Blythe approached then, offering to see her back to her cabin.
“Thank you, Sir Blythe,” she said, feeling content after the pleasant meal.
He snickered and shook his head. “Only Blythe, no ‘sir.’ We do not hold to your Kierelian customs here.”
She nodded serenely and worked to keep up with his long strides.
As they walked, she noticed the people they passed searched her with much more curiosity than they had earlier.
“You have earned favor,” Blythe explained.
She turned to him in disbelief. She’d hardly left her cabin that day. “I… do not understand.”
“Our most respected elder, Sharin, was pleased with you. Also, you like the havari spice.”
Hazel raised her brows. She’d never expected merely liking food could assist in her welcome among these strange people.
“Sharin is well-known for his detestation of northerners. He feels they’re arrogant and offensive. You, however, were courteous. He will spread the word and it will aid you well.”
* * *
The following day, she was awoken from a satisfying slumber upon her fur throws by a hammering at her door. Splashing water over her face, she went to answer.
“Dress, Lady Hazel,” Blythe commanded. “You must sing.”
She rubbed her eyes. “Sing… I-I don’t…”
“You must,” he said. “We sing with the birds. I will send your serving-man to escort you.” With that, he left her standing in the doorway, heart hammering. Who would she be singing for? Was it customary to awaken one’s guest to make them perform? Once Dorian came to fetch her, she would find Blythe and make clear to him she could not perform as ordered.
In a surprisingly short time, Dorian appeared for her. “Your hair is uncombed? How long does it take a maiden to be ready?”
She scowled past her yawn. “It is early.”
Dorian soon led her through the village to the place they’d eaten the evening before. The Galmoira had vacated and the fires were but ashes. Half the number who had attended the night before returned that morning. Without any ado whatever, Blythe took her hand and led her to the center. Then, he sat and nodded for her to begin.
This wasn’t right. She could not just awaken and do the one thing she loathed more than anything: perform before an audience. But looking to Blythe, she realized he simply would not be foiled. Her mind raced for what to sing. The only song that came to mind was the one she’d sung when her gift had prematurely emerged. She did not like to sing it. She did not like to sing at all. But when she began, it flew from her lips.
Straightaway, she shut her eyes to those around her and her voice came out easier. Singing came naturally to her, so she relied on what flowed instinctively from her lips without any grandeur. Her voice was a little breathy due to nerves and the early hour, but by the end, she knew she’d done well enough.
Moments after her last note, she opened her eyes. Dorian was smirking. Her guardsman appeared about as eager as he could, though he didn’t strike her as a man of music. It was a moment before the southerners began to whistle, not in time nor to any specific tune. Uncertain as to what this meant, she gave a weak curtsy and took a seat beside Dorian.
“How come I didn’t go flying into the air?” he asked as another of the crowd strolled to the center.
She shrugged. “The prophet said I’m not done cooking. I don’t think my gift was meant to surface when it did—not until I’m a little older.”
“I was joking.”
She chuckled but was diverted by the sound of the new voice. It was strong, bright, perfectly pitched at every note. She’d never heard a voice like it before. It easily put her own to shame, but she didn’t care. She absorbed the moment for as long as it lasted until it concluded to a myriad of whistles. This, she gathered, was their way of showing appreciation. They responded with the same practice for the next few singers.
At last, Blythe took to the center. Hazel was surprised. He had not struck her as a singer. But when he opened his mouth, the smoothest baritone she’d heard in her life escaped his lips. It was the best of the morning. No one could follow him, nor should they. In fact, she noted a peculiarity to his tone that none other had possessed. She’d heard it before. It was that silver sound of the gift that had rung in her own voice those nights ago…
She raised a brow.
His audience not only whistled but stood and stomped their feet in exaltation. Blythe took no bow but turned to depart from the gathering with the rest of them. Hazel bid Dorian wait for her as she raced after Blythe.
“It’s a lie,” she said to him, not thinking before she spoke.
He turned on her. “Pardon me, my lady?”
She shook her head. “It is said your people no longer possess the gift, that you should not be feared any longer… But I heard it in your voice just now.”
Looking about, he swiftly pulled her aside. “I am the last, to my knowledge.”
“Is that why the prophet sent me to you?”
“He hopes I can offer some guidance, but I offer only this: Should it emerge in you, truly, make no use of it. Conceal it. And, certainly, do not create another spectacle as you did before.”
“You do not use it?”
“I have not used it in its truest nature since I was a boy. It is not prudent in this age… It is too dangerous, too priceless. I apply it only enough to enhance the beauty of my voice for its listeners.”
“I don’t understand.”
“As you must know, one with such a gift is considered a threat. To some, it is a great weapon. Either way, it is perilous.”
“Don’t your own people know you possess it?”
“Only two friends from my youth.”
“Do you… know the extent of the gift? Is it like the tales of old?”
“About all I can do is sway a few tree branches as if by the wind. But if the tale of what you did is true… that is like the old ones. Should it surface in you, quench it.”
Hazel was not surprised by this advice after what she had heard in the Assemblage of the Wise. Their first thought had been to weaponize her. She did not want that.
“Even so,” he continued, “you are highly favored of the Great Entity. You must understand that it is a pronounced honor to possess the voice.”
Her head dropped. “I confess I am not an exceptional person by any stretch, not at all liked among my own. If I do possess the gift… I believe it was a fluke.”
He grunted. “The Entity does not make mistakes. Your people are supercilious, godless…” He paused a moment to study her face. “Not getting on with them does you credit.”
* * *
It was many days before Blythe informed her that he would have her taken to the place the prophet wished her to visit. “It is revered ground among our tribes. We wished to see that you could be trusted to be respectful of it.”
“What makes it so sacred?”
He eyed her a long while before shaking his head and answering, “Visions.”
“I see… May I take Dorian, er, my manservant, along?”
He nodded.
It was some time before Hazel, Dorian and their guide, the youngest grandson of the elder with whom she’d eaten her first evening, arrived before an ill-kept cabin. Though it was, like all the others, made from logs, its construction varied from the rest.
“Your people did not build this?” she inquired of their guide.
“None know its maker and none go to live in it.”
Hazel nodded as if she understood, but it was becoming an absorbing mystery to her. She approached the windows. “It’s empty,” she complained. There was not within but cobwebs and piles of dust—not a single stitch of furniture.
He nodded. “None go to live in it.”
But the prophet told her she was to meet a woman named Wynn. Though the place was dirty, dusty and utterly vacant, someone must be concealed within… or this was not the correct place.
“A
re you certain this is where the prophet meant me to go?”
“It is the hallowed dwelling.”
Hazel shook her head and looked to Dorian, who cared little for their errand. Even so, he stepped up to the front step and tried the doorknob. “It’s locked.”
Hazel rubbed her chin. “Knock.”
He did so.
Nothing.
The two turned to their guide, who shrugged. “It has always been so.”
Hazel followed Dorian as he made his way around the house.
“Here’s another door,” he said before waltzing up to try the knob. It swung open. They looked to one another with raised brows.
“It’s a corridor,” he said, stepping inside.
They made their way through until they came upon a sight that made them both fall back a step. What had previously appeared as an empty room from the outside glowed with a lit hearth before which rested two wooden chairs that held a duo of knitting women.
“Oh,” Hazel gasped, looking back to their guide, who had just marched up behind them. He froze, wide-eyed and mouth agape.
At her sound, the ladies looked up from their knitting to find the three standing in the hall.
“Er…what can I help you with, you silly dears,” the redheaded woman, who could not be any older than Hazel, inquired. When none answered, she added, “Since you have already helped yourselves through the back door, you are most welcome to enter.”
Hazel and Dorian did as told, but their guide remained in the hall.
“Um…” Hazel began in confusion. “I-I have come to see the prophet, Wynn. I require her aid.”
Upon these words, the two women before the hearth eyed one another with near smirks. They then tossed their knitting into the fire, leaped to their feet and strapped swords around their waists.
Marching to where Hazel and Dorian stood, the redhead inquired, “What is the matter? A dark dragon attack? A broken leg? Sick child, perhaps?”
Hazel took another step back, shaking her head. “I must but meet this Wynn.”
The redhead smirked and settled into her boots. “I am she. Who has sent you?”
“Oh, pardon me… I am Hazel and this is Dorian. We hail from the kingdom of Kierelia. I have been sent by King Zephuel’s prophet.”
The dark-haired woman sauntered up beside Wynn.
“Ivi…” Wynn started in confusion, “Was not King Zephuel in rule over a hundred years past?”
Ivi nodded, then turned to Hazel. “I’m afraid you have traveled to us from another time. The land upon which you stand is, in fact, now part of the Kierelian kingdom. And as for the prophet of whom you speak, I do believe he is both my great, great-grandfather and her mentor…” She gestured to Wynn.
Hazel lifted her brows. This notion was preposterous. “We cannot have passed through time. We have merely passed through a door.”
“Yes,” Wynn agreed. “But you have passed through the door of a very peculiar cabin.”
At her words, the fire in the hearth snuffed out.
“I mean it is special,” Wynn corrected as if she’d affronted the dwelling. “And the door through which you passed is especially so. It is a portal that leads to a variety of places… Though I have yet to witness a passage through time until now.”
Dorian stepped up. “It cannot really be that you could know our prophet, if indeed we have somehow traveled through time. He is very old already. He cannot live for another hundred years.”
“Oh, he doesn’t,” Ivi replied. “But he did…”
“Much like this house,” Wynn began, “he is a very peculiar man.”
“Look,” Hazel said, “the prophet sent me to meet you, claiming you had something for me, something he could not give.”
Wynn turned to Ivi, consternation on her face. “You don’t think…?”
“That it should be sent back in time? That would be awfully queer.”
“But perhaps that is how you receive it… in the line of time?”
Hazel was quite lost at this point.
“You might place it in her hands,” Ivi suggested. “See if anything happens.”
“But she is so… little.”
“As if you can talk, friend.”
Indeed, Wynn was shorter even than Hazel, though much more sturdily built.
“What is it?” Hazel asked, now more curious than ever.
Wynn appeared loath to do whatever it was she felt she must. Squinting as if in pain, she pulled a crystalline ruby sword from the scabbard at her side… and held it out for Hazel.
“Oh,” Hazel gasped, holding her hands up. “I don’t want it.” The term “weaponize her” raced through her mind.
Wynn nodded. “Take it into your hand.”
Hazel raised a brow and slowly held out her hand. When the hilt hit her skin, the tip of the blade dropped to the floor, but it was the sudden burst of light that stemmed from the touch that caused her to release it entirely.
“Oh, you must be kidding…” Wynn muttered toward the ceiling.
With an amused smirk, Ivi said, “Well, Hazel of early Kierelia, it appears you are the blade’s subsequent master.”
“When that angel, Viijelyk, said it would not be mine forever…” Wynn said, “I did not realize I’d have to give it up so soon. I have had it but a year...” She picked it up and looked at it as if it were her child. “Well…” she sighed out. “I’ll go find you a scabbard.” She exited and returned with a very worn one. “I know it isn’t much, but I’m not giving you my good one. It was a gift.”
“What was a gift?” a fellow—even taller than Blythe—inquired as he traipsed through the front door. Seeing Ivi and Wynn standing before Hazel and Dorian, with their guide standing yet wide-eyed in the hall, he placed hands on hips and released a bout of laughter. “Well, it didn’t take long for the two of you to give up your trial at ordinary life,” he said to Wynn and Ivi.
Wynn scoffed. “Phillip, it was awful. I shan’t try it again.” She thrust the scabbard containing the ruby sword at Hazel. “It will serve you well, whatever your need may be.”
Hazel accepted it but dreaded the idea of ever actually needing it. Really, what had the prophet been thinking, sending her through time—if she truly had done such a thing—to fetch a weapon? Hadn’t he been the one to stand up for her against such a notion?
When it was clear she was having trouble strapping it on, Ivi knelt to help her. “How is he… the prophet, I mean?” she asked.
“He was well when last I saw him. Oh, he said to say hello from him.”
“Well…” Wynn spoke from behind Iviana, “that isn’t much.”
“The prophet?” the tall man inquired with an edge of emotion.
Wynn nodded. “A younger version of him. They’ve come from the past. He doesn’t know us yet.”
“Oh, but he knows of you,” Hazel said in an attempt to comfort. The three seemed to need it. “He said he would one day know you well.” She didn’t mention he’d really only said this of Wynn, but it was clear he would one day know all of them.
Phillip grinned. “Peculiar man.”
“Wait,” Iviana said as she stood to her feet. “You say you are from the time of King Zephuel’s reign?” She appeared concerned. “How are… things?”
Hazel’s stomach soured. “They are well enough… Why do you ask?”
“It is no matter,” Wynn put in swiftly, eyeing Ivi. “You ought to get back to it, Hazel of a younger Kierelia, and… well, good luck to you.”
With that, Hazel found herself and the two with her pressed out the back door. Before she knew it, the three strangers were waving with forced smiles as the door was slammed in her face. In a moment, it disappeared altogether.
Gasping, Hazel raced to the front of the house to peer through the windows. Absolutely nothing. She tried opening the window next and, with Dorian’s aid, was hoisted inside. “Nothing!” she called back. She popped her head out the window. “What was all that business with the concerned e
xpressions and wishes of good luck?” She leaped to the ground.
Dorian raised his brows. “Beats me. I’d as soon not know. If a thing is meant to happen, it’ll happen, I should think.”
But the guide only gazed upon the shelter, eyes enormous.
“Er… what did you say your name was,” Hazel inquired, jostling his hand a bit.
The young man snapped to attention. “It’s Kai… Did we just, did that really just… was that the red-haired maiden, truly?”
Hazel raised a brow. “What do you know about the redhaired woman?”
“Visions of her are often seen by those who enter this part of the forest. For generations, she’s been known. But no one knew who she was—if she had been, was to come, or was but a wood nymph… Now, I know.” He looked into her face. “I thank you, Lady Hazel, for the pleasure of escorting you.”
Well, that was quite a change from his attitude coming in. “We must tell Blythe what we have seen.”
He pointed to the sword at her side. “And show him that.”
Hours later, Blythe studied the delicate blade in his hands. “We do not use such weapons. Still, it is clear this is a fine specimen.” Setting it down upon Hazel’s desk, he said, “Lady Hazel, you have done what none other of the tribes has. You have met the red-haired maiden… and received a gift from her. Surely, you possess the blood of the southern tribes.”
Hazel wasn’t entirely certain it had anything to do with her bloodline, but it would do her good to be accepted among the clan. “I am honored you believe it is so.”
He appeared amazed at the thought she might think anything else. “We must perform the ceremony of rights—the right to kinship with the great southern tribes. Even as you travel back to your kingdom, you must remember that your homeland is with us and that you take our loyalty with you.”
Astonished by these sentiments, she curtsied deeply. “Truly…” she began, clearing her throat at her sudden emotion. “I am made speechless by such an oath.” She bowed again. “I thank you and promise my loyalty in return.”
“That may be a difficult promise to keep when among your people,” he said with a half-smile. “But I do not believe you will break it. You are not of that sort.”
At evening meal, Hazel received more attention than she had the whole of her life. Many actually fought over seats around her bonfire while others crowded around to cook her food. In the end, the entire clan gathered to hear her recite the tale of her journey through time. By the end of her story, the crowd whistled their appreciation.
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