “Raise the guard. Lock the gate. No one leaves or enters until this is resolved.”
“Aye, sir.”
The boy remembered a hurried salute, then charged back out the door. Madame Hesper had not been exaggerating in her note, but with an ill wind blowing, Jory knew it would take more than simple preparations to survive the next few days.
*****
CHAPTER 10
Ornery held the reins loosely in his hands, too cold and, frankly, too stunned to spare much attention to driving the horses. The horses? His cousins? Ornery could divine why Miss Emmer had said such a thing.
He loved them, there was no doubt, but Cinnamon and Nutmeg were his relatives? His own flesh and blood? Ornery watched the horses’ bodies move under their harnesses. There was not a hint of humanity about them. They looked like any other workhorses he had ever seen. Ornery would have thought Miss Emmert completely mad if he himself had not starting growing a tail — and the darn thing was the same color as Nutmeg’s mane.
Pushing Miss Emmert for an explanation had been futile back at the stable. The skies were darkening, and they needed to hurry if they wished to get on the road. Ornery had tried to protest, but Cinnamon had whinnied and given him a light kick. With even the horses having a say, the boy was completely out-voted.
The packing of the wagon, paying the innkeeper, and leaving the city gates were all a blur. Ornery’s whole intent had been to get Miss Emmert alone out on the trail and question her mercilessly. But, as always, his plans were foiled when Miss Emmert had retired into the wagon, insisting she had to consult her books. Since the horses weren’t talking, Ornery knew no more than he had four hours ago.
Still, his mind raced. How could Nutmeg and Cinnamon be his cousins? That would mean his mother or father had siblings. Which meant that Ornery had aunts or uncles! Why had he never been told that before?
These horses had been with them for nearly two years. Why had Miss Emmert not told him about this before now? Ornery’s hands clenched in anger. Was it not bad enough that he had to go through life a misfit? It might have helped to know there was family with him right in his own camp.
Ornery smelled Miss Emmert before he heard her stir behind the wagon’s curtain. His caretaker had put on her lavender perfume, the scent she only dipped into when they were going to meet Mr. Skelt. Ornery put on his best pouting face and slouched down into his winter coat as Miss Emmert climbed over the backboard to settle in next to him.
There was a long silence as Ornery tried to guilt the woman into speaking first. Unfortunately, this plan also failed. Miss Emmert just breathed in the tart air and casually scanned the tree-dotted landscape.
“You should have told me sooner,” Ornery said, not able to conceal his hurt.
“I could not,” Miss Emmert replied flatly.
Ornery struggled against threatening tears. “Why?”
“Our first priority has always been to keep you safe.”
“How would knowing —”
Miss Emmert waved a gloved hand to silence his outburst. “There are those who have sought your death from before your birth, Ornery. People and beings of great power who wished you had never been conceived. If the slightest hint of your heritage had leaked out, you would not be alive today.”
Ornery blinked as the tears flowed down his cheeks. He had hated his wandering, meandering existence so much that he had never conceived that there was a greater purpose to his life. But more to the point, who would want a lonely, as-good-as-orphaned bastard dead?
“I still don’t understand. Why the secrecy with me? Could you not have trusted me?”
Miss Emmert patted his shoulder, brushing off stray snowflakes before she answered. “Tell me Ornery, if you had known the heritage of these beasts, would you have treated them any differently?”
Horror clenched Ornery’s throat. Dear god, how many times behind Miss Emmert’s back had he used his spurs a bit harder than he was supposed to or cracked the whip just to feel the rush and power? All of that Ornery had done to his cousins! Girls, no less!
“Yes, I would have! I’m sorry, so sorry —”
“Shh. You didn’t do anything wrong, Ornery.”
“Yes, I did, Miss Emmert. You don’t know. Once when she wouldn’t get her head out of the grass, I told Cinnamon she was fat and lazy, and —”
Miss Emmert took the reins from him with one hand and placed the other around his shoulders. She pulled Ornery closer into a hug as she spoke. “You were supposed to do all that. But tell me. How would you have acted if you’d known?”
Ornery knew the answer without a single thought. “ I would’ve done better by them. I would’ve brought them grain right on time, brushed them out every night, not just when you asked me to. And... and I would’ve —”
“My point exactly. If you had known, you could not have helped but treat them with more respect, more familiarity, than is normal for a teenage boy and his draft horses. From that alone, we might have been spied out.”
Miss Emmert’s words sank in slowly. Finally, Ornery realized she was right. The sheer joy of knowing that he had family would have changed his whole demeanor. Even now, Ornery could feel something stir and stretch inside him. Somehow he felt more whole and happier than he could ever have imagined.
“I know it has been difficult, but there was no other way to ensure your survival.”
“Why are you telling me now?”
Miss Emmert clucked to the horses and adjusted the reins. “You were about to leave us. Strike out on your own to find the answers.”
Ornery sat silent. How had she known? Then it came to him. How many of his heart’s secrets had Ornery cried into these horses’ manes? There were at least a dozen such embarrassing admissions that he could think of off the top of his head.
Unbidden, his cheeks began to blush. Some of those secretes were of an extremely private nature. To think that Miss Emmert had knowledge of even a few of them made his skin even redder. He’d better change the subject fast. “But who would want me dead?”
It was Miss Emmert’s turn to look deep in thought.
Ornery tried to be patient, but when an answer was not forthcoming, he spoke up. “Now that I know a little about my family, wouldn’t it be good to know about my enemies?”
“No, it wouldn’t. That knowledge will come with time.”
Ornery’s words burst out before he could control his pent up anger. “No more waiting. I want to know. And know now!”
“Then use your head!” Miss Emmert snapped
at him. Ornery did not think he had ever heard her be so short in his life. The words stung his face worse than the sleet mixed with rain. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, but frustration rang through. “You’ve spent so much time maligning your father and blaming your mother that you might want to consider other scenarios before you damn them so thoroughly.”
Ornery’s rage evaporated under Miss Emmert’s gaze. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. Did you know them?”
“Yes. The sacrifices they made, especially by your father, would humble even a Heavenly Martyr. You have been quick to judge and slow to think.”
Ornery scrunched down further into his wool coat. Its rough collar tickled his cheeks, but he was beyond caring. How could his simple, routine world be overturned so easily? He glanced over at Miss Emmert, but her eyes were gazing ahead, checking the trail. Ornery watched the horses — he meant, his cousins — trotting along. “I assume ‘Cinnamon’ and ‘Nutmeg’ are —”
“Their Centaur names are Kynom and Nutege.”
Mind buzzing with this latest information, Ornery tried out the new names on his tongue. “Kymon and Nutege are my father’s relatives?”
“Yes. Your uncle, Vezar, is Stallion of the Northern Herd. These are two of his fillies.”
“Were our other horses, you know... relatives?”
Miss Emmert nodded. “They were all Vezar’s brood.”
Ornery clutched the wooden bench to keep himself from listing to one side. It was overwhelming to think that one day you were wandering the countryside without a trace of family for support, and then the next, you’ve got an entire herd somewhere watching over you.
“That’s a lot of children,” Ornery said in amazement as he counted the number of horses they’d had over the years.
“Vezar is quite...” Miss Emmert struggled to find the right word.
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