ready.
No one was in the dimness beyond.
Borel stepped inside.
Perhaps the place is abandoned.
He scanned about. A fireplace stood in one corner; a tripod holding a lidded iron kettle dangled over cold ashes. In front of the fireplace sat a three-legged stool. To one side was a table, and hanging from the beams above were pots and pans and utensils. Several rude shelves on a wall at hand held a small number of wooden bowls and dishes and spoons. In the shadows overhead, strings of beans and roots and turnips and onions and leeks and other such fare depended from the joists. Along one wall stood a cot, and along another wall sat a worktable with several drawers. Just above were more shelves, these with jars of herbs and simples and things that looked like parts of fur-bearing animals and insects and amphibians and reptiles preserved in a pale yellow liquid. On these shelves as well were scrolls and loose sheets of parchment. A half-full drinking bucket, the water frozen, sat on the hard-pack floor nearby, a hollowed-out gourd for a dipper hanging down from the bail.
Relaxing his draw, Borel stepped to the table and set his bow thereon, the arrow beside it. Then he took down a scroll and unrolled it. Whatever it said, he did not know, for it was written in runes unfamiliar.
Another scroll yielded the same result, though the symbols were stranger still. Another scroll and then another he opened, none of which he could read.
Perhaps I will burn these.—No, better yet, take them to Vadun. He is a seer of sorts and mayhap well versed in many tongues.
He unslung his rucksack and set it on the table, and placed all scrolls and parchments within. Then he began opening the drawers, and in the first he found odd instruments of bronze; what they were for he could not say. In the next were powders and what seemed to be lumps of ores, and a mortar and pestle for grinding. The next drawer yielded pressed flowers. Brushing most aside, Borel uncovered a book.
A grimoire?
The sun began lipping the horizon, casting long shadows across the Winterwood.
In the fading light Borel opened the book. It was written in a small, crabbed hand.
No, not a grimoire. Instead it seems to be . . .—Yes, a journal of sorts. Written in the Old Tongue.
Though the writing was difficult to read, still Borel quickly leafed from page to page, skimming.
Of a sudden his eye caught the words Forêt d’Hiver. He flipped back a page to the beginning of the entry. Though Borel could read the Old Tongue, still his progress was slow, for the hand was difficult.
“Aujourd’hui, j’ai complété ma malédiction sur la Forêt d’Hiver pour produire sa ruine totale . . .”
Today, I completed the curse upon the Forest of Winter to produce its total ruin, but the forest is too strong and resisted total destruction. Even so, I managed to blight a wide swath between the Springwood and the Summerwood along the shortest route to the common world, hence I deny them an easy journey.
On this same day in an linked act, my elder sister cast a great spell upon Roulan and his entire estate through his daughter Chelle, on this the day of her majority. This vengeance is so very sweet, for Roulan was the accomplice of Valeray the Thief. And now all are ensorcelled and well warded; and since none can find Roulan’s daughter—or even if they do, all attempts to rescue her from the turret will fail—then when the rising full moon sits on the horizon eleven years and eleven moons from now—
Startled, Borel looked up from the journal. Trapped? Turret? Full moon? This has to somehow be—
From the corner of his eye, Borel noted movement in the bucket near his feet. And there, under the surface of the ice, the Sprite, sheer terror on its face, signalled frantically of oncoming peril. And then the Sprite disappeared.
Borel jammed the journal into his rucksack on the table and snatched up his bow and an arrow. Nocking the shaft as he went, he stepped through the doorway
No one was in the dimness beyond.
Borel stepped inside.
Perhaps the place is abandoned.
He scanned about. A fireplace stood in one corner; a tripod holding a lidded iron kettle dangled over cold ashes. In front of the fireplace sat a three-legged stool. To one side was a table, and hanging from the beams above were pots and pans and utensils. Several rude shelves on a wall at hand held a small number of wooden bowls and dishes and spoons. In the shadows overhead, strings of beans and roots and turnips and onions and leeks and other such fare depended from the joists. Along one wall stood a cot, and along another wall sat a worktable with several drawers. Just above were more shelves, these with jars of herbs and simples and things that looked like parts of fur-bearing animals and insects and amphibians and reptiles preserved in a pale yellow liquid. On these shelves as well were scrolls and loose sheets of parchment. A half-full drinking bucket, the water frozen, sat on the hard-pack floor nearby, a hollowed-out gourd for a dipper hanging down from the bail.
Relaxing his draw, Borel stepped to the table and set his bow thereon, the arrow beside it. Then he took down a scroll and unrolled it. Whatever it said, he did not know, for it was written in runes unfamiliar.
Another scroll yielded the same result, though the symbols were stranger still. Another scroll and then another he opened, none of which he could read.
Perhaps I will burn these.—No, better yet, take them to Vadun. He is a seer of sorts and mayhap well versed in many tongues.
He unslung his rucksack and set it on the table, and placed all scrolls and parchments within. Then he began opening the drawers, and in the first he found odd instruments of bronze; what they were for he could not say. In the next were powders and what seemed to be lumps of ores, and a mortar and pestle for grinding. The next drawer yielded pressed flowers. Brushing most aside, Borel uncovered a book.
A grimoire?
The sun began lipping the horizon, casting long shadows across the Winterwood.
In the fading light Borel opened the book. It was written in a small, crabbed hand.
No, not a grimoire. Instead it seems to be . . .—Yes, a journal of sorts. Written in the Old Tongue.
Though the writing was difficult to read, still Borel quickly leafed from page to page, skimming.
Of a sudden his eye caught the words Forêt d’Hiver. He flipped back a page to the beginning of the entry. Though Borel could read the Old Tongue, still his progress was slow, for the hand was difficult.
“Aujourd’hui, j’ai complété ma malédiction sur la Forêt d’Hiver pour produire sa ruine totale . . .”
Today, I completed the curse upon the Forest of Winter to produce its total ruin, but the forest is too strong and resisted total destruction. Even so, I managed to blight a wide swath between the Springwood and the Summerwood along the shortest route to the common world, hence I deny them an easy journey.
On this same day in an linked act, my elder sister cast a great spell upon Roulan and his entire estate through his daughter Chelle, on this the day of her majority. This vengeance is so very sweet, for Roulan was the accomplice of Valeray the Thief. And now all are ensorcelled and well warded; and since none can find Roulan’s daughter—or even if they do, all attempts to rescue her from the turret will fail—then when the rising full moon sits on the horizon eleven years and eleven moons from now—
Startled, Borel looked up from the journal. Trapped? Turret? Full moon? This has to somehow be—
From the corner of his eye, Borel noted movement in the bucket near his feet. And there, under the surface of the ice, the Sprite, sheer terror on its face, signalled frantically of oncoming peril. And then the Sprite disappeared.
Borel jammed the journal into his rucksack on the table and snatched up his bow and an arrow. Nocking the shaft as he went, he stepped through the doorway
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