Barely glancing at Elowyn and Adelin, their mother swept straight past them to the table where Morganne was still sewing. On it she dropped a large pouch filled with silver coins.
“There was a wealthy man from foreign parts in town today. He bought up every bit of weave I had, and paid well for it too. Better than those cheap scoundrels at the shop, who are always trying to cheat me.” Her eyes flashed with anger for a moment, before they cooled with vengeful satisfaction. “He liked your needlework too, and wants to commission us to fill an order. He’s willing to pay for velvet and even silk. The silk is being sent by ship and will be here by month’s end, but the velvet will need to be purchased. I will spin and weave the linen and wool myself—it will have to be the finest cloth I have ever made. None of what I have left in store will do. I’ve signed the contract already. The order must be ready by late summer when he returns, as he will be bringing back with him the Lady the garments are meant for. She will be wintering at the Castle. Apparently she is a family friend to the Sovereign and his house!”
Their mother’s eyes glinted proudly, as though by being the one selected to make this woman’s clothes, she too had some connection to the ruling family of Tyroc. “You can do final fittings when she arrives, but once I get the weave ready you’ll have to work by these measurements alone.” She handed Morganne a piece of parchment with detailed figures on it. Elowyn couldn’t tell by Morganne’s expression if she was happy or terrified. She looked very much like a stunned animal as she stared at their mother in complete disbelief.
“How many garments does she want by summer’s end?” Morganne asked. Their mother produced a roll of parchment, with all the details of the order on it.
As Morganne perused it, Elowyn could see her body tense with anxiety. “I … I don’t know if I can make that many so quickly … if I already had the material, it would be easier, but …”
The look in their mother’s eye grew dangerous. Elowyn knew that look. It was usually accompanied by a swift blow. Morganne wisely kept silent.
“The contract is signed. You will make them,” their mother said icily. She dug into the bag, pulling out a single coin and dropping it on the table. Morganne cautiously reached for it, her face flushed. Though her expression was masked, Elowyn could tell that on the inside Morganne was seething with emotion. Exactly what emotion Elowyn could not tell—she always had such a difficult time reading Morganne’s thoughts. Morganne picked up the coin without even looking at it, tucked it in her belt pouch, and quickly turned away, avoiding their mother’s gaze. She continued her sewing, head bent low, her fingers working furiously and trembling ever so slightly. Elowyn wondered if she would ever get anything so valuable from her mother. Elowyn’s contributions to their trade, though important, were never acknowledged. Suddenly Elowyn remembered the strange coin she had found and pulled it out of her pouch.
“Look,” she announced brightly, “I have a coin too—I found it in the stream.” She held it up with pride, secretly hoping that it was valuable enough to get her mother’s attention, even if only for a brief moment. Their mother gave it a skeptical glance.
“Worthless,” she pronounced callously, barely giving it a glance. “I have warned you about bringing other people’s refuse into the house. Get rid of it.”
Elowyn’s heart sank. She began to feel a tightness in her throat, and hot indignant tears welled up, ready to spill over. Whether to spite her mother, or in spite of her, Elowyn refused to let them fall. The effort stirred an angry defiance within her, and her expression grew sulky. She had so hoped that this time she had found something important, but she was used to such disappointments, especially where her mother was concerned. Even if the coin was of value, she realized that her mother was not likely to admit it openly. The object would simply vanish, no doubt finding its way into the pouch at her mother’s waist. Elowyn tucked the coin out of sight, fully intending to keep it regardless of its worth. Its strange markings interested her, even though she had no idea what they meant, and Elowyn liked the way the cool raised metal felt under her fingers.
By late afternoon, the dingy gray cloud that had come between her and a beautiful sunbeam earlier that day, had turned into a billowing mass of large, black, threatening clouds that swallowed up the entire sky. The wind had picked up too, and through the half-open shutters, Elowyn could smell the rain coming. She had managed to keep the morning’s events out of her thoughts, but as her fingers caressed the coin in the pouch at her side, and the musk of damp earth filled her lungs, Elowyn couldn’t help but remember. How it gotten so far out into the stream she didn’t know, but she felt sure that the coin belonged to the slain bowman.
Dusk came early, and swiftly. As complete darkness descended on the cottage, the shutters were secured, the fire banked, and everyone dressed for bed.
Elowyn had a tenuous relationship with storms. Their power was beautiful and exciting; she could feel their living energy flowing through the air. If only she could forget their dangerous nature, she might enjoy storms more. Somehow tonight was different. She felt none of the usual awe-filled excitement. Her stomach tightened into sickening knots and her heart pumped fast and hard. For once she was relieved not to be sleeping outdoors. Elowyn usually enjoyed nighttime, because she could look up and see the whole sky blazing with stars. How could one ever feel alone or afraid in the company of stars? But in the midst of a storm there are no stars, and no moon either. Tonight the only light to comfort her came from the dim glow of the fire, burning low in the hearth. Looking up from her mat on the floor, there was nothing above her to gaze upon except for the rafters and straw of the ceiling, and the dwindling store of dried herbs and fish hanging from them.
The whole cottage shuddered under the force of the growing wind, and one corner of the roof began to leak almost as soon as the rain began. Elowyn wondered if it would withstand the beating, or come collapsing in on top of them as they slept. The blackness outside was oppressive, and she felt very small in the midst of it. She had always thought that if one was afraid of something fearsome emerging from the darkness, it would be most sensible to face the darkness and at least see it coming. She now understood why groups of men traveling through unfamiliar lands huddle close to the fire through the night, staring blankly at the light with their backs to the darkness. Sensible or not, facing the fire was a way of creating a world within a world. Staring stonily into the heart of the hypnotic flames, she could almost let herself believe that this cottage was the only thing that existed. There was no storm, no slain bowman, and there were no strange beasts emerging from the Shadow Wood to drag in unsuspecting passers-by. She could even lull herself into believing that the Sovereign was still alive, and there was no rebel group ambushing the city guards, who served as the City’s only protection against whatever else was out there lying in wait. Elowyn shivered, pressing as close to the fire as she could. Morganne lay next to her in silence, staring at the ceiling. Her face still held no expression, but the tightness of her lips betrayed her anxiety.
“Morg?” Elowyn asked cautiously.
“Hmm?” Morganne absently responded, still absorbed by her own thoughts.
“What kinds of things live in the Shadow Wood?”
Morganne was shaken out of her thoughts for a moment. “The Shadow Wood? Why do you ask such a question?” Her tone became stern. “You haven’t been going there have you?”
Elowyn shook her head furiously, and with some indignation. “Of course not!” But she couldn’t tell Morganne the true reason as to why she wanted to know, lest she be forbidden to go back into the woods at all.
“Never mind then,” Elowyn said hastily. “I was only curious. There are so many strange tales about that place.”
Morganne nodded. “Especially since the Sovereign died, and everyone is so uneasy. The tension among the merchants is almost unbearable. But I have to wonder if most of those stories about the Shadow Wood aren’t made up. Some people will say just about anything to call attentio
n to themselves, or their shops,” she said dryly. “I have often heard the head seamstress tell her apprentices that ‘good gossip makes for good business.’” Morganne yawned deeply and turned away from Elowyn with her back to the fire. “Don’t think about it any further, and go to sleep. Dawn will come early enough.”
But sleep that night was difficult for Elowyn. She tossed and turned on her mat, restless as the wind that raged against the cottage in erratic gusts. The rain pounded on the shutters with seemingly sinister intent, as if trying to get in and drag her out into the darkness. “But that’s silly,” she thought. “It is only rain after all … isn’t it?”
Sudden storms weren’t unusual—sea squalls frequently came and went without warning. There was something more to this storm though, something dark … disturbing … unnatural. All of Elowyn’s instincts were on edge, and she didn’t know why. She felt like a small, frightened animal desperate to burrow into the ground, but finding no place to dig, and no place to hide.
Telling herself that it was simply the day’s events that had her so spooked, she eventually lapsed into a half-sleep state. She wasn’t certain if it was moments or hours later when she was startled by a loud and demanding rapping on the door. At first she tried to ignore it, her heart pounding wildly, hoping whoever it was would go away. Instead, the knocking grew louder and more persistent. Elowyn shook Morganne awake, but even though the sound was deafening to Elowyn, Morganne seemed not to hear it at all. Morganne told her that she was imagining things, rolled over, and went back to sleep. Elowyn didn’t dare wake her mother, not unless she wanted to risk a hard beating. There was nothing for her to do but get up, open the door, and face whoever might be standing there. With trembling fingers, she lifted the latch on the heavy wooden door and slowly opened it just far enough for her face to peer out.
At first Elowyn saw nothing but the swirling blackness of the storm’s fury. Then the lone figure of a man stepped forward. The firelight behind her softly illuminated his figure, as her eyes slowly adjusted. His face was hidden in shadow, but she could see that he was dressed in heavy leather armor. There was something odd about it though, as if it didn’t fit him quite right. She squinted and concentrated her efforts, trying to make sense of what she was seeing as the flickering fire light and shadows of the night danced together before her eyes. Her face twisted into an expression of nauseated horror when she realized what was wrong with the man’s armor. It had been completely shredded, stained red with his blood. He reached out to her in a pleading gesture for help, but his hands and arms were mauled to the bone.
Too terrified to scream, too numb to move, Elowyn looked up at the man’s face. For a brief moment the firelight caught his features before the shadows reclaimed them. She saw that he wore no helm, and blood ran down the side of his head and across his cheek. But it was the look in his eyes that would haunt her dreams for the rest of her life. They were staring straight into hers, filled with shock, unbearable pain, and panicked desperation. She could feel his suffering as though it were her own. Her legs swam under her, and she tried to back away. The doomed man did not make a sound as he followed her movement. He tried to speak, yet all she heard was a low hissing noise that might very well have been the wind. He brushed past her to where her pouch hung on the wall and gestured toward it emphatically. When he tried to touch it, his hands passed right through both the pouch and the wall behind it. Suddenly he looked over his shoulder in terror, as though all the minions of the underworld were pursuing him. Letting out what would have been a loud scream of anguish if she could have heard him, he dissolved into a cold mist and was gone.
Elowyn shrieked in fear, quickly slamming the door and latching it. She dropped to her knees and whispered a fierce prayer to Aviad. Grabbing her little satchel of protective herbs, she hung it around her neck, hoping it was strong enough to ward off any presence of evil. Her nightclothes were damp with sweat, and she was shivering uncontrollably. She pressed herself against the heat of the fire until she was so close that it burned her skin. Still, the chill refused to leave her.
Elowyn huddled with her knees pulled tightly against her chest, jumping at every sound. She dared not go to sleep, and so the hours passed as the darkness pressed against her mind, trying to bend her spirit to its will. But she clutched the satchel tightly in her fist, breathing another prayer, refusing to let the panic of absolute terror control her thoughts. She took the coin out of her pouch, examining the raised markings on its face. As her fingers traced the intricate pattern of curves and lines, she sensed that there was a deep mystery about this coin. She wondered if it carried an evil curse. She was more certain by the moment that the vision she had seen was of the slain bowman, and that he was indeed the one who had lost the coin in the stream. Certainly he had not come to a very good end.
The storm eventually subsided. The black fury of the night gave way to a still, damp, deep gray dawn. As tired as Elowyn was, she knew that she could not sleep, not yet. Her heart was resolved to set things right so that the bowman’s tormented soul might find rest. Quietly, she dressed and dropped the coin once again into the pouch at her waist. Before the rest of the house had begun to stir, she slipped out, her small form disappearing into the woods.
A Chance Encounter
Elowyn did not pause to enjoy the bold fragrances awakened by the previous night’s storm. She did not gaze upon the leaves, or drink at the stream, or search for animal tracks. Her only thought was to get to the place where the bowman had fallen, before dawn broke across the sky. She ran with the swiftness of a young deer, allowing her heart, her limbs, her breathing, her mind, all to fall in with the rhythm of her steps. She could force her body to run long distances when she had to, but it took all of her concentration. Every part of her being had to be in perfect alignment.
Elowyn was convinced that by removing the coin so soon after the man’s brutal death, she had somehow interfered with his ascension into the afterlife, causing his spirit to appear before her in the night. How else could she explain it? He had sought her out from beyond the dead, and pointed directly at the pouch that held the coin. It was quite obviously an object not meant for her to keep, and it had to be returned at the proper time of day. Elowyn knew very little about the workings of magic, but it was common knowledge that the rites of good magic were most effective at sunrise. That was usually when cures were tried, when newly planted crops were blessed, and when pilgrims to the Shrines petitioned their most desperate prayers. Nearly any ritual of importance, even the harvesting of garden herbs, was best performed at sunrise. If she did not make it before then, she would have to wait another day, and perhaps risk another terrifying vision in the night.
The sky was a pale, watery gray when Elowyn finally slowed her pace and approached the stream. She paused at her favorite sun rock to allow her breathing to slow and her aching limbs to rest. There was still enough time before sunrise to complete her mission. As much time as she had spent in this place, getting to know every detail of its character, today it seemed completely foreign to her. Whatever had once made Elowyn feel at home here was now gone. The very way the leaves shifted above her gave her an uneasy feeling. Was it really only yesterday that she was sleeping happily in a nearby tree, blissfully unaware of the bowman and his accursed coin? It did not take her long to realize what was so disturbing about the rustling leaves above her; there was not so much as a breath of wind. All the other trees around it held perfectly still. She backed away, peering warily into its branches. There was not enough light yet to see well, but she didn’t sense any signs of a creature there. The tree itself seemed to be attempting to speak with her, just as the strange apparition had. She huddled some distance away, in the shelter of a huge boulder. Coming had been a mistake. She no longer felt welcome in this place—it had changed.
A twig snapped somewhere close by. Elowyn quickly stood up, her body tense and alert. The sound did not seem to have been made by an animal, because the silence that followed was too profoun
d. Whoever was out there had made a mistake in his movements, and was now trying to mask his presence. She could feel eyes upon her, and the flesh on her head and neck began to tingle.
“Who is it? I know you’re there!” She had nothing to gain by stealth at this point, since obviously she had been seen. Her only hope was to provoke her stalker into showing himself. Before she quite knew what was happening she found herself knocked to the ground, winded and gasping for air, her face shoved into the muddy earth. A huge weight pressed upon her back so that she could not get up or look over her shoulder to see her attacker. She could only smell some horrible odor—like sulphur or brimstone—that made her gag. The weight was crushing her. She could not move, or breathe, or cry out for help. The hot stench of her attacker’s breath was wet against her neck, the tips of gigantic teeth pressing down, ready for the kill. Then she heard the twang of arrows being released, and a heavy thud as the weight dropped suddenly off her. Elowyn picked herself up and wiped the mud away from her eyes, as she half scurried, half crawled, attempting to put as much distance as she could between herself and her attacker.
What Elowyn saw lying on the ground before her in the dim light was an extraordinarily large, muscular wolf-shaped beast. The thing was hideously ugly, with glowing red eyes, and horns protruding from the top of its head. One arrow had penetrated the beast neatly between its shoulder blades; another had passed through its skull. As she pieced together what had nearly happened to her, she started to let out a shriek, her muscles tensed to flee. Strong arms instantly wrapped around her, and a hand was firmly cupped over her mouth.
“It’s all right, you’re safe now, but don’t yell,” a soft voice whispered. “You’ll only attract others. Now, you promise you won’t scream if I let go?” Elowyn nodded. She was released from her defender’s grip, and turned to see a young man with sandy colored hair, deep hazel eyes, and skin darkened by the sun. His nose was long and finely sculpted, his cheeks ruddy as though he had spent a lifetime outdoors. The clothes he wore, once of a fine quality, were now dusty and travel worn, and in desperate need of both washing and mending.
Journey to Aviad Page 3