Ancient Voices: Into the Depths: Wind Rider Chronicles, #2

Prologue

The heat of summer is nearing its end. Choirs of insects hum and chirp their own requiem, earnestly spilling out the last of their strength as their time draws to its inevitable close. In the thriving garden below my office window, and in the dense surrounding woodlands beyond, the subtle changes that tell of autumn’s approach have already begun. Once verdant forests have begun to be brushed with rust and gold, and the farmer’s fields are bursting with villagers, toiling in the last rays of the waning summer sun.

I do not work the earth by trade, but I have quietly observed the three young saplings taking root on the edge of the garden. Once tender shoots, they have grown tall and graceful, with lush velvety leaves and smooth bark, yet unmarred by man or beast. The test of their first winter long behind them, the revelry of these three young saplings has gone unchecked since spring’s gentle awakening. They exude an air of simple, innocent elation, the wisdom of the ancient forests not yet passed down to them. Having already endured the cold and the dark, and emerged triumphant, the saplings are blissfully unaware that their trials are not yet complete. They will be called upon to flourish, fade, and renew themselves time and time again. The soft young bark of a sapling must eventually harden to protect the delicate life inside, else the whole tree will dry up and fall away. Will the next winter be kind to them in their youthful ignorance, or will it be harsher than the last?

As mortal beings of flesh and blood, we are bound to the earth and the seasons that govern it. They shape our very existence; determine how we dress, what we eat, the tasks that fill our days and the length of our nights. They tell us when it is time to plant, and time to gather. We adorn them with festivals, with rituals, and with memories of times long gone.

The seasons cycle through without fail. Their lessons burn deep, leaving traces of their passing on each of us as they continually shape our world. Spring’s thaw gives us hope and we celebrate the joy of renewal. As its tender warmth turns to summer heat, we flourish like the plants and trees, growing in maturity and strength of character. We draw in all the nourishment we can, bursting forth with our potential seemingly fulfilled. But all too swiftly, the arrival of autumn cools the nights and shortens the days. It is time to harvest and fill stores with whatever of summer’s glory can be cut away and saved for the coming winter. Growth must inevitably be followed by threshing and winnowing, lest the bounty of the harvest rot in the fields, bringing no good use to anyone.

The old farmers speak of the threshing season as a time when the grain must be broken and cast upward to the Ancients. It is separated on the wind, which the ancient texts tell us is the very breath of Aviad from the dawn of creation. The grain which falls back is the life that sustains us, while the worthless chaff is gathered and cast into the fire.

The lessons taught by the constant churning of the seasons are learned by commoner and hero alike. There is little time to rest, or revel in present victories. We must always remain vigilant, prepared to meet the next challenge placed before us. Within the confines of nature’s rhythm we mature as we endure all of our loves, our sorrows, our struggles and our pride. Yet nothing worthwhile is achieved except through Aviad’s grace, which carries us through even the most desperate of winters so that we might experience spring again.

I said once before that no journey begun by Aviad’s hand ever truly ends. Morganne and Elowyn thought that their path had ended as they entered Minhaven, with their escape secured and their new lives waiting for them, unaware that Aviad had set their hearts upon a much longer journey. And so in humility, I pick up my pen to resume my writings, bound as I am to preserve the truth as it was made known to me. May the Ancients guide my hand as I commend this tome to the ages.

On the Road to Minhaven

Elowyn gazed upon the endless road ahead of her. She recognized the path...narrow and treacherous, surrounded by a vast, ancient wilderness that showed no trace of man’s presence. How could she have gotten back here again? Frustration and discouragement overwhelmed her until the tears welled up and began to spill over. Had her arrival in Minhaven been nothing more than a pleasant dream, or perhaps a hallucination brought on by fatigue and meager meals? She looked around frantically for Morganne and Adelin. She could not find them, nor any sign that they had ever been with her. She was completely alone.

Elowyn turned toward Minhaven, distraught and fervently hoping that her sisters were somewhere ahead. If not, she would need help to find them. She knew that she was close enough to walk there by nightfall if she truly pressed herself. But as soon as Elowyn tried to move, she found that she was mired up to her calves in a thick sea of mud. She could barely lift her legs. She called out loudly for help, even as she could hear Einar’s melodic voice in her mind telling her what a foolish thing that was to do. Elowyn could not bear the thought of being left to endure the cold of the mountain and the beasts of the night alone. She wondered where Morganne and Adelin were and why they had gone without her.

A guttural cry echoed through the forest. A moment later, Elowyn felt a slight tremor in the earth. The birds in the trees around her took sudden flight, calling out in warning to the rest of the forest. The small scurrying animals quickly scattered into trees and underground, leaving the wood draped in an ominous silence, broken only by the sound of crashing brush in the distance. She peered steadily through the trees, her anxiety growing as the sound grew louder.

Finally she caught a glimpse of the very last thing she had expected, or hoped, to see in response to her call for help. The looming shape of a troll came into view—one of the very same trolls that had destroyed Deep Lake. Her mind flashed back to the first moment she saw it, towering above the settlement walls and baring its huge teeth. Elowyn felt sick with horror as she tried to block out the memory of the guardsman being ripped in two. She heard a piercing shriek echo through the wood, and after looking around for the source, realized that it was coming from her own throat.

The troll’s eyes focused down upon her and let out a deep, merciless laugh. Elowyn had no idea how or why the beast had followed her from Deep Lake. As if in answer to her thoughts, it called out to her in the primitive tongue she now recognized from her last encounter. Only this time, she found that she could understand what it was saying.

Cast away the coin or be destroyed!

Terrified, Elowyn tried desperately to free her feet from the thick mud encasing her. The harder she pulled, the more entrapped she became. As the troll moved slowly, steadily closer, the hair on her neck stood on end and her ears began to ring. If only she could free herself, she could run and hide before it reached her. But the mud pulled her in deeper each time she struggled. She began to panic, not knowing what to do.

The troll was close enough now that his stench filled the air; a mixture of stagnant water and decaying flesh. Pale and shaking, Elowyn gathered her courage to face the troll with whatever dignity Aviad might grant her. She thrust her hand into her pouch and grasped the coin tightly. The troll wanted it, but it was not his to take. She wondered if she should fling it as hard as she could into the thick brush and trust that no one would ever find it. As her mind contemplated going through with this plan born of desperation, she began to see lights moving about in the darkness between the trees. The wisps had come!

Elowyn gazed upon their brilliance with a jubilant heart. Naturally, she expected that the wisps were there to save her and fight back the troll, just as they had fought the brigands on the road to Greywalle. To her dismay, they did not. The wisps flew past both the troll and herself, and gathered in a patch of dark, tangled woodland just behind her. She realized that they were trying to illuminate something resting on the ground. It was a single page of parchment with writing on it. One of its edges was ragged as though it had been torn from a book.

The troll was nearly upon her now, and as she looked past it, she could see that there were more coming—all far larger than the ones she had known before, towering high into the sky, their heads above the trees. One of their footsteps was heavy enough to crush her in an instant, one finger strong enough to lift her effortlessly. Elowyn called out for the wisps to help her, but they only circled above the torn page, the unintelligible music of their voices ringing out on the air. Elowyn was completely frozen in the mud now, and her fruitless efforts had left her exhausted.

With no other option left, she called upon Aviad to save her. The trolls shrieked as if pained by the mention of His name, but they did not slow their pace. Elowyn made one last effort to free herself and found that some of the mud had fallen away from her feet. Encouraged, she called again to Aviad and found that she could finally move, but only towards the wisps and the fallen page.

Understanding that the parchment must be important, Elowyn rushed toward it and quickly retrieved it. She tried to read the faded, ancient scrawl brushed upon the page, only to find that it was written in a language far beyond her understanding. The parchment itself was so old that its edges began to crumble into powder at the slightest touch of her fingers. The wisps flew deeper into the wood and Elowyn hastily followed, still aware of the trolls’ close pursuit. Another piece of torn parchment appeared and the wisps illuminated it until she picked it up. Like the first, it was ancient, crumbling, and unreadable. Her meager attempts at deciphering the script made her head swim and her body feel feverish.

She looked away and called out to the wisps in frustration. She did not understand what they wanted of her, and gathering the pieces of parchment was only slowing her escape from the trolls. The wisps, however, were insistent. Page by page, they drew her further in until she realized that she was standing on the edge of a sheer cliff.

Spread out before Elowyn was a vast, green valley that was blackened by an immense horde of grotesque creatures, all fully equipped and armed for battle. They wore blackened leather armor and carried crudely made pikes and round bronze shields. In the midst of these dark figures, Elowyn caught a bright flash of golden hair. There was a man, seated on a noble charger, clad in shining silver mail and armed with nothing but a broadsword. He gazed back at her, staring boldly into her face. The man’s glance took in the pages in her hands and the pouch at her side before his eyes locked with hers.

Somehow Elowyn knew that she was seeing the legendary Varol, and that the torn pages belonged to him. She also sensed that he knew about the coin she carried and that it was meant for his hands. He began to make his way toward her, slashing boldly through the mass of beasts, but his progress was too slow. He was only one man, hopelessly outnumbered by the forces surrounding him. She felt that she must find a way to reach him, but there was no place for her to climb down, and his path was blocked by darkness.

Elowyn was suddenly brought back to the reality of her own peril when she felt a sharp pain in her arm. One of the wisps had stung her. She stared at it with hurt indignation as the others closed in tightly around her, pushing her toward the edge of the precipice. Between her and the trees stood the troll. It had caught up with her at last. It grinned down at her with its stained teeth, blood dripping from the corners of its mouth, looking just as it had that night at Deep Lake when it had devoured the watchman before her eyes. Only now the troll bore a strange mark on its forehead—a raised circular shaped brand with a curved line running through the center. She had never seen such a mark before, but it gave her an ominous feeling that went well beyond fear for the sake of her own mortal life.

The wisps chattered excitedly at Elowyn. Some of them flew about the troll’s face in an attempt to distract it. The troll only brushed them away in an irritated fashion as though they were flies on a hot summer afternoon. Once again, the wisps surrounded Elowyn and began to sting her, pushing her as close to the edge as she could go without falling. Far below, the beasts surrounding Varol were watching, waiting to see what she would do. As they looked up at her, she realized that they bore the same strange brand on their foreheads as the troll. Varol pressed through the midst of them, his sword never ceasing as he, too, waited to see if she would choose to jump or be devoured.

Her heart pounding wildly, nearly fainting with fear, Elowyn called out one last time to Aviad. The only answer she received was another wisp sting, harder this time. The troll began to laugh...sinister and deafening, shaking the whole forest. The wisps stung her harder as the troll’s giant hands were about to close around her. Her time finally up, she found her moment of clarity. Though either choice led to certain death, there was one path that would deny the troll its prize. She leaped...

Elowyn awoke with her heart pounding hard and her night clothes drenched. She could still feel the pain in her arm from the wisp stings. Looking down, she saw that in her sleep she had rolled too close to the fire. Bits of ember and ash had popped out and burned her skin. Elowyn sat before the fire, hugging her knees, tears of both fright and relief streaming down her face. She was still in Minhaven and nothing was chasing her. She was not being eaten by trolls or stung by wisps, nor was she flying off a cliff’s edge. Morganne and Adelin were sleeping peacefully close by. She was not alone. And yet her nightmare had seemed so real, she had fully believed it. There was a part of her that still did believe, leaving her anxious and uneasy. This dream had the same ineffable quality as the strangely prophetic one she’d had the night she slept in the Temple ruin not so very long ago.

Elowyn wrapped herself in a blanket and opened the door to their room as quietly as she could. She tiptoed down the corridor, through the kitchen, and over to the little door at the back of the tavern. Pushing it open, she stepped out into a clear, frigid winter night. The silence was remarkable, as though no man, nor any other creature in the whole of the world, were awake except for her. The moon was exceptionally bright, spilling its white light generously over the landscape. There was a soft mantle of freshly fallen snow beneath her slippered feet, and the wind tore through her blanket. Her whole body shivered.

Elowyn breathed deeply, coughing as the bitterly cold air seared her lungs. She did not care. She welcomed the sensation, which brought her so forcibly back into the waking world, soothing away all of her imagined doubts and fears. She scooped up a fistful of snow and applied it to her burns, until the pain that follows numbness became greater than that inflicted by the fire. She knew that in the morning she would have to use the last of the healing herbs she had brought from her garden in Tyroc to make a poultice, but for now, the mountain snow would suffice.

When Elowyn was too chilled to bear the wind any longer, she reluctantly went back inside and returned to her room. She pulled her mat away from the fire and made an attempt to sleep. She tossed and turned uncomfortably, with flashes from her dream continuing to surface in her mind. As the snow’s fleeting relief wore off, the heat of the burns returned. The pain became a constant and worrisome reminder of the wisps in her dream, who had not behaved at all like the ones she had met on the road to Greywalle.

When the night sky finally began to fade, and Elowyn could hear the unmistakable rattle of dishes from the kitchen, she carefully dressed and slipped out without disturbing her sisters. If sleep was not possible, she might find comfort in the cook’s quiet companionship, and distraction in the midst of preparations for the start of the Winter Festival.

The Winter Festival

The tavern’s cook was a plump, rosy-cheeked woman named Idna, who rarely spoke but always had a kind smile for Elowyn. She often slipped Elowyn bits of food and other treats when she helped out with chores. Early morning was Elowyn’s favorite time of day to help, when the kitchen was a tiny island of activity. Beyond the gentle glow of the lamps and the hearth, the typically boisterous tavern slept soundly in the dark, its character completely changed in its emptiness. On this particular day, the first day of the Winter Festival in Minhaven, there was an expectant tension in the silence. The world now waited for the onset of the festival as it had once waited for the living tear of Aviad to fall as it hung in the sky like a new morning star. The decorations were already in place, and most of the food had been prepared over the past several days. There was an excitement hanging on the air, beautiful and mysterious, like slowly curling smoke.

This would be Morganne and Elowyn’s first Winter Festival in Minhaven. Truth be told, it was to be their first anywhere, as their mother had not approved of either the holiday’s meaning or the frivolity with which it was celebrated. She had always kept the girls tucked away until the revelry was over. Elowyn and Morganne found themselves caught up in the magic of the season with the same awe and wonder as very young children. Wyman, the tavern keeper, had told them countless stories of festivals past—tales of great contests of skill and wit, of those who had triumphed and those who had risen from failure to try again. This was an important time for feasting, games, song, jesting, and for charity. Above all, it was a time to remember Aviad, the Prophets and the heroes of old, and a time for everyone to put forth the best of what they had for the benefit of the whole community. It was a brief moment of exuberant defiance, where a people who were always so careful with what they had, dared to enjoy a lavish celebration just at the onset of an uncertain winter.

For Morganne and Elowyn, the deeper meaning of the season was only enhanced by the exhilaration they still felt over their newfound freedom, which spilled over into nearly every aspect of their lives. The spirit of the festival seemed an apt reflection of what was in their hearts. For the first time they felt free to put forth the best of who they were for the world, and for the Ancients, to see. There was no need to hide under a cover of fear. They were free in their work, their play, their thought, and best of all, they were free to proclaim their devotion to the Ancients.

Morganne was no longer forced to read in secret and hide Gareth's book. She pored over it many nights by the tavern fire while she took her meals. The miners thought it strange at first. To have a young woman frequent the tavern was odd enough—one who could read was practically unheard of. Precious few people in Minhaven could read or write. But so long as the weather held, the ore was plentiful, and no other disastrous thing could be connected with this unusual practice, they let her be and even grew accustomed to seeing her there.

Elowyn felt a sudden draft of cold winter air and heard someone coming in through the back door. A moment later, Wyman stepped into the kitchen, his face red with cold and his dark brown hair and beard sprinkled white with snow. He beamed at Elowyn and with a twinkle in his eye asked, Too excited to sleep? Elowyn nodded agreeably. She saw no reason to speak of her troubling dream.

Perhaps our little festival will not compare to those of the Sovereign’s larger cities in its extravagance, he said, but we are deeply rooted in the old traditions and we have our own unique way of keeping the season. At this time of year, whatever our differences, we come together as family before Aviad. Go revive the fire and prepare the tables for guests. They should be here at any moment.

Elowyn quickly did as she was told. Before the sun had fully risen, the doors were opened and the tavern began to fill with men, all wearing leather armor and brandishing hunting spears, daggers, axes, and bows. Wyman personally greeted and served each one out with a simple meal and a steaming drink. These men made up the hunting party that was charged with bringing in an elk for the night’s feast. Though plenty of game had already been prepared, this was a tradition that went back as far as anyone could remember. The festival’s elk hunt marked the onset of winter and the end of the hunting season, and the success or failure of the hunt was said to indicate what was in store for the months ahead. If the party came back successful, food reserves would hold out until spring. Returning with no elk, but some small game, meant there would be hungry months ahead. To come back with nothing at all was a sign of impending famine and starvation. To Wyman’s knowledge, no hunting party had ever returned empty-handed and so they were always sent off with good hopes. Only the most capable hunters were chosen for the honor and they took it quite seriously. After leaving the tavern, the hunters would make their way to the monks. A blessing would be recited over each member of the party and their weapons before they would finally set off into the mountain wilderness.

For Wyman and the men, this moment was a joyous occasion that was but a small part of the coming festivities, and the subtle meanings underlying it were a vital part of the tradition. For Elowyn, who was new to Minhaven and more accustomed to the jaded attitudes in Tyroc, the doom-laden superstitions that seemed to underlie every event were somewhat distressing. They were a constant reminder of Minhaven’s isolation and of its precarious place in the world. Under the shadow of the mountains’ imposing beauty, nothing was ever certain.

When a sleepy Morganne finally emerged from their room with Adelin in tow, Elowyn decided not to tell her about the dream she’d had. Her fear was slowly fading with the warm sun’s rising and the comforting smell of fresh bread baking. Morganne was anxious to open her shop for the day, expecting that the Festival would bring an influx of new business. The rumors she had heard about Minhaven needing a seamstress were true. The previous owner of the local shop had taken ill and died, leaving behind no family and no one capable of running things in her place. As important as it was to have such a shop in Minhaven, especially over the winter months when they were cut off from the rest of the world, the woman’s young assistants had done their best to keep it open. Inexperienced as they were, the shop had been failing miserably.

Morganne found that the years she had endured working alongside her mother and dealing with customers and contracts had well prepared her for the task of running it. This was an exceptionally auspicious start for the hopeful Morganne, and she was grateful for the chance to both prove herself and provide for her sisters, without the need to rely on the charity of the local monks.

The day turned out to be a busy one. When they had first arrived in Minhaven, Elowyn had agreed to work in the tavern to help cover the cost of their room and board, at least until Morganne’s shop did well enough that they could find a place of their own. Elowyn often worked alongside Idna, ran errands in town, or cleaned up when the tavern was closed. She was promised that when spring came, there would be a small herb and vegetable garden for her to tend.

Elowyn found that Wyman was generous of heart and somewhat protective of her and her sisters. He did not seem especially eager to have Elowyn serve tables unless he had no other help. On this day, however, they were so busy, she was needed for many different tasks, including running food and drink to tables. It was not until late in the afternoon that Elowyn was finally released to get ready for the first night of festivities, which would soon begin on the village green.

As the sun began to sink into the western foothills, Elowyn raced over to Morganne’s shop. Morganne had already released her assistants to join their families and was closing up for the night. Her fingers trembled with excitement as she hurriedly stored away her best needle. Elowyn dressed Adelin for the cold weather then scooped her up and waited for Morganne by the door, tapping her foot with uncharacteristic impatience. She could hear the growing sound of gathering voices and laughter outside and wanted to be in the midst of it.

This was a novel feeling for Elowyn who typically sought solitude over community. In Tyroc, she had always been left shivering in the cold of her mother’s shadow, bearing the scrutiny of disapproving faces. There was no deluding herself that she could have ever fit in there. Minhaven was different. She at least had a chance to start over, and she also understood that she needed the good will of these people for her own survival.

Strains of music were picked up on the breeze and carried to the door, enticing the girls out into the darkness that was quickly descending. When Morganne was finally ready, they stepped out together into the frigid twilight air. There was just enough light left in the sky for them to see their breath against it. Pulling their cloaks close about them, they gleefully joined the procession of people walking along the street.

The typically drab looking shops and homes of Minhaven were all hung with greenery, bright winter berries, and other simple decorations. The people themselves were equally festive. Most were dressed in rich, bold colors. The women sported ribbons in their hair, and many of the men wore a special kind of hat decorated with dyed feathers that were a part of the local tradition. Even those who could not afford fine clothes for the occasion were wearing their best smiles and glowing faces.

A young pine on the edge of the village green had been adorned with strands of painted wooden beads and bright red and yellow apples. Elowyn thought it was the most lovely sight in the entire village, and she knew that she would never look at that particular little tree quite the same way again. She almost thought that the tree stood a little straighter and swayed a little more gracefully, as if it was aware that it had been chosen to be dressed up especially for the occasion.

The green itself was really little more than a rough open field used for grazing, or less frequently, for large gatherings. On this night it had been completely transformed. It was lit up all around by torches and lanterns, and in the center blazed an immense open fire with logs the size of small trees. Tradition demanded that the fire would be kept burning through all twelve days of the Festival. To let it go out was said to bring twelve years of ill fortune. Knowing how seriously the villagers took such superstitions, Elowyn was quite sure that the central fire would be so carefully tended, even one of Braeden's conjured storms would not be able to put it out. She felt her body shiver beneath her cloak and realized it was not from cold. Somehow, even in this remote place, Braeden had managed to invade her thoughts. She quickly blocked the image of his dark, sunken eyes staring into hers before the magic of the evening was ruined.

Off to one side of the green, a makeshift platform had been erected. On top of it was a beautifully dressed table and carved wooden chair. The table was