7 Folds of Winter

by Carolyn McCray

He’d tried baking but ended up with oven full of burnt dough. Now he searched the forest for a gift from Fall. He knew he would not survive the Winter otherwise.”

  Traven wanted to hurry Granny along to get to the good and gory part, but Granny could not be rushed. To disturb her now would risk her clamming up completely.

  “He found a well and cried great tears of longing into the shaft. From down below, it was as if his prayers had been answered.”

  In his excitement, Traven cracked an egg, its yolk dripping down his hand. Panicked, he stuffed the broken egg under the nest and wiped his hand on his britches. Granny would kill him if she knew he had wasted one of her precious brown-spotted eggs. She swore it was the special eggs that made her cooking so sought after.

  “You ’bout done in there, boy?” Granny hollered.

  Traven snatched a few more eggs and ran out to meet her.

  “Any trouble?” Granny asked.

  “No, not all all.”

  Granny whistled through her broken teeth. “You are such a bad liar, Traven.” Granny tsked at him as she picked eggshell from his pants. “You will never learn...”

  Traven tried to nudge her back into the story. “Kind of like The Man Who Did Not Know?”

  “So, you’ve noticed the resemblance, have you?” Granny chided, but her tone was light. Traven nearly burst his seams with joy. She was going to tell the story despite his accident. “Yes, child, you probably would follow that siren’s call down the shaft, wouldn’t you?”

  Smiling, Traven followed alongside as Granny continued. “So full of hope and wonder, The Man climbed down the slick shaft. The further he descended, the darker it became, until there was no light at all. Shadows swirled around him and clutched The Man in their cold, damp grasp. He tried to scream, but the darkness crept down his throat.”

  Traven could feel his own breath tighten in his chest. She was getting to the good part.

  “They had nothing to give The Man. It was they who needed something.” Granny lightning-quick tapped Traven on the chest. He was so startled that his pulse almost froze. “His heart! They needed to feast on his heart’s blood. That’s how they kept themselves alive. As they pulled it from his chest, he could feel the beating in his throat until the darkness threatened to claim him...”

  Traven startled from his dream. Blinking, the Hero realized he was still traveling east on the Plains, and not in his Granny’s chicken coop. Lauger tossed his nose, a sure sign the horse was hungry again. Not that Traven blamed him, his own stomach ached for food. The least the townsfolk could have done was let him eat lunch before they tossed him out into the bitter cold.

  Jumping down off his bareback mount, Traven shook his head as he grabbed the last of the grain for Lauger. In his current predicament, you would think he could conjure up a slightly more inspiring tale. Would it be too much to ask for one with a happy ending? But Granny was never very big on those. No, she fed him what he had wanted to hear. Stories of gut-wrenching adventure and stupendous heroism. Tragic, all of it, but mesmerizing to a young boy.

  Well, now he wasn’t so young, and he certainly had his fill of gut-wrenching realism. Granny might have warned him life wasn’t anything like her stories.

  ***

  Jory slammed down his quill. How could he write a declaration of banishment when he knew the gates should be thrown open, welcoming Traven back as the Hero that he was? The commander knew that whether or not he scribed the announcement, Traven was still under Shaladar. No one could speak his name, nor assist him in any way, including the commander himself. Jory told himself over and over again that Traven would forgive him for simply making the act official, but it had taken Jory three days to write the damnable thing.

  People had begun whispering about Jory’s reluctance. The last thing the commander needed was dissidence from his own guard. They expected Jory to be as efficient and detached as always. His men either wanted the declaration posted or a reason why he had not. Since the only man Jory could trust was now banished out upon the Plains, the commander had kept silent, tossing and turning in his bed each night. Traven deserved far better, but the commander’s hands were tied.

  “Sir!” Jory’s first lieutenant blurted as he rushed into the room.

  Startled, the commander knocked over his bottle of ink, ruining the declaration. Secretly thrilled, Jory barked at the officer as he made feeble attempts to salvage the parchment. “Now look what you’ve done!”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know. I... I...” Jory’s second in command stammered, red-faced.

  Blotting the rapidly drying ink, the commander snapped, “What is so important you breached protocol?”

  Gathering himself, the lieutenant’s chest puffed, and his pudgy cheeks swelled in and out. “Sir, I just learned that you have released messenger doves.”

  “Aye. And what of it?”

  “To the north and east, sir?”

  Jory froze for an instant, then forced himself to continue the clean-up. The commander had hoped this news would not find its way into public knowledge. Stalling to find out how much the lieutenant knew before he attempted a bluff, Jory answered, “You think to second-guess me, lieutenant?”

  “No, sir. I just... I just don’t understand. Why have you ordered trappers to find Traven’s body?”

  As soon as he was done here, Jory would give the aviary keeper a good tongue-lashing. Could the commander not keep one thing secret in this town?

  “Aye. No matter the Hero’s actions, Mount Shrine will want Traven’s body back. He still has family.”

  “All the more reason we should have burnt him here!” The lieutenant’s face was blotchy and distorted. The man had never looked uglier.

  “Even the Blue Priest denounced human sacrifice —”

  The lieutenant interrupted. “That was before the Priest was murdered by the impostor!”

  Jory did not bother to correct the lieutenant. The tattoo Traven bore could not have been forged, but such details did not matter. “Until I have a decree from the Oligarchy itself, the Blue Priest’s words will be honored.” Jory could see the smaller man’s veins bulge. “Do you find fault with that?”

  “No. Of course not,” the lieutenant choked out. “I just... What do we care of a traitor’s family?”

  Jory feigned indifference. “If nothing else, I would not stand to lose such a fine stallion. Any other questions?”

  It was obvious the subordinate had many questions but dared not voice them — at least not yet.

  Finally, the lieutenant tensed his jaw. “What if the trappers find him alive?”

  Waving off the man’s concern, Jory hoped his face did not betray his unease. The commander’s last real hope for Traven’s survival was for the trappers to find the Hero and assist him to another town. Despite his romantic notions regarding the Fold, Jory knew he had best get a more realistic plan. Gods were seldom reliable.

  Shrugging, the commander did his best to sound indifferent. “They’ll probably slit his throat, loot his gear, and ignore my request for his body.”

  Jory sat tense, waiting for the lieutenant to reveal how much he truly knew. The commander told the aviary-keeper where to send the birds, but he did not tell the man the full content of the message. Unfortunately, that did not mean the loose-tongued keeper had not opened the seals and read the requests.

  The lieutenant nodded grimly. “I shall inform you when the trappers arrive.”

  The commander dismissed the man. Jory was playing a very dangerous game with men who would like nothing better than to have the commander brought down. No matter what happened, Jory could not allow the town to be handed over to a sniveling wretch of a man such as the lieutenant.

  There was only one person left in town to turn to. Jory rang the bell, and his assistant curtly entered the room.

  “I have need of a runner. Have him wait for my correspondence.”

  The man saluted and left the room as Jory put ink to parchment again. This time it was a veile
d cry for help. Across the envelope, Jory scribbled the name.

  Madame Hesper.

  *****

  CHAPTER 6

  Hot juice bubbled up, splattering chutney all over Crystalia’s apron. Cursing under her breath, she wiped the scalding liquid from her hands. Working in the shop was unbearable. Her father had not allowed her past the front door in over three days.

  It was for her own protection, he had said, but Crystalia knew the truth. Her father was embarrassed and could not abide the neighbors snickering behind his back. Crystalia knew what they said about her. She knew they called her vile names and thought her as much a traitor as the Hero. But for once, Crystalia did not care what the town thought. Traven had changed her life, and there was no going back to the girl she was before.

  Like a warm breeze in December, the young man had come and gone, leaving behind nothing but bittersweet memories. But because of the Shaladar, Crystalia could not even speak his name out loud. Even in her agitated state, she had obeyed the proclamation.

  The town was on edge. Whether from their own guilt or fear, Crystalia could not tell, but she did not want to test their mood. Even her own father barely spoke to her anymore.

  An excited whisper came from somewhere behind her. “Crysty!”

  The high-pitched voice was unmistakable. It was Viola, but how could that be?

  The Guild Master’s daughter had also been under lock and key since Traven’s banishment. Crystalia checked to be sure her father was out of earshot, then motioned for Viola to enter. Her friend snuck in through the back door. Their parents would tan both their hides if the two girls were seen talking.

  “Have you heard anything?” Viola whispered all in a rush, her golden curls shimmering in the firelight.

  “Nothing!”

  “They’ve sent out four search parties. The last one just got back!”

  “And?” Crystalia asked.

  Viola clutched her hands to her chest in an almost prayer-like manner. “They haven’t found him yet! Do you know what this means?”

  Crystalia was too taken by her imagination to answer. She could see the Hero boldly galloping across the Plains, his head held high, striking out for another adventure.

  Viola couldn’t wait any longer. “He’s alive! Can you believe it?”

  “But how? He left without any supplies, not even a saddle.”

  “I know! He must be...”

  Even Viola couldn’t finish the blasphemous sentence. Their eyes met over the bubbling chutney. Could they dare hope that Traven was truly a Hero? Could they dare believe a single story of his was true?

  Biting her lip, Viola inched closer. “Do you think he could have found... a Fold?”

  “Viola!” Crystalia hissed. “Do you want us run out of town too?”

  But instead of retreating, Viola leaned closer with her face aglow. “If anyone could, it would be Traven, right?”

  With a harsh nudge, Crystalia backed Viola away with her elbow. It was one thing to fantasize, to dream of heroes, witches, and ghosts, but it was quite another to talk about them, in broad daylight, no less!

  “We can only pray —”

  “But to who?” Viola interrupted.

  Crystalia took a swing with her elbow again, but Viola scampered away towards the door. Her friend’s voice became low and took on a tone very unlike Viola’s normal giddy manner.

  “There’s a rumor.” The blonde’s voice dropped so low that Crystalia had to lean closer, straining to hear the next words. “Madame Hesper threw bones last night! She sent a runner to the garrison, but he never came back.”

  “What do you —?” Crystalia stopped mid-sentence as her father entered the room. Viola slipped out onto the cobblestone street, nodding to the other shopkeepers as if nothing had happened.

  “Were you saying something?” her father asked.

  “Yes. I need a bit more wood, I think.”

  Her father rooted around the roaring fire and checked the mixture, shaking his head. “Any more kindling and you’d be boiling over the edge, girl. Where is your head?”

  Crystalia wasn’t about to tell him.

  “We’ve got to get this batch done and get you cleaned up!” Her father studied her face. “Or did you forget you’ve got a suitor coming over this evening? From a very wealthy spice merchant’s family, I might add.”

  For a moment, the features of the room blurred as Crystalia imagined yet another evening of entertaining. Over the last few days, her father seemed desperate to marry her off. Any slob with a silver to rub between his fingers was a likely candidate. The air clung to her lips, stifling any scream she might think to utter. The room was too hot — her skin too flushed. The entire world compressed down into the tiny space of their little shop.

  There were moments in your life when you had to act, you had to set yourself in motion. Crystalia had seen that in Traven’s eyes, and now she knew it was true for herself. She was not quite as brave as the Hero and was not ready to take on the Barren Plains, but she had to get out of this shop and hunt Viola down. Handing over the spoon, Crystalia whipped off her apron.

  “What do you think you are —?”

  As rapidly as she could, Crystalia grabbed a few jars off the shelf and packed them in a bag. “I’ve got deliveries to run, Papa. I’ll be back in just a bit.”

  Before her father could object any further, Crystalia rushed through the door. Even at his best speed, there was no way her father could catch her. Besides, he would have to leave the boiling batch, and she knew he would rather die.

  The blast of cold air on her bare arms nearly drove her back into the shop. What had she been thinking, barging out without even her shawl? But her feet kept her moving down the narrow street. Crystalia had never disobeyed Pappy like that, never. Yet, somehow, it felt right and good. Her father could not keep her locked up like a barn animal until he sold her at market.

  Crystalia clutched her bag closer to her chest as neighbors and passersby stared openly. She didn’t blame them, though. Crystalia knew that she must have looked quite the fright; dressed only in her brewing dress, itself a lattice of patches and stains, her hair crinkled and half out of its bun. She must look like a mad woman racing to her death. The sneers on her neighbor’s faces said it all. Perhaps she should have left Last Hitch with the Hero. She still felt guilty for not saddling his horse. If he died, his blood would be on her hands. Life simply meant nothing to her any more.

  As little as Crystalia cared about others’ opinions, she needed to get inside. Night was approaching, and the air nearly slapped her in the face with each breath. But where to turn? The doorman at Viola’s would never let her in, and everyone else would send her scurrying. Slowing, Crystalia searched the surrounding buildings for signs of a friendly fire. She willed her feet to stop, but they brought her closer and closer to Hanger’s Mansion.

  There was nothing welcoming or inviting about the place. Painted black, the building seemed to suck any light that strayed too close. Overwhelmed by curiosity or simple stupidity, Crystalia found her heel clicking onto the first step.

  The Mansion looked no better the closer she got. The elaborate facade climbed high into the sky. Besides the garrison, Hanger’s Mansion was the only building over two stories in the whole town. Black, brooding gargoyles hung over the ledge, staring down anyone who dared approach the house.

  Unbidden, tales of the house’s sordid history rose in her mind. Originally, it was built as a testament to man’s supremacy, a shout in the face of nature that man could live anywhere he wished, any way he wished. The basement alone, almost unheard of above the fifth parallel, took a hundred men a dozen brief arctic summers to dig through the permafrost. Rumors of a labyrinth and tunnels sprawling out from the mansion had started as soon as the mortar had dried.

  Crystalia tried to imagine the foreboding structure back when it was said to be filled with laughter and light. Dozens of governors and their families had resided there for decades, unmolested by the evil.<
br />
  That is, until the baby-faced Governor Markan was transferred from his eastern post. It seemed his sense of civic duty bent more towards crime and punishment than re-cobbling the roads. Soon after taking his office, the Governor elected himself the hangman. Each Sunday, whether there was a deserving criminal or not, there was a public execution.

  It took the officials back at the capital awhile to figure out why this outpost needed so many fresh troops. The stories varied widely about Markan’s removal from office, but many of the town’s buildings still bore the scorch marks. No, there was nothing good to be said about this mansion. Nothing at all.

  What might have been a welcome breeze any other time of the year blasted frigid air up her skirt. Crystalia’s knees knocked loudly as she tried to force the cold out. Darn, but she’d forgotten to put on petticoats this morning. In her hurry to avoid another draft, Crystalia found herself clambering up the small flight of stairs and onto the Mansion’s stoop. The largest, tallest, and apparently thickest door she had ever seen stood but inches away. The bronze door knocker, in the shape of a devil’s head, seemed to challenge her to try, just try, to disturb the occupants.

  A shout made her turn back towards the street. It was only a gaggle of children, playing some game. Bundled against the cold, their faces shown a healthy pink, and their happy voices echoed along the street. Ah, to be young and carefree again.

  Suddenly, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and she reflexively gasped. Crystalia swore she could feel someone’s breath upon her cheek. The sound was akin to a death rattle. No, more like a groan — painful and exhausted.

  Cautiously, Crystalia turned back to the door only to find it ajar. Ever so slowly, it opened further. She knew she should close her jaw and run for the shop, but something held her in its thrall.

  With each inch the door opened, the house seemed to moan, “Enter.”

  ***