A nearby oak tree reached its lengthy boughs toward him, inviting him into the shade. A wide smile covered his bearded face as he nodded in acknowledgment. Taking a deep breath of the scented air, he felt a potent sense of peace. For the first time in hundreds of years, there was no nagging suspicion that a great evil would befall the world. The troublesome vines in his flower garden seemed a brief nuisance considering the calamity that had overcome the world the past one hundred years.
“Novor Tur-Woodberry! Novor Tur-Woodberry!” an exhilarated voice shouted from below.
“Oy!” Novor Tur-Woodberry rumbled, his dark-blue eyes spying the creature that moved in a blur through the grass. The gift of speech blessed more than half the creatures in the South World. His land teemed with life, speech, and the constant sound of music echoing off the rolling green hills of Locherenixzes. It was a true Paradise where the plants, animals, and mortals dwelt in peace and harmony without fear. Now and then, a disagreement or minor unpleasantness would arise, causing a stir of drama and gossiping tongues, until Novor Tur-Woodberry scolded everything into its place. Often, new inhabitants caused discord, but it had been at least ten years since the last seeds of calamity swept across the land. Novor Tur-Woodberry was content to let the peace continue.
“Novor Tur-Woodberry, there’s trouble!” A black weasel with patches of white fur stood on his hind legs, his whiskers quivering and his nose moving as he spoke.
“Not on my land.” Novor Tur-Woodberry chuckled. “Come along, show me.”
“This way.” The weasel went on, dropping to all fours and making rivets through the grass. The green way parted before them as they moved northeast. “I was foraging for food. I have babies, you know. And the wife need not be out in the wild, looking for food.”
“Nor need you,” Novor Tur-Woodberry said. “My Fúlishités will bring you any provision you need. What with a new family, you must be hard-pressed to find enough food.”
The weasel gave a squeak and paused, twitching his nose as he eyed Novor Tur-Woodberry, a sheepish expression coming over his face. “Don’t tell the wife, will you? I need time away from the litter to run wild. Food is my only excuse.”
“Aye, your secret is safe with me.” Novor Tur-Woodberry winked at the weasel, eyes twinkling. “Carry on with your tale.”
“Where was I?” the weasel asked himself as he leaped forward, leading the way once again. “Ah. On my way, I bumped into Toad, who was headed down to the marshes. I don’t know what he was doing out in the pastures, but he claimed the dragonflies lured him out.”
“Dragonflies,” Novor Tur-Woodberry mused, turning the word over on his tongue. “Aye, they usually stay by the marshes. What are they doing out here in the grasslands?”
The weasel stood upright and held its tiny paws up to the sky. “I did not consider it odd the dragonflies were out, not until Toad showed me what I’m about to show you.”
Novor Tur-Woodberry stroked his beard, an old habit. As a powerful Duneíthaír, trouble ceased to worry him after the war between the mortals and immortals ended. There was no one left to stand against him. “Have you showed anyone else?”
“Nay. I searched for the Fúlishités first, but they must be in the northern reaches of the land.”
“Oh ho,” Novor Tur-Woodberry rumbled. His Fúlishités were a tribe of ten little men, often called Singing Men, for they roamed the land, singing of the legendary greatness of Novor Tur-Woodberry while helping him tend the land. They were happy and loyal and often stuck together, their voices carrying through the air when they came upon something Novor Tur-Woodberry needed to investigate. “Wait.” Novor Tur-Woodberry held up a finger and sniffed as a new scent entered his land. He noticed the familiar tug of excitement, almost as if someone had walked across an invisible portal and triggered an alarm. “There is someone new in the land,” he told the weasel.
“Must you go to them?”
“Nay, let’s explore the lagoon and then I will visit them. I believe they will be amenable.”
“No one new has come here since the Tider with the odd eyes,” the weasel pointed out, his tail bouncing behind him as he jumped.
“Citrine.” Novor Tur-Woodberry nodded fondly. The curious young female held a strange aura, yet she’d been living on his land the past three months without mishap and all who met her accepted her. “Usually we have more visitors. The land is at peace. The people groups settle and rebuild, yet I expect more Crons will come through this land, seeking adventure and knowledge.”
“Almost there,” the weasel called out, in a haste to get back to his family. “The wife will wonder why I’ve been gone for so long.”
A snake hissed as they neared the marshes and blue dragonflies scattered overhead. A fog rolled over the lagoon and the weasel paused, its nose quivering as it pointed a shaking paw. “Have you seen this before?”
A darkness spread beyond the marshes, and the ground changed from nasty brown into black, like a fever of poison spreading. Novor Tur-Woodberry crossed his arms, frowning as his eyes took in the sight, and his senses alerted him to a deeper knowledge he’d long forgotten. At length, he turned back to the weasel. “Go home to your family. Leave me to worry about this.”
“Aye.” The weasel waited for Novor Tur-Woodberry’s low rumble of laughter, but as there was none forthcoming, it turned and scampered off.
Alone, Novor Tur-Woodberry squinted and surveyed the land. A blue dragonfly flew above him, the gentle hum of its delicate voice drifting through the stale air. “Novor Tur-Woodberry. What is the blackness? Is it death?”
“When did you first see it?” Tur-Woodberry asked the dragonfly, noting its brilliant wings that buzzed ceaselessly back and forth.
“Hum . . . ho . . . a week or so.”
“You did not tell me?” he asked without blame, for the land was odd and did not always require his attention.
“Hum . . .” The dragonfly buzzed. “We thought it would go away, and then it didn’t, so we told Toad. It wasn’t this bad before. Are you going to fix it? Isn’t the blackness trespassing on your land?”
Novor Tur-Woodberry stroked his beard. “It is. I will inspect the borders.”
3
Sunshine at Last
Citrine pressed the herbs to her nose and spread them across the table. She stroked their vines and leaves, one by one, as if she were their lover. Enticing scents imbued the air, securing the soulful bond between herself and nature. Leaning over, she eyed the instructions on the parchment held open by a gray rock and a white candle. Three key ingredients were missing from her concoction. Perhaps the gardens near the Standing Stones had the plants she sought. She stood. Humming.
“A spell of protection. A spell of disguise.
A spell to hide from prying eyes.
A spell of deflection. A spell of desire.
A spell to hide from seeking eyes.”
A wave of guilt made her shudder, and she rubbed her arms together. Golden sunbeams flickered over her worktable, reminding her that time was passing. Three months she’d hidden, working in what seemed to be Paradise. A glorious haven that belonged to a friendly giant called Novor Tur-Woodberry. Tossing her cutting knife down, she huffed in frustration as she moved to the bed. It was taking too long for her to recall the spell. Too long to find the memories that took her back. She needed to rewrite the book of spells, but safety and protection for her beasts were top of mind. Turning over blankets, she searched for the yellow scarf she used to carry herbs and flowers.
Tying the handkerchief around her waist, she flung open the door and hurried out. A gentle breeze made goosebumps stand up on her bare arms. Rolling green hills seemed as if they moved up and down, like waves on the shore. Despite her conflicted feelings, golden light surrounded her and its buoyancy calmed her. Spreading her arms wide, she breathed in the glorious air while the sound of delicate music danced by her ears on the breeze.
“Sunshine at last,” she whispered.
The past week, it h
ad rained in the glorious land of Novor Tur-Woodberry and although it was a delicious rain, she missed the sunshine all the same. A smile came to her face as she recalled the relief she felt at being welcomed by Novor Tur-Woodberry and the peaceful people of the land. It was hard to believe she did not dwell in the realm of the immortals, although she had forsaken her beasts. A frown broke the smile on her face. She’d promised her beasts a home. Instead of bringing them with her, she entered Paradise alone. She chewed on her bottom lip and played with the frayed ends of her handkerchief.
The emerald-green hills rolled as she walked, holding a hand out as if she could touch the grace and beauty in the air. A sprouting oak tree grew just outside her cottage, and she walked up to it, placing a hand on its slim trunk. “Are you home?” she whispered. “Your roots are growing strong, drinking in the rainwater—come out and see, sunshine is here.”
A silvery shimmer came over the air. The tree moved, stretching its small branches until it seemed as if the tree were a mirror and there were two trees, breathing in the golden light.
“Citrine,” a high voice called and suddenly there were two trees no more. A green Trespiral—the spirit of the tree—appeared, standing with willowy grace as it beamed at Citrine.
She reached out a hand in awe, twirling as the Trespiral caught her fingers in one of its branches and spun her around.
“I feel refreshed and anew, but I must go back inside to grow while the sunshine is here,” the Trespiral admitted.
“You’ve grown since the rain. There’s silver on your branches, and I see new buds.”
The Trespiral laughed, a silvery tinkle that matched the underlying cadence of music across the land.
“Will you tell me your name?” Citrine asked. “We talk each day, but I still don’t know your name.”
The Trespiral’s bark-brown skin stood out in contrast to the golden light. Leaf-green hair trailed around her shoulders. “I am too young for a name. When I am older and understand my purpose, then my name shall be revealed.”
“Is that the custom of trees? They give us mortals our names a few days after birth. Name day is what we call it.”
A tranquil breeze drifted across the grassy hillock and the Trespiral swayed in it as if it were the beginning of a dance. “Mortals are reckless with names. Immortals understand the potency of giving a name to another.”
Citrine snorted. “It’s not that important.” She sobered at the Trespiral’s indignant expression. “I only meant . . . your ways differ greatly from mine. I am not making fun, merely seeking to understand.”
“I can feel wafts of knowledge drifting past me, which is why I say what I do. Tell me, do you know your purpose?”
A memory flashed through Citrine’s mind. White bone. Dark eyes. The smell of death. Guilt gnawed at her core, reminding her of the promise she’d made but hadn’t fulfilled. Serenity drained from her face, replaced with a flash of anger. “Yes.” Her tone came out flat. “Right now, I am going to the Standing Stones to gather herbs.”
“Ah, I see I have made you unhappy. No one should be unhappy in the land of Novor Tur-Woodberry. Go. Forget my words. Find joy.”
“I am not unhappy,” Citrine protested. “Memories of my life before I came here are not pleasant. Enjoy growing. I’ll come to visit you during the moonlight when you have more time.”
“The realm of night,” the Trespiral whispered as she sank back into the tree, closing her eyes to meditate and grow.
Citrine continued up the invisible path that curved back and forth over the hills, leading into the heights. At one high point, she saw stone cottages with thatched roofs dotting the hillsides. The wild and tame animals of the land gazed in peace, moving from the hilltop to the valley to find the greenest grass. Following the path, she reached the pond with the well beside it where she drew fresh water for baking. She waved at the long-legged pink birds. Lily pads floated in the water, nosed aside by curved beaks as the birds hunted for the tiny fish. They nodded at her in acknowledgment, their beady eyes focused and intent.
Leaving the pond behind, she continued to climb until a flowing stream appeared, singing a quiet song. Orange koi as big as her face with great whiskers swam through the crystal-clear waters. Green roads and vine-covered bridges rose before her, showing off the enchantment of the land of Novor Tur-Woodberry. Flowers added bright colors to the lush greenery of the land—red roses, orange marigolds, white lotuses, red poppies, and violet irises. Citrine allowed herself a brief smile as she held her hands over the waving grass that came up to her waist. Despite her contentment with the land of Novor Tur-Woodberry, she found an unsettled restlessness growing within her. Three months and she’d found a home, and it wasn’t enough.
Citrine.
A voice filtered through her thoughts. It was not the voice she expected, and she felt something within her stiffen. It was not fear, only respect, and a quiet peace rose as she replied. Morag. And waited.
The Master of the Forest has a request.
Citrine froze, one foot hovering in midair. The Master of the Forest was a dark creature and, in her anger, she’d made a deal she assumed was meaningless. That was before she’d come to this land and found people she cared about. Narrowing her eyes, although Morag was far from her, she replied. I thought the Master of the Forest did not want to see me again.
The Master of the Forest requested your presence in the Boundary Line Forest. You will not meet with him.
Citrine gave an exasperated sigh and her fingers twitched, yanking at the frayed ends of her handkerchief. She wore a short dress, improper compared to the long skirts most females wore. However, she preferred the freedom to move her legs versus the modesty and fashion of present time. She frowned. Suddenly, the birds singing in the distance and the blue skies seemed to laugh at her plight. For a moment, she wished it were raining. Morag, I thought you were in my service. You belong to me, not the Master of the Forest.
Ignoring the Master of the Forest will make life in the woods difficult for me. If you care about me, you will do as requested.
I do not respond to threats! You are strong and powerful. What can the Master of the Forest do to you?
That is a question you know the answer to. You have seen the Master of the Forest and you continued to flee until you found sanctuary. You made a promise to us. Paradise. Will you fulfill that promise?
A flash of annoyance and anger came over Citrine and she bit her lip, her hands trembling. Dare you throw my words back at me? The promises I make, I keep. Tell me, when and where does the Master wish for me to appear?
This evening in the glade, just past twilight, something is waiting for you there.
Will I see you?
Do you wish to?
Of course, my quarrel is not with you. I will summon Ava, Zaul, and Grift.
My lady.
The threads of communication snapped and left Citrine alone, scowling at the bluebells in the wild green grass. Thoughts of a past life rose before her. Chocolate-brown eyes. A cottage in a village. A garden filled with herbs. A keen longing and a deep sorrow rose in her heart. Instead of giving in to the emotions, her scowl deepened and she marched across the land, smashing the grass with each footfall.
4
Mortal Fears
A menacing growl swept over the meadow and the sudden overwhelming smell of rot wafted through the air. Tor Lir took a step back from the decaying body, covering his nose and mouth as the sulfuric smell grew. His eyes shifted, taking in the grass-covered rolling hills, and a muted-gray blur in the distance, a forest.
Turning around, he eyed the meadow, searching for life. In the distance, he thought he could see the quickly retreating form of Lelia as she headed back to Shimla. The past seven days, he’d walked through a haze of greenery in scenery different from his homeland, Shimla. A vague sensation tickled his thoughts with a truth he did not want to decipher. Faint words echoed in the back of his mind, words that grew stronger the longer he stayed in Shimla. Long may y
ou live. Long may you prosper. A foreboding sat deep within him and he brushed it away, jolting out of dark possibilities as the growl came again, louder this time. Tor Lir stepped away from the body toward the gray wood, keeping his emerald eyes wide, watching for the creature roaming the green meadow.
A sniff with a prolonged, snorting bellow made the grass quiver. The meadow beneath Tor Lir’s feet shook as a creature he could not see yet thundered toward him. Unsure what to do or how to handle incidents in the realm of mortals, he stood his ground, though he had no weapons.
In the forest of Shimla, Iaens brought creatures to reason with a show of aggression. They were wild through and through, their tempers rising and falling without a sense of normality. When disputes broke out, it was the strong who won.
Balling up his fists, Tor Lir gritted his teeth and prepared to show his dominance, yet the creature that appeared from the grasslands made him regret his choice. He should have run as soon as he heard the growl.
A monstrous beast clamored toward him on four short legs. Its body was low-lying like a reptile and a protective, tough, green hide covered its back. It had a long snout where a row of white curved fangs stuck out from its mouth. The creature moved with surprising speed through the waving grass, shattering the serenity of the prairie. Tor Lir stuck out a hand, palm facing the beast as if imploring it to stop. A lump formed in his throat as he realized how ill-equipped he was to deal with beasts in the realm of mortals.
At the last moment, the beast turned its body and swung its outstretched tail toward Tor Lir’s legs. The tail smacked into his knees with such force it tossed him into the air. He gasped as the wind left his body and he fell heavily on his side, sending a jolting pain rocketing through his arm. Starlight marred his vision and when he could see again, the creature lay in wait a few feet away, as if egging him on, encouraging him to stand again.
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