Mystic (26 page)

She hitched her hood tighter against the rain and looked up to see MagDoon towering over them. The summit of the snowcapped mountain was lost in the clouds. A ripple of worry swam up her neck as she imagined its unfathomable height.

As they approached the edge of the clearing, she caught a glimpse of Lal's cabin, far across the overgrown field, sitting against the towering backdrop of trees. Her stomach churned in memory. A sudden awareness she couldn't describe tickled her mind, and a moment later her silver hummingbirds zoomed by. She thought of telling them to go home and stay put, but she didn't have the energy.

She and Quentin passed in silence into the Mystwood, following the trail. He was silent for a long time, lost in thought.

“What happened with your friend?” he asked at last. “Why was he there last night, and how did he get into Kelt Apar?”

Pomella sighed. “Sim and I grew up together. I don't know how he got to my cabin. He left soon after you did. He came to warn me that I was in danger. Apparently there's a group of mercenaries called the Black Claws lurking in the forest planning to kill me.”

“By the Graces! Why didn't you say anything?”

“We were in Kelt Apar!” she said, feeling more and more anxious about it. Now that the alcohol had mostly faded, her choice to not tell anyone seemed foolish. “There's no safer place on all of Moth, right? Even now, we're on a wide road patrolled by rangers, heading to a frequented mountain shrine. Mistress Yarina and Ox can see anything that happens in the forest, so if there really is a threat, they'd know about it.”

“You think Saijar has something to do with this?” Quentin asked.

Pomella thought of all the reasons she suspected him. “I don't know for certain,” she admitted. “But Sim insisted they were from Rardaria. And who else could know about me? You saw the large entourage he came with.”

“We'll need to be extra careful,” Quentin said. “And we should tell Yarina as soon as we return.”

They walked in silence for a while before Quentin spoke again. “Where did you go after your meeting with Yarina? I went looking for you.”

“I ended up visiting with the gardener,” Pomella replied. “He's a very funny—what?”

She cut off as Quentin whipped his head to stare at her. “Pomella, he's Unclaimed! What were you thinking?”

“So?” she replied, her eyes narrowing. “He's a nice old man. He's harmless!”

“He's
Unclaimed
. You don't know how he became that. He could be a killer.”

“Blessed Saints, Quentin!” she burst out. “He's just an old man! He didn't try to kill me! Well, other than leaving all that chi-uy out for me.”

“You're on the verge of becoming a Mystic,” Quentin said. “There's no higher status in the world. Every baron on the Continent might bow to you someday. Why would you be seen consorting with somebody like that?”

She gaped at him. “Who are you? What happened to the nobleman who was friendly to the commoner girl? There's nothing wrong with an old Unclaimed man. Do you think Mistress Yarina would let him stay at Kelt Apar if he was dangerous? He was just lonely and wanted some company. You would be, too, if all you did was trim bushes and raise sheep all day long.” Pomella refrained from mentioning that she'd also been judgmental of the gardener—something she felt guilty about now.

“You're right,” Quentin said at last after walking quietly for a handful of minutes. “I'm sorry. Some old habits are hard to shake. Please forgive me, Pomella-my.”

She answered by taking his hand and kissing the back of it. “There you are,” she said.

He smiled back. “I will admit that I didn't mind how chi-uy affected you.”

Pomella smiled at him. “No, I suppose you didn't. Although I regretted it later. Drinking, I mean. Not the other stuff.”

The morning stretched thin and, thank the Saints, the rain finally let up, bringing some sunshine. Pomella dared not hope that it would last. She lowered her hood, welcoming the cool breeze. The land sloped upward, and MagDoon loomed in front of them. They ate a highsun meal from the provisions in their packs. Pomella found the little stone cup from Lal's cabin in her pack. A smile crossed her face. The gardener had obviously packed their rations.

She and Quentin continued on, and the fresh air helped diminish Pomella's headache. Just as she began to feel better, her feet started aching. MagDoon was still distressingly distant, let alone its summit. She groaned and wondered if Saint Brigid ever grumbled about sore feet. Probably not, as she rode immortal steeds and traveled by blathering rainbows.

As Pomella and Quentin approached the mountain, the road thinned until it turned into little more than a footpath sloping upward. She imagined herself an ant, crawling up the leg of the mighty MagDoon. She wondered where Saijar and Vivianna were. Surely they came by the same road? Were they ahead or behind? Were they together?

Quentin walked ahead of Pomella, his long strides chewing up land. The idea that they'd be camping together alone tonight suddenly occurred to Pomella. Her heart beat faster as she wondered what that would mean, and whether there would be certain expectations.

Late in the afternoon, they came to a crossing where the trail split into four separate paths. A tall stone standing on its edge loomed above them. Faded runes crossed its flattened surface, but neither she nor Quentin could make them out. He and Pomella moved on quickly, choosing a path at random, suspecting the stone was a marker that indicated the beginning of MagDoon's summit trails.

Walking for another hour, they followed long switchbacks under the cover of spring-budded aspens standing amid towering evergreens. Soon they topped a low rise. Quentin stopped and pointed back the way they came. “Look,” he said.

Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear and ignoring her throbbing feet, Pomella gazed across the top of the Mystwood. The sun set into the tree-lined horizon, painting the sky and clouds with dazzling brushstrokes of pink and lavender. Pomella thought of her garden, and the flowers there that grew the same color.

A saying of her grandmhathir's sprang to mind.
Tend your garden as if it were the entire Mystwood, Pommy.

The treetops of the forest swayed in unison under the wind howling in from the distant ocean. Hector and Ena flew by, swirling around each other.

Turning, Pomella looked up the mountain. It seemed so ominous to her, as if it were staring down at her, displeased with her presence. Her coming meant something, and the mountain knew it.

“What is it?” Quentin asked.

“It's just a long way up,” she replied, unable to explain her discomfort.

Quentin shrugged. “We'll make it. It'll take a full day of hiking tomorrow, but I think we'll be fine. Assuming the weather holds.”

“The stories say Saint Brigid died here,” Pomella said. “After all her journeys, having lost everything, she wandered the world, but was drawn to MagDoon. She lived as a hermit, never speaking again, lest she cry out for her lost child. The Mystics knew of her presence on the mountain until one day she was just … gone.”

“I've never heard that version of the tale,” Quentin said. “I grew up hearing the stories of how her laghart followers decapitated her. But you would know better. In Keffra, we have no Saints. Beyond the Seven Graces, we only worship our ancestors. Family, you see, is all-important.”

They followed more switchbacks until they found an open patch of ground beneath a large outcropping of rock jutting from the main side of the mountain. Two massive oak trees provided additional cover.

“Thank the Saints,” Pomella mumbled, slipping her pack off. She yawned, no longer able to think straight.

“I'll set a fire,” Quentin said.

Pomella unpacked her meager gear and slumped against her pack. She looked west and could just manage to see the dimly lit sky through shadowed branches. She watched Quentin work, admiring his tall frame, but felt her eyelids growing heavy. How many hours had she been awake for now? She tried to count them, but soon her eyelids grew heavy, and she drifted off to sleep.

*   *   *

Pomella awoke during the deepest part of the night. A thin crescent moon hung in the sky, creating a gentle halo of light in the black and gray clouds. A multitude of stars managed to slip through the gaps in the cloud cover.

Pomella sat up, strands of hair stuck in her mouth. She pulled them away and rubbed her eyes. Her and Quentin's campfire had burned to ash and embers. His bedroll lay empty.

She stood, wrapping her cloak around herself to ward off the cold. Silvery fog clung to the mountainside and drifted across the treetops of the forest.

“Quentin?” she called, but heard no answer. Her hummingbirds were also absent. Feeling lonely, she pulled her cloak closer.

A warm wind began to blow, scattering her supplies and spreading ash. Fear gripped her stomach. A mournful sound echoed across the forest, as if the mountain itself had moaned.

She found herself back on the summit path, walking uphill. Her hair flew out behind her as the hot wind increased its fury and bore down onto her. She pushed ahead, not knowing why, but feeling an overpowering sense that she needed to continue.

Voices sang in the air, a chorus of deep, resonant sounds that rumbled the air and pounded her ears.

“Huzzzz-oh! Huzzzz-oh!”

Suddenly she found herself at the top of the mountain, where a massive temple of ivory and gold glittered in the moonlight. Six statues of majestic men and women, each holding a staff, stood guard before a stone archway. As she crossed beneath the arch she noticed a familiar symbol on its keystone. A tree, woven like a Mothic knot, exactly like the emblem on the cover of her
Book of Songs
.

“Huzzzz-oh!”

As she entered the temple grounds, she noticed grass beneath her bare feet. When had she lost her shoes?

The doors of the temple swung open and the song and wind blasted out. She took another step, wanting more than anything to go in.

“Don't go in there, or you'll die,” a voice said to her.

Pomella twisted. A little girl, no more than ten or eleven years old, rocked on her bare heels a short distance away. The girl had a petite frame, light tan skin, and long black hair, which hung straight down her back. Her vibrant lavender eyes stared through Pomella. She wore a simple white dress, which did not move in the howling wind. Dreadful anxiety rose in the pit of Pomella's stomach.

“Why?” Pomella asked. “What's in there?”

“I saw you coming,” the girl said. “I knew she would invite you.”

“Who invited me?” Pomella asked, looking again into the mouth of the temple.

The girl tilted her head back and inhaled deeply. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she spoke in a strange, rasping voice that made Pomella want to run.

“The mountain shakes and the moon is wrong. Fear the iron and awake the Mystic song.”

Thunder sounded, shaking the ground and nearly tumbling Pomella off her feet. The wind exploded with fiery intensity, flinging rocks and knocking over statues. A large crack formed on the face of the temple. A piece of stone blew off, hurtled through the air, and tumbled over the edge of the mountain. More pieces flew. Pomella ducked and covered her head.

“Who are you?” she shouted at the girl. “What's happening?”

The girl did not answer. She fell to her knees and screamed, then vanished.

Pomella whipped around as the temple crumbled. An avalanche of stone raced toward her. She screamed as it consumed her.

 

FIFTEEN

THE SUMMIT

Pomella gasped and opened her eyes.

Chill night air surrounded her, but Quentin's campfire offered some warmth. He slept on the other side of the fire with his back to her. A blanket lay gently across Pomella's body. She hadn't remembered putting it on. Quentin must have draped it over her.

Gentle rain fell across the forest. The only other sound she could hear was the quiet hiss and pop of burning firewood.

She stood up, the dream already fading from her memory. Her stomach grumbled.

Moving quietly around the camp, Pomella ate some food from the pack and stared at the black sky. What a strange dream she'd had. She remembered the little girl, the temple, and the wind with the
“huzzzz-oh”
coming from it.

This whole journey up the mountain sat strangely in her heart. She thought of the High Mystic's words to her the other day:
People and their deeds are bound to certain places and times, and here in Kelt Apar, within the Mystwood, I especially feel the light of the past masters guiding me in all my actions.

A couple of hours later, Pomella and Quentin broke camp as daylight touched the world. They packed their gear and ate as they walked, knowing they had a full day ahead of them to reach the summit. The rain stopped early and held off throughout the morning. Hector and Ena showed themselves occasionally, buzzing from tree to tree.