by Travis Peck
Helia greeted her with a snort and a nuzzle, nickering happily. Moira grabbed some carrots from a bucket by the stall and greeted her favorite horse. She scratched behind Helia’s ears with one hand while plying the horse with treats from the other. “Do you want to go for a run?” she asked. The mare’s ears pricked up at the word ‘run.’
Moira laughed. Riding was something she had always loved for as long as she could remember. Getting out of the manor was never a bad thing, and getting away from needlepoint, even better still. She quickly saddled Helia. Prayg had taught her how to do that years ago, and now it was a source of pride for her that she could do it herself. She had been so proud when she had first shown her father what she had learned to do.
She led Helia out of her stall, opened the east door of the stable, then closed it behind her. According to Prayg, it was a cardinal sin to leave a stable door open. She expertly hopped up into the saddle and flicked the reins. Moira nudged her horse to a trot as they traversed the various corrals and paddocks to get into the open fields. The grass was green and tall, and the wind blew the stalks steadily to the east.
Moira guided Helia to the south where the rolling grasslands began. The grasslands went on far to the south and would eventually open up into the valley that Aerilyn, the largest city in Kharisk, dominated. Kharisk was the largest kingdom of the empire, at least in land area, and it had great swaths of unpopulated land—perfect for riding through. Helia didn’t want to wait any longer to stretch her legs, so Moira gave her free rein. The horse shot off like an arrow. Prayg was right! She’s itching for a run—just like I am. She shouted with excitement as the mare raced through the grass. Both rider and horse had some energy to burn off.
Before Moira knew it, a small cluster of buildings sprang into view. She swore with a curse she had heard Daeris use once, and one that her mother would have a bar of soap in her mouth if overheard. She and Helia had been enjoying their freedom a little too much and had lost track of time. The buildings in front of her comprised the entirety of the hamlet of Sylin. Sylin represented the southern boundary that her father had imposed on her southward forays. She would be lucky to make it back in time for supper.
Moira guided Helia over to a trough next to one of the buildings. The horse gulped down water, thirsty from her exertions. She hoped that she could ride back to the manor as fast or else Moira would hear of it from her mother. Sylin existed here as a small community of tenant farmers who worked partially on behalf of her father and partially for themselves. What harvest wasn’t marked for their lord was to be used for their own needs, either for food to eat, or to sell for market.
All the farmers must have been out in the fields because no one came outside to investigate who had arrived. It was just as well that she didn’t have to spend the time greeting them; she felt the pressure of each moment lost right now. As soon as Helia slaked her thirst, she spun her mount back around to the north with practiced movements of her knees and snapped the reins. She started off at a canter to let the water settle. After a quarter of a candle, Moira could not wait any longer and kicked her heels in firmly. Helia didn’t hesitate and surged forward into a gallop, racing through the tall grass.
The time seemed to drag on despite Helia’s league-eating gait. It was hard to tell exactly how far they had to go in this sea of undulating grassland. Each direction she looked, the land looked almost identical. It’s pretty, though, she thought. It was even prettier when the scene was beheld from her bad eye. The light circled and eddied about in the distance, matching the contour of the terrain. Spirals of color made up of every hue arced into the sky where they danced with the more sedate, yet rapidly spinning, wheels of purple that traversed through the heavens. Moira had no idea if what she saw was the wind in those colors and shapes, or if it was just a trick of the light coupled with her damaged eye. She did not care at the moment; she just enjoyed what only she could see.
The sky was darkening, in both her eyes, as she could see the slight hill in the distance where the manor stood. It would be close. Helia gave her more speed, seeing her home and some nourishment in the not-too-distant future. Moira hoped Prayg would see to her mount tonight so she could avoid getting into trouble with her mother. She would likely have to find a way to make it up to him, though. That meant mucking the stalls out for sure; it was one of Prayg’s favorite chores to bestow upon an errant youth in need of reparations for a misdeed. Better than sewing! And it would be worth it if that was all she had to do. Of course, she wasn’t home yet.
Helia raced through the maze of fences toward the stables, sensing her mistress’s need. Before the east door, Moira stopped her mount and vaulted out of the saddle. Swinging open the large door, she saw Prayg standing with a half smile on his face.
“You’d better hurry, young lady,” he said as he took the reins from her.
“Tomorrow morning, then?” asked Moira.
“Tomorrow morning, it is,” Prayg said, neither of them needing to waste words. It was far from the first time she had needed to make this arrangement with Prayg, and it wouldn’t be the last. She gave Helia a grateful pat on her neck and nodded to the elderly horsemaster as she set off at a run. She held her dress up above her knees while she ran to keep the hem out of the dirt.
Various workers were winding down for dinner as well, carrying tools back to the sheds or securing the fences so that their livestock couldn’t get loose overnight. They shouted encouragement to their young Lady. She waved at them but did not slow down—they had seen this behavior many times before.
She ran until she arrived at the southwestern entrance that opened up to the kitchens. She slowed down lest she knock something over or bump into one of the cooks. She did not dare go inside through the massive front doors. Her mother’s solarium off the master suites overlooked the front of the manor, and she always seemed to have an eye out for visitors approaching. Luckily, all the kitchen staff were busy preparing dinner and paid her little heed. It also meant she still had time! Moira had to sneak up to her room on the west side of the manor on the third floor and try to wash up a little and change her dress before she would be in the clear.
Peering around the door leading from the kitchen to the lower hallway, she didn’t see anyone about, so she crept out toward the stairs. She only needed to avoid her mother and her mother’s maid, Lara. Lara was a few years older than her mother, and Moira could not remember a time when the nosy woman wasn’t hovering around while trying to catch her in some kind of misdeed. Like now. Her mother fully supported Lara’s spying, as well.
Her father, and his two most-trusted advisers, would likely be closeted in the den until dinner was ready, so she had no worries on that front. Of course, she doubted her father, Daeris, or Evin would raise any alarm at the sight of her, but they might say something careless in front of her mother, or Lara, and then she would be in for it. Best to avoid anyone she saw in the manor for now.
Moira gave thanks to the Giver as she finally reached her bedroom. She closed the door behind her. Leaning with her back against the door, she sighed with relief. She hurriedly flung off her dress and splashed her face with water from the basin. She managed to scrub herself into the appearance of proper young ladyhood except for the smell of horse that she couldn’t completely expunge. But the clean dress she had slipped into would hide most of that. And for what remained, she would cover up with some perfume. Moira hated perfume, so her mother always seemed to give her a bottle of it for every nameday, and any other holiday for that matter. The result was a small cabinet stuffed full of the expensive—and unnecessarily extravagant—scents. When she opened up the doors, the cabinet emitted a ghastly amalgam of all the scents mixed together into an ungodly bouquet that nearly overpowered her nostrils.
She took the least offensive one that she could detect and sprayed a little around her. Her mother would be pleased, if not a little suspicious, but that seemed to be the natural state of things between them for most of her life. It wasn’t that
she didn’t love her mother. She did—deep down—very deep down. It was just that they didn’t seem to see eye to eye on anything.
Moira loved to be outside riding, or exploring, while her mother preferred her to be more domesticated and proper. Her mother encouraged reading, which Moira loved, but she had no interest in reading a thousand sonnets about love, or worse, a book about proper etiquette. She much preferred the stories of high adventure.
In her favorite stories, the hero or heroine escape from the clutches of their evil enemy to rally the good townsfolk to drive away the invaders, or to throw off the yoke of tyranny, or to otherwise overcome whatever sinister obstacles were in their way. She delighted in these stories, and she had to admit, if there was a little romance involved in between heroic deeds, well, she was fine with that, too. Then, of course, there was the dreaded needlepoint, her mother’s favorite pastime and Moira’s most hated. At least Moira knew that she wouldn’t have to endure that particular activity tomorrow while she was busy mucking out the stalls.
The bell rang for dinner, interrupting her wayward thoughts. Dinner first, then hopefully her father would fulfill his promise of stargazing, and then off to bed and the dream, where the real work would begin. She checked herself in the mirror again and made some final hair adjustments to keep her mother docile. As good as it will get, she thought.
Her scars didn’t bother her, nor her cloudy eye, but she couldn’t help but to think about them whenever she saw herself in the mirror. Moira knew from her stories that most of the heroines were pretty, and even though they fought and did unladylike things, they all seemed to eventually marry the handsome prince in disguise, or perhaps the kind-hearted rogue with devilish good looks. Her reflection in the mirror did not give her much hope in that regard. Another reason why she hated being the proper lady: one always had to look in mirrors. I might hate mirrors more than needlepoint. With that last look, she made her way down to the dining room in a stately and measured pace. At the foot of the stairs, she graciously nodded to Lara who watched her with a pinched and squinty, fault-finding gaze.
Dinner went by uneventfully. Moira was dying to ask her father about the ravinors, but her mother would never allow such talk at the table. She didn’t bother to ask. Her father, too, knew well not to broach that subject, so the meal passed with polite small talk while Moira picked at her food. Dinner concluded, as it always did, with servants coming in to clear off the table while leaving some kof or another, more potent, beverage. Moira got cocoa, and though she knew that only children drank the sweet chocolate drink, she wasn’t quite ready to give it up.
Her mother, along with Lara, having finished their customary glass of wine, excused themselves from the table. Daeris, Evin, and her father all stood up at their exit, then resumed their seats. Once the two women had left, the atmosphere became relaxed. Her father even indulged in lighting up his pipe—something he rarely did inside the manor. The three men talked louder than when the ladies were present and about things that her mother would never have allowed. But still the men did not broach the subject of the ravinor attack. She was content with getting the story directly from her father when they were out stargazing.
Both of her father’s trusted men had been with her family for longer than she had been alive. She knew that Daeris had served under her father in the Third Ravinor War, nearly twenty years ago, and Evin had been considered old at that time. Despite his age, though, the slight and silver-haired steward had a quick step and even quicker wits. Lord Geryn knew it, too. Evin was well compensated for his services, and deservedly so, for the man was indispensable to her father’s diverse and widespread business concerns.
Daeris was her father’s shadow. He was in charge of the great lord’s security, and that of his family, manor, property and interests, and he took great pride in this task. One did not hold such an important post to the wealthiest family in the empire without being quite skilled.
The men were relaxed around her father, owing to Lord Geryn’s honest and forthright demeanor, and equally, to their long friendships. Stories were swapped around the table, and Moira laughed alongside them, though, she suspected the more ribald tales were not being told in her presence.
After a candle of the relaxed atmosphere, her father asked her if she wished to go out to their usual spot to see what constellations they could spot. Her father’s advisors excused themselves and went about their respective duties. Daeris would be making the rounds of the manor and surrounding property and to making sure the guards were properly vigilant. Evin, no doubt, had stacks of documents to sort through, ledgers to compile, and rows of figures to tabulate before his daily tasks were completed.
Moira and her father went out the west door, a smaller and less formal portal to and from the manor than the massive double oak doors at the front. The two headed over to the small raised platform her father had personally built for her several years ago.
Night had fallen and the sky was clear in all directions. The moon was full and bright, and the stars shone true. They took turns with the eyeglass, pointing out to one another the various constellations they spotted. The Archer, in the northeastern quadrant, seemed to be aiming his arrow at the moon; the Serpent was poised to strike at its prey in the south. The Grand Eagle, wings spread wide, dominated the east; it bore the same name as the standard for the empire that was its most sacred symbol. The Shield gleamed the brightest; the star that was the constellation’s pointed crest was the boon to sailors of the empire as it always pointed the way north. The constellations seemed to almost come alive when seen from her afflicted eye.
After a candle of trading the glass back and forth, Moira finally asked her father about the attack.
“As I said before: a few days ago, Deepbrooke, a village three or four days to the north, was attacked by ravinors. No one knows exactly what happened, but no one lives there now. The whole village is gone,” her father explained somberly.
Moira knew the dream would be terrible tonight. A whole village… She shuddered at the thought. She had known it was going to be bad. Usually, an attack, as horrible as it was, consisted of only a few fatalities and maybe a half-dozen turnings. A whole village being wiped out meant much more loss of life, and she would have to witness dozens and dozens of poor victims go to the queen and the Shadowman. Her journal would fill up quickly this night. She wiped away a tear. Her father put an arm around her and hugged her close. She burrowed into him.
“Oh, Mole. You are too young for such things.”
I am not. I was too young when I first had the dream. Everyone is too young for what I dream.
“I have Daeris sending out a patrol tomorrow toward Deepbrooke. We’ll have warning if anything needs to be done,” her father said, trying to put her at ease.
She did not fear about her own safety. At least, not in her waking life. In the ravinor dream, though, she would be terrified. But Moira couldn’t avoid it. Some nights, she would dream normally, and then it would change to the ravinor dream; other nights, she did not have the dream at all. But this night, with this recent attack so close by and so devastating, it was sure to be the worst she had suffered through for a long time.
“All right, my Mole, it’s getting late.” Her father gently took the looking glass out of her hands and placed it back in the special drawer where it was kept in their stargazing structure. Moira and her father walked slowly back to the manor. Most of the servants were now in bed, and the manor house was dark. The only light came from candles lit in niches so that the two could see well enough to reach their beds.
By the time they reached her room, she was reluctant to enter her bedchamber. Her father gave her another hug and bid her a good night. She automatically responded to him, then woodenly closed the door behind her, dragging her feet as she entered her room. Moira had not been so scared of the dream for a long time. She thought that she had come to terms with her curse—or gift—of having to witness those doomed souls, but she was having great trouble accepti
ng her night’s duty now that is was upon her.
She was ready for bed all too soon; she hardly remembered brushing her hair or changing into her nightdress. Moira struggled to stay awake, but as was so often the case when one fought against sleep, it unerringly found its way. She slipped into the ravinor dream…
***
Moira found herself snapping in and out of the three customary locations of the dream. Fields of verdant green with tall stalks of gently swaying grass appeared beneath her. Her vantage point was two dozen yards above the field. She was essentially floating, as one could only do in a dream. And then she would shift to the second location.
The dreaded corridor—this was the Shadowman’s haunt. The endless hallway had rows of doors on either side, all but one were shut and impossible to open. She floated above the corridor impossibly, much like over the field. Despite the presence of the ceiling over the hallway, which seemed to be as ethereal as her own form was in the ravinor dream, she still had a perfect view from above.
The third environ was the square with the platform in the center where the queen would claim her most sought-after souls; her minions watched on adoringly as she wrested the poor victims’ will away from them and turned them. Few people ever made it that far. Moira didn’t know what that might mean. Some of the people would be turned in the fields, most would be turned in the corridor; only a handful would make it to the queen’s room—the one door that would actually open in the corridor—where the tempting siren made short work of them.
The square was empty. No ravinors. No Shadowman—though she had never seen him in that place—and no queen. She suddenly snapped back to the fields. It was beginning. There were nearly two hundred people running through the fields. They were together, but they couldn’t see one another. Moira could see them all. Some were panicked, running madly and heedlessly through the fields; others were walking at a normal pace, trailing a hand through the grass, seemingly on a casual stroll. No matter how they reacted to the ravinor dream, they were all confused by their surroundings.