15
It was windy by the coast.
Quinn’s shoulder-length hair fanned out as she viewed the rough waters beyond the horizon. The Blackstone Cliffs jutted out like shark teeth. The Sea of the Serpent rarely had calm waters. And for that reason, most in Evinar had no desire to sail on it. But once, there was someone who grew the itch. He built a great ship of elm, which took many moons to build. He hauled it across the Dawnburrow Crossings by horse for mooring in the channels of the Winding River— they tied directly to the sea's origin.
When the ship’s bow reached the salty waters, a wave the height of a mountain smashed it into bits against the sharp rocky shore. Thankfully, the sailor survived. But as his ship sank into the depths of the dark blue waters, the tail of a scaly serpent broke the surface. And so the sea was named.
The story was one of Quinn’s favorites. She’d heard what remained of it through the years a thousand times from her father—and it gave her the itch to learn for herself. Despite, not for defiance, but liberation. A woman in control of her destiny was, after all, a free woman, she believed.
The Archway in Evinar was solely a collection of standing stone columns infested with decayed ivy that clung to its gritty texture. The passage through made Abbott disoriented and nauseous. As he breathed the salty vapors of the coast for the first time, they were like medicine to his senses. The sweet scent of sweat was all but lost to him. Quinn had been telling the truth, he thought to himself. How was any of this possible?
Evinar was beyond his comprehension and a well-crafted portrait straight from the land of imagination.
Wildflowers spread prominently through vast fields from the east to the west before erupting into a soldier-like woodland that stood on guard protecting the northern mountains from conquerors.
Ara landed to rest on an algae-covered rock.
The sun burnt high in the turquoise sky while in the presence of a hundred-thousands glowing dots— stars of the day. Abbott admired them. “Are those always visible?” he asked, spinning to see how far they stretched. “Day and night?”
Quinn grinned. “Only from where we stand. I used to sit here as a little girl and dream about them all day long. Legend has it they're made of warriors and heroes from the past. That’s what Papa told me. I wonder if he’s up there now."
The composition of the coastline was a new spectacle to Abbott’s fresh eyes. The sandy water swerved hundreds of meters from east to west as far as he could see and ended in a blurry haze. The presence of a brisk southern wind roared like a dragon in his ear canal, and the wildflowers bowed down in obedience. Its white noise from the mountains collided with stone and whistled blissfully. That must be the sound of the ocean, he’d never heard it before. They whispered tunes welcoming him.
These were forces of nature not to be tampered with or defied. They commanded a level of respect or they might kill you when you're not looking.
“Those are the Arran Mountains,” Quinn said, joining the daze. Highlands of the north laid before a blanket of clouds just before a jagged mountainous region began. “That’s where the Castle of Embir is— our High King’s capitol.”
“Where my eyes travel, my brain cannot begin to fathom.” Abbott seized a handful of soil. Even it felt strange in between his fingers. “The air is sweet and heals my spirits. Who could have designed a place where beauty was its only art form?”
“Soren, The Creator. You can thank him. He’s responsible for everything that you can see, from the Sea of the Serpent to the Arran Mountains and beyond.” Quinn pointed her finger high northern where the mountains peaks of rock touched the heavens. “To the east is the Mornia Forest and to the west are the Spine Mountains, beyond that— who knows.” Quinn knew how to navigate, a necessary skill in this world. “We do have the Upper Kingdoms that go beyond the castle, which came later after the squabbles between man and beast. Though, I’ve never been there yet.”
“Who lives in the Upper Kingdoms?” Abbott asked.
“The banished beasts or so I’m told.”
“Why were they banished?”
“The tale says so,” Quinn said, observing Abbott’s globe-like eyes. “ 'And the green spread like fire across the canvas, sprouting mountains like teeth. Spirit was breathed into wildlife, from the soil were the dryads, and from the warm air were the elves, and from the sea man was born in the image of Soren. The first tribe of man inhabited the mountains and their deep caverns. For seven years, and on the year of the seventh, the sky's milky canvas lit for the first time. That marked the first lunar year and the beginning of man’s campaigns against the beasts.' But that was a long long time ago. The vile beasts of those days have not been sited for centuries.”
“And what of man? If man was created here, from the sea as you say, then how have they inhabited both worlds?”
“The chance at a better life, I could only assume,” Quinn said speculatively. “The Archway has always presented the promise of a better life. Believe it or not, those of you breathing in Woolbury are distant relations to the people here in Evinar. They may not know it, forgotten entirely about it perhaps, but we are all the same flesh and blood. That's why we come to visit.”
Abbott mulled over the thought for some time. “And what of the Vailïc? Are they part of beasts or relatives of man?”
“Not anymore. They’re an ally of the beasts,” Quinn answered. The question shifted the atmosphere around them. “Nothing but a traitor of man corrupted by power and driven by lust and greed. Although creations of Soren, they’ve followed eviler pathways than the rest of us choose to live. ”
“Where do they live?”
Quinn’s eyes shifted west where the thunderous clouds of the Spine Mountains sat dormant. “Buzz has it—word has it that there lies a stronghold beyond in the deep. Although talk has been wrong, I would say I have to believe it.”
“Your father’s field guide says so. The Vail. Where the Weeping Woman resides.” He flipped through the parchment pages until he reached the broken ruby seal.
The brow on Quinn’s face furrowed, and an unsettling look fell over her. “Then you know where we have to go. The men who slaughtered my papa will be there. Your father too.” Every thought traversing within Quinn’s mind nipped at the revenge-fueled fire that burnt inside. “I don’t know the way, but it can be invisible.”
“I don’t think wandering through a mountain range without knowing where to go is a good idea. There has to be someone who knows the way, or in the least— ”
“There is someone, but they live in the opposing direction from where the stronghold is,” Quinn said, tucking an auburn strand behind her ears. “He lives inside the Mornia Forest, Oak Hill, a few days walking if we’re lucky.” Oak Hill was a disreputable place for defectors of the King’s army to lie low. It was also a known shortcut for any southern traders heading to the eastern lands, but few dared to enter the woods out of fear of being swallowed up. These were ancient darkwoods. And it was in the nature of darkwoods to introduce a toll for passage. Outlandish tree races patrolled and governed these woods. They hunted for lost passengers.
They headed eastward towards the obscure woods, crossing through wildflowers and rolling hills, the Dawnburrow Crossing, Quinn informed. Purple and orange streamers painted the far-off snow-capped mountains of the north. The sight filled Abbott with warm blood and turned his fingers fuzzy. Would he have to go there as well? He wondered. What would the journey do to him? A sea of uncertainty broke inside the well of his heart. What had he gotten himself into?
When they arrived at the edge of the Mornia Forest, nightfall was near. Daylight had all but withered away. The foliage was a wall all its own. Raven’s cawed violently in the oiled sky as a curtain of fog blew in.
Quinn stumbled in the dark as she looked for an entrance. She found a small game trail that disappeared in the overgrowth. The waxing moonlight was a torch in the dark.
Abbott saw wind-damaged trees that leaned drunkenly against one another l
ike men at the pub. Their beefy barked edges were more than two arms width wide and had beards that dropped to the floor like an elder man. Furry carpet kept the forest floor soaked with moisture. It felt like sponges underneath his feet. The seams of his boots began to tear, and the coat he wore felt like a weighted blanket with Martin’s book stashed away inside.
“You do know where you’re going, right?” Abbott murmured to Quinn as she made a turn that deviated from the game trail.
“Know this place like the back of my hand,” she said confidently, but even she looked over her shoulders every now and then to see if a pair of glowing eyes lurked about. Woods could not be trusted in the darkness.
As they pressed on, deeper and deeper, the gigantic and intimidating trees became like guardsmen. Abbott could not help but notice how they bent and twisted as Quinn walked near to them. They were watching them, he considered, determining whether or not they were friends to be trusted or a foe to be extinguished.
They chatted unheard-of languages to Abbott’s ears and put him into a trance. He couldn’t tell whether they were part of his imagination or real in the flesh. It wasn’t ordinary. And the farther from the Archway they went, the less Abbott remembered of his ordinary existence in Woolbury. He was trapped in an emerald coffin.
“Are you coming?” Quinn hollered ahead of him.
The trance was broken, and he caught up with Quinn. “Shouldn’t we find something to eat?” A rumble from his belly erupted.
“Can you hunt?”
The answer was no. He’d never had to hunt unless you call scavaging for mushrooms hunting. But never mind that, he was foreign to the concept here. What kind of animals lived in these woods? Were they even edible? He settled his inquires for a moment to speculate.
“If you want some,” Quinn extended a slice of crumbly bread, “Baked it myself,” she said, extending her chest. "It's called owl's oat."
Like a starved animal, Abbott sprang at the owl oat, graciously accepting the offer without a second thought. He crumbled it down like a savage. In all truthfulness, it was not the best tasting bread. It had a coarse texture and stuck to the roof of his mouth. It must have been baked with ground acorns because he nearly broke a tooth while chewing it. Nevertheless, he ate it as if it were tasty. It certainly filled the emptiness of his stomach for the time being.
“Good thing we don't have to hunt,” he said jokingly. “I’m awful at—“
“There’s nothing here to hunt.”
“But animals—“
“Gone,” Quinn interrupted sharply, munching on some herself. “Nothing lives in here. Only the dryads.”
A stream meandered across the spongy ground.
“Who’s this person we’re going to meet?” Abbott asked as he vaulted over a collection of decayed logs. “Can they even be trusted?”
“His name is Bertol,” Quinn said shyly. “And he’s a nasty sort of man—but who else would you expect to know where these places exist? Papa and he don’t get along too well. No matter, Bertol is warranted by the King for treason. He's been laying low in Oak Hill.”
“What’d he do? Steal the crown jewel?”
“Betrayal.”
The words gave Abbott an eerie sort of feeling as they left Quinn’s mouth. Why in the heavens were they going to ask help from a traitor? What’s to say he didn’t betray them as well?
“His crimes are the highest one can commit.” Quinn drew out her special looking-tube and peered down the barrel to measured the distance between a fixed star in the sky and the woods below. Oak Hill was four stars northeast from where they were now. “Darn,” she said, displeased. “Got bad news. This game trail has taken us more northern than we needed. Shoulda known.” Quinn collapsed the tube and stuffed it back into her holster. “We’d be better off finding a place to camp for the night. I’m sore and you look like rubbish.”
Abbott laughed in agreement, although not sure whether it was an insult or not. “That thing is just a magnifying glass?” a grin birthed over his face. “Is that really all it does?”
“Not everything appears to be what it is,” Quinn said, keeping a watchful eye on the stream— her backup breadcrumb trail through the woods. “Comes in handy for navigation. Terribly hard to explain how to works though.”
They set up camped near the hollow of a tree. Quinn gathered some dry kindling to start a small fire. With the help of a few tinder twigs stuffed in her cloak pocket, Quinn struck the dry wood. A spark danced into a flame, and Abbott welcomed the warmth to his windblown face. He just prayed that it would as well, ward off any uninvited spiders. If he had to pass through another bloody web, he'd lie there like a fly and accept his end.
“Is your father strong-willed?” Quinn asked. She'd started whittling nervously at a stick with a small pocketing knife.
“Yes, he is.” Abbott rubbed his hands together over the heat. “But I can’t say for long. He needs help. He’s no healthy— has been for some time.” He placed his warm hands on the inside of his neck.
“What from?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “No one knows. His hair turns grayer each day, and the muscles from his bones disappear. It’s unlike anything we’ve seen in my village. Some think he’s carrying a kind of plague disease, but I know that’s not true.”
Ara swooped down with a bug in her beak.
“It’s hard sometimes,” he confessed as tears welled from his eyes. “He’s all I’ve got. And I know you’ve lost your father, so this all looks pathetic, but I can’t help,” Abbott neglected to finish the sentence.
Quinn whittled more frivolously at her stick as to not provoke tears in her own eyes. Her father was gone. She had nobody else. And the worst of it was she hadn’t even said goodbye. The conversation made her hollow inside to the core. There was no time to deal with her emotions effectively. But she couldn’t dare watch Abbott fall victim like her.
“Mother would be furious with me,” Abbott sniffled. “It is my responsibility to look after him. Who else but I could?”
“You haven’t failed him.” Quinn set aside her stick and piled more wood on the dying flames. The smoke bellowed and the dead of night persisted. “Quit your crying you wuss,” she said, clearing her cheeks of any waterworks. “I’m going to make sure that doesn’t happen. We have a real chance to find him. Don’t you remember what the Guardian said?”
Until now, the Guardian sleeping in Abbott’s pocket seemed like a long-forgotten memory. It might have been his only source of help, other than Quinn, but the Guardian had failed to respond to his wailing questions. Instead, it was dormant. Perhaps Martin was correct when he wrote, “a gentle push in the proper direction” because that’s all it had done— revealed a prophecy and vanished. What more use could it be?
An agreement was struck. Abbott would take the first post of watch while Quinn rested. By this time, her eyes could barely keep themselves open and Abbott had lost interest in sleeping. The unknown concerned the fragile state of his mind. He did not trust his new surroundings.
Occasionally, he’d detect the cracking of a branch, a noise easily explained as the wind. Simple paranoias. But then there were hints of things more sinister than the wind. Those, he wasted more time thinking about: a pack of bandits looking to rob them, a monster in the dark or worse, the beasts that Quinn described in her stories, the ones from man’s first night.
How was Quinn so carefree? She had no idea of where she was going? Yes. Even Abbott identified when someone was navigating by natural circumstance. The soft sound of the stream flowing behind Quinn’s head, was what they were following? Or did Quinn make up what she did not know? A lie.
The polished tube holstered on Quinn’s hip sparkled against the fire. What was it? And why was she covering up what it did? Abbott had seen a real telescope before, and he knew they were dodgy to anyone above the age of twelve. So what was the intrigue about this one? He debated for an hour until he decided to put his curiosity to rest.
Quinn was a
deep sleeper. She snored. Loud. How on earth, could such sounds come from a small person? Her chest mirrored the growls of a bear protecting its kin. It was doubtful she would awake to any sound. Abbott trusted the idea and like an eight-legged monster, he crawled weaving webs in the night to retrieve the polished tube as if it were a fly. Once the instrument was in hand, he retreated to his meddlesome little web.
The cylinder was cold to the touch and scratched to hell. An antique at best, he thought. It was no bigger than his forearm and weighed a fair amount. There was a crack that ran across the lense where you rested your eye. It had every bit of resemblance to what you’d expect a pirate to own. Down to the dirt and the grime that build up in its seams. It had passed through many hands in its lifetime. He had a hard time thinking it had any functioning ability.
He brought his eye up to it. The lens was damaged, but you hardly noticed. He scanned his perimeter. There was one thing peculiar about this instrument because that’s what it was. Abbott saw the trees pulsating with energy. Straight from the soil, like blood in veins, energy surged all around him. The black canvas overhead resembled a flowing river. Magic, he knew. Magic ran through everything. The land, the sky, right down to the smallest clover. It was everywhere. Abbott wondered what his world would have shown. Perhaps, nothing at all. Quinn had said Woolbury was magicless.
The sensation was contagiously joyous. An admiration of life was what he told himself. But surely, if one was to see magic running through all living matter, then one could single out what magic was good and what magic was bad. The thought sailed into the harbor of Abbott’s mind without notice His fingers did all the talking. And with a twist of the tube, there was a clicking sound and suddenly, the imagery vanished from Abbott's sight. The vibrant colors dimmed and were replaced by a gloomy fade. This sight brought no happiness to Abbott. He knew what it was— dark magic. Of course, that would only make sense. There’s always a balance. Light. Darkness. The two could not exist unless together in a combative harmony. This second setting on the instrument may have been more than Abbott bargained for. Before long, he saw what lacked on the journey through this forest thus far— the evil of the woods. Predators. When the sound of a panting beast drew near, Abbott removed the instrument from his eye.
The Shadow of Our Stars: The Tales of Evinar Page 11