“Will he be the same, after... will I be... after...”
“There is no way to know. No one has successfully completed this exorcism.”
Traven nearly laughed. This was the story of his life. Try the untested, the unattainable, and hope you make it out alive. He wished there were another answer. For a moment, the Hero wished he were not the leading — no, Traven reminded himself, he was the only — candidate for The Hope. It would be nice for once to be able to admit you were scared and just too weak to be the one called upon to make the sacrifice.
It surprised even Traven to find that not only could he not shrug off this burden, he did not want to shirk away. Perhaps after all, he was not a coward.
The Hero had feared that someday, somewhere, the truth of his inadequacy would be found out. Perhaps, but not today. Despite all his doubts and worries, Traven could not let his horse pay the price of this quest. For this reason and no other, he would do this.
Nodding, the Hero raised his tiny fragment of petrified wood.
Grave laid a huge hand on Traven’s shoulder. “Prepare, Hero, the stories are grim for all who have tried before.”
Traven indicated his acknowledgment. When had it been any different? Granny would be pleased. He had yet another soul name to be called — fool.
*****
CHAPTER 13
Crystalia rubbed her gloved hands together. The wind was gathering force, and clouds blotted out the horizon. Her only companion on this frigid journey was a full moon. Crystalia shuddered. Even this familiar sight was a bad omen. For in the sky, the witch’s moon hung low, threatening to tumble from the heavens. The orb glowed so brightly that the snowfields might well have been bathed in sunlight.
If Crystalia was to be successful in her quest, she must not let portents such as this dissuade her. In moments of doubt, all she need do was gaze at her palms.
Carefully, Crystalia took off her gloves and held her hands together. Linking her fingers, both palms warmed. The longer that she held them so, the more the warmth spread throughout her body until she barely needed her thick overcoat. Instead of shrinking from this new power, Crystalia allowed it flow over her. She had been so scared, so excited, and so very overwhelmed that she had not truly understood the magnitude of what had occurred in Madame Hesper’s parlor.
The old woman had given her life, her very life’s blood, to Crystalia. Along with that miracle, the medium had also given the girl these incredible gifts.
For a moment, Crystalia wished she had stayed in town and learned more from the medium before setting off. But as much as the girl wished for a soft bed and the comfort of home, the burning of her palm demanded a different course.
Crystalia had thought herself swayed by Viola’s giddy passion, but now she knew differently. Even if she were back at father’s kitchen, tucked into her crisp sheets, Traven’s symbol would still be calling to her, demanding that she follow his path.
No, Crystalia had no other choice but to follow the Hero.
With each step her horse took in the Hero’s direction, the lines of her hand throbbed just a bit more. If Crystalia rubbed her palms together, the skin sparked and a glow spread from her hands to create a ball of soft light. Crystalia could not imagine having to bear these intense feelings of connection if she were squandering her time at home.
Still, it was hard to leave the only place she had ever known. Sadly, Crystalia turned back towards Last Hitch. Her hometown was nothing but a squat blemish on the moonlit horizon.
To imagine, but a day ago it had been her whole world. Straining, Crystalia tried to make out the ramparts, in a vain search for Viola. Her friend must have been detained, for the blonde never appeared to say good-bye. Cold tears sprang to Crystalia’s eyes. To think she would never see her friend again.
Suddenly, Crystalia’s vision lurched and wavered. It was as if someone put a spyglass to her eyes then jerked it away. More slowly this time, Crystalia opened her eyes, but nothing happened. In frustration, she shed another tear, and again the far distance became clear to her. Willing herself to cry, Crystalia practiced this new skill. Last Hitch might as well have been a stone’s throw away; she could see so clearly each detail of the town’s wall.
A light bloomed in the topmost guard tower. Crystalia’s hand rose, and her tears became unforced as she spotted Viola searching the plains. Crystalia waved frantically. Oh, this was such a good omen. Finally, Viola must have made out Crystalia’s retreating figure, for a smile spread across Viola’s face and her friend waved back.
Her throat choked in tears as Crystalia sent Viola a final message. “Good-bye.”
***
And good riddance, Viola thought as she let the smile drop. Would that girl never leave?
Viola swung around at the sound of scraping on the stairs behind her. Crystalia’s father clumsily climbed up to join her.
“Get back down, you fool. Who knows how far the Snowy Maiden can see!”
The man backed away as Viola sprinted down the steps, anger in her voice. “Have you done as asked?”
“Yes, the bodies have been moved.”
“Good,” Viola said as she wiped the blood from her hands. For such a simple plan, it had become extraordinarily messy.
“Here.” Viola handed Crystalia’s father the bag of chutney. “Be sure to break a few of these at Madame Hesper’s back door.”
“Then I’m to raise the alarm and accuse her?” Crystalia’s father asked. His body began to flow and change. Strange appendages sprouted from his fingers, and his eyes began to bulge outward.
“Yes.” Viola also let loose of her human form and grew long, curved claws. How delightful it was to shed the constraints of her disguise. How Viola wished she could transform completely and run loose through the streets, feeding and rampaging to her heart’s desire. She’d been denied too long.
Crystalia’s father echoed her longing to be done with this place. “May we then leave?”
Viola shook her now-shaggy head. “No. We must be sure Madame Hesper is dead by sunrise.”
“Then let us raid the witch’s house this moment!” her acolyte urged. Lust thickened his voice, making it more of a growl.
Viola could understand her subordinate’s frustration. She, too, wished to return to the flaming pit they had risen from, but she would suffer an eternity of punishment if she failed in her duties here.
“The Madame’s spells of protection are still too strong. We need her out of the house if we wish to assail her. Now regain your composure, and do as I ordered.”
Grumbling, Crystalia’s father began retaking his human form. “We should have just slit the girl’s throat and been done with it.”
With regret, Viola also flowed back into her disguise. “And have another Maiden spring up in her place? No, if we wish to be rid of the Snowy Maiden, it must be by her own hand. Her own decision. We will let Winter do our deed. Only then will the Eternal Chain be broken.”
***
Ornery hung to the stable’s shadows, watching Mr. Skelt clean the tack. It was so strange to think of the man as Miss Emmert’s brother. There were almost too many secrets unraveling for Ornery to keep track. And so many questions that he wanted answers to, but he held his tongue.
Mr. Skelt had not spoken a word since Miss Emmert left, and Ornery was not about to break the silence. What do you say to a man you have hated all your life, only to find out he is your caretaker’s brother? Worse, the man looked like he had recently survived the Plague. And what happened to his eyes? It was strange, but somehow the man looked far scarier than in the past.
Yet, at the same time, Mr. Skelt’s manner was more inviting. Despite the turmoil in the house, Mr. Skelt tenderly oiled the leather and quietly cooed to Cinnamon as the horse ate her grain. The man’s opaque eyes stared off.
Face reddened, Ornery remembered what he used to think about Miss Emmert and Mr. Skelt. How glad Ornery was that he did not tell Miss Emmert his suspicions. How embarrassed he would be i
f they knew Ornery had thought them intimate.
“Do not feel bad, child. It is what we wanted you to think.”
Ornery’s mouth opened and closed. Could the whole family read his most private thoughts? “I... I don’t know what you mean.”
The man set down his polishing cloth and smiled. “We were sorry to deceive you, but to make everyone believe that we were lovers, you had to believe it first.”
Tentatively crossing the room, Ornery realized this man, despite his visage, might be the boy’s best source of information. “Did you know my parents too?”
“Sele has told you nothing of my family?”
Ornery could sense the man retreating from his question. “No, but she said she would as soon as we got here. She promised.”
It was not really a lie. Miss Emmert had promised the story would unfold. Why could it not be now, with her brother as the fountain?
“Do you even know where ‘here’ is, Ornery?”
The boy ventured a guess. “Madame Hesper’s home. She’s your mother.”
Mr. Skelt’s dark globes seemed to bore through Ornery’s thick winter clothes and past his soft skin to peer at his heart beating with excitement.
“There’s not much I can tell you. Sele has her reasons for waiting.” Before Ornery could complain, Holt raised his hand. “Yes, I knew both your parents. Your father is due to arrive within the week.”
Ornery nearly clapped. This was the first concrete answer he’d gotten.
“What are we going to do once he arrives?”
“That is for Sele to tell you —” Mr. Skelt stopped as a grandfather clock chimed from inside the Mansion. Eleven peels of the bell slowly drifted into the stable.
“It is late, child. We’d best go in and get you ready for bed. Sele would lash me if she found you still up at midnight.”
“But—”
“Do not fret. We will talk while I get you settled in. There are many things I can tell you. Do not worry.”
Ornery was beginning to like this man and his promises.
***
Traven crept forward another step and reached his hand towards Lauger. Even with the Wolf growling and the Giants closing in the circle, the horse shied from the Hero’s touch.
“You’ll need to be in physical contact,” Grave grumbled.
Well, Traven had already figured that out.
It was just slightly harder to approach a demon-possessed horse than it looked. Carefully, the Hero stepped closer as he removed his gauntlet. Blue sparked and hissed within Lauger’s eyes. But with each blink, Traven could see a glimmer of his steed’s true mind. For a brief moment, confusion and bewilderment crossed Lauger’s gaze.
Pale sent Traven images of bravery and courage. A strength that was not his own coursed through the Hero’s body. Another sensation, one strange to Traven, caressed his skin, the sense of connection so strong that Traven stumbled forward. Suddenly, Traven could feel each snowflake fall from the sky and hear each breath of the Giant behind him. Using his link with Pale, Traven sent images of his plan to Lauger. The demon tried to brush Traven aside, but he persisted. The contact was fuzzy and weak, but the Hero sent his thoughts with the same ferocity as he would fight with a sword.
“Resist,” Traven implored. “Hold steady. Fight as I shall fight.”
Reaching out his hand, the Hero touched Lauger’s satiny nose. The horse’s nostrils flared, but Lauger stood his ground. Encouraged by Pale, Traven held out the petrified wood and stroked his horse’s nose.
“Come to me,” Traven hissed as he sensed the icy wraith’s fury. “Find sanctuary in me.”
“Prepare, Hero,” Grave warned. “The prophecies are ominous.”
Despite the sting, Traven kept his hand firmly planted on Lauger’s face.
At first, it just felt like frostbite, then the cold became so intense that it felt like boiling oil. The pain snaked up the Hero’s arm then, in a burst, agony screamed through his body. In the explosion of energy, Lauger lurched and sent Traven reeling. Disoriented, the Hero fell to his knees, the petrified sliver tumbling onto the snow.
The wraith filled every nook and cranny of Traven’s body. It demanded total domination. The demon was not to be denied. The Hero’s determination faltered as both Lauger’s and Pale’s sendings were cut off.
Fighting seemed futile while the Hero’s soul was being consumed by frozen fire — but fight he did. Fumbling with chilled fingers, Traven unwound the black thread. Each inch of wool that the Hero loosened from the spool took every ounce of his freewill. The cold robbed his fingers of any dexterity.
The only part of his body that still seemed to be his own was his memories. Luckily, these were his most important allies. The rhythms and verses he had repeated so often in his childhood fell easily from his lips.
“The cat meows. The mouse squeaks…”
Slowly at first, then with greater speed, Traven wound the thread around his fingers and began the binding. The demon wailed its rage and shook the very fiber of his being. The Wraith had wanted to spend a bit of time inside the warm confines of flesh, not spend an eternity there, yet the Hero persisted in the binding. He could no longer see nor hear. The entire world consisted of his fingers and their work.
But for each successful pickup and binding, Traven would drop another thread. Fear and frustration threatened to overwhelm his efforts. The wraith sensed the Hero’s faltering and honed in on Traven’s weakness. Despair washed over Traven like an icy waterfall. The Hero was past shivering — past fighting the icy embrace.
“That’s not how you do it.” A voice penetrated Traven’s bleak world.
Lifting his eyes, Traven found Loplop sitting across from him, playing with his own ball of string. “See, you use this finger here.”
Stunned, Traven remained motionless as Loplop moved Traven’s finger and looped it under the correct strand of thread. The boy waited for a moment then sighed, a very annoyed sigh.
“You do the other side! I’ve got my own to do.”
Taking Loplop’s bizarre presence as a gift, Traven tried to do as the child instructed, but the Hero could no longer feel his own fingers. Loplop tsked again and leaned over, blowing on Traven’s hands. Suddenly, feeling blossomed, and the skin along his fingers tingled with new life.
“The rest you’ve got to do on your own,” the boy grumbled as he cocked his head at this own Cat’s Cradle.
On the edge of his awareness, Traven could feel the wraith’s gnashing teeth, hungering for release. Rapidly, he chanted the rest of the ditty, the boy’s voice adding to his own.
For a moment, Traven feared the wraith would allow itself to be bound. The demon shrieked its determination to make Traven pay for his insolence. Each motion that the Hero made was agony. The image of Loplop faded and cracked.
The boy finally looked up and smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll see you at —”
The vision abruptly collapsed as Traven’s consciousness was overtaken by the wraith again. With the effort that the Hero might use to pry open his favorite bottle of ale, Traven put the finishing touches on the Cat’s Cradle.
With each looping and snapping of the thread, the Hero could feel the ghost claw at his soul. Before the very last weaving, the wraith vented its fury as it left Traven’s body. The spiteful entity was not content just to leave as it had done with Lauger. No, this time the demon scraped along Traven’s psyche, dragging out the pain until the very last moment.
Suddenly, Traven could see the landscape again as he felt his neck snapped back. The wraith wailed and screamed as it exited the Hero’s mouth. The stuff nightmares are made of came spewing from his lips. Once the grotesque creature was gone, Traven pitched forward, face down into the snow.
The great blackness of unconsciousness begged the Hero to surrender, but Traven refused. On a fundamental level, he would not tolerate fainting yet again. Traven would not be known as The Man Who Always Blacked Out. No, he could do without that name added to his soul list.
Clutching, the Hero dug his nails into his palm, deep enough to make them bleed. The focused physical pain helped call his attention from the soul-numbing torture at his core. The Hero needed to sit up, get his bearings, but that was impossible. All he could do was keep the darkness at the edge of his conscious mind.
Then he felt Pale’s tongue upon his cheek. Lauger nuzzled his hair, then nibbled at the tips, as if nothing more had happened than Traven napping on a warm spring day.
Slowly, using the animal’s thoughts and guidance as a substitute for his overwhelmed senses, Traven rose from the ground. Still shaky and weak in the knee, he felt Grave’s hand support him. The Hero wanted to shake off the gesture, but he feared another collapse if he did. After a moment, Traven found his legs again and moved away from the Giant. Turning, the Hero found all three Giants down upon one knee giving a clenched fist salute.
Traven had no idea what the Giants were doing, but he was certain that he should have known, which made it all the more annoying.
Before the Hero had to reveal his ignorance, Grave spoke. “Forgive my trespass, Hero. I should not have doubted your claim.”
Traven wanted to ask exactly which trespass and which claim the Giant was talking about, but he was far too tired to care about the answer.
Instead, the Hero tried to think of something gracious to say that might encourage the Giants to escort him off these blasted Plains.
“There is nothing to forgive.” He’d wanted to say more, but his voice cracked. It was too difficult to shout above the swirling winds.
“You have honored us, Hero. Giants are slow to forget such graces.” Traven only nodded, still trying to keep his head from spinning. Grave continued, “Please accept our apologies for our tardy arrival. Pale was certain you understood we would rendezvous immediately outside of the Fold. In this storm, it took us a bit to pick up your trail.”
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