by Jeff Wheeler
Another shot sounded, then another. But none of them hit Owen, who dispatched each soldier, one by one, until the last wisps of smoke abandoned the scene.
Cettie stared in disbelief, watching Owen stand there with a bloodied sword in one hand, the scabbard in the other as he watched his attackers scatter. The captain, shivering with fear and still on his knees, looked up at the old man in dread.
Owen wiped the blood on the captain’s coat before sheathing the blade. He walked back to the carriage, opened the door, and whistled for the driver to go on.
The carriage lumbered past the pickets.
Sera had told Cettie about the beauties of Brythonica. The beach made of sea glass, the berry fields she’d visited with Trevon. It was a lush and green land, full of hills and groves and open farmland. She watched the scenery pass until sunset, when the shadows grew thick enough to obscure the way forward. The air held a sweet fragrance—was it eucalyptus? The driver slowed, but he knew the way, and there was only the one road to follow.
“Are we going to Ploemeur?” Cettie asked.
Owen shook his head, saying nothing. When she’d asked him where he had learned to fight so well, he’d remained equally silent.
Soon the carriage entered a dense wood. Shadows filled the carriage, and night sounds—the clicking of unseen insects and the hooting of owls—filtered in through the open window. The breeze had also become noticeably cooler. Cettie’s companions sat comfortably in the silence, but she sensed a presence waiting for her in the woods. Her nerves went taut, her worries growing. In her experience, darkness had always brought the Myriad Ones. Yet she felt a little safer in Owen’s presence, and not just because of his swordsmanship.
After some time, Owen lifted his sword pommel and used it to tap the roof. “Stop here, please.”
The driver obeyed, and the carriage slowed to a halt.
They were in the middle of the woods, and the feeling of sentience Cettie had picked up on originated directly to the left of the carriage. She clenched her hands together, subduing a shudder, and shot a worried look at Owen.
“We’ll walk the rest of the way,” Owen said. “We’re almost there.”
He opened the door and disembarked, then helped Curtis down the long jump before extending a hand to Cettie to help her down as well. His palm was weathered and rough, but it was also warm and comforting. As a child, she used to hold Fitzroy’s hand, and that simple connection had given her courage to face the unknown.
“Wait for us here,” Owen said to the driver. “We’ll be gone an hour or so.”
“As you say, my lord,” said the man from his perch.
“This way,” Owen said, leading her and Curtis through the trees. He was guiding them directly to the source of the feelings.
“What is this place?” she whispered, her throat tightening.
“It’s the gateway back to your home,” he said.
“It feels . . . dangerous,” Cettie said.
“It is dangerous,” Owen answered. “As long as you’re with me, you’ll be safe. But the magic here is powerful. That you can sense it means you’re Fountain-blessed.”
She gave him a sharp look. “Fountain-blessed? Like in the stories?”
“They’re not stories,” Owen answered.
“But how can I be Fountain-blessed?” Cettie asked. “I’m not from this world.”
“Come and see.”
She mustered her courage and followed him. There was no trail, but she didn’t need one, nor did she need Owen to guide her. She could sense the magic of the place—ancient, powerful, and dangerous—both drawing her to it and warning her away. She felt a vivid sense of wrongness being there, like a Leering was trying to bar her entry. Somehow Owen’s presence prevented it from affecting her.
They reached a small grove, and Cettie heard the lapping sounds of a waterfall. Through the parting of the trees, she saw a myriad of stars—the sky was absolutely swollen with them. There was a shambling oak tree nestled amidst dark shapes she assumed were boulders. Water was streaming from the base of the tree. As they approached, she saw a smooth stone plinth and a metal bowl that gleamed silver in the starlight.
Her breath slowed as she stared at the strange place. She was positive she’d never been there before, and yet it felt strangely familiar. It was an eerie sensation. As she peered into the blackness of the boulders—a cave, she realized—she remembered the Fear Liath and trembled violently.
Owen put his hand on her shoulder. “Nothing will hurt you here. Stand near me.”
She sidled closer to him, trying to calm herself.
“Curtis. Fetch the bowl and fill it with water.”
“All right, Papa.” The boy obeyed promptly and went to the plinth. He lifted the bowl, which was heavy for someone of his size, and grunted as he carried it to the darkness at the mouth of the boulders. She heard the sound of the water sloshing inside the bowl. It quickly filled. Then the boy, weighed down by his burden, began to approach.
“Watch,” Owen whispered to her. “But you might want to cover your ears.”
Cettie quickly did so.
The boy tipped the contents of the bowl onto the plinth. She could hear the water splashing onto the surface, see the stone turning slick. After quickly setting down the bowl, he rushed to join them. And then a crack of thunder split the sky, so loud that she cowered. The boom shook her ribs, her heart, and momentarily deafened her. A high-pitched squeal came, followed by a vibrating thrum of magic that was so deep and pervasive she could only describe the sensation as being plunged underwater. It felt as if the whole world were a musical instrument, and some giant hand had plucked the strings.
And then it began to hail.
Cettie dropped to her knees as the huge chunks of ice slammed into the grove. They came in torrents, the ice hissing as it smashed into trees and boulders. Yet none of it touched her, or Owen, or Curtis. All three stood in the maelstrom, protected by a power she did not comprehend. After the storm, things settled peacefully.
Light filtered into the grove, accompanied by peaceful music and the chirping of birds. The light, which reminded her of a sunrise, came from the cave made by the boulders. Lowering her hands from her ears, she stared at the light. It revealed the hidden colors of the grove, the moss on the tree trunk of the massive oak, the thick clumps of mistletoe drooping from the laden branches. The boulders could be seen as well, glistening and wet, the ice nearly melted already.
“Come,” Owen said, reaching his hand for hers. She took it, feeling childlike again. Then he turned toward the boy. “You can go back to the wagon and return to Ploemeur. Thank you, my boy.”
Curtis smiled, gave them a little wave, and left the grove while Owen and Cettie walked hand in hand into the cave. The budding light began to sting Cettie’s eyes, and she winced, squinting, trying to see what lay beyond.
They entered the cave, which had expanded enough to accommodate them, and stepped through a rift into another world.
They had traded darkness for daylight. The familiarity of her surroundings shocked her. She saw the enormous oak tree with limbs so heavy that they dragged to the ground in places. It was the sentinel oak tree beyond the walls of Muirwood Abbey. She had gone there after taking the Maston Test.
Muirwood! Her heart soared with relief.
She heard a crackling sound in the detritus surrounding the oak, the noise of someone approaching. She turned to find a pudgy man in breeches and stockings and a waistcoat holding a gnarled walking staff capped in gold.
“Well, my boy,” said the newcomer, his voice accented and husky. “You came at last. Good of you to bring our little sister along. I was beginning to worry you’d been distracted by the berry fields.”
“Hello, Myrddin,” said Owen with a fond smile, and the two men embraced.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
RENEWED
Just like the grove, which felt familiar despite being unfamiliar, she almost felt she knew the strange man who had joined the
m. His outfit was from an older era, as were the square buckles on his shoes. He had dark hair, streaked with gray, a prominent nose, and an excited manner, bursting with energy.
She felt out of place. Had Owen and this man truly been expecting her? How did they know each other?
“I am also called Maderos,” he said to Cettie, holding his paunch and bowing slightly to her. “It is good to see you again, little sister.”
“Have we met before?” Cettie asked, growing more confused. She was in a familiar place, yet with strange company.
“We have, although you won’t remember it. Owen calls me Myrddin out of habit, I suppose. The pethet.” He grinned at Owen and butted him with an elbow. “But in this world, I am a wayfarer, a prophet, a beggar, a fool. And here you are again. You’ve been to this grove before, no?”
Cettie cast her eyes around it, feeling so insignificant next to the towering tree. “I have been here. After taking the Maston Test.”
“Yes, the Test!” Maderos said, beaming. “That was when we met.”
“But I don’t remember you,” Cettie said, shaking her head.
“No, of course you wouldn’t. But even though you do not remember, it is nonetheless true. We made a bargain, you and I. Now it is time for me to live up to my end of it.”
A chill swept down Cettie’s spine. What could he mean?
“I will tell you,” Maderos said, as if hearing her thought. “But first . . . you must make a choice. Every choice has its consequence. It is like this staff.” He hefted it in his hand and offered it to her. “If you take one end, you get the other end too. Choices, consequences. Sometimes we know what they will be. Other times we do not. The consequences may surprise us. Or hurt us. We accept both ends when we pick our actions. Is this not so?”
Cettie thought about his words a moment, then nodded solemnly. The Mysteries emanated from him, from the grove itself. She felt safer than she had in years, yet at the same moment, she felt a heavy doom weighing on her.
“So I offer you a choice, little sister. A choice between two sticks to pick up. You must choose one of them.” He arched his feathery eyebrows at her.
“What are they?” Cettie rubbed her arms.
“One choice is to forsake everything you are and have become. A hetaera, a poisoner, a harbinger, a daughter, a sister, a keeper, a friend. I will take you to a distant land where no one knows or would recognize you. You may start over again. Find what you will, become what you will . . . whatever you choose. You will not remember who or what you are now. That is the consequence. But you will be free to be whatever you choose. Cut off from the Mysteries, from your oaths, from your obligations. That is the first choice.”
Anonymity had its allurement. She’d assumed that by returning to her world, she would face the demands of justice. That she might even be executed. He was offering her a way out.
“And the other?” she asked him.
“I will be truthful, little sister. It will be a harder life. Your enemies will seek to kill you. They will chase and hunt you. Just as they’ll do with your friends. And you will chase and hunt them in return, to protect your empress. Rather than forget everything, you will be given a Gift of Wisdom that allows you to remember everything you’ve ever done or said. That will bring painful memories as well as sweet. You must accept both. And you will be a chosen one, a warrior of the Medium. An Oath Maiden.” Cettie saw Owen smile when that term was mentioned, and a knowing look came on his face, which confused her even more. “You will be given powers and gifts to help you in your calling. It will not be easy. And so, little sister, you must choose.”
He set his staff in front of him, putting both hands on the golden knob at the end.
Cettie stared at him, then at Owen, feeling perplexed and shaken. One of the paths seemed so much easier than the other, and she was so, so tired of life’s demands. But it would mean she wouldn’t remember the Fitzroys, or Sera, or even Adam. She would lose all sense of herself and the experiences that had formed her.
Her mind and heart tugged her in opposite directions. What an awful choice to have to make. She felt herself growing sick with worry. What if she chose wrong? What if her choice filled her with endless regret?
“Only you can decide, little sister,” said Maderos.
“How can I?” Cettie asked. She looked imploringly at Owen. “How can I know which is the right one?”
Owen gave her a sympathetic smile. “I cannot choose for you. But I’ve come to recognize the right path usually is the harder one. You’ll never climb a mountain and reach new heights if you keep taking the easy path down.”
What he said made sense. In the deepest part of her heart, she knew what she should do. The difficulty of it cowed her, but she knew losing her memories would be the selfish course. It would serve one person, her, and it would limit the greatest good she could do for others. She regretted her decision to join the poisoner school. If she could atone for it in some way, she was willing. Even if the cost was her life.
That thought filled her heart with peace and her eyes with tears. She knew what she needed to do, no matter the heartache. No matter the pain.
“I’ll do it,” she whispered, choking. She sniffed and shook her head. “I will do what I must to regain the trust the Mysteries had in me.” She looked up at Maderos. “I will serve.”
An approving smile appeared on his face.
“Kneel, little sister,” Maderos said. “You will close your eyes. Open yourself to the Knowing as you learn this Mystery. Never reveal it. Guard it in your heart as a treasure.”
Cettie knelt in the scrub, feeling the brittle twigs and fallen leaves snap beneath her weight. She adjusted her poisoner’s bag so that it was behind her, hanging from the strap around her shoulder. She closed her eyes, obedient to Maderos’s words.
“There will come a Dryad to you,” Maderos said, his voice soft. “They are the guardians of memory. The guardians of the portals between the worlds. There is one watching this tree, and another watching the one in the grove you just left in Brythonica. Do not look at her, lest she steal all your memories, until after she has kissed you. When she has, you may open your eyes. And you will remember. To become an Oath Maiden, you must accept certain oaths. In doing so, you will be granted special power. If you forsake them, the consequences are dire.”
“I will accept them,” Cettie said in a firm voice.
“Hold out your hand,” Maderos said. “Put it over mine.” She heard the clacking of stones, and when she tentatively reached out, she felt several pebbles in his rough palm. She laid her open hand over them.
“These are the five oaths. There will be four more later if you are faithful to these. Never slay a man with pistol, arquebus, or arrow. In return, you will not be slain by such. Never take a life unawares or out of revenge. Never hearken to greed or take a bribe. Never swear an oath falsely. Never refuse to serve when the Mysteries compel you—even at the peril of your life or loved ones.”
As Cettie heard the oaths, her heart tingled inside. She felt a swelling of power, of the magic of the Mysteries embracing her. It felt right. It felt like she had, in truth, returned home.
“I swear it,” Cettie said forcefully.
“Just say, yes, little sister. That will suffice.”
“Yes,” Cettie said.
Maderos retrieved the stones. “Remember the oaths you have taken. If you stand true to them, nothing you are called to do will be impossible. But if you lose heart, as you did before, you will be overwhelmed by darkness for good. This is my warning to you, little sister. Now be still. Do not open your eyes until after the Dryad’s kiss.”
Cettie clasped her hands together, feeling the breeze ruffle the hair on her neck. The woods smelled so clean, so pure. She heard no other sounds than that of nature, not even the breathing of the others. She felt alone, as if the others had left.
“Are you still there?” she asked.
Silence met her. Then she heard a snapping twig from near th
e tree. The compulsion to look slammed into her mind. But she squeezed her eyes shut, clenching her fists too, and withstood the onslaught. Her ears strained to hear another sound—then she started when another crack filled the still air, this time much closer. She felt someone approach, and her arm hairs stood on end in anticipation of being touched. Her breathing had quickened, and so she focused on slowing it down. Do not panic, she told herself. She knew she was safe.
Fingers brushed through her hair. She willed herself to remain perfectly still.
Soft lips brushed against her mouth.
Cettie opened her eyes, looking into the amber eyes of the Dryad girl. And then the memories came crashing down on her, an avalanche that buried her in emotion. Cettie pitched forward, catching herself on one hand. Memory after memory, each knife-sharp and keen, slashed through her skull. The Fells, the slappings Miss Charlotte had given her. Mrs. Pullman’s cold menace and burning resentment. The sound of Joses’s laughter. Her fear as he went off to steal food for the other children. Flying on a zephyr for the first time. Holding Fitzroy’s hand. Adam Creigh’s faltering confession of love.
And then there were the memories she’d forgotten. The ones the Dryad had stolen from her in this very place. Cettie gasped as she realized that she did know Maderos. She’d met him in this grove on her last visit, and he’d advised her of her role as harbinger. It was he who’d Gifted her with that ability. Her arms and legs trembled as the memories continued to rush through her, opening her eyes.
She was chosen. A precious vessel of the Mysteries, of the Knowing. She’d had her first vision there. It had shown her Fitzroy’s death in Kingfountain, her own betrayal of the Mysteries, and her decision to stop fighting Lady Corinne and the kishion and stay at the poisoner school. She’d sobbed at the thought of losing her father, of losing herself, and yet she’d accepted the role. It was part of the Knowing’s plan, part of its reconciliation of the infinite choices mortals made. Father had undoubtedly faced his own death with courage. Could she do no less?
