Lyssanne’s repeated folding and unfolding drew Noire’s focus to the cloth. A mixture of snowy white and a blue as deep and brilliant as a king’s cloak, the entire shawl was shot through with shimmering threads of gold. How had a peasant girl obtained so fine a garment? Only court weavers had access to thread-of-gold, and the villagers’ attire proved no craftsman in Cloistervale possessed the skill to produce so intricate a weaving.
Lyssanne held the shawl to her chest and squeezed her eyes shut. She sank onto her bed, shoulders shaking. “Oh, Mother.”
More tiresome tears? How much longer would it take the girl to sort her possessions? Noire widened his beak in a yawn so deep, his throat emitted an undignified croak. He glanced toward the other window, through the dining area to her sitting room. Not much left there.
A furtive movement caught his eye.
A thin trail of Mist seeped beneath the back door. Noire leaned forward then took to the air. He flew as near the cottage as he dared, determined to witness what progress the Mist made.
Lyssanne sat, oblivious, as the smoky tendril drew nearer her bedchamber door. So often, her Light had barred the intrusion of the Shadow Mist. This time, however, the semi-blind teacher with the ability to see darkness took no notice of her own peril.
Ironic, just as Venefica found a way to rid herself of the girl, Lyssanne might at last surrender to the Mist. The one thing the sorceress wanted all along.
Lyssanne shivered. “No—no!” She rose and thrust the shawl onto the pile of items she would take on her journey, as if thrusting dark thoughts from her mind. “All will be well,” she said. “The King will turn this to…to something good.” She spun to face the dove perched on her headboard. “Like Mother always said, it’s in the Kingsword, so it must be true. It just must.” As she wiped the tears from her red-rimmed eyes, the Mist shrank back beyond the cottage walls.
On the last of her trips to the square, Lyssanne risked a visit with Mr. DeLivre under the pretext of returning a book of Navvarish legends he’d given her in childhood.
“Nonsense,” he said. “This was a gift. It will keep you company in your new home.”
“And I cherish it,” she said, “but I fear I shan’t have strength enough to carry what provisions I shall need, let alone such a thick book.”
“Ah, Shirii, I would’ve taken you in, if only I could,” he said, “but you heard them. The Council would exile me too. Fii, that would please Ratomer.” He slammed a book shut on his desk then sighed. “If I were a younger man…but I am too old to go through such again.”
“Is that what happened to you? Why you left Lyrya?”
“That tale is too long and much too boring.” He waved a hand and said in perfect Cloistervalean practicality, “Now, you require a cart. The builders can fashion you one.”
“I passed their stall this morning,” she said. “They…they wouldn’t look at me—Willem or his father. When I spoke, they kept talking to Mr. Furin as if I weren’t there.”
“Did no one witness this?”
“Several. They turned away, pretended not to see. I think it embarrassed them.”
“Humph!” said Mr. DeLivre. “Well, there is more than one way to bait a unicorn, as they say. Have you anything dear to you that you must leave behind?”
“I can bring little,” she said, struggling to decipher his odd change in subject. “All I have left of my parents are Mother’s shawl and Father’s iron sculptures. The shawl, I can take, but—”
“Perfect. I shall commission a cart, as if for myself. In exchange, allow me to keep your father’s ingenious mettle-works safe for you.” He gestured to a seat. “When do you depart?”
She sank into the chair. “I’m allowed three more days, but still have much to do.”
“So soon,” he murmured. “You must also rest, Shirii. Take at least that last day to do so.”
“Rest?” She raised a brow. “Sleep eludes me. My thoughts churn with ways to persuade the Council to reconsider.” She laughed. “’Twould be easier to swim upstream in the River Esten after a storm.”
“Do you have everything you need for the journey?”
“I’ve traded for salt-meat, bread, water-skins, other things. I’ve no idea if it will be enough.” She clasped her hands to keep them from trembling. “What I’ll do if it runs out…” She shook her head. “I’ve no wish to spend my last moments with you bemoaning my fears.”
“I’m certain it will be enough,” he said. “Have you decided on a destination?”
She sighed. “I know nothing of what lies beyond the boundaries of our valley.”
He rummaged in his desk then began scribbling on parchment. “What of Brianne’s family?” he asked. “Her father was a traveling merchant, yes? Perhaps you could go to him?”
“Mother said they never stayed anyplace longer than a winter. That’s why she loved our cottage so. She’d always longed for a stable home, and now, I…” Lyssanne cleared her throat. “Even if my grandfather still lives, I’ve no idea where to search for him.”
“The King will lead you,” he said, handing her the parchment. “I cannot recall distances, but this map includes every town I passed when I first came to Cloistervale. It will give you some direction, at least.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Now, you truly must rest, Shirii. Leave the cart and that…Willem to me.” He leaned against his desk. “When they said you were to be shunned, I never thought anyone would actually do it. Then again, Willem has changed.”
“’Twas not only him,” Lyssanne said, the shards of broken trust honing her words to a cutting edge. “Cloistervale abounds with dutiful citizens.” She softened her voice. “Just for a moment, I thought I’d become one of them—useful, wanted.”
An ache built behind her brow. Perfect! She pressed her fingertips to the area, kneading her skin. Now that she must leave, would pain cage her once again? She could have borne even this, had her prison not grown so cold. Exiled, shunned, she must fight this insidious foe alone.
“What did I do, Mr. DeLivre?” she whispered. “How did I make them hate me so?”
“Oh, Shirii, ’twas not your doing.” He stood to pace the bookroom. “It is all a mistake. A foolish mistake. You and…sloth? I’ve told them it is madness, but…well, I’m an outsider, and not even Torin understands the importance of what you’ve done for the children.”
“Maybe they’re right,” Lyssanne said. “’Tis true I’ve never labored on a farm, sewn until my fingers cramp, or risen before dawn to bake bread. Perhaps my work was too easy.”
Their accusations throbbed inside her head even now, each word a sword that cut to the depths of her soul. She pressed a palm against her brow, longing to staunch the pain, but how was she to staunch the agony that flowed from a wounded soul?
“None of them really know you, Shirii,” he said. “If they did, they would see that giving up is a thing so opposed to your nature as to be impossible.”
That revelation struck as sudden and sharp as the first pains of her illness. They never had known her. She was more alone than ever; betrayed, abandoned, worse than orphaned.
An hour later, Gavan and Elaiza ran up to Lyssanne as she passed the bakery on her way home. Neither Elaiza’s mother nor the baker turned when the cousins shouted her name.
“Jarad said you’re going away,” Gavan blurted. “I told him he’s daft. You wouldn't.”
“I fear it is true, Gavan,” Lyssanne said.
“Why, Lady Lyssanne?” Elaiza whimpered.
Lyssanne glanced about, wide-eyed. “Shh, you mustn't address me thus.”
“Why’re you going away?” Elaiza’s voice shrilled. “Don't you love us anymore?”
“Oh, Elaiza.” Lyssanne hugged the child to her. “Always. Wherever I go, whatever I do, I shall love you.”
“Then, why are you leaving us?” Gavan demanded.
“I…” What could she say? Your parents don’t want me in the village? She fought the hot
tears clogging her throat. Then, inspiration struck. “I must begin a new adventure. I’m counting on you to keep our old ones alive, to help everyone remember all the stories and fun we've shared. Can you do that for me? Can you be brave enough? Strong enough?”
“Yes, yes!” the children said.
Lyssanne hugged them both then hurried around the corner, no longer able to stifle tears.
Two days later, Noire circled high overhead as Lyssanne emerged from the rowan grove and stepped onto a wide patch of charred earth at the bottom of her hill. She knelt before a mound of blackened rock, so misshapen it resembled stones that had melted and fused. She unclenched her short fingers from around the few scraggly blooms that had survived the chokehold of weeds in her flowerbed.
“Father,” she whispered, laying a red blossom upon the ground. “My last tribute to you, in honor of your fiery craft. Even after twenty-some years, no grass grows where once your forge stood, as if the earth refuses to yield anything fruitful in this place that stole you from us.”
She rose and brushed off her skirts, gazing down at her offering. “I wish I’d known you,” she said. “Our hero, Mother called you. Strong but gentle, a man of great courage.” She smiled. “I always imagined you astride a fiery steed like a warrior from tales of old.”
Lyssanne strode several paces away and propped the remaining flowers against the marker identifying her mother’s resting place. “A poor tribute to such a beautiful person,” she murmured, running a hand over the rough stone, “but ’tis all I have, Mother.”
The dove landed near her fingers, and Lyssanne jerked them back to clutch at her bodice.
“Serena!” she said. “Always near, are you not?” She sighed. “Oh, I shall miss you.”
With a scrape of talons and flutter of wings, the dove took to the air and sailed toward the wood behind Lyssanne’s cottage. She paused, darted back toward Lyssanne, then resumed her path to the trees. Lyssanne followed, an odd look in her eyes, as if unsure why she did so.
Noire pursued Lyssanne into the trees—until the dove reversed course and rushed him. They grappled, talons piercing, wings beating, feathers falling. At last, his superior strength prevailed, or so it seemed. As sudden as it began, Serena’s attack ceased, and she flew off.
Noire landed on a branch to steady his heartbeat and shook out his feathers. Venefica would hear about this. He’d narrowly escaped disfigurement! Now, where had that girl gone?
An odd sensation filled Lyssanne’s mind. Hadn’t she done this before—followed a flying creature this direction? She’d lost sight of Serena, but instinct drove her on. Somehow, she knew where she must go, though not toward what she ventured.
Then, she came upon the circle of moonflowers.
A shiver ran up her spine. “I’ve stood here,” she whispered. Only, hadn’t the circle of flowers been larger? The surrounding trees taller?
As she lifted one foot over the flowers, images flitted through her mind, blurring past and present. This clearing in darkness…a pink firefly floating ahead…
Voices whispered from the ring’s empty center, drawing her back to the present. She paused, half in, half out of the circle.
“She must face what is to come,” hissed a small but gruff voice, its words too clear to be a swish of wind in the trees, or Lyssanne’s imagination.
Yet, where was the speaker?
“There will be time enough for that,” murmured a second voice, higher and softer than the first. “Gentleness is required at present. I shall handle this.”
The instant Lyssanne brought her other foot into the circle, wind whooshed in her ears, and a wall of brilliant white light shot upward from the ring of flowers. The glowing wall grew until it obscured the treetops then dimmed to a shimmering blue barrier. The sun-dappled wood beyond appeared distorted, as if viewed through painted glass.
Further disorienting her, Lyssanne’s vision again flickered between the sight before her and images of a larger, moonlit clearing. No, ’twas the same place, only she’d been smaller. She clutched her midsection and closed her eyes, but the dizzying images alternated faster, then melted together as one.
At last, the onslaught of sight ceased, and she opened her eyes. An unnatural quiet had descended over the wood.
Like glowing insects, two green sparks flitted to and fro in front of her, trailing smaller bits of light. The deeper, jewel-toned spark zipped off toward the barrier and vanished. When Lyssanne looked back toward the other, leafy-hued light, it, too, was gone. In its place floated a miniature woman. Floated?
“Greetings, Lyssanne of Rowan Hill,” the woman said in the soft, high voice from moments before. “I am Olivia.” She bowed. As she straightened, light shifted behind her—through fluttering, translucent wings. “Fear not. We serve the same King.”
“You’re…but you can’t be…” Lyssanne rubbed her temples. Perhaps her sight was going, conjuring wild images in a last, crazed effort to remain.
“Can’t be what? Real?” Olivia said. “Oh, I’m as real as you, and yes, I am a faerie.”
The memory that had been dancing at the edges of Lyssanne’s mind slammed into focus. “Then, it was true?” she whispered, more to herself than to the tiny, green-clad woman. “The pink firefly? I thought it a childhood fancy or—”
“That was no dream,” said Olivia. “The firefly who led you here in your fifth spring was one of my kind. You’ve visited this place twice, in fact. Though, you’d only remember the second. A visit in which you had the honor of meeting my queen.”
A musical voice from the past echoed through Lyssanne’s thoughts.
“Fear not,” a lady clad in glittering pink had said. “You are safe here. You will always be safe here. You possess a great and precious gift. It is like a light inside your soul, which shines on those around you. There will be others who need the warmth of this Light to survive. You alone can pass it on to them. You alone can teach them to find the Light within themselves.”
Lyssanne’s eyes flew wide and locked onto Olivia. “The lady in pink, with the violet eyes—she’s your queen?”
Olivia nodded.
“And my first visit?”
“Shortly before your birth, your mother trod the same path that brought you here today.” Olivia glanced about. “But we’ve no time to discuss that now. Already, we risk discovery.”
“Who would notice us here?” Lyssanne asked. “Only my cottage is near.”
“This place is protected, true, but there are watchful eyes lurking about. No time to explain. We must speak of your journey.”
“How do you know—?”
Olivia waved away the question. “You must throw off your cloak of sadness. Its weight will hinder you in following your new path. Embrace your newfound freedom.”
A half laugh escaped Lyssanne’s throat. “If you knew anything about me, you’d not say I’m free.” She wasn’t even free to live in her own home.
“You have your burdens, true, but you are now released from the chains of obligation that bound you to this place and its people.”
“My people, an obligation?” Lyssanne said. “Never!”
“I speak not of your love for them,” the faerie said, “but of freedom from the notion that you must remain here to serve them in repayment for what they’ve given you.”
“That’s not freedom. ’Tis…” Lyssanne’s throat closed in on her words.
“What may feel like a punishment is but the opening of a doorway.” Olivia floated closer, her voice urgent. “We’ve little time. Tell no one of your destination.”
“I have no destination. Even with a scrap of a map, I’ve no idea where I can go.”
Olivia’s voice softened, a warmth flowing over Lyssanne’s skin. “Follow the road to the river’s bend. There, take the faint track into the forest.”
“What about Merchant's Bridge? Mr. DeLivre’s map shows Trader’s Road crossing the River Esten by—”
“No. Take the forest path.” Olivia took Lyssa
nne’s hand in both of her tiny ones. “You will not journey alone.” The faerie fluttered backward, glancing over her shoulder. “Go now, Lyssanne. We will find you and explain what we can.”
After another flash of brightest white, Lyssanne stood alone in the clearing. Sound returned so suddenly, the soft rustle of leaves boomed in her ears.
At last, the day had come. Noire could have crowed as Lyssanne and her two companions emerged from her cottage, a boxy cart in tow. Instead, he remained silent as shadow, huddled atop her roof. No one must see him; nothing must distract him and incite Venefica’s ire this time.
Still, had it been his failure that angered her? Or was it, as Venefica’s questions indicated, something about the direction Lyssanne had wandered? Venefica’s preoccupation with the dove, too, made no sense. What did it matter how long the pest had been lurking around Lyssanne, or the shape of her violet eyes? The girl was leaving.
Narrowing his eyes, he glanced about then leaned over the edge of the roof to peer at the windowsills. The dove…where was she? For more than a year, she’d scarcely left Lyssanne’s side. Perhaps Venefica’s muttered pledge to take care of the pest hadn’t been idle ranting.
“I have something for you,” said the old coot who called himself a scribe, releasing Lyssanne from a fatherly embrace. “I put it in your cart earlier.” He removed the lid from the tall, two-wheeled box, then withdrew a thick leather-bound book and handed it to her.
“The Kingsword?” Lyssanne held the book to her chest, eyes drenched.
“You will not have services to attend,” he said. “My old friend Fescue copied this version in a larger hand than usual, perfect for you. I know it is heavy, but you have the cart now.”
“This is too much, too valuable for you to part with,” Lyssanne whispered.
“I have others. Read it with joy.” DeLivre took the book and plopped it back into her cart, then grasped her hands. “Be careful, Shirii. You are very trusting. The people out there…”
Keeper of Shadows (Light-Wielder Chronicles Book 1) Page 7
