Chapter 10

  “Boil the Moonwater…right.”

  Fia lifted the silver flagon. It was heavier than expected, and its insides sloshed around precariously as she raised it to her shoulders. Then, slowly, carefully, she tipped it over, watching the misty liquid pool in the cauldron below.

  “Willowbark,” she muttered, scrapping the mossy shavings off her cutting board, “and Frostcap… stirring counterclockwise.”

  She stood there, working deliberately. This really wasn’t that difficult; the hardest part was keeping her eyes open. And even the smallest slip-up— she glanced at the singed walls and shattered remains of what looked suspiciously like three separate cauldrons— could have dire consequences.

  The brew turned a deep amber, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Now, where was that bone dust?

  She left the potion simmering and went to gather her things. She would need food, but also canvas, oil, and brushes. And, of course, Timor’s gift. The brightly colored book lay on the counter, and she scooped it up and into her satchel.

  She was ready.

  But first, the potion. It should be done now. Pulling an empty flask from the shelves, she placed a cloth over its mouth. Then she poured the concoction through it, using the silk to strain it. It was time to go.

  First stop: the market. It was just past dawn, and the streets were still empty. In the distance, Fia could already see Berta’s immense figure.

  “Fia,” she called out. “My, you’re early!”

  “Good morning, Berta! My sister sent me!”

  Berta waved, beckoning towards her excitedly.

  “And? What did she say? My back has been bothering me something terrible. You know she is the only one that has ever been able to help with it!”

  Always the same. But not this time.

  She reached into her pocket, retrieving the amber flask. “Sophie brewed this just now. A drop with every meal should do the trick.”

  “Oh, bless you, child, and your sister too!” She threw her arms around Fia, lifting her off the ground in a bear-like embrace and squeezing tight before setting her back down. Fia gasped for air, breathless from the loving coil.

  When she had finally caught her breath, she saw that Berta was watching her, eyebrows raised.

  “My dear, you’re all dressed up. Are you going somewhere?”

  “Yes, I’m…My sister is sending me north until the fighting ends.”

  “But Fia,” she frowned, “that’s where the fighting is! I hear the soldiers whispering about it every time they pass me. It’ll be much worse up north.”

  “The rebels wouldn’t be interested in anyone like me, Berta. I’ll be fine.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” the robust woman replied darkly. “And what of Sophie? I would feel much better if the two of you stuck together.”

  “Sophie has been called away to perform a special task for the King.”

  “That fool,” spat Berta. “Using children… what kind of—”

  “It is a great honor.”

  “Of course, it is,” she replied softly. “I just… I worry about you, Fia.”

  “There is no need to worry. Sophie has made preparations for me.” She smiled reassuringly. “She wouldn’t let me go if she didn’t know I’d be safe.”

  “That sister of yours,” Berta chuckled. “She really would do anything for you. I’m sure she knows best... Now, hold on just a moment.”

  Berta disappeared behind one of the stalls, returning quickly with a large basket.

  “Here you are, dear.” Inside, wrapped in a white cloth, were five silvery fish. Only they weren’t truly silver. With every subtle movement, they seemed to transform, the light dancing off their scales reflecting brilliant hues of every color.

  “They just came in this morning; I know they’re your favorite.”

  Now it was Fia’s turn. She wrapped her arms around Berta, burying her face into the sweetly smelling robes, hiding her tears in their folds.

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  “There, there, child.” She ran her fingers through Fia’s hair, stroking her head gently. “I shall miss you too.”

  Fia looked up, eyes still wet. “Berta.”

  “Yes?”

  “You should leave the market before lunch.”

  A shadow passed over Berta’s face, and in her eyes, Fia thought she saw recognition, an understanding. But then her face brightened, and she laughed, “Did Carl put you up to this? Has something planned, does he? Very well, I’ll play along. You can tell him I’ll be home before noon.”

  The northern gates of Orent were sealed, but there was a hidden exit. A path deep under the city’s streets that came up miles outside the walls. It was one of Sophie’s favorite secrets. An ancient stone tunnel with smooth, curved walls. Unnaturally smooth. It must have been made by magic, for it had no edges, and Fia couldn’t think of any tool capable of carving such a shape into solid rock.

  Underneath the city was a vast network of tunnels like this. Tangled branching paths that spiraled out in a complex warren. If one knew how to navigate the confusing web, it could be used to reach almost any part of Orent undetected.

  Sophie had been such a person. It gave her great joy to suddenly appear as if from thin air. Being a sorceress, she could’ve achieved this effect without the tunnels. But Sophie had always preferred the more practical approach. It had been a favorite game of hers to stalk Fia from the shadows, waiting till the opportune moment and then pouncing, dragging her squealing into the darkness below.

  When the gates had closed, Sophie had begun adding carvings to the tunnels, little signposts, and directions to guide Fia. This way for sweets or follow me if you’re late. But most importantly, a path out of the city. She had even built an entrance to the system into the basement of their shop, a way to escape in times of trouble.

  Traversing the tunnels alone was always a nerve-wracking experience. The light of her golden orb only extended a few feet in her front of her, and at its edge, strange shadows danced. Fia had never actually met anyone in the tunnels. But sometimes, she felt she could hear distant echoes, the footsteps of unknown beings, creeping through the dark. It was a relief to see Sophie’s final message. A little arrow pointing up.

  Fia exited the tunnels out onto a grassy hill at the far edge of the Kingswood. Through the trees, she could just make out the Imperial Stoneway. The plan was to follow it as far north as the road went.

  It was another warm day, but the north would be cold, and this was exciting. It might even have snow. Fia knew all about snow. It was like ice but soft, although sometimes it seemed it could be very hard. She would have to see it for herself to be sure.

  Up ahead was a fork in the road. One path snaked through the hills, disappearing over the horizon; the other led to Torin, the closest settlement to the Capital. Standing in between the roads was a tall, thin man leading a mule. The poor beast struggled behind him underneath the weight of an enormous rucksack.

  “You there!” He called out as she approached. “Girl! Come, sample my wares! I carry with me the finest jewels, the sweetest perfumes, the deepest of rouge! “You,” he scowled as he got a better look at her, “don’t seem to be wearing anything like that. Are you quite alright?”

  His face was long, with sharp angular features. And he watched her hungrily, eyes following every step, like a hunter tracking his mark.

  “I’m just passing through,” she replied cautiously. “Do you know which road leads to a place called Heaven’s Gate?”

  “Heaven’s Gate? Heavens Gate!?” He repeated incredulously. “Goodness, girl! That must be at least a week's journey from here. And you, dressed like that? Are you sure you’re not touched in the head?” He snorted.

  “Do you know which way it is or not?”

  “Well, it's through those hills eventually,” he pointed away from Tori, “but I can’t imagine you’ll make it there. Seriously, take a look at my wares. I have quite the collection of coats.”

  “I think I know what I’m doing.”

  “Oh, do you now?” He smiled a cold, toothy grin. “It isn’t safe to travel alone in these parts. You head off into those hills, and I’d wager, in a week, I’ll come across quite the windfall on my journey home.”

  “Just exactly what are you trying to say?”

  “Oh, nothing, nothing,” the man sniffed, “Go on girl, you don’t need my help after all.”

  Moving past him up the road, she felt his eyes watching her back all the way and was glad when the path turned and she could disappear behind the hills outside of his view.

  The sun had just set, and the world was cast in shadows. Twilight. The perfect time for painting. Or so Timor’s book had said. It could be just before dawn or just after dusk; in a painting, it would be impossible to tell.

  The next step was finding a scene not likely to change. This was critical. Every difference from the painting would make the spell more unstable. This is what made the loop so uniquely suited for such sorcery. There was not enough time for much change, and any change that did occur would be quickly reset. No matter what, the world would always return to the state it was in when painting was made.

  Stepping off the path, she wandered amongst the hills, searching. It could be any spot, but for the first time, she needed something more. Something to tie her to the grimoire, a memory that would chain the spell to her heart.

  And there it was. Rising above the hills, branches outstretched, was a great elm. It looked like home. Not Orent, but her true home, and the elm that stood just outside their cabin. A land so far away. She had always wanted to return someday, and now perhaps she could. Now, anywhere she could paint, she could go.

  Fia set up on the hill opposite the tree, spreading out a large canvas. It needed to be large. For the spell to work, she had to be able to walk through the painting. And everything needed to be perfect. The angle, the colors, the proportions. Most mistakes would cause the spell to simply fail, but the book did warn that an accumulation of errors could lead to something far worse. It had not elaborated on this point, and Fia did not want to be the reason that later copies did.

  Her fingers itched, eager to paint once more. But perhaps it had been too long; did she still have the talent? But there was no need to worry. In her mind, it had been a lifetime since she had picked up a brush, but to her hands, it had not even been a day.

  She was nearly halfway done when the light became too dim to see, she would need to finish at dawn. There was a spell for drying the oil, but to cast it in the middle would ruin the picture. So, she left it hanging and set up camp under the tree.

  Once there was a fire roaring, she stretched out, staring up at the stars.

  Heaven’s Gate. She couldn’t wait to see it, and to paint it, then maybe they could visit together.

  She closed her eyes, wondering about him. Where was he? Somewhere far in the west. The stars burned bright as she drifted into dream. But not burned brighter than the eyes that watched her sleep. Not one pair, but two.

  Cycle: Timor 3-1