Mystic (9 page)

A chill swept over Sim. He shivered. His instinct screamed that it was time to go. Turning to leave, he stepped forward and nearly skewered himself on the tip of a spear aimed at his chest.

“Don't move, scrit,” said a greasy voice.

 

FIVE

KELT APAR

Pomella's feet hurt. After a day of walking with Vlenar through the Mystwood, she was ready to burn her shoes. The laghart spoke very little, except to tell her to keep moving when she tried to stop and rest her aching feet.

He led her through the dense forest, always remaining beneath the thick canopy of trees. Despite the more difficult terrain, Pomella was glad they avoided the road. The only sounds she heard during the full day of walking were the chirping and fluttering of birds mixed with the fall of needles and leaves. She noted with annoyance that flies and biterbugs apparently bred large in this part of the island. Overall, she enjoyed the solitude, but found herself often humming just to break the monotony.

She missed her
Book of Songs
. Looking back, she wished she'd been more insistent to Sim that they go back to find it. If they had, maybe they wouldn't have fallen into that blathering pit. Shortly after setting out with Vlenar, she'd mustered the courage to ask him if they could go back to find her book. The ranger's hard, slitted gaze had been enough to tell her to forget it. Her heart ached knowing that the book was probably lost and ruined.

During that first day of travel, she worried that they would encounter more of the silver wolves. But she didn't see or hear any sign of the terrifying creatures or any other ghostlike animals. She refrained from mentioning them to Vlenar. He'd probably not take her seriously. That, and he terrified her in his own way. Although he stood on hind legs, he walked hunched over, so that his spine was almost parallel to the ground. She tried not to stare too much.

At night, around their campfire, she watched his tail swish back and forth across the ground, idly tracing patterns in the dirt.

They bypassed the town of Sentry on the second day of travel, skirting around it by taking a westerly route that put them within sight of Loch Bracken, the largest body of water in the forest. They followed no path that Pomella could see. Vlenar pushed forward with confidence, leading her south and west. Glancing upward, she had difficulty gauging the sun's position. The tall, moss-coated oaks spread their limbs high above her, intermixing their branches as if holding hands.

Pomella adjusted the pack slung across her back. When she'd first carried it out of Oakspring, she'd thought it had been light. Now, it felt like carrying boulders.

As they set camp for the second night, Pomella caught sight of a great snowcapped mountain peak, rising in the distance above the treetops.

“MagDoon,” the ranger said, handing her a flat loaf of bread for her supper.

Pomella smiled as a thrill of excitement raced through her. Everyone on Moth knew of the great mountain, and the legends associated with it. She'd never so much as glimpsed it before, despite living less than a week's travel away. Saint Brigid herself was said to have walked those slopes.

Late on the morning of the third day, just as Pomella worked up the courage to ask Vlenar when they could eat again, he stopped. “We are hhhere,” he said.

Pomella's head popped up. She'd been staring at the ground as they walked. “What? Where?”

The laghart pushed aside a branch to reveal an enormous circular clearing. Pomella gasped.

A wide, manicured lawn, bigger than she'd ever seen, shone under the highsun light. Scattered trees provided pools of shade, including a massive willow tree trailing its leaves in a gentle pond. Shaggy goats grazed lazily. The sounds of a nearby river drifted toward her and the laghart. A cluster of simple buildings rested on the far side of the clearing near the source of the sound. Pomella glanced down and saw a path of pebbled stones that began near her feet and ran toward the clearing's most dominant feature—a rounded stone tower, perhaps seventy or eighty feet tall and half as wide, rising from the center of the clearing. Ivy crawled up its sides, the tendrils spreading across the white rock beneath it. A series of small windows climbed the tower in a slow spiral, unevenly spread apart, their panes twinkling in the sun. Capping the tower was a conical green slate roof. Wildflowers surrounded the tower in a wide ring, rippling like the waves of a colorful moat.

A hawk soared overhead as they stepped out from the cover of trees onto the grass. A wide smile burst onto Pomella's face. She yanked off her shoes. Her toes found the soft grass and she wiggled them, feeling the comforting relief offered by the lawn.

Vlenar led her along the pebbled path toward the great tower. He walked in his hunched manner, his tail swishing in a steady rhythm. Pomella craned her neck, trying to take it all in.

The ground rumbled, and the soil ahead of them erupted into a massive humanoid shape. Pomella jumped back and yelped. Vlenar gave no reaction as the figure loomed over them. Steadying her tumbling nerves, she forced herself to calm. She recognized this creature.

“Welcome, Goodmiss AnDone,” the Green Man said, his voice rumbling like shifting tree trunks. “I'm glad you made it safely. You are a bit early, in fact.”

Relief flooded Pomella. She'd made it! She flashed the Green Man her best smile.

As before, his eyes were made from stones and his body was formed from the nearby soil. But instead of branches and leaves like she remembered him having in Oakspring, well-manicured grass now built his body. The shape of his face and his mannerisms remained the same, however.

She stared at him in wide-eyed wonder. Vlenar bowed, the tip of his face touching the grass. Pomella dropped to curtsy, suddenly aware of her absolutely filthy appearance. She'd washed most of the grime from the pit away in a creek the day the ranger found her, but her clothes and hair were still knotted and stiff. Her cloak still hadn't dried from the rain and falling in the river.

“Thank you, good Green Man,” she said, not knowing the proper way to address him.

“Behold Kelt Apar,” he said, sweeping a heavy arm across the clearing. “For over a thousand years the lineage of High Mystics has held presence here, tending to and protecting the Mystwood and its inhabitants. Perhaps someday that duty will become yours, so look upon it this one time with fresh, new eyes.”

A warm wind blew across Pomella's face, catching her hair. On the far side of the tower a white spire peeked above the treetops. Off in the distance, an old gardener pulled weeds. A brown dog stood halfway between them and barked. Nearby, a wooden bridge spanned the river that she'd heard earlier.

The Green Man turned to Vlenar. “Mistress Yarina thanks you for delivering Goodmiss AnDone in a timely manner. The other candidates will arrive soon. Please escort them to the grounds.”

Vlenar inclined his head and left. His slitted, golden eyes briefly met Pomella's as he walked past.

“He doesn't like to talk much, does he?” Pomella said before she could stop herself.

The Green Man shook with deep laughter. “Vlenar, like most rangers, finds his place in solitude. It is their job to listen, and observe, not to comment. Come, I will escort you to your dwelling. While you are here for the Trials, you may call me by my given name, Oxillian.”

He walked away on long, powerful legs. Behind him, dirt and grass pushed up to fill the gaping hole he'd risen from. Pomella stared at the ground before running to catch up. “Can I call you Ox?”

Again the strange chuckling sound. “You may.”

She crossed the wooden bridge, which spanned a steadily flowing river about eight feet wide. Ox walked beside the bridge, his long legs needing only two strides to cross the stream. The smell of fresh soil filled Pomella's lungs, reminding her of home, and working in the garden with Grandmhathir. Pomella gawked at everything from the Green Man to the nearby tower. Several times she dug her nails into her palm just to prove she was really here, walking with a figure of legend.

They arrived at a small cluster of low buildings with shingled roofs and glass windows. A ring of river rocks circled the modest dwellings, each of which had a tiny garden planted beside it. Seasonal vegetables were just beginning to sprout. Wooden wind chimes sounded somewhere nearby.

“Who lives here?” Pomella asked.

“As of today, you do,” Ox said. “You will be joined by the other candidates. Beyond that, only Mistress Yarina and a few others occupy Kelt Apar. She has been very busy since becoming High Mystic. Once an apprentice is chosen, more will come to dwell at Kelt Apar. Ah, here we are.”

Pomella stared at the cabin he stopped in front of. “Who will I share it with?”

“This one is just for you,” Ox replied.

“But this is almost as big as my home in Oakspring!”

“We hope you will find it to your liking. I will let you settle in and rest from your journey. A highsun meal is ready for you within. Your first obligation will be to come to the main lawn at sunrise tomorrow, where you will present yourself to Mistress Yarina.”

Pomella's stomach tumbled over itself. A hundred worries came to mind, ranging from whether she was truly ready for this experience to where she could find a bath. She took a calming breath to ease her anxiety.

“If you need anything, ring any of these bells.” Ox indicated a palm-sized silver bell mounted beside the entryway to her cottage. He bowed to her, and her cheeks burned. The Green Man just
bowed
to her! Then, turning, he took three steps away from her and rumbled back into the ground, leaving no trace that he'd ever existed.

“First the Green Man, then a laghart, and now my own cabin,” she mumbled under her breath. “Next, I suppose Saint Brigid will join me for dinner.”

The cottage proved to be much smaller than she'd first assumed. Not that she minded. The long, rectangular room hosted a table with stone utensils and unused candles set atop it, and a thick-cushioned chair pushed in beneath. A wooden tray of mixed fruits, nuts, and vegetables sat beside a matching goblet of water on top of the table. At the far end of the room, the cottage angled to the left, revealing a narrow nook containing a wooden bed, a dresser, and a night pot.

She dumped her travel sack onto the floor, and fell back against the bed, arms wide. She sighed in contentment. A shelf laden with books caught her eye. It sat beneath one of the square glass windows. Pomella sat up; snatching a strawberry off the wooden tray, she slid onto her knees to examine the books. She grabbed one at random, a thick book of children's tales from the Continent.

Just as she opened to the first page, a knock sounded at the door, startling her. She hopped to her feet and opened the door, ready to see what else Ox needed.

She blinked.

A tall, dark-skinned boy, maybe a few years older than herself, waited outside with his hands clasped behind his back. Dark, braided hair hung past a set of broad shoulders. A crisp white shirt with loose collar strings gave her a glimpse of his broad chest, where a gold necklace—gold!—glimmered against his skin.

She stared at him, mouth open, taking in his handsome face. The boy smiled, which only made him prettier.

“You must be Pomella,” he said in a thick, fluid accent. “My name is Quentin, of House Bartone. I'm from Keffra.”

Pomella collected herself as best she could. The moment he'd spoken, she'd recognized the accent. He spoke with the quick, clipped sounds she associated with her grandmhathir and, to a lesser extent, her fathir. Each word part sounded musical to her, as if they were trying to somehow find a way to rhyme.

When she failed to reply, his smile slipped a little. “You
are
Pomella, right?”

“Yes,” Pomella hurried. “She's me. I mean, I'm her. Bethy calls me Pom. And Ox, too. No, wait. She doesn't call me Ox. Ox calls me Pom. I think.”

Her hand went to her hair as she realized it was still caked in mud. “Oh, shite, I'm making a fool of myself, aren't I?”

Quentin grinned, and a roguish gleam twinkled in his eye. “Hardly, Lady Pomella. In fact, I believe I may already adore you.”

It was a miracle of the Saints her heart did not explode out of her chest. “You … you do?”

He shrugged. “You made me smile. That's a good way to begin a friendship, don't you think?”

“I suppose it is.” Pomella took a deep breath. “Do you want to come in?”

He stepped into the cabin, looking around. “It's just like mine. So small.”

Pomella quickly shoved the book of children's tales back onto the shelf. “So, um, are you one of the other…”

“Candidates? Yes, I am. I arrived yesterday, and my entourage left this morning. I've been bored ridiculous and've been waiting for the rest of you to arrive. You're the first besides me. I didn't see you arrive with anybody besides Oxillian, though. Where are your servants?”