With her right palm as her guide, Crystalia knew she would not fail. “I understand.”
“Then go home, but tell no one of what has transpired here. In the morn, at the first rays of dawn, enter through the back door and follow the steps all the way down to...” Madame Hesper coughed and sputtered, collapsing back into the chair. Crystalia rose and did her best to comfort the old woman as the cough racked her body. Finally, the spasm released its grip, and the old woman’s breathing calmed. “Go. Sleep and return.”
“But shouldn’t I get your doorman? Help him find the bat?”
The medium shook her head. “Fright is summoning Holt. Do not worry. I will be here on the dawn of tomorrow.”
Crystalia backed away as the Madame slumped and lightly snored.
Concern and impatience collided inside Crystalia. Should she just leave the woman or wait for Holt? The memory of his pocked face made the decision easy for her. On her heel, Crystalia turned to find the door, a quite ordinary door, before her.
“First, child, my payment.”
There was a moment when Crystalia thought of simply bolting. Madame Hesper was in no shape to give chase, but Crystalia had agreed to her conditions, and the gods knew she had received far more than she had bargained. “Yes?”
“Is that chutney in your bag?”
Crystalia had to look down to realize she still had the tote. “Yes, it is.”
“May I have a jar?”
Unconsciously, Crystalia let out a sigh of relief. It could not be true. She could not be getting off this easily. “Of course.”
Crystalia walked back across the room and realized how bare and shabby it looked. If she had not been certain, Crystalia would have sworn they had read the cards in a different room. The floor was the barest of wood, and the walls were unadorned. Crystalia spun around — there was no fireplace!
Questions rose on her lips, but the Madame had closed her wrinkled eyelids again. Quietly, Crystalia began emptying her bag, when the Madame waved her away.
“I believe I’ll only have time to finish one.”
Crystalia nodded even though the medium had already slipped back into a stupor. Picking the richest of her wares, Crystalia left a single jar of chutney on the rickety, stained table. The smell of death crept through the cracks in the walls, hurrying Crystalia along.
In a rush, she grabbed the cracked doorknob only to have it turn a luscious gold in her hand. The wood suddenly took on a dark veneer. Crystalia jumped back and watched the door loose its luster. Tentatively, the girl held out her hand and slowly touched the knob. Within a heartbeat, the transformation was again complete. What manner of trickery was this? Or was it truly magic?
With conviction, Crystalia turned the knob and walked out into a plain hallway. Her feet carried her quicker and quicker through the house. The only thing she knew for certain was that Traven needed her, and she would risk even Madame Hesper’s cruel fate to be with the Hero.
***
Traven crept down yet another moss-lined tunnel. After following the wolf through so many turns and switchbacks, the Hero doubted greatly whether he could find his way back to the cider kettle, let alone to a safe escape. The wolf, however, was in ecstasy.
A constant flow of intriguing smells and sensations rolled over Traven from the wolf. It appeared several Giants that were familiar to the wolf had visited a few days ago, and perhaps a troll or two had lodged here recently.
The wave of images from the wolf made it even more difficult for the Hero to concentrate on the very human desire to map an escape route. The wolf would have none of it. Any time Traven tried to slow and mark his passage, the wolf would give a nip of the Hero’s sleeve. Given the wolf’s large, cold nose, Traven quickly abandoned his quest to leave a trail. Now they simply roamed the empty hallways and narrow passages, soaking up every smell and taste.
Traven was stunned when he turned the corner and found a richly decorated room. The walls were covered with detailed tapestries, the floor coated with the finest carpet.
It was a haven that spoke of warm drink and long conversations. It was a bit spare on furniture, but what did grace its floors was made of the most beautiful craftsmanship. The mahogany altarpiece alone would fetch a king’s ransom.
Traven stepped forward to find a small boy, no more than six years old, quietly playing a game. Realizing his trespass, Traven tried to bow out of the room before the child noticed him, but the wolf casually trotted over and plopped down beside the boy.
The boy’s hand strayed and began petting the wolf between the ears. From the warm sending Traven received, it appeared this was the canine’s type of exploring — finding friends and a thick rug to lie down upon.
“Greetings,” the child said without turning around.
Traven hesitated, torn between his desire to continue his search and to be civil.
“Would you like to play with me?” the boy asked.
The child turned, grinning shyly. It was immediately obvious that the child was far from home. His straight black hair and dark eyes marked him from the Western Drift. The only region that Traven had witnessed such dark brown complexion was near the skirts of the Rolling Hills.
“Toshtosh.” Traven bowed in the manner of the boy’s people.
“Kavasar! Morlorn festi non commern —” the boy gleefully tried to reply.
“Sorry. I only know the greeting.”
“Oh. Well, do you want to play?”
“Certainly,” Traven found himself saying to the eager face.
“Goody! I’m Loplop.” The boy clapped and smiled radiantly.
“I’m Traven.”
The Hero had the urge to ask the child how the boy had wandered so far from home, but was certain that the story would be sad in the telling. The boy seemed so happy and at peace that the Hero did not wish to ruin the child’s good spirits. Besides, Traven had nowhere else to be. Some time spent relaxing might be in order before the perilous journey ahead.
Loplop gathered all the small game pieces together and began explaining each object’s role. Traven hated to tell the child, but his prize pieces looked like something a crow would drag home. There was a tarnished silver medallion, a spool of black thread, and a splinter of petrified wood. With each one, the boy solemnly explained its history and role in the game. Traven tried to pay attention, but the chamber in which the Hero was seated begged for examination.
There was an aura about the room. It was not menacing in any form, just stern. The chamber demanded a price for his invasion. One must learn from its wisdom or leave. Traven looked at the child to see if he, too, was disconcerted, but Loplop simply rambled on.
In some ways, the child’s voice and endless words were soothing and made Traven look at the room with his heart more open. A rhythm the Hero had missed before flowed through the chamber. There was a tide, a waxing and waning, to the colors and patterns.
The wall-hanging before Traven had a background the shade of virgin snow with the tiniest geometric patterns sewn over. As the Hero saw less with his eyes and more with his heart, the simple shapes slowly became a much larger picture, detailing the beauty of the tundra. Traven tilted his head to the side. If the light was just right, even these scenes coalesced into a sweeping landscape of the Northern Plains.
Traven gasped. It was too majestic to view in a single gaze. Every detail of the Great Wasteland was recreated with loving detail. What had seemed like random flecking upon the woolly tapestry now took on such beauty that Traven found his jaw slack and his mouth wide open. He had seen art before, even what the world considered great art, but this was as if Nature herself had painted her wintry creation.
Traven realized that the wolf had settled down on a rug that represented the Fold, a warm respite below the Barren Plains, but still a part of the arctic scenery. Amongst the rug’s creamy angora strands, flecks of green, blue, and red vied for the eye’s attention. He was certain if the wolf moved, the rug would reveal its hidden pattern.
“It’s thick but cold,” Loplop stated.
Traven’s attention was immediately drawn back to the child. “Yes. It represents Winter.”
The boy giggled, “I’m not a baby.”
“Oh, of course not. Is it your favorite time of year?”
“Have you been outside of late?” the boy asked, with enough questioning in his voice to imply that Loplop feared Traven might be the babe in the room.
“Yes. I see what you mean. Now what does this piece do?” Traven held up a tiny ring woven from summer daisies.
“That’s for when you rescue the Snowy Maiden! You put it here.” Loplop demonstrated by slipping the ring over the head of a tiny painted stick figure. “And then she has to help you! Weren’t you paying attention?”
“Um, sorry. I believe it is your toss.”
Loplop nodded satisfactorily and rolled the die. “A two! Yippee!”
The child enthusiastically gathered together a tiny stallion fashioned out of horsehair and a little fleck of garnet. Traven picked up the die and found it had twos painted on all four sides.
“This die… each side is the same?”
“Certainly! How else would we play the game?”
Traven thought about exploring the boy’s lack of logic but decided against it. It was a child’s game, let Loplop have some fun. Traven rolled and got a two — no great surprise. From the pile of game pieces, Traven picked out the petrified wood and a chipped obsidian arrowhead.
Loplop looked over Traven’s selection with a wary eye. “You played this before, Mister?”
“No, I can assure you, never.”
“That was a lucky pick then.” The boy drifted off as he played with his pieces. Traven waited for the child to roll again, but he just kept playing.
“Are you going to roll?” Traven asked.
“We’ve got to rally our troops. Don’t you know?”
“Ah, no, sorry...” Traven tried to pay attention to his pieces, but his gaze kept wandering to the wall on his right. There hung a strange branch arrangement that the Hero had dismissed before as pure folly, but now he could see it was actually a mural of Spring’s emergence. The colors were so bright and vibrant that Traven could not believe he had missed its meaning.
Spring was the season of hope. When the first buds opened, you knew for certain you had survived another year, and even Nature herself would pick you up and dust the snow from your back. Traven found himself reaching out to touch one of the leaves. Spring had seemed so far away, but now the Hero could feel the kiss of sunlight on his face and the smell of jasmine in the air.
“Blossoms make my nose itch,” Loplop stated matter-of-factly.
“Yes, they do mine too,” Traven answered.
“I likes the swimming better.”
Traven was about to ask what the boy meant when the Hero noticed the floor beneath the branches was covered in a rug dyed the deepest blue. The fabric picked up colors from all around the room and reflected them back, just like the quiet pools behind the Hero’s childhood home.
It had been so long since Traven had thought of those still ponds. A pang of regret touched something deep within him, and a tear sprang to his eye.
How long had it been since he had been home? Five years? No, six. His coltish sister, Amari, would be a woman now. His baby brother, Brax, should be old enough to work the fields in Traven’s stead.
Long ago, when the Royal Counsel had come to his district, Traven had felt as if his deepest, most secret desire had been granted. How easily he’d shrugged off his mother’s fear and his father’s caution.
Who would not want to ride with the country’s elite? Who would not want to have maidens swoon and Kings compete for your company? Despite his swearing of the ancient oaths and pledging of fealty, Traven had really gone to Mount Shrine for himself. Compared to his sense of adventure, nothing else had mattered, so he had ridden off with the Counsel.
How time and a few tragedies could change your perspective. Memories of his family now littered his thoughts. The Hero could not imagine his siblings being raised in an eternal winter. The image of Last Hitch, a town of hard-eyed strangers clinging to a bleak existence off the harsh Plains, haunted him.
The Hero had become so immune to the land’s hardships that each shire had blended into one gray blur. To think of his laughing, rambunctious baby brother growing up under such conditions pained the Hero. The devastating, indestructible armies of the Winter King had to be halted. Somehow, Traven had to find a way to coax Spring to fight for her rightful place in the changing of the seasons.
“Nobody but you wants to come out and play.”
It took Traven a moment to reorient to the present and answer the boy. “That’s too bad. You could ask the Faery.”
Loplop gave the Hero another incredulous look.
Traven agreed with the boy’s assessment of the Faery. “Maybe the wolf would play?”
“He just chews up the pieces, and then I have to find new ones.”
Traven smiled. The Hero could imagine the wolf doing just that. “What do we do from here?”
“Um, make your castle out of the sand? You know?”
Traven found that the floor off to his left was covered in a rug that was not only the color of a sand dune, but had the same warm, gritty texture. The Hero followed Loplop’s lead and began building a small sandcastle.
Traven hated to say it, but the child was far more efficient than he. The Hero tried to stay focused on his task, but the multi-hued wall covering above the sand refused to release his eyes — not until he saw the essence of Summer in those symphony of colors. How easily it became to conjure the smell of freshly cut hay, to feel the sweat dripping down your back at midday, with the hard morning’s work behind you and the long afternoon in front of you.
Summer burned hot, but it gifted you with a sense of vitality. You were so in tune with your body that you could feel the pores of your skin.
Why had Summer not shown its face these past years? Its heat alone should have sent Winter scurrying back to his Icy Citadel. Why were all the seasons suddenly subservient to the old god? The scholars could bicker and debate, but no one knew for sure. Here though, in this room, Traven felt that if he spent enough time, he might divine the answer.
“You done yet?” Loplop asked.
Traven looked down to find he had barely created a crude battlement, let alone a whole castle, but the Hero nodded.
“Good, now we must pray. Then the battle begins!”
Traven thought he had been unsure of the rules before. Now he was certain that the child was just making them up as he went along. “All right,” Traven said as he closed his eyes to pray.
“What are you doing?” Loplop asked.
“Getting ready to pray...”
“With your eyes shut? How can you see in the dark?”
“Um…” Traven was about to explain but realized it did not really matter. He could pretend to pray as easily with his eyes open.
“You ready?”
“Yes.”
“Go!” the boy gleefully shouted and began looking at the rug beneath his feet. “The first one to the bottom wins!”
The first one to the bottom of what? Traven wanted to ask, but knew better. The child’s answer would just give him more inconsistent rules. Instead, the Hero simply looked down. Traven would have to leave soon, and he might as well play along with the boy until the wolf decided to rise again.
To his surprise, Traven found the carpet was not made of any fiber, but instead was a blanket of fall leaves. Now that he paid attention, Traven noticed the brown, gold, red, and yellow leaves crackled under foot. Even the smell of a recent rain shower graced the room. There were mysteries under this carpet. As the world prepared for winter, Fall gathered the past year’s bounty and stored it away to give as a late Yuletide present to her sister, Spring.
“Psst...” Loplop whispered, acting as if they were cheating a bit. “It’s my favorite too.”
Traven was going to answer, but the boy’s eyes were riveted to the floor again. Loplop was right. Fall was also the Hero’s favorite. It was harvest time — season of feasts and fairs. Traven could smell his Granny’s Apple Miracle right here in this room.
Really, the dessert had just been an old family recipe of apple crisp, but Granny put in some secret ingredient that made it fit for a god. You did not need a dinner bell on the nights Granny made her crisp. The aroma of toasted brown sugar would waft out into the fields. Even his father, who normally wielded the scythe until moonrise, would lay down his tool and join the family for supper.
The last year Traven was home, Granny had not only won the local fair’s grand prize but also the entire district’s rose of excellence. The Duke himself had asked to try a taste. Granny had refused to travel to the castle, claiming she was too old and too long of tooth for such a trip. It had been up to Traven to escort his mother and older sister to the Duchy’s Castle.
How proud Traven had been back then. He had strutted and bragged for a full week before the trip. Not only was it his first trip up the mountain, but Traven was invited. Never mind that it was his Granny’s apple crisp that was being honored. Traven had used the trip like an ax to knock over the other boys’ heads. The Hero could not remember a time when he was more proud, not upon completion of his schooling and receiving his Hero’s honor, nor even his liberation of Everstand. All other accomplishments faded compared to that innocent trek up the slopes. Little had Traven known how that trip would alter his life.
It was at the Court that Traven had been noticed by the scholars and asked to test for the Great Counsel. His mother had refused and insisted they head home, but the mages had been persistent and sent an emissary down to Magpie’s Landing.
Weeks passed with his mother crying and his father silently tilling the fields. Ultimately, though, his parents had reluctantly given their blessing and sent their son to Mount Shrine. Traven had never realized it until now, but he had his Granny’s cooking to thank for his place among the Honored.
The Hero shook his head. If his parents had had even the slightest inkling what would befallen him on these perilous journeys, they never would have agreed. And right now the Hero would not argue with their logic. All that he had given up, and for what? The world was not any safer because of his sacrifices.
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