The heavy metal would not let the stew burn before it would heat enough for the Doyenne. Nor did Emara bother to rake coals over the pot’s heavy lid. The old woman would not want it steaming hot, anyway.
Emara trotted back to the covered wagon and clambered up its short flight of steps. Her spirit was light as she imagined how much better the old woman would feel once she had eaten. She thought, even, that maybe this would be the turning point and the others would come back and all of them could return to warm southern climes.
Her eyes were milky and the old woman’s gaze had clearly dimmed further in the past few weeks. Only now she looked at Emara with a vision that seemed to see straight through her.
“Aye,” she said, “Time’s come fer this trail to turn. No more to the north, sweet girl. The healin’ that’s to be done has fallen to someone else now. I’m of a mind to trust that she’ll see it through.”
Emara nodded, not really understanding what the Doyenne meant. Of course, that was not that unusual either.
But what the old woman said next made the young woman’s heart skip a beat.
“A message is what’s needed. Aye, a message to draw my Auntie out to the wound upon this land.
“A message to call her out to see if she might find her own peace at the last.”
“Yer Auntie, Grand’mère?” asked Emara, “But as sure as the day is long, Grannie, a sister to yer mother cain’t still be above ground...not when yer surely the oldest anyone a’ ever seen.”
“The oldest? Har! Only words like these can come from a baby like you, Emara.
“No, there are those far older than me who walk upon this earth, child. And I speak not of the sister of my mother, but of the sister of my great, great grandmother. And even she h’aint the oldest still roamin’ this world.
“Her craft has kept ‘er, her anger too...but the time is almost come for ‘er to let go at last. That woman with the fire in her heart might end it.
“But, a message must be sent.
“Emara, bring me that stew now, then bring me the red case, girl.”
The young woman tried not to show it, but she knew her face had blanched at what the old woman had just said.
Never, in all the years she had been at her side had the Doyenne asked for the red case.
Not even once...until now.
The old woman had eaten slowly, without speaking, appearing to savor the warm food more than she had anything else in a very long time.
When she had finished, she asked for a skin of rainwater and Emara watched as she quaffed her thirst.
The she wiped her mouth with the back of her ragged sleeve and said, “Yer’ll be takin’ the road north to find the others and tell ‘em to the south is where all’n you shall go now.”
Emara nodded and said, “Aye, Grand’mère...‘tis a good news and at first light, I’ll leave to tell them to come back.”
The old woman looked at her a long moment, then, to Emara’s surprise, a tear gathered in the corner of one glazed eye then slipped down the Doyenne’s cheek.
“Yer a good girl, Emara. Ye’ve always been. The woman who’s left us spent her life just like you, serving after others and it has worn bitter tracks upon her soul.
“Do ye regret me, sweet child? Are ye not filled with sour thoughts while ye empty the chamber pot and bring me soft stew?”
“But, Grand’mère...what is this? ‘Course I’m not. Serve ye, mebbe I do, but ‘tis an honor and I count m’self lucky to do it.”
Without really understanding why, Emara’s own tears came in answer to the single one of the old woman before her and she went to her knees before the Doyenne.
“Never could I regret the time I pass with ye.”
The old woman reached out a hand twisted with age and patted her on the head, then said, “Emara, ye’ll go fetch the others now, m’dear...right this instant. I’se a callin’ to do and if I h’aint missed my guess, the answer will come from the black boar of summer hisself.
“He won’t be happy that I bother ‘im, that much I know. And fer that, ‘tis best ye go now.”
Emara opened her mouth to protest when the old woman continued with an aged smile upon her lips.
“And when ye get back, why we’ll all turn tail fer the south and we’ll chase the sun until she warms our faces on the other side of the mountains. Yer’ll see, dear child, the air will be golden after these times of rain and sadness. Just like gold, I promise ye.”
The young woman stood and searched for a heavy traveling cloak, even though she knew full well that it would soak through in only a few minutes on the road.
It did not matter, though. The rest of the caravan would not have gone very far ahead, despite their misgivings about the old woman who led them. Once there, she would have dry clothes to change into and would ride back with the others as they turned their way toward their southern home.
Emara stopped as she was about to go outside and looked back at the old woman. She was there, smiling back at her, and upon a tripod stand just like the other sat the small cauldron that had been housed within the red case. Curious, Emara had watched as the old woman took it out and she saw that the case lacked the myriad bottles and phials of strange liquids and powders. There was only one bottle instead of all those others and within it, a dark liquid appeared to shift and slide from one side to the other even though the old woman held it quite still.
Emara had been forced to turn her gaze aside. That liquid and the way it moved made her feel queasy in the stomach, in the same way the red case had always made her feel, only it was a sharper feeling, condensed, as if someone was poking a fire blackened branch into her guts.
The old woman had not asked for water to fill the cauldron and Emara could guess why. The only thing going inside the kettle was that nasty bottle full of sick and ill, and even if she would have hated to admit it, Emara was glad she would not be there for this reading.
Besides, the sooner she was gone, the sooner they could all return and then life would go back to the way it was as they drifted from one southern village to another, the Doyenne leading them as she always had.
Emara looked back at the old woman and the old woman waved her away with a shaking hand.
“Away with ye, now, child. ‘Tis past time fer it.”
“Aye, Grannie,” she replied, “I’ll be quick about it, I promise ye.”
The old woman did not answer and Emara lifted the canvas flap and went out into the darkness beyond.
And as she stomped up the muddy road to the north, she tried her best not to think about the strange liquid in that bottle and the way it had looked just like blood.
And she tried even harder not to think about the dread she had felt when the old woman had mentioned what she was about to call to her with her power.
The black boar of summer. Emara had never heard of the thing, but that did not stop her from thinking that whatever it was, it sounded like a nightmare that would best be left alone.
There are two daughters. Two...and of them, but one knows of the other, ‘til now.
There was a father. But of him, one has done him in.
There was a brother to them both, but he went the way of the father before the father was shown the way.
One daughter took all she wanted. The other runs from the same.
There are two daughters. Two...and of them, but one will suffer the other to live.
The House is still standing, but the family shall fall.
There are two daughters. Two...but one shall decide the fate of them all.
“Now. The second half of the bargain,” the old woman had said to Melisse, and despite the quavering sound, her voice was clear, insistent, her accent gone for the moment.
“You must set aside my words. Keep them in your bosom, cherish them if you wish. Or let the fire within you try to burn them out.
“But before you act upon them, you must journey to the broken tower and there you will be tested. If you survive, you will dis
cover its secrets. And within those secrets, you will learn what the man himself has forgotten.
“I cannot promise that those secrets will not wound you, as well. I believe they cut like knives no matter who dares their knowledge.
“But it must be done. It must, or the wound will never heal for either of them.”
The old woman had slumped then as she finished speaking.
Melisse had frowned as she considered what she had just heard.
“‘Either of them’? I believe I can guess who one of them is, but how is it there is another?" she had asked the old woman.
The reply was quick to come and just as worrying as all the rest of what had been said.
"Oh, girlie. In the stories of men, there is always a woman.
"You should know this by now."
Her strides took on a more measured, determined gait as she left the two gypsy women behind her.
And an image came to her as she moved ever more quickly.
An image of her dear Mathilde, plump and smiling with flour always in her hair. Melisse had never paid much attention to what the kindly woman had said, only happy to find comfort in the noisy kitchen of House Perene and in the taste of the occasional sweet roll that Mathilde would give her with the wink of an eye.
But more than once, that woman had said something that came back to her now with the force of a hammer striking an anvil.
The nobleman, Lord Perene had struck one of the servants for what he thought was his ineptitude and Mathilde had sent Melisse in his place.
Lord Perene always appreciated yer mother and I don’t see as how he could hit the daughter.
Only now, Melisse understood that Mathilde had been trying to say something more. The mother...the daughter.
If she thought about it, she had no trouble remembering the pale face of Lord Perene when he had come to her mother’s sickbed. Never saying a word, he had simply looked down at the woman, his visage grave, and Melisse did not understand as her mother had looked back at him in the same way. Melisse had thought that it had been the approach of death that had emboldened her mother as she looked steadily back at the man standing over her, unflinching, suddenly not at all like a servant woman who had been part of the Perene household from the time of her birth.
Neither of them had spoken, then Lord Perene had left Melisse alone with her mother and an hour later she was gone.
The old gypsy woman’s divination squirmed in her mind as she forced herself from returning immediately to House Perene, rather than setting her focus on gaining the town of Urrune as quickly as she could.
She had promised and whatever else she was now, Melisse was no liar.
The rain still fell and, at her back, she felt the old woman’s power as she made some attempt to awaken magic.
The focus of that power was frighteningly strong, but Melisse knew that her own fire would burn it to ashes should it come looking for her. Only, its intentions were elsewhere and paid the woman on the road no mind.
If it had, her fire would be merciless. Even now, Melisse’s fists were clenched around flames that slipped between her fingers now and again as her control wavered.
Helene of House Perene would pay dearly for all that she had done. That much of the old woman’s divination was clear to her.
The fire threatened to escape her as she strode to the north, her anger rising with each step that would soon take her past House Perene and on to the broken tower of the Alchemist of Urrune.
Melisse did not fear what might come, despite the old woman’s warning. The danger of the tower was meaningless when she thought of what would come after.
At last, Melisse would return to her home and put an end to the claims that she had killed Lord Perene’s son. And she would show no mercy to the woman who had belittled her at every opportunity, reminding of her pitiful station in life whenever she could.
Melisse would show Helene the error of her ways, and that her half-sister could be just as cruel as she had ever been.
Melisse broke her stride suddenly, to stand perfectly still in the darkness. She heard a sound that grew slowly, as if it came from the bottom of a very deep well.
She had already passed by a caravan of wagons just like that of the old woman but she had been moving quickly and if the people huddled together within had noticed anything, she would have been but a blurred shadow that had passed them by as swiftly as the wind blows, for Melisse’s fire had been stoked by the old woman’s words.
But despite the strength that lent her speed that outmatched even the most fleet of horses, she stood still as she felt dark magic rising in answer to the old woman’s call.
It felt vast. Bestial. What came was a savage thing and Melisse swallowed as she realized she had been wrong. That if it came for her, she could not be certain her own strength would suffice.
That faint sound grew to an angry roar that broke overhead like rolling thunder, followed by the ground beneath Melisse’s feet shaking as if giants pounded out a warrior’s rhythm in the night.
Her nostrils flared as she listened, the flame within her responding to the savagery that was being awakened and Melisse allowed that flame to grow as she readied herself for battle should the creature turn its rolling, wild eyes toward her.
Blood red flames licked upon her palms, straining at their bonds, then Melisse felt a second power rise against the first.
It was smaller...quieter. But its strength made itself known as the summoner shaped it into a song meant to quell wild beasts, to make itself heard through the raging anger of an untamed thing.
Melisse felt the two powers rise up and up, then they fell down together as lightning flashed and true thunder rolled heavily in the distance.
And from that clash, Melisse felt only one power that remained and it grew blacker than the night as it turned to the north, the young woman with fire burning in her heart beneath its singular notice.
The thing galloped upon cloven feet and she pitied anyone who stood in its way.
And as she resumed the course that would take her to the broken tower, she spared a moment to think of the young Gitan woman she had met upon the road only an hour before.
Silently, she wished her well and hoped that she would find her way now that her service had ended, the only task left to her that of placing the two coins as the old woman had described.
Only one power had emerged from the clash of strength Melisse had felt, but whatever else had happened, that wild force had heard the old woman’s message and for that, perhaps, she had not spent her last moments in this world in vain.
Melisse only hoped that it had been worth it.
Chapter Three: Raffiran
The sound of chimes in the wind wafted to his ears, but he knew there was no real peace in the sound, intrinsic or otherwise.
The beast before him sang its sad song, submerged in its own tragic existence while telling the tale of deaths that were almost without number, each and every one because of the monstrosity that had found its way home to him.
Raffiran approached it slowly. The Evangeline had become timid to the point of being ridiculous ever since it had returned. On the other hand, he had to admit that he had never seen it so severely diminished in all his endless years.
"The battle must have been fierce and terrible, indeed," he murmured to the feathered creature.
Its only response was to shiver and shrink back from him. On the stone floor before it lay what looked like a shriveled piece of poorly cured leather which terminated in vicious looking claws.
But Raffiran knew it for what it was. A Donglin warrior had somehow found the Evangeline upon neutral ground and had paid for it with a severed limb.
"Of course, they have them to spare, don't they?" he said to no one in particular.
He and the beast were alone, in a high tower top of white stone that overlooked the palace beneath them. No one ever came here because it was well known as the Evangeline's abode. And the reputation of the creature was just
as well known. A more formidable fighter among the Estril could not be found, unless it be one of the mighty lords, such as Raffiran himself, a being of fire and light who only deigned to walk in corporeal form when duty required concrete answers.
Such as now.
"It was a Donglin, wasn't it, dear beast? But of which caste? And how could it possibly know to find you in the world of men where it would have free rein to attempt your doom."
He chuckled as he glanced down at the severed limb before the Evangeline. She shrank back from him, but she would never allow him, or anyone else for that matter, to take her trophy from her.
She would fight until the last of her thousand eyes was put out and all her razor sharp plumes lay in ruin before she would relinquish such a prize.
"You foolish thing, you," he admonished the beast.
"Now who shall I send after that miscreant, Mesrin? Not you...not now. You will be of no use to me for years to come, you stupid thing.
"Retreat before a foe is sometimes warranted...even more so if you were confronted with a Donglin Flail. And it surely was one of the Flail, judging by the state you are in."
Beneath the keening song of the Evangeline, there was not so much as a sound but the sense of someone joining them upon the tower top.
Without looking, Raffiran said, "Do you know that she is the last of them?”
The presence behind him moved further into the room. The Estril lord felt the glowing sphere as it approached then spread itself out into the form of a very delicate, gracile woman.
“No, my lord. I was not aware of that,” she replied from just behind him.
Raffiran took that as a sign that she knew enough concerning the Evangeline that she did not dare approach too closely.
“She is not so different than you and your people, Wisp. Except for the fact that her race did not shrink from our struggle against the Donglin, while your own fled into the world of men, turning to cowardice in our time of need.”
The Marechal Chronicles: Volume IV, The Chase: A Dark Fantasy Tale Page 6