by A. R. Wilson
Jurren nodded.
“My brother is helping Shevenor to organize the militias and evacuate the people. I’m certain they can handle the goblin threat. We just need to focus on our task. Let the elves have their secrets.”
Closing his eyes, Jurren sighed in relief. They had put several people on alert back home. Many had believed their story about a goblin invasion. Shevenor was the most capable leader in the history of Bondurant to handle such a threat. Even Jurren’s own gut instinct told him it was safe to leave Heluska behind. Yes, the goblins would be contained. Everything would be fine once he found his daughter. Azredan’s story was exactly that: a story. Nothing more. Destiny could not be thrust upon anyone. It was the word people used to give meaning to the paths they chose to walk. He would never choose the path of a Highlander. That was his destiny. And nothing in this world could take that decision away from him.
Jurren raised a hand. “Trees of Chlopahn, show us the path to our room.”
Roots slithered along the ground as a cluster of tree trunks pulled back.
CHAPTER 18
Wanting to learn more about visions helped to wake Tascana before dawn. She grabbed a chunk of bread and handful of berries on her way out the door. Today, Arnya stood waiting in the doorway to her small home as though expecting her.
“Another early morning?” The dallest pulled her hood down.
“Yep. After yesterday, I think I’m ready.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah. That vision showed me a lot. I want to learn what you know, and I’m willing to let you show me how you do it.”
“Good. Then let’s head back to our spot.”
They walked to the ring of tree stumps and set up their fire pit. Tascana focused on the flames, relaxing into the nothingness of meditation, allowing the exercise to strip another day away from her in a matter of moments. Arnya complimented her on her progress then led them back to the village.
Bursts of music ebbed and flowed as they neared the houses. Tascana craned her neck to see where it came from.
“They are setting up for the festival tomorrow.” Arnya motioned for Tascana to keep following her to the town square. “There is much to prepare.”
Dozens of eyes gawked at the only other human girl to walk through Tretchin. Tascana folded her arms against their stares.
In the center of the village, an immense open area bustled with activity. A three foot tall stage ran almost forty feet long at one end of the square. Tall pillars stood at each of the four corners, surrounded by dallests working to decorate them with ribbons and flowers. Next to them someone touched-up the paint on a line of archery targets. A set of twin parallel beams were secured to waist-high posts. Musical instruments of all kinds sat littered on the opposite end of the stage as a group of dallests set up their gear. Long tables shuffled between organizers, eventually making their way to line up along the edge of the square to the left.
“The festival begins tomorrow when the sun is at its zenith.” Arnya guided Tascana out of the square as a line of dallests rolling barrels came through. “So with that, I give you my leave. Training resumes the following day.”
“No meditation tomorrow?”
The corners of her black lips turned up. “This is a celebration you will not want to miss.”
Arnya patted her arm then walked away.
A familiar voice came from behind. “I bet you’re hungry after missing dinner last night.”
Tascana turned to see Revel standing a few feet away. Had he been following her?
“Not really.” Yes, it was a lie, but he seemed all too happy about his offer. “Don’t need much food to meditate.”
“Whatever.” He shrugged, walking toward her. “Just thought I’d let you know I left a stew cooking in the hearth.” He kept walking, turning his head to call over his shoulder, “Everyone will be working late tonight so you’ll have the place to yourself.”
She waited until he was out of range. “Good.”
Back at the house, she found the place as Revel described it. A pot simmered over a dying fire in an empty room. She scooped up a bowlful then took a chunk of stale bread from the basket on the floor. Mother always said fresh bread tasted best with stew, but stale bread was more practical. Throwing away food was a sign of an ungrateful heart.
The vine shifted in her gut, turning the piece in her mouth sour. An ungrateful heart. Mother had so many adages about the dangers of losing sight of the bigger picture.
“People who can’t be content have forgotten what they already have.”
“Those who focus on their lack become empty. Those who focus on what they have are always full.”
“Happiness comes from what happened. Joy comes from choosing hope no matter what happens.”
Tascana almost dropped her bowl as she lowered it to the table. Hot broth slopped onto her hand, stinging hard enough to interrupt the echoes of Mother’s voice. A lump of rag sat on the table, and she grabbed it. Wiping up the spill, she glanced at the bowl. Did she want to throw it out and risk being haunted by Mother’s voice in her dreams? Or did she want to finish it and hope the clenching in her stomach didn’t make her throw up?
Heat swelled in her chest, causing her to feel faint. She gripped a chair.
“Maybe I can leave it out until morning. Day-old, cold stew isn’t all that bad.”
The seedling calmed, allowing her insides to settle. She nodded, grateful to find a happy medium between her fears. Turning away from the table, she decided to suffer the stairs. Perhaps sleep would find her a reprieve.
She pushed through the manure sensation, closed the door behind her, flopped onto the bed and tried to focus on nothing. Complete emptiness. No time, no space, no color, no loss. A realm within a realm where not even she existed.
* * *
Through the nothingness, a thick, burly man appeared atop a hill with outstretched arms. Tascana stared at him. The man’s feet melded with the ground so that she could not see where the mountain ended and he began.
His deep, sadistic voice spewed forth every form of plague and misery the race of man had known, both in myth and legend. Floods raged. Hordes of insects spread along the ground in thickening layers. Diseases wormed into all living things. People fell dead in waves by the tens of thousands. The sun fell from the sky, scorching the land and shrouding the earth in darkness.
And yet, amid the chaos, with all his rage discharging at full force, she saw the motivation in his heart. Beneath his rage boiled a vengeful sadness overwhelming his soul. The actions he took and the words he spoke were retaliation against the world for bringing him into existence.
Somehow, she knew how to end it. She knew how to stop his madness, his pain, and the pain of the entire world. Dragging her way through the melee, she tried to reach him.
The plagues overtook her, sweeping her into the piles of the fallen dead. Her lungs slowed to a stop. Her heart squeezed one more beat as the final impulse of her mind registered the last word of the man on the mountain. He called it out to her, begging her to understand its meaning. Needing her to know what it implied before she succumbed to death.
* * *
Tascana shot up in bed, gasping for breath. Her hands clawed at her chest to force a heartbeat. The pounding in her ears assured her the pain was unnecessary. She pushed her hands up along her face, snarling her fingers into sweaty hair. Though a rush of anguish had punched her awake, the details from the dreams slipped away as quickly as the tears now flowing. She did not know why she was crying, nor could she stop.
A crush of emotions mangled through her, breathing new life to the ever-growing vine of dread. She leaned to the side, gripping her head, and fell. Her shoulder collided with the floor, soon followed by a hip, then feet still tangled in the blankets.
Wriggling onto her uninjured side, she pulled her arms around her middle. Writhing heat drifted through her like embers popping out of a bonfire. The pain throbbed with the echo of a single word. That haunting
word someone had called out to her.
Who was that voice? And why did it scare her so much?
The sound of a door shutting came up through the floorboards. Muffled versions of Revel’s and Dellia’s animated chatter drifted below. They seemed excited about something.
Tascana leaned up on her elbow, intending to stand. Fear crippled her back to the floor. Vines laced into her chest, prickling to the surface as though they might bind her to the ground.
Someone laughed downstairs.
I hate you. I hate all of you!
That single word from her dream twitched and twirled along the vine.
She pivoted, trying to back away from the tendril driving the word like a nail into her heart. It was more than a simple word. That voice had called out his name for her.
“Mother!”
No, it had to be a mistake.
Thrusting shards pierced between her ribs.
Beneath the pain, she sensed the reason for the growing vine’s presence. Arnya had warned her that she had not learned The Master’s magic but that the magic had learned her. The knot of fear started when she first saw the goblin in Gaulden Forest. It split open when Kidelar suggested the goblin was looking for her scrolls. Every day in the castle it continued to grow, to anchor into her. The very fear that caused her to flee through the catacombs was also nudging her in the direction The Master wanted her to go. Her own desire to struggle against the fate laid out before her was driving her toward...
No! I won’t believe it!
A path to become someone’s mother.
She retched. Nothing came except the spasms, eventually causing her to choke on her own saliva.
Again, laughter came from below.
Pushing her fists against her eyes, she wept. Why did she ever believe her little secret in Gaulden Forest would remain free of consequences?
Wrapping her arms over her head, she tried to hold back the flood. Tried to convince her mind to push it out. More stinging filled her chest until not even the desire to wish for hope had room to exist.
She lashed out a hand. Fumbling on the floor, she found the blanket. Thrusting the fabric against her face, pushing a fistful into her mouth, she screamed. The vine worked another set of roots in her heart, weaving its way up her neck. She continued to scream, fearing it would never end. Every moment of every day to come spread out in her mind like an eternal field growing wild with pain and anguish. It would always be like this. A never-ending existence devoid of any reason to hope for relief or escape.
Burning filled her lungs. Whether from the vine blossoming or the blanket smothering her she didn’t know. But running out of breath was a better life than whatever sick plan The Master had for her. She cried out her blanket-muffled scream until the world fell black.
* * *
Drums.
Someone was drumming.
Many someones.
Fat wads of fabric jarred in her mouth and she swatted the blanket from her face. Prodding a gentle hand at her cheek, she tested the tenderness in her jaw from being stretched open for so long.
The sound of drums continued to play. A fist pounded on her bedroom door.
Go away.
“Tascana! Wake up!” Revel knocked a few more times. “The festival will start soon.”
I don’t care. I can’t care.
“Please wake up!”
The doorknob turned.
She ignored the pain in her jaw as she screamed, “Don’t open that door!”
“S-sorry! I... I just...”
Sitting up almost took more effort than it was worth. She leaned against the bed. That freedom-shaped hole still existed, only now it felt as though an earthquake had burst it open into a canyon larger than the legends surrounding the Avian Expanse.
“Can I get you anything?” His voice dropped its enthusiasm. “I know you won’t want to miss the party.”
“I’m not going. Leave me alone.”
“But —”
“Just leave!”
After hearing a door close downstairs, she got up and walked to the window. Two houses cut most of her view of the town square. In the sliver of space between them she made out the right half of the stage. Several dallests crossed back and forth in her narrow view, embracing and dancing as though it were a wonderful day. Everyone going about as if there was actually something to celebrate.
She leaned her forehead against the glass. How could everyone keep on living while she was dying inside?
That single word wriggled up her throat, causing her to gag.
So whose mother did The Master intend her to be? And by whom?
A jolt of slimy quivers ran through her. What hope did she have against someone who knew how to speak to the Fates? If he could see a hundred years into the future to wait for her birth, the birth of her child must also be inevitable.
Unless... unless an oracle granted her passage through the Soldiers of Basagic. Could it work? Was it even worth hoping for?
Mother’s voice whispered to her from a distant memory. “Those who focus on their lack become empty. Those who focus on what they have are always full.”
Was it really that simple?
“Place your hand over your heart. As long as there is life in there, you have hope for a life out here.”
She put her hand to her chest. Though a heartbeat thumped back at her it did not feel like she had life in there. If anything, it felt like the vine’s growth last night had increased the hollowness within. She dropped her hand.
Father’s voice came next. “Follow your gut. It will lead where you need to go if you know how to listen.”
But her gut was a bramble of fear. Was she supposed to follow her fears?
Turning away from the window, her eyes landed on the dresser. So much like the one back home. She shifted her gaze only to see item after item mocking her that she was home.
Sinking to the floor, she put her fists against her eyes and leaned into the wall.
Music swelled outside. Occasionally, it paused, followed by clapping. Then the drums would start again to lead into more music.
Another knock at the door. This time, Dellia called to her. “Tascana, please come out.”
Go away.
“I really want you to see my performance. I’m on next after Zander.”
“I don’t feel good.”
“Can I bring you something?”
Please go away. “No.”
“Okay, well, I guess I better go.”
Tascana sighed. How could she trust that girl? Dellia had to know as much as Arnya did about The Master’s intentions. Yet everyone carried on as if Tretchin Valley were some kind of paradise. It wasn’t a paradise, it was a prison. A prison! Somewhere to keep her safe while The Master and Jerricoh carried out whatever they had planned next.
The music paused again. More applause. Drums beat out a hard, driving tempo. Something much different than before. She stood up to look out the window. The sun had started to set. Thick shadows filled the gap between the two houses. On the stage, a girl stood tall with two swords held high overhead. She danced to the drums, swiping her swords as she moved.
Tascana sank back to the floor.
CHAPTER 19
Jurren lay in the loft with his hands behind his head. Stupid elves. What did they know? Always pretending there is some bigger purpose, some grand scheme threatening to overthrow the world somewhere out there. How many times had someone tried to use that line on him? Neywan, Threnody, Erlafoss, even the Silver Willow.
That was why Jurren loved the people of Bondurant. No one person in that country lived in a world spent preparing for out there. Life was simple, routine, and predictable. The way it was supposed to be. With family and friends, good food and a warm bed. Why would a person allow themselves to get sucked into a churning reality of forging the unknown and repeatedly battling to the death? Didn’t every person in those epic legends told to children fight the good fight so they could rest the good rest? To go home a
nd enjoy the end of the struggle? That always seemed to be the indicator of whether a story had a happy or a sad ending; whether the hero found his rest.
Knock, knock.
Jurren sat up. Arkose poked his head out from the bed under the loft. Nodding, Jurren moved to the edge and jumped down. Who was it this time?
Opening the door, Jurren saw Amador standing with his hood pulled far enough forward to obscure all but his nose and mouth. Why the pretense? If they were elves as Azredan suggested then why didn’t they just come out and show it?
“Your friend has recovered. It is time for you to leave.” Amador turned on his heel.
Was it possible for someone’s voice to possess equal amounts of disgust and relief? No matter. Elves weren’t liked anywhere else in the world. It made sense for them to dislike every race other than their own.
Motioning for Arkose, Jurren followed their reluctant host. Amador stopped at Lord Marvae’s home, or whatever it was, without opening the door or offering any instructions. He simply stood off to the side, hands behind his back under his cloak, averting his gaze into the trees as though avoiding an unpleasant odor.
Fine with me. I’ll be happy to be rid of you, too. Jurren opened the door.
Inside, he saw Lord Marvae sitting with his wild white hair, leaning his elbows on his knees while staring at Kidelar. The scholar turned a pale face toward them.
“Jurren!” Kidelar wobbled to his feet. “They say I’m well enough to travel.”
“You don’t look it. How do you feel?”
“Like I was bitten by a goblin.” Kidelar forced a laugh. “I’m a little tired, but I’ll manage. We have a lot of ground to make up.”
“If we have to wait an extra day —”
Kidelar’s eyes tightened. “No, that is completely unnecessary. We should depart at once.”
Jurren was torn. The gaunt appearance gave no indication Kidelar was ready for the journey that lay ahead. And yet, the longer they waited the greater the risk to Tascana. But which was the greater threat?
The pinched look in Kidelar’s eyes suggested he was desperate to leave. But why? What happened inside the village of Chlopahn?