by Anne Barwell
Dragons, knights, and magic. In Hidden Places had been full of all those elements, and yet it wasn't what the story was about, any more than it was what this was about. He'd spent all this time searching for a sequel, and he'd been living it. Cathal must have known as soon as he'd read the book, yet he'd been so insistent that the story was finished.
Did he have even less hope than Tomas? Or had he merely lost his sooner?
Fuck this!
Using the tree to lean on, Tomas pulled himself to his feet. It was time to stop feeling sorry for himself and do something.
Anything.
He just didn't know what to do. There wasn't anything that could be done. Heidi was right. They'd found out and confirmed so much, but none of it brought them any closer to getting Cathal back, or even to discovering where he was or how to get there.
Tomas's right foot connected with something in the grass. Bending, he reached down to pick it up. "What the...?" he wondered aloud, turning the object slowly over in his hand. It was a little longer than the distance between the tip of his forefinger and the middle of his palm, a cylinder shape, carved out of wood of some kind, a reoccurring pattern etched into it. Peering closer, Tomas's breath hitched as he recognized the outline of a cat with a single rose on its back repeated around the edge of both ends.
What was this? One finger gently stroked the wood; it was smooth to the touch apart from slight indents at intervals, worn into the wood, rather than maybe part of the original design. Holding it up to the light and peering inside confirmed the cylinder was hollow, and there were three holes along one side, one close to each end and another an equal distance between them.
Curiosity getting the better of him, Tomas held one up to his mouth, his fingers over two of the holes, and blew. A haunting sound filled the air. He'd heard this before, or something similar, but where? He blew again, this time shifting his fingers so that only one of the holes was covered. The sound altered slightly in pitch, but the timbre of it remained the same. It appeared to be a musical instrument of some kind, but where had it come from?
Curling his fingers around it, Tomas allowed himself a sliver of hope. If this was connected to Cathal, which the cat and the rose suggested, maybe it was the clue they were looking for, the missing piece to bring him back. His mind raced, realization hitting home. Opening his fingers again, his mouth went dry. There had been a picture of some kind of instrument engraved into the cover illustration of Alice's journal.
It had to be a clue. It had to be.
Tomas smiled, just a little, not wanting to jinx his discovery. He'd take this back to Donovan and Heidi, and together they'd figure out what to do next. It might even be a key, although that would mean they'd have to find a door.
He turned, ready to make his way briskly back to the inn.
And froze.
Instead of the field in front of him, with the inn in the near distance, there was a large stone he was sure hadn't been there before. The inn was nowhere in sight. Instead, he could see a few scattered cottages, half-hidden by a thicket of trees, the oak still behind him just one of many on the outskirts of what appeared to be a small settlement of some kind.
"Oh, God," he whispered, backing toward the tree, the flute or whatever it was still clutched between his fingers. Where was he, and what the hell had he done?
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Chapter Twenty-One
He must have stood there for at least ten minutes before he forced himself to accept that reality as he knew it had changed. The flute must have been some kind of key, and the door between his world and wherever the hell this was had been unlocked by the music he'd created when he'd blown into it.
The question was, did he risk recreating what he'd just done to find the way back to his own world or explore this one in the hope it might be Cathal's? If it wasn't, he could end up stuck somewhere which was neither, cut off from his own friends and family, his hope of a future with Cathal disappearing still further from his grasp. What if the flute only worked within a certain timeframe and not using it immediately meant destroying any chance he had of returning home?
More importantly, could he afford to take the chance that this wasn't Cathal's world and turn his back on what might be the only opportunity he had for a future with the person he loved?
Decision made, Tomas put the slim wooden cylinder into his jacket pocket and hoped he wasn't making the worst mistake of his life. A future stuck God knows where was not something he wanted either, but he'd never be able to live with himself if he discovered later that he'd ignored a chance to find Cathal, however slim that might be.
Holding his head high, determined not to show any weakness to whoever lived here, Tomas began walking briskly toward the nearest cottage. Cathal needed someone who could rescue him from wherever those Falcons had taken him, not someone who was nervous as hell and probably not even in the right bloody place.
It was cold, much colder than before he'd come through to this place. Glancing upward, Tomas noticed that the sun was much lower in the sky. Presumably that meant it was still early morning. The dew on the ground was much more pronounced, cobwebs spun between nearby bushes covered in tiny ice crystals. Surely it couldn't be winter here? Cathal always wore the same fine cotton shirt and no jacket. It wouldn't be enough to protect him from this.
Tomas buttoned up his jacket, pulling his collar up to protect himself further from the cold. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he picked up his pace, hoping that the smoke from the chimney meant it would be warmer inside the cottage than out if whoever lived there let him in. He'd worry about the weirdness of seasons later; considering the rest of what had just happened, it was the least of his problems. Cathal would be able to explain it, just as he would be able to fill in the details of the rest of what Tomas was missing, which, at the moment, was one hell of a lot.
The sound of voices, caught in the crispness of the morning air, reached him as soon as he opened the wooden gate and started walking along the path leading to the front door. They were women's voices, one higher than the other, younger, with less of an accent than her companion.
"I'm not asking for your opinion, Merran," the higher voice snapped. "I'm telling you what I require. The moon is full in three days. I do not have the luxury of time; either this will work, or it will not."
"Nature does not always obey your requirements, Lady Deryn," the other woman replied, her tone respectful but with an edge to it. "Perhaps if you'd come to me sooner, I might have been able to help more readily."
Lady Deryn snorted. "Unless you have a ready cure for stubborn and uncooperative males within your--" She stopped abruptly, her speech replaced with a sudden, sharp tsking noise. "Why, I do believe we have company," she announced, the tone of her voice changing to one of soft silk, although Tomas could hear the undercurrent of treacle in it designed to catch an unsuspecting prey.
He froze, looking around for somewhere to hide, suddenly unsure whether this was a place in which he really wanted to be. A step backward was quickly followed by another.
A twig snapped under his boot, the sound ricocheting through the now silent air, pinpointing his location as sure as if someone had painted a target on him. "Fuck," he muttered. His breathing sped up, his mind racing for an explanation as to why he was trespassing on someone's property.
He'd done nothing wrong. He was a visitor, looking for information, hunting for a friend. The best approach was probably to tell the truth, obviously not all of it, but enough to convince them that he was merely a harmless traveler in need of some assistance. There was nowhere to run, nor did he have any idea what these people were capable of. Until he knew more, his options were very limited.
The door of the cottage swung open, but no one came out. Tomas didn't move. He was unsure of what to do next. If they weren't going to come after him, running would be the logical course of action. But doing that would not bring him any closer to finding Cathal. Hopefully, the
women might know him, or at least of him. After all, the red-haired man had referred to him as Lord Emerys, so it was not as though he was an unknown commoner.
Tomas sighed, wishing his subconscious had chosen different words. If Cathal had some kind of standing in this society, what chance did someone such as Tomas, who was no one here, or much of anyone in his own world--a couple of published novels hardly counted--have of convincing anyone that he had any right or business to be asking after Cathal?
"Are you going to grace us with your presence," Deryn asked, "or stay out in the cold?" She sounded amused. "It's a little chilly with the door open, and I assure you I don't bite." Merran said something under her breath which Tomas couldn't catch. Deryn laughed. "That was an isolated incident when we were children," she reminded Merran, "and besides, the boy in question returned in kind."
"You have two minutes and this door closes, boy," Merran added. "My lady has more manners than I do, and these old bones feel the cold."
What would be the harm in asking? At the very least they had a warm fire he could sit by for a few minutes, and he might find out a bit more about where he was.
Swallowing, Tomas took a step toward the open door, and then another. If this was some kind of trap, it was highly unlikely they would be expecting someone from his world to come after Cathal, and if so, it wasn't as though he could be viewed as much of a threat. Cathal needed him, and he'd do whatever it took to find him.
"Thank you for your hospitality," he said, standing on the doorstep and peering inside, hoping he sounded less nervous than he felt. Social niceties were not his strong point, and he had no idea what was acceptable protocol here.
The interior of the cottage was smaller than Tomas had expected; early-morning sun streaming in the two window slits illuminated the center of the large room but didn't quite reach the corners. Two women sat on stools near a fireplace, flames crackling red in the low hearth. Neither of them stood when he entered, but the older one gestured to a third stool between them.
He hesitated, not wanting to leave the safety of the door, knowing that once he moved, any chance of bolting would be gone. He'd be hemmed in on both sides; there was too much distance to cover to the door. The old woman seemed harmless enough, her teeth yellow, with several missing as she smiled at him, offering him a wooden cup of steaming liquid. "Sit, and rest," she advised him. "Tell us what brings a stranger visiting to our village."
Deryn, on the other hand, made the hairs on the back of his neck crawl, although he wasn't sure why. She, too, smiled at him, but there was something in her eyes that made him uneasy. She watched him a little too carefully, her gaze taking in everything, lingering on his clothing, then his face. He met her eyes dead on, determined not to back down, reminding himself that she could know of Cathal's whereabouts and not wishing to alienate her until he had the information he needed.
"Thank you," he repeated, taking several steps into the room. A cat uncurled from in front of the fire; he hadn't seen it at first, its grey fur blending in with the nondescript rug on the floor. It lifted its head, stared at him, yawned, and then began to wash itself.
"Far too polite, and yet he does not answer the question." Deryn shook her head. "I think Merran is right and you are a stranger here." She stood, placing a hand under his elbow, and he found himself ushered toward the remaining seat. The door to the cottage slammed shut; neither of the women reacted to the noise or seemed to notice him shiver. It might be warmer inside, but it still was a lot colder than he was used to.
"I am not from around here," Tomas began, sitting down on the stool with the realization that although his hosts were polite enough, they might not remain so if he did not at least appear to be grateful for their hospitality. Taking the cup Merran offered, his fingers curled around it. He sniffed the cloudy liquid inside it apprehensively and then took a very cautious sip. A slow warmth spread through his body; he felt himself begin to relax a little.
Deryn nodded approvingly. "I am Lady Deryn, and this is Merran." She took a small sip from her own cup, blonde hair falling around her face, momentarily softening her appearance until she flicked it back over her shoulder in a gesture of annoyance. "Do you have a name?"
"Tomas Kemp, ma'am." Another sip of the liquid, and Tomas felt himself relax further. The fire was much warmer up close, and these women both seemed friendly enough. He licked his lips; his mouth was dry and becoming more so. "I'm a traveler, looking for a friend who I'm hoping might live nearby."
"Oh?" Deryn's eyebrow rose. "And what makes you think your friend might live nearby?"
"I said I was hoping he might," Tomas corrected her. The two women exchanged a glance. If they could not help him, he'd move on and try somewhere else. This was but one cottage amongst several. He wasn't about to give up that easily. Gripping the cup tightly, he stifled a yawn. Three days of not much sleep were beginning to catch up, and this was neither the time nor the place for them to do so. Staying out in the cold might have been the better option; at least it helped to keep him alert and awake.
"So... Tomas... does your friend possess a name?" Deryn reached down to retrieve a stone jug from the floor by the fire and topped up Tomas's cup. "Or can you give us a description perhaps? You seem to have come a long way in search of him. I do hope he is worth your effort."
Tomas found himself smiling just at the thought of Cathal. "He is very much worth the effort," he confirmed softly, ignoring the little voice warning him that giving away any hint of an emotional attachment toward Cathal might be dangerous. Taking another sip from the cup in his hand, he took a few moments to collect his thoughts. He was very tired; his words were beginning to slur. He would give them a name, for starters, a description if they did not know of him later, perhaps.
"A name or description?" Deryn prompted, taking the cup from him. "I think perhaps you are finding the wine a little strong."
"Wine?" Tomas looked at her blankly. It hadn't tasted like any wine he'd had before, but then he wasn't much of one for that kind of thing.
"Mulled wine with a few herbs to help you relax," Merran added. "You're almost asleep on your feet, boy. A little assistance was in order."
He stood suddenly, feeling the urge to clear his head. No! He couldn't sleep, not now. He needed to find Cathal. He'd rest afterward. "There's no time," he mumbled, the room spinning. Deryn wrapped one arm around his waist to steady him. "He needs me."
"Of course he does," she said soothingly. "Tell me his name, and I'll ask after him while you sleep."
Tomas opened his mouth to protest, but he was finding it difficult to focus. His vision was blurring, his mind shutting down. "No," he protested feebly, his eyes already closing. Soft material brushed against his arm; confused, he reached for it. Cathal wore a shirt made of this. Didn't he? "Cat," he whispered. They needed a name to help find him. He forced open his eyes, the words a little louder this time. "His name is Cathal." He smiled, picturing Cathal's face in his mind as he struggled to stay awake. There was another name, one that might be important. What was it? His eyes closed again, his smile changing to a frown at the memory of when he'd heard it, the darkness beckoning him further into sleep. "The man who took him called him Lord Emerys."
* * * *
Tomas awoke to the smell of herbs and spices permeating the air. Shivering, he snuggled down farther into the soft bedding, blankets rough against his bare skin, his brain trying to work out where exactly he was.
The ceiling above him appeared to be made of some kind of straw, reminding him of pictures he'd seen of an old-fashioned thatched cottage. A cool breeze wafted through a slit in the wall nearby, the air carrying a distinct smell of dampness with it. Damn, it was cold. Pulling the blankets farther up and around him, his brain suddenly caught up with an earlier thought.
Bare skin? What the fuck? Sitting up with a start, he lifted the blankets to find he was completely naked.
Blushing bright red, he contemplated his next move, not wanting to m
ake a complete idiot of himself but certainly not about to prance around the countryside in nothing but his birthday suit. Where were his clothes? He had to get out of here, to find Cathal.
What had those women done to him? Memories flooded back, and he groaned, massaging his temples in an attempt to get rid of the dull ache in his head. Mulled wine and some herbs. God, how had he been so stupid? He'd relaxed, all right, into unconsciousness.
How many hours had he slept? It was still light outside but definitely not as cold as it had been. A blanket carefully wrapped around him, he shuffled down the bed to squint out one of the slits in the wall. However, all he could see through what he presumed was meant to be a window was a shed of some sort and a horse grazing in the field behind the cottage. Slumping back down onto the bed, he shivered, focusing his attention on his surroundings. The women were nowhere in sight, but that didn't mean they weren't nearby.
The fire still burned in the hearth, but not as bright as it had been; the embers were now more of a deeper red against a background of charcoal. Hanging above the fire on a metal tripod was what appeared to be a cooking pot; he wondered if it was the source of what he'd smelled when he had first woken. Sniffing the air once more, he decided it well could be.
In the greater scheme of things, he should be relieved that at least he hadn't woken up in a dungeon, a cell, or something of that ilk. Or, his mind helpfully supplied, not regained consciousness at all.
He needed to make the most of the fact they'd left him alone and make his escape. However, without clothing and with no idea where he was or where to find Cathal, that was going to be easier said than done. He sighed, glancing around the room again. The bed consisted of a slightly raised base on sturdy wooden legs but was nothing fancy. Pulling back the rough cloth led to the discovery that the so-called mattress was merely straw arranged underneath, the top cover tucked to hold it in place. Still, it was surprisingly softer than he'd thought it should be.