His Majesty of Nemetona,
our noble King Brennus,
and his royal sages set forth
that the uninhabited
northern land known as Brume
is a dangerous region
of deadly sea crags and
barren knife-edged mountains.
Attempting to breach its unyielding
mist is prohibited,
as is its glorification by the spread
of foolish and unfounded tales.
Those found disobeying these laws
are to be reported at once
to the sheriff appointed to this bailiwick.
“Barren land and foolish tales,” Lia mumbled. “More like a barren king and foolish sages.” They were nothing like the rulers of old who had named Nemetona in honor of the land’s sacred groves. And they knew nothing of the mysteries in Brume.
No matter, she thought. She’d soon see for herself the plethora of herbs and trees thriving beyond the wall of fog. That much Granda Luis freely told her. However, she had to ponder the old tales for further answers, including the mysterious way her grandparents had ventured into the northland without vanishing like all the rest.
Words from Grandma’s Grimoire echoed inside her head:
Fogged, bogged gates of Brume, barrier to my home;
Timeless, faceless watchers loom, but I am allowed to roam.
So many legends, mystical poems, and riddles she had memorized from Grandma’s book. It was the closest thing she had to knowing her wise elder. Lia often envisioned Grandma concocting potions, or imagined hearing her spin wondrous tales of the ancient world. Whenever some nasty villager spat an unkind remark, she fantasized Grandma Myrna was there, turning the ignorant dolt into a wiggling worm to work in their herber garden.
Lia had asked Granda Luis about many of the riddles, whether the tales were mere fables, and if dwarfs had truly existed in Rockberg. His reply: “Poetic mazes, my dear, veiled paths to the truth. Your grandma wrote them to guard her knowledge, offering a worthwhile quest to those who would know their meanings.” Then he’d give her a wink, enticing her to the challenge.
One verse she found, however, had caused Granda’s brow to furrow and his mood to turn pensive. The riddle had both fascinated and haunted Lia from the moment she had spotted it scrawled in tiny script on a sketch of a flowering meadow. It read:
For the call of magic, I do what I must;
Sacrifice is needed to do what is just.
The dark master beckons, and his command I do heed;
Anything I will do for flower, root, and seed.
And after my life does perish,
And the magic fades toward its end,
I know the children will come forth and bring it back again.
They halted in front of Granda’s store and Lia broke from her thoughts and dismounted Shae.
“Lia girl,” Granda said, still mounted atop Dobbin. “Ready a measure o’salve and sleeping tea to leave for your father. Use the strong formula with the–”
“Vandal root,” Lia finished.
Granda Luis nodded. “Pack the usual remedies for our journey. We’ll gather bits along the way, and plenty while we’re there, but it’s best to be prepared.”
Koun’s red-tipped ears lifted and a low growl rumbled in his throat. Lia turned to the mumblings of a few villagers heading home from the tavern, either too wary or too drunk to ask questions. Rockberg drew more people by the day from the oppressive southlands, all leaving the heart of Nemetona’s kingdom in search of cleaner air and more room. And with them, they brought a fear of the old crafts.
“I need a word with Bran next door,” Granda Luis said, interrupting Lia’s thoughts. He turned Dobbin and trotted him into the night.
“Come on, Koun.” The dog blinked his violet eyes at Lia and followed her into the store. The shop sat adjacent to Granda Luis’s cottage. From the outside, it looked nothing more than a barn. But on the inside, shelves lined the walls with bottles of curatives, bundles of herbs dangled from hooks on the ceiling, and against the far wall stretched an enormous wooden counter holding mortars and pestle stones, and the handbreadth-thick book known as Grandma’s Grimoire.
“I’ve elf leaf and melissa,” Lia said, prompting Koun to cock his head at her. “But we’ll need bridewort for Granda’s aches, knitbone and dragonwort for wounds, maythens for sleep, and featherfew for pain.”
Lia found a measure of distraction working the herbs. Her task focused her thoughts on the best way she could help, and she loved crafting blends more than anything. Sweet or bitter, soft or spiny, woody roots with fleshy insides or leafy greens plump with oils, every plant she touched enlivened her deep within.
She packed already made tinctures and unguents, honeycomb she’d extracted that same day, and a supply of linen strips and nettle cloth. For Da, she prepared blends for sleep and pain, bagged a mix of plantain and gypsywort for poultices, and then pulled out their vat of salve. She scooped the goopy wound salve into a jar, which gave way to a sudden tickle at her chest.
She pulled at the leather thong around her neck, brought up the leather pouch, and released the quartz stone held snug within. Koun had found the crystal piece that same week. He had dropped it from his mouth while Lia worked in the garden, its longest point flashing bright against the hound’s nose.
The quartz grew hot and she flinched, dropping it into the jar of salve. The concoction liquefied against its heat and Lia thought sure the quartz glowed. But when she dug it back out, it was cool and clear once again.
Is my mind playing tricks? Perhaps the heat’s from handling that bundle of herby grass.
“I must be getting tired,” she murmured to Koun, who eyed her through a tangle of fur. She wiped the crystal clean and slipped it back into its pouch, cinching it shut.
The moon slipped past midnight as she and Granda finished their tasks and settled in his small cottage. With a handful of hours still to wait, they sat down to pottage and crusty bread, and Lia forced the food down into her anxious stomach.
Koun whimpered at her feet, his rust-tipped ears twitching. She stroked his white coat and his eyelids grew heavy. At Granda’s prompting, she shuffled to bed. Her nerves told her sleep was out of the question, but her head barely hit the pillow when slumber stole her away.
Thick, unrelenting fog swirls all around. A cold chill shivers down her spine as sinister laughter reverberates in the distance. She strains to see something, anything, through the blinding mists. What lurks out there? She barely notices the caress of tendrils moving up her legs, encircling and binding them. The horrid cackle grows louder, its source much closer now. No! Get away! Then something on her breast burns, searing into her flesh. She cries out, but no sound comes forth …
Lia awoke clawing at her blanket. Her eyes darted around Granda’s spare bedchamber and she let out a sigh of relief. Just a nightmare. Unless? Echoes of the haunting laughter reverberated in her head, and she desperately hoped it was her imagination gone wild and not one of her fate-dreams.
She rose from bed and opened the shutter, peeking at the few stars paling in the sky. Less than an hour before daybreak, she figured, close enough to dawn for them to get moving. She quickly braided her long red hair and fastened her wrap belt around her tunic. Then her head cocked to a familiar voice resounding from the main room. She hurried out the door and her eyes lit on her cousin. “Wynn.”
“Hello, Lee.” A mix of road dust and worry lined Wynn’s face. “We’ve just arrived, rode off as soon as Bran came with word about Uncle Dylan.”
Lia raised her brow at Granda and he explained, “I sent Bran straight away to Kilnsgate. Your Aunt Brina and Uncle Finn needed to know, and I thought it best to have a couple more sets o’hands on the journey.”
“A couple more sets? Who else?”
Wynn eyed Lia under a tuft of yellow hair. “Kelven’s outside tending to the horses.”
Wynn’s brotherly friend had been away to the
southland markets the last visit Lia and Ma made to Kilnsgate, but the visit before that she’d watched in awe as he helped Aunt Brina’s mare while she was foaling. He saved the sick horse and her baby when everyone else had lost hope.
“All four of us then?” She was unsure whether to feel relieved or worried about Granda’s call for extra hands.
Granda nodded, his face like worn leather set with two sapphires. “And we’ll have a bit of an audience. Everyone’s a’chatter about Brume and the strange attacks, and with news o’your da, all eyes are watching us.”
Lia ground her teeth, already hearing the villagers bellow at the sight of her. A fifteen-year-old girl should be planning for her wedding, not traipsing off into dangerous and forbidden lands.
Well, this girl has more important tasks than sitting on her rump, embroidering a marriage kerchief.
“Still a bit dark, so have some chicory,” Granda Luis said. “When you’re finished, go and fetch those blends for your da.”
Granda limped out of the cottage and Lia poured a mug of the bitter brew. She pushed a platter of rolls toward Wynn, and he helped himself to a couple.
“Your villagers can’t be worse than my ma,” Wynn said. “She was like some madwoman, packing anything she could grab, hugging me, and swearing all at the same time. And with Da down in Shoneyville selling the harvest, he’ll not get word about Uncle Dylan or our trek into Brume for days.”
“It’s not that simple with the people here, Wynn.” Lia’s jaw set hard. “You don’t know what it’s like to be … different, and on top of that a girl, just some weakling lass who should know her place, even if her own da suffers in his bed.”
“What’s wrong with being different?” Wynn said with raised brow. “Talented’s more like it, and anyone saying otherwise is too ignorant to care about. Anyway, nobody could think of you as weak; I’ve seen you with that crossbow. With your marked skill, only thing I’ll be using my blade for is to help you harvest herbs.”
Kind words, but he’d never understand the frustration of being shunned for dressing like a boy, casting arrows instead of yarn, and cooking up remedies banned by royal law. A young man with a strong farmer’s back and enough charm to melt iron, Wynn drew admiration like flowers did bees.
Lia downed her tea and threw on her cloak. “Time to get going.”
Outside, she spotted Kelven speaking to Granda. The twig of a boy had grown since she last saw him in the spring. He stood nearly as tall as Wynn and his snug jerkin revealed a broad chest and thick arms. His parents had died a few years before, and though he worked at his uncle’s stables training horses, home was with Wynn’s family. Aunt Brina doted on him like one of her own, and he repaid his adopted family with undying loyalty. It carried now in his stance, strong and unwavering, as he made ready for Brume.
Kelven glanced at her, catching her stare, and heat rushed to her face. She lowered her head and sped toward Granda’s store. Shaking off her momentary distraction, she bounded into the room and to the bag bulging with tea blends and heavy with the jarred salve for Da. She scooped it up with both hands and paused, wondering.
She set the bag back down and touched the pouch hanging against her chest. Her fingers traced the faceted walls of the quartz nestled within, the same glassy stone she’d dropped in Da’s salve the night before. The stone warmed to her touch and she sucked in a breath. Last night, her tired mind had denied the truth of its heat, but now her thoughts spun in revelation, and she darted to Grandma’s Grimoire.
The leather bound book displayed a golden tree on its cover, along with the outlined figures of a girl, a woman, and an elder. Lia opened it and leafed through the pages, barely paying mind to the lavishly sketched trees flipping by.
I know it’s in the section covering elemental powers.
She found what she searched for below a drawing of an oak tree, and read the verse:
There is an art to the gathering of stones,
A respect and care in retrieving earth’s bones;
For within them is stored the marrow of might,
Ignited by a holder who can wield its light.
“Need any help?” Wynn said as he poked his head in the doorway.
“Uh, no. Be right out.” Lia lifted the heavy Grimoire and placed it in a cupboard, sliding the beloved book far back on a shelf. No need to invite prying eyes, she figured. Then she gathered the bag of concoctions and scrambled from the store.
Her breath caught at the sight of Ma standing next to Merrie, Da’s trusty mare. Koun wagged his whole body as Lia approached, his muzzle soaked with milk.
“Your da insisted.” Ma’s voice held steady, though her chin trembled. “All night he kept whispering ‘Lia take Merrie’ over and over. I’m sure he figures she was brave for him, she’ll be the same for you.”
Merrie shook her tawny mane and settled liquid brown eyes on Lia. Lia blinked back the tears threatening to fall. She loved her frisky horse, Shae, but Merrie was much more seasoned and it would be like having a piece of Da with her.
Ma smoothed her hands over her apron. “I packed a good supply of cheese, dried fruit, and salt pork. There’s also a skin of Da’s mead, if you should need it.”
“We’ll be back before you know it, Aunt Carin,” Wynn said.
Ma nodded and squeezed her nephew’s hand. Then she turned to Lia and crossed both hands over her heart. Lia quickly did the same, their special family gesture speaking louder than words.
Ma mounted Shae and called for Koun to follow. The hound barked, the howlish sound strange and haunting, and he peered at Lia with eyes of pure violet.
“Go with Ma, Koun,” Lia said, and her heart tugged for him, “Go home.”
She’d expected to take Koun on their journey, her loyal companion never far since the day she found him snuggled in a hollowed yew tree in the Bryns. But Granda thought it best he stay behind. Knowing he’d be there for Ma helped ease Lia’s disappointment.
The first arrows of dawn promised a clear autumn day, and the small band set off along the main road leaving Rockberg. Just as Lia had dreaded, numerous people gathered close, gawking. Wynn and Kelven drew stares, the sixteen-year-old boys’ presence adding fuel to the chatter. The horses slowed through the growing throng, as if walking through the mire. Lia swallowed hard, her every nerve pulled taut as a bowstring.
Among the startled cries and hushed voices came, “’Tis true, they’re going in, even the girl.” And, “Nothing but a fool’s errand. Brume’ll swallow them whole, and the Bryn’s will still harbor this plague. I say we burn the Bryn groves all the way to the eastern border!” Shouts of agreement resounded.
Lia wanted to yell back, to remind them it wasn’t some plague ravaging their people, and burning the groves would do nothing to a root-creature who crept underground. She wanted to shout how Granda knew Brume’s mysteries better than anyone alive did. They should trust his wisdom, and know that he’d never lead his kin to their deaths.
She flinched at the shriek of an old woman, “Shame upon the lot of you! ’Tis one thing dabbling in the crafts, ’tis quite another venturing to the cliffs of Brume. You, young lady, have truly gone astray.”
Lia held her head up high and her lips pressed in silence, though her insides churned. Why didn’t anyone realize it was precisely this “dabbling in the crafts” and “venturing to Brume” that could save them? Had the ignorance of royal rule completely shaded their minds, even while their own people suffered from such blatant attacks?
Granda tilted his snowy head toward the woman. “We’ll return before you can wag that finger twice.”
The crone’s face squinted in reproach, and she stomped away. It was easier for Granda Luis to handle being viewed as an oddity. He was a man, he was an elder, and he was tough as hurr burr root.
Lia ventured a glance to the edges of the crowd and her heart skipped. Some of the villagers raised their hands in farewell. A few had tears shining in their eyes. A handful of wives missing husbands at their sid
e smiled at Lia. One mouthed the words, “Thank you.” Another blew her a kiss. A lump grew in Lia’s throat, as she dared to hope for her people’s support. She raised her hand and smiled back at them. They uphold us, she thought, her tension easing. They have faith in our quest.
Then her eyes fell to a group of girls her same age, scowling at her. Lia’s insides tightened once more. The girls knotted together, chattering like hens. Lia turned her head from their scorn and swallowed down the retort growing bitter on her tongue.
She cast a glance toward Wynn and Kelven, certain the girls had caught their attention. She wasn’t surprised to see Wynn puffed up like a rooster. The girls ogled her cousin while he flipped blond locks from his face. Kelven, on the other hand, aimed his eyes straight ahead. Perhaps lace and gowns did not appeal to him. Perhaps he preferred her pale green tunic and long red braids.
Perhaps, Lia chided herself, he is focusing on their journey ahead.
The horses paused in their steps as a few people crowded in front of them. Lia’s ears pricked at the grumbling of an elder blacksmith. “Word’ll be traveling south about this sickness, bringing the royals up here with their useless rules and cures. The king’s high sages got their heads in a bog denying the likes of magic.”
Lia stifled a smile at his words.
They made it through town to the open road, leaving the voices of the villagers to fade behind them. The quiet of the town outskirts breathed relief on Lia’s nerves. She decided most of her people were as ignorant as grub worms, but she couldn’t help hoping they remained safe from further attacks, and that everyone who suffered from the poison held strong until Granda found the cure.
They progressed northwest through the quartz-dotted hills. The glassy towers shone like chiseled ice against the sun’s kiss. Lia loved the ancient stones of Rockberg, no matter how much the villagers thought them worthless. She had purposely encircled one of the quartz towers with her garden, confident the plants would enjoy the crystal’s reflective light.