Game of Destiny, Book I: Willow

by J Seab

  The days waning inexorably into autumn kept Willow occupied for several weeks harvesting and sun-drying medicinal plants for Arla and cooking herbs for Twine. Preparations for winter’s chill could not be neglected despite Everam’s frequent exhortations transmitted over the Doma’s comdev from points along his travels for her to get on the trail.

  Regardless, their available choices promised little hope for success.

  A search through the Dolfina Isles for the Bathus Pod was the only option they knew to identify the origin of Mel’s oddment. Willow had called her friend in Dolfina Beach, Art Arthur, but he could offer no more specific information on the pod’s location. Unfortunately, the Dolfina Isles presented a huge area to search without such information.

  Willow had reluctantly admitted to Geldane that she was almost glad. She had no desire to leave her home and her duties for an extended search through an unknown area consisting of a profusion of rocky islands like knots tangled within a net of channels and isolated seas. She hoped that Everam or Art would discover the origin of Mel’s oddment before they had to leave.

  Geldane, of course, had the opposite attitude. He couldn’t wait to get started.

  The time arrived when the shorter days and her friend’s unabated entreaties convinced her that she couldn’t delay their journey any longer.

  They followed the Sevens Trail south, their horses maintaining an easy gait through hilly terrain split by numerous creeks and marshy inlets poking in from Knok Gulf to the east. Lowering blue-gray clouds dampened the enthusiasm with which they had begun their journey; their voices hushed like the dull crunch of their horses’ hoofs on the broken, uneven ground. Stunted cedars and rusty maples broke through limestone and shale outcroppings in isolated patches along the hills rising to either side. Swaths of yellow-green grasses and brush, haphazardly spotted with pinpricks of summer’s lingering flowers, flowed down the ridges to break against their trail.

  Geldane reined his horse to a stop and twisted in his saddle to survey the trail behind.

  “What?” Willow asked, pulling her horse to a stop beside him.

  “Nothing, I guess.” He shook his head. “I just have this feeling.” Shaking his head again, he urged his horse forward. “It’s nothing.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve done that,” Willow said, following. “It can’t be nothing. And you certainly haven’t been your usual carefree self.”

  He shrugged. “I sometimes get a feeling that someone’s following us.”

  “Who would be following us?”

  “I don’t know. Everam?”

  “Everam said he had several places to visit before riding into West Warves to check on something about the oddment. Why would he have returned to Oak Cove?”

  “I know, that’s what he said.”

  “You don’t trust him?”

  “Doesn’t he seem evasive, like he’s hiding something?”

  Willow was taken aback. “Hiding something?”

  “Well, like that sixty-six to thirty-eight bit. He knows what that means, I’m sure, but he won’t tell us. Why not?”

  “I didn’t get that impression. It’s like he said, he needs to check into it.”

  “Or, maybe, he wants to claim the treasure for himself.”

  “What?” Willow exclaimed, so startled she jerked the reins, stopping her horse. “That’s nonsense,” she said glaring at Geldane as he passed her.

  Geldane pulled to a stop and turned to face her, brows lowered, and gestured wildly as words erupted from him. “Nonsense? How can you know that? What do we know about this Everam? He suddenly rides in from nowhere just when we’re about to investigate this oddment. Turns out, it’s a key, a key to the Ultimate Treasure. Don’t you find that a stretch? It’s like he already knew about the oddment, knew about Swiik, knew about the treasure. How did Swiik get that wound? Have you considered that maybe Everam not only knows what sixty-six to thirty-eight means, but he also knows where the oddment came from? That maybe Everam wants to get there first, that he’s working on some scheme?”

  Willow appeared dazed, as if Geldane was spinning a fantasy tale that exceeded credibility. “That overactive imagination of yours is running amok,” she said, her voice harshly skeptical. “Everam isn’t hatching some elaborate plot to conceal some kind of treasure. Have you forgotten? Everam is a Servitor, a person whose most important attributes are integrity and service to the community,” she sputtered. “Furthermore, what about your dad, Twine? He supports Everam without reservation.”

  “Maybe he’s got Dad fooled too. Why hasn’t Dad ever mentioned him before? How well, really, does he know him? It’s been years since Everam was here last. Doesn’t sound like two best buddies to me.”

  Angry now, Willow spat back, “I know Twine. He’s one of the kindest, smartest, and most perceptive people there is. He would never allow someone to fool him that easily. Never. If he supports Everam, then Everam’s judgment is trustworthy in my book. You, Geldane,” she said, stabbing a finger, “are absolutely batty. Your imagination has spilled over into absurdities. Get it together.” With that, she prodded her horse into a trot, leaving Geldane behind.

  It was now Geldane’s turn to sit stunned. Rarely did Willow lose her temper, and when she did it left an indelible mark. Chastised, he caught up with her. “OK,” he admitted. “You make a good point. I trust Dad’s judgment too. I still think that we need to keep our minds open about all this. There’s something not right going on,” he mused. “Everam probably isn’t the culprit. Still, there’s something…”

  Willow mellowed. “At least you brought your stick.”

  “Stick, STICK,” Geldane protested, smiling, back into familiar territory. “This is no stick,” he said, patting the two-meter pole strapped to the saddle beside him. “It’s a bo.”

  “Did you bring the arrows?”

  “Not a bow, a bo, B-O—a fighting stick.”

  “Like I said, then, at least you brought your stick.”

  Sighing, Geldane relented. He never won. They slowed their horses to a walk and continued.

  Evening was approaching when the clouds, engorged from feeding off the warm, moist air pushing in from the southwest, began to spill their load. A gray curtain swept onto the trail, bombarding horses and riders with plump drops smelling like earthworms and fish. Willow tightened the strap on her wide-brimmed hat as strong gusts swept in with the rain. Streamers of light ripped through deep-purple and turquoise windows glowing within the dark swirling masses that billowed toward them. Booms and rumbles grew louder. The land passed into deep shadow.

  “We aren’t going to make it to the inn,” Geldane shouted over the rising noise. “It must be five or six kilometers yet. And this storm looks bad.”

  Willow agreed, pointing. “There’s an outcropping up that slope just ahead. I camp there often. Hurry.”

  They raced their horses toward the shelter as the storm poised its fist to strike. A searing flash dazzled their eyes immediately followed by a crashing boom that rattled their bones. Willow’s horse shied and then tried to turn and race away from the blast of sound. Willow bent over her horse’s neck, patted her, and soothed her with soft words. Her horse settled down, ceased resisting, and followed Willow’s guidance.

  They turned left onto a narrow trail that wound uphill. Water sluiced across a jumble of rock chips and through shallow gullies, the horses’ hoofs slipping and splashing as they tried to gain traction up the steep incline. A few minutes later, drenched and chilled, they stopped beneath a deep, slanting limestone overhang that faced south. The tumult of the storm raged just outside, whipping the trees and grasses into a frenzy. Loose bits of stone and branch hurled past to ricochet off the sheltering rocks and the roar of the wind enveloped them in a maelstrom of fury.

  They dismounted and held their horses close, continuing to reassure them, trying to contain their wide-eyed agitation.

  “Where did this come from?” Geldane complained, his voice loud, trying to pie
rce the bellow of wind and thunder. “One minute it looks like we’re going to get a little shower, the next we’re getting hammered.”

  “Servitor Gerood said weather patterns are in flux,” Willow said, leading her horse deeper beneath the shelter where it was quieter, talking mostly to take her mind off the storm pounding the land so close. “She’s been talking to the travelers at Hevens Inn, trying to get a sense of the big picture. We aren’t the only ones suffering. It’s even worse up north, she says. The summer has been marked by dry spells broken by torrential thunderstorms. It has devastated their crops.”

  “I told you not to bring that little mare you like so much,” Geldane said, changing the subject. “She’s pretty enough, and easy to ride, but spooks too easily. Not like Sir Rupert here,” he said, proudly rubbing his horse’s forehead. Sir Rupert appeared calm, stamping one foot in irritation at the close confinement rather than in fear.

  “I wonder if they need any help.”

  “What, who?”

  “North Ten Sees, on up into West Warves.”

  “Help?”

  “Corn, beans, wheat. Something to supplement their stores for the winter,” Willow said, still holding tight to the reins of her mare, keeping her head turned toward the back wall of their shelter.

  “Oh, sure,” Geldane replied, recapturing her earlier statement. “I haven’t heard. How’s Trace doing?”

  “I think she’s settling down.” Willow continued to stroke her muzzle while she took deep breaths to subdue her own nervousness and project calmness. It seemed to have some effect. Trace’s eyes gradually lost their wild stare. Her tail swished. “I think she’ll be alright now.” Willow released her tight grip and held the reins loosely, giving Trace more freedom of movement.

  The storm still thrashed outside, but the worst of it was receding.

  They waited a half hour while chatting about trivialities. The rain stopped as suddenly as it had started. The thunder rolled away into a distant growl and the skies brightened.

  “Guess Oak Cove is getting hammered too,” Willow noted, watching the storm ease, its gloom replaced by the onset of twilight. She turned to Geldane. “Since we’re here already, should we set up camp?”

  “Yup hup, let’s do it. It’d be completely dark before we could make it to the wayside inn anyway.”

  They unpacked their gear and removed their saddles. Geldane took a coil of rope out to a grassy area a short distance away and set a tether while Willow built a fire from the dry wood stashed at the back of the shelter.

  “We’ve got spice-veg stew or smashed bean and onion sauce over rice,” she announced when Geldane returned.

  “Let’s have the rice,” he answered as he laid out their bedrolls.

  “Would you dig out a couple of bowls and spoons while I heat this?”

  “Sure.”

  A few minutes later, they sat together, backs resting against a flat rock, eating dinner while staring out at the stars emerging from the darkening skies beyond their shelter. A near full moon rose behind the outcropping bathing the road and sloping terrain in a mellow blue-white glow. The fire crackled and sparked off to one side. Sir Rupert and Trace munched contentedly on the abundant grasses at their feet.

  “Seems peaceful now,” Willow said.

  “That was some storm.”

  “I hope Oak Cove didn’t suffer any significant damage.”

  “We should start early tomorrow and stop at the wayside inn for breakfast.”

  They rambled on, the spasms and aches gradually easing from their limbs, their minds drifting toward sleep.

  Willow rolled to her feet, took Geldane’s bowl, rinsed the pot and bowls, and packed them away. “Think I’ll hit the sack,” she said, yawning.

  “I’ll join you shortly; need to check the horses first.”

  Willow sprawled across the top of her bedroll. It was too warm for a covering. She closed her eyes and fell immediately into a deep sleep.

  A few minutes later, Geldane struggled to his feet and shook the lethargy from his body. He watched Willow slumbering peacefully for a few moments, his face soft, then, sighing, walked over to his saddle pack and unstrapped his bo. Taking it firmly in both hands, he quietly stole from the shelter, angling upslope to the left. He traced his way carefully through the shadowed rocks around and behind the shelter and climbed to the top of the ridge. The view opened before him. The long ridge he stood upon ran straight southwest as far as he could see, its crest softened by trees and broken rock. Some hundred meters below the ridge the brighter strip of the Sevens Trail faded into the distance. To its west the land sloped into an undulating velvet of forest.

  He squinted.

  A short distance off the road to the north he thought he detected the dim glow of a fire but he wasn’t certain. It was too far away and within a copse of trees. Maybe it was just his imagination, maybe it was just the glint of moonlight on a puddle of water. Shrugging it off, his weariness catching up to him again, he decided there wasn’t anything he could do about it now anyway. It was time to turn in for the night.