In the predawn silence, Elthwen sat hugging her knees to her chest on the perimeter of Gamba’s “ring of safety.” Her grandfather’s snoring rose and fell, along with the nearly imperceptible whisper of wind and the gentle hiss of water nearby. He had fallen asleep almost immediately upon the conclusion of their light meal of roasted agrinia roots and wild mushrooms followed by an infusion of benscap with a pinch of powder from lilvius star petals. He assured her the potion would clear her mind and enable her to rest. But the brew, while proving beneficial to him, did nothing to relieve her anxieties or calm her churning thoughts. She looked back at where he lay, only the top of his shiny head visible under his cloak in the amber glow of the corrath.
He had chosen for their resting place a secluded hollow on a hill near a shallow, pooling stream on the southern edge of Tilindon Forest. From the protection of its copse of willows, the walled city of Virna Berin appeared in the distance, dark and lifeless, shrouded in mist and gray early light. Before drifting into sleep, Gamba had acknowledged his misgivings about the place as a haven for all manner of rough and disreputable characters, but the Old City provided much in the way of smuggled goods. Having ruled out traveling west on the Rhuda River for any number of reasons, he explained their need of a horse and other supplies for their journey to Elyndrus and Aldain’s fortress. He was especially uneasy over the idea of her accompanying him into the town. But now, with his head cradled in his arms, his lips softly ruffling on every breath, he appeared unaffected by the world of concerns that awaited them at every turn.
Elthwen could not begrudge him his slumber. They had pushed themselves far and at a steady pace for the better part of the night. They had spoken but little and then only in whispers, as he explained what he knew of her father’s misguided mission, her mother’s fears, and her own part in the crisis that had prompted their flight from Ishlonna. Now, in the circle of protective light as he slept, the need to unburden herself had grown unbearable. Sleep evaded her every attempt. She wondered if she would ever enjoy that sweet pleasure again. Over and over she revisited in her mind the events of the past three days. Over and over a voice inside her head screamed out in terror and confusion.
In spite of herself a wan smile turned up the corners of her mouth. As a child she often gaped in awe at her grandfather’s feats of wonder and gazed in fascination at the strange flora and fauna he showed her in the forest beyond her father’s walled citadel. As a child she believed almost anything her grandfather told her. Butterflies could be transformed into fire-breathing ergochs and fire into ice. “Nothing imagined,” he always insisted, “is beyond what is possible.”
But she was no longer a child. She could not allow herself the naive conviction that some ancient incantations and an equally ancient stone named Glaer had the power to protect her in a circle of light. Or to “suggest” to others that she was anything other than what she appeared to be.
She picked up the small knife she had been honing and resumed absently running its broad edge along the chunk of sharpening stone she had found along the path. The scraping sound and metallic ring wound around her senses. The eastern sky began to brighten, reflecting in ripples off the flat of the blade. She glanced down and, catching sight of her likeness mirrored in the blade, shook back the mass of long dark hair that had fallen over her shoulders.
This will never do!
The thought suddenly struck her that Gamba’s “suggestion aura” was ludicrous. Despite her lack of womanly curves, with hair falling down the length of her back, anyone beholding her would be a fool not to believe his own eyes. Of course, she could rummage around in the tall grass for the clasps that had come undone during her many futile attempts at sleep. She could pin up her hair and keep her head covered as her grandfather advised.
But what if Gamba had used the wrong charm? Or worse, what if his powers were imaginary?
She roused herself and, wrapped in her soft woolen cloak, wandered down the gentle slope to the pooling stream as dawn spread a rosy glow on the horizon. Cool mist hovered wraithlike over water’s surface as she lowered herself to her knees on the mossy bank and set down her knife. She cupped her hands to drink, and then splashed her face with the bracing water.
While the water settled, she gazed at her image congealing on the dark surface. She tilted her head one way, then another, and gathered the long, unruly mane into one hand. Slowly, she pulled it back from her face before meeting the murky portrait straight on.
Her hair had always been her finest feature. Nearly everyone told her so, from her family down to the scullery maid. Not to mention guests and visitors. In her collection of jeweled combs and clasps, she permitted herself just the slightest bit of vanity, as she would often linger over them, taking pleasure in a variety of arrangements. Even Ildra, her maid, often complimented her on the soft luster of her hair and the rich shades of gold and russet brought out in certain types of light.
Tears welled in her eyes and trickled down her cheeks as she groped for the knife at her side in the grass. She set her jaw and, with a trembling hand, began hacking off her hair by the fistful—the tearing sound grating on her heart—and casting it into the pool. Long, feathery clumps twisted on the current, undulating with the lazy movement of pooling water, glimmering in the half-light.
Something moved, rustling in the brush just on the other side of the pool not an arm’s length away. Startled, she glanced up, a jolt of terror piquing her awareness. Her heart raced as a dark form darted into the shadows. It concealed itself behind the willow closest to the water, where it crouched low in the reeds. Its raspy, panting breaths vibrated over her senses.
Pulses thumping, her limbs heavy and unresponsive, Elthwen froze, knife poised in her hand. In an instant, all her accumulated fears descended upon her in an enervating rush. Images of blood—her blood, Gamba’s blood—flooded her mind. Myrwethen lying ashen-faced on the table, her throat a gaping wound. The same fate awaited her.
She tried to call out for her grandfather, but no sound came forth.
The morning brightened, its reflected light flickering in a pair of amber eyes staring directly at her from within the shadows. Letting out a stifled shriek, she dropped fully to the ground. The creature—for certainly it was no man regarding her from the safety of its hiding place—echoed her shrill cry and vanished into the forest.
Elthwen continued to lie face down on the damp ground where she had fallen, her heart pounding frantic rhythms, her hands trembling.
A man-beast! A wild forest Skaddock no bigger than a child had been observing her and, for some unknown reason, chose not to attack. How long it had been watching, and for what purpose, she dared not imagine. Indeed, it appeared as frightened as she. Had she not been so startled, she might have reached out and touched the creature. It was that close.
“Ellath…?”
The sound of Gamba’s voice settled like a balm over her ragged senses, and she drew in a deep breath. “I’m here.”
Tremulous from top to toe, she pushed herself to her knees and looked back toward the encampment.
Staff in hand aiding him in stiff movements over the uneven terrain, her grandfather appeared on the rise. “I told you to stay in the circle.” His visage was grim, his voice tinged with an uncharacteristically reproachful tone.
Elthwen stood on wobbly legs. Upon turning fully, she met his stern gaze and burst into tears. “Gamba…what have I done?”
He quickened his hobbled pace, all the while studying her with squinting eyes. “Ellath…! You didn’t….” She fell into his arms and sobbed. “There, there, child. It will be all right. What could have possessed you? I told you—”
“Please don’t scold. I don’t know why I….”
“No matter, Sweet.” He held her tight as she continued to weep. “It will grow back in time. There, there….”
As her sobs subsided, Gamba held her away and examined her handiwork. “It appears your calling is not as a barber.” His smile spread from his eyes to his lips.
She forced herself to smile in response and wiped away the tears with her sleeve. “’Tis a good thing, for I fear I’d soon lack for patrons.” With a sniffle she averted her face. “I’ve made a mess of it, haven’t I?”
“Hmm….” He flicked at the uneven tresses flopping around her face. “Nothing that can’t be mended.” He sighed. “You should have trusted the incantation. Ah, but ’tis done and there’s naught to do now, except finish what you’ve started.” He turned her around by the shoulders. “Hand me that knife of yours, will you?”