CHAPTER 60

Days come and days go, and before I know it, I’m starting to get nervous about my trial. Gedden and Beckra, whom I try to discuss the matter with, seem to trust implicitly that Lysander knows what he’s doing, and if he says not to worry, then there’s nothing to worry about.

I’m not so sure. Deep in my gut I have the feeling there’s something yet to be unveiled, something that will, somehow, keep me from being free, and that knot only tightens with each passing day. Trust in Lysander seems a long way away.

I try to bury myself in distractions, of which there are plenty. Amelia, for one, is unbending about training in the morning, and no one is more surprised by the results than I am. It hasn’t been a week, but I already feel stronger. According to her, it’s more about getting me used to the new possibilities the levels brought with them than actually developing new muscle. The training, she says, is for the mind, and the mind needs to be free of distractions.

I ask her also about the Perks, which I haven’t yet decided on. She shrugs and tells me to pick the torturer.

‘Practical,’ she called it. Then she shooed me out of the kitchen.

Mossgreen, whom I tentatively visit on the edge of the woods, also tells me not to worry.

“The elf is good at his machinations and plots, little fly,” he says, bent like a spider as he inspects a crooked sapling. “He convinced even Mossgreen to free a swathe of his kingdom so that he could build a house of wood and cut stone. Cut stone!”

The troll laughs to himself, endlessly amused with the follies of modernity.

“Little flies should worry about the present,” he says. “The future is a long way away.”

“It’s three days from now.”

“Three days! Such a long time for a little fly to worry. A spider could come today, this very hour,” he gives me a blind sideways glance. “The little fly could already be trapped in a web without even realizing it.”

I look down at the vine-covered trees, the bushes with branches curled like talons, and raise an eyebrow.

“Maybe the fly trusts the spider,” I say.

“Yes! Or maybe it’s forgotten itself in the midst of all its strange worries about the future.” The troll shrugs. An impressive gesture, for someone whose elbows ago all the way to his knees. “Maybe, maybe, maybe. Who knows what goes through a little fly’s mind.”

I smile. I can’t help but like the gnarly old troll with his constant veiled threats.

Katha would have loved him.

“And about the Perks? What do you think I should pick?”

“In Mossgreen’s day, in the long, long ago, we used to sit and watch the things of nature, waiting for them to reveal a path for us to follow.” The troll sighs. “Things are more complicated now. Dungeons have become mad places, and their prizes mad as well.”

Not much I can say to that.

“I’m afraid of picking the wrong thing. I’ve noticed… They affect my personality, don’t they?”

Before answering, the troll touches the little crooked sapling and draws his finger up sharply, like he’s telling it where to go. Nothing changes.

“That is a game of worry, not imagination. Does Mossgreen care about the sapling because he picked Friend of Trees? Or did he pick Friend of Trees because he wanted to care about the sapling?”

“But I didn’t pick Observant, or Sneaky. They were picked for me.”

A smile splayed on his face, Mossgreen draws the same gesture again, this time more gently.

“Did Mossgreen decide to care about the sapling? Or was care of the sapling thrust into his mind when he was but a little troll?”

“That doesn’t help me at all!”

“Perhaps not. But look,” he points. “It helps the sapling.”

I see it. The curve in the bough has straightened a little, the leaves have thrust a little higher up and caught a feeble sun ray. Mossgreen is still smiling as he looks down at his handywork.

“And now it’s time for the little fly to return home. Friend Gedden is searching for it around the house, screaming his poor lungs raw. Goodbye, little fly. Remember to come visit right before the trial.”

“I will. Thanks, Moss.”

I turn around to leave, aiming to a gap in the trees leading up to Hollow House. A vine unravels from a tree and snakes in front of me.

“Before it goes,” Mossgreen says. “Did the elf speak about his promises to Mossgreen?”

I look back. The troll is observing the sapling with pride and doesn’t turn to face me.

“Yes,” I say. “When Gedden talked about it, Lysander – he mentioned them.”

The troll nods. His smile doesn’t wane. The vine snakes away, and I’m allowed to leave.

*

I find Ged and Beckra on the courtyard bringing the boxy carriage around.

“Going somewhere?”

“Becks is going back to The Princess, and I’m taking her as far as Hollor’s Fall. Get ready, ‘cause you’re coming too.”

“I am?”

“Gods, yes!” Beckra shouts to the heavens. “Doing my poor head in with your worrying.”

Gedden nods empathically.

“You, my friend, need a change of scenery before the trial.”

I look down the road, to the point where it veers from the straight and narrow and becomes lost in the forest.

Could it be?

“Did you ask Lysander?”

“I did, and he’s cool with it.”

He’s letting me go?

Two possibilities rear their heads and fight for dominance. One, this village, Hollor’s Fall, is part of my prison, and Lysander’s reach extends beyond the forest. Two, the elf has ways of finding me if I run away. He isn’t worried because it doesn’t matter if I try to run away or not.

“Aye,” said Beckra from atop the driver’s seat. “That’s the face of worry if ever I seen it, all bunched up like a sea turtle’s.”

“What’s a sea turtle?"

“I keep telling him it’s going to be fine. He just doesn’t believe me,” Gedden shrugs. “C’mon kid. Sit next to Becks and protect her honor. I’ll—”

“No,” I say. “You sit ahead. I’m fine in the back.”

Gedden gives a minute protest, but I can tell he’s happy for the chance to extend the goodbye.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

Riding inside the carriage seems wrong somehow. It’s comfortable, but very dark, with slats in the windows to protect the privacy of the occupants. I close the door and hop on the very back, where a rail and a narrow step allow me an uncomfortable but seat, with a great view. Beckra gives the reins a smack and we roll forward and down the incline, away from Hollow House. The sullen stables man with the scar on his forehead gives us a somber look from the shadows of the courtyard tree.

Soon we ride under the cover of trees, where the air is cooler and the scents of vegetation are caught in the path. This road is a strange thing. The border of what Mossgreen calls his kingdom is clearly defined at all points and it’s what separates civilization from complete wilderness. No forest so close to habitation has any business being this dense, this dark, or this menacing. Even in Reach, where everyone knows where is safe to tread and where isn’t, limits aren’t so clear, and Katha and I could sometimes wander far from the beaten path before finding trees so closely packed. I wonder if this division, the sense of oppression, is a consequence of Mossgreen’s dwindling patience.

The last troll, I think idly. Can that be why Lysander hasn’t found another?

Does that count as a Secret? What happened to the trolls? I imagine the misty pages asking me. Persons of interest: Mossgreen, a troll. I check them to make sure, but there is nothing new there, just the same confusing questions about Kord and Dungeons, unanswerable questions I’ve been pondering for a while now, and above them the first Secret:

Twisted Minds (Local)

In Black Sword Keep, servants talk about the strange and labyrinthine rooms in the catacombs where no one is allowed to enter apart from a few select Godtouched.

Persons of interest: Thomas, a servant. Maid Meriana, a Godtouched.

Out of curiosity, I lean over and yell to the front of the carriage.

“Hey! Does any of you know a Maid Meriana? She’s Godtouched.”

There’s a silence, during which I realize I’m interrupting something.

“Hum, no, nothing comes to mind,” comes Ged’s voice, a little strangled. “Why?”

“Just curious. Never mind.”

I leave them to their privacy and resume watching the forest. The road is longer than I expected, and it takes quite a few turns before the trees begin to thin again and the sun to pierce through the dark canopy. I stand on the narrow step to lean over the side again, this time to finally see beyond the limits of the forest.

As soon as we drive past the last couple of trees, posted like guards on both sides of the road, the clear blue sky appears, stretching for miles. We descend a rolling slope, green with vegetation that surrounds the path like a sea, extending down to a village of thatch roofs and smoking chimneys. The transition from Mossgreen’s threatening forest to the bucolic landscape is so sudden that for a moment I believe I’m looking at a painting, or a dream where memory mixes with fancy to create an entirely new place.

Beckra drives the carriage down to one of the first buildings that border the road. Roark’s Stables, a sign above the door says.

Roark himself comes to collect the carriage and the horses. He is a short, muscular man, with one brow eye and one green, who can’t seem to stop bowing to Gedden, to Beckra’s great amusement.

“How soon could you ready my horse?” Beckra asks eventually.

“Soon as you like,” Roark says, watching me warily, trying to decide whether he should bow too.

“I’d like it now, then.”

“So soon?” Ged asks, feigning hurt. “Roark? What if you took your time and we went for a drink at the tavern?”

“As it please you, m’lord.” Roark bows.

“Well, that’s not fair, is it?” Beckra asks as we walk away. “He’ll do anything you say.”

“Being a Godtouched has its privileges.”

“Seems all privilege to me.”

They bicker and poke and joke around, and generally continue to say how much they’ll miss each other without actually uttering the words. I hang back and let Observant run rampant, cast it as a net to catch all the details I can muster, the people and the place, the animals and the food, the trades, the sky, the roads leading away from the village. Hollor’s Fall is larger than Reach, and sunnier than my home too, but the people are remarkably similar. They lead lives far away from the plots of the Godtouched. I wonder what happened here when Valkas sent for volunteers for the Challenge. Did someone go?

Was it someone I met? Someone whose death I caused?

We approach the tavern while I’m deep in these thoughts, half trying to gauge probabilities of escape, trying to improve my position by comparing and contrasting, finding holes and opportunities in the least likely of places, and half-reminiscent. Memories flood in, blocking my attempt at careful planning. I almost expect to see Dala tending herbs in the little plots next to the houses.

Ged leads us to a little courtyard tucked away from the main road and surrounded by businesses of which the tavern is only one. I look at the little lanes leading between buildings, dotted with resilient wildflowers, and catch movement. A bare foot, a grey dress disappearing around a bend. Gedden opens the tavern door, which rings a small bell inside, and lets Beckra walk in before gesturing to me.

“I’ll go in in a second,” I hear myself saying. “Just… the sun is nice.”

“Suit yourself. Don’t wander far.”

The bell rings again as the door closes, and a little after there’s a cry of recognition. Gedden appears well-loved in the tavern trade.

I notice all this very dimly. It’s Observant, like a dutiful scribe, that compiles the information and processes it while my awareness is far away. I walk down the narrow lane dappled with wildflowers.

Can’t be.

So many memories are making me wistful, seeing things where there is nothing. Great Inquisitor, making up his own lies, I think, but it’s a faraway thought as well. I round the bend, and there she is. The grey dress, the hair just as I remember it.

And then she turns, and the illusion is dispelled. For a moment, I’m confused. The woman in front of me looks nothing like Katha, and I’m unsure how I could possibly have confused the two. The woman’s hair is light brown, her face marked with a smatter of freckles that show up proud against her tan skin. Not even the dress is the right color.

And she’s wearing boots! I shake my head, surprised at my own stupidity.

The woman – perhaps twenty years of age, if I had to guess – is observing me with a curious expression. Great. Now I’m scaring the locals.

“Sorry,” I say. “Thought I recognized someone.”

“Maybe someone I can help you find?”

Sure. Just ride with me to Olvion, where we’ll fight the most powerful Godtouched in the land. Me and you.

“Hum, no. She’s not, uh, here.”

“Oh?” the woman tilts her head, shaking the locks of her hair. “Lose her, did you?”

“Something like that.”

“What bad luck. But the game goes on, doesn’t it? Perhaps its time to roll the dice again.”

She gives me a sweet smile.

I look at her, unsure of what to say to the strange statement. As I do, something else comes to the fore. Observant is banging on the door to my awareness, screaming bloody murder.

Why? The woman is a little forward, but otherwise she’s completely…

Travel clothes, walking boots, perfect hair… Tattoo?

A hint of ink peeks out from under the sleeve of her dress, a drawing I can’t quite make out. My eyes travel from it to her eyes, locked in mine and very, very curious. Like a cat’s watching a struggling mouse.

“Who are you?”

She smiles.

“I am the one foretold, of course. You didn’t think I’d forget, did you?”

“Forget? We haven’t met.” I take a little step back.

Godtouched?

“No, you haven’t. But you’ve made use of something that is connected to me.” Her hand comes up from behind her dress and reveals a couple of blank dice. “Thrice these came up empty, did they not?”

Fuck. The curse. Luck’s Fool.

“I… I don’t…”

“Don’t know? Then I assure you, they did. I wouldn’t be here if they hadn’t.”

Get to Ged, I think. Just run, find him and Beckra.

But the woman is just standing there. Perfectly innocent, for all her allusions.

“Don’t be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” I say.

“Sure you’re not,” he smile is quick and condescending. “Back to business: I’m here to present you with a choice.”

“A choice?” I ask, hesitating.

“Bad luck, a catastrophe, or a job.”

“What sort of choice is that?”

“It’s one, you having a little bad luck for the rest of your life,” the woman says, lifting a finger. “Things not going your way. Stubbing your toe more than usual. Being terrible at gambling. Two, a single instance of bad luck, but terrible, with far-reaching consequences. Maybe a tree topples, rolls over, and kills your child. Maybe your horse breaks a leg as you ride, and you arrive too late at your dying mother’s bedside, find her gone already. Something that will really make you curse yourself for picking this option. Or three, a job. At some point in the future, I’ll come around and tell you to do something. You do it, we’re square.”

She looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to pick.

“This isn’t a curse,” I say flatly, crossing my arms. “You just want me to take a job.”

“Your choice entirely. These are the consequences of your actions.”

“How do I know you’re not just someone who saw me in the Challenge and decided to take advantage of it?”

“One,” the woman says, recounting her fingers. “Only complete bastards watch the Godtouched’s Challenge for amusement. Two, I don’t know who you are. And three, your curse is called Luck’s Fool. Did you tell anyone about that?”

Shit.

She taps her foot and looks over her shoulder.

“Look, just pick one, all right? Just tell me what you want so that we can both move on.”

Something in her words makes me take in her expression again, the nervous way she carries herself.

“Did you also get cursed? Is that why you know about it?”

She purses her lips and then smiles.

“Perceptive. That doesn’t change the truth, though: these are your choices. Call me the terrible being that will visit them upon you or call me the messenger, I—"

“I’ll do the job.”

“Smart.”

“If.”

“Oh?”

“If you tell me your name.”

She crosses her arms, a defiant look in her face.

“You first.”

“Malco. Malco of Reach.”

“Malco?” comes a voice behind me.

I turn at the interruption. Gedden is looking at me from the lane between houses.

“Everything all right?”

“Yeah—yes. I was just…”

I turn and find no one is there. The woman has vanished, boots and freckles and hair and all.

“Come on inside. I’m buying.”

“Yes. Right. Just one second.”

Ged shrugs and walks away. A moment later I hear the bell ring inside the tavern.

For a moment I just stand there, looking in every direction, trying to find footprints, or hints of her presence. Finally, as I sigh turn around to leave, a murmur softer than a breeze tickles my ear. It makes a single sound before moving on, vanishing in the warm day.

“Cora.”