Canticle of the Turning

If you asked me my name, I would tell you I have none. The man who raised me called me Nathaniel. I have no knowledge of who I was before he came, before he made me forget.

I could not say that he mistreated me, and indeed, much could be said of the fact that he allowed me to call him “Father,” though I did not share his blood. But he held himself with a cold solemnity that I did not dare brush against. In truth, I saw him little.

When I cast my mind to the murky past, I see only snatches of color and vague forms that swirl about, never fully taking shape. I find no trace of the mother who disappeared before I was old enough to hold her image in my memory.

Rather, what I see is a boy crowned with brown hair that curls gently to his shoulders and eyes that conceal a softness his father lacks, a boy who took me by the hand and shielded me from harsh whispers that rose about me until his was the voice I heard above all others.

Like threads of a tapestry, time wove a gossamer web between us, coloring it anew with each passing year until it layered each string into cords of steel and vibrant color, faded words into nothingness, for thoughts passed in silence between us, and I could tease apart the knots about his heart and read it plain by a simple tilt of his head.

A friend he was to me, before I knew the meaning of the word, and more than a friend: a brother.

“Nothing will change, Nathaniel,” he said the day he was to leave.

I had not answered then, only pulled at the reins and led my steed back towards the woods that hemmed the dwelling I had learned to call my home.

He said nothing would change, and yet we both knew it to be a lie.

Geoffrey remembered it as a cloudy night that veiled the stars when his father called him to the library and spoke his fate. He thought it must be a god-like power, to speak and see the words cast themselves into reality.

“The Emperor Lord has called for men to fortify the garrisons at the border. You will travel north to work under the Lord Ambassador at the frontier garrison within the week. I have arranged it with officials there.”

“Yes, Father,” Geoffrey had replied. What else could he have said? Memories of his childhood darted through his mind, wrapping gentle vines around his heart. His thoughts turned to the future that awaited him, and the tendrils tightened until he felt an ache where they laid hold. From his youth Geoffrey knew he would inevitably face this day; his father’s ambition was an unquestioned reality. It had pervaded the background of his upbringing, infiltrating every movement, every word. Such a day could not have been avoided for long now that he stood upon the threshold of manhood at seven and twenty years. A lifetime of training had prepared him. He accepted his commission. Even so…

“Shall I go with him, sir?” Nathaniel’s voice broke through the mire of his thoughts, drawing him back to the room. He had not noticed Nathaniel entering, had not realized he’d reached through the bond in their minds for Nathaniel’s comfort. He was not surprised, nonetheless. His boyhood companion had always had a talent for listening at doors.

“No. You will remain here.” Leo lowered his eyes to the piece of parchment on his desk and began to write, the scratching of his quill the only sound breaking the silence his words left behind. The youths understood themselves to be dismissed, bowed, and left the room.

The next morning dawned on Geoffrey like any other. It did not feel as though the world had shifted. He shook Nathaniel awake, who, without a word, followed him to steal away from the house and tack up their horses, as Alice-Marie chased them to the door to shove two meat pies unceremoniously into their pockets, as was her custom.

Wisps of pale sunlight snaked thin gold through a canopy of leaves, still damp with dew. The chirping of birds penetrated the sleepy air as the earth shook off the dredges of night to greet the dawn, and pale white flowers drifted to the forest floor as some flitted from branch to branch in the trees, carried upon a gentle breeze. The forest impatiently cast off its last remnants of sleep as two horses burst through the edges of the forest.

Across the vast meadow of flowering stalks of untended grass, the horses seemed to all but fly as the sparrows did above them. One chestnut with a black mane galloped at a slightly quicker pace than the white, speckled companion behind. Each bore a rider, silent and unsmiling to one another, yet a closer spectator might note hints of mirth teasing the corners of their eyes. Onward they rode, the only sound the wind in their ears, the heaving pants of their stallions. The grazing sheep in the field, still dull with sleep, scattered in alarm at the rumble of approaching hooves.

When finally it seemed the horses could run no longer, their riders reined them to a halt. In the distance a curving gate encircled the land. Though they could not perceive it, both knew a number of guards stood atop the ramparts.

Geoffrey held himself straight and poised atop the chestnut. His facial features seemed carved from stone, not necessarily in the sense that his visage resembled a marble statue, but that they reflect an attitude of gravity toward the world. “I wonder how far these fields span.”

Nathaniel smiled. Stray strands of raven black danced across his face, given life by the mountain breeze. “Are these not your father’s lands? If you are ignorant of its breadth, how can I know it?”

“‘Tis a wonder our nannies never thought to acquaint your hind side with their palms for sheer impertinence,” Geoffrey said.

Nathaniel answered with a chuckle, “You know very well that I had my fair share of thrashings while you feigned innocence. And as for you, I marvel at how you fail to see the humor in anything.” He mused, the corners of his mouth tilting up into an impish smile. “Still, if a lifetime of sharing a roof with me has not cured you of your sternness, I cannot imagine anything ever will.”

“I have heard it said that humor is a balm, but in my experience, it can more accurately be named an affliction,” Geoffrey said.

Nathaniel laughed again. “How fitting then, that you are soon to escape such an affliction.”

His companion did not respond immediately, but turned to let his gaze fall across the vast field. A silence fell between them, one that differed from the usual ease they rested under. The horses, ignorant of unspoken words filling the air between them, stooped to tear at the overgrown grass beneath their feet. Yet I could have chosen no better way to spend this day. Geoffrey’s thoughts crossed the barrier of spoken word, soft yet laced with a hardening as of clay drying upon a potter’s table. He did not know if he had intended Nathaniel to hear.

Nathaniel looked at his companion. His playful manner faded as sudden as a cloud passes over the moon; a tense silence took its place.

“Nothing will change, Nathaniel,” Geoffrey said aloud.

Without answering him, Nathaniel pulled at the reins and rode back towards the woods whence they came.

Geoffrey’s head turned to watch him ride away, a dark figure already too far for his eyes to discern the details he knew well of Nathaniel, but his mind filled in the gaps: the teasing petulance in the slight upturn of the mouth that only those dear to him might be able to distinguish, the coarseness of his manner betraying a preference for climbing (and tumbling) from the forest trees, or the tempest that had flickered across his dark brows for an instant before he cantered away.

A stillness fell, upon his departure. Geoffrey remained, his eyes still gazing into the distance even as the object of their searching had long vanished from sight.

He knew Nathaniel would not thank him for returning too soon, that he would need time to rein his face and manner into its usual gaiety. Pausing in the space between, Geoffrey filled his lungs with the air of his childhood, the only world he had ever known. He stretched invisible fingers through his mind as a gentle caress, sifting through the memories to find ones he could cling to once he left it behind. His eyes lingered on patches of flowers, crushed beneath the horse’s hooves. He imagined imprints of two boys’ bodies, formed when they had rolled down the nearby hill, imagined them lying with their faces to the expanse above them, breathless with laughter. He thought he saw their ghosts, leaping through the grass as wooden swords clashed against each other.

His eyes traveled further to the edge of the woodland, though they could not discern its details clearly from where he stood. There, he knew, stood a small chapel. It served no purpose now, and none seemed to know when it had first been constructed. It was left neglected, a playground for nature to have its way with. Time had worn away parts of the walls, exposing dusty red brick beneath. An old oak tree towered over it. The only tree of its kind for miles, it seemed to have simply landed beside the dilapidated building as a gift from the heavens. Its dark, winding limbs stretched in every direction, unsure of how it wished to grow, some branches bending ominously over the building as though determined to consume it, others stooping low and running near-parallel to the ground. Tangled vines of ivy crept from its base along its trunk, clothing it in shades of green, red, and purple.

It was an alien of a tree.

A memory drifted to the surface of his mind from when his years numbered ten or eleven: a story told by one of their more tenacious nannies, who had remained far longer than others that had been driven to distraction and out of their employment by Nathaniel’s many pranks. Hempie was an elderly woman even then, whose rounded frame betrayed her love for Alice-Marie’s sweet-pies. But Geoffrey, having neither, had fashioned her into grandmother and mother both. He loved to sit at her feet by the fire as she knit, plucking at the threads on her simple skirts until she scolded him for ruining them. He would watch the flow of her hands as they laced yarns together, hands adorned by curled, inky black lines matching the ebony of her hair trailing across the fingers and up her wrists until they disappeared beneath her sleeves, marking her as a Groth. But what he loved best were her stories. She wove them with words as she threaded her needles through the dyed wool, braiding them together until they formed a perfect tapestry, her voice low, infused with a lilt that Geoffrey now recognized as of Lyos origin.

“Long, long ago, more than a millennia past, (‘That must have been when you were born, Nurse!’ Nathaniel shouted from the dining room), magical beings we called Elves used to walk among us, and other lesser magical creatures still danced across the earth. The pathways between this world and theirs were still open then. Humans were as mere children to such creatures, and they delighted to visit us with little trinkets—pots that never needed cleaning, pottery works that shone from within on their own, jewelry that never lost their glow. But mostly, they toyed with the workings of the earth as their playthings, turning the roots of trees, bending the rivers and lakes to their will, carving the world to their liking. No maps existed then, for the land would be changed just as soon as a map-artist might put her quill to paper.

“Sometimes if a human spoke the proper words in some precise order that moved an Elf to pity, they might even intervene in more significant matters than these. Of course, one could never be certain how an Elf chose to grant wishes, so the wording had to be precise. My mother once told me a story of a boy who begged to be rescued from an undesirable marriage. The Elf he called upon admired his youthful innocence and trapped him in her castle for the rest of his life.”

“But why did the doors between the worlds close?” Geoffrey asked, rocking on the balls of his feet as he resisted the urge to pull at her skirts.

“Oh child, that is a sad tale that I will tell you when you are older. But even though there is no more intercourse between us and the Elves, we must continue to respect the earth. Suppose some tree or mountain has a Dryad or Oread still sleeping in it. Even the little stream that runs through our very forest could be home to a slumbering Naiad. How terrible it would be to break what little connection we still have with the spirits!

“Trees, but oak trees especially,” she continued, “must never be cut. They must be permitted to grow as nature intends them, no matter their shape. Do you know why?”

Geoffrey could only shake his head, enraptured.

“My people believe they are a portal to the Other, the Elvish world. It is not for the sons and daughters of men to lift their hands and mar the divine doorways, not without incurring the wrath of the immortals.”

Wrath, Geoffrey silently echoed. His lips closed over the novel word, tracing its path from its inception, and then opened to unleash it before trapping it again between his teeth. He wondered at the marvel of words that sounded just as they meant.

“I hope the Elves return someday,” Geoffrey said with an air of wistfulness in his quiet voice. “If they did, perhaps the fighting would stop, and Father would not go away so often.”

“But Nurse,” Nathaniel interjected, poking his head into the room, “there are no more Elves in the world. Why should it matter if they get angry? They can’t come into our world any more than we can to theirs.”

“Do you suppose they have no eyes in this world? All the earth, the trees, the hills—they were once servants of the Elves. Indeed, throughout history there have always been rumors of an Elf making an appearance here and there,” she said with a slight nod to Geoffrey. “Child, it is folly to suppose that a door once closed may never open again. What is lost can always be found again.” With this vague and ominous warning, she turned her attention fully to her knitting, humming softly, her deep voice blending with the crackling of the fire. This was fortunate for Nathaniel’s hind side, as he stuck his tongue out at her before skipping away, shouting about not being afraid of any Elves.

Geoffrey could not tell if Nathaniel took their nurse’s words to heart. Whether he did or not, the oak tree on their land remained untouched. There it stood, beside the crumbling chapel, a monument of wonder to the boy who searched for immortals among its serpentine branches.

      Not long after Hempie had told them the myth surrounding oak trees, Geoffrey and Nathaniel had pushed open the rotted wood of its creaky door, finding only a tiny labyrinth of overgrown vines as the earth sought to return the building to its bosom. Disturbed by their intrusion, clouds of insects had flitted into the air, to the delight of both boys as they leaped over each other in frenzied but vain attempts to capture them. Pale sunlight drifted through holes in the roof broken by time and branches. So long had the oak stood beside the chapel that the two now intertwined as though each desired to consume the other.

The old chapel quickly became a site for their play, imaginations blessed with the abundance of time and freedom as only children can experience. Dragons were slain, maidens rescued, Elves spotted, all by the time Hempie called them back for supper. Occasionally they took their turns as heroes of Calatiel against Lyos. More often, these ended in bickering and bruised cheeks as each wished to be the conquering hero. Nathaniel usually rose the victor (Geoffrey had not yet learned that despite his seniority, it does not do to tussle with someone whose frame made him far more adept to win fights than he).

“Tis a labyrinth left behind by Elves when they made their escape before the doors closed,” Geoffrey had declared, but it was Nathaniel who gave himself over fully to the fantasy and dared to sneak out at night to rearrange the little pathways for the sheer delight of watching Geoffrey’s stoic face brighten with awe in the mornings.

An involuntary twitch of his fingers returned Geoffrey’s mind to the present. The sun had cast off the last vestiges of night, claiming its dominion over the earth and giving vent to its full array of light, a fiery display that just barely hinted at its earlier delicate hues of pale pink, blue, and yellow.

With a soft exhalation that was almost a sigh, Geoffrey turned his horse to follow.

I could not name what had possessed me to abandon my dignity for so insignificant a remark as I spurred the horse to a canter across the fields, only that when Geoffrey uttered those words, an irrational irritation had risen within me and pressed me forward. A ringing had filled my ears until I could think only of fleeing the discomfort, even as I saw Geoffrey’s mouth tighten as I turned away, felt his restlessness rise in my own mind. His, or mine, I could no longer tell.

Even now, his presence settled in me like a second spirit—the one I had known since I was a mere child. He quieted his own mind and spread it to mine, to soothe the conflagration growing in my chest and threatening to burn its way upwards.

Wiry fingers clenched in my throat as thoughts rose unbidden to wage battle within me. My mind thought of how soon the chair beside my own would stand empty, how the trees we had once climbed together would know only one, the other a ghost of a memory. Soon, the house once filled with the laughter of two would fall silent, hiding thoughts that could not be voiced with no one to hear.

How far could our bond stretch before I would no longer hear his voice? Neither of us knew from whence it came, yet I do not remember a time when his gentle presence did not exist within me.

I shook my head to dislodge the tension in my temples. In truth, I envied Geoffrey his new position. He had no wish to journey north; indeed, he never spoke of any desire to leave the familiarity of the estate, yet I felt a growing restlessness that gnawed at me and drew my spirit from this place. The walls of the house in which we dwelt seemed to me a prison enclosing me within its stones, growing smaller day by day. It seemed strange to me to think of continuing there when Geoffrey had left it. And, I realized with another stab of annoyance, that I would be left behind had not occurred to me as a possibility.

What purpose could I serve by remaining behind on this wretched estate? No, I would return. I would confront Leo, demand to be sent as well.

A sardonic laugh burst from my lips. Reckless I may be, but not foolish. To such an encounter, Leo would not give even the dignity of a response.

My eyes flickered to my thumbs and I noticed suddenly the way they flicked back and forth across the edge of the reins. It was a poor habit I could not rid myself of when in a tumult of temper. Lifting the thick cloth of the gloves covering my hands would reveal thin, curling lines of what appeared to be black ink trailing from the fingertips and snaking up my arms, connecting in a final flourish across my shoulder blades. This then, was my true heritage: a Groth of Lyos. The fabric concealed the only indication of my identity but left me with yet more unanswered questions.

I was but two or three years of age when my mother disappeared, or so I had been told. What little I knew had been seized from the lips of those who only surmised at the truth. None of the household from that time had remained, save a small number of guards loyal to Leo, none of whom dared speak openly to me. All I had been told was that she had been a servant of the household, and when she had gone Leo took me and kept me as companion to his son, then but six or seven years of age. Other unsavory rumors abounded in my early years, always whispered, never spoken, for why else would Leo have condescended to raise a Groth child as his own? On remisceses of the past, however, Leo himself kept a tight seal, one that I too, feared to breach.

My earliest memories were of Geoffrey. Stiff, somber, boring Geoffrey, so he had always been, and so he still was. His own mother had died, along with three other siblings that never lived past infancy. He rarely spoke of her, and always with a deep sorrow he could not veil.

His years were greater than mine by four, yet his frame was smaller, his spirit more timid, so I had thought when first he began to take shape in my memory. Yet I had known no world where he did not occupy it, and could not fathom such a one.

From the moment I could remember noticing the whispers surrounding me and knowing what I was, I realized the awkwardness of my place in the household. Nannies turned up their noses when they saw my hands, shuddered when they had to touch me, and so I gave vent to my feelings by sneaking frogs into their beds and dropping spiders into their blouses. Servants rankled at their required submission to me, though in decent society I should have been of lower rank than they. Others turned away when I approached, pretended not to hear or understand when I spoke. They perhaps thought I was too young to notice or understand, but grown-ups often do not realize that children see much and their feelings run just as deep as any, though they may not know the words to say so.

I was but five when Geoffrey found me beside the river, my arms bleeding and raw from my attempts to scrub the offensive markings from my skin with sand and stone, to no avail.

“What is this?” he had asked.

“I wanted to look like you,” I said.

A sadness rippled behind his green eyes before he locked it away. He had lifted me, carried me back to the house. I remembered the prickling behind my eyes as he bandaged the wounds without saying a word.

When he had finished, he knelt before me as I sat upon the chair. “Remember, Nathaniel. It matters not what lies upon your skin. It is with your heart that you will wear away their prejudices and show them who you are.” He smiled gently and said, “But one can still demand respect as a young master of this house.”

Then he led me down to the servants’ parlor, and in a tone that rang with all the authority a boy of nine could carry, told them that any further ill treatment towards me, intentional or not, would be met with immediate dismissal.

I wondered what Leo would think of this, but Geoffrey did not seem to care when I asked him.

No, Geoffrey was neither timid nor small.

I slowed the horse to a walk as we passed into the woods, the birch and hawthorn trees folding me into their embrace. Like the field that had been permitted to grow into an unruly mass of tall grass and blossoming flower, the trees on the estate did not reveal much handling by human hands. They grew sporadically, some whose branches crowded and tangled into one another, while others kept a respectable distance. A thin, winding path left the only evidence of human ownership.

When we were young, I pulled Geoffrey from our studies on many an occasion to climb my favorite tree. Always he resisted, even as I ran across the threshold of the house, heedless of any watchful eyes from within. Upon the doorstep he would rock upon his toes, casting anxious looks behind him and gnawing at his lower lip, but always he would follow after me. And when the inevitable scolding greeted us upon our return, he would never tell them I had initiated the escape, instead taking the punishment along with me.

The sun had risen by this time, but through the vast canopy of leaves, the early morning light penetrated but little. Where it did, white blossoms carpeting the forest floor seemed to reflect its rays as of a pale moonlight. Under these ancient guardians of the earth, I felt my breath ease.

Often, I have felt as though the trees might speak; at times their leaves rustled of their own accord where no wind blew. I could never be sure whether the stories of my childhood had granted me a more vivid imagination beneath their eaves, but it seemed to me that the forest hummed with a vague alertness, as though it lay just on the threshold between sleeping and waking.

I knew these trees, knew their hues of red and burnt gold against the setting sun in autumn, knew the feel of their smooth white bark against the palm of my hand, knew from a touch when the first leaf would fall to usher in the frost. Here they have stood long before my time, and here they would be long after I have left them.

I came to the other side of the woods; there the first evidence of true habitation revealed itself. A mass of bright green grass, perfectly manicured, spread from a few feet of the last tree to the steps of a large manor house. On either side, the trees loomed, forming a hollow for the house to sit. Stumps of chopped trees littered the lining of the woods, as though someone had told them they should come no further lest they suffer the disgrace of a felling and they had not heeded the warning. A hedge of pink and yellow roses lined the porch of the house ahead, trimmed to perfect rectangles to frame the building.

The house itself was atrocious. Like a giant block of a prison with little windows to give some semblance of elegance. It was painted a dark grey with a roof lined with parapets. But what I really hated were the three triangular cones that protruded from the windows of the top floor. Like the eyes of a deformed monster, I thought.

I slid off my horse as a stable hand came running to greet me and handed the reins and gloves to the boy before walking into the house.

A stillness greeted me as I entered. I knew I ought to make an appearance at the smaller, secondary library where doubtless, Professor Lipit paced, fuming at our tardiness. The crotchety old man had strived to draw me onto the straight path of knowledge for years in vain. I had no head for books as Geoffrey did.

Instead I traversed the quiet halls to the third floor where Geoffrey and I shared a room. Leo had made a valiant effort to move me into a separate room in years past, but I found to my shame that I could not abide the dark on my own. Leo eventually threw up his hands after countless nights I spent stealing into Geoffrey’s bed and gave me up as a lost cause. Yet another stroke against me.

A large, wooden-trimmed window overlooked the back of the house, where the forest began again, then faded into a cluster of hills. In the spring weather, patches of bright yellow flowers spread across the face of the hills. Within the room, two beds stood against the left wall, separated by one desk while another sat in a corner facing the window.

Geoffrey’s belongings lay strewn across the floor and bed, yet even amidst this uncharacteristic mess, he had managed to keep his things contained and separate from mine. It matters not, I thought, when my things magically wind up in unexpected nooks anyway. I plucked an empty ink bottle that had fallen from Geoffrey’s desk and tossed it onto his pile of clothes, watching with smug satisfaction as stray droplets sank into the fabric and spread like blossoming flowers of deepest night.

Just as I began wondering whether I ought to hide the stained clothes, I heard Geoffrey’s light steps approaching from the hallway, and scrambling, turned the entire pile over. This accomplished, I lay on my stomach, attempting an air of nonchalance.

Geoffrey stepped into the room, looked at me, then moving to pick up stray pieces of parchment said, “What have you done now?” A twitch started at the corner of his mouth.

      I let my mouth widen in mock indignation. “It is quite wrong of you to accuse me of wrongdoing when first you see me.” I pulled myself to a sitting position and flashed what I hoped was an innocent, winning smile.

“And yet wrongdoing is rarely far from you, and alas for me, I am most often your victim.”

“If all you have for me are unjust accusations, we perhaps have nothing more to say to one another,” I said.

“Ah, a blessing in disguise.” Geoffrey smiled, mirth dancing in his eyes. I scowled at him in response, and was gratified to hear him break into breathy laughter.

I watched as he proceeded to place books and writing materials into the trunk that lay open beside his desk at the window, marveling at the fluid way in which he moved, every motion like a dance. Even his hands as he reached for each item seemed to flow as through water, seamless and unwavering. Nothing like me. Yes, Geoffrey was bred for nobility.

“I thought you had come to tell me that the good professor awaited our presence,” I said.

“I will,” Geoffrey said simply, continuing his task.

A knot drew its cords about my throat as I watched the shelves empty. “I wish Father would allow me to accompany you.” How I despised the wavering in my voice even as the words spilled from my lips.

Geoffrey’s hands paused midway to setting a book down. His fingers tightened around the book, and I thought I heard a ghost of a sigh. “As do I. But we must all walk our own paths, wherever they may lead us.” His voice, always soft, flowed over me as rippling brook, but now it aggravated rather than soothed.

“Yet mine seem to lead nowhere.”

“Perhaps they shall lead to an elegant lady with sparkling eyes and unnaturally plump, red lips,” he said smiling.

“Heaven’s teeth!” I grimaced. “I wish you would not jest about such disgusting things. You know I shall never marry. And Father would never allow either of us to marry unless it be to an exceedingly rich noblewoman from a powerful family.”

Geoffrey strode over to sit on his bed. He had resumed his customary air of solemnity, but I noticed that he plucked unconsciously at a loose thread on his bed cover and felt a sense of apprehension rising. “I suppose you may as well hear this from me. Father has spoken of arranging a marriage for me.”

My mouth fell open apart from my control. I could not fathom the utter monotony of marriage at my three and twenty years; it sounded to me as the ringing of a death knell of liberty and youth. Always it had seemed an occasion that could not befall us until we reached a ripe, old age, and though I have often told Geoffrey he behaves as an elderly man, the possibility of marriage had not yet entered my mind.

“It is not yet agreed upon,” Geoffrey had continued as I struggled to return my mind to attendance. “I believe Father awaits confirmation of her dowry.”

“Of course he does,” I muttered. “Who is it?”

“Lady Clarissa of Ganium House.” Geoffrey pulled at the threads with increasing vehemence.

“We hardly know her! And she must be at least eight years older than you.”

“She comes from a well-established family. They have lived in the colonies far longer than our family, and have an understanding of the land and its people. Father covets the family’s connections. Moreover..” he hesitated, “the Lord Ambassador I am to report to is a relation of hers.”

I scoffed, shaking my head in disbelief. “Doubtless he also covets their trade connections, as they are the only great house that lies near the sea. Always he seeks to expand his own wealth and influence.”

Geoffrey’s eyes darted to the door, and mine followed.

“I recall she has a mole on her nose,” I said when no looming figure of Leo appeared to strike us for my insolence. Bitterness flowed through my words, unbidden and fierce. “A large nose. And she looks like a scarecrow.”

Geoffrey smiled. “That is no fault of hers, and no detriment to a respectable marriage.”

I could not bring myself to give a response and could only brood over my perceived injustices. It seemed all I had known had begun to crumble, the path before my feet falling into darkness, and I could find no light to guide my steps. An invisible binding crept around my chest, tightening as I waved my hand to slough it off. It lingered relentlessly, while all else I clung to slipped away.

“But what about…” My words stumbled over each other before they trailed off as Geoffrey turned his green eyes on me.

Some things could not be said, even between us.

“Come now, Professor Lipit must be mad with impatience at our long delay. I fear I will have a share in the lecture today.” Geoffrey picked up one last book, and set it upon the desk after a brief glance at it before turning his eyes on me, a twinkle in his eye. “And do bring the clothes you soiled to the washing before we go.”

Nathaniel remained in ill-humor as he followed after Geoffrey to the library. Though Geoffrey’s presence was no longer necessary, due to his imminent departure, he wished for the days left to him in the home he loved to be as near to normal as they could be. Furthermore, a renewal of knowledge concerning the north and Calatiel’s relations with it would surely benefit him in his new position. And, he thought with a wry smile, it would be cruel to leave Nathaniel to poor Professor Lipit alone.

I heard that, Nathaniel answered.

The sharp morning light cut through shadows along the corridors, nearly blinding them with its harshness, the quiet of the early morn fading to a hum of activity within the wakened household. Geoffrey could not but look behind him as they walked, yet he knew enough of his brother’s temperament to leave well enough alone when he entered into such a mood. Words, though gently spoken, cannot break through the mire of an unsettled mind until the sea within it has calmed. Caught in the whirlwind, they would recoil, lose their power, and fade before even penetrating the shield.

He could only wait.

Nathaniel’s disdain for his impending marriage had not surprised him. In truth, his own feelings mirrored his brother’s, though dimmer, less intense, as of moonlight reflecting the light of the sun. It seemed to him a strange thing, to meld his life with another that he knew only by sight, whose essence he could not yet see. Could two people truly come to love when beneath their feet was only sand, not the solid bricks of time and mutual understanding?—love, he thought, not romance. He could not fathom such a thing, despite his near-thirty years. When he was fourteen, Leo warned him not to “rut with the maidservants” lest they attempted to tie him to obligations he couldn’t easily extricate himself from. “Better to lie with other household’s girls,” if he felt so inclined.

Geoffrey did not, and Leo, perhaps feeling his duty fulfilled, never broached the subject again.

Yet too well he knew that his marriage was never to have been a thing of his own choosing; all children of the great houses married according to the wishes of their fathers, for the mutual benefit of their families. He had seen the path laid before him all his life, and he would not now falter at their inception.

He considered what knowledge he held of the lady who would one day be joined to his house. Quiet, she had seemed, in their few meetings. Beyond such an observation, he could not speak to her character or strength of mind. In a naïve turn of mind, he wondered if he might see the sea ere they wed. He had seen only drawings on the pages of his books, and he dearly longed to behold its vastness and shades of deepest blue. Both forbidding and welcoming it would be, so he imagined, a force wholly untamed and free to carry its waves wither it would go. Yet how little he knew of the world beyond his own gates.

His musings came to an end as they arrived at the doorway of the library. The long-suffering tutor greeted them with a tirade of twitterings about the habits of gentlemen, the values of punctuality and self-discipline. The elderly scholar’s voice rose in righteous indignation with each sentence uttered, yet Nathaniel responded with the barest of nods, and did not return Geoffrey’s glances as his eyes flitted to him incessantly in mild concern.

An hour passed, by which time Professor Lipit had worked himself into a frenzy that did not dissipate until he paused, wheezing, and Geoffrey quietly gave him a glass of water in the lull, apologizing for encroaching upon his goodness with their waywardness. Only then did the good professor launch into the morning’s lesson with many a huff interjected into his speech.

Geoffrey knew Nathaniel could not attend to the lecture, though the mutiny of a former Emperor Lord who came into power by beheading his ruling grandfather two hundred years previously might have piqued his interest at any other time. The raven-haired boy played with his quill, poking its nib into crevices in the table, a knot about his brow.

Professor Lipit continued, “The generations after so bloody a mutiny fought to the utmost in order to restore the country to a state of equilibrium and prosperity. There was in them a great longing for the two lands to be united as they once were before the War of the Immortals. So we must now be grateful for our Emperor Lord Aloysius (long may he reign), who in his great wisdom gathered all the lands under his wing so that we who live upon the border now enjoy relative peace, subduing the Groths and bringing us to a golden age of commerce and control.”

At this, Nathaniel at last raised up his head with a glint in his eye as Professor Lipit opened his mouth once more, doubtless to expound upon the many desirable qualities of their current emperor lord that his two charges must learn to emulate. Geoffrey shot him a look of steeled warning to beg him against challenging the elderly man after their undesirable reception of the morning.

Nathaniel ignored him, and Geoffrey groaned inwardly even as the capricious youth said with a tone of utter ill-manner, “Professor, if there is peace now, then why do we hear of unrest in Lyos and why do we have garrisons there? Is that not why Geoffrey is to be sent to the border?”

Professor Lipit’s overlarge eyes widened further until they seemed as though they might soon burst out from his skull. “Relative peace, I said! Fairy curses! Master Nathaniel, have you never heard of the term ‘progress’? That Groths and Calats no longer tear at one another’s throats in the streets is surely a form of peace? That we all might live upon this land without fear of invasion can surely be attributed to the many years of peace talks?”

“Or the massacring of the Groth people,” Nathaniel muttered mutinously.

“And I suppose you, in all your wisdom, would have employed a better scheme to bring the unruly Groths under control? Might I remind you of Lesson Number 451 whence we learned of the Uprising of 668? When countless gentlefolk were cruelly butchered in the streets, children plucked from their mother’s bosoms to be trampled beneath the hooves of Groth horses? The border between the two nations was then a most dangerous place to live. Fairy curses, it was not entirely secure even further north, for the Groths had learned to cover their markings with paint and penetrated deep into our lands before they could be stopped.” Professor Lipit held up a finger and stroked his beard indulgently. “Hence why it is now decreed a death sentence for Groths to cover their markings, that gentlefolk might not be deceived in their communications with them.”

“It seems Lyos has paid exceedingly dear for their part in the wars. Why then must the Groths masquerade under a false banner of unity when we know they have no desire to be part of Calatiel?”

Professor Lipit’s huffs began again in earnest, and Geoffrey thought it a wonder that he had never lost consciousness from lack of breath. Certainly Nathaniel had given him reason aplenty for the unsettling of his nerves, of which he often complained. He had taught the boys for some years, and while his tenacity was to be commended, Nathaniel’s persistent lack of decorum and his affection for being contrary had formed in the professor an irksome temper that could never be wholly cured, Geoffrey thought grimly.

“Sir, would you tell us of the the Peace Treaty of 970 once more? The details have escaped my memory since you last spoke of it,” Geoffrey interjected quickly. “The agreement formed the society in which we now live, did it not?”

The tutor passed luminous orbs over the two youths, and, after a moment of confused hesitation, appeared to decide instead to attend to the pupil who did not have a personal vendetta against him. He took a shuddering breath, strands of grey beard blowing outwards like curtains before a gust of wind. Geoffrey shook his head with exasperated mirth upon hearing Nathaniel smother a vile impulse to laugh.

Upon the next violent exhale, Professor Lipit began in a slightly quivering voice, “The Peace Treaty of 970, also known as the Agreement of Allies, ended a centuries-long war between Calatiel and Lyos, after which Calatiel rose the victor. Lyos agreed to the construction of garrisons throughout the land as a sign of submission to Calatiel rule, and a generation of Groth children was sent to live among Calats. This arrangement would both educate Groth children in decent homes, as well as ensure against future rebellion. Many of the children taken during that time continued to live among Calats, and there has been much intermingling since then. Some Groth children are still sent to Calat homes for this very purpose. Of course, you know that as a concession to the Groth people, Emperor Lord Casimir (his soul rest in peace) set apart a piece of land in the southwest, free of Calatiel reign.”

“Valys,” Geoffrey nodded.

Nathaniel propped his legs up on the table and leaned back against his chair. He rolled his eyes. “How very generous.”

“It was. He sent a few of the old and noble families to build large estates into the newly constructed border wall and hold the territories as a first line of defense, this you know.”

The good professor continued on for another hour detailing the finer points of the peace agreement, regaining his composure through immersion in his own discourse (pompous people, however well-meaning, often do, you know), at the end of which he reiterated the importance of gentlemanly behavior and urged his two charges to maintain a dignified presence as fitting for young nobles of Calatiel. “Be as our good Emperor Lord Aloysius (long may he reign)!” he shouted as they passed from the room.

“I do believe you took yet greater pleasure in inciting him to irritation today than is usual,” Geoffrey said in exasperation.

“Yes well, it is hardly my fault he provides such fodder for me, the way he behaves,” Nathaniel said.

“’Tis hardly fair to take your ill humor out upon him. You know he is of a delicate constitution.”

Nathaniel was in no disposition to tolerate even Geoffrey’s gentle rebuke, and only stalked off with a huffing to rival the tutor he had only just left behind. He then chose to relieve his feelings by terrorizing the kitchen maids, resulting in many a scolding from Alice-Marie as he sneaked in and out to steal buns and pies for the mere pleasure of the act, throwing the food to the chickens and leaving them to suffer irritation of the bowels. Lucas he pulled away from his guard duties, justifying his actions by declaring the boy his fencing partner for the day, and proceeded to fight him with such a ferocity that Lucas, though he liked Nathaniel immensely, begged to be sent to the outer wall so as to escape further beatings.

To the primary offender of his humors he paid little mind, leaving Geoffrey to assuage the discontented servants of their various vexations, knowing full well that permitting Nathaniel to wear out his energies without interference was the best course to restoring tranquility to the house.

Geoffrey spent the rest of the week packing. By the last afternoon, his trunk had been filled with books, writing materials, and a fair number of his crisp, neutral colored clothing. Alice-Marie prepared packages of dried meat, bread, and walnuts for the journey. I tried to help at times, but was deemed more a hindrance than assistant.

The day he was to leave, clouds gathered in the sky without warning, as often it did in these parts. The well-versed members of the household quickly lit candles as the sky gathered into tempestuous thick clouds, and a heavy rain began to pound at the windows. Within the hour, the capricious sky called back the downpour as suddenly as it had unleashed it, leaving only wisps of cloud streaking across its canvas.

Evening arrived, rays of sunlight bidding farewell to the world with a glow of deep orange and red, casting long shadows across the walls. I could remember little from that day and kept to the bedroom, but I imagine the household secretly rejoiced that they were free of any mischief for the day. I watched Geoffrey’s belongings vanish from the shelves, his bed stripped bare, so that by afternoon I could not recognize the room we had shared.

The air grew thick with the damp that always settled after a downpour, perched as we were on the cusp before the summer months, and I thought I might suffocate with the heaviness of it. I watched Ian carry Geoffrey’s trunks out of the room and felt it congeal in my throat and chest. And I could do nothing but feel it.

Leo again summoned Geoffrey to the library. I could hear nothing of importance, only a predictable, “You must not fail me,” followed by Geoffrey’s equally predictable, “Yes Father.” I held back a snort of disgust with some difficulty. Could Geoffrey never think of anything more interesting to say? When he emerged from the library and saw me crouching at the door, he shook his head with a hint of a smile at the corner of his lips.

“What did he say?” I asked, following upon his heels as he turned the corner and led us toward the second staircase.

“Were you not listening at the door?” Geoffrey laughed.

“Would I ask you if I had heard? Perhaps he suspected as much and spoke in a lower voice than usual.”

“He said Ewan would journey with me. Our neighbor arrives in the evening and we will leave together. He exhorted me to do my utmost in my duties and obey the Lord Ambassador without fail that the family might look upon with favor in uniting our families.”

I frowned at the mention of his impending marital arrangements. “And did Father determine when the happy occasion is to take place? Pray tell, that I might know when I am to drink your happiness.”

“You behave as though this match was of my own making.” A note of frustration had entered Geoffrey’s tone where it so rarely made an appearance, and I bowed my head as we walked.

“Forgive me. I was too hasty.”

He shook his head, striding onward. “What need is there of forgiveness between friends?”

The lull between our words lifted my head and I saw to where he had brought us. In moments we had crossed the corridor to a small room on the uppermost floor. Geoffrey knocked upon the door and was rewarded with a husky, “Come in.”

We entered the room, and the features of the hunched figure upon the chair brightened at the sight of us. “Oh my dears, come in, come in. What business brings you to visit an old woman like me?”

Our nurse Hempie had been elderly even since my boyhood, and the deep lines upon her face spoke to the long years of her life. Now that we were past the age of nannies, she preferred to take her meals alone and rarely alighted from the confines of her room, yet I knew Geoffrey often visited with her.

“Nurse, you know that I must soon leave this house and find my fortune in the wider world,” Geoffrey said, going to her side and taking her wrinkled hand in his.

“Oh yes, child, I do remember now. News travels quickly in this house. I had something I meant to give you before you go, and I am pleased you have come. I thought I might send one of the maids to deliver it if you did not. Now, where did I put it?”

“Allow me, Nurse,” I said. “Where is it?”

“In the top drawer there, my dear. Thank you. Now Nathaniel, you have not been to see me as often as I’d like,” she said teasingly.

I could say nothing in reply as I drew out a knitted scarf and gave it into her hands. To my shame, I had not. I could find little pleasure in quiet conversation, and though I preserved an affection for the old lady, I did little more than exact my duty in my interactions toward her.

“In my absence, you will find him here more often,” Geoffrey said, “such that you may wish for the return of your quiet days.”

In this I read his missive to me, and nodded.

“Ah, I well understand the habits of young people. I was not always as you see me now. But no matter.” Hempie draped the scarf over Geoffrey’s neck. “Here, child. Though winter is yet months away, you will need this then. You would not think it, but I remember in my youth the biting cold of the north when the frost comes.”

“Is the frost so fierce then?” I asked.

“Oh yes, but not so fierce as one might think, perhaps. We have no snowfall up there, but the rainwater freezes upon everything it touches, and in my mind it cuts worse than soft snow.”

Geoffrey touched a hand to the wool, left undyed as he preferred. He raised himself to lay his lips lightly upon the nurse’s face. “Thank you. I will treasure it.”

We left Hempie, and I walked with him to the main door where Ewan awaited him. We watched as Ian loaded the luggage onto the waiting carriage. Geoffrey had donned a worn cloak suitable for traveling. A sword hung at his side. The sight of it was strange to me, for though I did not doubt his ability, he had no great affection for fighting, even in play.

“Well, little Nathaniel, will you now be master of the house?” Ewan said, laughing as he punched my shoulder in greeting.

I did not smile. We had scant dealings with our neighbors, but my few memories of them did little to please me. I remembered only a steady shower of teasing, remembered my childish tears as the older boys left me behind so I would not interfere with their sport.

“He will do well,” Geoffrey said.

“While we labor on for the glory of the Calatiel Empire,” said Ewan. “Ah well, Leo will perhaps allow you to join us soon enough. I hear the rebels have grown bold in these years of peace.” Flashing another wide grin, he bounded toward the carriage to torment some other unfortunate soul.

A faint scent of damp leaves and coconut swept through the air along the cool breeze. The sun sank behind the hills into a soft twilight glow, and the day relinquished its mantle to welcome the softer light of the moon.

Geoffrey lifted his hands and adjusted the cloak over his shoulders before turning to look at me. “I will write often,” I heard him say softly.

I wondered when we might meet again. Words stiffened and tangled on my tongue, and I could not draw them out.

His eyes searched mine and seemed to understand all I could not say. As I knew the thoughts that hid behind each turn of his head, every fleeting twitch of his mouth, so he did mine. He pulled me into an embrace, pressing his hand gently against the back of my head. “Dear friend, this is no eternal parting. Do your duty. Learn all you can. You will join me ere you feel the passing of the time.”

“There’s nothing of worth I can do here,” I mumbled into Geoffrey’s shoulder, my voice thickening.

“My years exceed yours by four, and my duties then seemed as negligible as yours do now. Your time will come. When it does, you too will have your chance to sear your mark onto the world.”

He let me go then, and I felt it as a wrenching of my heart. Geoffrey placed his hands on my shoulders and gently kissed my forehead. “Be well. Be strong.”

He turned and walked away before I could utter a farewell, mounted his horse and the caravan set off. Moments later, both carriage and horse had faded into the shadow of the trees.

Sayun’s hands ached. The morning had worn away while she sat in the pasture milking. She thought that surely by this time she would have been released from her punishment, as the sun mounted quickly and now spread its blazing rays over her skin. Truthfully, however, she did not resent these hours beneath the open sky; indeed she relished them, but she would have chosen to spend them in some other, more diverting manner.

It seemed to her a most amusing jest that the Council had thought to send her to the outside would be to her a form of discipline, for she had a great affection for wandering in the open, free of the stifling air below. Nevertheless, most of her kin would shudder at receiving treatment of the same kind. Her people rarely traveled above ground; the Orons dwelt in the earth, as they had for a millennia since The Reckoning. Only the bravest ventured out to provide sustenance for their community of a hundred.

Theirs was a small tribe, so she thought, though truthfully she knew little of other villages and how they fared. She knew not how many others like theirs lay interspersed throughout the whole of the vast mountain range that stretched further than her eyes could reach. Those who left their settlement of origin when it grew beyond the breadth of sustainability never returned.

She stopped her hands for a moment to massage the tension from them and take a mouthful of water. It had long lost its coolness since her mother had packed it for her in the early morn. She let the warmth of it rest atop her tongue, swirling it to soothe the sensation of dust in her mouth. How oppressive the heat was. She peeled gloves sticky with sweat from her hands. Always she donned these coverings, and this pair was losing its usefulness. She would soon have to ask her mother for fresh ones.

Shading her eyes against the sun, she looked out across the plain. Where she sat, the vegetation grew in sporadic patches. They colored the landscape a dusky brown, for in the heat of the season the grass itself lost its vibrant shades. Some distance away, a small thicket of pines grew densely together, and further still, the landscape blurred into an assemblage of mountain peaks that seemed without end. Other than the pines and surrounding undergrowth to which the trees came quickly to an end, little foliage grew in these mountains, and in the summer months the land seemed a vast scar upon the earth. It seemed a wonder that the wild cows continued to abide in this place, as though put there to sustain the Oron village beneath their feet. Sayun had little need even to chase after them. They came to her as though called.

She often wondered what lay beyond. Perhaps one day she would venture out and see.

At the thought, a bitter laugh escaped Sayun’s lips. Her mother would fall to the ground, could she but hear her daughter’s hidden thoughts. Orons did not leave the mountain. They abided in safety, far from the troubles of the world below, and have for a millennia. If others before her had removed from their refuge, the elders did not speak of them. Certainly Sayun did not believe they had ever welcomed such a one back into their fold. 

A memory arose unbidden, of a story told when she was a girl, told certainly to frighten little ones like her. The story had spoken of a young man who, growing weary of the dullness of their sheltered lives, had determined to leave the mountain upon coming of age at twenty. His family, unable to deter him, had accompanied him to the foot of the mountain, then dared to step no further. The mother had remained there, sitting upon a stone, for surely he would return once he had tasted the tribulations of the world. 

Return he did, before the passing of many days, but in the form of a hideous beast, his ears cut off and eyes plucked out. In an agony of spirits, the mother cried out to the immortal spirits for aid. The tears she shed at the horrid alteration of her son splashed across the stone upon which she sat, and in mercy the Immortals heard her cries and turned them to badgers, that darkness might trouble them no longer.

Or the story of the changeling girl that Sayun’s own father told her, whom the Fae tried to steal from the girl bed as she slept. The girl’s parents had ventured too close to the secret immortal doorway and angered them. They did such things when they wished to play tricks on mortals—exchanged one child with another who looked almost the same—with the eerie purple-grey eyes of changeling children, laughing when the child withered like rotted wood while the human child skipped merrily down eternal halls, with no memory of their life in the mortal realm.

This girl, however, was not fated to pass her lifetimes in the Other Lands. Her father found her missing, fought the immortals for his daughter’s return. Seeing his devotion, they granted him mercy, but left the girl misshapen—as a warning, they said.

Such a child was one of the few fortunate souls returned to the land of living men, but always, the Elven folk demanded a price be paid.

Many such stories passed from mouth to mouth among those who dwelt in the mountains. All Orons knew from their youth that to leave the mountain was to court death.

Sayun knew herself to be at more than the usual disadvantage, and though her heart may desire to see what lay beyond her sight, the lameness of her left leg was more a constraint than all the remonstrances of her anxious mother or horrors of her childhood tales together.

The roots of her people sank into the land they had called their own for generations past; they plunged deep into the heart of the earth. She must then content herself with these brief ventures and leave behind foolish thoughts.

Perspiration gathered at her brow. She wiped at it with her apron and as her hands fell to her lap, she looked at them wonderingly; she possessed the strength to wring sustenance from the udders of so great a creature, and yet was so lacking in the simple matter of mobility. How cruel was such a fate. Perhaps her mother spoke true; she could hardly be of use to anyone outside the community that had nurtured her, hidden away in a beautiful, albeit unexceptional refuge. And yet a mild hum reverberated through her core, drawing her out and stirring a longing that had taken hold within her before she knew the words to give it a name. It gathered strength with each sunrise—to see the world past the edge of the mountains, into unknown lands.

The sound of light footsteps striking the ground drew her eyes from the land beyond and to the familiar sight of Apyang running toward her. Odd, Sayun thought, as Apyang’s skirts billowed behind her, her dark hair caught in the light of the morning sun. Apyang never ran when she could walk, to best display the smooth sway of her maturing figure. Sayun saw the movement of her mouth as though speaking, but could hear nothing above an indistinct murmur from that distance. As her sister drew near, she knew it to be her name Apyang called. Sayun opened her mouth to speak when Apyang fell into her arms and nearly felled the both of them. Her breath came in a series of ragged pants.

“Sayun, you must come.”

“What’s happened?” Sayun searched Apyang’s face for signs of dismay, but saw none, only a sparkling excitement threaded with traces of fear. The family was well then. She wondered if something had happened to one of their neighbors, but idle gossip could not account for her sister pulling her from her duties. Even Apyang would not be so bold.

Apyang did not reply, only tugged at Sayun’s sleeves until she replaced the gloves on her hands and rose with difficulty to her feet. Together they lifted the pails of milk and started back toward the village. Apyang slowed her pace to accommodate her sister, who walked beside her at a hobbling gait. A rare show of consideration, thought Sayun. They crossed a rippling stream, slowed by the summer heat. As Sayun stepped with care over its stones, the water seemed to pause before her feet—a sign of the season, perhaps.

The entrances to the dwellings were unmarked, save by a single hawthorn tree, blending into the earth and foliage surrounding it. From a distance, no eye could have perceived the openings into a network of tunnels and small caverns hosting each family. Fortified by stone, these catacombs sheltered them from all eyes above the earth.

Together they entered, and Sayun knew whatever had transpired must have been no small thing, for she did not see her father who daily guarded the east doorway.  

Passing through, beyond the reach of daylight, Sayun’s eyes traversed over her surroundings in efforts to accustom her sight to the dark. Lamps hung from planks holding the ceiling above them, while some were set in hollows in the stone walls, small points of light that provided little relief to Sayun’s eyes, blinded from her hours in the sunlight. Slowly the sisters traveled the length of the tunnels to their own cave. As they walked, there seemed to Sayun a rumbling agitation in the air, a humming of activity that contrasted sharply with the slow, lazy flavor of their daily rhythms.

Upon reaching the doorway of their home, the sound of their mother’s agitated voice came to Sayun’s ears. “—should have sent them away immediately upon clapping eyes on them. Instead you allow them to come into our lands when you know full well such a thing has never occurred in the history of our people. Had you spared a thought for your wife and children, you would never have — oh, how my head aches. What would your own mother say if she could have lived to — Oh my dear girls, you will not believe what your papi has done. How shamefully he has treated us. Sayun, you look positively browned. I’ve always thought the Council too severe. How terrible to send you outside for so minor an offense. Yabu deserved to have her hair cut (I never liked her, feeble girl).”

Sayun did not respond. She was well accustomed to her mother’s fluster; she had passed nineteen years beneath the tyranny of well-meaning anxiety. The carpet of their home had worn thin from Hila’s frequent pacing, as she now did more vigorously than ever. Sayun often felt herself as frayed as that carpet.

She set the pails just inside the opening. She had just moved to shut the door when a small figure streaked toward her from one of the bedrooms, and she felt a tugging at her skirts. Nawi of five had come to join the fray while Apyang made a nook for herself on her favored chair with her head propped on her hands, as though watching the unfolding of a most amusing drama.

“Yuni, Yuni! Mami says the world is ending, and we will soon have no food to eat, and we will have no place to live. Is it true, Yuni?”

Sayun flushed with annoyance. “No, darling, that won’t happen,” she said, pulling the boy into her lap as she settled onto the floor. To speak of fears in hushed voices was one thing, but to inflict such uncertainties upon the colorful mind of her young brother seemed an unforgivable indiscretion. She cast a look of vexation and remonstrance toward her mother, but Hila never would attend to what she did not wish to see, and continued as though uninterrupted by their entrance.

“What use is it to be gatekeeper if you cannot do as you are told, and keep people out? So simple a task that the village asks of you, and you cannot do even that. Centuries our family has lived here, and you have led — you may as well have invited them in for tea (that’s just what you did, I suppose). However could you—”

“Will someone please enlighten me to what has happened? Someone with sense?” Sayun said loudly. Must she listen to the story through her mother’s winding words?

“Sayun, you forget your place,” her father said quietly, and her face reddened once more at the reprimand.

Apyang perhaps read the tension in her sister’s face, for she sobered and spoke quickly before their mother could begin again. “A family of foreigners has found us, seeking refuge. Papi heard their tale and allowed them entrance. They had fled from the colonies below, from, from, Lee-ohs?” Her tone lilted upwards in a question as she glanced at her father for confirmation.

Rudao’s nature opposed his wife’s in every way; he was a man soft-spoken with few words. Sayun often wondered how they had come to love one another; perhaps her father’s reticence just suited Hila’s loquacity. How strange, the workings of affection. He nodded. “Lyos.” 

Lyos. The name bid secret fantasies arise in Sayun’s mind. She knew it to be one of the lands below, indeed the largest nation nearest to their mountains. A thrill rushed through her. She had heard Lyos spoken of always with a hush, as though even the mention of the outside lands boded ill. For once Hila’s histrionics did not seem so very excessive. Sayun stretched her thoughts through the recesses of her memory, but could not call to mind any time a foreigner had entered an Oron village.

“Why do they come to us? Surely this shows they are in desperate straits,” Sayun said, more to herself than her family.

“We are in dire straits!” Hila exclaimed. “Has it not occurred to you that if they have come to us for aid, then knowledge of our people and way of life exists still in the outside world, and we are no longer safe? If they should return to their own country, if they should spread word of our continued existence..” Her voice rose and the sound of it scraped against Sayun’s’s nerves until she thought she would go mad. “Your papi is sure to lose his position now, for bringing this peril upon us,” Hila wailed. “They will send him to perform Outside duties.”

“It may not come to that,” Rudao said.

“And to happen so close to the Festival, oh what a terrible omen this is! What ill tidings! What disaster! Oh, to have seen this doom in my time — oh, such catastrophe as we have not seen, not seen since the Reckoning—”

“That is enough.” And all the family perceived the tone of warning that had entered Rudao’s voice. Tears had formed in Nawi’s eyes and he clung to Sayun’s arms. Apyang too, seemed troubled, and a quiver had started in her lower lip.

Hila fell silent.

Sayun’s father stood. “In ancient days, our people never turned away a weary traveler. If refugees have come upon our threshold, then the outside world will surely not tarry far behind. The time has passed for us to hide our faces from the wider world. I am overdue at the Council. Wait here for my return and do not wander.”

His eyes traveled over the faces of his wife and his three children, lingering an instant longer on Sayun’s, and she knew his last message to be for her.

She nodded, and he swept from the home, leaving silence at his heels.

Two hours crept by. Hila had retreated to the kitchen, her place for busying her hands in search of solace. The house had grown quiet, the only sounds an occasional clattering of dishes. Sayun knelt beside her bed, and with care drew out a wooden box from underneath. Her fingers worked the clasp and upon its opening, she searched the folds of her clothing before withdrawing a small stone and placing it gently atop a pile of others resting in the box.

The sound of pattering steps drew Sayun’s gaze. Apyang had entered the room, Nawi at her heels. Her sister leant over her as Sayun ran loving fingers over each rock, feeling its smoothness and jaggedness and every imperfection she now knew at a touch. Nawi wrapped his body around her arm as he was wont to do and reached stubby fingers toward her collection. She laughed softly and gave him a stone to hold.

“I’m sure your rocks have gotten smaller from your constant rubbing,” Apyang said. “Why do you have to bring one back every time you go outside?”

“I like rocks.” Nawi fingered the one in his hand. “They pretty.”

Sayun closed the box and returned it to its place. “You may keep that one,” she said to her brother. “And I think collecting these stones is far more wholesome than eating dirt. Choose, little gremlin, which sister you would like to emulate when you are grown: the lady whose worst offense is keeping rocks under the bed, or the one who behaves no better than a common beast.”

“That was only once, and I was four!” Apyang protested, her voice morphing into a shrill whine in uncanny resemblance to their mother.

“Yes, I’m certain it was just the once.” Sayun laughed and struggled to her feet, turning to leave.

“I want Yuni.” Nawi slipped a hand in Sayun’s. “Apyang doesn’t share sweets. I will share.” He was rewarded with a kiss on his cheek as Apyang glared at them.

“Laugh if you will. I won’t tell you something very important.” 

“Then tell me. It is clear you want to.”

“Not until you beg my pardon for insulting me. In writing.”

“I don’t care then.” Sayun turned away once more and started out to the parlor.

“I want to know. I want to know!” cried Nawi. He ran to Apyang. “Tell me. I won’t tell Yuni.”

Apyang picked him up and flung him in the air as Sayun shook her head, laughing at the fickleness of children.

“Good boy,” Apyang said with a smirk toward her elder sister as she lowered the giggling boy to the floor. “Then you shall know that Papi sent word for our dear Sayun to join them in the council chamber this instant.”

Sayun stared at her in disbelief, and left them. As she shut their front door behind her, she heard Apyang shout, “I still want an apology!” Rolling her eyes, Sayun began the descent through the small tunnel until it connected to the main road running through the heart of the village.

The atmosphere of chaos that had greeted Sayun when she had returned hours before had subsided. People returning home for the midday meal perhaps accounted for it. And yet a dull hum rippled through the thick earth separating each dwelling from the other; Sayun knew the emotional upheaval had not yet been quelled. She felt it merely waited, waited for news that would wreak havoc unto their streets, overturn the serenity of their simple lives. The lamps in the ceiling cast shadows that danced eerily across the walls. She had never truly paid much mind to these surroundings. Now they appeared to her ominous, flickering with warnings of something she could not name.

The council chamber lay at the center of the tunnel network, separated from other caverns by a wide swath of open space for gatherings. Truthfully, the council itself did little beyond assigning roles for the community and intervening in petty crimes, as Sayun had personally experienced.

The door to the council was the only one adorned with ornamentation: two scrolls of looping letters in ancient language carved into the wood, preserved through the generations and recreated whenever the planking began to age. Each year during the Festival, the council elders took fresh ink to the faded corners, coloring it anew until it shone vibrant. Though memory of these letters have long been lost, the words they composed had been passed down and committed to memory of each young child born into their fold. At their feet across the bottom of the door, letters in their own modern tongue read, “We Remember.”

Sayun paused at the doorway, staring at the familiar words. She sighed before knocking upon the door, taking care not to brush against indents of the carvings, and without waiting for an answer, pushed it open and passed into the chamber.

“Ah yes, Sayun, come in,” a low voice said.

Sayun bowed and drew forward. A row of five elders sat in a curving line in the center of the room. Sayun saw her father standing to the side, his expression unreadable. Before the elders crouched three figures: what appeared to her a family of father, mother, and daughter. The girl looked little older than Apyang, and Sayun felt a pang of sympathy for the fear they could not hide behind bowed faces, for their bodies trembled.

“The council have need of your gift, young one.” One of the Council spoke. Brodi, she knew him to be, for it was he who delivered the punishment for the cutting of Yabu’s hair. She smiled at the memory, and agreed with her mother then — Yabu had indeed earned her retribution; for too long had she scorned Sayun for what she deemed her strangeness.

Sayun did not speak, but waited in silence.

“Lay your hands on these people and tell us why they have come.”

“Have they not themselves told you?” Sayun asked, unable to keep a note of skepticism from her tone.

“We would have you confirm their words.”

Sayun raised an eyebrow. She felt vaguely that to use her in such a way was an overstepping of the council’s authority, but her eyes met her father’s, and she saw him give a nearly imperceptible shake of the head before closing his eyes, looking away. She sighed; Rudao did not deem this matter worthy of a fight, and she, too, found curiosity gnawing at her besides.

She knelt by the young girl, who lifted her head.

“Don’t be afraid. I’m Sayun. What is your name?” she said gently.

“Carlin,” the girl whispered.

“Carlin, would you give me your hands? I will place mine on them and it will allow me to see what you have seen. It will not hurt, but I must warn you the memories may be distressing.”

The young girl glanced at her parents, who nodded with their heads still bowed. She did as Sayun said and laid out her palms before her. Sayun saw thin lines flourishing across her small hands and wondered. Such dark yet intricate markings on so young a girl. They did not appear to be inked into the skin, as some Oron tribes do, but as though just below the surface—as veins are.

Pulling off her gloves, Sayun set them beside her knees, and hovered her bare hands atop Carlin’s, her own fingers now trembling, too. “Now think of what happened that brought you here,” she said, lowering her palms to touch the girl’s.

Fire. The scent of heavy smoke permeated the air. Bright red flames burned Sayun’s eyes when she opened them to the memories now laid bare to her mind. She looked up and could not see the sky above her, only a thick, black haze. She tasted an acidic bitterness on her tongue — ash, and blood from chewing the inside of her cheek. The sound of screams, distant and near, rang in her ears. Her heart drummed against her chest, but she could not will herself to move. As she looked around, taking in her surroundings, her eyes fell on a rag doll, scorched with only half a face and shoulder. The rest had been burned away. Beside it lay a child’s body, still half dressed with a shoe lying unworn at the threshold of his house; his throat had been cut. Sick rose in Carlin’s throat as she turned and retched, but nothing came forth. In the distance, soldiers ran after the fleeing villagers, cutting them down as they fled.

This had been her home.

“Carlin, why are you standing there? Run!” The sound of her mother’s voice forced her out of her frozen shock. She felt herself pulled forward by her parents, each holding one hand, knapsacks in the other. Her limbs would not cooperate, but felt heavy as lead as they dragged her with them. Yes, they had hidden beneath the floorboards when the soldiers had come. But they could not escape the flames. They had stayed as long as they could until the fire forced them out into the street. By then the soldiers had moved on. They seemed to care little for stragglers, but meant only to set as much of the village aflame as they could. Even survivors would have no choice but to submit once their homes had faded to smoke and ashes.

They ran, the three of them, not in the direction of their neighbors, but towards the mountains far behind the village.

“The trees will hide us,” her father panted.

Sayun pulled her hands away, her breath coming in quick pants as though she ran for her life still, through flame and shadows. The sight and smells of destruction lingered in her mind; it seemed to her as though falling ash still clung to her skin. This family had fled their home, in a desperate bid that old legends would prove true—that a people still dwelt in the mountains, hidden from the world. They had wandered the wilderness, living off the little they could salvage before their escape. What a wonder it was that they had not starved, and by some ironic stroke of fortune had not been attacked in winter when the harsh snows would surely have killed them swiftly.

Carlin stared at her as in a daze, tears forming in her eyes. Sayun had felt all she had felt as though she herself had stood in that place; the taste of ashes and dry paper lingered still in her mouth, but the girl had been made to revisit painful memories at the bidding of strangers whose mercy even Sayun had no assurance of.

“Well?” Brodi said with impatience.

“They escaped their village as soldiers attacked. Everything burned.” Sayun’s voice was a rasp. How she hated this. “People were slaughtered as they fled, but this family escaped to the mountains, here.”

The council members looked at one another. 

“Thank you, Sayun. You may leave.”

Sayun wished to stay and hear the deliberations. Her heart still pounded as though fear held her captive still. Yet she knew as she was not part of the council, she had no choice but to follow their command. She glanced once more at the family clinging to one another, feeling an ache for them for what she had seen through their eyes.

When at last Rudao returned to his family, the sun outside had begun its long descent below the hills. An unusual quiet had settled over the home, for Hila had taken Apyang to seek the company of friends. Nawi slept still. As Sayun beheld her father, she saw on him a weight that had certainly not marred his features in the hours since she had seen him last. She could not recall to mind a time that she had seen on him so powerless an air, and the sight of it filled her with dread. She went to his side as he sank into a chair at the table, eyes closed as if to shut out the world.

Her small hand reached out with a desire to meet with his, wizened with age and care. She longed to lay hers upon it, and it struck her that she had not known him as an aging man until that day. In this moment she realized suddenly how little she knew of him. Yet even without the use of her gift, she felt she could unravel the thoughts that seemed so near to her own. Words between them were of little importance, and even had she the eloquence of those greater than her, she would not know how to speak of the understanding they shared.

Instead, she donned her gloves and set her hand upon his, guarding his heart by a layer of worn cloth. A small smile teased Rudao’s lips and he rested his other hand on hers with a gentle pressure. In that manner they sat together for a time until Rudao broke the silence at last.

“Today I have learned that fear makes fools of even the wisest of men. I will not conceal from you that I am weary in spirit,” he said. “The Council has not yet formed a decision, but from their discourse I fear that whatever course they choose bodes ill for the Lyos family.”

“Why can they not help them?” Sayun asked.

“They are afraid. And fear is too often the quencher of actions, even those born of even good intentions. It keeps good men in their beds and allows wickedness to grow untempered. Unhappily for the outsiders, our people have grown in timidity yet lesser in goodness, and there is none to speak for them. One voice against the many is too easily drowned.”

Sayun dwelt upon these words, and unbidden they sparked a flicker of a flame. “Then what is their thought? Surely the Council cannot think to drive them away when their home is ashes.”

“Their intent is worse still than that, I fear.” 

“How can it possibly be worse?”

Rudao sighed heavily and gave her hand a squeeze that came nearer to hurt than comfort. “To their minds, the village cannot keep them, for our resources are few. Neither can they let them free, for fear they would unwittingly bring others to our door.”

“Then..?”

“Come, Sayun, what choice is left them?”

Sayun stared with wide-eyed disbelief. “Surely not!” she cried. “Surely such cruelty is outside the realm of even the council’s thought.”

“Yet so it is.” Rudao drew her to himself and gave yet another sigh. The sound was to Sayun one of deepest sorrow, and she did not know how to comfort. Words now seemed ever more futile, yet some must still be said. Anger grew in her chest, setting ablaze the flicker of before.

“To bring to death those that have come before us for aid is too great an injustice. Surely they must know that such fear cannot always keep us safe, and by clinging to safety they bring evil to our very doorstep; nay, they court it in their own midst,” she said warmly.

“They will not let them leave alive, Sayun. Indeed, you see clearly, yet even so, I do not know if I should fault them for their intent. As every child knows, it was through over-kindliness that our people came to a bitter end. Our Festival each year braids this knowledge into our minds such that it has become a part of our existence. And indeed it seems too easy a thing to be named ‘coincidence,’ that this should come upon us at such a time as this, on the eve of our celebration.” Rudao sighed once more.

Sayun could grasp but a little of what he spoke and said only what surfaced to her mind past the horror. “Understanding is one thing, compassion another. What purpose does it serve if we understand only and do not act?”

“We protect our own; that is the tenet of our society, and we cannot in a day change the thought of generations.” Rudao turned grey eyes on her and smiled sadly. “There is little hope to change the council’s mind. We can only do what we ourselves must do.”

They said no more, though Sayun pondered her father’s last words in her mind and wondered if with them he had layered some deeper meaning.

In the night she lay in bed, thoughts coursing through her mind as sleep eluded her. Nawi slept beside her, his little fingers curled around hers. Apyang’s soft snores broke through the quiet of the dark, while Sayun could find no relief from Carlin’s memories. 

Again she heard the screams of the villagers, the rumble of running feet, shouts of the soldiers.. She found her longing for the outside world waning against the backdrop what she had seen, and the dreaded fear that her father had spoken of with such disdain and pity crept into her heart. If below the mountain lay such a place, perhaps their ancestors’ choice to hide beneath the earth was not so cowardly in the end, but a necessary deed to preserve their people. The Outside seemed no longer a place of adventure, of freedom and goodness, and the thought sobered her tremendously. The desire to see it had not quite fully abated, but her Sight had taught her some truth that all children must learn in the course of their lives: that dreams are always more beautiful than reality. Even as this reflection came unbidden and unwelcome, she wondered then if, should the opportunity be given her, she would choose to venture forth into the world still.

As she lay in the comfort of her bed and looked about the room — small, unexceptional, yes, all these things she knew and had often thought concerning it — she thought then that she had never loved them so well as now.

And yet, and yet as Sayun turned her thought to the young girl who so reminded her of her own sister, she remembered the feeling of helplessness that permeated that her body as she watched her home turn to ashes, felt the fear as if it was her own. How greatly it contrasted with the home in which she now dwelt, in safety. Imperfect it was; her mother’s pervasive anxiety often felt to her too stifling, until she thought she would go mad. Apyang resembled Hilda far too much, and since she had come to maturity seemed intent to spend her days bickering. And yet, Sayun thought, she loved them still.

 She could not strike the image of Carlin’s haunted face from her mind. For them, no comfort remained, to no place of belonging could they return. The path they must tread seemed laden with suffering, as those they sought for refuge must soon turn against them, though they did not yet know it.

The night wore on, and it seemed to Sayun her course was bound with that family’s, whether she willed it or not. Her father’s words had set a burning brand upon her spirit, restless long before this day, yet as her heart hardened to her resolve, she felt again a trace of resentment that this gift should be hers. Always it had been a part of her, as her parents quickly learned from her infancy when they could not understand why she wept or laughed at a touch. For long she could not learn the feelings that were her own, and great suffering did she endure. The village scorned her, for none could endure their innermost being revealed to another, and she feared to enter another’s mind and read their secret thoughts until at last she was given her first pair of gloves and henceforth was torn asunder from human touch.

She no longer minded, she thought, for now she found safety in separation, and in so doing wrapped herself in a cocoon from all. At times a hint of longing entered her heart, to know others as she once did, for the protection she cast about herself served also as a vessel for loneliness. She realized suddenly that until Carlin, her hands had not touched another mortal’s skin for a great many years. The brief bond they shared had both invigorated her and wrenched at her heart, and for Carlin she now felt a burden that far exceeded any other.

She glanced around the room she had known all her years, looked to her young brother sleeping beside her, and loved him. If her father spoke true, and the appearance of the strangers indeed signaled the end of their way of life, then to remain could no longer be deemed wisdom. And if she could, she would have Nawi grow in safety and joy for all his life. 

The night candle that Nawi could never fall asleep without cast flickering shadows upon the ceiling. In all the years, Sayun had never thought to ask where the little candle had come from—a candle that burned all the night long without faltering. She only knew that when daylight approached, the flame quenched itself as by some invisible hand. Before this night, Sayun had only seen it as a mild annoyance to be tolerated. As her eyes wandered to the small flame upon the armoire she shared with her sister, it seemed to lean toward her as though a drift had entered the room. She could think only of the destruction such a small thing had wrought upon Carlin’s people. Even as she closed her eyes, she felt as though her tongue still ran over the taste of ash in her mouth. She could not rest by and let suffering fall on Carlin again was the last thought that knitted itself through her mind.

The morn of the Festival came upon them before Sayun knew sleep had claimed her. As on each Festival day, Rudao left at the sun’s rising to take his place keeping watch at the east entrance. The air already was filled with a buzz of activity, for it was one day of the year that all their people gathered together for a day and a night, when duties were neglected, and children danced in the streets. They had spent the weeks preparing and now was a time of delight, somber reflection, and rest. Sayun knew what would greet her eyes when they had made their way to the hollow before the council chamber. A crowd of minglers would have gathered already around a dancing bonfire, the thick smoke rising through small holes above their heads to escape to the outside world. Flames would flicker, casting long shadows across the catacomb walls. After a time, a courageous few would break from the crowd to begin the dance, traipsing about the fire with hands high in the air to music of their people, beautiful and hauntingly sorrowful. Threaded between the revelries, council members would read again the history of their people that they would take warning, that they would never forget. So it had been all the days of her life, and so it would be again.

But she knew not what this day would bring. In the night her mind had searched for answers and had come away empty at each turn. In truth she must have known what she ought to do, where her heart was leading, yet her steps tarried, and at the precipice of choice her courage faltered.

Each ordinary facet of Sayun’s life seemed to her now more lovely now that she had resolved to leave it behind her, with little assurance that she would see it again. Nawi she held a little too tightly, such that he squirmed to escape her. With Apyang she did not bicker as she was wont to do, but only looked at her with so strange a gaze that Apyang asked her if she was taken ill.

“My dear, your hair!” her mother cried before taking a comb to it with such ferocity Sayun felt sure she would soon tear the hair from her scalp. “Remember now, it may be a day of pleasantries and no work, but it also is a time to be sober. The Festival is but a time to remember the destruction of long ago, and is not for children to take delight in the sufferings of our ancestors, lest they be displeased with our irreverence. Sayun, darling, I know it is a long time for standing with your poor leg, but if it becomes all too tiresome, then tell me at once and I will find a seating for you.”

Such were Hila’s words each year, and though Sayun had tired of hearing it long ago, and how late they would be (they were never late), the words did not irk her as they did so often. She only listened in silence and thought bemusedly that at least one point of her life she would not miss.

“If Yuni gets tired, I will carry her,” Nawi said.

“You will, will you, little gremlin?”

“Yes, I’m big and strong now.” The boy drew himself up and stood upon his toes, that he might appear taller still.

Sayun laughed. “Many thanks, young sir.”

“Oh, Sayun, I saw your gloves were worn out. How quickly you do go through them. I had a feeling you would need a fresh pair soon. Here you are, don’t wear those ragged things. They do your lovely hands no justice.”

The soft yet sturdy gloves her mother made felt different somehow, as Sayun pulled them on—warmer, better fitting. She touched Hila’s arm. “Thank you.”

Hila waved her thanks with a glowing smile. “Silly child, what are you thanking me for?”

Presently they made their way to the gathering where Apyang quickly disappeared into the crowd. Sayun held Nawi’s small hand in hers, keeping to the back of the throng. A trepidation grew in her. If she must act, then no better chance could she find than during the Festival, when all were gathered and immersed there before the council chamber. No attentive eye would be set upon her if she wandered the tunnels. Yet her limbs seemed rooted to the ground, and her will could not bid them to lift. She clung tightly to her brother and though he gazed mesmerized at the blaze and the mass of people before them, she cast her eyes on him only and wondered when she might see him again. The sound of drums and music rang through the tunnels.

But time ran on through her fingers. An urgency prodded at her from within, for to delay was to be caught, and better not to have set out on this course of certain madness. She hardened her heart to the path she had chosen.

“Nawi, go to Mami. I am weary and would rest a while.”

“Alright Yuni,” he said and tottered away.

She watched him go with bitterness in her mouth, then turned from all. Before she took a step, a fragment of the well-traveled line found its way to her ears: “…and the cost was hers to pay.” She’d heard this chant for years, yet now on the wings of flight, they stirred in her a strange, unwelcome feeling—like grasping for a fading dream, of which she only caught the very edges—and Sayun saw images of the dim glow of a purplish and green light emanating from dark, overhead branches, and an unearthly face with long black hair leering down at her. Sayun shivered.

The drums followed her steps down the road to where she knew her father waited.

The walk back seemed to her longer than usual, and she cursed each heavy beat of her deformed leg upon the ground, feared each rustle and shadow upon the walls. Time seemed to spin itself into ever longer threads as she clung to the wall to aid and quicken her movements. Her breath came in short gasps, and sweat beaded on her forehead. Upon her seemed a weariness beyond what she could remember.

When it seemed to her the day had spun to its end, her eyes at last found what she sought, and stumbled forward to meet him. He caught her in his arms and held her close. In such an embrace she did not remember resting since she was a young girl, and suddenly she wished she could linger. Too brief did it seem when he let her go.

“Will you not come with me?” she said in a small voice, as though afraid to put to words her own wish, yet even before he answered she knew.

He looked at her. In his gaze she saw sadness and regret. She did not need to touch his skin to read it. “There are others left in my charge, and I cannot so lightly abandon them. And dearly though I love you also, you are no longer a child, and,” he said softly, “I know your heart.”

His eyes turned to the pines in the distance where Sayun had set her gaze only a day past. “There they wait. The council will perhaps at first think they have escaped alone, though when they discover you too are gone, they may suspect deeper treachery.”

“And you? If they guess at the truth, will they seek retribution?” The thought now came to her mind and a coldness crept through her veins. By saving one family would she doom her own?

“I think not. We are Orons, and we do not harm our own. I cannot say there will be no punishment if we are suspected, but too few of us yet remain for them to let fall too heavy a hand.” He smiled bitterly. “In the end, it is protection of our own that will yet guard us.”

Sayun lifted her gaze, saw light brown eyes that mirrored hers, and knew him to be of one mind with hers, perhaps had known her intention even before she had known it herself. She felt him squeeze her hand again, saw a shimmer of tears in his eyes.

“I love you, Papi,” she whispered. “Tell Mami and Apyang for me, and especially Nawi.”

He nodded. “Go, child.”

Sayun longed to bury her face in the folds of his tunic, as a small child shielding her eyes from the world, but instead she released his hand and slipped from the flickering shadows of her home and out to meet the open sky.

Sayun’s legs dragged one after the other. The hours of the day flickered in her mind as flashes of fogged memory. She had hobbled past the eastern doorway to the edge of the wood. How many kilometers she did not know, only that her bad leg had stiffened painfully before her eyes finally found the family of three she sought. No words were spoken. Carlin’s wide eyes stared into Sayun’s with a trust only found between those souls who have brushed against one another. She slipped her hand into Sayun’s, and instinctively, Sayun’s fingers closed around the girl’s, so like the sister she had left behind.

She swallowed back the sob rising unbidden to her throat.

Carlin’s parents followed Sayun with greater trepidation. Could they believe in the honor of a child who’d passed all her years in the heart of a mountain, whose people had readied to murder them?

Few maps existed among the Orons. Her father kept one or two Sayun pored over since her childhood, tracing lines and names of places she imagined yet never thought to see with her own eyes. She could not know how accurate they were now, made so many generations before. All the earth could have changed since those days, especially after the closing of the worlds…

Was this what it was like, Sayun wondered, when nothing exists in the beginning of something, and one cannot know where the yet-empty path would take her? Her days until this day had followed one after the other in stubborn consistency, each so predictable she sometimes wished to scream at its futility. Yet in the unfamiliar shapes and shadows surrounding her now, she longed for the comfort of such mundane tedium. Here, all the world was strange. She felt like a little lost child again, wandering the tunnels after dark and calling for her mami.

Sayun’s head turned almost imperceptibly back toward her home. The festivities would carry on long after the sun bowed its head. Orons knew the passage of time only by the doorkeepers dowsing the light as they completed their duty. Extinguishers would then race along the tunnels to complete the work until few remained to illuminate the tunnels.

Never had she seen such colors in the sky. The Council did not permit anyone to leave the tunnels after dark (and rarely before). Shades of reddish purple peaked through low clouds. The high noon sun had been all she had known, the shapes of the scant vegetation stored to memory for the long hours she’d have to spend in shadow. The path she now traversed was no path at all, but a faint guess and hope it led to some haven, whither she did not yet know. Trees loomed over them—thick, tall, ominous. As they passed beneath their boughs, pines fell before her feet in oddly familiar patterns.

Was Nawi still waiting for her? Would he understand? She feared the punishment the price of her family’s rebellion would cost.

It was not yet too late. She could leave this family to find its own way, return to her own. She had never walked such a distance and pain had been shooting up her calves for hours. If only Hila could see her now, she thought with a wry smile. At her slower pace, how could they hope to flee, their hours-long advantage notwithstanding? Her father believed the council would never leave the safety of the caverns to pursue them, but how much would fear change what once was predictable?

Stories from her upbringing wandered freely in her mind, of heavy wages paid for venturing too far from the threshold of home. Evil wights prowling behind boulders, waiting to pounce on unsuspecting wanderers. Sayun could not stop her mind from wondering if such tales indeed held any truth. As nightfall welcomed moonlight, they did not seem so outlandish or ancient as Sayun once scoffed. Any manner of eldritch being was made possible in rising darkness. They were fortunate; a full moon had risen to light their faltering steps.

“Sayun?”

Carlin’s voice broke through the mire of her thoughts. Sayun’s hand tightened around Carlin’s before releasing her fingers.

“My apologies, Carlin. You must be scared.”

“I’m alright. It’s only that you seem tired. Shall we take a rest?”

Sayun looked behind them at Carlin’s mother and father. They had not spoken all this time, but they nodded their agreement with their daughter.

“Your leg must ache,” the mother spoke for the first time, a slight rasp in her voice. “Forgive us, we have not told you our names. I’m Tallulah. My husband, Garrett.”

Heat flooded Sayun’s ears and she thanked the gathering darkness for hiding her humiliation. Her hip was indeed stiff from the hours of walking. “We have already moved too slowly because of me.” Not for the first nor the last time she cursed her lameness.

“But where are we going?”

Sayun hesitated. She could not be sure herself of what lay at the foot of the mountain. Tales of her childhood crept unbidden into her thoughts once more. Mutilated corpses, badgers, a world without light. Her mouth went dry. What place could welcome such a group as theirs; what home could they turn to when theirs is ashes?

“We are Groths,” Tallulah said. “We are no longer welcome in the north. There is no home for us to the south, east, or west. Are we to wander the wild?”

“The border between the northern and southern kingdoms,” Sayun whispered, her own voice seeming to come from a distance. She sank to a nearby boulder, relinquishing her hold on Carlin. The girl grasped her arm and helped her down. Sayun’s joints screamed with the shifted position, yet the boulder was already warm. “Perhaps if we found a way west…”

“We would have to find a way through the occupied land,” Garrett said. He paced across the ground, pine needles scattering at his feet in his agitation. “They are enslaving us wherever they find us. Our villages, our towns.”

Carlin’s hand tightened on Sayun’s shoulder.

“Who is enslaving you?” Sayun’s question was met with blank stares from all three.

“Do you not know?” Garrett said at long last.

Sayun felt a flash of annoyance. “It is difficult to receive news of the world below when we are trying to hide from it.” She sighed. “Forgive me. It’s been a long day.”

Carlin’s mother knelt beside her. “No, please. You have sacrificed much to bring us to safety.” She laid a hand on Sayun’s knee—warm, soft—the sensation made Sayun’s heart twinge. Would she ever see her own mother again?

“You know the land’s history? Of Calatiel and Lyos?”

“Only a little. It has been long since Calatiel took Lyos for its own, that I know.”

Tallulah swallowed and blinked rapidly. “Yes,” she whispered, “long indeed.”

Garrett cleared his throat. “Now is not the time for a history lesson. We are not yet safe. The Calats have grown bold in their long occupation of Lyos. No longer satisfied with taking the first of our harvest, the best of our animals, they have begun pushing us from our homes, too. We have nowhere to go.” He slammed a fist at a tree trunk. “Would they drive us from the land itself?”

Carlin began to cry—loudly, messily. Tallulah ran to her, shushed her with empty promises that they would be alright, that they would one day return home, while turning reproachful eyes on her husband. Sayun rooted to the boulder, her knee cold without Tallulah’s touch. No, her whole body had turned cold with Garrett’s words. She had seen the horror, felt it in Carlin’s memories. Yet this, the wretched anguish and rage torn from Garrett’s throat differed somehow. Shards of ice crept beneath her skin. 

A bone-deep weariness dragged at Sayun. She did not know how to help this family that had fallen into her clumsy care. Again, her childish wishes to leave the safety of the mountain now seemed to her reckless, even insane. Such little knowledge of the outside world did she possess; how dare she have presumed to enter it?

He had gone. Six months had tarried by since I last saw him that day on the evening of his farewell.

The land that I had known all the days of my life seemed suddenly strange and unwelcoming to my eyes. I passed the corridors of a house that daily spoke to me of absence. And though I knew we must one day meet again, a dry knot grew and tightened within me. Distance had stretched our connection as we had known it would, and the loss to me was grievous. That my thoughts could not reach him, that I was bereft of his voice, seemed to me the greater loss. Yet his presence remained still, dimly perhaps, a swath of comfort and warmth in my mind. This I clung to when I lay in bed and sleep eluded me, when the blackness of the night stretched thin until it give way to morning.

In the days after he left, Leo received word of growing disorder in the northern states, and he, too, had set out to the north for council. He had returned only two days before.

Their absences turned my mind to the story of the land. All children knew of it, I guessed. We indeed were taught from a childhood of the age-long disputes between Calatiel and Lyos, though I knew not how to sift through the words to find what is truth and what is myth, and often it seemed that legend and history melded together and could not be teased apart.

The earliest stories began before the closing of the worlds. Calatiel was then a small country, for Lyos was a wild and savage land of people who consorted with the immortals and mystical beings. It was their lot to lie within sight of the borders of the Elven kingdom.

The Elves—strange they appeared to me—that such beings could hold such power, and command the tides of the world. Were we but pawns in a conflict that exceeded the realm of our understanding, that we should live thus beneath the shadow of their threat? For all Calats spoke their name with dread, and indeed in some cities the mention of Elves was beaten from those who dared let it pass their lips.

But I move too quickly. I was speaking of Lyos.

This country in the south, where Leo’s estate now rested on conquered land, knew little of decency, so said Calat history. They were a tribal people, lacking in order, while Calatiel for ages past were held united under the reign of the monarchy. When I was young, Professor Lipit told us no ruler had ever unified the scattered lands in Lyos, yet later he confessed that there existed different accounts that opposed this view. If such an overlord ever governed that country, few records of him remain, and it did not seem any had ruled with much success, save one.

And of that one, much calamity was wrought upon the people of Calatiel.

Little is known of him now, for his reign began and spanned the age a hundred years before the closing of the worlds. Little enough is known of that time. The Unknown King, he is now called, for none knew from whence he came. With a voice like that of some greater being he spoke, and all the people bent to his will. For some men, to rule is not enough; they must have the world.

It is said that those of Lyos knew magic, and this man, if man indeed he was, used their close relations with the Elves to much advantage, for with them he altered the very lands on which we now lived, raising a vast mountain range to turn Calatiel from the riches of the sea. One small opening Lyos left of fifty some leagues, that they might yet enter the northern country through paths known only to themselves. About this breach they drew up a labyrinth of forests, set snares within it that only they could discern.

A hundred years he ruled, driving Calatiel to its knees, for without the northern road, they grew destitute and weak, left to the mercy of the Unknown King, mining their own land and people for tribute to pay to the north. And thus Lyos prospered and grew in might that century.

Alas for the northern realm, or perhaps he willed it thus — who can say? — of the Elves, great favor demands great sacrifice, and before many years had passed, the portals to the Other World closed. The spirits of the earth burrowed deep into themselves and slept, and Calatiel rose in vengeance against the land of magic and demons and drove its ruler from the land. It henceforth named its people Groth as to signify their inferiority, for no higher than dirt could they rise. The name they once called themselves is now lost to time. Without their immortal allies, they scattered, and, in the chaos that ensued, fell into ruin and decay. Of the fate of the Unknown King, little is known, though it is said that he fled across the ocean, and perhaps that is why to this day, Calats fear the northern sea.

Still I knew nothing of why the doors closed, and it made little sense to my mind why the Elves should choose to hide themselves away when too readily it seemed they could subjugate all peoples, though perhaps their magic is bound to mortals that they cannot freely use it, apart from some exchange. Indeed, now I think on it, such was always the way in Hempie’s stories, though the details of such transactions is always a mystery.

Professor Lipit did not take kindly to questions about the immortals. He seemed rather to mention them as a child might skip over a brook, toes just brushing against the water but never to be immersed fully. Often he said such talk was for children and the tongues of old women, not for gentlefolk of noble breeding. 

Those books of history I read, the only ones I cared for, did the same, and a hush seemed to lie over such things. It seemed those with the power to shape the story of the world wished to strike from memory all mention of supernatural things. 

Indeed to the minds of many Calats, there seemed little difference between the Elves that had brought their country so low, and the Groths that had been hand in hand with them, as I was made intimately aware the first year the estate suffered a poor harvest. In vain did Leo ameliorate the suspicions of the more superstitious servants, and though we suffered no great loss, I felt many a wary eye upon me in the months following, and their tongues stilled only for fear of punishment, no doubt.

The thought entered my mind then that I never learned from Hempie what had led to the closing of the worlds. Had the Unknown King risen so high that the only fair price was to bring him low, and by so doing, sacrifice the good of an entire nation? Had the Elves, wary of the way their power had been used, chosen this course and wrought just retribution on the one who forced their hand? Perhaps Geoffrey had coaxed the story from Hempie, for his mind lifted to tales of the immortal beings, and I could not but think in a secret part of his heart he wished to see the land of such lore as he was told as a child. He often enticed our nurse from her chambers, even in her old age and long after he ought to have outgrown childish fancies, to walk with him beneath these same trees. Together they would speak of old fables. Even after these long years, Hempie’s deep well of lore seemed far from running dry. I recalled Geoffrey’s words when we were young: “Magic and wonder have gone from the world, and we are left to live lesser lives than those of our forefathers.” Always he had nurtured a great love for such things and did not fear them.

I had never seen any part of the world beyond the gates of the estate and was never brought on errands to the north, though Geoffrey began accompanying Leo on such journeys since many years past, while I was to be set to take charge over the house. Never could I unravel the uncertainty in my mind, whether I desired to join them or no, for though it had been long since I endured ill treatment of the glaring sort, still I perceived that some of the household yet nursed a bitterness toward me, and nevermore was such feeling transparent than when I became the sole master of the house. I did not know what looks I should receive if I should venture into the north, where surely greater distrust against my kind has grown still deeper roots.

I remembered then Geoffrey’s last charge to me, and I turned my purpose to seek out Hempie in her room. Do you see? I sent over the bond, forgetting once more he was too far to hear.

With a little effort, Hempie could be persuaded to leave her chambers and accompany me about the grounds, and so together we set out.

The summer days were quickly waning, and a new harvest would soon be upon us. Already the days cooled, and a cool breeze swept through the air, rustling the leaves above us. Hempie shared with me a love for the trees that grew about the land, delighting to watch for some length of time the glow of the sunlight upon the leaves. Her calmness mirrored mine as we walked, arm through mine. The closeness of her presence strengthened me. I knew her to be happy. There beneath its eaves, all was well, and my loneliness eased a little.

“Do you know, child, of the eldritch shapeshifters that dwell in forests of ancient days?”

“Tell me again,” I said.

“Well, tis said among wise folks that there hide deep amidst the trees, beings that hold no form. At least, none know their true form, for their ears are sharpened to the footfalls of strangers and they are clever things that shift into rock, bush, and tree at the approach of mortals. In olden days when spirits of the earth still roamed freely, one could at times see a glow among the trees, as of firelight, and that was enough to warn off any from entering the copse where they might be reveling.” Hempie stopped to lift a hand to the trunk of a birch tree, where the bark had begun to peel away and looked to the foliage above where the leaves had yet to fall. “Ah, I see the autumn is making an early entrance this year.”

“It seems so,” said I, who knew the signs of the seasons as I did my own body. “Hempie, if no one has seen these shapeshifters, how do we know they existed?”

“Of course, because of the unhappy few who angered them,” Hempie said, walking on. “Sight is but the least of many senses; you know that.”

“Such spirits always seem angered with far too much ease. All tales speak of them as though they sit about waiting to be angered that they might unleash punishment on some poor, unwitting soul.”

“Yes, it would seem so to our eyes. They are each a race too different from us and our customs, not unlike the divide between north and south, if I may speak boldly. Their thoughts are to us of little sense, as are ours to them.”

“How then do they express their displeasure? Locking people away in elven castles? Or perhaps by tearing apart their cows and livestock? Or maybe they are tricksters who leave fruit for people to find that then cause strange visions?” I could not keep the laughter from my voice, caught a loose branch and struck a rock with it. “If this should be one such troll, will it drag me beneath the earth and there keep me until the end of ages?”

Hempie smiled indulgently and gave my arm a gentle pinch. “I see the years have not cured you of your mischief. Fortunate child you are, that they sleep still and cannot be troubled by you. No, they do none of those things. These eldritch beings are patient and will wait for the coming of a babe, then before it has suckled at its mothers breast will snatch it from her arms and replace it with another made of wood. A day perhaps such a change will go unnoticed, save that the child grows ill, but before the next setting of the sun, the false baby will die, while the human child lives trapped in another world.”

“And what would they do with the human child?”

A pause stretched before Hempie answered. “None know the answer to that question. I have heard of one who crossed back to our world, but with greater might than any earthborn being had a right to be. Some stories say she ruled the world until she unmade herself.”

I pondered the eeriness of the Unknown King, whose close intercourse with Elves left the world changed and him lost beyond the sea (perchance), and this woman of whom Hempie now spoke, who passed a lifetime with the immortals and lost herself. Dealings with such beings could not be entered into lightly, seemed the tale these stories told.

The sun had climbed to its zenith, and in between the leaves cut sharp lines of light across the forest floor, strewn with clumps of the dark green of foliage. White blossoms of the spring had long faded, sunk into the ground to nourish the earth. Not until the next spring would we see them bud on the hawthorns again. Above us, the sky threatened no rain as often it did, even in summer months, but remained blissfully clear as we strode beneath it. 

After a time, I spoke once more. “Hempie?”

“Yes, child?”

“Many tales of deceptive beings have you told. Are there no stories of kind-hearted spirits that seek only the good of us mortals?”

Hempie paused as though to ponder the question. “Indeed, many of the beings from the Other love to play tricks on men. I do believe in a way because we are mere infants to them, it delights them to watch us run after the fleeting and the eternal when we ourselves lack foresight and wisdom as they must do. Yet I have heard tell of Elves who took little delight in the tricks of their cousins, though it seemed to me you children found better amusement in the mischief of lower beings.” She laughed heartily at this, and it brought a smile to my lips, for of that she spoke true. “These Elves, being of higher nature than their kindred perhaps, mingled less with humans and rarely did they walk in their midst. They were healers of the land, setting their hands to that which has been ravaged by war or disease. Little love for the affairs of mortals did they have, yet once in a thousand perhaps one might stoop to aid in some way if the look of one pleased them somewhat.”

“Still they seem to have no order to such acts. Who are they to judge who is worthy and who not, that the one should live while the other perish?” Where such musings arose in me I could not tell, but with Hempie I had always felt a kinship with the immortals, as nearly as though she were one herself. How old was Hempie? She had been with us so long I did not think of her age, only that she was as constant to me as the stones in a riverbed. “It seems most unjust.”

“I daresay it is. That is why our ancestors must have the utmost care when dealing with creatures of the Other, respecting the earth, keeping a watchful distance, guarding greedy hearts from stretching out hands farther than one should reach.”

“Even so, it seems most unjust.”

“Ah child, injustice is the way of the world, and for my part, I should rather suffer it at the hands of beings higher than myself than at those of fellow men.”

We fell to silence, leaving me to ponder why she so loved her cryptic sayings. To my mind, “higher beings” could not be said to hold much more wisdom than humans, though they be immortal, for they concerned themselves with their higher matters and could not be trusted to judge mortal actions with wisdom. How could they, when they are ageless while we are made of flesh and bone, to be broken with a snap of their fingers, wasted away in a single breath they take? How can they fathom the strange realness of a limb bending at its joint, making contact with the moss and dirt of the earth, yet with the folds of ever-sagging skin that shall never return to the smooth firmness of a year-old babe?

Better still to trust nothing, not even oneself.

“It is good to leave the confines of my chamber,” Hempie said. “You still favor the taste of my thin noodle soup, yes?”

I nodded, marveling she still remembered.

“Then tomorrow I will go to the market for ingredients, and we will see if my weathered hands still have their touch.”

“With oxtail,” I said like a spoiled child.

She laughed. “With oxtail.”