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TO CRUSH THE CREATIVE spirit is to rob the world of beauty.
—Madame Gabaldi, teacher
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A FEW HOURS BEFORE dawn, Gwen finished copying the notes she needed from Sister Brunhilda’s parchments. She also put the pages in order and bundled them neatly with one of her long, green hair ribbons, which she thought not much of a sacrifice since she’d have no need for a ribbon until her hair grew out again. Under pressure to get the work done before morning, she resisted taking time to read and learn about plants she’d not previously encountered, but she made a list so she would remember which parchments to study and copy upon her return. She surveyed her handiwork and considered sleeping. Knowing she couldn’t still her worries enough to rest, she packed one bag with her plant journal and writing implements, an extra robe, and her plant snips. Then she slipped out of her apartment and took the bundle to Sister Brunhilda’s potting shed, where she laid it on the potting table, along with a note thanking the monk and promising to return with all of the requested samples.
At daybreak, she met the other monks for a light breakfast and said her good-byes, but not before asking Sister Lucinda to make certain the door panes in Sister Brunhilda’s potting shed were resealed.
Brother Vaughn led her to the stable where two pack mules awaited them. “They’ll take us to the ship.”
“Ship?”
“Oh, yes. Summer wanes and we haven’t enough time to travel by mule all the way to the Southland and back before the winter snows. We’ll be sailing to Mundleboro then traveling east by mule to an outpost in the Southland.”
Without fanfare, they departed the monastery, making their way through the city and out through the crevice before turning eastward and heading to a small port on the coastline. There, Brother Vaughn negotiated their fares, and not more than two days after leaving the safety of Ohmahold, Gwen found herself on the deck of a cargo ship looking out over the vast sea, feeling no sense of security whatsoever and missing home.
“If we met the rising sun, we’d land in the Godfist,” the monk told her, which didn’t make her feel any less homesick. “But we’re heading south and sailing around the tip of the Greatland. We’ll make landfall on the southern tip of Mundleboro in two or three days.”
The trip turned out to be four days, and miserable ones at that. A light storm rocked the ship side to side and shoved it over crests of crashing waves. Gwen, who had never even stepped foot on a boat, much less a ship, spent much of her time heaving up what little tepid broth she could get down. She had never appreciated solid ground so much as she did on the day the clouds broke up, the fog thinned out, and the Mundleboro coastline came into view.
After the ship dropped anchor, a handful of sailors rowed Gwen and Brother Vaughn to shore in a small boat they’d lowered over the side of the ship. Two more boats brought the mules, neither of which seemed to appreciate being hobbled, placed in slings, and lowered into the boats. Both brayed incessantly, and by the time they reached shore, the sailors hurried to secure ramps and release the complaining beasts. Gwen pitied the sailors almost as much as the mules. Once freed from the hobbles and their reins handed over to Brother Vaughn, who whispered in their ears, they settled down and let the monk repack and affix their loads with the assortment of mostly empty bags and baskets brought to carry the bounty Gwen would harvest for Brother Bastian, Sister Brunhilda, and, of course, herself.
The pair trekked through southern Mundleboro without event in a little more than two days. By noon of the third day after making landfall, the relentless sun had begun to tire Gwen, and she’d resorted to covering her head with the hood of her robe despite the discomfort of the excess heat it caused. She was thankful when they reached an isolated cabin on the remote western side of the Southland. As they approached it, two monks in dark brown robes and straw hats looked up from their work of weeding a vegetable garden.
“Is this Drascha Stone,” Gwen asked her companion.
“Oh, no. Drascha Stone is in the far south. This is just an outpost through which the established monasteries relay messages and Cathurans stop when seeking shelter temporarily while traveling,” he replied before waving at the monks. “Greetings, Brothers!” he called out then dismounted the mule.
The pair dropped their tools and met the travelers with warm smiles. “You’re just in time for the noontide meal, Brother Vaughn, Sister Gwendolin. Come inside. We’ve been expecting you and were beginning to fear the weather had caused you harm. Storms have been blowing eastward for the last week.”
“Yes,” said Brother Vaughn as he handed the reins of his mule to a third monk who had joined them, “we encountered them at sea.”
Gwen dismounted and handed over her reins, as well, choosing not to think about or comment on the stormy weather, which had caused her to be so very ill on the ship.
Once inside, they sat at a table and were served bread and cheese, followed by a mixture of fresh tomatoes and onions in a tart vinegar. Gwen found it refreshing. She listened as the monks exchanged news, none of which surprised her.
“The Zjhon have increased their presence throughout the Greatland. Even the minor cities report frequent patrols passing through. Sylva, Lankland, Astor, and even the Westland.”
Gwen’s stomach knotted. “Have you any news of Vasterberg?”
The monk at the head of the table, a middle-aged man named Frederic, who sported an orange-red beard, clapped his hands together. “Vasterberg! Oh my!” He stood and retrieved a folded parchment from a desk in the corner of the room. “Please forgive me, Sister Gwendolin. A week ago, a monk who passed through Vasterberg brought this message for you, and I’m afraid my sun-addled brain almost forgot about it. I would have sent it on to Ohmahold, but we knew you were coming and thought it would get into your hands sooner if we held onto it.” He handed the parchment to her.
Gwen saw her full name on the outside of the parchment. At once, she recognized the handwriting as her father’s. She took a deep breath and unfolded the parchment.
My dear, dear Gwendolin,
It is with a heavy heart I write to you, and I shall not delay in informing you of the sad news of your grandmother’s passing. A month after you departed, she left this world peacefully during her sleep. We buried her frail body under the tree next to your mother. I am certain they are happy in being together again, and I am at peace knowing that is true.
Thomlin Frank has told the whole village about the horrors in Sutherhold, and we fear for the sons and brothers who still have not returned. I regret not recognizing for what it was the deceit Master Gabaldi perpetrated. I can only pray you and Rolf are safe.
The Zjhon have passed through Vasterberg twice since you departed, and each time, they have questioned the villagers and taken at least one young boy. Conscription, they call it. More like kidnapping, I say! Oh, but had I listened to your protests. Forgive me, dear daughter, for my lack of foresight.
For more than a fortnight since you departed, I have pondered the wisdom of my decision to force you to marry or to join the monastery. After seeing the joy Gilly and Thomlin expressed at their wedding just two weeks ago, I regret even more my decision, not because your grandmother and I wanted security for you and thought the monastery a safe haven, but because I did not give you time to explore other options. The limits of my imagination became your limits by force, and I regret that.
I miss you. I miss your laughter and your antics. I miss you dodging the pigs when you slop them. I miss kissing the top of your head before you sleep. I even miss your horrible cooking.
I do not know if you have taken your vows yet, but if you haven’t, I want you to know you can come home, and I will welcome you with open arms.
With all my love and prayers for your safety and happiness, I am always your loving father.
“Excuse me,” said Gwendolin, folding up the parchment and rising from her chair. Her voice cracked more than she’d meant to allow. “I’d like to be alone for a bit.”
None of the monks said anything, and Gwen wondered if Brother Frederic or the others had read the letter. If they had, they showed no sign of it. No sympathy or condolences on the loss of her grandmother. No discussion of the news about the Zjhon in Vasterberg.
Gwen walked out into the midday heat and looked west. Home. She could go home. Her grandmother’s voice teased at the corner of her memory but eluded her. Inexplicable sadness seared her, like visible heat waves floating across flat land in the distance.
“Sister Gwendolin?” Brother Vaughn’s voice interrupted her thoughts.
She handed him the parchment, which he unfolded and read while she continued to watch the heat waves.
“I’m terribly sorry for your loss. Shall I make plans to guide you to Vasterberg?”
Gwen’s heart thumped, and she turned and looked at him, surprised by his question but even more surprised by her own doubt. “You have business in Drascha Stone, don’t you?”
“Yes, but I can send one of the other monks if you’d like me to take you home.”
“I promised I would gather some things for Sister Brunhilda and Brother Bastian. There’s no rush to get back to Vasterberg. I can do nothing for my grandmother now. You go ahead and take care of your business, and then we’ll figure out what to do after that.”
He placed a hand tenderly on her shoulder. “Are you sure, Sister?”
She nodded and lied. “I’m sure. Thank you for asking.”
Brother Vaughn squeezed her shoulder and then returned to the cabin, leaving her alone with thoughts of home.
That night, she slept in a bed roll under the stars. As she had when she’d inhabited the little cottage with her grandmother and father, she watched the moon rise and crest before she drifted off to sleep.
She awoke to the ruckus of arguing.
“I tell you she should not be alone here. She’s not even one of us,” said a male voice she recognized as one of the Cathuran monks, but she wasn’t sure which.
Brother Vaughn’s voice then belted back, “Mother Seema has so ordered, and you’ll follow her directions, as will I and every monk who serves the Cathuran order. I’ll hear no more of your poisonous words. You should be ashamed to have spoken them! The girl has lost a loved one. Have you no compassion?”
Gwen got out of the bed roll and walked to the cabin, where she found Brother Vaughn standing with a stiff posture facing the eldest of the monks at the outpost. Neither saw her enter, and they both jerked their heads in her direction when she calmly said, “It’s true I am not yet officially Cathuran, Brother . . . I’m sorry. I don’t even know your name.”
“Brother Mason,” he replied, gruffness drawing his eyebrows close together.
“Your words are true, and I will say only that I trust Mother Seema’s judgment in all matters. She sent me here for a reason, Brother Mason, and I do not yet know what that reason may be. Whether you leave me here alone or otherwise, I will remain until I know, even if it means I must sleep on the dirt and scrounge for food and water. What you do is of no concern to me.”
The monk looked at Brother Vaughn, flustered and red faced. “See how she speaks to me? She is yet petulant and lacking humility.”
Brother Vaughn’s posture relaxed, and his voice lowered to his normal, calm tone. “You doubt the wisdom of our Mother. What does that make you, Brother Mason? I am one of mind with Sister Gwendolin. I have faith she can care for the outpost for the short time we’ll be gone. I depart for Drascha Stone tomorrow morning . . . with or without you and the others.”
One by one, the other monks approached her throughout the day and showed her around the little outpost, pointing out the few chores she’d need to do in their absence—water and weed the vegetable garden, pick any ripe vegetables and store them in the cold cellar, scatter feed for the chickens, and milk the cow before feeding her and making sure her water trough remained full. Everything else, they told her, could wait for their return. She said a silent prayer of thanks when she discovered they had no pigs to slop. With only a few chores to do each morning, she’d have ample time to accomplish the tasks she’d promised to do for the Ohmahold monks.
As he’d said he would, Brother Vaughn left for Drascha Stone the next morning just after sunrise. All of the other monks, including Brother Mason, went with him.
Once they were out of sight, Gwen acknowledged an odd sense of comfort knowing she’d be alone for a couple of weeks. She set to her morning tasks without delay and actually enjoyed talking to the cow while milking her. She named the gentle creature Tinkles because nobody had told her the cow’s name and because the bell around her neck, unlike those of field cows, was so tiny its ring was barely audible. Gwen laughed with delight when the cow mooed in response to the name. Once she’d finished the rest of the chores, she retrieved her plant journal and gathering tools and walked in the direction of a grassy knoll dotted with bushes and wildflowers.
It didn’t take long before she found a wild blueberry bush, from which she picked enough berries for a pie and a couple of light meals. Nearby she spotted a thick cluster of broadleaf plantains where the soil had become compact from poor drainage. She snipped the youngest leaves and plucked the seeded stalks from every plant in the patch, and she sat cross-legged on a clump of short grass and opened her journal in her lap. The growth pattern of the plantains had struck her as unusual because the plants had been more tightly compressed than she’d seen in the Westland, probably, she noted, because the soil in the Southland was more dense and less fertile. She speculated the leaves and possibly even the tender seed stalks would taste more bitter, as well. She held up a stalk with one hand and started drawing it in her journal.
“Broadleaf plantain if I’m not mistaken,” a baritone voice said.
Gwen let out a squeak and threw up her hands so violently the stalk and her quill went flying into the air. The quill came back down, nib first, splotching her sleeve with ink. As she tried to stand, her feet got caught in the robe, and she ended up on all fours, trapped in her own clothing, and looking up in alarm at the most handsome man she could have imagined. If he were going to murder her, at least she’d die looking at something pleasant.