Madame Hesper jerked Crystalia across the table. The girl would have screamed, but the medium held a razor-sharp knife to her throat.
“Who are you?” the woman asked.
“Crystalia.”
“Crystalia who?” the woman demanded. No longer did the medium look like a church elder. Madame Hesper’s face seemed to float before Crystalia, angry and demanding.
“Crystalia Tender.”
“Why have you not come before to visit me?”
“I...” Crystalia had no idea what she should say, but she thought harder as the knife bit deeper into her exposed neck.
“Why?”
“I was scared!” Crystalia exclaimed, not knowing anything but the truth to say. To her surprise, Madame Hesper let out a snort and moved the blade away from Crystalia’s neck.
“You know nothing of this?” the madame asked, gesturing to Crystalia’s palm.
“No. I don’t know... I...”
“Do you want to know?” Madame Hesper pressed Crystalia.
“I’m not sure. I don’t understand —”
“Do you want to know of Traven’s fate?”
Crystalia certainly couldn’t play confused on that issue. She had to know what fate had befallen Traven.
“Yes.”
“Are you prepared to pay for that knowledge?”
Crystalia shook her head. “I don’t have any money —”
“I want no coin. I have need of blood.”
*****
CHAPTER 7
Traven strove to keep his mind alert. He tried to imagine how a true champion would handle the situation, but no amount of heroism could change the fact that he was being unceremoniously dragged to a certain death. With his horse in tow and his sword lost to the snow, the only weapon left to Traven was his hidden knife. With these Giants, the Hero might as well take aim with a serving fork. It would do about as much good.
As a child, Traven had been accused of living life as a grand dalliance, but as an adult, he had grown quite realistic. His end was closing near — there was no denying it. This close to death, Granny’s voice paid another visit. With his view completely obscured by snow, it was easy to free his mind and imagine Granny sitting out on the porch, smoking her cob pipe. What was it she used to rail on about?
“Mark my words. A man’s not judged by no treasure he’s gathered, nor his greatest deeds, nor even his family and friends. No, don’t be fooled by all the hoopla. Your only fortune is in the names you might be called. Them’s your soul names, and you can’t never have enough.”
The memory was fresh in his mind how Granny had disliked his father, her son-in-law. The Hero’s grandmother would spit out his father’s four soul names: son, husband, father, and farmer.
“Hardly enough to spin a tale. What type of eulogy could ya write off a life like that?”
Traven laughed despite the hellish day. Granny would have quite a field day with the Hero’s own epitaph. Let’s see.
Traven had started off a son, a brother, and, if you listened to his father, he was nothing but a good-for-nothing. Now, if you were talking to the girls from his hometown, Traven would have been called quite the prospect. To the girl’s mothers, on the other hand, he was nothing more than a rascal. Once he left Magpie’s Landing, Traven had become so much more: candidate, Hero, traveler, pole-bearer a dozen times over, fugitive, warrior, scapegoat, savior...
Traven relished the time he had last been called that name. Savior.
It was his most favored soul name. The Hero had rescued the town of Everstand from a band of highwaymen. Really, the attackers were just a group of ragtag ruffians out to turn a quick profit, but Traven had dispatched them with aplomb. The town had thrown wide its gates with a true Hero’s welcome.
Gates were not the only thing opened for Traven, and they weren’t just tavern girls, either. Even the constable’s daughter, Tameria, with her fiery red hair and freckled face, had fallen to his charm. Why had he left that town?
The Great Stand of sequoias nestled the town in its branches, protecting it like a mother’s womb. The air was crisp, and the people had loved him like their own. By the gods, why did not he stay there? Traven could have settled down and started a family. That far south, it would have taken the Sweeping Winter years to gain a hold. It might not have descended upon Everstand within his lifetime.
But heroism was a double-edged sword.
The town had soaked up every word the Hero uttered and had believed him wholeheartedly. Despite their far distance from the Great Plains, the citizens of Everstand feared Eternal Winter with a dread born of living life under green bowers.
Once the townsfolk were rallied behind Traven’s quest, how could the Hero abandon his mission? Still, Traven grumbled in his mind, he could have at the least over-winter there, none of this would have happened if the Hero had waited for the Thaw, but the townsfolk were in a fervor. Not even Tameria had asked Traven to stay. She was so certain of his rightful place in history, battling the seasons themselves.
So with a gallant parade, Traven had ridden from the Great Sequoias and never looked back. Funny, he had never thought that Everstand would be the last warm and gracious shelter on his long journey. The farther north that Traven rode, the more hostile and suspicious the people. Traven could not really blame them though. The words the Hero spoke foretold the end of their culture, if not their very lives.
Traven shook off the haunting memory of angry faces and harsh words. The Hero had a list of soul faces to complete. Where did he leave off? Savior? Next would be renegade, heretic, blasphemer, and finally outlaw. Well, if that roster did not please Granny, he did not know what would.
Still, Everstand lingered in his thoughts. The Hero could picture all the children listening with rapt attention, clinging to his every word. It must have been how Granny had felt all those years. Traven had never known the power of a storyteller until he had tried his hand at it himself. Sadness weighed upon his heart. All those young souls had trusted him. They had confidence in him, to go out an save the world, and here he was letting them down.
Preparing to die in the harsh light of the Northern Empty, Traven’s life took on a different hue. Was he truly worthy of being called Hero, or had the Elders made a tragic mistake? Had he not spent too much time worrying about his reputation, feeding his ego, and, quite frankly, trying to impress the womenfolk?
There was so much he would have done differently, but fate was closing in on him. Cracking open his frozen eyelashes, Traven looked to the Heavens. The Hero swore upon all that he held close to his heart that, given the chance, he would become the Hero foretold. He would put aside his human desires and face down Winter itself.
A tear froze halfway down his cheek. Traven was too cold and stiff to even wipe it away. But a noise, rising above the wind, caught his attention. Soon, even the Giants stopped and cast their eyes about the horizon. Traven tried to sit up as the Giants conversed in a foreign tongue. Could this be the answer to his prayers?
A shout of alarm went up, and two of the Giants scattered as the third one was knocked down. Traven’s torso smashed to the ground. Calling upon his remaining strength, the Hero rolled over to watch the melee. His eyes ached from the strain, but Traven could only make out the Giants struggling fiercely. Finally, the Giant crashed to the snow, and his attacker bounded over the body and landed just inches from Traven.
A howl went up from its companions as Traven’s heart sank to new depths. Hot breath beat the Hero’s face as saliva dripped from bloodied teeth — the White Wolves of Winter.
He should have known.
***
“Blood?” Crystalia peeped. She struggled to pull away from Madame Hesper, but the old woman was far stronger than she looked.
“What is Traven worth to you, little girl?”
Oh, the Madame knew her weakness. Crystalia had sworn she would give her very life if needed to help Traven. What was a bit of blood to that vow?
“How much? How
much blood?”
“A few drops. Perhaps a small puddle, nothing that would harm you.”
Biting her lip, Crystalia curtly nodded before she could think about her response. Madame Hesper gave a satisfied grunt, then whistled so high-pitched that Crystalia had to turn away. When she looked back, Crystalia screeched and shoved with all her might to get away.
“Quiet, girl, you’ll spoil his appetite,” Madame Hesper chided.
Crystalia squirmed as the bat crept down the medium’s arm to settle on the table next to Crystalia’s wrist.
“Are you willing to pay the price? Willingly?” Madame Hesper asked.
The news had best be good for this cost, Crystalia thought bitterly. “Yes.”
Madame Hesper wielded the knife so quickly that Crystalia did not even have time to tense before the tiny knick was made on her wrist. A drop of blood welled slowly, then dropped onto the table. The bat scampered over and began drinking the warm liquid. Crystalia’s heart beat in her ears, and the girl feared she would swoon as another drop swelled above her skin.
“Don’t watch if you’re going to be so squeamish, child.”
Crystalia looked away but felt the nausea and bile rise in her throat.
“There is nothing unnatural here, girl. This is how he must feed. It is how The-Mother-of-All commanded. Who are we to judge her wisdom?”
“I’ve heard stories though...” Crystalia said her lips pursed in fear.
“Some bats eat fruit, others nectar, others still insects. He is but another type of bat.”
“Vampyr?”
“That is their native name, which means ‘bringers of life.’ Their myths? Their myths I’m afraid have been greatly exaggerated.”
Crystalia snorted despite herself. The thing was drinking her blood, wasn’t it? Her head began to spin, and a strange buzz started in her ear. She needed something to distract her.
“How... how did he get here?”
Madame Hesper’s voice took on the air of nostalgia. “Ah, long ago, well past thirty winters ago, a young girl, not unlike yourself, was running through the woods. Like you, she saw a monster and not a noble creature.”
The medium gently stroked the bat’s head as he paused and nuzzled her hand. Madame Hesper remained silent until the bat began lapping again. “She screamed, almost as loud as you, and swung her bag, very much like you. Unlike you, however, my daughter hit the poor dear, breaking his wing, and she gave him quite the lump on his head. Ever since, he hasn’t been able to use his sixth sense. Hunting is almost impossible for him.”
The bat cocked an ear and took one last lick then scrambled up the medium’s arm, past her neck, and into her hair. There, he began meticulously grooming himself. The old woman did not seem to notice she had an occupant in her gray-streaked hair as she put pressure on Crystalia’s tiny wound. “He still pines for the lush green of the Lavish Rise, but what was I to do? Leave him to starve?”
“I thought you said the natives revered his kind,” Crystalia found herself saying.
“Good. You pay attention. Yes, they do, but they also believe it an insult to the spirit to violate his nature. They would have let him die. It would have been a funeral fit for a god, but I could not let his... his presence be extinguished from the world. The sun travels about the earth more smoothly because he lives. Does it not, Fright?”
Crystalia found herself looking at the bat differently. Whether it was the woman’s choice of words or her tone Crystalia could not be sure, but somehow she respected — only a tiny bit more, to be sure — the flying rat that nestled in the Madame’s hair.
Like coming out of a deep sleep, Madame Hesper shook off her story and smoothed the black velvet table covering. “Your tithe has been paid. What is it you wish to know?”
“How fares Traven?”
“Are you sure you are not more interested in the mystery played out on your own hand?”
Crystalia wavered for a moment. The lines itched and burned a bit and begged for explanation, but that is not why she had come. Besides, the markings were probably some charlatan’s ruse to extract more payment. If Crystalia used the blood she had split for the mysteries of her palm, what would the Madame ask in exchange for the news of Traven? Crystalia shivered at the thought.
No, her tithe had been paid for news of Traven.
“My only concern is the Hero.”
“Then so be it.”
The Madame took a long survey of Crystalia’s face. The gaze penetrated so deeply that Crystalia squirmed in her seat and wished fervently she could flee. Instinctively, she knew she’d best stay rooted if she had any hope of garnishing the truth from the medium. Still, the old woman could hurry a bit. Did Madame Hesper not realize that Crystalia could only hold her breath so long?
“He lives,” the madame finally stated.
“Oh, thank the gods!” Crystalia cried out. It was one thing for the trappers to gossip. It was another to hear it from the mouth of one gifted in the arts. Crystalia’s muscles quaked uncontrollably.
To think she was witnessing the birth of a legend. Once Traven emerged triumphant from the Plains, all the kingdoms of Sky Shawl would rise up in joy. No mere mortal could survive this bitter winter. Her body felt all a-tingle. This new god-amongst-them had once kissed Crystalia’s hand, the very hand that had paid the blood tribute.
Crystalia asked, daring to hope she might be graced with his presence again. “Will he return here?”
“The bones are not a compass, girl. What I have told you of Traven’s current plight is all that I know.”
Letting her heart settle back into her chest, Crystalia rose from her chair. “I’m sorry. You’ve already told me everything I need to know. Thank you!”
Madame Hesper raised a hand. “There is much more. A prophecy. A divining. It might interest you.”
Crystalia took a step back towards the small table. “If it is about Traven, then yes.”
“There is a price.”
Unconsciously, Crystalia pulled her hand deeper into its sleeve. “What?”
“A favor.” Madame Hesper chuckled at Crystalia’s look of sheer horror. “Do not worry, a small one... of my choosing.”
Crystalia immediately shook her head sideways. She had already seen the type of “favors” the madame needed. “Thank you, but no. I’d best be getting home.”
Trying to rush, Crystalia nearly knocked over a gilded urn that had eluded her view until now. Rapidly, she righted the vessel and turned to leave, but Madame Hesper was not done with her yet.
“The bones are not a compass, but I know where one is, one that could tell us of Traven’s exact location. I thought knowledge such as that might give you peace of mind.”
Crystalia turned around against her best judgment. “Where might one find this talisman?”
“Lucky enough, it is already in your possession.”
Now the Madame was talking like a confused old woman again. Crystalia was a scullery maid. How could she have such a miraculous device? Still, there was no doubt that Madame Hesper was a force to be reckoned with. There was no harm in indulging the old woman, was there?
“Where is this compass?”
“Open your hand.”
“My hand?” Crystalia blurted out.
“Yes, child. The lines. They form a compass with Traven being your lodestone.”
Crystalia looked at her hand even though she tried to fight the urge. It looked like someone had taken paint or dye to her palm, drawing strange and confusing circles and symbols. It must have been another of Madame Hesper’s parlor tricks. “I see nothing but a cruel prank.”
Madame Hesper was not dissuaded. “Watch it for a moment, then tell me it is merely the play of the light.”
Obediently, Crystalia stared at her palm and was about to chide the Madame when suddenly the largest symbol migrated, ever so slightly, to the left. Rapidly, the rest of the markings flowed and merged until they, too, settled back into a steady pattern. It had to have been the fli
ckering candlelight, or perhaps mirrors. Frantically, Crystalia scratched at her skin, trying to erase the lines, but no matter how hard she dug, the markings remained.
“What have you done to me?” Crystalia moaned.
“I thought you would be pleased.”
“Pleased? I’m marked like some sort of circus freak! Branded, cursed.”
The Madame clucked her tongue, and the bat stirred, dislodging a few stray strands of black hair. “You said you wanted to know where Traven was.”
“How do we even know this is connected to Traven?”
“The bones last night. They landed in the exact same pattern.”
Crystalia poked at her palm as if it might snap at her. “Why did you do this?”
“I did nothing but bring the spirit sexton to light, m’dear. Someone or something else seeded it.”
“But who —” Crystalia stopped in mid-sentence as a memory sprang to life. “It was Traven! He kissed me there!”
In awe of the Hero’s power, Crystalia tenderly fingered the markings.
“You said he was a gentleman.”
“Oh, he was. It was innocent. Sweet, really...” How could she put into words the most perfect moment of her life? “I gave his stallion a bit of carrot, and he kissed my palm... right there...”
“That might account for it.” The medium paused, then waved Crystalia over. “Now, would you like to have your cards read?”
Even in the euphoria of her memory, Crystalia shied away from Madame Hesper’s offer. Had she not already gotten far more information than she ever conceived?
Now, from the safety of her own home, she could monitor Traven’s progress. She had enough of Madame Hesper’s vague promises and exacting price.
“No, thank you.”
Crystalia waited for a moment to be sure Madame Hesper did not have another rebuke, then headed towards the door, being sure that no new piece of furniture blocked her path.
7 Folds of Winter Page 10