by Resa Nelson
Now, kneeling and creating an outer circle of dirt by yanking dry grass up by the handfuls, Margreet realized it had been a full day since she’d felt the pangs of missing her husband.
Wiping the dirty palms of her hands against her cloak, she looked at the silver ring she’d worn since her marriage day.
Once upon a time, she’d been happy as Gershon’s wife. She wept whenever he went trapping and rejoiced every time he came back home, not even caring whether he’d met with success or failure.
Margreet knew all too well from her own experience that life presented constant challenges. Some months were bountiful, making life easy, and other months were fruitless, making life difficult. But Margreet believed that as long as one had a will to survive, one could always find a way to do so.
And as long as she had love in her life, she needn’t worry about anything else.
But that was once upon a time.
Soon after they were married, Gershon’s manner toward her changed. Where he’d once been kind and loving, he now became demanding—treating Margreet like his servant, not his loving wife! He presumed she owed him a great deal, and he seemed determined to make sure he got his due.
She sometimes wondered if an evil spirit had possessed him, controlling his thoughts and actions. How could a man who had been so loving and kind toward her suddenly treat her so miserably? It made no sense.
Margreet had heard stories of wicked people and sorcerers. She wondered if someone had cast a spell on Gershon. The more she wondered, the more she began to believe it. Nothing else made sense.
Margreet sat back on her heels, studying her work. She’d created a circle of stones, keeping them close together. She crouched halfway around the outside of the stone circle, having already cleared the grass behind half of it with the other half to go. Her arms ached, but she didn’t mind. Whenever she paused to think about what they were doing, tears of relief ran down her face.
Margreet still felt surprised that Astrid Scalding had suggested they take care of the dead in a respectful way. In a way that honored their own beliefs, not those of the Scalding woman or even Vinchi.
At the same time, Margreet pondered something Vinchi had whispered to her quickly: that Astrid Scalding had suffered her own hardships, which were similar to Margreet’s.
Bones had littered the temple ground for too many years, and the hundreds of scalps of hair tied to the limbs of the sacred trees made Margreet ill. But the act of creating the stone circle and clearing the grass behind it calmed her, as did the actions of Vinchi and Astrid Scalding.
She hadn’t felt this calm since she’d lived in her own village with her own family.
No matter how she tried, Margreet couldn’t imagine Gershon making the same decision that Vinchi and Astrid Scalding had made. In fact, Gershon probably tracked them at this very moment, and Vinchi and Astrid Scalding now might be risking their own lives for the sake of honoring the dead and restoring the temple.
No. Gershon would never do anything to honor Margreet’s people. Not even before he’d been possessed by an evil spirit.
The tears stopped running down Margreet’s face, and she wiped them away. For the past several months she’d struggled to be kind to Gershon in hopes that he’d regain his senses and they could return to the happiness they’d known after they were first married. But maybe Gershon had never been possessed. Maybe his true nature had finally surfaced.
Margreet reeled at the thought, placing her hands on the ground to steady herself. In her own village, she’d seen several strained marriages. She’d known husbands and wives who argued so much that they went at each other’s throats like rabid dogs. She’d known some men who treated their wives like slaves. Margreet had always wondered how anyone could be so stupid to choose such a mismatch of a mate. For the first time, she began to understand how that kind of mistake could happen.
It happened because a man presented himself in one light only to prove that he lived in a very different kind of darkness.
Margreet twirled the silver ring around her finger, wondering what her life might be like without Gershon in it. How could she possibly survive without him? The thought struck terror in her heart. But now the thought of returning to him scared her even more. She fiddled with the ring.
One moment she wanted to cling to it for life. The next moment she wanted to take it off and fling it into the woods and be rid of it forever.
But that wouldn’t do. If Gershon trailed them, she didn’t want to leave anything so obvious for him to find.
Margreet fingered the silver ring she’d worn since their marriage day. She’d treasured it like gold, but now she realized it was just payment someone had once given Gershon in exchange for a bit of fur.
She’d loved Gershon. But that was once upon a time.
She returned to work, her energy renewed and focused as she ran her fingers through blades of dried grass and mercilessly yanked them out of the ground by their roots.
CHAPTER 41
Vinchi watched Margreet as she completed the stone circle, laid an ankle-deep layer of fallen leaves from the sacred trees inside it, and started a fire in a tiny pit she dug outside the circle. With Astrid’s help, he had moved all the bones and scalps inside it.
His concentration broke when Astrid asked if there was anything else Margreet wanted them to do on behalf of the dead.
Vinchi paused, and he noticed Margreet look up at the mention of her name.
Margreet raised a questioning eyebrow and waited for his translation.
He didn’t realize he’d been staring at her.
“She is being respectful,” Vinchi told Margreet. On one hand, he was glad Astrid had decided to reveal her identity and even happier the women seemed to be getting along. On the other hand, he wished that one or both of them were willing to learn each other’s language instead of relying on him as a go-between. “Is there any ceremony or ritual we should perform to help the dead find their way to the spirit realm?”
Margreet stiffened as shame shadowed her face. “I no longer follow those barbarian beliefs. Everyone claims the Krystr belief now.”
“No one here will judge you,” Vinchi said. He pointed at Astrid. “She’s a Northlander who believes in shapeshifting. I’m a Southlander who believes in nothing.”
Margreet’s gaze snapped back to him, and her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Nothing?”
“I believe we’re born, we live, we die. That’s all.”
“But what about the place of beauty in the afterlife that the Krystr followers claim belongs to them alone? Or the spirit realm that barbarians believe exists?”
“They’re no more real than tales of fairies and such,” Vinchi said. “I believe in what I can see and lay my hands upon.” He gazed at Margreet, wishing he could touch her. Wishing more than ever that he’d met her long before she’d known Gershon existed.
The expression in Margreet’s eyes softened. For a moment, she seemed to know his thoughts.
Vinchi winced when Astrid jabbed his arm with a sharp finger. “Well? What does she say?”
Before Vinchi could answer, Margreet said, “The man—that’s you—should stand to the north, and she should stand to the south. I will give you fire and tell you when to use it.”
Margreet stepped outside the stone circle and gathered small, fallen branches. Vinchi passed along her instructions to Astrid, who took her place between the outside of the stone circle and the sun skimming the horizon. Vinchi walked outside the stone circle and stopped directly across from her.
Standing behind Astrid and the stone circle, Margreet lit the ends of two branches. Margreet murmured something, but Vinchi couldn’t make out the words. Holding a burning branch in each hand, Margreet looked up toward the sky and lifted the fire above her head.
Vinchi caught his breath when shadows and firelight played across Margreet’s face. Surrounded by darkening woods, she looked magical and ethereal. A breeze lifted her hair away from her face. Her skin glow
ed and her voice grew strong while she chanted.
“South from which the earthen rows.”
Lowering one arm, Margreet pointed one lit branch toward Astrid while keeping the other aimed at the sky. Margreet kept chanting until Astrid accepted the makeshift torch from her.
Now Margreet walked counterclockwise. She lowered the remaining branch and pointed it toward the circle’s center. Halfway between Astrid and Vinchi, Margreet chanted, “East from which the daylight grows.”
Vinchi shivered with anticipation as Margreet swung the last flaming branch toward him. She approached, chanting, “North from which the water flows.” She stood so close to him that the heat from the fire raised beads of sweat on Vinchi’s forehead. Margreet flipped her wrist, pointing the flame toward the sky again. She handed over the branch and walked past Vinchi to complete her journey outside the circle.
She had never looked more beautiful. Vinchi marveled at Margreet’s ease and confidence. She had both softness and strength in equal measure.
He wished Gershon would never find them. Since they’d left the Northlands, Vinchi sensed he was sharpening the metal of his own spirit in the same way he sharpened the weapons he sold. He wouldn’t mind at all if Gershon died while trying to find them, leaving Margreet free to live the way she wished.
Even if it meant living without Vinchi.
Margreet stood in a space halfway between Vinchi and Astrid, the final quadrant of the stone circle. She nodded to the others and said, “West from which red sunsets glow.”
Vinchi and Astrid lowered the torches Margreet had given to them, lighting the dry leaves inside the circle.
The fire caught quickly, racing from the northern and southern sides to meet in the middle where the flames roared and towered high in the air, casting a golden glow on the sacred trees behind the stone circle.
Vinchi caught his breath as the heat threatened to singe his hair. He stumbled away from the stones and into the dirt ring outside the circle that Margreet had cleared. Even several steps away, the heat felt intense.
His heart raced.
Vinchi prided himself on being a product of the Southlands, home of ancient but very straightforward gods. He’d grown up learning to honor and pay homage to the gods by taking tokens of food and drink inside stone temples and hoping his prayers would be answered, which seldom happened. These days, he kept up his worship whenever he returned home but only to please his parents and keep peace among those who had high expectations of him.
Margreet conducted her old practices.
Vinchi watched in awe, wondering if maybe he’d been worshipping the wrong gods.
The fire roared and the leaves burned. The thousands of bones resting on top of those leaves shifted, scraping against each other, groaning like an old man trying to get comfortable in bed. At the same time, Vinchi’s nose twitched at the pungent smell of burning hair. Looking into the stone circle, he saw ribbons of hair glowing orange while the strands curled and dissolved in the flames.
Smoke twisted and rose from the stone circle fire, taking its time to collect and gather into the shapes of people.
Vinchi’s jaw slackened, and he watched in wonder. Made entirely of smoke, hundreds of people took shape inside the circle, some rubbing their eyes as if waking up after a long night’s sleep: women, men, and children.
A thought occurred to Vinchi, and he swallowed hard, troubled by it.
What if these were the spirits of the people from Margreet’s home village? What if they were the people who had been murdered here? The Keepers of the Temple of Limru?
A woman made of strands of white and gray smoke turned to look at Vinchi. Her eyes were empty and hollow sockets.
Vinchi shuddered in terror. But then he realized that the woman made of smoke resembled Margreet, and his fear eased into compassion. Could this be Margreet’s mother?
The woman of smoke nodded and smiled at him, seeming to read his mind. Then she turned back to the other smoke people and reached out to them.
For the first time, Vinchi realized how firmly his thoughts were grounded in the physical world. He’d never given much thought to the spirit realm before, but now his eyes were open and he stared at what appeared to be a glimpse into that world inside the stone circle Margreet had created.
The smoke woman who resembled Margreet drifted up in the air. The flames near her climbed. She scanned the edge of the circle.
I’m part of this, Vinchi realized. I gathered their bones. I climbed the trees and cut down their hair. I placed them inside the circle. I helped bring them here.
The smoke woman hesitated for a moment and then darted to the west, where Margreet stood.
Vinchi gazed across the fire and the hundreds of smoke people who now moved within the circle, seeming to recognize each other and rejoice. He thought he saw the smoke woman raise her hands to the edge of the stones and Margreet reach up to touch them.
In a sudden whoosh, the fire skyrocketed as high as the treetops. When the flames dropped as quickly as they had climbed, the smoke people remained in the air, now rising up through the canopy of branches made by the sacred trees and toward the night sky. Soon, they’d be gone.
Vinchi looked across the stone circle again, where the burned leaves had begun to smolder.
Now on her knees, Margreet held her hands to her heart, gazing upward.
Vinchi strained in the dimming light to see the expression on Margreet’s face, even though the dying fire still cast a golden glow upon it. She seemed to look hopeful.
And for that, he was grateful.
CHAPTER 42
“It moved!” one of the men Gershon had paid to join him shouted.
“That’s impossible,” Gershon said. He still worried about the time lost because he’d been unconscious for days. He pushed his hired men to travel each day, making them keep their eyes open and resist the temptation of sleep.
But now that they’d reached the edge of the Forest of Aguille, the men held back, afraid to move forward.
Dozens of men and women made of ice stood at the entrance to the forest.
“It’s magic,” one of Gershon’s men said, “of the worst kind.”
“There!” another man shouted, pointing at the ice people. “Another one moved!”
Gershon’s handful of men backed away, leaving Gershon standing several paces away from the frozen ones. But Gershon took comfort because the divine creature Norah—who had saved his life—and her manservant Wendill crept toward the ice people to inspect them.
“Mistress?” Gershon inquired meekly. He’d learned she had little use for people, so he tried to bother her only at important times. “Do you believe the Scalding came this way?”
Norah ignored him, as usual. She ran a fingertip along one of the figure’s icy forearms and up to his shoulder while she peered into his transparent eyes.
Wendill answered. “Is this a likely place for the man to come?”
The man. Wendill referred to Vinchi. Gershon’s blood still boiled whenever he thought of the last sight he’d seen before fainting from the evil, tiny dragon’s bite: Vinchi reaching for Margreet’s hand. One thing Gershon wanted even more than reclaiming Margreet—his property—was teaching Vinchi what a mistake he’d made in stealing another man’s wife.
Gershon considered Wendill’s question: could Vinchi have led Margreet here? “He sailed south. That much we’ve been told by those who witnessed it,” Gershon said, thinking out loud. Gershon had insisted they stop at the most likely Midlander port that Vinchi would have chosen. Sure enough, someone at that port saw him sail this way. He squinted at the ice people. “But what are these abominations?”
“Ghosts,” Wendill said brightly. “This is what happens when ghosts stand still and allow themselves to be coated with hail.”
Gershon backpedaled until he bumped into his fellow men. Anyone in their right mind knew ghosts were extremely dangerous and to be avoided at all costs.
Wendill smiled before turn
ing his back on Gershon, whispering to Norah.
“There’s another way through the forest,” Gershon stammered. “If we head west for two days…”
“You do that,” Wendill said, casting a quick glance over his shoulder before he returned his attention to Norah.
Gershon recoiled as if Wendill had punched him in the gut. The divine creature Norah had saved his life. Didn’t that make Gershon special to Norah? Shouldn’t he be her manservant instead of Wendill? Gershon clearly remembered Norah’s touch and the sensation of rising out of a deep, deep sleep that lasted for days. Most people never woke up from such a sleep.
Afterwards, everyone looked at Gershon in awe, as if he were as divine as Norah. As if he’d accomplished something wonderful and inspiring simply by waking up at her touch. Typically, folks showed respect to Gershon because they feared him. But the type of respect they paid him now appeared cleaner. More pure. He preferred that their eyes held hope instead of terror.
“Should I go with you?” Gershon called out, even though the men standing behind him shuffled their feet anxiously, clearly ready to leave.
He watched in horror when Norah delicately tapped at the transparent eyeball of one of the frozen ghosts until it broke. A steady stream of white fog poured out of the broken eyeball.
“She’s setting free the ghosts!” one of the men shouted.
Shrieking, the men that had accompanied Gershon, Wendill, and Norah here to the Midlands turned and ran away.
Too afraid to move, Gershon watched numbly. The stream of white fog swirled around the icy figure before disappearing into the forest.
“Go with your people,” Wendill said absentmindedly.
Gershon reminded himself that he tracked, trapped, and skinned dangerous animals for their fur. He’d had many frights in his day, but he always found his courage even at times that it seemed to have vanished forever.