Hazel spun about. She would be ridiculed for this trip, for yet another scandal in her heritage. But what did she care… really? Her life couldn’t get much worse. And to be away from Lady Nora? PARADISE. “Wait, will I be staying… forever?” Wonderful as forever away from Lady Nora sounded, the thought of living with such a people sent shivers down her spine.
“Nay, it will be a short trip… Just long enough to convince the Assemblage of the Wise that you are being trained there... and for the rest of the kingdom to believe you’ve been cured.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means it is a charade. The gift is not something to be driven out of one. But thanks to King Zephuel, all of Castlehaven will believe the tribes developed a way to abolish it. As far as training goes, it cannot be done while the gift is dormant. Though I do have a friend there who may be able to teach you more about it, I have other motives. While you slept, I heard from the Great One himself that you are to travel to a wood in the south where a cabin of logs will be waiting for you. Within, you will meet a woman.”
“Who?”
“She is a prophet, much like me. Her name is Wynn. I have never met her, but she will have known me well.”
Hazel blinked back at him. “That makes no sense whatever. Why must I meet her?”
“She possesses something I cannot give. That is all I know.”
“Very well. It’s better than the dungeons.”
The man appeared distant. “When you meet this Wynn,” he said pensively, “Tell her hello from me.”
“Hold on, hold on.” Dorian stepped between them. “We’re talking about a trip to the southern region. Not only are they feral and uncivilized, but the vicinity’s said to be crawling with sorcerers and the like.” He looked to the prophet. “She can’t go there.”
The prophet put an arm about him. “Thank you for volunteering, my lad.”
Dorian sent him a sidelong glance. “For?”
“Taking her protection under your personal consideration.” He looked to Hazel. “The king will send a guardsman, of course, but…”
“You don’t think a guardsman can be trusted to care for me?” she questioned.
The prophet didn’t nod, but he didn’t shake his head either. “Clearly, Dorian will be much more invested in your welfare than some king’s guard.”
Dorian stepped out from under the prophet’s arm. “Much as I am loath to admit it, I am as concerned with Hazel’s safety as you are… But I can’t just drop everything to go traipsing off with her.”
The prophet raised a brow at him and crossed his arms. “What precisely holds you back?”
The defiant shimmer in Dorian’s eyes faded. “…Plans.”
The prophet smirked. He knew as well as Hazel that Dorian’s plans weren’t likely to be… above board. “The two of you will leave as soon as you are packed. Dorian, you will be recompensed for your trouble from the king’s own treasury. It will be good for you to experience the earning of an honest wage.”
Dorian raised a brow. “I won’t stoop so low as to take payment for protecting a friend.”
The prophet smirked and started away. “Yes, you will,” he called back.
Hazel eyed Dorian. “Are you certain you wish to come?”
Placing hands in his pockets, he replied with a huff, “It’ll be an adventure.”
* * *
Hazel smothered a grin as Dorian tugged at the sleeves of his new clothes, a gift from the prophet—likely more for her sake than his. After all, matters between Kierelia and the southern tribes, though currently amicable, had never been smooth. As a representative of her kingdom, it would do her credit to appear with a personal servant who was well-dressed enough to make her appear like the noble she had never much felt herself to be.
Dorian caught her eyeing him. With the widening of his eyes, he pointed to the baggy lace at the cuff of his sleeve. “You’re not telling me the men of your class wear such frivolous garments?”
She shook her head. “But the high servants do. You’re apparently here to wait upon me.”
He leaned back, crossing his arms. “That’s not happening.”
She grinned. “Of course not, but you must look like an official of some kind and it is prohibited for you to dress like a royal guardsman.”
He shook his head. “Never in my life did I think I’d be headed south to visit the tribes.”
“Nor I…”
“You’re frightened.”
“I am.”
“You’ve no reason to be. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
She grinned widely this time. Dorian didn’t usually speak this way—didn’t much care for sharing any kind of sentiment in general. “Thank you, Dorian.”
Uncrossing his arms, he shrugged. “It’s what I’m paid for.”
Hazel had known it would likely be nightfall by the time they arrived at the most northern of the southern tribes, but she hadn’t realized they’d be forced to sleep in the carriage most of that night. It wasn’t until dawn that the transport entered an ill-worn forest path.
The forest was mostly painted with the green of cedar tree leaves, but it possessed splashes of teal moss up and down nearly every tree trunk, with a gold moss draped from lower branches. The gold appeared purposely placed and she concluded it must possess some use.
At last, she caught sight of the first log structure, before which stood a fur-clad giant of a man with arms crossed and a bow and arrows slung over his shoulder. He did not appear genial. Her heart leaped into her throat when the carriage was drawn to a stop before him. With almost too much gusto, the door was flung open and a great, gloved hand reached in. It was a moment before she realized she was expected to take it. The true girth of the fellow was revealed as he aided her from the carriage steps and onto the dirt-laden path.
“So, you are meant to be one of us, are you?” he asked with hands on hips.
She gaped up at his form and nodded. “I…” She cleared her throat. “I am.”
A moment he eyed her before throwing his head back in laughter. “Well, I have my doubts,” he said at last, “but we shall see.” He then stole the trunk from her guardsman and started down the path. Uncomfortably, Hazel looked to the stranger, then to Dorian, who remained to gather the rest of their belongings.
“Come along, Lady Hazel of Kierelia,” the man called after her. “I will show you the sights.”
She looked once more to Dorian, who raised an amused brow and gestured for her to follow the stranger.
“You… are the prophet’s friend?” she asked once she’d caught up.
He nodded. “Blythe is the name, in case you hadn’t heard it. And this…” He used his elbow to gesture down the path before them. “…is the Clan of the Galmoira.”
A line of log cabins stretched before her as the path dwindled into smaller ones, none of which they followed very closely. What she noted next were the draping lines of rope strung throughout from which hung more of the gold moss. As it was altogether unattractive, she couldn’t imagine why this was done.
Outside many of the dwellings were blue-moss covered stumps from which tiny-leaved ferns sprouted, while every cabin was covered with ivy vines. This made it almost difficult to recognize the village for what it was. Moreover, it was not sizable, at least by her accustomed standards. It contained but eighteen shelters.
More interesting than the natural landscape were the people they passed, dressed in fur clothes adorned with draping strands of beads and feathers, with bow and arrows strapped upon nearly every back. Never in her life had she seen people sport leather gloves and boots, trimmed in still more fur. But it was the short fur skirts on many of the men that made her brows draw upward. Moreover, her kingdom rarely saw a bow, let alone these long ones. The sword was the favored weapon of Kierelia, prized above all others. Yet, not one person here carried one. Her poor guardsman would stand out like a sore thumb.
“Galmoira, you say?” she inquired of her guide. �
��Who is that?”
She caught his smirk, revealing the Galmoira must not be a person at all. “You will see,” was his reply.
When they reached the smallest of the cabins, the man hoisted her trunk onto his shoulder and opened the door wide for her. “This, my lady, is where you will reside.”
Stepping inside, she was surprised by its pleasantness. Lit by many candles—ten total—it possessed but a small wooden desk and chair and a Kierelian bed layered with frothy furs. This was the extent of the décor, but it somehow put her at her ease.
“This is where your king would be housed if ever he was stalwart enough to venture into our territory,” Blythe commented.
She turned back as he set her trunk before the foot of the bed. “The king?”
He nodded. “It is an extravagance to possess a single-man dwelling in our region. Considered wasteful to house no less than two families a home. We have received but your king’s lowest ranking emissaries, so they were sheltered along with other clansmen. You may as well know it is considered an insult that King Zephuel has not paid his visit of yet, though he has sat upon that throne two-hundred-thirty Kierelian seasons.” He looked to her as if expecting an explanation from her.
“I confess… I have little to do with King Zephuel’s affairs. But I am greatly honored to be lodged in this fine structure. It is very appealing.”
The man shrugged. “You are the noblest-born emissary we have received. As its first guest, I should hope you’d feel no less.”
She merely nodded, uncertain of how to respond.
The large hand was held out to her. Placing her tiny one into it, hers was vigorously shaken. Before stepping out, he drew near once more with, “We will soon determine if you are truly kin.”
She blinked after him as he strode back down the path. What if she wasn’t? Had there been a threat in the statement? Would the king pay for her lack of their blood? For the first time, she hoped the prophet had been correct… that she would not prove a disappointment. And he had called her noble-born, a notion that had not occurred to her. Her own people did not treat her as nobility. She was not even certain she still was, given her parents’ banishment. After all, their lands and riches had been seized. She had begun to feel herself merely a homeless orphan-prisoner.
6
Hazel spent hours alone in her small cabin before Dorian arrived with bread and a berry spread, along with a portion of dried pork. This came from Blythe’s wife as a mid-day repast.
“Try the meat, I’m telling you,” Dorian said, stealing a chunk of it. “I’ve got to take some of this back. Could sell it for a fine penny. And have you noted how bulky the men are here? My boss would pay men like these handsomely. Of course, they’d have to drop the skirts… or skelts, as they’re called. Seems they’re meant to display their muscular legs… and the hairier the better.”
Hazel had to chuckle at that but was cut short by her owns concerns. “I don’t think they like me being here.”
“I agree. Bread and berries in your cabin don’t make for the warmest of welcomes.”
This had been her thinking.
“Blythe doubts I possess their blood. I would as well except… Did you notice their skin?”
“Dark… almost a tint of green.”
She held out her own arm. “You see, mine is not so dark, but it has always had that sort of tint in contrast to, say, the creaminess of a typical Kierelian.”
He examined her thoughtfully before, “I suppose I had noticed you look different somehow, but as you are so pale, I couldn’t put my finger on it.” He examined his own arm. “I am also browner than most Kierelians.”
She nodded. She doubted her skin was proof enough of the shared bloodline anyway. Perhaps it was easily diluted… though it had survived in enough wholeness to bestow her with a “gift” that was supposed to be extinct.
The two spent the remainder of the day in the cabin. Dorian had tried to convince her to explore with him, but she lacked the courage. Knowing how he hated tedium, she had packed a set of chess, so they were not without entertainment.
When night fell, a knock sounded at the door. Dorian answered to a group of giggling girls not much younger than Hazel. They were tittering over the sight of her friend, which discomfited her until she realized they must find him handsome. With his gray-black hair, he was quite unique to them, as he was in Kierelia as well. But he also possessed bright, amiable eyes and a quick smile for a group of silly girls.
“I don’t suppose you affable ladies are here to escort us to some nourishment?” he asked, perhaps more amicably than was necessary.
The girls giggled again before the tallest (a head and a half taller than Hazel) stepped proudly up to her. “Lady Hazel of Kierelia, evening meal is served.”
The girls started off. Hazel’s stomach growling, she wasted no time in following after them. But she froze as she beheld the spectacle overhead. Now, she learned why the suspended ropes of moss. Upon them hung hundreds of stunning winged-creatures who, like lanterns, glowed to illuminate the whole village.
She raced up to the girl who had announced supper. “What are these… these things?” She gestured to them.
“Galmoira,” the girl replied. “Their feet favor the gold moss, so we make it plentiful where light is needed. They shine all the night long until the sun rises again.”
Hazel surveyed them with wide eyes. “Absolutely fascinating.”
The girl grinned. “We are the only clan that provides a resting place for them.”
Hazel nodded with eyes alight. Thus, it was the name of their clan, was what they were identified for. She could see why. It was enchanting—like legends of the fairy-world she’d grown up reading about.
But the spectacle only increased in beauty when she arrived at a dining area with tree stump seats surrounding numerous bonfires. Above this were dozens of golden ropes upon which the greatest number of the Galmoira illumined the diners below.
Dorian gasped, so taken by the spectacle that he bumped into her as she halted to take it in.
“How have we not heard of this in Kierelia?” she murmured.
“Well, you know...,” he said. “Kierelians do not visit the south for fear they still secretly possess your gift.”
“We are fools,” the guardsman, whom Hazel had yet to meet, spoke behind them.
She turned to him with new eyes. He was older than most guardsman, she knew, but she had not considered what that had to do with his being selected to escort her south. Seeing his eyes full of as much wonder as she felt, she was certain he’d been the sort to volunteer for the journey.
“I am Lady Hazel,” she said as they were led to a firepit at the center.
“I am well aware,” he replied with a smile. With a bow, he added, “I am Guardsman Gunther.”
She curtsied. “Pleasure to meet you, Guardsman Gunther.”
Taking a seat upon the stump beside her, he replied with sincerity, “The pleasure is mine, Lady Hazel.”
Soon, skewers of uncooked food were offered to them and they were directed to hold them over the flames. The first of these was a chopped meat glazed in sticky sauce. Once cooked, it warmed the insides with its piquant seasoning.
Hazel closed her eyes as she relished another bite of the scrumptious meat, so tender it nearly slipped off the stick. She was still groaning over the luscious dish when an older clansman sat at her other side. Along with him were a set of young men whom she guessed to be his grandsons… perhaps great-grandsons. He was well-furred but did not sport the skelt. Likely, his legs were to frail from age.
The man smiled at her ecstasy over the morsel. “You like the sauce?” he asked.
She nodded eagerly.
He pointed her attention to Dorian and the guardsman, who appeared to be in discomfort and were discreetly spitting out the food.
“Dorian,” Hazel chastised, “whatever is wrong with you? This is delightful.”
He only grimaced and offered her his skewer.
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“It is too bitter for them,” the old man informed.
“But… it is sweet and...”
“Spiced,” he supplied. “It is a seasoning that northerners detest. Seems you are the exception.”
Hazel had to wonder why it had been offered to them when it was known the Kierelian guests would detest it. Was it some kind of test for her? Or did they not care if guests enjoyed their stay?
The man appeared to follow her thoughts as he said, “Northerners should learn to appreciate what they are given—too spoiled.” The last word was accompanied by his spitting into the fire.
To her surprise, she was taken in by his behavior. She smiled and finished Dorian’s skewer.
Next came spits of chopped squash, purple root and sprouts. The vegetation charred on the outside while their centers remained fluffy and tender. Hazel thought it nearly as delicious as the glazed meat but pitied her Kierelian attendants when she realized it was coated in the same seasoning as before.
This issue was remedied, however, when a sizable, speared fish was brought to each of them. This was left completely unseasoned, for it possessed its own sweet, creamy flavor. Dorian and Gunther ate it ravenously and asked after second and thirds.
Plucking flakes of meat from his fish, the old man turned to her with pleasure. “You enjoy our southern offerings?”
“Perhaps more so than that in Kierelia,” she said easily.
At that, the man released a bout of laughter and beat his knees. “You are a great lady, a great lady.”
She grinned in confusion but happily accepted the next skewer as it was brought to her.
“That you will like most of all,” he informed. He proceeded to watch her until she had taken her first bite of the shining, sticky sphere.
“Oh…” she gasped as the warm fruit hit her taste buds. “It is an apple… dipped in toffee!”
The old man nodded with satisfaction and ate of his own dessert, revealing this was a personal favorite.
Once the meal was complete, the elderly man drew to his feet, then held out a hand to help Hazel to hers. “You are most welcome in the Clan of Galmoira, Lady Hazel.”
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