Devin found Obair at the desk, a small book in front of him. He glanced up as the young man came in. “A diary,” he said, waving the book in the air. “Her handwriting is awful, but it might tell us something.”
Devin nodded. “What do we do now, though? I mean, we came hoping to find someone. Do we head back?”
Obair shook his head. “I don’t think so. At least, not yet. There are a lot of books here. Who knows what they might tell us. I’ll need at least a week to go through them and see if there’s anything of any use there.”
“There’s a stone circle around the back, like the one in your glade,” Devin said. “Are we going to be safe here, though? I mean, you said the Wild Hunt comes from your circle. Will something else come out of this one?”
“That’s a good point,” Obair said, glancing at the rear wall of the cottage. “Maybe the books will give us some answers. The cottage is studded with iron. If we clear off the moss and ivy, that should be protection enough, should we need it.”
“There were an awful lot of ifs and shoulds in there, Obair,” Devin noted.
Obair spread his hands. “I have nothing else to offer you, Devin. You know as much as I do at this point.”
Devin sat down in a plain wooden chair. “So what do I do? You’re going to have your nose in a book for a week. What should I be doing?”
“You could always help me,” Obair suggested. “Or we could try something,” he added, as he saw the look on Devin's face. It might come to nothing, but it can’t hurt to try.”
Devin gave him a confused frown. “What are you talking about?”
“Show me these stones. It will make much more sense there, anyway.”
***
“No, not like that.” Obair stopped him. “Your left leg has to sweep the ground there. It’s not just a step. Watch.” He performed the sequence again, slower this time. He took a slow, measured step to the right and then brought his left leg around in a long sweeping arc.
Devin sighed. “I’m not going to get this, Obair.”
“Of course you are!” Obair laughed. “You’re much farther along than I was on my first session. We’ve got three sequences down already. I didn’t even get past the first one.”
“Really?” Devin perked up a bit at that, but then a thought occurred to him. “Three out of how many?”
“That’s not important. It’s enough that you realise you really are doing very well.”
“How many, Obair?” Devin demanded.
“A hundred and forty two,” Obair admitted, in a small voice. “Look, just keep practising this one. I’ll come and check on you in an hour or two.”
Devin gave him a defeated look. “Can’t I at least do it by the cottage? This place gives me the creeps.”
Obair looked around, as if seeing the stones for the first time. “Really? I find it rather peaceful. And no, you need to get the sequences in the correct placement and you can’t do that without the stones. It’s as much about doing the sequence in the correct position as it is getting the movements right.”
Devin sighed and moved back to the starting position. Obair watched in silence as the young man began again, moving slower than necessary, concentrating on his movements. He smiled to himself and then set off back down the path to the cottage.
It felt odd to sit in Lillith’s chair. No, it was worse than odd. It felt like a violation and reading her diary did not make the feeling any less.
The book was more than frustrating. It had the look of a journal but it didn’t appear to have been used as such. Or rather, it had been, but not in the normal sense. Lillith hadn’t written a daily record of events; instead, she'd just jotted down random thoughts. At some point, she must have run out of pages and had gone back through the book, using up any spare space. The result was a tangled web of thoughts, scrawled in a cramped, untidy hand. She used a shortened form of writing that probably made perfect sense to her, but it was taking him time to tease any meaning from it.
He sighed and leant back in the chair, angling the book to catch the light from the windows.
“It remains to be seen,” Lillith had written, “if the guardian can maintain the barrier with the increased pressure. Anastasia has proven to be an apt pupil, but I am loathe to divulge the vile truth of our burden too soon. She is so young. Was I ever that young? Of course I was, yet sometimes it seems as if it all happened to someone else. I am fighting the urge to send a bird to the guardian again. Anastasia is a diversion to me and her training occupies both of our minds, but she is poor company. It is hard to accept anyone else in my space after all this time. The girl questions too deeply, argues too often and trusts too much that what we do is for the good of all. If she only knew.”
He set the book down and stared up at the ceiling. There were so many questions. Who was this guardian the book mentioned? Worse still, what was this mention of a burden and why would she have considered it to be evil? Obair sighed and made his way outside. They hadn’t really unpacked; they'd just unloaded the packhorses next to the cottage. He rummaged around in the bags until he located the kettle and filled it from the skin. At least, with the lake close to hand, lack of water wouldn’t be an issue.
Lillith’s stove was covered in dust and cobwebs, but clean enough to light. He set about making the tea, his mind working as his body went through the mechanics automatically.
The books were unlikely to be of much help. He’d had a quick skim through them. They covered an eclectic range of topics, including everything from herbalism and the medical arts through to wildfowl and their migratory patterns. There was little of any use, or interest.
He left the kettle to boil and picked up the diary again, flicking through random pages.
“She is becoming a worry. Though she knows nothing of the secret, she is concerned at the burden that maintaining the Wyrde places on the guardian. More than once, she has asked why it is that we do not shoulder some of the burden ourselves. How can I explain that whilst the guardian maintains the Wyrde by keeping the source trapped and confined within, we maintain the barrier itself? The truth would horrify her. It still horrifies me.”
The kettle was boiling, but he sat there ignoring it as steam belched out of the spout and the kettle itself jumped and shook from the water bubbling way inside. The book hinted at things he didn’t understand. What did it mean confining the source? A sense of dread was coming over him though he couldn’t say why. Frustrated he tossed the book down and stood to make the tea.
***
Devin slipped again and swore as he crashed to the dirt. He'd almost had it then. There was a rhythm to it, something he’d felt the edges of the last few times, but not quite managed to grasp.
He hauled himself up and pulled the iron staff upright. It ought to provide more support. If he had to move around in these ridiculous patterns, it really would make more sense to use the staff to lean on. More often than not though, he had to hold it on the wrong side of him, making him even more off balance as he strove to keep its weight off the ground. Tapping here and marking out a complex shape there, it was like using a oversized pen, in many ways.
The grass was becoming worn. “Stop falling into it then,” he told himself. His laugh was too loud in the silence and he stopped himself quickly. The stones gave the clearing an uncomfortable feel. He’d always been at home in the woods and here, surrounded by trees, he ought to be at ease. He wasn’t though. He felt tense, almost as if he was being watched, though it wasn’t quite the same sensation.
A look at the sky told him it wasn’t past noon-hour yet. Obair hadn’t come as he’d said he would, but then Devin hadn’t really expected him to.
“One more try and then it’s time to see what there is to find in these woods,” he muttered to himself, thinking of his bow and the simple pleasure of tracking a deer.
The starting position to the ritual was easy enough and he flowed easily through the first sequence. Obair had mentioned that, at some point, he’d need to do the m
ovements in his mind at the same time, forming images that mirrored the steps of the ritual, creating channels and forcing the sensation of the headaches to flow through them.
Devin tried to picture the movements as he made them. It was easier with his eyes closed, though he had to slow himself to keep his balance. How odd that balance depends so much on being able to see. He caught himself as he felt his mind wandering and bore down harder, concentrating.
There was something there. He could feel the edges of it, tantalisingly close. He held the image in his mind and fancied he could feel the surge of the force, as it poured through the channels he was trying to hold in his imagination.
There was a pressure building. It didn’t seem like it was coming from him though, or even from anything he was doing. It felt more like it was coming from the opposite direction, moving towards him. The feeling grew stronger, taking shape and form, as it crashed into the channels he’d formed in his mind and tore them apart.
His balance fled and he opened his eyes as he tumbled to the grass, clutching at his temples as the pain grew and then the scream exploded out of him.
The air was shaking, or so it seemed. Maybe that was just him. He tried to concentrate on a stone, pulling his eyes back into focus as his vision swam. After long moments he struggled back to his feet and turned to the central stones, pulled by sensations he couldn't understand. The air was shimmering, like the distorted air over a fire. He looked about for his bow before remembering he’d left it at the cottage. The staff! He ran for the iron staff and snatched it up, holding it before him like a shield against any fae that might emerge from the stones.
The air became almost reflective and rippled like water in the breeze. The figure that emerged from the stones and staggered forwards onto the grass was nothing like he would have imagined. It was a young man, his eyes wide with horror as he collapsed to the ground, dropping the blonde-haired woman he’d carried over one shoulder.
Devin stared as he felt his mouth fall open. They were human. At the very least, they certainly weren’t fae. He dropped the staff and stepped closer. The man didn’t look much older than him. He lay on the grass, curled into a fetal position, shivering so violently it almost looked like he was having a fit. As Devin drew closer, he realised the white coating on the man’s clothing was frost. It covered his hair and formed a crust on his exposed skin. These two were no threat. They were barely alive.
“Kris han shellern vere?” the young man gasped, seeing Devin for the first time.
He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
The young man smiled then, relief flooding his face, and he spoke again. The words were pronounced badly and with an odd accent, but they were undoubtedly Anlish. “Where are we?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Obair pushed the rest of the books to one side and picked up the diary again. The wind was blowing through from the open window and he'd propped the door open, but the place still smelled musty. The smell of death, he thought to himself. The smell of a place with nobody moving to stir the air.
“A tomb,” he whispered, then shuddered at the thought. He pushed himself away from the desk, scraping the chair over the wooden floor, and walked over to the doorway. The sun was still low over the lake and the birdsong carried on the breeze.
He was glad of the quiet. He’d sent Devin off to practise the ritual, more for a chance to have some peace so he could read than for anything else. The lad...no, that was wrong...he wasn’t really a lad any longer. Young man might have been more accurate, but Devin wasn’t really that, either. He’d been aged by events, by the things that had happened to him. In many ways, he was older than Obair himself.
The young man had a talent for the ritual, that much was clear. He was picking up sequences and movements far faster than Obair ever had. He'd even grasped the concept of making the movements in his mind at the same time as making the physical motions. All of this, however, was overshadowed by the question that niggled at Obair constantly. If the Wyrde was gone, and he’d felt it fail himself, then what it that Devin was feeling? It was the Wyrde itself that should be allowing him to feel the changes in the phase of the moon. If it wasn't there, what Devin was doing ought to be impossible.
He breathed in deeply, enjoying the fresh air outside the cottage. They’d tried to make the place habitable, sweeping out the worst of the leaves that had been blown in. The door must have been left open and then blown shut at some point.
There were still layers of dust in places and the spiders' webs in the highest corners were as thick as spun wool, but it would do for now.
Food wouldn’t be an issue in the short-term, either. The forest was likely to be full of animals that Devin could hunt and, although the vegetable plot at the back of the cottage was overgrown with weeds, some plants still grew there. Coupled with their remaining supplies and the dried goods in the kitchen, they would be fine.
The wind caressed the grass, tossing the tattered ends of the clothes on Lillith’s remains about. He’d told Devin not to move them, that they should rest where they lay. Now he regretted it.
He tapped the book against his lips, stopping in surprise. He hadn’t even realised he’d brought it with him. “Why did you have to be so bloody awkward, Lillith,” he muttered, as he turned the pages. The entries had no uniformity. Some were neat and concise, while others were scrawled. Some were even written at a different angle to the rest of the text. He stopped at random on a page near the front.
“I can no longer bear to write to the guardian. His task horrifies me. The very fact that he is ignorant of what it is he does makes it worse.”
Again, these hints. He tried to force himself not to dwell on it. The diary was completely full, so perhaps...? He moved over to the shelves as the thought struck him and pulled a handful of books off them. He flicked through the pages of each one and then pushed it aside. The books all had notes in the margins but they were related to the text. Finally, he found what he sought.
“The girl was never suited to her task and I should have sent her away long before now. Now she has learned too much and I am forced to choose between continuing to train someone who I cannot trust with the task, or releasing a girl who knows enough to risk all.”
The next page contained only the text of the book. Obair flicked through the rest of the pages, cursing under his breath, but there was nothing more to be found.
He snatched up another book and scanned the pages, tossing it onto the desk when he found only the main text. Another five followed in its wake before he found something.
“I have been a fool. I saw only what I wanted, a girl able to accept the truth and carry on my work. Instead, she was a coward, pressed into service and sullen for all these years. How have I not seen it before now?
It matters little, I suppose. I tested her and she has failed. The secret, that vile knowledge that I have kept inside myself all these long years, has been told. It is no wonder she fled. There is a part of me that envies her. The Wyrde is weakening. Obair, in his distant glade, works his ritual as well as he ever has. I can feel the source is secure, yet the Wyrde weakens. When I work the ritual, I can feel that it does not have the power it once had. Things are slipping through.
I curse those who thought this would ever work. It makes a horrible sense to keep the guardian ignorant of the soul he keeps trapped by his working of the ritual. The power of this soul is all that allows me to maintain the Wyrde itself. Yet, in forcing the keepers to pass down this knowledge, they have placed the burden on us. I do not blame Anastasia for running into the night, I envy her. I wish I had done the same all those years ago.
She is gone, fled into the moonlight. Stupid girl, has she never listened to me speak of the things that can pass through between the full and new moons? I must find her.”
Obair forced himself to read the last sentence again, the book shaking in his trembling hands as the realisation of what the words meant struck him. and his words were coated in guilt as he
rasped, “Stars above, what have I done?”
***
Devin yanked the door open, ignoring the crash it made as it slammed back against the wall.
“Obair, help!” he shouted, as he struggled to support the man with one arm while trying not to drop the blonde woman he had thrown over his shoulder.
Obair rushed to the doorway, reaching out to take the man’s arm and ducking his head under it, so he could walk him to a chair, while Devin carried the woman through to the bedroom.
“What’s going on? Who are these people?” he demanded, calling through the doorway.
Devin ignored him, covering the woman in the blankets as best he could. She hadn’t moved once. If it wasn’t for her shallow breathing, she could have been a corpse.
Obair knelt down beside the woodstove, slicing up a log with his knife and feeding the small slivers of wood into the fire. He looked up as Devin came back in. “Grab the other blanket for this fellow. He looks like he’s frozen solid.”
It was true. The man was slumped in the chair, his face an unhealthy blue colour and his eyes glassy.
“Who are they?” Obair asked, as Devin wrapped the blanket around the young man.
“I have no idea,” Devin replied. “They came out of the stones.”
Obair gaped at him, his jaw working but producing no noises that came close to a word. “They what?” he finally managed.
“They came out of something between the standing stones. It looked like they were passing through a doorway,” Devin said, as he studied the stranger. He didn’t look much older than he was himself. His dark hair still had chunks of white in it, where the larger bits of frost had merged together to form ice.
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