Date: 1188 E.Y.

Told as witnessed by Stella herself

“Stella, you come back here this instant!”

Stella ran. She wasn’t a coward—she had never been known to be one and would never once be considered one for the rest of her life—but some fights were not worth fighting. She wasn’t the best at figuring out which fights those were. Still, even she knew her mother’s wrath wasn’t worth it. And so she turned her back and half-walked, half-ran through the narrow hallways of Fennel Manor, out through the back door, and down the side of the hill. She could hear her mother shouting behind her, but she knew her mother wouldn’t follow her. Lady Cecily Fennel would rather die than get grass stains on her dress. As Stella forced her way through knee-high blades of grass, stumbling down and laboring up the slopes, she broke into a run. Her mother’s cries of fury faded into nothing. They always did, eventually. But the echoes would linger in the back of her mind for the rest of her life, blending together into one single cacophony of cutting words.

Lady Fennel always knew how to make her words hurt. She wielded words like weapons, as sharp and cutting as the blade of a master swordsman.

One day, Stella would become known as Sir Stella the Valiant, the Exalted Champion of Evermor, the Savior of the Stars. She would expose the great darkness that hid in plain sight, defeat foes of incredible power, and save Evermor from certain destruction. She would rise to greatness, assume the mantle of a leader, and marry the love of her life. She would be a hero.

But at age sixteen, Stella was nothing more than the daughter of Lady Cecily Fennel and her husband, Sir Stefan—a rebellious, delinquent, embarrassing daughter at that. And few thought she would ever be anything more.

Stella thought she would be something more. At least, that’s what she promised herself as she stormed through sharp blades of grass and tall summer flowers, tears pricking at her eyes—regardless of whether or not she believed it.

A lonely apple tree lay in wait. It stood behind a hill, hidden from the probing eyes of those who lived at Fennel Manor. Without so much as a pause to catch her breath, Stella leaped up into its branches and started climbing. She could feel the branches tugging at her dress, but she didn’t care. At this moment, it didn’t seem like anything could possibly change how her mother thought of her, so why try to do anything about it?

She climbed higher, higher than she’d ever climbed before. She wondered if perhaps she should be worried about falling, but for some reason that particular danger was not at the forefront of her mind. She just wanted to leave her life on the ground behind. And yet, as she reached the top and managed to her force her head through the branches (mussing up her hair to a degree her mother would surely never forgive her for), she didn’t feel like she’d left anything behind at all. When she looked down at the world around her, all she saw was the life she knew.

Golden-brown hills, dotted here and there with ancient trees, stretched out as far as the eye could see in every direction. A thin, bumpy road wound off into the distance, the only tether between Rowan and the rest of Evermoran civilization. Rowan itself was little more than a cluster of houses with a big, dusty town square in the middle. Fennel Manor—a tall, dark, stone affair—was perched on a hill overlooking the town.

Stella turned away from Rowan and from Fennel Manor. It wasn’t that comforting to gaze toward the West and see absolutely nothing, but at least there was nothing there to remind her of all the people at home who didn’t believe in her. At least, gazing toward nothingness, she could imagine what lay beyond the horizon. Queens, kings, cities, dragons, mages, and so much more—it was all out of reach, except in her imagination.

But soon something jolted Stella out of her happy dreamworld. Because just as she’d begun to settle into her seat, arms resting on the boughs around her, gazing over the empty hills, she spied a small figure in the distance. Whoever it was, they were laboring tirelessly up and down the slopes, holding something in their arms, although—despite her sharp vision, powerful like an eagle’s—Stella could see neither their face nor what they carried. What made her start was the realization that although they were headed in an westward direction, they shied away from the road. The road was dusty and rocky to be sure, but still it was preferable to take it than to tramp up and down hills through course, knee-length grass. Wherever the traveler was going, it was not accessible from the road.

When Stella was intrigued by something, she was intrigued. As painful and distracting as her thoughts just now had been, they left her head completely in favor of this new mystery. Sometimes this could be a curse, but often it was a blessing. With swift, nimble movements, Stella swung down from her perch, lowering herself gracefully to the ground. Once her feet were firmly on the earth, she strode purposefully off in the direction of the distant figure.

She was a fast walker, and soon she was gaining on the figure. She wondered if perhaps she should slow down in an attempt to remain unseen—a difficult task, since there weren’t too many trees, and it was essentially impossible to hide if she was standing at the top of a hill and the object of her pursuit was at the bottom—but before she could get a chance, the figure stopped.

She could see him clearly now—a large man with plain clothes and a short, businesslike haircut. She wondered if he was who she thought he might be. He stood stock-still for a moment, Then he turned around, and she saw that she was right—it was Geller, the head watchman at her father’s house, as well as the village swordmaster.

For a moment, he just stood there. He carried a bouquet of summer flowers—daisies, phlox, day lilies—in his arms. It was strange. He never would have struck her as a man who liked flowers. He stared at her. She stared right back at him.

“If you want to shadow someone, at least stay out of sight,” he said simply.

Stella relaxed. She hadn’t even realized that her shoulders were tensed. Geller could be intimidating sometimes. Deep down, though, she knew he was fond of her. He’d saved her that night four years ago after all, and since then he’d made it clear to the boys of the village that he was under her protection.

Stella wished things were different. She wished there wasn’t a need for a man, even if it was a man as strong and as kind as Geller, to protect her from a ragtag group of village boys. She wished she could leave this dreary town in the hills and explore the world. She wished she could wield a sword and defeat enemies far greater than Jerod the Menace of Rowan or wimpy little Elden. She wished her mother would listen to her. She had a lot of wishes.

Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!

The only thing that made her think that maybe—just maybe—some of her wishes could one day come to fulfillment were her evening lessons in swordplay with Geller. They were her greatest secret and her most prized possession.

“You’ve never taught me how shadow people,” said Stella, puffing up her chest and putting her hands on her hips.

“True. Perhaps I should add that to the curriculum.”

Stella laughed. There was no curriculum of any kind; Geller just taught her whatever he thought might be helpful. “What are you doing?” she said abruptly, pointing at the flowers.

For a fleeting moment, Geller looked hesitant. He glanced between the bouquet and Stella, seemingly unsure of what he should say. He finally said, “I’m doing something that you must not tell anyone about.”

“Wonderful. Can I come?”

“Will you keep your mouth shut?”

“Even if I couldn’t, who would I tell?”

“Fair enough. Come along.”

Without much further ado, Geller turned and strode away, the long grass brushing against his knees. Stella dashed after him.

She wondered where he could possibly be taking her, since nothing seemed to lie ahead of them except long grass and the occasional tree. But he stopped sooner than she expected in front of a huge but otherwise random willow.

“This is it,” he said simply.

“It’s a willow tree,” said Stella.

“Not just any willow.” Geller ducked under the droopy branches of the tree and knelt down beside the trunk, laying the flowers down on the roots. He closed his eyes, moving his lips silently. It took a moment of pure confusion for Stella to figure out what he was doing because, in the dim green light, nothing about the spot where he knelt seemed significant. She did notice a small pile of rocks wedged in between the roots. That couldn’t possibly be the focus of all this, right? It was just a heap of old, dusty stones.

But then she noticed that although the stones were indeed old and dusty, they were more they seemed. When she looked closer, she noticed that each was covered in very tiny, very intricate carvings. While Geller knelt and contemplated silently with his eyes closed, Stella peered at the stones. Even in the dim, green-tinted light, she could see that the carvings were bone-thin and carved with incredible precision. She saw swirling vines, waving flowers, and birds in motion. She thought she saw some shapes that looked like they could be letters, but if they spelled anything out, she couldn’t read it.

When Geller finished his contemplation, he stood up and gazed thoughtfully down at the stones. He looked more at ease than he had a few minutes ago; a furrow in his brow that Stella hadn’t even noticed before was now gone. He considered her for a moment. There was something in his face that she couldn’t quite recognize—certainly something she’d never seen before. Sadness? Wistfulness? Hope?

“Aren’t you going to leave an offering?” he said in a gruff voice that didn’t quite match his expression.

“Huh?”

“Surely you’ve heard of the Old Gods?”

Stella felt rather slow. “The gods? You mean…Estra? And Zayana and the like?”

Geller sighed. “I suppose growing up with your mother’s household, you probably don’t know much beyond the teachings of the Church of Evermor. There are other gods, you know, beyond the Five.”

“There are? That’s neat.”

“And…well. Worship of them isn’t really allowed.”

“Oh.” Suddenly, Stella understood the whole picture—Geller’s strange attitude, the inconspicuousness of the tiny rock altar under the willow tree, the overall secrecy of the affair. Geller was going against the teachings of the Church. In this day and age, such acts were not as scandalous as they once might have been. They probably would not land Geller in jail or get him executed—a real possibility two hundred or three hundred years prior. But if the villagers found out, although most of them would not likely care, they would still pretend they didn’t know. And Stella knew her mother would be shocked. Cecily Fennel—once Cecily Berington—was not from the Estran Hills. Here, people could have their own beliefs. After all, who really cared about Rowan, a town so tiny and so remote it was ?

“Who were you praying to, then?” Stella asked.

“The lady of these hills.” Geller gestured down at the flowers. “She likes sacrifices, preferably things that once lived and grew. Away from their homes, these flowers will soon wither and die, but it won’t be for nothing. They’ll feed the tree and the grass and the animals. And life will go on in its proper way, with health and balance and rejuvenation. I hope that if my lady receives my gift, she will grant me all of those things. Goddess knows we all need them in our lives.”

It was odd. She had never heard Geller, usually so matter-of-fact and so gruff, speak like this. Stella felt like she was witnessing something she wasn’t supposed to.

“Well, I suppose it’s about time for me to get home,” she announced, even though she had no intention of seeing her mother again until tomorrow morning at the very earliest.

Geller’s eyes shot up. “Don’t think you can get away so easily,” he said, the gruffness returning to his voice.

“Excuse me?”

“You can’t just go home without leaving an offering. The Lady might be displeased.”

“But I don’t have anything to offer!”

“Of course you do. Certainly you can think of something.”

Stella looked around herself, at the drooping willow branches and the waving brown grass. She could pick anything, but it didn’t feel right for it not to be something special. Then an idea struck her. She grabbed a lock of hair and raised it for Geller to see. “You said it has to be something that once lived and grew. Does hair count?”

A smile tugged at Geller’s lips. “Not only does it count, but it’s customary for young women to offer hair. Young women are the Lady’s favorite subjects.”

“Giving the goddess my hair won’t make me extraordinarily fertile or attract swarms of suitors or anything like that, will it?” Stella knew she had to be careful with goddesses who favored young women. An offering like this to the goddess Zayana, for instance, would probably be full of promises of marriage and fertility and children and other things that Stella was not interested in at the moment—even if that was all her mother thought about.

“No,” Geller replied. “Unless that’s what you want.”

“Absolutely not.” Stella isolated a few hairs and tugged. The hair came out long and dark and curly, nothing like her mother’s thin, strawberry-blonde locks. With a strange sense of importance, she watched them float from her fingers down to the pile of rocks on the ground. She stood there, as if something were supposed to happen. Nothing did.

“What do I do now?” she asked.

“You can offer some prayers, if you like,” said Geller. “Ask her for anything you like. Humbly, of course.”

“Anything?”

“I said what I said.”

Stella closed her eyes, the way she’d seen Geller do it, and she tried to picture what she wanted. Immediately, a flood of images—heroes from her favorite books, flashing swords and blazing arrows, oceans full of churning sea creatures, witches who could move mountains with the blink of an eye, queens and kings and princes—poured into her mind’s eye. Frantically, she managed to put these fanciful daydreams away, locking them in a part of her mind that she always kept under strict control. But they always sizzled underneath the surface, ready to come out at the worst moments and remind her that no matter how many goddesses she prayed to, no matter how much the divine powers intervened, she would never see them come to reality.

But there were parts—small, abstract parts—of that fantasy that she could not let go of.

I want honor, she thought. I want to be respected for who and what I am. I want an end to the shame that I feel every moment of every day.

And even that felt somewhat fanciful. But at least she could hope. And it wasn’t too far-fetched for a goddess, surely. That’s what Stella told herself, anyway, as she opened her eyes and saw Geller watching her.

“You must have wished for something great,” he said.

Stella shook her head. “Not in particular,” she said. “I just want change.”

Geller smiled down at her. “And the Lady can grant that.”