Impossible: The Cartographer Universe, #2

Impossible

Karen L. Abrahamson

Front Matter

Electronic edition published by Twisted Root Publishing April 2015. Impossible Copyright © 2015 by Karen L. Abrahamson.

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction, in whole or in part in any form. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-927753-44-6

Cover design by Twisted Root Publishing

Cover image: © Elena Ray(/gallery-253p1.html)|Shutterstock.com

For more information about Twisted Root Publishing, please visit our website at http://www.twistedrootpublishing.com.

Includes a sneak preview of Emberstone

Chapter 1 – Straw and Cinnamon

Change did not come to the village of Ouzaradade. It had hidden within an encircling range of mountains, protected, unvarying… until the day the stranger rode down from the mountain pass named Impossible. It was named Impossible for a reason—too high through the rarified air of the snow-covered Impossible Mountains; too treacherous, with shifting shale cliff faces; and nary a trail that survived the scouring winter avalanches. No one had braved the pass for as long as Ralia of the Maps could remember. At seventeen, that seemed an incredibly long time, but now the impossible had happened.

In the afternoon, the roads leading to Ouzaradade’s narrow, red dirt streets were shaded by date palms. The four, square, terra-cotta-colored mud towers of the town’s red walls thrust from the waving heads of the palms like horns as the stranger rode his shaggy, long-legged horse through the irrigated fields of wheat and vegetables.

The air was dry and smelled of the moist earth and the water in the irrigation channels. Ralia almost dropped her broad threshing paddle when the rider materialized out of the dust and distant haze. He rode slowly past the tall palms shading the stand of tall grass where she and her young friend Enbrea separated barley from the straw. Compared to the bare candle-flame of the people of the town, his presence felt like the sun on her skin. No one had come to Ouzaradade in—ever. It was—impossible, and yet…

Enbrea, do you see him—it—the rider? Ralia elbowed the smaller girl with the wild head of black curls. The child was younger than Ralia by at least half of Ralia’s years and almost as invisible to the townspeople.

I do. The girl stood silently beside her, watching the man ride past their place amid the rustling sun-silvered grass. The horse’s hooves raised puffs of blood-colored dust from the road that led out to the far fields and to the mountains. He looks tall.

He looks young and strong and like he has ridden a long way, Ralia said, shoving her heavy auburn curls off her neck. For indeed he did. His rough, dust-covered clothing of belted tunic and leather breastplate had seen much wear, and he wore a tattered cloak thrown back off his shoulders. He had dark hair, tinged darker with sweat that had trapped the dust until he looked like he had sprung fully-made from the breast of the earth. He wore his hair shoved behind his ears where strange, golden studs gleamed in the lobes. His long, road-dust covered, bare legs were tanned and corded with muscle and she could swear she caught the scent of spice—something sweet that caught in her nose. She refocused her vision and he became a brilliant, flaming brand that equaled the afternoon sunlight so that she held up her hand to shield her eyes.

No one of Ouzaradade blazed with such flame.

She crouched lower behind the grass so he would not see her, but his gaze seemed to scan the fields and come to rest on her hiding place as if he sensed her presence. For a moment she thought he would turn his horse and ride straight for her, as if her heart, her whole body asked a question and he was the answer. But he turned his gaze away and rode toward Ouzaradade’s gates, even though she felt as if a voice whispered in her head. Who are you?

She huddled lower, and felt Enbrea’s gaze on her.

Why are ya hiding? Enbrea asked.

It was a good question, given all her life she’d dreamed of excitement, of what lay beyond the guardian mountains.

He is a—a stranger… from overmountain. It was a shock. A wonder. Frightening, even.

He came a very long way if he came overmountain, Enbrea’s bright voice cut through the silence as the horse and rider left them behind. Enbrea frowned. What have ya done to your hand, Ralia? You’re bleeding into the grain. Your uncle’ll be angry if he sees.

Ralia clamped one hand over the wound to protect the barley. It’s nothing.Her gaze trailed the stranger. She felt as if she knew him or, leastwise, that she should, just as sometimes she could look at a plot of land and know just what the planting would yield—as if the soil spoke to her.

It don’t look like ‘nothing.’ It’s bleeding bad.

That got her attention and she pulled her palm away from the wound on the back of her other hand. Blood ran down her fingers and dripped into the barley straw from the open sore between her first and second knuckle. The wound throbbed, just like it had when it woke her in the middle of the night two days before. She’d thought she’d stopped the bleeding, but the dry work of pounding the barley grain from the stalk had apparently torn the scab off.

She glanced back at the stranger, nearing the town. The town’s warning horns bleated over the fields of the Ouzaradade Valley and the women and children who hadn’t already seen the stranger and headed for the safety of the city walls dropped their tools and hurried in that direction. A few brave boys dared to dog the rider’s heels shouting at him.

We should get back. The gates will close before him until Uncle Darius can ascertain if he is safe. She looked back to Enbrea, standing there with her snub nose, dirty face, and her black eyes full of mischief.

We should, but I don’t have anyone to beat me if I don’t, the child said. Enbrea had been orphaned when a horrible fever had taken many in the town. Though Enbrea’d been taken in by other villagers as a babe because each child was precious to Ouzaradade, her overly truthful tongue had resulted in her being passed from family to family. At age nine her truthfulness about the relationship between the baker’s wife and one of the shepherds had resulted in her being locked out of her last home. Since then she’d survived through the kindness of Ralia and a few others, though Ralia was herself an orphan.

And I do, Ralia said. Uncle Darius, Ralia’s guardian, had one rule, though it had always seemed foolish, given no one ever came to Ouzaradade: Let no one see you. Well, the stranger has passed and he did not see me, so I suppose I have not disobeyed. And if the stranger is taken inside the town, then I suppose I’m safer here, too.

She plumped down to the ground, her long, heavy robes pooling around her. Stupid robes. Too hot by far. But commanded by her uncle as a means to protect the ceremonial marks upon her body. She wore the robes over a thin cotton tunic that covered her knobby knees. She splayed her injured hand. Aside from her face, her hands were about the only thing the robes didn’t cover. Thankfully the bleeding on her knuckle had stopped, but Uncle Darius would be furious when he saw it.The bloody patch marred the delicate tattoo work across her knuckles that had been completed so far back in her infancy she could not remember it. The swirls of color had simply always been there, running across the backs of her hands like an exotic extra set of tendons and veins. Similar tattoos swirled over most of the rest of her body.

Enbrea crouched down in front of her. Are ya sure? Your uncle can have a temper.

Ralia inhaled and met her grin. Of course I’m sure. I’m seventeen. Surely old enough to determine whether I’m safe here or not.

Don’t you want to see him—the stranger?

Ralia made a show of thinking about it, but in truth she wanted badly to see him. Someone from elsewhere. Someone from overmountain! What wonders he must have seen to travel the world while she was trapped here with nothing and no one.

"But I have seen him. And now I shall stay here until my uncle declares him safe. Besides, she glanced at the town. The gates are closing so we’ve waited too long. If they take him in, we’ll be all alone out here. But don’t worry, little one, I’ll protect you." She poked Enbrea with her finger so the girl giggled.

If that’s your only weapon, then we’re in a fix.

Laughing, they watched from behind the shield of wind-tossed grass as the rider stopped before the gates. Nothing moved except the wind in the horse’s tail and the rider’s long hair, but the breeze still brought the scent of spice—cinnamon, Ralia finally decided. A rare and unusual spice. Finally the town gate opened and three figures slipped out. They were men, the tallest and fairest her Uncle Darius with his white-blond hair, wearing a fine, black-and-white striped woolen robe that Ralia had helped weave last winter. With him were two more-stocky figures. By the thatch of black hair, one was Kelp, the barrel-chested blacksmith, and the other slightly less stocky, balding figure must be Beret, the baker. All three were members of the town’s central council that, in addition to leading the town, also determined the tattoos placed on Ralia’s body.

She rubbed her sore hand, carefully avoiding the injury. The wound was still painful, as if someone had deeply excised her flesh.

The four men conversed and then Uncle half-bowed and turned to the gates. They swung open and the rider rode inside.

There. You see? No problem and we didn’t have to run for the walls. I, for one, am thankful I didn’t have to run in these. She motioned at her robes in disgust. With the hood and the long sleeves, they were so hot she was sweating. Enbrea wasn’t wearing a cloak and she wasn’t sweating and she’d bet the women coming back out to the fields wouldn’t have been sweating as badly as she was, given they’d worn their long, sleeveless tunics tucked up under their belts when they worked. Her robe, however, was too heavy to be worn like that.

She sighed and looked at Enbrea. You know what? If something wondrous can happen like a stranger arriving in our valley, then I can make something wondrous happen, too. I’m not going to wear this robe like this. Lend me a hand, would you? She stood, grabbed the hem of the robe, and started hacking at it with the knife they kept handy for their work.

With Enbrea’s help slashing the hem of the cloak, Ralia stood there until the fabric hung in a long fringe dancing around her tunic-covered knees in the breeze.

Much better. Much, much better. She did a little jig, then stuck out each leg to admire. Each trim calf was covered in lines that swirled up to cover her knees and thighs. There was the main river of Ouzaradade, rising in the arch of her foot to twine through the fields that covered her left calf. On her right calf lay the lands southwest, up into the vale at the base of the rugged mountains. The colors glowed prettily over her pale skin in the sun and were certainly more interesting than Enbrea’s unmarked flesh. Wait ’til Uncle Darius sees. He’s going to have a fit. She chuckled and picked up her paddle and began beating the barley again.

Perhaps the stranger will whisk you away, back overmountain. Then I’ll never see you again, Enbrea said sadly.

And that is a silly worry if ever there was one. Once he is here, why would he wish to return overmountain? But if he did leave, perhaps he would take her—a pretty pipe dream.

No, Enbrea shook her head. You’d go. You’d leave me. I’ve seen it in your eyes. You have faraway eyes, Ralia. You might not know it, but always I see ya looking off into the distance as if that’s where your true life actually begins.

Ralia turned back to her young friend and read the earnest worry there. The child was too young for such concerns. Ralia draped her arms around Enbrea and pulled her thin body into a hug. She smelled of warm oats, dust, and little girl. I promise that if I ever leave, you shall come with me, too. She held the wild-haired child away. Believe me. On the Creator’s face, I swear it.

The child looked away sadly, You don’t mean that.

But I do. I will not leave you behind. I promise.

Truly?

Cross my heart.

Enbrea looked uncertain, but finally grinned. What adventures we will have! she said, leaping up and running like a wild thing around the half-threshed barley, her black hair like a cloud around her head.

Ralia rolled her eyes and turned back to the threshing, pushing her brown hair back over her shoulder. She lost herself in the remembered scent of cinnamon and the sensation that the stranger had opened himself to her. It had been like the world had flowered open around her and Enbrea—she glanced at the girl—was barely a shadow in the brilliant world.

She spread more stalks of grain across the threshing area, but then knelt and dug her fingers into the earth. It was warm on her fingers. Dry dust, really, but it was almost as if she could feel damp coolness deeper down and, deeper still, something glowing and warm that filled her up and made her feel as if she glowed, too. Like the stranger? It was like the whole world was a blossom opening petals around her and she could feel everything.

She yanked back, because that was too much for her.

They worked until the palms beside the threshing area placed long shadows across the ground, beating the kernels off the stalk, then winnowing the grain from the chaff. The cleaned piles of grain they covered with cloth and left for the town’s women to retrieve for grinding.

Strange. The gates are still closed. Ralia studied the red walls of the town. Everything seemed quiet, so why hadn’t they allowed the women back into the fields to finish their tasks? This is going to make it harder to get inside unmarked.

Enbrea shrugged. So we sleep out. I’ve done it before.

Ralia turned to her. What? No one sleeps outside. There are too many dangers.

Name one. Enbrea had her hands on her hips and glared up at Ralia. "The shepherds of the foothills sleep outside. So do some of the most distant farmers. Just ’cause you’re not brave enough to do it, doesn’t mean it can’t be done. She shrugged. The stranger must have slept outside, too."

And you have too smart a mouth for someone so young. You could have been taken by demons, or wild animals. They say there are ferocious beasts in the mountains that come down to the valley from time to time and that there are the harpies and demons of the passes and those that might come from overmountain. Who knows, maybe they get tired of waiting for the unwary to try to pass through the mountains and come down to the valley just looking for a ripe, juicy girl to eat! She jabbed Enbrea in the ribs with a finger and the younger girl leapt away.

"Maybe they have come from overmountain, but they ride a tall horse and wear a pretty face so they can lure in a pretty girl like you! Enbrea taunted. Then she shrugged. But suit yerself. I’m not risking the wrath of your uncle." Enbrea skittered away, disappearing down a side path.

But we can hear all the news of the stranger in the market, Ralia called.

No answer. As usual, Enbrea could disappear and reappear whenever she wanted.

Ralia sighed. It was a talent she could envy, especially when it was true that she would likely have to face her uncle. She looked down at her robes. Perhaps she’d been a trifle hasty.

Ouzaradade was built in a square, with high red walls made of sun-dried mud-and-dung brick. Each corner had a square-sided tower that faced the four winds and looked out over the valley toward the snow-topped encircling Impossible Mountains. The town had one gate, made of wood brought down from the mountains and banded together with iron straps and studs so that it looked fierce and impenetrable. It kept the townspeople safe, for they had long memories and told tales of life beyond the mountains when bandits rode out of the wilds, burned towns, murdered men, and stole women and children to sell in distant lands. Yes, the walls brought safety, but there were times that they seemed more like a prison in the