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Velda arose with a new sense of purpose, fuelled by the advent of spring at last. It was well before dawn. The house was cold, but she did not rekindle the fire in the kitchen hearth.
Instead, she wrapped her best shawl around her shoulders, put away a hasty breakfast, and went out to feed the pigs several hours before she usually did. The mud was frozen solid beneath her feet, but it was easier to balance on than the usual midday sludge. She made it all the way around the yard without slipping once.
She headed back indoors and fussed with her hair, drawing it all into a tight bun which she secured with hairpins, before pulling her jacket over her shoulders. She was wearing the better of her two day dresses, dark grey wool that was only slightly faded.
On her way out, she paused in the middle of the muddy track to look back at the house Emmett had built. A mist had fallen over the Witches’ Horn, but was already dispersing further down in the valley. The earliest birds were just now awaking, sending tentative chirps of song through the moisture-tinged air.
The house faded into the mist behind her as she reached the sheer cliffside with its hairpin-bending footpath, the only way down to the town of Lynborder. She paused for a moment, ascertaining that the path looked sound. A single misstep could spell doom upon the snaking way. Looking down over mist-streaked rocks, Velda could see the high town wall and sloping rooftops of Lynborder almost directly below her. If she could fly, she would be there within ten minutes. By the footpath, it was bound to take her at least two hours.
From where she stood, Velda could just see part of the monastery where she had been raised, a square fortress jutting out from where it sat against the side of yet another sheer cliff of dark grey rock. She wondered, not for the first time, what kind of force had smashed the Svanlyn mountains into such a series of fierce black angles and cliffsides.
But this was no place for daydreams, and Velda kept her attention on the path as she began her descent down the face of the cliff. Too many a fool had faltered upon these very rocks, and ended up with broken bones or worse.
As morning wore on, the sun baked upon the mountain and dried the mud on the footpath, making the going easier than Velda had expected. It was still well before midday when she reached the crossroads at the bottom of the cliff. The right-hand fork led straight down to Lynborder, and Velda could see several parties coming and going further along this road—a group of farmers on their way to town, a gang of trappers coming up.
Velda turned onto the left-hand fork, and strode down the wide, welcoming road which led to the monastery. It stood directly before her, a few hundred yards downslope of the crossroads, a great walled fortress, grim and austere. The building’s sternness belied the kindhearted nature of the monks who dwelt within. It had been constructed hundreds of years ago, when incursions of Arvenians from the coast were still commonplace. Even nowadays, bandit raids on remote border towns were not unheard-of, and the older monks claimed that these had been increasing steadily during their lifetime.
The main gate was already open, welcoming all who sought the advice and healing from the holy men. A group of young children were at work in the yard under the supervision of a black-robed brother, tilling the black soil in preparation for the year’s planting. Velda was recognized immediately, and she stopped to greet the excitable group. The monk, a tall, pleasant-faced man of middle age, ambled up and motioned for them to get back to work.
“Brother Viktor,” Velda said with a smile.
“Velda! It is good to see you. It has been a long time.” The monk grasped Velda’s hand. “Why have you come?”
“I need to speak with Father Ricard,” Velda said. “I am giving up the lease of my husband’s land.”
Viktor had never been a man of many words, and to his credit he did not ask any more questions. “The Supreme Father is in his study,” he told Velda. “I trust you remember how to find it?”
Velda nodded. “Of course. Oh—and do you know where Father Stian is?”
“In his wood.” Viktor nodded towards a slope leading up the hill behind the monastery. A grove of pine trees nestled in its shoulder. “He enjoys his peace away from the children, these days. He turned ninety this winter; it was quite the celebration.”
Velda smiled, and went in search of the Supreme Father first. Relinquishing the lease turned out to be easier than she had expected, and soon she was outside again, climbing the trail to the pine grove. The trees seemed almost to shift around her, sombre companions to the aged monk who sat contemplatively upon an upturned trunk. She moved closer when he did not appear to notice her. “Father Stian?”
The old monk looked up with eyes still bright in his heavily lined, pale face. “Velda! Is it you?” He squinted in her direction. “My eyes grow worse with every passing year, child.” She moved towards him, and at last he chuckled happily. “It is you!” He cocked his aged head to one side, taking her in. “Have you come to greet me one last time, before you leave this place forever?”
Velda looked down, twisting her fingers together. “Not forever,” she said sheepishly.
“You wish to leave grief behind,” Stian said. The words came slowly, and his creaking voice was barely audible.
“I do,” Velda said. “Is that a bad thing?”
“Of course not,” Stian returned, “but I will miss you, child. I am very old, after all. This could be the last time I talk with you.”
Velda sat down beside him. “You have always been like a grandfather to me,” she said, taking the old man’s hand.
“Yet I know that, in truth, I am not enough.” Stian shushed her when Velda began to protest. “There is no need to apologize, child. I have watched over you, perhaps, a little more closely than most. I understand the need for your search. I have but one thing to ask of you.” His filmy, light blue eyes fixed upon her with as much fire as they were still capable of. “Velda, do not go to Armour City.”
“What?” Velda hesitated. Father Stian was known for his visions of the future, yet never had she known his warnings to be this specific. He had told her, long ago, that his dreams came from the gods—and why should the gods care about her?
“In my youth,” Stian continued steadfastly, “this continent was so peaceful that I never believed any of my visions would come to pass. Yet I dreamed the strife in Vailana seventy years ago, and as the days creep by, my dreams become darker and even more troubled. I dreamed, once, that we of this monastery were given a precious thing—a mallorn-rose. Do you know what that is?” When she shook her head, he continued, “That is the name of the wild creeper-roses which grow in the Forest of the Morning. It was given us to safeguard, yet when we held it for too long, the rose wilted in our hands. And so I advised Ricard that it would be in your best interest not to stay here.”
Velda was nonplussed. “I’m not from the Forest of the Morning.”
“Yet you are not truly one of us,” Stian said quietly, and she turned away. “Before you leave for Armour City, Velda, please wait awhile. A different road may yet present itself.”
A different road? Velda wondered briefly whether perhaps the old monk was going senile. But Stian had rarely seemed as intent and focused as he was now. Seldom had he ever discussed his visions with her.
“What else did you see?” she pressed him, but the old monk shook his head.
“My dreams are not so straightforward. Magic is a strange force, child. It flows through all of us, yet only a few can wield it for their own ends.”
“Only the Morgei.”
“Magic is associated with Morgein blood, yet simply possessing magic does not make one part of the Morgein people. There are many in possession of the Gift who have never even been to the Forest of the Morning. Those born in Vailana, yes, but the Sang people across the sea also commonly manifest the Gift—and Arran Sylvaissen was not born Morgein.”
Velda raised her brows at this, yet it truly made no difference to her. She sat with the monk a little while longer, saying farewell.
She was not certain whether she truly believed in Stian’s portents, nor indeed that the gods watched over the world as closely as the Sven brethren claimed. If Father Stian was trying to forbid her from going to Armour City, which other road could she possibly take?
Velda was deep in thought as she trudged out of the monastery grounds. Nearly too late, she noticed that she was coming face-to-face with a thin old man leading a mule, who looked like he might have been a wandering peddler.
The mule, stubborn as all of its race, refused to step aside on the narrow path, and she and the peddler danced around each other, as he muttered hasty and heartfelt apologies. The man briefly raised his face, which was half obscured by a thick hood, and suddenly he gasped. A skinny arm appeared from the depths of his faded clothing to seize her wrist.
“Who are you?” he whispered.
Velda twisted free, expecting to have to shove him away, but the man had drawn back of his own accord, staring intently at her. His eyes were a very light shade of brown, almost yellow, and the way they were set over his prominent nose made her think of an aged, brooding raptor.
“None of your business,” she said, disconcerted. She turned away from him, hastening her footsteps towards town. The peddler let her go, but she felt his penetrating gaze follow her until she was out of sight.
––––––––
The bustle of Lynborder town was a welcome distraction from Velda’s grief and uncertainty. There were traders from Vailana in the marketplace, with wares of fine leather, jewels, and silver-plated blades and armour. The wood-cutters had just been paid, and were already circulating the money back into the town, buying sausages and beer from the stand in the square, inspecting the wares of local hawkers for something to take back home to their wives and daughters. As usual, there was at least one farmer trying to drive his pigs through the hubbub, and pink-cheeked farmers’ daughters were hard at work selling bouquets of the first flowers of the year. Per tradition, the money they earned in this way was theirs to spend, and there was always fierce competition amongst them.
Velda skirted the edge of the marketplace and made for the stone-paved alleyways that threaded their way between the different boroughs of the town. Here, she spent several hours going from one junk-shop to another, trying her best not to be swindled. When she came out the other end, she had sold all her small valuables except her silver Sven medallion, and even the knapsack she had carried them in. The bag of money in the pocket beneath her skirt felt conspicuously heavy, and she was certain that it would be enough to buy passage to Armour City with the Vailanan traders. She could arrange that this very afternoon, if she wanted to.
Wandering through the busy marketplace, arguing back and forth with herself over whether she should speak to the traders, Velda was suddenly distracted by a delicious smell of roasting meat. She realized, with a start, just how hungry she was, and how long it had been since breakfast. As she slowed to a halt, she realized that she was standing near Lynborder’s only inn of note, a sturdy place run by the town’s sternest matriarch, Zelma Friedman.
Zelma was leaning over the counter, shouting at one of her younger children—or perhaps a grandchild—when Velda walked in. There were only a few customers this early in the day, all locals.
“Velda!” The rotund woman stopped mid-rant to greet her, and the offending child ran off. She shook her head. “They drive me crazy.” She stopped abruptly, as if swallowing something she had been about to say. “Sit down, sit down. I assume you’re in want of something to eat?”
Velda nodded. “Something hot.”
“In short order.” Zelma hurried her to a table. “You haven’t been seen in a long while. It must be good for you to get away from that lonely cliff-side, especially after the winter.” She paused. “I heard what happened. I’m so sorry. Emmett was a good lad.”
“Thank you,” Velda said automatically, seating herself in the cosiest corner she could find.
“I’ll be along with the food shortly. Have some ale in the meantime.” The woman set down a clean mug and poured from the jug in her hand. She hurried behind the counter and into the kitchen, and Velda took a sip of ale, surveying the room. The inn was relaxed and bucolic as always.
Two of Zelma’s daughters appeared from the stairwell, brooms and a laundry basket in hand. “Where did that carrot-seller say he was from?” one of them was asking as they went behind the counter.
“From Palace,” the other said, reaching for a chair and sitting down heavily. Their conversation was just loud enough to reach Velda in her corner. “And that story he told me was no joke. Three others have told me the same already.”
“What story?” Zelma emerged from the kitchen, hands on her ample hips. “What nonsense are you two making up again?”
“It’s not nonsense, mama!” the girl insisted. “The people from the other towns say there’s a monster in the mountains.”
“A monster! Likely story! And what are they saying about this monster?”
“It’s true, mama! People have been disappearing during the winter. And they’ve seen strange things in the woods.”
“People disappear every winter,” Zelma said impatiently.
“They say the monster is a ghost,” the other girl piped up, “the ghost of a golden-haired girl who died on her wedding night. Murdered.”
“A ghost, you say? I thought monsters were flesh-and-blood, no?”
“A ghost who commands monsters,” the first girl returned, wide-eyed. “In the winter cold, she came for a dozen men in the wood-cutters’ camp near Palace. I heard it from a lad who was with the search party. Saw it all with his own eyes. The cuttings were abandoned, and they found nought but bloody footsteps leading to a dead end in the woods. Apart from that, nothing.”
“A bear attack, or a mountain cat,” Zelma said, but she sounded less convinced than before.
“They couldn’t find any remains,” the girl said.
Zelma’s sharp eye caught the laundry basket. “Get back to your chores,” she grumbled. “You’re only wasting time with this nonsense.”
She disappeared into the kitchen again, and emerged with a bowl of stew alongside a plate of crusty bread, still hot from the oven, which she set in front of Velda. She bustled off as Velda thanked her and set to with gusto. There were bits of bacon and mushroom in the stew, and butter to go with the bread. Velda devoured everything faster than she would have thought possible, and was working on finishing her ale when the strange man strode into the inn.
He dressed well, she noticed at once; his loose tunic was of white wool, and almost as thick as the short jacket she wore for warmth. But it had seen hard wear recently, and she doubted he’d washed it in the last two weeks. His dark trousers were equally grimy, and though his boots were made of expensive leather, they looked as though he’d just walked a hundred miles in them. A thick cloak of forest-green wool hung from his shoulders, the hood drawn up. What she could see of the face beneath looked unshaven and careworn. He was taller than most of the men Velda knew, and broader in the shoulder. And he carried a sword.
“I need food,” the man said urgently, spotting Zelma behind the counter. She had frozen in the act of wiping out a mug, her eyes fixed upon him. “A meal for two, and something to go. Bread, cheese, dried fruit.”
Zelma swallowed, and carefully placed the mug she had been wiping upon the counter. Though her head barely reached the level of this man’s armpit, she looked him directly in the eyes. “I don’t allow weapons in my inn,” she said quietly.
“What?” The man put his hand on his sword. The entire inn went silent, men looking up from their afternoon ale to see what was happening. “Oh. All right.” He unbuckled the sword from his belt, and put it down on the counter. “Here, I’ll leave it with you.” He shoved the sword towards Zelma, and she gingerly put her hand on it. “Can I have that food? My friend will be along shortly.”
Zelma did not take her eyes off him. “That’ll be forty pence for the meal,” she said.
The stranger reached into a pocket and withdrew a single coin, which he placed in Zelma’s hand. “That should pay for everything I need,” he said. Velda could see Zelma’s eyes go wide at the sight of the coin. “I want supplies as well. Road-food. Bread and dried fruit and anything else that will last, and I want as much as I can carry.”
“I—I’ll fetch your meal in a minute, sir,” Zelma stuttered. “Take a seat, do.” She quickly pocketed the wondrous coin and fumbled with the long sword. “I’ll just put this under the counter, shall I? Lizbeth!” She called one of her daughters closer, who had been watching the scene wide-eyed. “Watch this, and don’t let anyone near.” She hurried off into the kitchen.
The stranger looked around the room, where every man was now attempting to hide behind his ale-mug. Sauntering towards the same corner Velda had chosen, he nodded at her and took a seat at the other end of the long table. Velda tried not to stare, but her curiosity was barely containable. Mercenaries were not an uncommon sight in Lynborder, for the town lay on the road to the port at Sulshome, but they seldom travelled alone, and were generally a lot less scruffy than this man. Were it not for the quality of the clothes he was wearing, Velda might have imagined that he’d stolen that sword.
The stranger lifted his hood from his face and stared into the shadows, passing a grimy hand over his eyes. Velda was surprised to see how young he was; he looked about twenty-five. She had envisaged an older, rougher man beneath that hood. Long, wavy auburn hair was swept into a knot behind his head, and his unkempt beard was a lighter shade of ginger.
Zelma Friedman appeared suddenly at the stranger’s side, making him glance in Velda’s direction. Velda hastily looked away. “Ale, sir?” Zelma asked.
Velda shook herself. She had to be on her way soon, or risk making the climb back up to the homestead in the dark. She stood up and thanked Zelma, who seemed all in a dither, then took herself back to the main thoroughfare of Lynborder.
I wonder where he came from, though? And why he looks as if he hasn’t slept in a week... The stranger could not be of the king’s militia; they moved in groups, wore armour, and were very seldom seen outside the capital city of Ülhard. That coin he gave Zelma... I’ve never seen her goggle over anything like that before. Was it a golden piece? Velda had to suppress the urge to turn back towards the inn and corner Zelma to ask. That would be ridiculous.
The marketplace was quieter now, and Velda quickly skirted it and made for the road that would lead her out of town and back to the mountains. But she slowed and came to a standstill when a newly-painted building to the left caught her eye.
She moved closer, staring at the colourful sign. It was done up in yellow and brown, with bold golden letters spelling out: Coffee Shop. Beneath the sign, a diminutive grey-haired man, with skin so dark he seemed almost black, was reclining at a wooden bench, smoking a pipe. As her eyes travelled downwards, he caught them and grinned at her.
“Lovely lady, you are welcome to come in.”
Velda moved onto the raised patio beneath the sign. “A coffee shop?” she asked, her eyes shining. “I thought they only existed in the city!”
“Indeed they do, lady, but I have thought to myself: why remain where there are already so many? Do the people in the little villages not need a relaxing drink now and then? And you see,”—he took the pipe from his mouth and gestured with it—“here, I have no competition! Every wandering customer will belong to me!” He laughed, and replaced his pipe. “Would you like a cup? I use only the finest beans from the East, for the alluring price of twenty pence per serving.”
“Twenty pence?” Velda exclaimed. “I could buy myself—why—four mugs of ale for that price!”
“Ale? Ale is like water here; it flows just as freely, and tastes just so—of nothing. To taste coffee is to taste luxury, the leisure drink of the Emperor beneath the eternal sun in Bassah. Very well,” he said, regarding her, “for your beauty, I will subtract from the price two pence. Eighteen.”
“Tuppence?” Velda laughed. “Is my beauty worth so little to you?”
“Five pence, then. Your eyes are like topaz, your face is the pearl of the oceans.”
“Enough flattery,” Velda turned towards the door. “That is the most heavenly smell.” She turned back towards the coffee merchant. “You have convinced me. I have always wanted to try coffee.”
“Then I am happy to provide,” he said with a broad smile as he showed her into the little shop. Velda looked around excitedly as he stepped behind the counter and measured a quantity of glossy brown beans from a cloth bag. “Forgive my lack of preparation,” he continued as he began to grind the beans fine, “but you are, in fact, my first customer of the day, bold lady. May I inquire your name?”
“Velda,” she said, leaning over the counter as he worked. “Velda Davidz. And yours?”
“Sefo of Bassah,” he replied. “May I call you by your first name?”
“Certainly.”
“Forgive my curiosity,” Sefo said, “but I have not seen your face in town before. I am sure that I would have remembered you, for not since I plied my trade in Sanghui have I seen a beauty such as yours.”
Velda laughed out loud. Sanghui was the place of silk and chocolate, impossibly exotic, a jungle land on the neighbouring continent that lay across the sea to the east. “I’m no exotic beauty,” she said. “I have lived here all my life. I’ve never even been to Vailana.”
The beans were ground fine at last, and Sefo transferred the powerfully aromatic powder to a small pot boiling water on his stove. “I look forward to many more meetings with you.”
Velda’s smile faded. “I’m afraid I will be leaving soon. My—my husband passed away, and I can’t continue to work our farm on my own.” This was the first time that she had said it out loud, and she was surprised how ordinary it sounded. To sum up something so life-shattering in one simple sentence seemed wrong, and she fell silent.
Sefo’s face drew into his abundant wrinkles. “I am truly sorry to hear that. My wife, she has been with the spirits these past ten years now.” He paused. “Where will you be going?”
He was carefully pouring out the rich brown liquid into two stone mugs now, and Velda kept her eyes on what he was doing. “I thought—perhaps, Armour City. There are merchants that regularly go between here and there. I saw them in the marketplace today.”
Sefo snorted. “Do not go with those rogues, I implore you.” He reached across the counter and touched her hand. “Sweet lady, if you seek passage to Vailana, I can arrange it for you. Those traders would sell you as soon as look at you. They cannot be trusted.” He turned, and handed her one of the hot mugs. “Vailana is a dangerous place, nowadays.” He tapped his nose. “But I have ways, and the means to operate under the nose of our king.”
Velda laughed nervously, feeling a sudden chill in her stomach. It was a pair of traders who had apparently sold her into slavery as an infant, she remembered. “I haven’t decided anything yet.”
The coffee merchant gave her another smile as he reached under the counter and came up with a jug of frothy cream. “This will cool the strong flavour,” he said, indicating her mug. “In Bassah, we have great herds of cows, but these mountains cannot support such. So this is from my own goat.” He added a liberal dose of cream to his own mug, and for a while they sat together, drinking. The coffee had a richer flavour than Velda had ever imagined, and she savoured every sip.
“I must be gone soon,” she said, checking the position of the sun from the window, and Sefo’s bright eyes found hers.
“So? You live in the mountains?” She nodded, and the coffee merchant looked concerned yet again.
“Have you seen aught up there this winter that—should not be? Anything... monstrous?”
“You have been listening to superstitious townsfolk,” Velda laughed. “There is nothing in the mountains except bears, and maybe mountain cats, and the occasional storm. The only danger, if I return too late, is that perhaps I will slip on a rock.” She placed down her empty mug. “And so I must be on my way.”
