out.
She had left. He had been gone but one day, and she had just left.
Diaz looked down at the sleeping boy at his feet. He had only known the twins for a couple of days. In the aftermath of his meditation, it seemed as if he could still see the faint blue cord binding him to Owen now. Diaz, by his oath, was under obligation to guide Owen to the nearest temple or shrine for education as a pilgrim. He was the master and Owen an initiate. Protect the innocent. Guide the lost. The boy was his responsibility and under his protection.
Fuck!
Chapter 7
I t took Nora five days to get back to the woodlands she knew. She told herself she would just be passing through Owen’s Ridge. Pick up some extra supplies and winter clothes to get to Dernberia and leave the north. Where to? She didn’t know yet. But her feet knew her heart and led her back home. In the chestnut grove below the Ridge, she could smell burned wood lingering on the wind. The charcoal clamps in the woods were cold and abandoned. Only prickly, empty chestnut shells were strewn here and there, peeking out among the dense fallen leaves. The ground before her was red and brown and wet from the constant rain that had set in on her way back across the Plains.
Owen’s Ridge stretched along one main road that led up to the coastal road on one end and into the woods on the other. The village sat on a natural shelf of land, a sheer cliff that rose suddenly as though the earth had bowed before it in a time long past. The only way to climb up was a steep stone path that ran up in long curves, twisting this way and that way until it finally reached the top. At the foot of the cliff ran a small brook that pooled in the woodlands around the Ridge, attracting wild ducks and geese to rest before their flight south. Those birds were lucky ones, fed by the excited girls and boys who begged their mothers for breadcrumbs. And so some of the animals lingered longer than they should, becoming fat and lazy, and the unlucky ones who tarried landed in the cooking pots and ovens as autumn roasts. Those ducks were a lesson in life: that greed was bad and luck a thing of perfect timing. Farther up the brook was a huge stone slab laid across smaller stones, serving as a bridge to the winding path, but it was covered in lichens and thus treacherous to cross.
Nora hunkered down under a chestnut tree at one of the pools, among the empty shells covering the forest floor, and threw them into the water. She had no food left. She had run the last day on nothing but water and was feeling weak and hungry for it.
The ducks had all gone.
There were no children skipping down the stone path, being scolded by their anxious mothers.
And above, she could hear no sounds of the village. No dogs barking, no geese cackling. No human voices. She’d been right. The coalers had fled in fear. But it didn’t make her feel any better.
There was another way to the village, one that led far around it, following the brook. She could walk around and come up on the far side. Not many families lived here at the neck of the woods, mainly woodcutters, hunters, the herdsmen who settled down for the winter with their smaller flocks of sheep, and the ewes that hadn’t been slaughtered for the winter. Only a handful of houses were built of stone—and the bakery, the smithy, and the inn, of course.
In front of the inn, the dirt lane had been cobbled with stones, a proper road. A small space in front of the smithy served as the unofficial town square. On most days, the villagers gathered there to exchange news and gossip, or sheep and goats. She’d helped Rannoch shoe the Vale’s horses. Young girls made themselves up and waited in the square for the young men to tell them how pretty they were, spending the summer nights dancing to music and stealing off into the woods for quite a different kind of dancing. There the spring tide fire roared. There the autumn fires warmed cold hands. There Nora had shared a sip from
She had left. He had been gone but one day, and she had just left.
Diaz looked down at the sleeping boy at his feet. He had only known the twins for a couple of days. In the aftermath of his meditation, it seemed as if he could still see the faint blue cord binding him to Owen now. Diaz, by his oath, was under obligation to guide Owen to the nearest temple or shrine for education as a pilgrim. He was the master and Owen an initiate. Protect the innocent. Guide the lost. The boy was his responsibility and under his protection.
Fuck!
Chapter 7
I t took Nora five days to get back to the woodlands she knew. She told herself she would just be passing through Owen’s Ridge. Pick up some extra supplies and winter clothes to get to Dernberia and leave the north. Where to? She didn’t know yet. But her feet knew her heart and led her back home. In the chestnut grove below the Ridge, she could smell burned wood lingering on the wind. The charcoal clamps in the woods were cold and abandoned. Only prickly, empty chestnut shells were strewn here and there, peeking out among the dense fallen leaves. The ground before her was red and brown and wet from the constant rain that had set in on her way back across the Plains.
Owen’s Ridge stretched along one main road that led up to the coastal road on one end and into the woods on the other. The village sat on a natural shelf of land, a sheer cliff that rose suddenly as though the earth had bowed before it in a time long past. The only way to climb up was a steep stone path that ran up in long curves, twisting this way and that way until it finally reached the top. At the foot of the cliff ran a small brook that pooled in the woodlands around the Ridge, attracting wild ducks and geese to rest before their flight south. Those birds were lucky ones, fed by the excited girls and boys who begged their mothers for breadcrumbs. And so some of the animals lingered longer than they should, becoming fat and lazy, and the unlucky ones who tarried landed in the cooking pots and ovens as autumn roasts. Those ducks were a lesson in life: that greed was bad and luck a thing of perfect timing. Farther up the brook was a huge stone slab laid across smaller stones, serving as a bridge to the winding path, but it was covered in lichens and thus treacherous to cross.
Nora hunkered down under a chestnut tree at one of the pools, among the empty shells covering the forest floor, and threw them into the water. She had no food left. She had run the last day on nothing but water and was feeling weak and hungry for it.
The ducks had all gone.
There were no children skipping down the stone path, being scolded by their anxious mothers.
And above, she could hear no sounds of the village. No dogs barking, no geese cackling. No human voices. She’d been right. The coalers had fled in fear. But it didn’t make her feel any better.
There was another way to the village, one that led far around it, following the brook. She could walk around and come up on the far side. Not many families lived here at the neck of the woods, mainly woodcutters, hunters, the herdsmen who settled down for the winter with their smaller flocks of sheep, and the ewes that hadn’t been slaughtered for the winter. Only a handful of houses were built of stone—and the bakery, the smithy, and the inn, of course.
In front of the inn, the dirt lane had been cobbled with stones, a proper road. A small space in front of the smithy served as the unofficial town square. On most days, the villagers gathered there to exchange news and gossip, or sheep and goats. She’d helped Rannoch shoe the Vale’s horses. Young girls made themselves up and waited in the square for the young men to tell them how pretty they were, spending the summer nights dancing to music and stealing off into the woods for quite a different kind of dancing. There the spring tide fire roared. There the autumn fires warmed cold hands. There Nora had shared a sip from
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