Spireseeker

E.D.E. Bell

Atthis Arts, LLC

SPIRESEEKER

Copyright © 2013 by E.D.E. Bell

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

Chapter title illustrations by Kyle Walblay

Map of Fayen by G.C. Bell

Editorial Services by Herta B. Feely, Chrysalis Editorial

Copy Edit by Rita Ebert

Published by Atthis Arts, LLC

Centerville, Ohio

www.atthisarts.com

First Edition: Published November, 2013

ISBN: 978-0-9896992-3-5

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This book is dedicated to fantasy authors.

For shires and spires

To which I aspire

Contents

Cover

Map of Fayen

Prologue

The Illness

1 Crutches

2 Salting the Soup

3 Chucking the Quince

4 At Kelpfinder’s Cottage

5 Murder

6 Leaving Home

Snowfall

7 Mainland

8 The Choice of Path

9 Loyalties

10 The Betrayed

11 Farewell

The City

12 Byrntown

13 The Effects of Fine Wine

14 Snakeskin Square

15 A Lack of Information

16 Knives

17 The Dwarves

18 The Way Forward

The Search

19 The River

20 Barns

21 Commerce City

22 Bread and Justice

23 Bumps

24 The Cat

25 Kick and a Nick

26 Foothills

27 Sanctuary

Sanctuary

28 Trumpet Mushrooms

29 The Dream

30 A Garden Visit

31 The Council

32 Secrets

33 Under the Spire

34 Messages

35 The Human Blessing

36 Beast of Burden

37 The Descent

38 The Beginning of the End

Drylands

39 Revelations

40 The Placement

41 The Bite of the Fang

42 To Hear the News

43 The Pride

44 The Emerald Flame

45 The Traitor

46 Hope’s Choice

47 The Red Sand

48 Casualties of War

The Cure

49 Sacrifice

50 The Master and the Slave

Epilogue

Many

Special Thanks To:

George Bell—For everything

Herta B. Feely—For the honesty

Nancy Ebert—For being my Creator

Vashti and Theano—For the company

Jenn Dorohoff—For such pivotal advice

My Friends and Family—For the support

Marquette, Michigan—For the hospitality

Brandon Sanderson—For wishing me luck

Anna Rettberg—For the amazing cover art

Kyle Walblay—For your charming illustrations

Gwynn, Vance, and Vera Bell—For letting Mama write

Dave Ebert—For the idea

*Bow*

Prologue

I am honored to have this opportunity to present myself.

The merchant, eyes brimming with anticipation, reached up and haltingly wiped an elaborate cloth across his glistening brow. I’ve worked a long time to provide such exotic fare, and I pray that you are interested in a long-term arrangement, he said. Perhaps if your master is pleased I will be able to return with my full offering.

The Seer observed the merchant coolly, disgusted by his fancy clothes and excess of jewelry. Little did the man know what awaited him, he thought with a certain malicious ambivalence. A contorted smile formed on his lips, and his voice took on a terrible tone.

Silence. You sound ridiculous.

The Seer finished tethering the horse and small carriage to a plain metal ring protruding from the rock, at the base of the large mountain known as Agarma. Around them the harsh, arid land was bisected only by a long, dusty road that led to the cave-like opening bored into the rock before them.

The Seer was gaunt, scraggly, and wore a constant expression of irritation. In stark contrast to the gaudily dressed merchant, the Seer’s robes were a dull gray, frayed around the hemline from dragging on the ground, as if they had been improperly fitted. Embroidered over his chest was a fang, bordered in a scarlet thread. His only adornment was a leather cord that he wore around his neck, one end of which was tucked into his robes.

The merchant started to continue, but the Seer’s glare stopped him. I am not interested in your prattle. I would not have even brought you here had the conditions set by the Exalted not been so specific. Now, remain silent.

The merchant smiled. He had learned long ago how to react to people of power or their servants, no matter how unpleasant.

Yes, Sir. Of course. The merchant exhaled, his gold teeth briefly reflecting the evening sun. The Seer caught the odor of garlic on the man’s breath, and snarled in disgust.

Through here, said the Seer, as he pointed to the narrow tunnel leading into the side of the mountain. The Exalted awaits us inside. Now, move. The merchant’s smile disappeared as he stumbled forward, stepping warily into the cold musty tunnel. His hesitation was cut short as the Seer proceeded behind him, forcing the merchant forward. Keep moving; we’re almost there.

As they approached the end of the tunnel, the Seer called out, The seventh Seer approaches. As they stepped into the large chamber, cut into the side of the mountain, two muscular men stepped in front of them. They inspected the Seer carefully before letting him pass. They barely glanced at the merchant, as the Seer led him toward a large mechanical lift.

Where is she? the merchant asked, now with a tremor to his voice. He had not expected the journey to be quite this strange.

The Exalted awaits atop the ledge above. Here, push and pull on this lever to operate the lift. I will control the other side. The merchant stepped onto one platform, and the Seer onto another. As they moved the levers in concert, the two platforms slowly ascended the side of the cliff. As they reached the top, the Seer deftly stepped onto the ledge of rock. The platforms tipped and spun violently, flinging the merchant off. He screamed shrilly as he plunged downward to his death.

The Seer paid the man’s screams no mind. Instead he checked to ensure his leather cord was still in place, and began to walk up the steps to where the Exalted awaited his news.

Aegra actually hated her fortress. She was better than this, better than this place. The time had come to leave, and she was growing impatient.

Yet, she was also proud of the immense lair she had constructed within the mountain Agarma. Not having left the boundaries of her lair for more than a quarter millennium, she appreciated its cleverness almost as much as she resented its imprisonment.

The narrow tunnel leading into her fortress was the only way in or out. It was small enough to force people to dismount before entering, and also to ensure they moved through slowly, giving her security time to react should an unwelcome visitor dare to approach.

The tunnel opened into a massive cavity, carved into the inside of the mountain. It was basically a huge cave, but with a ceiling so high you could not really see the top from below, certainly not by torchlight. High above, within the lofty cavity was a ledge upon which Aegra lived. The only way to the top was by scaling the rocks within the cavity, either by manually operating the lift she’d designed and created, or by being extended a cage on a chain.

But the cages remained on the ledge with Aegra at all times, only lowered at her command. She never allowed anyone to ascend using the cage unless it was an animal unable to fly and unable to work the lift’s controls; for humans, she always preferred the lift and the sacrifice it demanded. And normally she preferred to work with humans; they were intelligent yet easy to manipulate.

Aegra spent her time on top of the ledge, gazing out at the vast cavity she had carved into the mountain itself, usually lost in her thoughts. There was no view of daylight here or anywhere within the fortress, another reason she was becoming eager to leave this place. She was ready to see light again. One could only withstand waiting for so long.

The wide platform upon which Aegra lived was simple, furnished only with a few pieces of extravagant furniture. But her thoughts kept her busy enough; she had no need for trinkets or entertainment.

To one side of the ledge, a small raised alcove held her sleeping area, enabling her to sleep out of view from her guards. She slept when she pleased; there was no sense of day or night here. Behind her, several small entrances led to a series of caves, but it had been at least a hundred years since she had visited them. Some of her followers—those assigned to attend her—lived back in the smaller caves, and they did not deserve her presence.

She did enjoy the way different parts of her ledge took on different smells: at one end she could sniff the decaying flesh of her sacrifices, at another place the smoke from the torches, and then there was the lovely delicate odor of the moss that grew on the rocks.

In the center of the ledge was her personal dais, built to amplify her voice so those standing around her sounded tiny and meek; it served as a poignant reminder of their inferiority. No one else had ever stood upon the dais except Aegra herself. They wouldn’t dare.

Then she heard the sound of the lift, making its way up the side of the rock. She was expecting an update from the Seers. They had taken too long. They are growing incompetent! she hissed. Everything was taking too long these days.

There was only one thing standing between her and complete rule of Fayen: the other members of her own kind, the elves. They were a pretentious kind, always blathering amongst themselves and bragging about their charitable acts. They even referred to themselves as protectors, a ridiculously fraudulent phrase for a group of incompetent heathens.

She could not refer to them as protectors or certainly not as her own kind, so she had named them the unholy to her followers, who knew not to speak of them in any other way. The unholy were inferior to her, of course, yet nothing could be risked. Not in this. So first, all the elves must die.

She was close, so close. There were maybe a few hundred of them left, most of them cowering in their pathetic village, within the place they called Sanctuary. She would destroy their foul Sanctuary, and destroy all the other elves that remained. And then—she would rule Fayen.

She used her Seers—there were always twelve—to lead her operations. They were responsible for converting her followers and leading the search against the unholy. The Seers lives could be risked, while Aegra’s could not. It was an effective way to wage a war without putting herself in danger. Which would never do.

Aegra paced impatiently. It was time to be done with this place. Time to walk the lands of Fayen and rule as she had been destined to do. But until then, her fortress would have to suffice. And when it no longer pleases me, I shall be rid of it.

She heard the lovely shrieking sound of her sacrifice plunging to its death, but ensuring the continued loyalty of those who entered the lair. A sacrifice to the Exalted. How beautiful. If humans, the most dangerous of all creatures, dared approach her, then one would live and one would die. It was simple, but effective.

For the sacrifice, she required that the Seers bring someone they had not yet converted to her service. Her followers were valuable tools, and she did not want her Seers growing complacent. Besides, it was amusing.

The Seer had reached the ledge and was moving toward her. In advance of seeing him, she had sensed him, felt his loyalty. She could sense this in all creatures, the degree to which they were loyal and adored her. This one, who she recognized as the seventh Seer, prostrated himself before her, awed as always by her beauty.

In return, Aegra raised her head a bit higher. Her lush golden hair cascaded around her oval face and fell around her shoulders. Her floor-length black velvet dress was intricately embroidered in a metallic trim, and encircling her neck was a single silver chain from which hung a series of small animal bones and teeth that clinked like a tiny wind chime as she moved.

Exalted, you are wise and beautiful.

Aegra smiled broadly, revealing only a few scattered teeth among her bare gums, in stark contrast to her perfectly elegant exterior. She turned dramatically, her velvet dress making a swishing sound as it formed a perfect arc. The Seer shivered in delight at her graceful movements, and her uniquely beautiful smile.

Aegra spoke with a slight lisp, the words hissing through her few remaining teeth. What news do you bring me of the search for the unholy?

We are progressing, Exalted. A Council Elder—the one called Jons—was found hiding in the ruins of the Byrntown Cathedral, amassing a small force to attack you. He was dismantled, Exalted, and his force no longer lives.

Her Seers were her most valuable tool, though she disliked them immensely. Their loyalty was strong, but being the most likely to show dangerous hints of independent thought, she found it difficult to trust them. She wished she didn’t need the Seers, but she still hadn’t found a way around using them.

She smiled again, her perfectly blushed cheeks framing her scattered handful of crooked teeth. Her visage sent chills of admiration up the little man’s spine. Aegra sensed his surge of devotion. Yes, that’s right. Now let’s be on with this so you can leave.

The Seer bowed deeply, his robes scraping against the dirt and rocks. A couple of stones skipped off the side of the ledge, making increasingly faint little bouncing sounds, reminding the Seer of exactly where he was, or more precisely, with whom. Exalted, I live only for your service.

Of course you do, Aegra responded, dismissively. The Seer continued.

I believe your plans are progressing perfectly. The Seers convert more and more followers each day. We are sending most of the followers south toward the primary encampment, but others are scattered across Fayen, assisting in our search for the remaining unholy. At this rate, in only a mooncycle or so we should have enough force built up to—

Aegra lost interest, and twirled her fingers in the air as though conducting an invisible symphony. Stop! she yelled, cutting the Seer off in mid-sentence. Save your ramblings for your little circle. A mental image formed in her mind of the Seers developing their incompetent little plans over goblets of mead. This irritated her immensely. They are nothing, the Seers. I want to know of the unholy. How many are left? Which ones? When will they be exterminated?

The Seer bowed his head, shamed by Aegra’s anger. We are making progress, Exalted. As I told you, the one called Jons is dead. We only know of a few that remain outside the village, nearly all disguising themselves as people, and soon we will have them as well. It is our highest priority, Exalted.

What of Shadowfeeler? Aegra made a disgusted face as she spoke the words, peering nervously over her ledge. The bat made her nervous; his ability to fly could cause her trouble. He needs to die.

He is still with the monarchs, highly protected, but we continue to build our forces in and around the castle. We are hatching a plan, Exalted. The castle will soon fall. He shifted his weight uncomfortably.

Do not bore me with things I already know. It is taking too long. I am impatient and beginning to question your abilities. Aegra reached out and ran her finger around the man’s arm, quietly humming a tune. You have not found the old one? The Seers all knew her special interest in the elderly elf called Jura, the one she called, the cat.

Not yet, Exalted, but our search continues.

Aegra removed her finger from the man’s arm. You must find her. She turned, glancing away for a moment before turning to stare into the man’s eyes. The wicked, inferior cat. She hated the cat more than anyone. She would never feel safe walking Fayen openly until the stupid, evil cat was dead. Dead! she screamed. I want her dead!

The Seer, used to her outbursts, did not react. Aegra’s next words were barely audible. You continue to omit a central detail. What of the Council?

The Seer again lowered his gaze. "Exalted, we have questioned each unholy until we were convinced they did not know the location of this Sanctuary, or until they were unable to answer. Even under our most effective techniques, none revealed where it was. Some did confess that the Sanctuary was hidden to them as well. Some implied that it could have been moved, and that only those who remain inside its borders know its whereabouts.

We have sent scouts to the region that you indicated, but none have returned. Please, Exalted, understand that we are approaching the issue with great vigor. I am certain their false Sanctuary will be found shortly.

The Seer stood more timidly than before, awaiting a response. The scent of a cooking fire wafted from one of the passages behind the ledge. Wondering if Aegra ate normal food, he formed a mental image of Aegra eating a pile of Frazian scales, like a commoner.

The image brought him shame, and he bowed even further in fear she could read his mind. She couldn’t do that, could she? Bless her, bless the Exalted!

There must be more you can do, human. Aegra tapped her toes on the rock impatiently.

Jumping in spite of himself, the Seer said the first thing that came to his mind. We lack an unholy, Exalted.

The silence that ensued was filled by the wind howling through the cavern. The Seer closed his eyes, breathed in the cold air, and wondered if it now was his moment to die. Of course the Seers had discussed this plan in private—to convert an unholy to serve the Exalted—in private, but they had all agreed it was too risky to bring to the Exalted’s attention. I would be shamed forever if they learned I dared upset the Exalted.

As horrified as he was at his blunder, the thought came to him that sometimes the only way out was through. Exalted, an unholy dedicated to your service could communicate with the creatures. We would not have to rely as much on human scouts; we would have all the creatures at our command. As he spoke, the Seer kept his eyes closed, breathing in the cold air, smelling the cookfire, and hearing the cavern breeze. This unholy could infiltrate the Council, could destroy it from within. He could lead us right to them. The possibilities are substantial.

He finally opened his eyes, to find Aegra glaring at him with an expression that could have been misinterpreted as fear had he not known it to be pure disgust.

Aegra hissed in the man’s face, The unholy must die. All of them. They are not worthy to serve me, and you shall not mention it again. And the next time I see you, the news you will bring will be of the complete elimination of every worthless, sanctimonious, undeserving unholy wretch in all of my land. Am I clear?

The Seer was a cold man, who had committed great acts of terror, and whose mind was addled with an unyielding devotion to his beautiful master. But even he involuntarily stepped backward at the unmitigated hatred in Aegra’s eyes.

Yes, Exalted. They will die. They will all die. I will do anything to please you; you know that.

Really? Aegra squinted. Best to test this one. Then I wish to see you bleed. That would please me.

The man took a knife from his robes. Tracing it lightly down the side of one of his arms, scarlet blood began to stain his gray robes.

I said bleed, you disgusting creature! screamed Aegra. Your news was unsatisfactory, and your ideas are idiotic. Do not displease me or this shall be your end. Do you think I jest?

The man gripped the knife harder, and without hesitation pushed it through the fibers of his robe and into his torso. Blood crept along the gray embroidered fang, blending in with the scarlet thread.

Aegra reveled at the blood spreading across the man’s chest. That is what I think of your ridiculous status. She took her eyes from the nasty little man and stepped back, broadening the distance between them. She hummed to herself and moved her arms in intricate little curves.

The Seer momentarily forgot his pain, and watched Aegra with interest. Her beauty and grace are unmatched.

Aegra waved her arm, and another man stepped forward, head bowed, holding on to a metal cage with a large door hanging over the edge of the cliff. Aegra addressed the Seer. I am ready for you to leave now. Tend well to your wounds; you have work to do. The Seer entered the cage, his arm twitching as though resisting the urge to cover the growing stain on his chest.

The other man was a common slave, a follower as Aegra called them, never again to be known by a given name. He kept his eyes to the floor, lowering the cage slowly down the cliff on a length of chain. He paused, as if awaiting further instruction. Aegra dismissively waved at him, Life. For today.

The slave continued to lower the cage, hand over hand, until there was a faint sound of metal hitting rock. He waited a long moment before releasing a lever, causing the chain to retract, and the cage to rapidly ascend the cliff. He dragged the cage back to the ledge and scurried back into one of the passages. There was never a need to risk upsetting the Master.

Aegra swayed back and forth across the dais, deftly placing her steps to avoid the small pool of blood that had formed on the ledge and was now slowly seeping into cracks in the rock. She hummed one of her favorite songs, then stopped and turned toward the cliff, bellowing over the cavern below.

You Seers are filthy little tools; you are nothing. The Creator used you, and now I use you. I will dispose of you when you are no longer convenient. The creatures of Fayen are mine! There are no elves! There is no Council! There is no Creator. No Creator! There is only me!

Aegra rose to the tips of her toes and paused. She was hungry and hoped her followers had her dinner prepared for her soon. Otherwise, she might be forced to watch another slave die, and for the moment she just wasn’t in the mood.

The Illness

PART I

1

Crutches

Beryl felt an odd sense of worry in the air.

Her grandparents had barely spoken to her this morning, and were so wrapped up in their conversation that they didn’t even say goodbye when she left the cottage to take a walk. Even sitting at the pond, she had found it difficult to relax, shivering uncomfortably each time the breeze shifted. This made no sense, but it even felt as though the trees themselves were worried. She tried to shake the thought from her mind.

She didn’t know why things felt so different today. It was a perfect late summer afternoon on her small island off the coast of Fayen. The sun was shining, and local families were busy preparing the harvest.

Beryl wished she could help out more, but she had a condition that caused her difficulty getting about, and made her more of a hindrance, really. Even when she had tried to help some of the neighbor families, she found her presence to be a distraction, with everyone fawning over her and asking what she needed.

So instead, she set out on her own, trying to ignore the unsettling feeling she felt surrounding her, and hoping to find something interesting to do. But so far, she had only found an unusually large frog and a pretty heart-shaped stone flecked with shiny pink specks. The frog, who had seemed as happy as he was large, was safely back on the riverbank, and the small stone was nestled into the pocket of her sturdy tan-colored pants.

Beryl scooted herself up on a cool, smooth rock to catch her breath, enjoying the soft feel of the moss against her fingers. She smiled at the crutches as she set them down. Her grandfather had carved the crutches out of an oak tree felled by lightning. Each stick was lovingly carved with wandering vines and tiny leaves, the attention to detail exquisite. The sturdy handles were positioned just perfectly for her frame. Just looking at them made her feel a rush of warmth for her grandfather.

Beryl needed to rest. Her condition often caused her difficulty breathing, especially while out walking as she had been today. She wasn’t really sure what her condition was, and didn’t spend much time considering it since she couldn’t change it anyway. Her grandparents had always said it wasn’t worth the trip to Droflim just to hear that there was nothing a doctor could do for it.

Probably a normal woman would question why they didn’t at least have her looked at, but Beryl had always found herself inherently trusting her grandparents. And their first rule always seemed to be not to ask too many questions.

The condition itself was manageable. Beryl was able to walk, though only with assistance such as her carved crutches. Even then it was a slow, difficult process. Her breathing was strained as she moved, and her limbs would sometimes seize, causing flashes of pain. It was unpredictable, too. Sometimes she moved smoothly enough; other times she’d catch something just the wrong way and nearly double-over at the shock of it.

She had once spent days in the rocking chair that her grandfather had made, hoping it would ease the symptoms. But she got back on her feet after a few days, having found that the boredom of sitting in one place all day brought more attention to every little pain. She decided then that she was better going about her business and simply dealing with what came.

Beryl could handle a little inconvenience and discomfort; that wasn’t really what bothered her about the condition. What she didn’t like was the constant attention. A grown woman known to still be living with her grandparents and hobbling about on crutches tended to be noticed. She grew tired of the sympathetic looks from strangers, the whispering and pointing of children, or the awkwardness of an elderly man rushing to open a gate for her. She knew that people meant well and she was certain the Creator made her this way for a reason, but she just couldn’t help occasionally wishing that she fit in just a little better.

In fact, if Beryl wished one thing, it was that she could be a bit more normal. She knew it would never happen, but every once in a while she couldn’t prevent the thought from crossing her mind.

She had never really fit in. For starters, she didn’t look like most of the island women. She was substantially larger than most, though her grandmother had always shrugged it off as being big-boned, which made no sense if you thought about it. Beryl also liked to dress in pants, where most women wore sturdy dresses. But with her condition, it was hard enough to get around without skirts flapping in the way.

Beryl’s most distinct features were her eyes and hair. Her rich green eyes were framed by her smooth skin, long face, and perfectly straight hair. Her hair was nearly black, but shimmered a red sheen in the sunlight, in stark contrast to the wavy, light brown hair of most other island women. Worn at the traditional island length to her mid-back, Beryl’s dark, shining hair stood out more than had it been a less common but shorter cut. Though Beryl didn’t see it this way herself, people always told her that her hair was stunning. Beryl’s hair just reminded her that she was different, and so she tended to ignore it.

Today, Beryl’s shimmering hair fell over a floral patterned shirt that her grandmother had bought from a seamstress in Droflim. Beryl loved how the center of the tiny flowers was the same tan color as her pants. It was her favorite outfit, when it wasn’t cold at least, and she referred to it as her summer suit. Perhaps it was unusual to name clothes, but Beryl had never worried about that sort of thing, at least not that she remembered.

Beryl sat up a little taller on the stone. Thinking about her past always bothered her, as she wasn’t exactly sure how old she actually was. Her grandparents hated talking about age, and by the amount it irritated them, it just wasn’t worth bringing up. But Beryl felt a person should at least know how old she was. It seemed important somehow. She had started counting each Creationday as a new year, so as best she could figure she was at least thirty.

She remembered almost nothing of her actual childhood, which her grandmother said was perfectly normal. Beryl had once asked a lady in town named Leti about it, as she was probably Beryl’s age and seemed to chat non-stop about her own childhood, as if it were much more important than her current life.

Leti had shrugged and suggested nonchalantly that perhaps Beryl’s illness affected her memory. Maybe she had gone to school somewhere else. Beryl suspected she just didn’t want to be seen talking to her. That evening, she mentioned to her grandfather that Leti remembered going to school, but she didn’t remember Beryl being there. Grandfather seemed uninterested and responded that you can’t believe everything you hear. So she dropped it.

It was like that a lot, living with her grandparents, but she didn’t have anywhere else to go. She wasn’t able to work due to her condition, though she would have liked to if anyone had provided her the opportunity. Jobs outside the villages usually required physical labor, which she wasn’t able to perform. She had once suggested moving to Droflim, the only sizable village on the island, and finding a job in one of the shops. Her grandmother wouldn’t hear of it, however, and she never suggested it again.

In fact, anytime anything interesting ever threatened to happen, Grandmother arrived to tell her it was time to come home. If she didn’t know better, she would swear her Grandmother could appear out of thin air just to prevent anything interesting from happening in her life.

Sometimes she thought about the time that one of the neighbors’ cousins had visited from Droflim. Gren was a large fellow who winked too often but other than that, seemed nice. He took a liking to Beryl, and one day he helped her atop a horse and then set off with her into the forest. Beryl told him that the horse wanted to slow down, but he said that was absurd. Horses love to run.

Normally he did, Beryl explained, but today his knee was injured. Gren laughed and said she was very funny. Beryl didn’t think it was funny, though. What was funny about making a horse suffer? She apologized to the horse when they dismounted, despite the man’s disgusted face. At this point, she decided she didn’t like her neighbors’ cousin after all.

Gren helped her down next to the lake and offered her a puff on a tiny pipe he took from his vest. He waved it toward her, and it smelled like a mix of tar and overripe quince, making her stomach turn. She asked him if they could leave, but he said he wasn’t ready yet. She then realized that she was far from the cabin and might be unable to get back on her own. She wondered if she could thwack the man unconscious with her crutches, should the need arise.

As she started to consider this possibility, a withered pair of hands suddenly reached out and threw the pipe into the lake. Beryl followed the flying pipe with her eyes, straining to hear the tiny splash that it made but was instead shocked by a shout, a large splash, and the cold spray of water that shot up over the bank.

Beryl turned around to see her grandmother dusting off her hands and smoothing out her skirts. It’s time to get home, was all that she said. They mounted a waiting horse and slowly traveled back to the village, the injured horse following slowly behind. Beryl remembered wondering how Gren was going to get home himself.

After the pond incident, as Beryl thought of it, Gren moved back to Droflim, and the neighbors acted as though he had never been to visit. As Beryl had been well trained to go along with events and not ask too many questions, she wrote the man out of her mind and went back about her normal business. Grandmother never said a word about it; probably assuming that she was smart enough to draw any conclusions on her own.

But Beryl hadn’t forgotten the episode, not when it was, in her mind, something almost interesting that had happened. Just because it was unpleasant and the man winked too much doesn’t mean it wasn’t interesting.

Grandfather never seemed to worry as much about her activities, but then again she wasn’t sure whether Grandfather was worried about much at all. He was generally aloof and distracted, to put it mildly. Once she had an entire conversation with him about ideas she had for Market Days, to which he asked if she had seen his slippers. Realizing he hadn’t listened to a word, she gave up and hobbled outside to sit in the garden under the shade of the quince tree.

Grandmother appeared out of nowhere to join her and let her know that sometimes Grandfather was very distracted and to not take it personally. Her confidence restored, Beryl proceeded to pitch her Market Days ideas to her grandmother. Grandmother’s response was simply, No. That won’t be possible. That’s always how it was in her house.

She could not deny they made an odd family, but she had no reason to question the Creator’s plan nor her grandparents’ wishes. Things were as they were meant to be, or so she had always believed.

Her thoughts having wandered, Beryl returned back to the present. She drew in a deep breath and decided she was ready to move forward. She picked up the crutches and slowly rose to her feet. Shuffling back to the path, she started to move slowly back toward the cabin. She had planned to visit her favorite neighbors on the way home, and she decided there was still plenty of daylight left to do so. She glanced up at the sun and spoke aloud to herself. I wonder if they are back at the house. A squirrel hopped in front of her and chattered excitedly.

She was again acutely aware of that worried feeling. The thought that they were indeed home and loading the wagon entered her mind, as did an urgent warning that she must return home immediately as people were on the island who shouldn’t be. She shook her head; she was getting paranoid over nothing. Thank you Mr. Squirrel; you are so kind.

Talking to animals had become sort of a joke to her, one that amused her greatly. Her grandmother always told her to stop it, that people could not speak to animals. But it was too fun of a game, and it took her mind off of the aches and pains that she could not escape.

The squirrel ran off urgently, leaving Beryl with a rather sick feeling. What is going on? she asked to no one at all, scanning the trees around her. The feeling of worry growing, she again dismissed it, and continued down the path. Step after step, she moved forward as the sun moved across the sky. She paused to rest two more times, singing songs to herself or saying hello to little birds that lit in nearby trees before flying away again.

She approached the wooden gate that marked the entry to her neighbors’ home. There weren’t too many families within walking distance, certainly not within Beryl’s walking distance, and these neighbors were by far her favorites.

The island was sparsely populated in the center, as most people either lived in Droflim or in the smaller fishing villages around the island’s coast. Sending fish to the mainland was the main business on the island. Additionally, there was a community of farmers here at the island’s core, primarily growing fruits and nuts.

Beryl’s grandparents were the only people she knew outside of Droflim that neither farmed nor fished. Her grandfather made his living through some sort of correspondence with the mainland, though he wouldn’t elaborate on it, and Beryl had given up asking. Fishing wouldn’t have been their choice anyway, as neither she nor her grandparents had ever eaten any sort of animal. Beryl had always assumed it was some aspect of her grandparents’ religious beliefs, which tended to be unconventional compared to others that she met. As the idea of eating animals never held any appeal to her anyway, she never asked any questions.

In fact, she thought, that sort of summed up her life on the island. Take whatever the Creator gives you, get used to being different, and most importantly, don’t ask too many questions.

Here, let me get that for you, dear. I pray the Creator finds you well today. Jhim rushed to the wooden gate and swung it wide open, extending his arm out across where the gate had swung to indicate that Beryl should pass through.

Thanks, Jhim. I wasn’t sure if you’d be back at the cabin or out in the orchard, but I thought I’d stop in and say hi. And yes, I am very well, thank you.

Jhim’s feet shuffled noisily along the rocky path, as clearly walking at Beryl’s speed was not something that came to him naturally. This didn’t surprise Beryl. She knew that the family was one of the hardest working on the island, harvesting various fields of tree nuts for the merchants of Droflim to sell to the mainland.

She could only imagine the emotional toll it was taking for him to stop working at the peak of afternoon to be shuffling back home at a snail’s pace. Beryl felt a surge of gratitude toward the man. Despite her and her grandparents’ peculiarities, Jhim’s family had offered her nothing but love and acceptance.

In fact, had they not specifically asked her to stop in, she would have left them alone until harvest was over. But they had asked. She gazed kindly at the farmer, walking slowly beside her.

Jhim, I could use a moment to rest. Please go on ahead to let Mari know I’m on my way and I’ll catch up in a bit. Beryl smiled warmly.

Well I suppose if that would be helpful, well, sure. Jhim’s hesitation seemed entirely rhetorical, as before Beryl could respond he was up the path and out of sight. Beryl continued on up toward the house. The loose gravel felt comfortably familiar under her feet, and the sounds of birds chirping filled her ears. She closed her eyes and drank in the lovely sunny day, trying to ignore the feelings of worry that she still hadn’t found a way to shake.

Beryl eventually made her way to the house. A large wagon sat at the top of the path, as Jhim and a few of their older children were loading it with barrels. Mari was chasing three younger children around the yard and appeared particularly frazzled.

Beryl, dearest, I’m so sorry I didn’t come down to meet you, but the young ones are giving me fits today. The wagon is not even half-loaded and here I am not lifting a finger. Mari turned toward her youngest son Rhay to see him stomping in a mud puddle. She picked him up by the arms and swung him back into the grass. She looked at Beryl with a friendly smile tinged with a bit of desperation. Beryl chuckled in spite of herself.

Let me watch the younger ones while you help load the wagon, Mari. She glanced over at the children and smiled. They love my stories. Rhay snuck back to the mud puddle but, again, was promptly swept back onto the grass.

The other two younger children jumped in the air shouting, Story, story, story! Mari laughed.

Thank you so much, Beryl. How fortunate we are to have you as a friend. May the Creator bless your every moment with His grace.

May He bless you as well, Mari. Now go; we’ll be fine. Beryl gazed sternly down at the children, causing the oldest to giggle.

Mari opened her mouth to speak but promptly closed it, instead sighing. Whatever she had intended to say was lost for good as she rushed off toward the wagon.

Beryl smiled broadly at the oldest of the three children, a young girl named Rhita with wavy sand-colored hair and the sort of smile that lit up a room. Beryl sat down as she laid her crutches to her side. Now, everyone gather round. Rhita, make sure your brother stays with us. Evi, sit here on the ground. Now, what do you want a story about today? About the forest? The sea?

Evi squirmed, staring off to the side. Beryl waited patiently for her response. Something magical, from the Creator.

Beryl smiled. Evi, there isn’t a person in Fayen that hasn’t wished for magic from the Creator at one point or another. Even I do sometimes.

Rhita jumped forward, landing right in front of Beryl. Beryl laughed, half in surprise, half in exasperation. Do you wish you could walk like a regular person? Rhita asked. My mom says it is a shame you are a cripple, as you are too nice to deserve that.

Beryl’s smile disappeared, and she sat for a moment in thought. Rhita, I try to trust the Creator’s plan. I want to believe that He has a purpose for each of us, and that somehow what makes me different is what makes me useful. But I admit, every once in a while I do wish I were more, well, normal.

Rhita hopped onto Beryl’s lap and looked up into her eyes. My parents are normal and they’ve spent all day lifting barrels.

Beryl laughed. Well, that does sound useful but perhaps not very fun. Maybe you have a point.

Evi jumped up and down. Barrels are heavy! Dad says they are! She ran in another circle around the others until flopping back down in the grass.

Beryl laughed. Well first, your parents are the hardest working people I know, and yes, I’d love to be like them. But really, I don’t know what I want. See, that’s the problem. If I knew myself better maybe I wouldn’t be getting counseled by small children. Beryl laughed again, and looked up into the sky. She sighed at the wide eyes before her. Do you want to hear a story, or not?

Without another word, the three children gathered in a circle around her, hands in their laps and eyes wide open. Beryl took this to mean yes and realized that while she had no story to tell, she’d better start thinking.

High in the mountains is where the unicorns live. Beryl glanced around to see if this was the right direction.

Ooooooh, unicorns, crooned Evi.

Beryl decided to continue. Once there were two unicorns, named Jhim and Mari. The children burst out laughing.

Those aren’t unicorns, those are our parents, said Rhita, snorting.

Fine, said Beryl. Then you name them.

Sparkle and Rainbow, smiled Evi. The other two nodded in delight.

Ok, fine, sighed Beryl. Once upon a time, Sparkle and Rainbow were two unicorns that lived high in the mountains. They were very happy and played lots of games together.

What games do unicorns play? asked Rhay. Do they play nuts and berries?

I don’t know what games unicorns play, said Beryl. Maybe unicorns are very serious.

No, no, I’m sure they play games, interjected Rhita. Probably like tag or something.

Good, said Beryl, Sparkle and Rainbow lived in the mountains and played tag all day long. One day, an evil witch came to their village and told them that if they didn’t stop playing games, she would turn them all into toads.

What’s wrong with toads? asked Evi. Toads are nice. Rhita nodded fervently.

Nothing is wrong with toads. But people like to be themselves. Would you want to be a toad, Rhita, or would you like to just stay you?

Ok, go on, said Rhita. So the witch says they will be turned into toads.

The unicorns take their big horn and stab her in the belly! exclaimed Rhay. Then she won’t mess with them anymore!

Beryl threw her head in her hands. There is no stabbing in my story! Just magical unicorns! You know what, why don’t we play tag instead? You three will do the running, and I’ll be the referee.

The three children jumped up happily and Beryl said, Rhita, you’re it! The children ran around in circles for quite some time, Beryl occasionally giving them encouragement or breaking up an argument. After quite some time, she saw Jhim walking toward her holding a small cup.

Beryl dear, I don’t know if you’ll be blessed with children of your own, but I must say you are amazing with them. He paused and looked at her with a concerned expression. I hope my comments don’t offend.

Beryl smiled at the man, almost like a father to her. She knew the others on the island thought her quite old to still be single, but Jhim never made an issue of it. Jhim, you could never offend me. Something tells me I won’t have my own kids, but maybe the Creator needs me for something else. Or maybe I am meant to help with children, just not my own. If so, you are providing me with excellent practice.

Jhim stood for a moment lost in thought. I admire your faith, Beryl. You remind me that He is good and that whatever comes our way, the most important thing we can do is to remain grateful and find our way to serve Him. But here, I’ve made you some of my healing tea.

Beryl took the small cup and gratefully sipped the warm tea. It was pleasant, and she noted that some tree sap had been added to calm the bitter notes. It was warm enough to soothe the throat, but not so warm to scald. It smells pleasantly of wildflowers and sunshine, she thought to herself. Sunshine has no smell. But if it did it would smell like Jhim’s tea.

It’s medicinal, you know. Jhim remarked. If you keep coming back and drinking my tea, I am certain it will cure your illness. You just haven’t had enough yet.

Yes, I believe that it will, Jhim. Someday I will be cured, and when I am I shall return here and throw you into the air and catch you, just to show you what your tea has done for me.

Jhim laughed and said, It’s the least I can do. You are nearly family, after all.

Beryl took another sip of tea, closed her eyes, and thought about the kind words that Jhim had spoken. She felt a calm joy within her. An odd thought came into her mind, and without thinking she said, Jhim, you are family to me.

Jhim appeared surprised by the statement. Beryl hoped she hadn’t offended him, but she continued on. And Mari, and the kids. I mean, this family. You accept us how others do not. You accept us for who we are. I . . . I am proud to be thought of as your family.

Jhim lowered his head, and Beryl found his reaction quite unreadable. When his eyes raised, they were wet with tears and filled with warmth. How are your grandparents, dear? They don’t stop by as often as they used to.

They are well, Beryl responded. Grandmother keeps herself busy with her projects. She is currently weaving a large basket that she says will hold all of our dirty laundry until she can take it to the stream. She says I wear out too many pants, wandering around the island as I do. Grandfather sometimes carves wood, but mostly he sits and thinks. He never does tell me about what, either.

Jhim gazed at her with renewed wonder. Your family is like none I’ve ever met. He shook his head. Well, I packed you some extra tea leaves. It’s my favorite blend. Please take them home. They really will make you better. He took a small packet from his vest and handed it to Beryl. I used one of your grandfather’s leaf wraps, so they should stay nice and dry in that packet until you need them. They are very clever, these wraps.

Beryl now noticed Mari standing behind Jhim with her hands on his shoulders. Beryl took the small brown packet and tucked it into one of the inside pockets of her shirt. Her grandmother always made sure her clothes were very practical. I’ve never thanked her for that. I really should.

Mari stepped forward, interrupting Beryl’s thoughts. Jhim’s right, you know. The tea is medicinal. It will make you better. Mari smiled as Rhay hung on to her legs, and Rhita and Evi continued to chase each other in circles. The older kids were entering the house, one by one without comment, clearly exhausted from the day’s work.

It’s time for me to go if I’m to make it back to the cabin for dinner, stated Beryl. I don’t want my grandparents to worry.

We’d take you in the wagon, but with it loaded I don’t know if— Mari hesitated and looked down at the grass. Rhay splashed behind her in a huge mud puddle, and Mari shook her apron at him futilely without taking her eyes off of Beryl.

It’s fine; I’m happy to walk home. Beryl smiled. Don’t worry at all. Beryl picked up her crutches and started slowly down the path. As she was leaving, Evi shouted loudly behind her.

I think Sparkles and Rainbow are real, Beryl, she said. I think you will find them and I think they really will play games.

Beryl stopped, staring down at her unsteady legs. I can think of at least three solid reasons why that won’t happen, starting with they aren’t real, but I don’t need to tell her that. Not today. When I climb the highest mountain to meet them, she replied, I will be sure to tell them you said hello. Evi jumped with excitement, and Beryl grinned back.

Beryl turned and continued down the path until the small house was out of sight. Beryl groaned to herself. Despite her brave demeanor, she had a lengthy walk back to the cabin, and probably longer with breaks to catch her breath. But it was worth it, of course. As Mari had once told her, you repay friendship with friendship. She repeated the phrase a few times to herself and decided it was an idea that she could live by.

She listened to the birds singing in the trees. She could no longer ignore the sensations of worry—no, now they were feelings of dread—that she felt all around her. By the position of the setting sun, she realized she had been gone much longer than usual. Taking a deep breath, she started back toward the cottage.

She shivered uncomfortably and began to move a little bit faster than normal. Without knowing exactly why, she felt an especial need to get home to her grandparents’ comforting smiles.

2

Salting the Soup

W here in the Creator’s footsteps have you been, child? scowled Jura.

Beryl shifted back in surprise. I was at Jhim and Mari’s, helping with the children while they loaded a crop of nuts to take to Droflim. Is everything ok?

She looked at her grandmother nervously. Jura was also a tall woman, though shorter than Beryl. She always wore a simple farm dress with a plain apron, with lots of pockets to carry practical items. Her waist-length gray hair was, as usual, knotted into a large bun behind her head.

Jura’s face had pronounced features; more than once a shopkeeper had mistaken her for a man, to quickly apologize after noticing her hair and manner of dress. Her skin was aged and wrinkled in contrast to her sharp, light brown eyes, which had a way of boring right through you. Except now, she seemed to be avoiding looking at Beryl altogether. Beryl stared at her nervously, wondering if Jura could also feel the strangeness in the air.

Jura paced back and forth across the room with a distant look in her eyes. Honestly, child, I’m not sure. I just, well, sometimes things don’t seem right and I worry whether I ought to be, well, never mind. You don’t want to hear a rambling old— Jura glanced at Beryl, and her expression hardened. How is Jhim and Mari’s crop this season?

Beryl paused, thinking Jura was acting very disconcerted. And why did she call me a child? Not sure how else to respond, she answered the question. I’ve never seen them loading so many barrels, so I think it went very well. Beryl grimaced briefly as she pushed herself into the rocking chair, exhaling loudly. The chair’s rails creaked against the worn wooden floor.

The gentle rhythm was interrupted as the cabin door opened behind them. Tann swept in, wearing a large-brimmed hat, not stopping as he normally did to kick the dirt off of his boots. He was dressed in his usual dark-colored farmer’s clothes, his sleeves rolled up a bit as though ready to get to work. His dark gray hair was perhaps a bit too long, as he forgot to keep it trimmed as often as the barber in Droflim would have preferred.

Jura, it isn’t right. The news is horrific; we may be making a grave mistake. I don’t know if we can afford to— He stopped on seeing Jura’s piercing expression. Only then did he seem to notice Beryl seated in the rocking chair in the corner. Oh, hello Beryl. I didn’t know you were back. I heard you were at Jhim and Mari’s place today. It took him a moment to adjust his thinking. How was their crop?

Beryl marveled at her grandparents’ ability to act as though nothing unusual had just happened. But she knew that look in Grandmother’s eyes, and knew any questions would not be welcome.

I believe it was their best yet, Grandfather. It was taking them quite a while to load the wagon. The creaking of Beryl’s chair slowed slightly as she glanced between her grandparents, who seemed to be staring angrily at one another. She wondered if anger was the right emotion; sometimes it was hard to tell with those two.

That’s too bad. I hope it feels better soon. Beryl was certain he hadn’t even listened to her response, but said nothing further as Tann placed his hat on a hook near the door. He walked back toward the large table, taking a seat at one of the heavy wooden chairs with the beautifully etched songbirds. Jura, we have to talk. Given that look on your face, I take it he found you as well? Tann tapped his fingers on the table.

Jura glanced again at Beryl, saying nothing.

Tann rubbed his forehead, closing his eyes. I got as much as I could from him before he flew off; he was clearly afraid to even be talking to me. The situation . . . I fear we can’t stay like this any longer. As I started to tell you, I think we are making a mistake, listening and gathering like this. I used to think it made us wise; now I worry it makes us fools. In fact, I think I’m ready to—

Jura’s interruption was unapologetic. I’m making a root mash stew for dinner, Tann. Stir the base for a bit while I chop these greens. Jura, smiling a bit too pleasantly, started opening and closing cabinet doors, as if uncertain where to find what she needed.

Tann walked toward Jura and closed the door she had just opened with a bit of a thump. Jura, we can’t throw it all away now. We need to think. Tann again rubbed his forehead, squinting. I just fear we’re out of time. I’m not even comfortable staying here the night without a serious conversation. He waved his hand toward Beryl. And she’s got to know sometime, Jura! What if something happens to us?

Jura turned on her feet and grabbed a large pot. She started pouring water into it from a carved wooden bucket. Now where is that knife? The water rushed into the pot with a large whoosh.

Tann grunted loudly and turned toward her. Jura we need to talk, now. You can’t ignore what’s happening. It doesn’t take a bird to see it, either.

Jura closed her eyes tightly, and then opened them again. Tangatamanu Skycaller, the child is listening. And of course I have been worried sick for quite some time. I have things under control. Jura slammed a large lotus root on the wooden table and turned to stare at Tann. The creaking of Beryl’s chair stopped, and the small cabin was suddenly in nearly complete silence, as if it too were waiting to hear what came next.

Beryl could hear birds singing outside the small glass window, which was rattling in the slight breeze against the wooden frame. She had never heard Grandfather referred to by such a strange name, nor had she ever heard that tone in Jura’s normally soothing voice. She froze in place, and waited.

Tann’s footsteps creaked against the floorboards as he opened the door with one hand, sweeping his hat back up onto his head with the other. Root mash stew always needs salt, Elder, and I’m afraid we’re out. Abbi always keeps a good stock of fresh salts, and charges a reasonable price. As I’d hate for your dinner to be served unseasoned, I’ll go pick some up. Perhaps while I’m out you can decide at what cost your stew is served.

The door slammed hard against the frame of the cabin, and Beryl closed her now gaping mouth. Don’t ask too many questions, had always been the rule. But this made no sense. Tann built that cabin himself, long before Beryl could remember. He would as soon slam its intricately carved door as he would set it ablaze.

And there was good reason there was no salt in the cabinet; Grandmother always said salt was an insult to