This is getting ridiculous, Traven thought. The wind was raging down the plains, ready for war. The horizon was seamless, just a sea of white. The hero had lost track of the days, even when he’d eaten last. Nothing seemed to matter any longer.
His once-proud stallion lurched forward with every step. Lauger’s black nose was dusted white from dragging in the snow. Traven realized, with a bit of surprise, that without a miracle, he’d die here.
Youthful enthusiasm had never let him consider death as an option. After all, hadn’t he been plucked from his home and selected as one of the chosen few? Only two dozen of the land’s most honored young men had been handpicked from the countryside. Princes and urchins had vied for the right to be taken to Mount Shrine and declared true Heroes.
After three years of hard training, they had set out to the far corners of the world to prove themselves worthy of the title — The Hope.
But the world was a brutal place, and their numbers had dwindled within months to only a handful. Those few who had survived the first year returned to Mount Shrine for the New Year’s Awakening. Still, with all those fine warriors lost to horrible deaths, Traven had clung to the belief that he was immune to arrow or sword.
Traven was ashamed, but he had secretly felt a slight thrill when the last of his comrades had succumbed. That left only Traven. He was the last of the Heroes. The last to stand between the entire kingdom and eternal winter. Traven had felt assured of his place in history. Soon, he was to be named The Hope — the man foretold in a thousand prophecies for a thousand years to save the entire land.
It was not until this very moment when his cheeks bled from the wind and his horse stumbled again that Traven entertained the possibility that the mages and ministers could have been wrong. Perhaps none of the twenty-four Heroes were The Hope. Perhaps this entire quest was for naught.
Despair washed over him, far heavier than any ax ever lifted against him. Waves of nausea threatened to unseat him from his saddle. How could he have gone through so much, only to end up here? This certainly was not the ending to the tale Traven would have written for himself. Instead of the savior of the world, the Hero was going to end up just another skeleton in the drifts.
Traven braced himself and sat higher. He would not give up. What had Granny warned with each story of hers? Despair was the only enemy.
One could never give up, not when a hundred crazed Dervishes barreled down the slopes, blood dripping from their lips. Certainly, you never capitulated while you still had breath left to breathe. Traven scanned the horizon for any hint of redemption.
For the first time in his life, he prayed to the gods, any gods, to show him a sign, however slim, of hope, even a single tree. Hell’s Rain, Traven would even settled for a blasted rock to provide shelter from the wind. The Hero begged Nature herself to grant him a simple wish, survival.
Rubbing his eyes, Traven checked the eastern horizon. Was that a group of riders upon the plains? He urged his horse forward but was surprised when Lauger resisted his instruction. Instead, the horse backed away, whinnying.
With his heels, Traven dug into his steed’s sides. Damn the horse, could he not recognize a rescue party when he saw one? Lauger tried to rear, but Traven fought with the lone piece of rope that served as a halter. What was the stallion thinking?
Breaking his eyes away from the horse, Traven checked on the approaching riders. The Hero was so startled that he nearly lost his seat. What had been specks a moment ago were looming figures clothed in thick bearskins. Traven felt his breath freeze in his chest. The men approaching weren’t on mounts. They strode across the tundra, chewing up the distance with each step.
Dear gods, Traven thought, They are Giants.
Wheeling his horse around, the Hero spurred Lauger forward. With Traven’s heels in his sides, the stallion surged forward. But where could they run? They could never make it back to Last Hitch. Even if they did, Traven was still under Shaladar. There would be no comfort there. Fleeing across the Plains was also futile. The Hero already knew what painfully little shelter there was to be had out on the Barren Flats.
Risking a glance behind, Traven caught a scream in his throat. The huge, red-bearded men were only a few steps behind. The Hero urged Lauger forward, but the poor beast was at his limit.
It was no great surprise when he felt a blow from behind. Traven clung to the Lauger’s mane, but another hit swatted him from his mount. The snow-covered ground was unforgiving as he tumbled from the stallion. Traven shouted for Lauger to run, but it was wishful thinking. The smaller of the Giants, only three times his own height, moved far more quickly than any man should be allowed and snatched the reins, pulling Lauger to a stop.
Gaining his footing, Traven pulled his sword from its sheath. He might die here today, but not without enemies’ blood drawn. The three Giants quickened to the game, encircling him. Their yellow teeth glistened in the setting sun.
It was strange, but hope rose inside him. Whether the feeling was an answer to his prayers or simple lunacy, Traven charged forward. If he could kill one of them, the rest might scatter. If his plan worked, the Hero might gain some equipment to build a shelter.
Traven’s excitement was cut short by a single backhand from the nearest Giant. Pain seared up Traven’s arm as his sword skidded across the icy snow. It felt as if his hand had been shattered. Dropping to his knees, Traven accepted his fate with a wryness that surprised even him. If the Giants were going to dine on flesh tonight, Traven hoped he was tough and stringy.
Instead of the deathblow, the Giant grabbed Traven by the back of his jerkin, dragging him through the snow. At first Traven fought and flailed, but he quickly realized it was futile.
Unbidden, his Granny’s voice rose above the hissing wind.
“Giants likes their meat fresh.”
Wouldn’t Granny be proud? She was right all along.
***
Crystalia’s breath refused to be let out. She had held it so long that her ears rang, and her lungs screamed for relief. The dark hallway of Hanger’s Mansion loomed before her. She wanted to tear herself away and run to the safe boredom of her tiny kitchen, but there was no denying the house’s call.
Every other noise died away. Crystalia should have been able to hear the children playing, the blacksmith pounding out a new horseshoe, or the old women haggling at the market just around the corner. Instead, all she could perceive was a moan so deep it hurt her insides.
The house begged, no, demanded that she enter.
While the sound gripped her belly, Crystalia’s eyes could not be torn from a tiny flicker of light far down the hall. It was like a candle suspended in midair, tousled by the slightest breeze. But what truly held her spellbound was the way the flame’s yellow, red, and orange jostled for domination. Every so often a tiny finger of flame would lash out and end in a tiny explosion of brilliant color. It seemed as if the light was trying to tell her something — something secret and dangerous. Something about Traven.
Oh, how she wanted to hear news of Traven. Viola said Madame Hesper had thrown bones just last night. The medium was renowned for her divining skills. Surely she would welcome a visitor with the sincerest of motives. The house couldn’t be as bad as the old wives’ tales said.
Could it?
As her foot rose to cross the stoop, a wave of panic threatened Crystalia’s balance. What was she doing? The air was thick and dank, smelling bitter and falsely warm.
Crystalia’s heart desired above all else to learn of Traven’s fate, but what was she truly willing to pay for that knowledge? Again the distant flame licked higher, raging a bright orange, taunting her to take that first step over the threshold.
Who knew what horrors Traven was facing right now? How could she turn away from a silly old house?
With renewed courage, Crystalia lifted her foot off the landing and ever so gingerly took her first step into the hallway. To her surprise, nothing untoward happened. No screaming menace, no ghastly appa
rition flew at her. Gathering her strength, Crystalia slowly advanced down the hallway. The tiny flame looked to be not much further. Surely, it would lead her to the Madame.
But the hallways only appeared darker and darker, as if the walls themselves had been swallowed by the spirit of the night.
With each step, the flame backed away.
No matter how quickly Crystalia shuffled down the thick carpet, the flame eluded her. The air pulsed, causing her heart to join its hurried rhythm. Her eyes smarted, and the back of her throat burned as the air became heavy with the scent of dried herbs.
Enough is enough, Crystalia thought. If the Madame did not wish to be found, who was she to barge in?
Turning on her heel, she tried to find the doorway. Crystalia was certain she had left the front door ajar, certain that she had not heard its squeaky hinges close again.
Groping with her hands, Crystalia tried to find the wall and follow its path back to the front of the house, but try as she might, her hand found nothing but empty air. Near panic, Crystalia gripped her bag tightly and turned back towards the light. The flame jumped and danced right before her, almost laughing at her fear.
With no other options, Crystalia began her quest again as the light sprang away into the darkness. Stumbling, she caught herself as her foot hit something solid. Crystalia almost dared not look. First, she tapped the new object a few times with the point of her shoe to be sure it didn’t move or cry out. Gaining confidence, Crystalia knelt down and felt for the edge, but her hand pulled away from the furry texture. It took her mind a few moments to realize the roughness was simply a wool carpet covering a stair step.
Relief flooded through her body. How could Traven be so brave when facing the unknown? She felt like loosing her bladder over a simple rug. Crystalia took one last glance over her shoulder to be sure the front door had not miraculously opened again, then headed up the stairs.
Just as she gained her footing and some control of her senses, the flame abruptly flared to a blazing glow, then plunged into darkness. Stifling a scream, Crystalia tried to back down the flight of stairs, but no matter how her foot fished behind her, there was no step. Dipping further down, her toes stretched as far as they could, but their search was in vain. It was if the lower stairwell had disappeared.
There was nowhere to go but up. Jaw clenched, she continued to put one foot in front of the other. Suddenly, her hair stirred and flew about her face. The sound of storm shutters clanging against windows echoed through the house. Crystalia stopped, perched on the only step she knew truly existed, craning her head, listening to the sounds.
Branches seemed to scrape against glass, only she could not see any windows. Then she heard it — the sound of rustling, of air being purposefully moved. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted something rushing toward her in the dark, but could not duck in time.
The thing crashed into her tousled hair, entangling itself. Its screams nearly ruptured her ears. Fighting the beast off with her bag and nails, Crystalia charged up the steps, hoping there was an actual end to this stairwell.
Barreling forward, she was stunned by a sudden flood of light. Reeling, Crystalia threw back her head to let out a blood-curdling scream of her own, but a hand came from behind and slammed over her mouth. Adrenaline surged in her blood as the room plunged into darkness. The hold over her mouth was so tight that Crystalia struggled to draw even a tiny breath. Using the only weapon she had, Crystalia swung her bag of chutney over her shoulder. She hit her mark, but the hand only gripped tighter.
With her body shouting for air, Crystalia widened her mouth, then bit down, hard. She was rewarded with a groan and the feel of warm blood in her mouth. Her assailant’s hold was lost, and Crystalia fell to the floor, choking.
Light sparked from across the room, illuminating her attacker. The man towered over her, thin and gaunt. If she had not just drawn blood, she would have assumed him a walking skeleton. With the look of rage in his black eyes, the man raised the back of his hand. Crystalia squeezed her eyes shut and cringed to the floor, waiting for the blow.
“My, you gave us a scare, girl,” a woman’s voice demanded. “The least you could do is help us find him.”
Fear fueled her muscles as Crystalia bolted across the room.
“Perhaps some light would help,” the vile man said, with a far more normal voice than she had imagined. He reached over her and tied back the black curtains, allowing the weak streetlight to seep in the room. The gaunt man had not been trying to strike her; he had been going after the curtains all the while. And he had just been trying to stifle her screaming, not suffocate her.
But what of the look in his eyes? Crystalia tried not to stare and found his eyes not demonic. Instead, the corneas were a sheet of black, opaque. The man should have been blind, yet he moved nimbly about the room, straightening the mess she had made.
Letting her eyes adjust to the new light, Crystalia surveyed the woman who clucked and cooed behind a huge wooden truck, hinged in silver.
“Come here, my little pet. Come now, no one is going to hurt you,” the woman cajoled the unseen creature.
“Madame Hesper?” Crystalia’s voice came out like a little squeak.
“One and the same, m’dear.”
Crystalia inched her way back into a proper standing position and tried to regain her composure. The Madame looked nothing like she’d imagined.
She’d heard tales of this woman all her life. In some, the old medium was a wild gypsy. In others, a ravishing siren. But this woman looked nothing like that at all. If anything, she had an uncanny resemblance to Crystalia’s Sermon Day teacher. Madame Hesper could easily pass for someone’s amply proportioned grandmother.
A noise caught Crystalia’s attention, and she whirled about, still jittery from the excitement.
“I’m sorry…” Crystalia voice trailed off as she backed away in fear again.
Madame Hesper, however, was delighted, bringing up a large bat from behind the trunk. The woman kissed and caressed the thing as if it were a kitten. Crystalia cringed as the Madame approached.
“Do not worry, dear. You are the dangerous one here.”
Crystalia didn’t exactly take this to heart and backed up another step. Madame Hesper chuckled a bit and let the bat go. With a yip, Crystalia ducked, but the action was without cause. The bat smoothly flew past her, far up in the rafters, then settled down upon a beam.
“So, do you always make it a habit to break into people’s homes?”
“Um, no. Yes, I mean, the door was open. I thought it was an invitation.”
“Oh dear, Holt. You forgot to lock it again.”
“The wind must have blown it open. I’ll attend to it.” Holt walked towards the door. Crystalia kept an eye on him until he left the room.
“I’m sorry, child, but we’re not exactly used to visitors here. I’d offer you a bite to eat, but we’ve already had sup.”
“It’s all right. I came here for...” Just when the moment was at hand, Crystalia suddenly felt her stomach shrink in fear. Suddenly, this whole outing seemed the most silly thing she’d ever done.
“Well, if you have nothing to —”
“I’m here about Traven,” Crystalia blurted out, half surprising herself when she interrupted Madame Hesper.
“And what makes you think I know anything more than you?”
“Viola said you threw bones last night.”
“She did, did she?” The Madame seemed a bit agitated and began straightening some silver trinkets on the mantle place. Funny, Crystalia hadn’t noticed the fireplace, nor the small fire crackling in the hearth.
“Yes,” Crystalia answered. “Did you? Did you see anything about Traven?”
“I’ll have to talk to the commander about his loose tongue.” Madame Hesper hurried across the room and turned a vase back upright. “I’m very busy, child. We have guests coming. I really don’t have time for this sort of nonsense.”
In all her years, Crysta
lia had never heard of a single visitor to Hanger’s Mansion, and now that her courage was up, she was not about to let Madame Hesper wiggle out of answering her question so easily.
“Please, if you know anything, anything at all...” Crystalia tried not to sound quite so desperate, but it had crept into her voice anyway.
Madame Hesper sighed and turned back. “You think yourself in love, girl? Did he dishonor you?” the medium asked frankly.
Horrified, Crystalia answered, “No! He was nothing but a gentleman, Madame. I just toss at night, not knowing what happened to him.”
“Cut a card from the deck and place it face up on top of the pack.”
Crystalia was about to mention that there was no deck of cards to be found when she noticed a thick deck of Tarot cards on a small table.
Why had she not seen that before? With purpose, Crystalia strode over to the table and cut the deck. She hesitated for a moment. The cards felt warm, almost like there was a pulse to them. With shy fingers, Crystalia pulled a card from the center then replaced the rest of the deck. Carefully, she turned the card over.
Both she and Madame Hesper took in a sharp breath. The card was of the Snowy Maiden, but instead of the usual blonde hair, the woman had a sandy-brown mane. More strangely, the Maiden had hazel eyes instead of the usual blue, just like Crystalia. There was a strange familiarity to the Maiden’s features, perhaps like Crystalia’s mother when was younger, but not quite. The medium looked as startled about the card’s unusual facade as Crystalia.
Madame Hesper sat heavily in a well-padded chair. “Sit.”
Crystalia sank down into a velvet chair that she would have sworn was not there a second ago.
“Give me your hand,” Madame Hesper demanded.
Tentatively, Crystalia held out her hand, only to have it snatched by the Madame. The medium’s face seemed harder, more firm than jolly. The medium rubbed and rubbed at Crystalia’s palm, hard enough to make it burn a bit. She tried to pull back when the woman spat in Crystalia’s hand, but the old woman’s grip was like steel. To her shock, the lines of Crystalia’s palm began to change, turning a deep pink and angling off in strange directions.
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