The full moon reflected off the surface of Larissa's venison stew, chunks of overcooked carrots breaking around it as she dipped her spoon in. Vyncent sat to her right; Pyran to her left. Molly and Reyen sat together, giggling and whispering to each other. Pyran sat stiffly, tearing pieces off a stale loaf of bread and sipping his water. Vyncent smiled and nodded at Brames as he strode by; the big man often took his mother's dinner to her chambers as the woman preferred to eat in private. Tonight would be their last dinner under lady of Ralme's roof.
"… those boys." Lady Lombrea was saying to Vyncent. They sat close to the end of the table, Lady Lombrea at the head of it. "What I heard their father used to do to them … small wonder why they are so protective of each other." Lady Lombrea paused and frowned. "They've always been trouble. Their uncle refuses to correct their behavior. Though I understand you were only defending your friends, I disagree with what you did to Barrett."
"It was ill done, my lady," said Vyncent reverently, "I lost myself. Will he … recover?"
"Of course, but those scars will always be there," Lady Lombrea said not too harshly.
Vyncent looked abashed at her words. Larissa wanted to comfort him but didn't quite know what to say. Your not a monster, she thought about saying. She knew monsters all too well, to be sure; she had grown up with them. Had Barrett chosen to fight Ladnavia or Ludavic, that vile and lascivious creature of a cousin that seemed to worship Ladnavia's cruelty, he'd be overjoyed if a beating was all he got.
Molly suddenly called for Ferangis's attention: "Fera," she started, "may we see the flower?"
Along with the Bryteoak sapling, which she already planted in the village, she promised something prettier for the manor household as a gift of gratitude.
Ferangis's obliged the request, and from her robes, produced a rose. A luminous bulb rested in its center; motes of light swam around it like gnats. The shine from it reflected off the petals, each of which had a surface like polished steel.
Rose of Tuyra. Larissa knew about the benevolent bloom; she had read about it yesterday in a chapter of Welvyt Stirn's book. Reyen, who usually fell asleep as soon as his head fell on the pillows, couldn't sleep that night. When he saw her reading by lantern light, he asked if he could join her. Since the boy couldn't read, she read out loud, sitting on his bed. "The Rose of Tyra?" Reyen had asked, abruptly, as she read, "that's what kept the hellhowlers away? A little rose?" Larissa had smiled and turned the page. "The Rose of Tuyra," Larissa had corrected happily, "and yes. The Nepheri that protected the woods would cultivate such plants with their flori. No servant of the Waif's would suffer the rose's scent." She had looked at Ferangis then, who was fast asleep.
To see such an enchanted thing made Larissa blissful; she almost felt like a great adventurer herself. Welvyt Stirn had explained that the Rose of Tuyra grew near hot springs kissed by flori.
"Where did you find it?" Larissa found herself blurting, hoping she could see the wonderous place where it sprouted.
"There is a hot spring in these woods, one that I had once made my home." Ferangis had no difficulty in seeing Larissa's astonishment. "If you would like to, I can take you there for a short time. Few have seen my works. Though, my beauties are something I am quite proud of."
She gave Vyncent a sly glance, who blushed in return. Larissa was unsure of what this meant between the two. The green woman had shed the coverings about her head this night, revealing to Larissa her long, red hair that flowed like a river: a cascade of brilliant copper. She stood up and went to a square table at a window. Resting on the surface was a large earthenware pot filled with soil.
"This was the only one of its kind I could find, however," said Ferangis as she placed the thorny stem into the dirt. Unlike natural roses, the stem sprouted dozens of tendrils; they burrowed into the soil and anchored the bloom in place. "In seven days, the Tuyra will start to bud." She turned to Lombrea, grinning warmly. "You remember how to cut them, yes?"
Lady Lombrea nodded. "Aye," she said, "when you return, they will be growing like weeds!"
They all laughed, all except Pyran, who somehow seemed more somber and stiff than ever. She wanted to ask if something was wrong, but she was too shy. When the laughter died down, he stood up.
"Pray excuse me, my lady," Pyran said firmly but, at the same time, with such politeness, "I must consult my bowls."
The lady of the manor gave him leave to go; Pyran was off and out of the great hall.
After dinner, they all went to bed. Larissa decided not to read up until the late hours; Reyen made no protest as he fell upon his mattress, snoring loudly as soon as he tossed the sheets over himself. She needed sleep, for they had to depart in the morning before sunrise. After dressing for the night, Larissa lay upon the narrow bed alone. Vyncent decided to stay up a little longer; she last saw him drinking with Magnus and Brames in the small hall.
Larissa closed her eyes, but the singing from the wooden temple kept her awake. It was not the noise itself that disturbed her—in fact, the song was pleasing and sweet—but her curiosity. She wanted to see how they worshipped their gods. Carlaneus, according to the vicar, would deal divine punishment upon her to view them without hatred or distrust; her cousin had put to death dozens of heathens in the name of Aventyne and the vicar. Such things still confused her. Unlike her royal fellows—and possibly the vicar himself—she had read the holy text cover to cover. Priest and priestesses thought her devout and commended her, though—unlike them—she didn't read it to look righteous in front of others; she simply found the allegories interesting. Never once, however, did Carlaneus or his god-children sanction violence or compulsion in their words. Yet, the vicars of Aventyne were so proud of their destruction, it seemed.
Larissa threw off her woolen blanket and got out of bed. She donned her heavy red cloak and headed out. With a broad mind, she trudged through the snow towards the wooden temple.
The place of worship was a simple structure: circular with long shafts of wood weaved together to make the walls, held between thick poles. Its roof, a dome, had a hole at its apex where she could see smoke escape. Canvas was unfurled over the walls and some of the dome.
The flaps of the entrance were tied open, and Larissa could see the congregation gathered within. Most of the worshippers knelt, forming rings around the central fire; a stone statue of a woman, about eight feet tall, towered over its followers. Over the blaze was a kettle. A man who looked to be well into his sixties, wearing threadbare green and gold robes, knelt before the stone woman's feet and kissed them. Rising, he took a vial of dark powder out of one of his pockets. He sprinkled its contents into the balefire, his thin lips moving slightly to utter something: words of the ritual, most likely. The flames began to die out but then suddenly grew large enough to lick high over the kettle's rim. In its fury, it turned as blue as the sky, washing the walls with and everyone with sapphiric light. As the fire sobered, returning to its yellow and reds, the kneelers bowed their heads and prayed. Though the coloring of fire was by no means work of myri or flori—many performers made use of the art in Virteran cities—it enthralled her all the same.
On one side of the temple, the elderly and little children stood and sang in harmony. The lyrics varied in language: some were Roumian—the common tongue of the realm—but the chorus, Larissa assumed, was of a tongue Larissa did not know. She knew several different languages. Those kin to the four families of Aventyne were taught both Roumian and Virteran. She had taught herself Cazayan; an imperial prince, Yu Shan'si, had brought many gifts with him to give to the vicar and the four royal families. One of the gifts was a magnificently illuminated copy of Xong-Shiyi, which, translated into Roumian, read The Dragon Slayer. Reyen would love that story, Larissa mused silently, a boy like him would rather listen to stories battles fought with steel, claws, and not with pretty flowers and secret words.
A voice from behind made her jump.
"You can go in, you know." It was Vyncent. He noticed he startled her and said: "I am sorry for being so sudden." He raised his hands in surrender. "As long as you don't interrupt them or anything, they'll let you stay warm inside. Brother Lyndon doesn't mind."
Together, they went in. The interior was a little warmer than the outside. They sat on the dirt against the wall; the congregation sounded their chants, repeating the holy man's words in unison.
"Vyncent," said Larissa in a soft and respectful tone, "what do you know about the esper?"
"Just as much as what my aunt told me. It is an ancient wisp that needs to be born of flesh to unleash its power. With its presence comes the myri. Of that, I'm certain. My aunt has ways of explaining more, but her tales became so wild. She once told me that the first men and women spawned from the scales of a great fish born from the sun and moon's love. I believe most of it is just legend."
"How can you tell the difference?"
"The difference of what?"
"Legend and truth," Larissa clarified, "I mean … Ferangis and Pyran … surely the nepheri were considered beasts of myth, yes?" Though in these times, Larissa pondered, we regarded them as mere symbols of malevolence rather than living threats.
"Truly," Vyncent agreed, "and myri itself, being practiced and forbidden … centuries ago, such things were considered myth as well." Vyncent opened his mouth but then suddenly shut it, choosing to omit his thoughts, whether out of fear of sounding like a fool or a mad man.
Larissa did not inquire about what he hid; they both thought about the mysteries of the realm. How deep does the well go? How high do the stars climb? She gripped the frog leg that she wore around her neck. And you, Badzabi, do you ever wonder …
The service ended. The worshippers embraced each other; before leaving, they took and kissed the venerable priest's hand.
Vyncent nodded at Brother Lyndon.
The elder raised a hand at the pair, a gesture bidding them good fortune. "Be strong, my friends," he told them, "may your journey be a safe one."
When they were outside, Larissa, feeling inquisitive, asked Vyncent: "Whose image does that statue belong to?"
Vyncent shrugged. "I know little of old gods. I never asked Lyndon about it. Could be the Lady in the Elms for all I—"
A shape approached them from behind a vacant cottage.
"Is anyone there?" Vyncent asked, craning and squinting to get a better look.
"You … " was all it spat. It was a man's voice, murmuring from under a hood.
"Me?" Larissa answered sheepishly, unsure to who the man in the shadows spoke.
The man did not deign to answer. Instead, he faced and walked up to Vyncent, paying her no mind. When the moon shone on him, he angrily tugged his hood away. Larissa recognized him from this morning.
Barrett pointed at one of his eyes, one that was swollen and shut. Larissa cringed at it; the sight of his cuts and the broken teeth evoked some pity for the bully. Those scars will always be there, she heard Lady Lombrea saying in her head.
"It hurt," Barrett growled through clenched teeth, "still hurts. A lot."
Nothing in his voice suggested the want for an apology: only piercing hatred and the hunger for revenge.
"You had your hands on my throat," Vyncent reminded the bully flatly, unmoved by his pain. He pointed at his own neck as if to mock him.
"Aye, and you were scared. I remember how you looked." Barrett took some enjoyment from the memory, smirking.
"And you begged me to stop," retorted Vyncent, "I remember how you wept."
Larissa hated hearing Vyncent talk like this; it did not suit him, or rather, it was a side of him she did not want to see. The remark only waxed Barrett's rage. Just say you are sorry, Larissa silently hoped, let's just go back to the manor and sleep.
"Let's go," Larissa commanded. Without thinking, she took Vyncent by the arm. But he only stood rigidly and stared, his hostile glare matching the one his foe set on him. Barrett looked like a bull ready to charge.
They were going to fight again, Larissa was certain. Should she shout for someone to intervene? Perhaps she could run to and wake up Brother Lyndon. Why don't you stop them? Larissa chastised herself. Stop being so afraid! Still, she hesitated.
The glint of steel in the moonlight, however, forced her into action immediately. Barrett wasn't interested in letting his enemy off with a clouting.
"I'll give your woman something to remember you by," Barrett promised, his vegetable knife gripped tightly in his right hand and pointed at Vyncent's belly.
"STOP!" Larissa shrieked. She found herself standing in front of Vyncent. Barrett tried to shove her out of the way with his left arm. She clamped one hand around the blade as she tried to stay on him; though the edge wasn't deadly sharp, the violence of Barrett's attempts to tug it free sawed it into her palm's flesh. With her other hand, Larissa reached up and squeezed and clawed at the injuries on his face. She often kept her nails long. Barrett cursed as she reopened his wounds, sending warm blood to dribble down over his eyes.
"I'll gut you, too!" Barrett threatened, stumbling backward. Larissa's thumb found itself under his swollen eye; he howled as she dug her nail in. "Damn bitch—"
Blinded by red, he tripped over a rock. He let go of the little knife to break his fall. Larissa's fingers slipped off his blood-slicked face. The blade still in one hand, she reached over and gripped the handle with the other.
"Leave us alone!" cried Larissa. "Go away!" She must have screamed loud enough to wake the whole village.
Barrett could barely keep an eye open; wiping his face, he clambered up as fast as he could, kicking up snow. He muttered curses as he ran: not towards home, but into the dark woods behind the temple. Brother Lyndon peeked his head out of the temple's flaps. "Is something amiss?" he asked, rubbing his eyes. Several families crawled out of their homes, their murmur and the looks on their faces all asking the same thing.
Vyncent saw the ragged cut in her palm. "You're hurt," Vyncent said with more irritation than worry. "He hurt you." His expression darkened.
Brother Lyndon and another man—one Larissa recognized as a member of the temple's choir—rushed to Larissa.
"You're bleeding," said Lyndon, "come with me. I will get a healer."
The chorister pointed towards the woods. "The attacker," he said, "was that him that ran back there?"
"It was Barrett." Vyncent balled his fist. "I'll bring the bastard back," he assured darkly. Without waiting to hear if the men approved or not, he found and picked up a thick branch, one gnarled and about three feet in length. He gave it a swing to test it. From a sconce set in the temple's wall, he took a torch. He dashed into the darkness in search of his prey.
"Wait!" Larissa howled into the blackness, "Come back!"
There are wolves out there, she thought, biting her lip, and worse. Brames had warned them about the wolfbears and needlemaws that lived in Rodrim's woods; such beasts hunted at night.
"Please, child," Brother Lyndon was saying, "look, here comes the village guard. They will aid our Vyncent. Worry not, and let us get your hand treated."
It was true. There were about a dozen guardsmen in the village; four of them marched towards the edge of the woods, armed with spears and torches. They wore steel caps and wrapped themselves with woolen blankets. "To hell with that Barrett," Larissa heard one of them mumble to his fellow, his voice muffled by his scarf, "boy's frenzied. Lock 'im up, I say. Should have done that a long time ago."
But before the guardsmen could pass through the tree line, they heard a man's scream.
"Vyncent!" Larissa found herself shrieking.
One of the four guards, a stout man with a red beard, gestured for his men to quicken their pace. "Hurry, men," he ordered, "I don't like the sound of that."
As if summoned, Vyncent sprinted out of the darkness. His eyes were awash with fear, using all his strength to run. When he was close enough to the guardsmen, he whirled and flung his branch at whatever was behind him.
"Run!" shouted Vyncent, "It'll kill you!"
The bearded guard leveled his spear. A twig snapped behind the trees. "Who goes there?" The other three guards readied themselves for combat as well.
Vyncent placed a hand on Lyndon, "Brother," he said, his breathing rapid, "we have to get everyone to the Bryteoak. The manor, too. Fera and Pyran … we must wake—"
A guardsman shouted. "Halt!" The command was for another man who stepped out of the woods. "Stay where you are," the guardsman warned. But the man paid no heed; he kept walking, albeit slowly.
Larissa's heart began to thump when he saw the stranger: It was Elbert Ebernathy. Finely dressed, he was. He wore a padded jacket, black with gold threads stitched in a diamond pattern across his chest, and black trousers. On his feet, he wore black boots of tooled leather.
Vyncent saw him, too. "Why is he here, too?" he said out loud, asking no one in particular.
"It's cold," said Ebernathy. He jerked his head at the manor. "I suppose it's warm in there."
"Strange for a man like you to be wandering in the woods alone," mused the red-bearded guard, regarding him suspiciously.
Ebernathy ignored him. He pointed at the wooden temple. "That has to go … " he said casually, as if it was an ugly tapestry in his house, "… up in flames. That would be pleasing. Being cold, and all."
The sentinels were taken aback. Upset by his threat on the temple, they pointed their spears at him. Ebernathy finally stopped his advance.
"You will leave," said the guard with the red beard, "now!"
A terrible, loud noise rent the air. It was like nothing Larissa had heard before. It sounded like the barking of dear, or rather a wounded man imitating a deer. There was something human in it: the rhythm sounding like a painful sob.
Out from the woods came the abomination. It was a great doe born from the pits of hell: twisted horns grew from where its eyes had been and its entrails, slithering out of its cut belly, wrapped around its fur like wild vines. It stood on its hind legs; at the ends of its forelegs, instead of hooves, were large, hairy hands. The skin on them was torn and cadaverous. The beast must have been at least nine feet tall. It stopped sobbing for a moment, only to vomit; the black bile steamed as it melted the snow below it. Within the pool were broken bones and torn wet clothing.
Ebernathy stepped back, getting closer to the fiend. The guardsmen dared not approach him as he retreated, scared and still as stone.
"Ast Rayhanei," Ebernathy roared, drawing a war knife with a blade shaped like a leaf, "ast nahyl!"
The words echoed throughout the darkness. No, thought Larissa as she scanned the woods, he is not alone.
One woman cut her way through the snow-covered brushes with a rusty sword. "Ast Rayhanei," she chanted, "ast nahyl!" Over her head and face, she wore a hood of black linen. Over her head and face, she wore a hood of black linen. Five holes were ripped into the fabric: Two were over the eyes, one over the tip of the nose, and two at the lips' corner.
A dozen more showed themselves, all wearing the same hood and armed; some of their steel was still stained with dry blood. "Ast Rayhanei," they chanted, "ast nahyl! Ast Rayhanei, ast nahyl! Ast Rayhanei, ast nahyl!"
Ebernathy raised his war knife and swiped it across the air.
"Take them," he commanded, aiming the knife's tip at Larissa and Vyncent, "and kill the rest!"
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