The minotaur stood, and Pythia followed suit. “I will find a white hare,” he whispered quietly.
With her heart beating in her ears, Pythia slowly reached out and took his hand as a gesture of thanks. She smiled slightly at the realization that she could grasp only one of his fingers at most. He was a mammoth beast.
No words were spoken—none were needed—and Pythia left the brook, heading back toward Shargrove.
At the edge of the trees, a watchtower with blue flags and banners loomed over the village like a storm cloud. No longer was it a marker of home. No longer did it represent anything at all.
Pythia saw before her a quiet village, seeping with hatred.
“What are you doing?” a severe voice came from the path behind her.
Micah stood five paces from her, eyes glowing with suspicion. “I saw you with the creatures,” he went on. “The gangly, gray thing touched you. Is there black in your blood?”
Pythia’s hands shook and she clenched them at her back. “No. And if you truly saw a thing, then you would know I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Nose wrinkling, Micah took one hesitant step forward. “I heard you. You spoke of blood-magic.”
At that, Pythia took hurried steps toward him to speak in a whisper. “It’s not what you think. You don’t know what happened. Why did you follow me?”
The man’s attention bounced toward the brook. “You’re a bad liar, miss. I could tell you were hiding something. Why does the minotaur not crush you into powder? Have you spelled him?”
Pythia crossed her arms over her chest. “Why does everyone immediately think witchcraft? And what does it matter whether I lied or not? We don’t know one another. My actions do not affect you in any way.”
“Oh but they would, were you to be found a mangled corpse, mauled by the edge of this brook. There are so few strangers in this town that I would be blamed without thought. I’m glad I did follow you. Shargrove would have my head.”
Pythia laughed in disdain. “You do not know my town. They would sooner thank you than hang you. Not that it matters. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Then why don’t you tell me what is going on? Raise doubt within me, please. I held so much concern for you, miss. Tell me I was not being deceived and that the village is at fault for your apparent abuse.”
Pythia thought for a moment before stepping forward. “My name is Pythia. Pythia Loom. Believe me when I tell you, this is not the first time the people of Shargrove did this to me. They blame the spirits on me. Did I awaken them? Yes. But am I a witch? No! Not in the least! It was an accident, and I have worked diligently these past days—to the point of unconsciousness—to relay the spirits to the Everdark.” Pythia lifted a hand to her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut. By the Highest, her head was throbbing. “These spirits are stubborn. And they are clever. I cannot do it alone.”
“So you went to the beast for help?” Micah replied.
“The ‘beast’ won’t hurt me,” Pythia answered. She ran her hands through her hair, trying to hide how badly she shook. “He saw what happened. He is willing to help me.”
Micah scoffed at her reply. “And you trust it?”
“Believe it or not, the creatures of the Everdark may be ugly, but they are not stupid. Nor are they blind. They knew the dangers of the Blacker Shadows, and it affects them as well as us if these spirits are on the loose.”
Fear fell upon Micah clearly in that moment. Any mention of the Blacker Shadows was enough to make a knight shake in his armor. Stories of the Everdark paled in comparison.
A shadow crawled over his hood as the sun began to set. Pulling his sleeves down over his hands, he crossed his arms as if a chill came over him.
Pythia had a thought and licked her lips, then took a step past Micah. “Come with me. Maybe you can better understand if I show you the tablet.”
Micah was hesitant, but he followed as she led him not forty feet from where they stood. Pythia stopped beneath the eaves of a large red cypress tree. The bark was not the usual pale brown as it was seen throughout the lands, but a dense burgundy—as if years were spent with its roots drenched in blood. A gaping hole opened at the base of the trunk, yet that was not where Pythia led the man. Not ten feet west, amid a circlet of bare earth, lay a white, dirt-laden tablet of stone. A large crack along the center nearly prevented it from remaining in one piece.
Pythia stood beside the stone, guilt and grief filling her. She pointed to a hole in the ground and spoke through tears. “I was hurrying to get home before the village bell rang and the barn I sleep in was shut for the night. Lady Farner expects me to be in the barn by sundown, and when it’s shut, it’s shut. Nights are cold now.” Pythia looked in front of her. “I walked the dirt path through this forest for years, never breaking from it until five nights ago. I thought cutting through the woods would get me home sooner. It was raining, so the ground was soft and the tablet must have been unearthed. I caught the toe of my shoe on the edge and after picking myself up, took no more than a glance back at it. But I returned in the morning to take a closer look in the hopes of finding I’d come across some treasure hidden away and forgotten.”
Turning to face Micah once again, Pythia was at least pleased to find a kinder expression on the man’s face; she hated being thought a liar after spending so much of her life trying to gain acceptance from others.
Micah knelt down to look at the tablet. “Was it already moved from the hole here?”
Pythia shook her head. “No. I picked it up, and the moment I did, a thick fog lifted from the hole in a constant stream for an entire day. It looked like the smoke from a pipe. But believe me when I tell you, I had no idea what it was. Of course I knew the Everdark is on the other side of the woods there, but that is where things like this belong. Not on our side. The minotaur claims it was done purposefully, and likely by those who created the Everdark.”
“The Voices?”
“Voices, Sages, Gods, or Goddesses. No one here knows what to call them. As far as Shargrove is concerned, there are no creators of anything. It is a town of fear and superstitions. Hence, their unerring faith in my being a witch.”
Micah sighed with a shake of his head. “What would the purpose be in such a doorway existing?”
With her dress already covered in mud and blood, Pythia finally conceded to her weariness and dropped onto her bottom beside the hole. “I don’t know. How can anyone really know? The minotaur says the tablet is ages old.”
“Would you really sit next to that hole if it’s so dangerous?” Micah asked, narrowing his eyes at her.
“You doubt what I’ve told you this far? Why else would a minotaur be willing to speak with me? Why else would my face be this battered? By all means, go speak with the townspeople. They will be more than willing to share even the exaggerations of the truth, but it will all end in my being a witch.”
Pythia made sure to keep eye contact with Micah as she spoke. She would not have him calling her a liar.
With a clearing of his throat, Micah joined Pythia on the ground and crossed his legs in front of him. Again, he pulled his cloak tighter around himself and Pythia wondered fleetingly what a cloak like his felt like. She never had the luxury of owning such a fine piece of clothing. She had a red blanket given to her one winter when she was a child, but it disappeared from the barn some years ago.
“Tell me what needs to be done, Pythia,” Micah said, shaking her from her contemplation. He stared at her with a furrowed brow, as if he’d been speaking to her for longer than she was aware. “Tell me about the blood-magic. I heard the minotaur speak a spell.”
Pythia’s heart suddenly beat faster. “Um,” she began with a deep breath, “‘a hare of white, and bone of pale, cut in the neck of one born of the veil.’”
Micah’s face scrunched in thought. “‘Of the veil?'”
Pythia nodded and nausea rose to the base of her throat. “It means I must find a white hare within the veil. The minotaur says the ve
il is the Everdark, so he’s going to find one.”
It was clear Micah expected more. His brows rose in expectation for her to go on.
“I must kill the hare, remove one bone, cut my palm with it, and spill my own blood with that of the hare into the hole. The spirits will smell it and return to the passage. When the spirits are all returned, I drop the bone into the hole and cover it with the tablet once more.”
“This seems too simple. Why haven’t you done this yet?”
Pythia frowned. “Because, be it animal or not, it’s still blood-magic! I spent my entire life refuting their accusations of witchcraft. The village will know I did it when I return with a cut hand. It’s an absolute truth that blood-magic is done with a cut to the palm.”
Micah shook his head slightly, as if still not convinced. Pythia had enough.
“Micah, sir,” Pythia said, standing up. “It was a pleasure meeting you. You have been a kind man, but I have problems that need solving. And by standing here with you and your skepticism, I am wasting away what little time I have. I imagine I will be seeing you.”
With his cloak still tight around him, Micah hurried to his feet and pulled his hood back. It was the first time Pythia really saw the man, and she was surprised to find he was less of a man than she thought. He couldn’t have been more than twenty winters old. A mop of ruffled brown hair framed his olive-toned skin and his green eyes lightened to a greenish-brown without the hood. High, tight cheekbones gave him the countenance of a highborn noble rather than a peasant like her. She almost thought he was an elf, but upon closer inspection, she could tell his ears were clearly just as round as hers.
“I’m sorry,” he said with a fresh urgency in his tone. “Please. This is just so much for me to absorb. I saw a woman no older than me stand nose-to-nose with a minotaur, and a gray pixie light upon her shoulder. I’m hearing of ghost stories within the town and had to make sure you weren’t lying to me when telling me the story from your end.”
Pythia bit her lip at the realization. Micah knew more than he had let on!
“Yes, I heard it all from the villagers first. But please don’t be angry with me. I saw you days ago and worked up a lot of courage just to speak with you. I knew I wanted to help; I just didn’t know how to do it.”
The village bell tolled outside of the woods and Pythia bristled at the sound. Micah glanced toward it but turned back to her in silence.
“Whatever is to be done won’t be done tonight,” Pythia said, her heart sinking at the thought of the cold she knew was coming. The barn would be shut. And yet, even if it wasn’t shut, Pythia knew she couldn’t return to Shargrove. There was too much anger, and the spirits were too bold with her name. “You should get yourself back to town if you don’t want the villagers asking questions.”
Her words must have confused Micah. His mouth dropped open before saying, “But what about you? Are you not going back?”
Pythia shook her head. “I have nowhere to go back to. It’s fine. This won’t be the first time I sleep outdoors in the winter.” She paused, already feeling the chill. “But you need to go. I won’t be held responsible for you out here. Go to the inn. Warm up with some stew. The Barkers are wonderful cooks.” Her stomach rumbled at the mention of food. She would be fine, though. Pythia knew enough of hunger to handle it on her own.
“I don’t feel right. I can’t leave you out here.”
“Micah, it’s fine. You’re new here, I understand. But you haven’t had proper time to get to know me, nor do you want to.” Pythia struggled to add a tone of frustration in her plea. Micah was indeed young and may react better if she spoke sternly. “I’m not making light of the situation here. The people beyond these woods will not accept you. Not if they think for a moment that you’ve spent all this time with me.”
Though he made several more attempts to remain with her, Micah eventually turned to make his way to the village. He even offered his cloak, which Pythia accepted as a kind gesture and was grateful for.
Pythia watched the stranger walk away as she held his cloak in her hands. She had been right; it was made of wool.
***
Morning came with a bite—the first snow of the season. Pythia woke beside the burning embers of a fire still giving off heat. She discovered she lay beneath the weight of animal skins she did not remember having when first settling for the night. Pythia tugged the skins closer around her neck and inhaled the crisp air. The treetops were already white with snow and the surrounding ground and stones were slick with ice. She had never woken so warm on a winter’s morning. Not once in her life—not until now.
The stiff corpse of a white hare by her shoulder told her all she needed to know.
“I am glad you did not return to your village,” the familiar voice of the minotaur came from behind.
Pythia turned to see him coming through the trees with more wood in his arms. She no longer flinched at the sight of him. How strange.
“Thank you,” she said, noticing the three gray pixies clinging to him. One sat between his horns while the other two flitted from horns to shoulders. “Thank you so much.”
“You are comfortable?”
“I am. And I cannot thank you enough.”
“Good. Den you are strong enough to make sacrifice.”
Pythia looked down at the fire and nodded slightly. “Yes. I will do it.”
The minotaur layered three logs onto the fire and they quickly took to burning. It was clearly not wood from anywhere nearby, as everything was too wet or frozen to catch fire. She realized that he must have wood stashed someplace.
“May I ask what you’re doing this far from the Everdark? I thought you couldn’t leave.”
At first, Pythia thought the minotaur was coughing or gagging on something he might have eaten, but she quickly realized it was laughter coming from his bull-like snout. She couldn’t help but smile in return.
“We come and go as we please. Only dere is more reason to come to da Everdark dan to go from it. Man is angry. Elves are ugly. Dwarves—I do not see. Why go where my kind are too big for walking?” He turned the wood in the fire with his hands without flinching and said, “The idea of barrier around da Everdark is trickery. I do not know where it started. I do not care. I am happy to live in my peace—in my dark.”
One pixie flew to Pythia and lifted some of her hair to its nose, snorted with disgust, then gestured to its fellow pixies to join it. The other two were quick to do the same. Pythia felt the urge to slap them away but stopped herself. It would be unwise to invite the bite of a pixie. One bite with its venomous teeth would stop her heartbeat within hours.
“I envy you and your peace,” she said, leaning away from the gray pixies. Their stench was unbearable. “I have worked long years to find the same, but I’ve been denied more times than I can count.”
“Humans are stupid creatures. Hearts so full of hate, make no room for smarts.” The minotaur tapped his temple with a thick finger. “Minotaur does not speak smart, but we have good heart.” He paused in thought and looked to the pixies. “If you are not faery, minotaur can be kind. You see.”
The pixies poked their tongues out at the minotaur and returned to the horns on his head.
“But pixies are acceptable?”
“Pixie have no fear. I chase pixie, dey bite and head hurt all day. I chase faery, dey go away. Minotaurs are smart enough to choose da winning battle.” The minotaur offered a hand to Pythia, which she took, and helped her to her feet. “Now we choose da winning battle together. You make sacrifice.” He picked up the hare by its ears and handed it to her, then urged her toward the path leading to Shargrove. One glance back made it clear the minotaur was not going to join her.
Glad for the skins on her back, Pythia made her way to the edge of the forest with less nervousness than she ought to have. She had her plan. She knew how to save the people—and the Everdark—from the tormenting spirits.
Coming upon the end of the trees, Micah practically le
aped from behind a large tree trunk, his arms wrapped tightly around him in an attempt to warm himself.
“There you are! I was hoping you’d be here sooner,” he said, studying the furs Pythia carried on her back. “By the Highest, where did you get those?”
More startled now than she was at the minotaur, Pythia took off the furs and found Micah’s cloak underneath them all. It was warmer than when she first put it around her shoulders. Micah looked well pleased.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I slept longer than anticipated. The minotaur gave me the furs, so I was warm.” She paused and smiled as she looked upon the already bustling village. “I’ve never been this warm. Did you have any troubles last night?”
“No more than you seemed to have,” he replied, nestling his head in his hood as he did when they first crossed paths. “I couldn’t sleep, though. I kept thinking about this blood-magic.” He looked down and his eyes immediately caught the hare in Pythia’s hand. “I see you’re prepared.”
“I told you the minotaur would help. He came through.”
Pythia turned from the village and started toward the tablet, keeping her face from Micah.
“You knew I was coming?” Micah asked, following her deeper into the forest.
“I had your cloak. You’re a traveler. There was no way you would leave without it.”
A quiet “hm” came from Micah at her explanation. “You won’t be bothered if I watch you make the sacrifice then?”
Pythia shook her head and tried to smile. She wondered how obvious the twitching in her lips would be if she stopped walking and faced the man. Sweat accumulated at her back, and her jaw ached from clenching her teeth for so long. The thought of the sacrifice brought on a nervousness that bit at her heart and soured in her belly.
“It won’t take much effort,” she replied. “And I could use a witness, I suppose. Shargrove must know who saved them, after all.”
Ragged Heroes: An Epic Fantasy Collection Page 13
