Of Mortal Dreams: Chapter XII

Vara

It had been a perfectly peaceful summer.

The spring melts were gone and the children would spend hours hunting for rocks and playing in The Flats, the shallowest and broadest part of the river. Flowers were blooming all across the slopes in great bursts of color—red, lavender, yellow. The villages were lively, the roads busy. Deer were plentiful and the wolves hadn’t come yet. No one knew how bad things were going to get.

In a sunny part of the forest, not far from the village of Tor, goats pawed the earth and carped, jostling one another in the sunlight. Just off the beaten path, Vara was sharpening her favorite knife and Haenor was watching the goats, swinging a stick here and there, to make sure the stupid little creatures didn’t wander off. Haenor had light hair, light eyes, and a good-natured face full of freckles. She normally wore dark green—her favorite color since childhood—but today she was in a pale shift dress. Vara reasoned that Haenor’s mother was probably mending her nicest green dress for the upcoming festivities.

Vara ran her sharpening stone along the length of her knife. The hiss of grating metal shivered through the air and the goats balked. She smirked, testing the blade against the hair on the back of one arm. It met no resistance.

“You look a little deadly there,” Haenor joked. “How were the hearings?”

“Tiresome.” Vara sheathed the blade and leaned back against the tree. “But Lord Yandric wants Yorian there from now on. He needs the practice.”

Haenor grinned. “The Hytes and Thorns were at it again, I’ll bet.”

“They’d kill each other over that muddy puddle they call a field,” Vara sighed, looking up at the blue sky through the leaves. “Even with the wedding so close.”

Haenor snorted, but Vara had to look over her shoulder. As a prominent servant of the Tors, it would be frowned upon to discuss matters of the people and, certainly, to mock them. Haenor leaned back against her own tree trunk and lifted her face to the bright sky.

“Evjen Thorn and Sarina Clovys—Sarina Thorn, now,” she mused, tossing a patch of moss at one of her herd. It squealed. “A shame he’s off market, but I do love a wedding. I can’t wait to dance.”

Vara smiled. She enjoyed a good party, too. Normally, weddings were celebrated together, at harvest-time, which was several moons away. But Evjen was one of Yorian’s oldest friends and Sarina was the eldest daughter of a northern lord, so this wedding would stand on its own. The village and fortress were stuffed with strange guests. It was exactly why Vara had come out this way—for some peace and quiet. Well, almost quiet.

“But, with Evjen gone, who are you going to dance with?”

Haenor turned to Vara and wiggled her eyebrows. “Osper.”

Vara wrinkled her nose. “Haenor.”

“What?” Haenor retorted. She tossed her copper-gold hair, turning dramatically so that Vara caught the profile of her slightly smashed nose. “He’s handsome.”

Vara didn’t deny it. “He’s bald.”

“Barely.”

“You can’t be barely bald!”

“Yes, you can! There’s the shiny kind of bald, that’s been there forever—” She waggled her finger and Vara snorted. “—and then there’s newly bald. Besides, all the better for seeing that face.”

Haenor wiggled her eyebrows, yet again. Vara couldn’t stop the laughter then. They dissolved into naughty, shameless giggles as they had many times.

“Besides, shouldn’t you be able to fix that?”

Vara took a breath. “What—his baldness?”

“Sure,” Haenor said, gesturing at Vara’s satchel of herbs and tinctures. “There must be something for it.”

“Oh Hands, no,” Vara laughed, patting the heavy leather bag. “It doesn’t work like that. And even if I could, the Seven don’t marry.”

“I hear that Osper is thinking of moving on,” came the smug reply and pursed lips.

Haenor wasn’t wrong. But Vara was no longer thinking about her friend’s lofty marriage aims or about Osper’s retirement. Raised voices were coming from the near side of the village, and they had the unmistakable tinge of fear. Haenor watched Vara, waiting for her to decide whether something bad was happening. When someone began screaming, Vara was on her feet and running, her satchel of herbs at her side. She wondered who had gotten hurt. It sounded serious. She only hoped that she wasn’t too late.

The wails intensified. Up ahead, she caught people running between the village shops then into the forest. She slipped down an alley, stepped into the sun, and was at once thrown onto her back foot by a runner—the black-bearded barkeeper, Sinjhin. Unused spear in hand, he fled with naked terror on his face. His eyes were still wide when an arrow struck him in the neck and laid him low. Vara scrambled backwards. She was still on the ground when a massive figure blocked the sun and cast its shadow over her.

Sharp hooves batted the air. A harsh, shrill cry filled her ears. The thick, braided mane shuddered before her like a whip. Vara cringed back, shielding herself. Horses—real horses—were uncommon in the mountains. She had only seen one or two in all her life, and their size was always a shock.

Far above her, the horseman cocked his head. She couldn’t see his eyes against the bright sky, but she felt them peering down at her. His stillness, in the midst of the chaos, sent an unforgettable shiver of fear through her legs and arms. She scrambled to her feet and turned to flee, but another man had appeared at the rear entry and he closed on her. She drew her knife. The horseman scoffed.

“I’ll be,” the man on foot muttered, lowering his hands. “It’s Tor’s healer girl.”

“Are you sure?”

The man on foot nodded. “I’ve seen her with Yorian.”

They know us. This was no roving gang, at least, but there was no way to tell whether that was a good thing or not yet. Her sense of relief came and went.

“Well,” the horseman said coolly, with a voice used to being obeyed. “Always good to have another.”

A familiar horn sounded out. Through the trees, the fortress of Torfell towered above them. The gates began to close. Her stomach twisted.

I hope Haenor didn’t follow. She didn’t dare glance over her shoulder, towards the forest. I hope she got inside.

“You’ll never take the fortress,” Vara blurted out, madly. “No one ever has.”

“I don’t need a fortress.” The horseman sniffed. “I don’t even want it.”

Vara’s heart pounded. Her knife felt truly pitiful in her trembling hand. She didn’t know how to wield it. She had only ever used it to strip medicinal bark.

“Then why—” Her voice caught. “Why are you here?”

“To encourage Yandric to return my brother,” he offered, eyes narrowed. “In words he understands.”

Vara blinked, thinking through Torfell’s most famous criminal prisoners. There was just one he could mean.

“Then—are you Melors Bune?”

“I am.”

Her eyes widened. “But your brother murdered Lord Thorn’s Righthand in cold—”

“My brother meted out justice to a man who fell upon his wife,” the southern warlord bit back, his voice low and fast and sharp. “That the bastard served one of Yandric’s flatterers is of no concern to me. My brother has wasted away in that dungeon long enough.”

The ground shook as the bulk of Bune’s men charged through the town, torches and shields in hand. Bune’s horse balked at the sudden chaos, shifting backwards and leaving the alley entrance open. Seeing her chance, Vara ducked through and, for the briefest moment, thought she had escaped. But a crack rang out and something gripped her right ankle, yanking it out from under her.

Winded from the landing and her own mounting fear, she grasped wildly at the trampled earth as something—or someone—dragged her backwards, undaunted. Steely hands made short work of her arms and bound her wrists behind her. Someone set her on her feet, turned her around, and her head snapped to the side. Her eyes smarted. The world shook. Burning pain spread from her jaw to the crown of her head. The foot soldier raised his hand again.

“That’s enough,” Bune ordered. “Enough.”

“You will be still, or you will be hurt,” the man from the alley stated plainly, holding her up. “Right then? Good.”

The village was now engulfed in flames, an acrid stench and heat billowing towards her from the north. A whistle and a whoop went up. As quickly as they had come, the attacking force turned and headed back south. They were dragging people along with them—men and women that Vara recognized, guests who were there for the wedding. Her knees buckled. Her ears rang.

“Here, give her to me,” the horseman ordered. Everything tilted again. She was on the horse now, facing southwards. The wrong way. “I’ll get her to Tareth.”

Tareth. Interesting.

The strange, commanding voice didn’t belong. It was too loud and somehow echoed, but not in Vara’s ears and certainly not as part of the memory. The shouting and movement and pungent smell of smoke from that day faded abruptly. Vara looked around, searching for who had spoken.

A slender man stood at the corner of the alleyway, wearing black from neck to foot. He had shocking white hair and a young sort of face. She knew him.

But wait. That wasn’t right. He hadn’t been there a moment ago.

No. He shouldn’t be there at all.

This was a memory.

Revon.

Indeed.

Realization—icy and unforgiving—washed over Vara then. The memory shuddered and blurred at her sudden distress, its clarity fading in the light of her understanding. And focus. Vara’s only goal was to shut him out and put as much space between them as possible. She began pulling away, pulling herself out of the memory, but Revon matched her. The weight on her increased, pushing her back downwards and in, hampering her movement. It was like trying to swim to the surface of a deep river with shoes, clothes, and an anchor tied around her waist. His sigh of disappointment was almost audible.

We had better just be done with this, don’t you think?

The village, the horseman, the battle were all gone now, replaced by colorless, writhing shapes and reaching shadows. The only clear thing was him. Revon.

I will outlast you.

Now, she remembered. He wanted something from her—something from her memories. He had been rifling through them, poring over them, sometimes over and over again. Every once in a while, she would awaken to a stone ceiling and stone floor. He would make her eat then send her back into the darkness. She had fought him every time. She would rather die than—

Everyone thinks that.

Vara gritted her teeth, hating that he observed her every thought. Hating that he had seen her memories with Haenor, that last memory of feeling truly safe.

Until the Vault.

The way he said it, with a strange sort of pleasure, made her sick with dread.

In the Vault, I will have you.