Bearing Light

Bearing Light

Volume One of the Tellers' Tale

by

Lorraine DeWolf

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2011 by Lorraine DeWolf

Smashwords License Statement

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Published in print by Cornerstone Book Publishers

New Orleans, LA

First Cornerstone Edition - 2011

www.cornerstonepublishers.com

E-Book Edition ISBN: 1-934935-47-6

ISBN-13: 978-1-934935-47-7

Print Edition ISBN: 1-934935-84-0

ISBN 13: 978-1-934935-84-2

Dedication:

To Eve, who read my stories and shared her own and set me on the

magic road that gave Emily and all her friends life

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

BOOK ONE:

CHAPTER 1: The Girl in the Wood

CHAPTER 2: Diversions

CHAPTER 3: Journeyman

CHAPTER 4: Intersections

CHAPTER 5: Turnings

CHAPTER 6: Awakenings

CHAPTER 7: Blackthorn

CHAPTER 8: Choices

CHAPTER 9: Ways Collide

CHAPTER 10: Leavings

CHAPTER 11: Promises and Partings

CHAPTER 12: Flight

BOOK TWO:

CHAPTER 13: The Keeper

CHAPTER 14: Lessons

CHAPTER 15: The Keeper’s Heir

CHAPTER 16: The Tale of Alberyc

CHAPTER 17: Fire and Desire

CHAPTER 18: Joinings

CHAPTER 19 Past Midnight

CHAPTER 20: Ways’ End

CHAPTER 21 Return

CHAPTER 22 After Battle

CHAPTER 23: Steward’s Sight

EPILOGUE

Lorraine DeWolf

Excerpt from Abiding Darkness

Bearing Light

Volume One of The Tellers' Tale

PROLOGUE

A fortnight before her wedding, Elya, fed up with her father’s studied air of nonchalance, wrote him a note.

I need time away. I’ll be back in time to prepare for the ceremony. DON’T look for me!

Elya

P.S. I mean it. Keep your eyes to yourself!

Then she packed her gear, saddled a pony, and rode out the Dawn Gate onto the great plain that was the vast dooryard to the east.

She rode for two days with nothing but rolling grassland and the dome of the sky to greet her. While still some leagues away from Twilight Gate, she veered from her intended route to visit Forgotten Dells. There, in one of the slight depressions in the grassy plain, lay a deep pool of clear water framed by gigantic boulders. It was a peaceful place and good shelter. Elya unsaddled her shaggy, wild-eyed mount and after brushing him down, turned him loose. She didn’t worry about him running off or running into trouble. He was tough and wary, and he knew the plain at least as well as she did.

For a time she sat on one of the boulders and watched him gallop and roll and wave his sturdy legs at the sky. Then she stripped off her clothes and dived into the pool. The water was breathtakingly cold. It was also surprisingly deep. She dived down as far as her breath would allow to gaze into the great pupil of the pool’s blackness. Perhaps the stories were true, and this was one of the original holes in the world through which Magyc had emerged.

She surfaced, gulping air, and flung her hair back from her face. Someone stood on the bank watching her.

It was Magyc’s apprentice. She swam to him and walked brazenly out of the pool, noting with fierce satisfaction how he averted his eyes.

Still embarrassed to look at me, I see, she said.

He ducked his head and sighed, Oh, Elya.

She lifted her tunic from the rock and slid it over her wet head and body. Why are you here?

You know why: to see you.

She laughed coldly. And so you would, if you were brave enough to look.

I would look if I could see you happy. Nothing could keep me from looking then, he said sadly.

Elya arched a fine black brow. Who says I’m unhappy?

He did look at her then. He looked at her out of eyes as clear and unfathomable as the pool. She could feel their pupils inviting her in, leaving her helpless before the unfailing depth of acceptance in them. She lashed out, Just go away!

He ducked his head again, his fine light-brown hair falling to hide his eyes, and turned to go.

Elya tackled him.

Though he was taller, stronger, and heavier than she, she had him on his back in a trice. She thought of punching him, but she leaned over and kissed him with all her might instead.

Pulling back, she watched him catch his breath. Oh, Elya, he sighed and slid his hands into her wet hair.

They lay together and watched the stars defy the darkening sky.

Say you will run away with me, Elya said.

I will run away with you. He rose up on one elbow. Will you run away with me?

She looked at the stars, but felt her heart grow deep and dark as the mystery between them. I can’t. I have to marry the prince of Twilight.

He settled his head next to her shoulder. It’s all right, he said.

She pushed him away and sat up. And that’s all? That’s it?

What else is there?

How about all those things that make people fight for what they love.

I do love you.

Then why don’t you try harder to keep me?

One hand reached up and caressed her cheek. I would fight the world and everyone in it to keep you. I’d defy even my master. But all my fighting wouldn’t change what really matters. The choice is yours, to stay here or go into the halls of Midnight and pledge yourself to the heir of the darkling lands so that the doors between the worlds remain open.

All the anger drained out of her. She turned her face to press her lips to his hand, and he drew her down next to him so that they lay face to face in the dark. I want to be with you, she whispered.

But you also want what is best for others.

Careful, she said bitterly, you are beginning to sound as pitilessly practical as my father. I might just stop loving you altogether.

He only smiled his heartbreakingly beautiful smile.

In the morning they parted. As Elya rode away, she watched his figure dissolve into the vastness of earth and sky. He would return to his master, and she would join with the prince of the darkling realm.

She didn’t go home though. She went to talk to the Gatekeeper instead.

Ordinary men and women coming upon the Twilight Gate would have seen nothing but a pair of enormous buttes of sheer rock: the Pillars of the Sky, they were called. Elya saw the gray stones ominous as giants casting long shadows over the moving grass, but she also saw the twisting, turning energy between them. She felt that energy slide into her gut as she passed beneath them. The world turned and turned and turned into another world. She stood in a darkling wood dense with slender, pale trees that shone faintly as if bathed in moon or starlight. She walked down a narrow path through perpetual twilight to the Gatekeeper’s door.

The Gatekeeper answered her knock. Elya! she said in surprise. Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for a wedding? What are you doing here?

I’ve run away, announced Elya and stepped inside the cottage.

Not again! said the Gatekeeper. Her nearly impossible to find wooden house, packed in as it was among the narrow white trees, appeared much larger on the inside than on the outside and its central room glowed with firelight that held back the Twilight chill.

The Gatekeeper shut the door. I thought you had outgrown such childishness.

Apparently not. But you should commend me anyway. I lasted several years this time.

The Gatekeeper tilted her head. Did you and your father have another fight?

No. But it wasn’t for lack of trying on my part.

He showed some restraint then?

If that’s what you want to call acting like a heartless troll.

Elya, sighed the Gatekeeper, trolls aren’t heartless.

Well, Father is. Please don’t sound so disappointed. May I have some tea?

Certainly, said the Gatekeeper. She closed the door and moved toward her small stone-floored kitchen.

Elya settled herself among cushions by the fire. It’s always so good to come here, she sighed as the Gatekeeper returned and handed her a cup of tea.

I’m glad you like it. Now, what can I do for you?

As the Gatekeeper seated herself, Elya took a deep breath and prepared to meet her host’s gaze. Like all the denizens of Twilight, the gatekeeper was difficult to behold. Though in form she appeared to be an ordinary woman, her eyes bespoke a far stranger heritage. Filled with multihued light like starfire, they dominated her face and the beholder’s mind in a way that made it impossible to discern much of the countenance around them.

Strong as she was, Elya could only hold that gaze for a little while before burying her eyes in her cup. Can’t I just want to visit?

Of course, but your timing seems suspect. You have the union of two worlds to negotiate, and your father will be looking for you.

Elya’s face darkened, Let him look. Maybe he will see something to his benefit.

Oh?

She tossed her head. I’m not a child anymore. It’s time he realized it, stopped dogging my steps, and started measuring his own. Elya glared into her tea.

Hmm. The Gatekeeper sipped hers. Old habits are hard to break, and like all precocious children, you demanded a tremendous amount of your father’s time and attention. Why you couldn’t have been more than four or five when you first wandered into Twilight.

Elya laughed ruefully and turned her cup. And ended up at your door—fortunately. You were so reassuring and kind I thought it had all been a marvelous adventure, until you led me back and I saw Father waiting for me beyond the gate. I thought he was going to blast me—until he saw you Elya barked a laugh. He looked sick.

You had crossed into dangerous territory.

Like my mother before me, murmured Elya and turned her eyes to the fire. You asked me why I was here, she said slowly, her eyes following the writhings of forked, flaming tongues. Would it surprise you to learn that she’s the reason?

The Gatekeeper lowered her cup. No.

Elya met the glittering eyes and let them bare her soul. I need to perform a telling.

It seemed that a little line of worry formed between the Gatekeeper’s brows. A telling? Why?

Because I am about to make a momentous, irrevocable choice, and I need to be sure I understand what I’m doing before I do it. I want to understand my mother’s choice, and know that I have her blessing if I make my own.

Elya, a mother’s love is not built on contingencies. You have her blessing whatever you do, said Gatekeeper.

Elya shook her head. But I don’t feel it. Oh, I’ve heard their stories. I even managed to twist things out of Father. But it isn’t enough. I feel like some vital piece of information or perspective is missing. Much still stays hidden from me. Byrn says—

Byrn? You saw him?

Just before I came here. Then I left him, just as my mother left my father and me. Elya’s fingers tightened. But my heart misgives me, Gatekeeper. If my mother made a choice, does that mean that I am required to make the same choice too?

The Gatekeeper shifted in her chair. No, she said firmly. It wouldn’t be a true choice then.

Elya nodded. That is why I need to perform the telling.

The Gatekeeper was gazing into her fire. The line of worry seemed to have deepened.

Elya squirmed a little closer, Years ago you told me, ‘The teller tells the tale and the tale the teller.’ I didn’t understand what you meant back then, but I think I do now. At least, I’m beginning to. We are the tales we tell. And the stories of power shape lives across worlds. Telling is the gift my mother gave me to help me forge a new story and a new world out of the old ones. But in order to be sure of myself and the world I am fixing to start shaping, I need to explore new dimensions of my story.

The Gatekeeper’s eyes were distant, guiding stars. And you want me to help you.

Elya nodded. Until I am joined to the prince of the darkling realm, my ability to draw on the power is limited, and so is the power of my telling. But you are the Gatekeeper, the guardian of the roads between the worlds. You can open a door for me, help me to draw on the power in Twilight.

Even then your powers will be limited. Tellings aren’t answers, only re-phrasings of the same old questions.

But I’ll understand more than I understand now.

Understanding isn’t always the answer, Elya, and it is always dangerous. Your father would never approve.

My father isn’t making the choice. I am. I think I have the right to decide how I make it.

The Gatekeeper took Elya’s cup and set it and her own aside, then turned her bright eyes back on Elya. Elya was certain she smiled, though her mouth was hard to attend to. That smile was no more easy or comforting than the smirk of a serpent or a lynx, but it gave Elya’s fierce heart hope.

What you are asking is arduous as well as dangerous, the Gatekeeper warned.

Elya swallowed the sudden lump of tension in her throat and nodded.

The Gatekeeper took both of Elya’s hands in her own. Then, my dear, if this is what you truly want, we should begin. Elya nodded again. As the multihued fire in the Gatekeeper’s eyes exploded into blinding light, Elya felt her selfhood scoured away and the power like a tidal wave rising and rushing down upon her to fill her being with a cold weight of irresistible flux and movement. She would have been washed away by that wave, but for the fixed points of the eyes and hands holding her.

With the wave came a flood of words, words that rushed out of her like a second wave and were the carriers of countless images, thoughts and feelings. Out of that remorseless current of words came the tale Elya told.

BOOK I: CROSSROADS

CHAPTER 1: The Girl in the Wood

No self-respecting adult in Greenwood Village ever used the word magic. Like all Midlanders, Greenwooders prided themselves on their good sense. They put their faith in things solid and predictable, in what could be handled and husbanded. Magic? That was a dream of children, of Northland mystics, of the decadent princes of the southern Empyre.

But . . . when the wind blew hard out of the east or the winter lingered particularly harsh and cold, when a rainbow formed on the foothills of the forbidding eastern mountains or a sickle moon hung low over Hart’s Way, then even the most pragmatic of villagers looked at the world askance and recalled the old lore.

Greenwood Village sat on an ancient crossroads. Few outsiders realized it, but most villagers knew. The north-south road ran wide and well traveled, a welcome conduit for news and goods. The secretive east-west road had dwindled to a narrow track. These days it was called Hart’s Way because mostly deer used it. Villagers avoided it. No one trusted it. Strange things were supposed to happen to people who walked too far down it. In time, far stranger things would converge upon it.

Emilyn Sayer knew some of the legends of the trail. She was pondering a few as she set off down it on this particularly bright spring morning—but not because Hart’s Way frightened her.

Emily needed a story, a really good story. It was the price she paid for these sporadic visits to the deeper wood.

As she climbed higher into the trees, she was recalling the tale of the phantom house that was supposed to lie hidden deep within the wood. She discarded it almost immediately. Her friend Beth probably wouldn’t enjoy it, being a virtual prisoner in another crumbling mansion in the same wood.

Perhaps a tale of wights would be better. The stories of the supernatural beings who appeared at twilight to devour the souls of mortals sent shivers down everyone’s spine. But such stories seemed too grim for this day’s bright mood. A happier tale would do better. Emily could recite many of the tongue-in-cheek legends of Dorlan of the forest who dared Death and tricked friends and enemies alike.

Her mind drifted off on a jump-rope rhyme the village children liked to chant.

One, two, three, four

Pull the shutters

Shut the door

Five, six, seven, eight

The traveler comes

bearing light.

Should he knock

upon your door,

your life is his

forevermore.

Heart, mind, body, soul

When Dorlan knocks

upon your door,

your life is his forevermore.

Spring had come late, but lavishly. Summer stood upon the threshold. The moldering forest had decked itself in vivid emeralds and sables. Birds swooped and chittered amid the sprawling arms of the mossy oaks. Even the usually close, stuffy track of Hart’s Way admitted a few streamers of light. The morning and all the world seemed to tune itself to the bouncing rhythm of Emily’s rhyme.

One, two, three, four . . .

On the fourth count, the mood of the wood changed.

Nothing specific signaled it. No wind blew. No cloud blocked out the sun. It was rather as if the world opened the hidden eye behind its sunny mask to reveal the darker world waiting underneath.

The rhyme died on Emily’s lips. Her steps slowed. Her breathing grew shallow as her chest tightened. She winced and blinked as leaves, bark, birdsong, and sunlight, all acquired the cutting sharpness of a razor’s edge.

A warning voice inside her told her to turn for home. Emily ignored it and made herself walk faster. She was not far now from her destination, and up ahead the track rose to a hilltop crowned in light.

She caught up her skirts and broke into a jog as she began to toil up the hill. Then she looked up into the hilltop’s curtain of light, and realized someone already occupied it.

Beth?

Instinct and her eyes told her differently; her heartbeat quickened. Lately, village talk bubbled with rumors about dangerous people moving through these woods. The figure ahead was hazy and hard to make out amid the brilliant shafts of sunlight, but Emily was sure that it had a hat on its head and carried something long as a walking stick in its hand.

Who’s there! she cried, trying to sound calm, authoritative. She clenched her hands on her skirt, wishing for a stick of her own.

I said who’s there, she barked again at the waiting figure.

Emily! a voice called from elsewhere among the trees.

Beth! Emily called back, looking about. When she looked back up the hill, the light-veiled figure was gone.

Although Emily didn’t know it, she was being followed down Hart’s way. Colin Blackhammer had caught sight of her slinking past the edge of town and, remarking her secretive behavior, decided to investigate.

Colin was the eldest son of the village’s taciturn smith/farrier, and lately, Emily had been much on his mind. On this particular day, he had begun thinking of her as soon as he woke up and continued thinking of her through his chores and even into his noon break, at which time he meandered over to his friends Thom and Will Humbolt, who were hurling knives at the boll of a tree. Neither of the brothers was particularly good at knife throwing, but Colin figured there were worse ways to spend a few well-earned moments of leisure.

Three for me, Thom cried as his knife hit the center of the boll and bounced off.

Doesn’t count, argued his older brother. It has to stick.

When did you make that rule?

It’s always been the rule.

No, mutton head, it hasn’t.

Yes, mutton head, it has.

Colin, is that the rule? demanded Thom

What? said Colin, tossing a rust-red forelock of hair out of his eyes.

Thom and Will were looking at him expectantly.

Does the knife have to stick? prompted Thom.

What does Will say? suggested Colin.

Where’s your head this morning? smirked Will. He was a very attractive, grey-eyed young man two years Colin’s senior. You’ve been brooding like a hen all morning. If I were the healer, I’d say you were coming down with something.

Oh, he’s sick all right, chimed in Thom. Love sick.

This pronouncement, quite uncharacteristic of Thom, earned a blink of startlement from Colin, one that Will did not miss.

Will’s clear gray eyes gleamed, and he inclined his ear toward his younger brother. Is that so? Who for? Jana Stonefield? Talia Drover?

Colin, recovering his composure, snorted.

Thom leered. More like Lettie Harrington.

Get out of here! dismissed Colin.

Will looked surprised.

I saw you talking with her the other day, argued Thom. He leaned toward his brother. Very intimate it was. She had her face buried in his shoulder.

Is that so! said Will and raised a well-shaped brow at Colin.

Colin growled in his throat. Shut up, Thom. You don’t know what you’re talking about.

Will’s mouth was slowly spreading into an uneasy grin, one that Colin’s steady stare aimed to level. Then Will’s gaze slid sideways, and the good humor left his eyes.

Two young women were coming down the road, one palely radiant, the other dully dark.

Colin forgot about his own problems and looked hard at Will.

Thom too looked at his brother. Don’t do it! he warned.

But Will’s features had settled into the set expression of a man bent on laying his life on an altar.

Afternoon, Regina, he called, raising a diffident hand.

The young women paused. Plain-faced Claire Raines blushed and hung back, but Regina Waxman, the undisputed beauty of an entire district, swayed nearer. Her straw-yellow hair gleamed brazenly in the sun, and she tilted her head appealingly as she served up a winsome smile. Will. I hadn’t expected to speak with you again so soon. I hope you are doing well.

He’s doing fine, interposed Colin.

Regina’s mouth tightened with distaste. Blackhammer.

She looked back up at Will, who swallowed like a man being forced to eat his own heart.

Here, Col, growled Thom, returning. Ignoring the girls, he held out a knife.

You go ahead, said Colin shaking his head.

Not afraid of embarrassing yourself are you, Blackhammer? Regina said with a sideways smirk. Watching Thom take his position, she offered a syrupy sweet, Luck, Thommy and arched her brows at Will.

With an angry grunt, Thom hurled his knife. But his anger misfired, and the blade went spinning into one of the lower branches of the tree, after which it tumbled to the ground.

Regina tutted. Her dimples winked. Perhaps you should show him how to do it, Will? she prompted, nudging the older brother out of his daze. Well, go on, silly. You called me over. You must want to show me something. Will’s dry lips parted, and his expression grew even more strained. Regina’s smile beckoned. So Will held out a hand to Thom, who slapped the hilt of the knife into it.

Will stepped up to the mark, set his feet and took aim at the tree, balling his free hand tight against his thigh. Colin, noting the flaws in his technique, looked down at the tips of his boots and sighed.

Will’s throw missed the tree altogether.

Regina’s laugh acquired a cutting edge. Oh, that’s too bad, she said.

Colin contemplated planting the side of his boot on Regina’s backside, but concluded that Will was getting only what he had asked for. The spoiled daughter of the wealthy village councilman and draper, Regina lived only for her own vanity. Everyone knew it. Will too.

Of course, a man can’t always help his feelings.

Friendship demanding some show of solidarity, Colin held out his hand to Thom and collected the other knife. He offered it to Will with a level stare. You were distracted. Take another turn.

Will tried to smile through his embarrassment. Nah, he demurred.

But Regina Waxman wasn’t done. Oh, do try again, Will, she pressed, moving in to spear him with an enticing look through long lashes. Lowering her voice, she said, If you hit your mark, I’ll give you a kiss.

Poor Will. The bait was more than he could resist.

He gazed down at Regina for a long moment, looking far older than his twenty-one years, then set his feet and focused on the tree. Colin noted with approval the improvement in his friend’s stance. But he reckoned without Regina. As Will’s arm whipped forward, the blonde beauty poked him in the side. The blade whirled into the dirt.

Regina dimples deepened into pits. She laughed. You didn’t actually think I would make it easy on you! What would people say if I went around kissing any and every old farm boy with a knife?

Will had gone gray, all the resolve in his face burned to ash before Regina’s pitilessness brightness. Ducking his head, he set his back to all of them and walked away up the road.

Colin nudged his way past Regina and bent to pick up the knife.

Watch it, Blackhammer! she snapped. You smell of rusty iron. If you ruin this dress, my father will make you pay for it.

Colin turned to face her, holding the knife nonchalantly in his right hand. You are the one who’d better watch it, Gina. People can get hurt playing games like yours.

She tilted her head and gave him a radiant little smirk. Oh, really?

Really. Without so much as a glance at the tree, he threw the knife. It hit the boll with a resounding thunk and hung quivering there.

Regina blinked, frowned, and opened her mouth as if to retort. But she seemed to decide he wasn’t worth it, and spinning on her heel, hips swinging, she sauntered back to her waiting companion.

That was great! chirped Thom with a rueful glance in the direction of his brother’s retreat. He punched Colin in the arm. Too bad you didn’t aim for her.

Colin allowed himself a sour grin. Yeah.

Stupid women! Good for nothing but making trouble.

Colin flicked the younger boy a dubious look, reflecting that it had been his own mother who had taught him how to balance and throw a knife. Then he thought of Emily and, with a tired farewell, set off in Will’s footsteps.

It was some moments later, when he entered a tree-shrouded bend, that he saw the pestersome object of his increasingly obsessive thoughts scurry out of the trees to cross the road and scramble over a weed-plaited stile.

One look at Emily—the furtive glances, the self-conscious movements—and he knew she was up to something. She’d been acting edgy for weeks now, as if she too were feeling the pressures of approaching maturity. Seeing her in the flesh brought Will’s predicament sharply to mind, and Colin decided it was high time he and Emily had a more personal talk.

With an inward curse for all the work he was neglecting, Colin veered from his intended course, vaulted a fence, and began paralleling Emily’s route, being careful to keep to the trees bordering the field and well out of her line of sight.

They had been friends for years and closer than most. Emily trusted Colin implicitly, and Colin valued Emily’s well intentioned, if sometimes misguided, earnestness. She had a true heart—if not always a perfectly good one—and like Colin, she held fast to those she cared about.

And they were bound to each other in other ways as well. Working together under the tutelage of her aunt, a gifted healer, they had developed similar attitudes and habits of mind. These kept them close despite diverging interests and the inevitable disagreements. They had grown up together, and their friendship, unlike many of the bonds of youth, had grown up with them, blossoming from a childish meeting of imaginations into a more adult meeting of minds.

All of which had brought Colin to his own personal crossroads on this particular late spring day. Emily and he were fast approaching that age when certain fundamental life choices get made. In fact, many of their peers were already pairing off—just last week Don Ellis, a year older than Colin, had married Mara Shearer from Fairway. Colin was in no rush to marry, but he couldn’t deny the social pressure to start thinking long-term. He was a man now. Soon he would quit his parents’ house forever and establish his own household, his own life. According to the custom, he should choose a partner for that life.

Somehow, Emily leapt first to mind. She stood apart from the other village girls, being at once simpler and more complicated, as familiar as one of his sisters and just as vexing, often unremarked yet absolute, like the sky or the earth or the thin band of life crawling between.

Coming out of his thoughts, Colin abruptly realized that he had walked a long distance up Hart’s Way, but lost sight of Emily altogether. He quickened his pace, keeping a sharp eye out for her hurrying figure. All he discovered was more empty trail. He shook his head in disapproval. What was she thinking walking out this far on her own? Hadn’t she heard about the squatters in the woods?

Irritated and little concerned, Colin quickened his pace.

Then the world changed.

Levelheaded Colin Blackhammer derided superstition as much as any Midlander. So when the wood unveiled its unexpected dimension, his mind at first simply refused to admit the alteration. His body, however, tensed itself for flight. He stood dumb as a stump in the middle of the track, straining against locked muscles. Meanwhile his racing heart continued to roll a warning. What is happening to me?

Movement teased a corner of his eye. Although his body tried to prevent him from looking, he willed his head around. A shadow moved among the trees, skipping from tree to tree with a quickness that defied belief. Clamped in fear and screaming on the inside, Colin watched it jump closer to him.

Somewhere up ahead he heard Emily cry out.

At the top of the hill Emily stopped to catch her breath. She saw no one and no evidence that anyone else had just occupied the spot. Still, there was a strangeness in the air, a sort of quivering, which caused her to hunch her shoulders and shiver on the inside.

Beth, she called again and began skidding down the hillside through last year’s leaves. The trail was even darker here. The moss-encrusted trees admitted almost no light. Even their trunks wore a heavy pelt of deep green. Sounds were muffled. The air hung torpid with moisture.

Emily began to regret leaving the hilltop.

Her eyes settled on a great tree that hugged the narrow trail. Though cracked wide open from its base to its first fork, it was bursting with green leaves. Five men linked hand to hand could not have encircled it, and its crack was a doorway into darkness. She tasted the loaded stillness of the place in the back of her throat. Her skin crawled as she imagined unseen eyes upon her. . .

From out of the crack in the tree peered a shrouded figure.

Emily loosed a sharp shriek and leapt back. The apparition jumped as well and fell against the mossy trunk.

Crouched to run, Emily covered her mouth with her hands, caught her breath, and began laughing.

That’s not funny, said the apparition in a stern, faintly foreign voice.

Emily waved a hand in apology as she tried to catch her breath and spoke over another laugh. Believe me, I know! You terrified me. What are you— she stopped, panting.

Pale hands swam beneath the delicate fabric of the shroud, pushed it back. You nearly stopped my heart, said Beth.

By now, Emily had seen Beth’s face many times. Even so, it never failed to amaze her. The translucent skin, the cobalt eyes, brilliant and deep as the skies that presage night, the streaked hair—all so beautiful, too beautiful to be quite real. Only, Beth was real, and very tangible, and because of her Emily could continue to dream of the world beyond Greenwood village.

Straightening, she caught her beautiful friend’s arm. Oh, let’s get away from here, and I’ll explain.

As usual, they made their way to the deadfall. Emily and Colin had discovered the fallen giant years past. When she and Beth stumbled upon one another and struck up an improbable friendship, it became a mutually convenient meeting spot. It was a sunny place in the dense confines of the deeper forest, for the huge, uprooted tree had rent a hole in the heavy canopy.

So you didn’t see anyone? Emily was saying as she stepped into full-blown sunshine.

No. But then I was trying to make sure no one saw me, replied Beth. As she followed her friend into the clearing, her chestnut hair turned golden bronze. Her eyes glowed sapphire.

Emily was shaking her head. Well, you are taking a big risk by coming out so far. There has been lots of talk in the taproom lately about outlaws in the woods. And men do hunt here.

I was careful.

You should be. There are more travelers passing through the area these days. Apparently, there is trouble in the cities. For a moment there, I was certain that I was being followed. Colin certainly wouldn’t hesitate. The other day he as much as accused me of being up to something.

Why? Are you up to something? said Beth with an arch look.

Emily snorted and set her hands on her hips. Besides trying to keep your secret, you mean? I live in Greenwood. What else is there to get up to?

Poised as a princess mounting a castle stair, Beth climbed up through the broken crown of the dead tree. Moving out onto its great fallen trunk, she turned her face up to the sun. Her veil floated behind her. Gods, do you know how good this feels? I’m sick to death of that mildewing mansion.

How long do you think you can stay?

Beth yanked her veil from her head and let it float to the ground. She looked the vision, but it was the loneliness and vulnerability underneath the beauty that touched Emily’s heart. A while. I told Miri I was feeling sick. Then, when she offered to nurse me, I told her that I was sick of her company. We had a bit of fight really, but she left me to rest. She will not try to enter my rooms until morning.

She just wants to protect you.

From what? Beth gestured to the obscurity of the woods around them. The whole world? Life itself? If she had her way, I’d die like her latest pair of finches, without ever leaving my cage.

Emily’s eyes narrowed. If she had had a mirror, she probably would have held it up to Beth’s face like an accusation, so she thanked the Tellers that she didn’t. Beth’s genuine obliviousness to her beauty was part of what made that beauty bearable.

Emily clambered up on to the tree and sat down near Beth’s feet. This isn’t your country. Miri must want to insulate you from foreign ways.

Beth looked down at Emily’s dark head. She knelt carefully. That hardly explains why she hasn’t told me about the letter from my father. She had lowered her voice, but her eyes gleamed.

Emily’s hazel eyes locked on to Beth’s dark blue ones. Your father wrote to you?

No. To her. The letter was on her writing desk, and I saw the seal. Later, I stole back into her rooms and read it. It took quite a bit of poking to locate it actually.

Emily swallowed the lump that had suddenly formed in her throat. What, what did it say? she asked trying to keep the dismay out of her voice.

Beth frowned and tucked her legs and skirts beneath her. It was very short. But he made reference to some political matters. I think he may have found a husband for me.

Your father is picking your husband? Before you even have a chance to meet him?

Naturally.

And that is . . . acceptable to you?

Beth shrugged. I told you, Emily. I belong to an important family. In the Empyre, a noble woman marries as her family directs. Besides I think I’d put up with just about anything, even a husband I didn’t like, to get away from here.

Trying not to feel offended, Emily looked past the sunshine to where the trees reasserted their shadows. So you will be going home soon, she said, and this time she couldn’t check the regret in her voice.

Beth looked at her, and her deep eyes darkened in realization. In a soft voice she said, I have upset you.

Emily kicked at a loose piece of bark, watched it fall to the weeds beneath the great tree. I’ll get over it. Her tone hardly convinced.

I doubt I’ll be leaving any time soon. My father made reference to the fall. In the meantime, you can help me prepare to re-enter the wider world. Don’t be sad.

Emily shrugged the empathy aside. I’m fine, and I’m happy for you. You certainly don’t belong here. It’s just—.

What?

Sometimes wish I could go away too. When you leave, there will be no one for me to talk to.

Of course there will. Greenwood Village is your home.

It wasn’t always. In a way I’m just as much an outsider as you.

Because you weren’t born in the village?

Because not even my aunt has much in common with these people. She’s respected, admired, but she’s treated differently. Maybe that’s why other people treat me differently too. Or maybe they find me strange. Besides you, Colin’s my only real friend. Emily allowed herself a weak smile. Oh, what am I complaining about? I will still have one friend after you are gone.

Beth squeezed her arm. You’ll have two. It’s just that one of them will be rather far away.

Emily’s voice became matter of fact. You realize that we will never see each other again.

You can’t know that.

I may be a country girl, but I do know a few things about the larger world. I don’t hear of many Southern noblewomen traveling to the Midlands to call on childhood friends. And women in this rural part of the country are lucky to travel to the next village.

You could end up marrying a wealthy city merchant who traffics in the Empyreal markets.

And you could end up running off with a woodman and grubbing in the forest. No, if I’m lucky I’ll go the way of my aunt, find a way to support myself, and not marry at all.

Don’t you want to marry?

Why would I? My mother did; you should have seen how things turned out for her.

Beth’s sapphire eyes darkened. Was your father cruel? she asked softly.

Hardly. To me he seemed amiable and carefree, until Mother sank her claws into him. I don’t think she meant to do it, but her pride and her temper always got the better of her. My father spent more and more time at sea, and one day he sailed away and never came back. So you see, I’m probably not marriage material.

We will just see about that, declared Beth. She dug among the silken folds of her skirt and emerged with a red silk bag. Pulling open the drawstring, she drew out a set of thin, palm-sized rectangles of ivory.

Emily’s brows crooked at the sight of them. What are those?

Windows on destiny, answered her beautiful friend.

I don’t understand.

Women of the Empyre use cards like these to read their futures. Beth began shuffling the cards.

What! Emily leaned back as if she expected the ivory rectangles to bite her.

What’s the matter?

You don’t actually mean to tell my fortune?

Of course. Miri and I do it all the time. Why?

Emily glared at her. It’s forbidden, that’s why. There was genuine shock in her voice.

Playing with cards is forbidden?

Of course not. But predicting the future is. In the old days there were laws against it. People were arrested, even tortured for it.

Why?

The future is the province of the Tellers. Those who try to speak the future incur the Tellers’ wrath. Those who heed or harbor them are cursed. Besides, I don’t need cards to tell me that I’m destined to live out my days in Greenwood.

Beth looked genuinely interested for a moment; then she tossed her head dismissively. Oh, by the Daemons’ Paradise, Emily. It’s just a game. She motioned to their surroundings. I don’t see any disapproving village elders watching us, and your Tellers, if they exist, have better things to do. Now cut the deck. She held out the delicate leaves of ivory.

When Emily’s hands remained in her lap, Beth took it upon herself to grab one and place it upon the deck. To think that you are the one who is always scoffing at my Southern superstitions. See. No clap of thunder, no flash of fire. Now cut, she ordered and her dark blue eyes caught the light and flashed brilliantly.

Emily looked into that blue and broke. With suddenly careless hands, she picked up the cards and broke the deck in half, placing one half atop the other.

Bundling the fine fabric of her gown about her calves. Beth settled herself into a cross-legged position then laid out seven cards in a roughly circular pattern with the seventh completing the top of the circle.

The images on the cards she turned up were starkly colorful and very stylized, ornately Southlander. Emily had difficulty making sense of them, but Beth nodded with satisfaction as she murmured to herself.

Ah. The Keep and the serpent are your first cards.

So?

They represent your origins. Were you born in a fortified city?

No, a shabby port town called Seacrest, not far from the southern border as a matter of fact. What does the serpent mean?

I’m not sure. It usually means something like guile or stealth, but it can mean beauty and charm.

Fits you better than me.

Perhaps it applies to your mother.

Unfortunately, that would work.

You’ve said she was beautiful. Was she guileful too?

Looking back, I would say so. Plus, she had a really nasty bite.

Emily! said Beth with a shocked laugh.

Well, it’s true. I saw her sink her fangs into my father more than once.

Beth grinned in a way that made her unreal beauty somehow warm and accessible. And you disapprove of my arguments with Miri.

Miri obviously doesn’t have my mother’s temper. Look how she tolerates your tantrums.

Beth pursed her lips. Ladies of the Empyre don’t throw tantrums. Your third and fourth cards represent the present. Hmm. The Laborer and the Earth.

Farm hands. Perfect!

Actually the laborer usually stands for a great work accomplished, a life’s work.

Most people around here devote their lives to growing crops.

You and your aunt are not farmers.

That’s true. I suppose dedication applies to healers as well. I spent all day the other day trying to make a poultice that didn’t run. Meanwhile Colin finished a whole batch, and went on to better things, as usual. Let’s just say it’s beginning to look like I’ll have to spend my entire life working on simple poultices. I think even Aunt Millicynt has realized that she’ll never make a healer of me. What’s this card? Is it really blank, or did you just forget to turn it over?

Beth slapped her hand away. Don’t touch it. That is part of your future.

My future is a blank! Suddenly I feel so much better.

It stands for mystery, the unknown. It’s actually an indicator of vast potential.

I’m not reassured. And this doesn’t look good. She pointed at the sixth card, which held an image of a blue-robed figure on it. The top half its face was hidden by a hood, and it held a tall walking stick. It pulled at her mind in a faintly disturbing way.

The Wanderer. It is an interesting card. The Wanderer is very powerful. He could represent a new person about to come into your life. But sometimes he refers to hidden truths about things already in your life. Or, he might mean that you will be traveling soon. He’s the guardian of roadways and the guide of travelers.

So, I do have a chance of making it at least as far as the next village.

Beth was tapping the last card thoughtfully. But this . . .

Emily studied the last card with a quizzical eye. It looks like a face on fire. Please don’t tell me that one of my poultices is going to incinerate me.

It is the Fire Breather. It means radical change, transformation.

Emily shook her head. Now I’m thoroughly confused.

Beth lingered over the cards a moment longer before sweeping them up. I can tell this is wasted on you. But now you know the nature of the game. Here. Do me.

Emily stared at her. You want me to . . .

Go ahead. I’ve shuffled them. Now read my fortune. I promise not to report you to the authorities.

But I know nothing about the cards or their meanings.

It doesn’t matter. Tell it like one of your stories. Just let the images guide you.

Emily was doubtful. I don’t know.

Beth caught her skirt. Her hand shook. I need to look forward to something, Emily. Please help me believe in an end to this exile.

Emily bit her lip. She knew what it felt like to have to fight to believe in your future. She nodded and took the cards. You never told me why your father chose to send you here, she said conversationally as she dealt them out.

Beth’s fine features acquired a rigidity like the stillness of alabaster. Maybe someday, but not today.

Emily looked blankly at the cards laid out before her. Well, I see a pale, crowned woman. She reminds me of something.

That’s the Empyress. She is the counterpart to the Wanderer. She is the protectress of hearth and home and the guide to the underworld. Go ahead.

Emily tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. I don’t know what to say. She looks powerful. Perhaps your mother was an empyress.

Beth started, then laughed.

Emily’s brows came together in a mock frown. Don’t snigger. I’m doing the best I can.

You are doing fine. Tell me more.

Emily stumbled her way through the next few cards; then she touched the fifth one, a flat landscape overhung by a shining crown of stars.

Words just came. From somewhere deep inside her they bubbled up, so fast and liquid that she hardly heard what she was saying much less comprehended it. She only knew that the words tasted as clear and sweet as spring water, or like frosty grapes bursting on the tongue.

When she finally stopped, her mouth had gone dry; the blood was rushing in her ears. She looked up from the last card—which just happened to be the Fire Breather again—and saw amazement bordering on alarm in Beth’s face. Her friend’s remarkable eyes had gone wide and dark as evening skies.

Emily went cold and clammy inside. What is it? she rasped.

Beth gave her head a little shake. She seemed dazed.

Oh, Tellers! If I said anything to frighten you, I’m sorry. I don’t know what got in to me.

Beth blinked once slowly. Her pupils slowly contracted; the light crept back into her irises.

Are you all right? Emily asked in a low voice.

Yes, yes. You just surprised me; that is all.

So what I said wasn’t bad.

Don’t you remember?

Emily dropped her eyes, pretending to wipe her hands on her skirt. I guess I just got carried away.

She didn’t see the hint of wariness flicker across Beth’s fine features. Oh, it doesn’t matter. Most of it was very strange.

Did I offend you? prompted Emily, still concerned that she might have gone too far.

Beth wiped her brow and then smiled. The smile grew sly. No. In fact, you said I would have a glorious, green-eyed lover.

Glad to hear it—if you are, said Emily with a little shiver.

I am, Beth answered with a seductive sweep of lash. And that reminds me. I have brought some other things to show you. She collected her feet under her and scampered across the trunk. In a flutter of silky gown she jumped to the ground.

Returning to where Emily still sat upon the tree, she handed up a covered basket. Careful now, she said as Emily took it.

Emily turned it this way and that it her hands. It felt heavy. What is it?

Beth was working her way back onto the tree. Fyre.

Fire? It looks like a basket to me?

No, silly. Fyre is my cat.

Really! Oh, I have always wanted to have a cat.

So you have said.

I wish Millicynt would let me keep one. But she’s seems to think I’m incompatible with felines. Can I open it?

Go slowly. I don’t want to startle him.

As Beth climbed back onto the tree, Emily lifted the lid on the basket a little and peeked inside. Oh, I see him! He looks very red. What an unusual color!

He’s an unusual cat.

Can I take him out?

It would probably be best if I did it. But hold on to the basket for just a moment more, because I have another surprise for you.

From her skirts she pulled out a gold embroidered silk scarf of deep ruby red. She reached over the basket and tied it loosely in a double knot around Emily’s neck. Just as I thought. The color is perfect. You should always wear red.

What’s this for? said Emily fingering the lush sheen of it.

Don’t you like it?

It’s— it’s beautiful, but—

But what? You always admire my clothes. I want you to have it. Something to remember me by—when the time comes.

Emily dropped her eyes. It’s lovely—the scarf and the gesture. Too bad, I’ll only be able to wear it in private. Impulsively, she leaned over and gave Beth a quick hug.

Beth fired her loveliness with a particularly warm smile. Hand me the basket, she ordered.

Emily watched her take it and gently fish the cat out. He was long but very lean and his very short fur shone like polished copper. In many ways he looked like an exaggerated version of a cat. As Beth held him up to her face, he opened languid golden eyes, blinked slowly, and focused on Emily.

The golden eyes spread wide. The irises blazed yellow while the pupils contracted to narrow slits. The cat convulsed and yowled.

Ouch! cried Beth, working desperately to hang on to her suddenly struggling pet.

Frye’s copper fur burned brighter. Emily leaned backward in shock.

Shhhh, kitty, cried Beth still trying to calm the wriggling animal. It only sank its claws into her ivory flesh. Ow! What’s the matter with you?

The cat’s hot yellow eyes bored into Emily like an accusation. Get him away from me, Beth, she warned.

Beth, scrabbling for the basket, lost her purchase on the animal. With the body-twisting feat of gravitational defiance peculiar to cats, Fyre cartwheeled over Beth’s shoulder and landed behind her on the trunk. His back was arched. His short fur stood stiff and brilliant as bristles of copper wire. In a yowl starting deep and ending high, Frye caterwauled his protest. Both girls felt the sound climb their spines with kitten claws.

Beth remonstrated with her pet. Stop it, Fyre! Bad cat. It’s just Emily. She cooed, holding out her hand.

The cat, glowering at Emily, ignored her.

Emily realized that she might improve Beth’s chances of catching and calming the maddened animal by backing away. Putting a hand behind her for guidance, she began to slide very slowly backward along the great trunk.

The cat noted her retreat and softened its yowl ever so slightly.

Unfortunately, Emily eventually moved her hand the wrong way and briefly lost her balance. She cried out in surprise. The cat jumped straight up three feet into the air and took off down the trunk in the opposite direction.

Fyre! cried Beth lunging after him. She scrambled up and leapt off the tree, silken skirts ballooning.

Emily was getting to her feet as well. Oh, Beth, she cried. I’m so sorry.

She dashed to the network of branches, and wound herself into them. But then she stepped onto a lower branch, and as she moved to jump to the ground, her foot slipped. She slid sideways among the twisted arms of flaking wood. The bright red scarf looped itself over one of the thicker branches.

Suddenly, she was hanging mere inches from the ground, suspended from the pointed end of a broken branch. The red swath of silk had closed on her throat like a noose, twisting her about. Her hands scrabbled at it. She kicked her legs about, frantically feeling for another limb on which to plant her feet. Her shoes grazed wood but found no purchase

Beth was about to enter the trees in pursuit of her fleeing cat.

Emily tried to scream and gagged instead, but the sound brought Beth’s head around. The Southern girl forgot her cat and ran to Emily’s side. Balancing on one large branch, she tugged at the smaller one holding the scarf, but to no avail. Then she dropped to the ground and tried to lift Emily up, but Emily, her eyes rolling back into her head, continued flailing, so Beth was forced to climb back into the branches and try again to free the scarf from the broken branch. When that didn’t work, she did as instinct bade her. She opened her mouth and screamed like she had just seen a daemon.

She screamed until she heard an answering shout. Emily! Where are you?

Here, Beth shrieked. She wrapped her arms around Emily’s now limp legs and heaved upward.

The spiteful branch chose that moment to break, as if finally satisfied with the amount of fear and suffering it had caused. With a loud crack, it sheared itself off from a larger limb, dumping itself and its load atop Beth. Beth ended up flat on her back with her mouth open wide in a vain effort to gather air into her imploding lungs. Then Emily’s weight rolled aside. A second later Beth felt the air rush in. She breathed hard and deep.

As she raised herself to her elbows, she realized that the broken branch still lay across her aching legs. Nearby, she heard coughing. She looked toward the sound and saw with relief that Emily was hunched over her knees, hacking. The bright red scarf shone through her dark hair.

Emily! The strong shout was almost atop them. Beth heard the rustle of underbrush and snapping twigs. Remembering that her face was bare, she pushed the surprisingly light limb off of her legs and scooted back into the tangle of branches just as a tall, rangy figure burst through the shrub fence that surrounded the clearing. Emily! it shouted and loped toward the coughing girl.

The young man’s hair was the color of rust and filled with leaves and twigs. His forearms and long-fingered hands were very brown against his pale blue shirt.

What’s happened? he demanded of Emily, but his movements as he raised her to a kneeling position were gentle. He brushed a hand across Emily’s face, then his fingers dropped to the scarf. Tellers, your neck!

Beth shrank further into her wooden cage, but some flicker of movement must have caught the young man’s eye for he abruptly turned his head and looked full at her as she crouched among the twisted arms of wood. Brown eyes locked on deep blue ones, then began to glaze over. All trace of warmth drained out of the young man’s skin. Beth saw his features settle into an expression of awe and dismay just before his open face slammed shut.

By then, Emily had recovered enough to sit up between them. Help me up, Colin, she rasped, tugging at the young man’s shirt. Beth saw the auburn head and the dark one square off. Neither Emily nor Colin spoke, but their set profiles clashed. It was Emily who won the silent argument. Colin’s chin eventually dropped to his heaving chest, and Emily pressed herself to her feet. She bent and looked into the naked branches of the dead tree. I’m fine, Beth, thanks to you. You should go.

Beth, forgetting her cat, her cards, and her veil, wriggled free of her hiding place and ran for home.

CHAPTER 2: Diversions

In a more remote part of the wide wood, a tawny-haired man leaned against the black trunk of a huge oak and trimmed his nails with a very sharp knife. Though the knife never quit moving, he occasionally raised his strangely luminous eyes to watch the other man prowling the distance.

That man wore a wide-brimmed hat like those favored by farmers and paced among the trees as if expecting at any moment to stumble across the thing he sought. He would stride into the deep shadows beneath the mossy, snaking arms of the trees, then stop and push back his hat, muttering. Then, after long moments standing, he would jam his hands into his jacket pockets, and turn on his heel and stride back. This went on for some time, until he finally drew near enough to the tawny-haired man to speak. I have some bad news.

You are lost, answered the tawny-haired man with perfect indifference.

The other man shot him a dark look from very dark eyes. "I think you mean we are lost."

No. Only you.

How is that?

I know where I am going, returned the tawny-haired man.

A dark brow lifted. Oh? Would you care to enlighten me?

I am following you.

Dark brows came together. If I didn’t know better, I would think you were trying to be funny.

I never try to be funny. As you often remind me, the tawny-haired man replied. He slipped his knife into the top of his boot and slid away from the tree. He moved with the easy power and perfect balance of a wild thing, and in the deep twilight beneath the ancient trees, his wide pupils glowed green as a cat’s. As he spoke, his voice, devoid of any trace of feeling, only underscored the utter absence of expression in