Age of Legend, page 31
part #4 of Legends of the First Empire Series
“Path splits,” Moya told everyone, coming to a stop. Their neat little parade broke pattern to look forward.
They had arrived at a mysterious and spooky standing stone that towered a good seven feet in height but only four feet wide. The dark rock was speckled in a pale blue-green lichen, but offered no marking, no indication why it was there or where each path went.
Moya looked to Brin and Tressa. “Any ideas?”
Brin had none; neither did Tressa; and both of them shrugged.
Moya agreed with this conversation of ignorance and shrugged, too, then continued up the right-hand path. That wasn’t the direction Brin would have taken because it was the darker way, deeper into the forest. Yet the choice made sense. They weren’t looking for a place to picnic. As they walked, grass diminished and trees grew dense. Naked branches, painted black by the rain, managed to join hands overhead, creating a stick-roofed tunnel. Beneath their feet, rocks and sprawling roots conspired to trip them. Everything else remained a mystery shrouded in mist. Not long after the split, the rain that had pattered lightly for hours stopped quibbling and came down in earnest, drumming thunderously on what few leaves remained. The trail turned into a trickling stream. While she couldn’t be certain given the mist and clouds, Brin thought it might be getting dark.
Again, Moya stopped, and the line halted behind her.
They waited, but Moya didn’t move or speak. Brin stepped out of line to look ahead, and in the growing dark, she saw a yellow light through the haze. Moya began moving again, slower, more cautiously. They passed a bucket sitting on a tree stump that Moya took a hard look at. The pail, which was close enough so that it wasn’t lost in the fog but far enough away to appear unreal, sat upright and was filled with little stones. Plinks and plunks played by the rain on its rim made a mournful, haunting sound.
The trail ended at a clearing where a small hut sat next to a little pond. Built of intertwined branches pale with age and piles of moss-covered stone, the little place was round, with a roof of heavy thatch and vines shaped into a lopsided peak like a traditional witch’s hat. A steady stream of smoke issued through a chimney made of loosely stacked stones, and a light flickered through a small window beside a wooden door.
“There it is,” Tressa said and began to softly sing:
“She waits they say for time to end and for her life to be through,
Until that time, she waits for me and also waits for you.
Within a hut of tilted peak, the Tetlin Witch does dwell.”
“There’s more to that song?” Moya asked, her voice a harsh whisper.
Tressa frowned. “Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you tell us before?”
“Didn’t think it mattered. If we never found the island, it wouldn’t have. And after I sang that first verse, you were all looking at me like I was nuts. Extending the serenade wasn’t gonna help my cause.”
They had gathered to either side of Moya, who stood between the pond and a chopping block adorned with a wedged hatchet. Dark, ruddy patches stained the top of the block as well as the blade. The rain continued to fall, flowing off the roof and striking the ax’s handle. The fat droplets made the pond dance and pinged off the sides of another stone-filled bucket, which was near the door of the house.
“Since we aren’t here to raid the place, shall I go knock?” Tesh asked. After getting no response, he took a step forward.
“Wait.” Moya dragged wet hair out of her eyes. “I’ll do it.” She held Audrey out to Tekchin. “I don’t think I’ll need her for this.” Then she took off her pack and set it on the grass. Turning around, she looked at the rest of them. “I guess this is it.”
Moya sucked in a deep conscious breath, fisted her hands, and faced the hut.
“I’ll go with you,” Tekchin said.
“No.” Moya shook her head. “There’s a difference between a woman knocking on an old person’s door and a man in battle gear doing it.”
“I’ll go with you, then,” Brin said, quickly pulling off her pack.
“Brin,” Tesh protested. “You—”
She dropped her gear and held up a hand. “I’m going.”
“That’s not an old woman in there,” Tesh said. “This isn’t a neighborly visit.”
“I actually have to agree with Tesh here.” Tekchin folded his arms over Audrey. “Treating the ah—her—like Padera might not be the best strategy.”
“And approaching her like she’s a murderous bear in a den would be?” Moya said. “Wanna make spears? Maybe build a fire to flush her out? If this is you-know-who, she’s been around a long time, and I’m sure she’s dealt with worse than the likes of us.”
Tekchin scowled.
“Malcolm wouldn’t send us here if she was going to eat us,” Tressa said.
“See?” Moya grinned.
“You’re listening to Tressa now?” Tekchin asked.
“He’s right,” Tesh said. “Malcolm doesn’t know anything. I lived with him. He has trouble putting boots on.”
“You saved that for now, did you?” Moya asked. “Listen, I want the rest of you to stay here. If Brin and I are eaten, then you can do what you feel is best.”
“I didn’t come along to let Brin get eaten,” Tesh said.
Brin looked up at him. “I thought you came because you loved me.”
“I did.”
“Then wait here.”
He started to speak, but Brin put fingers to his lips. “You risk your life going to the Harwood. I let you go because I love you, and that’s what you want to do. I know that doing so is part of who you are.”
“But I’m a warrior. That’s my job. You know that.”
Brin nodded. “And you know I’m the Keeper of Ways, right? This is my job.”
“It’s not supposed to be dangerous,” Tesh insisted.
“Can we argue about this later?” Moya asked.
“There might not be a later,” Tesh snapped. “I don’t want her to die.”
“It’s my job to witness. It’s who I am. Aside from helping to save Suri, that’s why I came. That’s what I do—what I want to do.”
“Maybe that’s why Malcolm picked you,” Tressa said, more to herself than to Brin.
“Except he didn’t. He never said a word about it,” Brin said.
“Then why are you here?”
“To help Suri.”
“No.” Tressa shook her head. “That’s too simple.” The woman was speaking more to herself than anyone else. She looked around at all of them. “It’s just like in the smithy. I had to bring seven others because each of us has to do our part. Rain has his own quest. Roan knows about tides. Gifford can talk to trees. Tekchin and Tesh can fight. Moya has her bow. Malcolm picked me because he considers me a mason, but why is Brin here?”
“I told you, to save Suri.”
“You’ve been teaching me to read. How come?”
“Because Malcolm said—” Brin stopped then continued with a slight quiver in her voice. “He said I had to teach others to read.”
“Just a touch,” Tressa said, “a hint, a light nudge. That’s how he does it. Because he told you that, you were nice to me. And since you were nice to me, Roan and Gifford included you in the meeting about this trip.” Tressa nodded. “Malcolm wanted you here.”
Brin was terrified but more determined than ever. She turned to Moya. “Let’s go.”
Rain looked at Tressa. “I didn’t know you were a mason.”
“Neither did I.”
Moya and Brin strode forward. They were only a few dozen yards from the door, but the distance seemed like miles. Flat paving stones made a walkway, and when at last they stood at the end, Moya reached up and knocked. Then they both stood still in the rain and held their breath. In Brin’s head she reran the little song Tressa had most recently sung:
She waits they say for time to end and for her life to be through,
Until that time, she waits for me and also waits for you.
Within a hut of tilted peak, the Tetlin Witch does dwell . . .
They heard a latch lift.
Brin’s body rocked with the beat of her heart. The sound of the rain came and went with the same rhythm as blood pulsing in her ears. At the last minute, she reached out and took hold of Moya’s hand. Moya accepted it and squeezed.
The door drew back, letting light escape. They saw a woman. Done up in brown braids, her hair revealed a long neck and high forehead. The dangling earrings made of tiny threaded stones rattled when she moved. She wasn’t old nor was she young. Her cheeks were high, neck smooth, hair dark. Some creases flirted with the corners of her mouth and around her eyes. Brin had expected her pupils to glow or to find the whole of her eyes to be opaque black—or maybe white. Instead, they were normal, albeit an odd color. Unlike the brown eyes of the Rhunes, the pale gray of the Dherg, or the blue eyes of the Fhrey, hers were a greenish-gray. Brin thought only Nolyn had green eyes, but while the child’s were bright with youth, this woman’s were deep and disturbing. Peering into them gave Brin the same sensation as looking at a starry night—as if she were seeing eternity and beyond.
“Hello?” The woman greeted them pleasantly enough.
“Ah . . . hi,” Moya replied, her face devastated with crushing confusion.
Brin knew exactly how she felt. Is this the witch? She doesn’t look the part.
The greenish-eyed woman waited a bit longer, holding the door. When Moya still didn’t say anything, she peered up at the sky. “Something of a wet night to be out wandering. Can I assume you’re lost?”
“Are you the Tetlin Witch?” Moya burst out, and Brin felt her heart stop.
The woman’s brows rose, and Moya grimaced, cringing in expectation of disaster.
“Are you looking for the Tetlin Witch?” the woman asked.
“Yes . . . yes, we are. It’s very important.”
“Important, is it?” The woman narrowed her eyes. Somewhere behind her came the crackle of a fire. “Maybe you should come inside then. Would you like that?”
Moya glanced at Brin. In that look Brin saw a million questions, and she didn’t have a single answer.
“You don’t have to,” the woman said quite kindly. “It’s just”—she looked up at the water running off the roof—“raining pretty hard.”
The woman backed up, leaving the door open. Inside was a warm, dry room with a wooden floor and rugs. A stone fireplace burned three logs and illuminated a rocking chair with a basket beside it. The woman returned to the chair, where she picked up knitting needles connected to a work in progress, then sat down.
“Please don’t leave the door open. The water splashes in, and there’s a chill.”
Moya, still holding Brin’s hand, stepped inside and let the door close. Nothing was frightening. This could have been Brin’s old roundhouse, for all its hominess.
The smell of baking bread and the warmth of the hearth greeted them with a friendly embrace, which was beyond wonderful in contrast with the previous night in the swamp. To be honest, it was better than any place she’d been since the fall of Alon Rhist—possibly since Dahl Rhen. That’s what it felt like: her own home.
Looking around, Brin saw herbs, spatulas, mallets, and pots hanging from the rafters, but what she noticed most were the stones. They were everywhere. Many had a hole in the center, allowing them to be threaded like beads. The rocks filled ceramic bowls, cups, jars, and baskets. A pile of small stones littered the little wooden table, only the corner of which was revealed by the firelight. A butter churn was tucked to one side, and a series of wet clothes were hung up near the fire. The inside of the little hut appeared far larger than the outside promised, but most was lost to darkness as the fire burned low.
“So what brings you to the island?” the woman asked. She was wearing a pleasant but simple brown dress with a tan shawl. Her face was round, and her ears had a slight angle, but they weren’t pointed like a Fhrey. She looked human, except for the odd-colored eyes. She rocked slowly while knitting. In many ways, she reminded Brin of her own mother.
This is so odd. Maybe it’s an enchantment? Is the witch making everything so pleasant to lure us in, catch us off guard? That’s what happened in the stories.
Moya took two steps and stood before the woman in her rocker. “Are you the witch?”
The woman frowned as water drizzled down Moya’s clothes onto the rug.
“My name is Muriel. This is my home, and would you mind standing off the rug until you stop dripping?”
Moya shuffled back to the wood floor. Again, Moya glanced at Brin, this time with far less panic but just as much desperation and confusion. “So you’re not a witch?”
Muriel smiled. “No, not a witch. Does that disappoint you?”
“Ah . . . actually, yes . . . yes, it does. We’ve come a long way—well, not really all that far, but it’s been a harrowing trip, and we were hoping . . .” Moya focused on the fire and bit her lip.
“Yes?”
Moya laughed self-consciously. “We were hoping the witch could show us a passage to the Fhrey homeland.”
“Across the Green Sea?” Muriel raised her brows again.
There was a knock on the door.
“Busy night,” Muriel said with a smile. She gave them a helpless look as she held up the knitting in her hands that might one day be a scarf. “Can you get that?”
Before Brin could reach it, the door opened and Tekchin and Tesh burst in with swords drawn.
“It’s okay,” Moya said, stopping them. “We’re fine. It’s all right. She’s not . . .” Moya sighed. “She’s not the witch.”
The two warriors gave a quick look around to confirm this, then adopted awkward, apologetic frowns. Tressa, Roan, Gifford, and Rain crept up behind them, each slowly entering, peering around nervously.
“Oh, yes, please, everyone just walk right in,” Muriel said sarcastically. “Don’t mind the rugs. Just puddle where you like.”
“Listen,” Moya said to the woman, sighing and shaking her head, “I’m sorry about all this. I think we were misinformed.” She took a moment to glare at Tressa.
“Oh? Someone told you to come here?” Muriel made a soft clicking with her knitting needles.
“A friend of ours named Malcolm told Tressa”—Moya pointed at her—“that the Tetlin Witch lived on this island and that she could show us a secret way to Estramnadon. There was supposed to be a tunnel.” Moya shrugged self-consciously. “You see, we’re desperate to save a friend of ours who is trapped over there, and we thought this might be a way of doing that. But I guess not.”
Muriel shook her head and smacked her lips in regret. “I’m sorry. There’s no tunnel here.”
“It’s not a tunnel,” Tressa said.
Moya put hands to hips. “You said it was.”
“No, I said it was a passageway.”
“There’s no passage across the sea from here, either,” Muriel said.
“It’s at a pool,” Tressa declared. “That’s where the entrance is.”
The moment Tressa said this, Muriel’s face lost its kindly smile. She turned her head to better study Tressa, eyes narrowing, brow wrinkling. “There is a pool, but it doesn’t lead to the Fhrey lands.”
“It goes to a garden door,” Tressa went on. “A special door right in the middle of the Fhrey city. Right in the heart of it. A door that can’t normally be opened.”
Tekchin’s eyes widened. In the six years Moya had known him, she had never seen such an expression, a surreal mix of surprise and—fear.
“You’re not talking about a door,” he said. “You’re speaking of the Door.”
“Who cares which door it is?” Moya said. “The only thing that matters is how do we get to it?”
Tekchin took hold of Moya. “You don’t understand. She’s talking about the Door in the Garden.”
Moya relaxed. “The way you’re acting, I would have expected something more ominous. A garden door sounds nice.”
He struggled to find the words. “It’s hard to explain to someone who isn’t Fhrey. It’s believed to be the gateway between this world and the next. Between Elan and Phyre.”
“And this is an actual door?” Moya asked. “You have a real door in your hometown that leads to the afterlife?”
Tekchin nodded. “It might just be symbolic. But the Umalyn—the priests of our people—believe it’s real. It’s a simple wooden thing right in the center of the city of Estramnadon, but no one has ever been able to open it. A lot of people think that’s a good thing because beyond the Door is the world of the dead.”
This left all of them looking to one another with raised brows.
“So okay, wait.” Moya tilted her head at Tressa. “What are you saying? How would we, ah . . .” She hesitated, thinking it through as illustrated by the way she rotated her hands around each other as if she were winding up thread. “Are you saying that to go through this passageway of yours we need to—to die?”
Tressa looked down at her feet. “I told you the path goes underground—far, far underground.”
“How far, Tressa?”
“Through the underworld,” Tressa said softly. Then looking up hastily, she added, “I know it sounds kind of crazy, but—”
Moya’s eyes widened. “Oh, there’s nothing kind of about it. That’s full-out eat-rocks-and-spit-pebbles insane.”
“Malcolm told me this is the only way to save Suri. The entrance is at a pool near here, and that is where we need to go in. That’s where we start.”
“You mean that’s where we die,” Moya corrected.
Tressa frowned. “The underworld is smaller than the real one. Because it’s inside Elan, the trip will be shorter. We’ll be able to catch up to Suri—”
