Chapter 1 - The Road to Branbury
Chalice heeled Sunny down the cool, dark road. It was early and morning mist covered the leaves of the thick forest with drops of dew that sparkled in the God rays peeking through the treetops. Chirping birds and scuffling forest animals, seeking their first meal of the day, slowly broke the silence of the dawn.
He was a good horse, Sunny, given to her by her grandfather, Papa, before she left Canton Run. However, he did occasionally need a nudge or two when he pretended to be spooked by something unknown to her lurking in the shadows. She had to admit, though, that there was something odd about this place that she sought so desperately. It gave her a strange feeling.
A few paces further, the path brought them out of the knot of trees into a breezy clearing. She winced as she looked up at the horizon into the blue sky and was met by a bright beam of sunlight. As she gazed to the left, she saw a wide, green meadow, brilliantly dotted with white daisies, which sloped gently upward toward the peak of Mount Vaassa. To the right, a sharp cliff rendered a breathtaking view of the valley. It was the northernmost section of the Auramont Vale and barely visible through the low cloud cover that shrouded the land.
She was almost there. She knew. She could feel it. Would he be there? Does he have what I was sent for? she wondered. Reaching down into her saddlebag, she pulled out a piece of bread and cheese that she gnawed hungrily. She was running low and would need to stop in the village for provisions before heading to Nathaniel’s farm. Papa had given her plenty of money that she kept tucked away in her bag: a bulging leather purse of fifty gold coronals, thirty-five silver sterlings, and twenty copper pence. That should be enough for a while, she thought.
“You must go to the village of Branbury on the outskirts of Auramont. There is a man, Nathaniel Maehbeck. He has something to give you. He will know what to do. It is essential that you listen to him and follow his instructions. Go.” These were the last words she had heard him say before he had her hoisted up onto Sunny, her bags hastily packed, and slapped the horse on the rear, sending him into an immediate gallop.
The King’s men had already seized control of Canton and the smoke from the fires had burned her eyes as she fled into the night. She recalled that as Sunny had launched forward at full speed, she had managed to glance back. Before reaching the protection of the trees, she had seen her grandfather heading off toward the pigeon cage. He must have been going to send a message, she thought. But to whom? Now, she wasn’t even sure if he was still alive. She tried not to think about it.
It was amazing, actually, that she had made it this far. Though, he had taught her well: how to track, find food when coin ran out, stay warm in the cold, and most of all, stay out of sight and keep silent while traveling. It kept her alive. Had he known he would someday send her off on her own, on a quest of which she knew absolutely nothing until now? Not that she knew that much about it. Find a man named Nathaniel and follow his instructions. That was it so far.
And so she had headed east. She knew Auramont was in that general direction from Canton. Using the old map Papa had tossed into her bag, she found her way through Blackburn forest, just south of the Darrenfell Moor, through the Plains of Chauma to the Trui’Quirré Mountains, the path through which she had to negotiate carefully. It skirted the edge of the Praeceps and at the bottom rested a series of razor sharp rocks with which she did not want to become too familiar.
The Praeceps were the steepest cliffs in Naeo’Gaea and provided the only way to pass through the mountains. The Trui’Quirré, or the Three Peaks, were so high, it was impossible to reach the top and survive. On the other side of the mountains, lay Auramont and Branbury was located to the east of Mount Vaassa which was an ancient mountain, the oldest in the chain.
Of course, many of the names on the map that she had were written in the language of old, which was spoken before the beginning of the New Millennium. She could hardly imagine what life must have been like for those who had survived the era before it, living mostly underground to escape the chill of a winter that had lasted for eons. She remembered Papa’s bedtime stories by the fireside and his instruction in Angaulic, the language spoken by those who lived during the Ice Age. He taught her everything he knew, except the story of her past.
Leave and go to a farm in Auramont?! While everyone and everything I’ve known and loved since I was a child are in danger? What is he playing at? Frustrated, tired and saddle-sore, she burned inside to know what it was, this thing that was so important. It was what kept her going. She had been on the road for months and was almost there.
Sunny stumbled slightly and she glanced down to make sure his footing was stable. He must be getting tired, too, she thought. They had been on the trail all night and even the strongest horse would tire without rest. So, she dismounted and walked along by his side, leading him through the clearing. We’ll take a short rest in the trees ahead.
Sunny was a young Palomino gelding, stocky but sturdy, with a blond forelock, tail, and mane, and strong hooves and fetlocks. He had a broad, strong chest and a long stride that made for quick getaways when they were necessary. And he was just the right size for her. She was petite but hardy, for being raised in Canton meant you were trained in the Cantonese fighting arts from an early age and if that didn’t make you tough, nothing would.
Chalice was also very beautiful. She had fair skin and a smooth oval face caressed by long, golden, butternut curls. They folded down the sides of her cheeks and framed her red rosebud mouth, button nose, and large sapphire eyes that were decorated with long dark eyelashes.
She wore an ocean-blue riding habit that was split in the skirt for straddling a horse and laced with a wavy pattern down the sides. It was comfortable and snug in the bosom and waist, but flared out at the bottom. What held in her body heat, though, was her darkly tanned, hooded, riding cloak that she had made out of lambskin. It was resilient and leathery on the outside for protection, and soft and furry on the inside for warmth.
On the ring finger of her right hand, she donned a golden ring with a rare, long-cut, ice-blue diamond set in its heart. She was told that it had once belonged to her mother. On her riding dress, just below her left shoulder, hung a sapphire broach given to her by her grandmother, Naelli.
However much she valued these gemstones from her mother and grandmother, her favored possession was the golden pendant around her neck that she kept close to her skin, under her garments. It held a golden amulet that Papa had had crafted by Elijah, Créone’s master smith who lived on the outskirts of Canton. The amulet was a circle that contained three lines meeting in the center and ending on the perimeter, not quite equidistant from one another, so that they formed what looked like a Y enclosed in the circle.
The amulet was special, not only because it was a gift from Papa, whom she loved dearly, but also because it was the exact shape of a distinct and unique birthmark on her right shoulder. At one time she had been doubtful that she was born with the mark because it was so unusual, but Papa had sworn to it. He called it her lucky charm.
Chalice was just shy of her eighteenth birthday, and he had been preparing something special for her. She suspected that the surprise was not of material gifts, however, but of the knowledge that she longed for her whole life, the knowledge of her family.
All she had ever known about herself, from the earliest she could remember, was that she was Chalice Pandretti, granddaughter to Sebastian and Naelli Pandretti, who ran the Inn and Winery on Canton Run. Of her past and the existence of the rest of her family, she knew nothing. She had always wondered if maybe she had been an unwanted child. It was something that haunted her constantly. When she asked Papa about it, he said that she wasn’t old enough to know, that she must not ask further, and then he remained silent. For the celebration of her eighteenth birthday, he gave subtle hints that he would break that silence, but now it was too late. The village had been attacked and she
had had to flee before the King’s men reached the inn.
The path through the clearing was long and she was awestruck by the beauty of the mountain passes. Beautiful but dangerous, she reminded herself. Mount Vaassa was so enormous, the extent of her vision could not reach its snowcapped peaks. It reminded her of all the failed attempts of those in the generations past who had tried to scale it. All the would-be masters of the mountain either froze to death or suffocated from lack of oxygen, that is, if they didn’t perish by a fall to a cold and rocky end.
Fools! she thought. A ridiculously hopeless task. Why would anyone want to undertake it? You’d have to be completely crazy or arrogant … or both. After recently braving the middle passes, as far as she was concerned, having a healthy respect for the mountain was good and wise advice.
Before reaching the end of the clearing and entering the next thicket of trees, she peered back toward the meadow. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but there was something familiar about it, like a faint memory buried under a lifetime of experience. She wondered if maybe she had traveled this way before as a child. If she had, she couldn’t remember and Papa had never said anything about it either. Finally, she shook herself back to reality, and ignoring the thought, continued on.
A bit into the shade of the forest lay a small, flattened area surrounded by pines just off the right side of the path down the slope. There, she and Sunny could make camp and take a short rest, so they descended carefully. She dismounted and tied his reins to the branch of a tree, the ground around which he immediately began searching for all the good green stuff that horses relished. She removed her soft lambskin riding gloves, and after tucking them behind her belt, grabbed a couple of small carrots from her saddlebag.
“Here boy, munch on these.” She held out her flattened palm and he grabbed them quickly. Then, she dug in the bags again for her water skin. Thirst had taken hold of her and she drank almost half of it in one go. Crisp, refreshing mountain water. There was really nothing like it in Canton. It was fortunate that they had passed a brook a league back where they had filled up; otherwise they would have had to wait until they arrived at the village, which ran alongside the Canterine River.
After a few minutes of searching, she found some wood and kindling, and using her flint and steel, had a crackling fire lit and hot tea in her cup. As she laid a small, woolen blanket from her bag on the ground next to the tree where Sunny was tied, she could hear the rustling of the tree leaves in the breeze. She sat down and rested her head on the trunk. Holding her cup in both hands on her lap for warmth, she faced upward, studying the treetops and the bits of azure sky that peeked in through the gaps of the green canopy above.
Sequoias, she thought. How old were they? She knew that Mount Vaassa was the only mountain where this type of evergreen still grew. They were ancient, just like the mountain, and they existed in the world before the Ice Age, somehow surviving the cold. She thought about the Ancient World and how she would love to have known what it was like living in that time. A golden age where knowledge was so advanced, it even exceeded Terravailian powers in some respects. She tried to imagine it and the more her mind wandered, the more relaxed she became. Her eyes closed. The light breeze was cool and the fire snapped and sizzled … and she was walking down the white marble corridor again.
The wide, marble corridor, embellished with dark tapestries, glowed with radiant light. At the end of the corridor twisted a set of stairs that led to the top of the structure and she knew, without knowing how she knew, that her purpose for being there could be found at the top of the staircase. In defiance, however, she took the left doorway, curious to see the quarters that lay within. She suddenly realized that she had never been these rooms before.
She entered what appeared to be a spacious sitting room that greeted its visitors with a plush Maliyan rug positioned in the middle of the floor. The magnificent rug carried the weight of two large settees, whose legs, carved delicately of polished cedar, shone softly. In between the settees, lay a low wooden table inlaid with gold, which held an empty goblet and a few scattered books. The brilliance of the marble walls cast a soft light around the room and created a warm, peaceful ambience.
She advanced further in and approached the large fireplace to the left that was worked in carved marble until she stood on the white tiles of the hearth. The red-gold flames flickered, radiating a gentle energy throughout the chamber. She turned to examine the intricate Avielian tapestries that adorned the polished wall panels, and found that they depicted battle scenes of long ago.
Who were they? she wondered.
Passing the hearth, she noticed two doorways, one on each side of the sitting room, and a double doorway in front of her, consisting of crystal squares framed in carved cedar, that revealed a terrace behind it overlooking the ocean. In the background, the sky was exploding in a glorious blaze of pink and purple as the rising sun peeked out over the horizon.
As she moved toward the terrace, her gaze met the four-poster bed of the chamber to her left. It was a room that gave the same warmth and comfort as the entry, but was clearly the bedchamber of whoever dwelled here. Whoever it was, she knew they were wealthy, maybe even noble.
A soft, pulsating glow caught her eye and she whirled to the right. It was coming from the other doorway, opposite the bedchamber. Approaching cautiously, she entered a study, furnished with plush chairs and a large, dark writing desk. Behind the desk, the entire wall was an enormous assemblage of bookshelves arrayed with books of varying size and age.
As soon as she was close enough to make out the letters, she read titles: The Reign of Ielierian Kings, The Code of the Realm, and Justice and Redemption. There were more, but she knew there was no time to study them all. Interesting, she thought. These folk must be nobility.
The light did not cease its wax and wane, but pulled her toward a tall, wooden armoire with glass doors that she opened to gaze upon a blue gem enclosed in a crystal case. The light from the gem rose and fell like a heartbeat. She reached for it, but was thwarted by an invisible barrier that stayed her hand. Then, she knew she could not touch it and its beating was somehow telling her that it was time to ascend the staircase.
She made her way back to the end of the corridor and ascended the staircase that led to the entrance of a courtyard. As she entered, she glanced to her right through the embrasure to see the golden ball of the sun over the watery distance. It was full morning and she closed her eyes to the rush of salty air as the wind blew her hair from her face. She could hear the cawing of the sea graels in the distance and smell the rich scent of the ocean. Suddenly, behind her, a clop of horse hooves gave her a start. She pivoted and …
Opening her eyes, she looked straight up into Sunny’s muzzle. The whites of his eyes shone with terror. He was snorting, stomping, and nudging her. Fool! she cursed herself. What did Papa teach you? If you must rest, rest with one eye open.
“What is it, boy?” she said as she jumped to her feet, spilling her tea which had lost its heat, and stroked his blond neck to calm him. Then, she heard it, the same rustling sound that she had believed to be leaves in the wind. She glanced up toward the path from which they had traveled and glimpsed small, furry ears disappearing over the edge.
She let out an oath. She should have known the difference between the sound of leaves and the sound of a stalker. Tossing down her mug, she bounded up the hillside. Once upon the path, she saw that whatever the creature was, friendly or hostile, it was no longer in sight, but that it had left strange tracks — imprints that she had never seen before.
What is it? she wondered. She tracked them to the other side, marking the areas of displacement of the small ground stones and fallen leaves. These, she followed like breadcrumbs to a great oaden tree with deeply grained bark, supported by enormous, thick roots.
Circling the tree, she came upon a hollow under the roots … that sprouted sage brush?! She thoug
ht this was a little too suspicious. Anyone who was learned in the botanical discipline of the Trui’Quirré knew that sage did not grow near oaden trees. So, she crept up silently toward the hollow and in one swift movement, gripped the thicket of brush and threw it aside.
What leapt out of the hole was the last thing she expected. Half her height, a small, brown, furry creature, wearing a light brown, hooded cloak and carrying a small rucksack, brandished a tree branch at her and growled malignantly. It was chubby and had a small mouth with tiny teeth, a small, dark button nose to match tiny, dark button eyes, and fluffy, rounded ears that stuck out from the top of its oversized head. It reminded her of a teddy bear that she had cuddled at night when she was a child. Her lips quivered as she fought a crazy desire to laugh.
The creature registered the look on her face, paused, and growled again, this time raising its arms as if to appear larger. At this point, Chalice could no longer hold back. Nearly in tears, she let out a loud snort of laughter.
Frustrated and embarrassed, the little creature knew its plan was not working, so it darted up the tree faster than her eyes could follow. All she saw was a brown blur and before she could catch her breath to ask it to stay, the treetops were swishing back and forth, not because of the wind, but because that was how the Chinuka traveled when they did not want to be seen. For she knew what it was now, but for the life of her could not fathom what it was doing so close to a village. The Chinuka never came this far down the mountain.
Descendants of the tree dwellers of the Ancient World, they no longer had to depend on the safety of the trees, but instead made their homes in the high passes of the mountains, where people could not survive. Papa had taught her that it was not always this way, though. There was a time when they were friendly with the other races and had regular dealings with them, even in areas of business and trade. But after several battles, mainly among the Terravail, and too many deaths of the innocent, who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, they severed contact with the human world. The Chinuka were peaceful and did not like war. They were also highly advanced and very intelligent.
Suddenly, she heard a loud THUMP a few paces ahead. It was in the direction of the rustling trees and when she arrived at the spot, she found a small, leather-bound book. It must have dropped this, she thought. Maybe it will come back. So, she waited, but the Chinuk did not return.
Sighing, she walked back to her small camp where Sunny was waiting, nibbling the ground. He looked refreshed and she hoped that he had gotten as much sleep as she had, for it was afternoon, judging by the angle of the light, and it was high time for them to be on their way.
Before packing and mounting, she opened the small, leather book and studied the pages. She could not read Chinukan writing, but she decided to keep it anyway, just in case. Somehow it seemed like a good idea. She stuffed it in her bag along with her woolen blanket and silver mug. Dousing the fire, she then camouflaged the spot with dirt and leaves, untied Sunny, and led him back up to the road.
A few spans down, the path forked. The right fork sloped gently downhill toward Tanjeca Falls, which she could already hear faintly in the distance. The left fork led to the high passes, where she definitely did not want to go. So, she reined Sunny to the right and leaned backward slightly to give him his balance for the descent.
Her stomach growled. She couldn’t wait to arrive for a hot meal and a bath. It was difficult to recall the last time she had bathed in a warm tub after so many months of making camp, eating cheese, dried meat, and stale bread, and washing in the chill waters of the mountain. Thinking of it made her miss the warmth of home and the delicious aromas of Grandma Naelli’s kitchen.
She remembered a time from when she was tiny and could view only her grandparents’ legs and feet as she hid underneath the kitchen table and listened to the crackle of the fire that gleamed in the burnished kitchenware on the walls. In her mind, she could still hear the jangle of pots and pans as dinner was being prepared. It was her place of comfort, happiness, love, and laughter.
She thought sadly of her grandparents and her friends and all the people in the town where she grew up. They had to be alright, she kept telling herself because she couldn’t bring herself to believe anything else. She wondered where Kirna and Tycho were and what they were doing.
Kirna Dubin and Tycho Bendeban were her two best friends, whom she had known since she was a small child, and with whom she had completed her training. Kirna was the only one who could best her at sparring, but Tycho on the other hand was never very coordinated. Although, he could make you laugh when you wanted to cry, or rage, depending on your mood. At times, it was his best defense.
She recalled their fishing trips on the docks of the Créonar and stopping into the Trottoire to see Marie on their way back home with their fresh catch of the day. Even though they had reeked of fish, she had still let them sit at her bar and have a bowl of Chaeochira, Chalice’s favorite soup, patiently listening to their silly stories before the fading light of dusk pushed them out the door. Canton was the best place in the world and it was where she wanted to be right at this moment.
As she passed the old sawmill that marked the entrance to Branbury, she noted the absence of children playing along the riverbank. Papa had grown up in Branbury and told her stories of the old mill and games of cache-cache that they played when he was a child.
Maybe the children don’t visit the old mill anymore, she thought. After a few minutes, she arrived at a second fork in the road and knew that proceeding left would take her to Nathaniel’s farm. However, she needed to visit the village first for a bit of shopping, not just because she was running low on supplies, but also because it was customary to bring a gift to hosts who welcomed you into their home. So, she reined Sunny to the right. He complied willingly and before she knew it, they were out of the woods and entering the village square.
It was a quaint, little town square, with a small park in the middle and a beautiful silver fountain at its center, gurgling with fresh, spring water. A green, grassy area with scattered picnic tables and bracketball courts encircled the fountain and shops surrounded the park on all sides, the village bakery just around the left corner from where she and Sunny strode.
It was late afternoon, almost early evening, and eerily quiet. All she could hear was the wind in the trees and the slow clop of Sunny’s hooves on the cobblestone street. A strange sense came over her. It was too quiet.
Where is everyone? she wondered.
She halted Sunny in front of the bakery, dismounted, and tied his reins to the hitching post just outside. The door to the bakery was wide open as she entered. The aroma that met her nose was that of a hot stone fire oven and floured dough on a baking peel. Bags of baked bread lay in their baskets around the room, while sweets and pastries hid behind the glass case of the front counter. An old grandfather clock chimed five o’clock on the wall above the coffer and five pence lay scattered on the counter to the left. Everything seemed intact and normal, except there was no one in sight.
She left the store and saw an old tavern to the right with a wooden sign outside its entrance creaking in the wind. On the sign was a picture of a rugged man dressed in a leather jerkin, his pockets full of iron tools. He was holding a tankard of ale with a horseshoe handle. The sign read: The Farrier.
She stepped up to the swinging tavern door and pushed. Halfway in, the door stopped abruptly, blocked by something that lay on the floor. She shimmied through and found a barstool that had been knocked over by someone who apparently had been in a rush to get out. She stood it straight and placed it out of the way.
The rest of the tavern appeared peaceful. A group of polished wooden tables and chairs rested in the left corner behind the billiards table, which was frozen in mid-game, queue sticks lying across it. To the right, on the bar counter, lay an array of tankards. Behind it, the wall was given to casks of ale, wine, and brandy, with spig
ots jutting out for a barman to serve the next customer. At the far end, lay a water pitcher on the bar and an empty bucket on the wooden floor. She glanced around the room, and again, saw no one.
A tavern having no patrons at this time of day is passing strange, she thought. What is going on?
She left the tavern and made her way back to the hitching post where Sunny was waiting. The silence was heavy and it weighed on her. She screwed up her eyes and peered around everywhere, still in shock. She had no idea what had happened here, but there was one thing she did know. If there had been people here before, they were not here now. Branbury was a ghost town.
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