They had said not a word to each other, and the silence weighed on Brommel like a stone. He looped a rope around the trunk of a tree and tightened the knot, then did the same again to a second tree about ten feet away. He pulled at the second knot with all his strength, the frustration he felt fueling his muscles. When the rope was as taut as a bowstring, he unfolded the blanket in his pack and draped it over the rope. Then he pulled each corner out and weighted them down with rocks to hold it. The tent wasn’t much, but it would provide shelter should it rain during the night.
Brommel grabbed a second blanket from his pack and tossed it inside the tent. “There,” he grunted. “Get some sleep.”
Arla had stood still as a stone watching him set up the tent, but now she lifted her chin proudly. “I brought my own blanket, thank you.”
Her words were not haughty nor ungrateful, but instead were heavy with sorrow. She turned away from Brommel and scanned the area. Finding a large stone nearby, she set down her pack and untied it. Carefully, she laid out each item across the stone until the blanket she had tied them in was free.
“At least take the tent,” said Brommel. It’s going to get cold tonight. It won’t do much, but it will block the wind.”
Arla paused, her hand cupped around the spine of the book she had brought with her. Then she nodded.
Once Arla had settled inside the tent, Brommel placed Arla’s belongings inside his pack to keep them safe. There was plenty of room without the two blankets he always carried. The only other things inside were dried meats and his water skin. He needed nothing else.
Brommel spread Arla’s blanket on the ground and lay down on it, tucking his arms beneath his head. The sun had long since descended, and the sky was dark and dotted with millions of stars. He peered between the tree branches and tried to spot the brightest star in the northern sky. In Hestoria, before she died, his wife would tell him that the star belonged only to the two of them. He was often gone on long journeys for the Ministry, and the star, Brielle would say, was how she and Brommel could communicate with each other. Each night they would tell the star anything they wanted to say, and the star would deliver its message to the other.
Brommel shifted his head to the right until he had a clear view of the star between two thick branches.
“Hello, Brielle,” he whispered. “It’s a cold night here on the island. Winter is coming. Our son, Rylan, is doing fine. Growing so fast his britches are a foot off the floor. You’d be proud of him.” Brommel sighed and pressed his eyes shut for a moment before opening them again. The star seemed to wink at him. “I’m sorry about the woman,” he said. “But what else could I do? Are you ashamed of me?”
He waited for a reply, but as usual, none came. Brommel rolled onto his side and pulled the edge of the blanket over him. He shivered. The tent would have been useful, and if he’d made the woman stay home, if he had not worried so much about himself, about arriving empty-handed in Dokur, he could have had it to keep him warm. But somehow he suspected that had he tried to talk Arla into staying, he would have failed. She seemed sincere about wanting to find Ivanore. Had he given her false hope? What if the princess was dead? What if something happened to Arla and he couldn’t get her back to her daughter?
These questions stumbled through his mind for an hour before he finally fell asleep to the sound of tree branches scraping against each other in the wind.
9
Ivanore stayed away from the villages. After the warning she received in Durvett, the fishing village near the coast, she decided it was best to conceal her presence and her identity. Not only had the fisherman known who she was, he had hated her. They had all hated her. She had seen it in their hard stares and the fear in the children’s faces. Despite the fact that she had spent four long years in Arik’s castle, and that she had not come in contact with anyone beyond her guards and the servants who attended her, her reputation had preceded her.
What had been said about her, and by whom? Had Arik spread these rumors himself? Were his servants carrying secrets out of the tower walls? What did these people believe she had done?
Ivanore wondered, too, if word of her had spread farther than the coast. Had her name reached inland? Had news of her reached Jayson?
No. She was almost certain it had not. In her visions, Jayson clearly believed she was unreachable. Had he known of Arik’s betrayal, that she was still in Hestoria, he would surely have come for her. Wouldn’t he?
The questions hummed in Ivanore’s mind like a hive of bees. It didn’t help that her food had run out and that the first flakes of winter had already begun to fall. The fisherman and his wife had given her a pair of men’s trousers, a clean tunic, and a cloak which she now held tightly around her shoulders to keep from shivering. She had come upon a frozen stream after two days and had broken through the ice to refill her water container, another gift from the fisherman’s village. At least there had been that. But she was hungry, and she was growing weaker by the minute.
Twice she had come upon a village, but rather than risk being noticed and perhaps captured, she opted to travel around them. But now, with three days’ walking behind her and at least three more ahead by her best estimation, she began to regret her decision. Perhaps she should turn back, returning to the last village once darkness had settled. She could sneak among the huts unseen, find food, a dry cloak. The thought of stealing what she needed felt wrong to her, but she wouldn’t take much. Only enough to carry her through the rest of her journey.
She had very nearly convinced herself this was the right option when she came upon a stone well situated in the center of a clearing. She noted that there were no buckets or ropes to hoist up water, which meant villagers were expected to bring their own. Ivanore’s heart lightened. A village was nearby. She considered entering the clearing to see if perhaps the water was near enough to the surface that she could lower her container herself, but as she started forward, a feeling of recognition went through her.
The well—with its gray stone platform and sturdy wooden brace—was familiar. She had seen it in her visions time and time again, and she had also seen a boy. But in her vision this well had been destroyed, blackened by fire, its stones overturned and scattered. Ivanore knew that without her crystals she could not pinpoint where in time her visions originated. Sometimes they were in the past, sometimes the future, and she could never know for certain how far in either direction. Days, months, years. The well itself looked to be in good repair, which suggested that what she had seen would likely happen in the future, which meant that the boy from her vision, too, was as yet unharmed.
Ivanore stepped back into the forest. Pressing her back against a tree, she closed her eyes, focusing on the image of the well in her mind. She saw people coming and going from the well, but she was not interested in anyone in particular. She only wanted to know from what direction they came—the direction she must travel to find the village. Once she felt sure of it, she settled down on the forest floor, wrapping herself in her cloak. She would sleep for a while, and then she would do as she had planned—wait until dark and then enter the village.
***
Ivanore awoke to a night sky obscured by gray clouds. The snow had stopped falling, though the air was so cold her breath escaped in bursts of white curls.
Ivanore shivered. Her thin cloak and shoes were no match for winter. She had to find something better, and soon. Following the path she’d seen in her mind, she made her way as quickly and quietly as she could through the forest until she came upon the first cottage. She stopped, her heart pounding at her throat. For a moment, she considered turning back, but the hollow pang in her stomach forced her to move forward. She searched the area around the cottage hoping to find something that might be of use to her, but all she discovered were a few empty planters and some gardening tools.
She moved on to the next cottage and the next. A line had been strung up between one home and a nearby tree with a day’s worth of laundry clipped to it. S
omeone had forgotten to take it in before dark. Ivanore touched a linen shirt. It was cold and stiff, the damp fabric frozen. She moved down the line: trousers, tunics, a girl’s dress, a woman’s apron. At last Ivanore discovered a wool blanket. Unlike some of the other items, it was mostly dry, probably had been hung earlier in the day and given more time in the sun. Again, Ivanore’s conscience nagged at her, but she forced the guilt away as she unclipped the blanket and folded it over her arm.
She hurried along through the village, slipping from cottage to cottage, daring glimpses in some of the windows. Some revealed rooms where children slept huddled comfortably together beneath thick, hand-sewn quilts. Others opened to kitchens in which chairs stood neatly around tables where the families ate their meals together.
When Ivanore had reached the last cottage before the village ended at an orchard and beyond that a barren field, she glanced inside and spotted a half-eaten loaf of bread on a counter. Until now, she hadn’t dared to enter any of the homes. Despite the blanket, she couldn’t bring herself to trespass, not only for fear of being discovered, but also because she had never taken anything from anyone that was not given.
As she looked at the bread, an oblong brown loaf surrounded by a bed of crumbs, she thought of Jayson. She was so close now. If she could travel a few more days, they would be together at last. She had to be strong, for both of them. She had to reach him, so they could finally escape Hestoria together and return to Imaness, to their sons.
Ivanore came around the front of the cottage. The structure, like all the others, was made of stones held in place with thick mud. The thatched roof extended well past the walls to protect them from the wind and rain. Ivanore placed her palm against the door made of rough wooden planks with only a short rope as a handle. She gathered her courage and pushed open the door.
Instantly, she was overcome by the bouquet of scents in the room: ash from a dying fire, lavender and rosemary tied in bundles hanging from a beam, and the sweet taunting smell of freshly baked bread.
She moved to the table and slid her fingers around the firm loaf. She was tempted to eat it right there, she was so hungry. But no. She would wait until she was a safe distance from the village before indulging in her stolen meal.
Ivanore slipped the loaf into her bag, but as she turned to leave she spotted a basket in the corner filled to overflowing with potatoes. The dark, dirty lumps still had their eyes, snaking out like accusing fingers. Ivanore snatched three of them and stuffed them in behind the bread. She considered taking a moment to search the cupboards to see what else she might find, but when a crack of thunder sounded in the distance, she knew she had to go.
She moved like a shadow through the kitchen toward the door, still ajar. She could feel the bitter wind blowing through it into the house. Grateful for the blanket she had found, she started forward, but then she stopped. The well. She still needed a rope to reach the water. She turned back and glanced around. Would something like that be found inside a home like this? She wasn’t sure, though surely there would be a bucket somewhere. Or perhaps it might be outside in a shed.
She stood, perhaps a moment too long, deciding where to go when she sensed another presence enter the room. Her breath felt like white hot spears as she struggled to control her fear. She had stolen, and now she’d been caught red-handed. She might escape if she ran now, threw herself out the door and fled. But would she be followed? Would such an attempt only worsen her fate? Perhaps it would be better to confess and ask for mercy.
Ivanore turned, expecting to come face to face with the irate woman of the house brandishing a kitchen knife at her. What she found instead was a boy.
Ivanore’s hand moved to her throat, clutching at the skin. Tears threatened as she tried to find her voice, but she could not speak. For this was not just any boy. It was the boy from her vision, the boy who would one day die at Arik’s hand.
10
When the first shovel broke ground at the edge of Ashlin, Jayson drew in a hesitant breath. Cold, dry dust filtered into the air as if the spirit of the land had given up its last breath. He couldn’t help but think it a bad omen. But the pleased grin on Teak’s face as he looked to Jayson for approval prevented him from saying so. Instead, he smiled and nodded, the token of approval the men needed to continue.
Twenty-three men and a handful of older boys dug into the earth with spades and picks and shovels, hauling the dry soil away from the line and onto a heap outside the field. They would dig the main artery along Ashlin’s eastern flank bordering the forest and cut smaller lines through the field. Once that was complete, then they would extend the main line through the forest to the river. It would take weeks to accomplish, with all the digging and hauling and uprooting of trees. Teak and Gerard had mapped out the most reliable path between the river and the farm, the one requiring the fewest trees to be felled. Jayson had to admit the planning that had gone into it was admirable, and he honestly hoped it would succeed. If it didn’t—well, he preferred not to think about that.
He turned his eyes to the field. Women hunched over the mounds of earth pouring water from buckets to nourish the kernals of wheat buried there. By the time the river connected to the farm, the thirsty seeds will have already sprouted and will be needing much more moisture. No time to waste. The women would continue fetching water from the river while the men dug. In the meantime, the children kept to the perimeter of the farm, playing games of tag and stick ball. Some of the older girls had been corralled into watching them. Once the sun had started the descending curve of its arc, the mothers would gather in from the fields to spend some time teaching the little ones and then preparing supper.
The men only came in once the sun had gone down and it was too dark to dig. Then, night after night, the families would feast together, play music, dance and sing until every last drop of energy that hadn’t been devoured by the digging and the watering was drained completely out of them. Then they would all retire to their cabins, the lights would be blown out, and Ashlin would be still for the night.
Jayson did not join in the nightly festivities. He didn’t care for the noise or the jubilance. How could the Guardians be so joyous when their lives were at risk? Had they forgotten the slaughters at Alay-Crevar and Ralen-Arch? Had they forgotten how they were driven from Naresh, how the Vatéz hunted them from village to village?
No, they had not forgotten. Jayson knew that. They sang and celebrated, perhaps because they could not forget but needed to be free of the fear and the risk if only for an hour each day. For that, Jayson couldn’t help but admire them. Unlike the Guardians, he could never be free. He never wanted to be free.
Jayson turned from the men thrusting their tools into the earth, calling out to each other, laughing, some even singing, and started across the field toward the big house. The women smiled at him as he passed, and he nodded in reply. Their eyes fell on him in hushed gazes of gratitude, of awe.
He was their savior. He’d overheard one of them call him that once, though the word made him shudder. He was no savior. He was and always would be an outcast. Even among these people, he could never be one of them. If his slitted pupils and clawed hands didn’t set him apart, the fact that they saw him as something greater than themselves. Yet he had done so little. He had opened his home to them, given them his land to live and work on. He had provided food and shelter. Nothing more.
As he neared the house, a young boy ran in front of him, squealing with pleasure. His older sister chased after him, but when she reached Jayson she stopped with a start. She stood and tipped her head back to stare up at him, eyes wide, mouth agape.
He glanced down at the girl, her tight, springy dark curls pulled into two pigtails. Her skin glistened in the sun like onyx. Jayson let out a slow breath and tried not look intimidating. But the girl stammered an apology and moved around to the back of him and then continued after her brother.
Jayson watched the pair disappear around the side of a cabin, their giggles fading long
after their forms had. Jayson continued up the steps, their wooden planks creaking under his weight, and let himself in through the door.
The big house, as the Guardians called it, had not changed since Captain Dawes had lived in it. The walls were still punctuated with antlers and animal heads, deer and elk mostly, though there was one warboar’s head among them. The sitting room was dominated by a wide stone fireplace which boasted roaring fires in the evenings throughout the winter. A shaggy bear skin lay on the floor between two sofas and a few chairs. An oil lamp sat on a round table. That, along with the fireplace, would be lit once the sun had gone down, customs still carried out by the house’s keeper, Nira.
Nira stepped into the room carrying a tray with a single glass balanced on its center, as if she had known all along Jayson would arrive at the moment he did. Nira was a short, stout woman whom Jayson was sure hadn’t smiled in decades. The creases on her face not only betrayed her advancing years but also the lack of any frivolity or pleasure in her heart. She took her role as keeper of Ashlin’s house quite seriously.
“Your supper is waiting in the dining room,” said Nira, holding out the tray. “Or would you prefer Cook serve you in here tonight?”
“Here is fine,” replied Jayson. He accepted the glass and took a swallow. The amber liquid burned going down, but it was a sensation Jayson relished, as was the subsequent warming of his body and dulling of his senses. Nira knew how to calm his nerves—a glass of warm cider and a night of silence and solitude.
The Crystal Keeper BoxSet Page 14