Chapter Sixteen: An Unexpected Encounter

“Nothing good ever comes from a storm.”

—Gerard Carandar, Captain of the Weatherwing

It was night, and activity in the forge had slowed to a lull. The smithy was silent bar the steady, rhythmic clang of hammer against steel and the crackling of the furnace.

Ein tottered through the front door, shutting out the cold behind him. Alend looked up and raised an eyebrow.

“Where have you been?” he asked without missing a beat.

Ein made his way to the fire and warmed his hands. His small face was flushed with sweat and excitement.

“Sorry, Father,” he breathed. “I was playing with Bran and Evaine in the woods again, and we lost track of the time. When we started heading back, it was already dark.”

“Oh?” Sparks flew from the anvil. From the back of the forge, a young child began to cry.

“Alend!” Rhea called through the walls. “Come help me with dinner already! Cinnamin is getting impatient!”

The bawling continued, and Alend sighed. He picked up the bar of molten metal with a pair of tongs and dipped it into a bucket of water, watching as clouds of steam hissed into the air.

“It’s dangerous for children to be wandering alone in the woods,” he said. “Especially at night.”

“We were fine,” Ein said defiantly. “We had swords and spears to protect ourselves with.”

“Swords and spears?”

Ein bit his lip. “Well, staffs. And clubs.”

“You mean sticks?” Alend placed the length of metal to one side and then took off his apron. “What were you playing, anyway?”

“We weren’t playing,” Ein said. “We were fighting monsters and hunting for treasure, just like the heroes of old.”

“Have you been listening to Garax again?”

Ein didn’t reply.

“Being a Hero of Faengard isn’t as exciting as the stories make it out to be,” Alend said, wiping his hands on a piece of cloth. “It’s dangerous work, and people rarely ever appreciate you. Most heroes die young.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Ein replied, “if it means my name will be remembered for ages to come, sang in tales long after I’ve died.”

“You say that now, but when you’re my age with a wife and two children you’ll think differently.”

Ein narrowed his eyes. “You say that as if you were once a hero.”

Alend shrugged. “I wouldn’t call myself that. But I do know a thing or two about fighting and adventuring. The sort of things heroes do.”

“Can you teach me?” Ein’s eyes grew wide.

“Alend! Hurry up and make yourself useful!”

Alend winced. “I’m coming, dear!” He tossed the cloth aside and made for the door behind the counter. “I can teach you if you want,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “You might find some of the skills useful to know. But I’ll warn you now, it won’t be easy.”

He disappeared through the doorway, leaving Ein alone. Moments later, Cinnamin quietened.

Ein looked at the collection of swords his father had hung on the wall. A wide smile broke across his face.

#

The downpour continued through the night and into the next day. Progress slowed to a crawl as the horses slogged through the mud under dreary skies, hauling the wagons behind them. Several times they would become stuck and the troupers would have to disembark and push them free from their ruts, all in the pouring rain.

It was cold, miserable and wet, but to Ein’s surprise, Evaine never showed any sign of repentance. She dealt with the obstacles as they came, her hair plastered against her scalp, cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders, jaw firmly set. She didn’t complain about the scarcity of food, not once. She didn’t complain when she had to help everyone push the wagons, nor when a blister formed on the heel of her foot, red and swollen. Ein watched her with grudging admiration.

The day dragged on, the rain showing no signs of stopping. Several times Ein found his gaze wandering into the wood around them, his thoughts drifting to Alend and Rhea and whoever his real mother and father were. He turned the ebony box over in his hands when no one was watching, and fingered it through his pocket when they were. Had the past sixteen years of his life been a lie? The memories he’d had working with Alend in the forge, playing with Rhea and Cinnamin in the fields, sitting around the dinner table laughing and jesting, had it all been pretence? Had he really been their son?

He needed to speak with Alend. Even though Rhea had reassured him, he needed to hear it from his own lips, to hear that he, Ein Thoren, was as much a son to Alend Thoren as he was to his real father. He needed to know that he still had a home to return to.

With a start, he realized he was already beginning to forget what “home” was.

How long had they been travelling for? How far had they come? How much further did they have to go? He suspected they’d been on the road for three days, but he couldn’t be sure. It could have been three years for all he knew. He had no idea how far they’d travelled; all sense of distance had been lost to him since they’d passed the Twisted Treeloc, and it would stay that way until the surrounding landscape became something other than spruce and pine. As for how much further they had to go, he wished he knew the answer to that.

“Ein,” Garax suddenly said. The storyteller had put off their daily fencing lessons until the storm passed, and was staring thoughtfully out to the woods behind them. “Do you see anything behind us?”

Ein craned his neck to one side and peered into the gloom. The rain had settled into a fine drizzle, a mist that caressed his face with an icy touch. He saw as far as three rows of trees before they disappeared into the murk.

“What am I looking for?” Ein asked. A chill ran up his spine.

Garax frowned. “It’s not there anymore, but I could have sworn I saw someone behind us. A man riding a horse, tall and dark. I thought I saw him a couple of times since we left the village, but I couldn’t be sure.”

Ein swallowed. “Does he wear a cloak?”

Garax lowered his brows and eyed Herod, who had turned around in his seat. “He does.”

“We’re being followed?” the Listener asked.

“These old eyes believe so. What should we do?”

Herod thought for a moment, looking around at the roiling mist. “We won’t be able to outrun them, not in this weather,” he said. “I say we hide and ambush them, see what they’re after. The mist will give us cover. I’m sure we can take them on if they’re hostile.”

Ein and Garax exchanged looks. Garax nodded, his hand on his sword. Herod nudged his horse to the other wagons and gave the command.

“What do you think they want?” Ein asked, as they drew to a halt. The air was filled with the sound of several pairs of boots hitting the mud as the Wydlings alighted.

“The hell if I know. I just hope it’s not a relict that’s following us,” Garax said.

“If it was a relict, it would be riding a Celadon, wouldn’t it?”

The old man shrugged. “It could be another servant of the Oathbreaker.”

Ein waited for him to continue, but Garax had already touched onto the ground and was taking his place among the trees. Ein moved to the other side of the path, crouching low under the glistening pine needles. Mud and water soaked into his feet.

They waited for a few minutes, the caravan pulled to a halt a little way up the path, a handful of troupers amidst the trees on either side. The mist billowed around them like a thick curtain, hiding the treetops, covering the wagons until they were but faint shadows around the corner. Ein rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. Evaine was on the side opposite him, watching with wide eyes from behind the troupers. She held a dagger in her hand.

They heard the horse first, grunting as it trotted through the rock and mud. One moment they were staring into a veil of grey, the next, the man had appeared. He was tall and scrawny, a hood pulled over his head, and he rode an old mare with patched skin, well past its prime. Ein held his breath as the rider drew closer, eyes on the ground, following the tracks left behind by the caravan. Something about the man struck him as familiar. It was in the way he held himself, his head slightly hunched, turning to look over his shoulder every few steps. He was directly in front of them now, so close that if he turned his head sideways he would see them, and it was then that the wind caught the edge of his hood and pulled it back, just a little bit, revealing sandy hair and a red complexion…

“Bran!”

Evaine called out at the same time as Ein realized where he’d seen the horse before. It was Sanson’s horse, the old mare who carried the butcher’s belongings to and from the butchery every day. He was running before he knew it, deaf to the questioning cries of the troupers around him, coming to meet Evaine and the rider in the middle of the road. The mare let out a startled cry and stepped backward, her rider yelping and grabbing ahold of the reins to steady himself. His hood fell away.

“Bran,” Evaine cried again. “What are you doing here?”

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Surprise flashed across Bran’s face, followed by what Ein assumed was relief. Bran swung his leg around and dismounted, coming to meet the two. Ein waved to the troupers, who slowly slunk from their positions in the trees.

“You’re a long way from home,” Herod muttered.

“Evaine,” Bran sniffled. “I’m so glad you’re alright.” His face was gaunt and sickly. From the sorry state of his pack, Ein guessed he’d run out of food faster than anticipated. He’d probably caught a cold along the way, too.

“Of course I’m alright,” Evaine said. “Look at you. Merciful Cenedria, what happened?”

“I’ve been following you for the past three days, trying to catch up,” Bran said, rubbing his nose. “It was terrible. Old Bess was ready to give up on me so many times. I’m so glad I finally made it.” The mare snorted angrily and flicked her tail.

Ein frowned. The rider had given off the impression that it had been tailing them, not struggling to keep up. They’d stopped to rest more than a handful of times, and Bran could have caught up during any of them. Ein looked back to the trees, searching, but saw nothing.

“It’s no small wonder she’s annoyed,” Evaine said. “We were traveling pretty quickly. You must have pushed her hard.”

Bran shook his head. “None of that matters now. Evaine, you have to come back with me. Your parents are worried sick. You left without warning, without even waiting for them to recover. The village is willing to overlook it. You weren’t thinking straight, not after the attack—”

“Oh, I’m thinking perfectly straight.” Evaine placed her hands on her hips. The troupers had returned to the wagons to prepare for departure. A few of them turned their heads at the sound of her voice.

“She’s not going to listen, Bran,” Ein said, sighing. “Believe me, I tried.”

“You can’t be serious…” Bran turned even paler than before.

“Look around you, Bran. We’re almost out of the woods. There’s no way I’m heading back, not now.” Evaine swept her arms at the trees around them, glowering. Bran turned to Ein.

“Help me change her mind,” he pleaded. “Cinnamin misses you. Your mother misses you. Come back with me. Bring Evaine with you—”

“I can’t,” Ein said, looking at his feet. “I’m sorry, Bran. I have to go after Alend.”

Bran slumped. He looked between them with stiff, jerky movements, as if he were a mouse caught in an open field under an eagle-filled sky.

“I still can’t believe you actually came all the way out here,” Evaine said, shaking her head. “What happened to never wanting to leave the village? I don’t mean any offense, but… I didn’t think you ever had it in you.”

A muscle twitched in Bran’s cheek. “I’m not going back without you,” he said. “I won’t have you exiled from the village. They whisper behind your back, Evaine. They call you all manner of names, loose being the kindest of them. They say you sleep around with the Wydlings, that you’re a heartless wretch who cares nothing for the home you grew up in and the parents who raised you. Tell me it’s not true, Evaine. Prove them wrong.”

“What?” Ein was surprised to find his own voice rising. “Who said those things?” He clenched his fists, but Evaine placed a hand on his shoulder and pulled him back.

“Let them say what they will,” she declared. “I won’t be tied down by the traditions of the past.” In one swift movement, she pulled back her hood. Bran’s eyes widened as he saw her hair, short and ragged by her neck, braidless.

“Y-y-your braid…” He stood rooted to the spot, mouth flapping loosely like a fish, blinking as if closing his eyes and reopening them would change what he saw.

“Do you understand now?” Evaine said. “I’m not returning. I really appreciate you coming all the way out here to find me, but you’ve wasted your time. You’d better get back before they exile you too.”

Bran looked down, his hands balling into fists.

“Do you want my cloak?” Ein quietly asked. “You look terrible.”

“—not going back.” Bran spoke in a small voice, so softly it barely rose above the whisper of the wind.

“Ein, do we have enough food to spare for Bran’s return journey—”

“I said, I’m not going back.” He looked up, and his eyes were hard with resolve. Ein and Evaine stared, speechless.

“Bran,” Ein slowly said. “Are you sure about this? I don’t mean to turn your own words back on you, but… it’s not too late to turn around. Once the storm passes, the return trip will be a lot easier—”

“I told them I wouldn’t return without you,” Bran said, glaring at Evaine. His shoulders were shaking. He sniffed again, his breath escaping in cold puffs of air. “If you’re not coming back with me, I’ll just stick with you until you change your mind. I won’t leave you, Evaine.”

“Why?” Evaine narrowed her eyes. “Why are you doing this? Why are you going to such lengths to bring me back?”

Bran averted his eyes. “Because…”

He paused for a moment, and then sighed.

“Ein needs to leave, and I understand that. But if you leave too, I’ll have nothing left. No family, no friends, nothing.” Bran’s voice shook like a leaf. “I’m just worried about you,” he said. “Just worried, that’s all.”

Silence passed between them. Evaine sighed.

“Honestly, Bran. You should be more worried about yourself.” She turned around and called out to Aren as he led one of the horses back onto the road. “Aren! Do you have any extra blankets to spare?”

Aren nodded, and Evaine began making her way back towards the caravan. Bran led Old Bess past Ein, still avoiding his eye.

“That’s not the real reason, is it?” Ein asked.

Bran stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“You love her.”

Bran didn’t reply.

#

Ein was alone on a beach, staring into a stormy skyline. The sand was a dark grit that matched the colour of the sky, the waters an inky black. It was deathly quiet save the soft sloshing of the sea and the dull wail of the wind, and Ein’s steady breathing within his chest.

This dream again, he thought. Bits and pieces of it were familiar to him, like a distant memory from long ago. He’d been in this place before, seen the cragged spires and bluffs that protruded from the horizon. The smell of the storm was in the air. Its song was in his ears.

“…the storm sings to none other…”

He caught the last line as the wind picked it up and carried it far away to the stone formations beyond. Someone had been singing, had just finished singing, and they were starting up again. It began slow and tranquil, matching the lap of the sea against the shore and the low booming of thunder on the horizon.

Ein moved towards the voice, trotting across the wet sand, feeling the spray of brine against his cheek. He’d had this dream twice already, maybe three times, every night since the incident on Founder’s Eve, and each time he’d woken up before he could find the owner of the voice. He knew he would forget the moment the dream ended, but even so his curiosity burned and demanded he get to the bottom of it all.

The song grew louder and more urgent, building up as the clouds came rumbling from the distance. Forks of lightning cracked down to the ocean. The waters lurched and began to froth violently against the shore.

Ein carefully traversed a series of jagged rocks at the base of a cliff before coming to a small stretch of sand between two ridges. It provided a wide, spacious view of the sea for miles into the distance where it met the sky in a flat line. The song was at its loudest here, each chord striking terrible fear and awe inside him, and it was in this small outlet that he finally saw the singer.

She was a woman with long, tangled hair and a regal dress, and that was all Ein could make out. She stood far in the distance, atop a broken rock jutting out of the sea, and her song rolled under the clouds and across the waves with a frigid vehemence. It climbed higher and higher, arcing to meet the lightning in the distance, so loud it was a roar now, a string of thunderclaps that shook the ground…

And then it was gone, replaced by the pattering of rain, and Ein was being shaken awake into the cold, wet hours of the early morning.

“It’s your turn,” the young trouper said, and Ein nodded. It was his turn to take the night’s watch.

He sat up and took his place beneath the tarp, pulling his furs into a snug cocoon around him. Rain trickled through the trees and onto the ground, turning it into an unstable bed of slush. Before long, the coldness had seeped through the blanket beneath him and into the seat of his pants.

According to Herod, the Wydlings usually had groups of two or three keeping watch every night, though it depended on what part of the world they were in. The closer to the main roads and cities, the more people they placed on sentry duty. In a quiet place like the Sleeping Twins, one person was enough.

Ein scanned the small tents and the sorry pile of wood that marked the remains of a fire. Everything was still. Everyone was fast asleep, or pretending to be.

He pulled out the ebony box from his pocket just as Bran emerged from one of the tents. His eyes were tired and bloodshot, his face weary. Bran noticed Ein and crawled towards him, squelching through the mud. Ein pocketed the box and made some room, and they both huddled under the tarp.

“Can’t sleep?” Ein asked. The sky blinked and grumbled. Bran shook his head.

“It’s just…” he hesitated, hugging his knees to his chest. “I never really gave it much thought, but we’re really far from home, aren’t we? I’ve was so focused on following you that I never realized it.”

“Yeah.” Ein fiddled with the handle of his sword by his waist. He thought about telling Bran what Alend had told him regarding his heritage, but decided against it. Somehow, he felt like he needed to find the answer to his problem on his own. Instead, he looked at the tent where Evaine and a few of the other troupers slept.

“She’s not going to hold back, you know,” he said. “No matter how much she cares for us, she’s not going to let that get in the way of what she wants. If you stay with her, you could well end up on the other side of Faengard before she comes to her senses.”

“I know,” Bran coughed. “I think I’ve always known, deep down, what I’d have to give up for her.” He laughed shakily and stared at the wood around them. “I’ve made a huge mistake, haven’t I? Falling in love with a person like Evaine. There’s no way she’d ever feel the same way for me, a coward and a weakling.” He fingered the quiver of arrows by his belt. “I can’t even fight and protect her head on. I have to run and attack from the shadows.”

“There’s no shame in that. It’s not cowardice to use your brain. Besides,” Ein said, “I’d say you’re plenty brave, just for mustering the courage to set foot outside the village. There’s a saying Koth told me a long time ago. There are three things all brave men fear—a love that goes only one way, a man with no face, and—

“—the first step on a journey away from home,” Bran finished, bursting into a violent fit of coughing. It was a wet, throaty noise, and Ein half expected to see him throw up his insides. Instead, Bran spat a thick glob to one side, where it splattered across the mud and was quickly washed away by the rain.

“Are you okay?”

Bran found his breath and wiped his mouth, nodding. “It’s just a winter chill.”

Ein brought his hand to the other’s forehead. “You’ve got a bit of a fever,” he murmured. “How many nights did you spend out in the cold?” He frowned, remembering the state Bran had been in when they’d first found him. “Don’t tell me you didn’t pack any furs at all? Did you at least light a fire?”

Bran broke into another fit of coughing. He wiped his mouth and looked away guiltily.

“You idiot,” Ein growled. He racked his brain, quickly taking into consideration all the basic cures Alend had taught him for a fever. None of them could be made from the ingredients they had on hand. Unless the troupe had something to offer, there was a real chance Bran’s fever might get worse, especially if the storm persisted.

“Don’t tell Evaine,” Bran said, sniffing. “I don’t want her to worry even more.”

Ein sighed. “You could have been a bit more prepared before leaving, you know.” He stripped off his outermost layer and offered it to Bran, who shook his head.

“I can’t take that. I don’t want us both to get sick.”

“Get in the bloody tent then,” Ein snapped. “At least you’ll be out of the wind.”

As if on cue, a strong gale whipped through the campsite. A fork of lightning flickered in the distance, followed by sharp thunderclap.

“I’ll be fine,” Bran insisted. “I don’t want to wake the others up with my coughing. A real man would grit his teeth and tough it out.”

“You’re walking a fine line between courage and stupidity, Bran. Go to sleep—”

Bran jerked upright, turning to one side and startling Ein.

“What are you doing?” Ein asked, puzzled. Bran raised a finger to his lips, signalling for him to be quiet. He kept his head cocked, even as he looked Ein in the eye. A moment later, as the wind lulled and the thunder quietened, Ein heard it as well. It was distant and barely audible above the increasingly loud drum of the rain, but there was no mistaking it.

It was a howl.

“Not again,” Ein said.

He sprung to a low crouch and tilted his head to the sky, listening. The howls came again, louder this time, closer. There was no mistaking what they were, not when they still haunted him every time he closed his eyes. He suddenly felt cold, and it wasn’t from the storm.

“Wyd almighty,” Bran quivered. “Could it be?”

The bestial howls tore through the night. They were coming. Not just one or two but three, five, ten, maybe even twenty. A whole pack of them.

“Wyd almighty,” Ein agreed. “Anturia, Cenedria, Lauriel, Eolas. Kalador, Aoshan, Zaxiem.” He named them all, all seven of the First Gods of Faengard. If any of them existed, he hoped they could hear him. “By the Pantheon, it’s them.”

The Worgals were coming. They needed all the divine intervention they could get.