They truly must have been a sight. Trudging through the gates of a small town and entering the plaza at midday, disheveled, dirty and exhausted. The locals of St. Meran were justified in staring at Charlotte, drooping and fighting against her bulky dress as she plodded toward the central fountain and collapsed before it with a moan; Micah in his tattered gear; and Cal flying down to deliver a bureau from the sky. In fact, they must have been the oddest trio of companions these people had ever seen in their lives.

  However St. Meran was a true blessing. By luck, it was situated only an hour’s trek through a forest from the spot their vessel beached. The unassuming settlement had been spotted from the sky by Cal, who immediately reported the good news and led the way.

  “Micaaaaaah,” Charlotte moaned, crumpling to the ground and covering her eyes with her arm. “I’m hungry and tired and dirty… and hungry… and tired.”

  Micah looked about the expansive cobblestone plaza. It was a surprisingly sunny day, and the warmth seemed to have congregated the townspeople into the square to shop or eat. The clothing of the citizens of St. Meran struck him as peculiar. They wore extravagant robes woven with intricate designs and colors, which at first glance seemed obtrusive. But they moved easily, suggesting they wore the garments daily. And each ensemble was different, and most seemed to coordinate with the person wearing it. Children wore bright colors, young women donned alluring and sophisticated patterns, and the men wore robes with dark, solid colors and added accoutrements of various utility such as hoods or pockets or sword sleeves.

  The plaza’s festive decorations suggested an event was about to take place. A wire encircled the court, strung on rooftop stanchions or light posts and bedecked with white baubles containing lanterns. And there were men at work building a stage while women and children painted immense walls of canvas, the backdrops for a play.

  As he observed their surroundings, many of the people stared back curiously, but none seemed overly cautious or suspicious. Hopefully, it meant they would be able to find shelter with little difficulty and few questions.

  “We will want to locate the church, if the city has one,” he finally said, turning to Charlotte. “Where should we start? Cal and I have never been outside Carnel. You’re going to have to guide us.”

  She groaned, slowly getting up and shaking the dirt from her hair. “I don’t have any idea. I’m from Rypsy, a vastly different country. There’s not much I can tell you that you couldn’t already guess for yourselves. Elyas is a tiny nation, but wealthy and popular among the rich. We won’t find many of the magic comforts of Carnel, though, for obvious reasons.”

  Micah frowned, looking down each road. When they first arrived, it appeared to be a small town, but judging from the amount of people in the square and its level of activity, he suspected St. Meran might be larger than it first seemed. Despite his initial hesitance due to their haggard appearance, it seemed they had no choice but to ask the locals for assistance.

  It was in that moment when Micah noticed they were being watched. Not like the others, but with more rapt interest. A short, elderly man in white robes peered at them from across the square, standing beside a wagon full of large barrels and rubbing his chin. He couldn’t have stood out more. He wore a tall hat with a strange blue insignia and carried a wood staff twice his height. His left eyebrow and the right side of a wispy white mustache were missing, their absence highlighted even more by severely tanned skin.

  He seemed to make a decision when their eyes met. He smiled a toothy, enthusiastic grin and hobbled toward them, leaning heavily on his staff.

  “Hello there! Hello there!” he said, waving a hand and not at all troubled by his slow progress.

  Charlotte and Cal joined Micah in watching him. Charlotte waved back, immediately charmed.

  The old man finally reached them. “Greetings, friends! Greetings. You are guests to our good city, are you not?” He shook their hands with zeal. “Welcome, welcome! You look lost, if you allow me to say it. May I be of any help to you?”

  “Good day,” Micah replied. “My name is Micah Champlain, and this is Charlotte Goodsteel and Cal. We are looking for the church. Does St. Meran have one?”

  He chuckled. “Yes! As fate would have it, I am the Head Roshi. My name is Gamaliel Simon Rockferte, but you may call me Simon. I am at your service.”

  “Incidental,” Micah said.

  “Fortuitous!” Charlotte corrected happily. “You’re just the person we were looking for. We have traveled such a long way and hoped we might find some place to rest here.”

  Roshi Simon looked them up and down, chuckling again and tapping his staff against the cobbles. “I can tell. If I didn’t know any better, I’d have guessed you were mud-rolling enthusiasts. But considering we have one of Carnel’s famed Black Sons here, I’d have to suppose a reason more ominous, eh?”

  “You’re familiar with Carnel?” Micah asked.

  “More than familiar,” he replied. “But come, come. I can tell you are weary and recovering from hardship, so I’ll ask no questions of you. I am going back to the monastery now, and you are most welcome. There you can rest and recuperate. We can talk after. After.”

  Charlotte seemed near tears again. “Oh thank you, Simon. Thank you so much. I wish you could know how grateful we are. And perhaps, if it’s not too much trouble, is there some place at the monastery I could take a bath?”

  “Yes, yes,” he replied with his unending smile, leading them back to the wagon. “Rooms and baths and food and anything else you might need. If we have it, all you need do is ask, and it’s yours.”

  With some effort, Simon managed to climb into the wagon’s seat, where he took the reins and then watched in fascination as Cal came to fly above them, the bureau swinging by the end of his tail. Micah helped Charlotte up into the wagon before getting in himself.

  “Everybody is ready?” Simon asked. “Off we go, then.” He stirred the reins, and two chestnut horses complied, plodding back onto the road.

  The serendipitous appearance of the priest and the speed by which they found him astonished Micah. It was almost as if the man knew they would be there and was ready to aid them in their fatigue-stricken state. At any other time, Micah would have been severely suspicious of the sudden good luck, but for some reason, he didn’t doubt the good will of Simon or the providential manner in which he appeared. Deep down, something spoke to his impulse, telling him this man had been sent to them with sincere tidings and relief. Perhaps it was imprudent, but after witnessing the supernatural events that took place in the Mosaic Mountains, he didn’t think so.

  The pace was slow, yet pleasant. Simon even offered them food to eat along the way – a loaf of bread and a sizable slab of roasted turkey breast he happened to have with him, which they accepted with immense gratitude. As they scarfed the simple meal down to the last crumb, Simon told them all about the city of St. Meran, which was actually the second largest in Elyas. He explained that tens of thousands of poplar trees consumed the area, leading anybody flying above it to believe the town was small. But in fact, it sprawled over the countryside, and St. Meran’s central plaza was the only place devoid of its beautiful trees. The path of the wagon proved his words, as they traveled through green and yellow woods seeming without end. Autumn provided a continuous sprinkle of leaves, carpeting the forest floor. And Micah understood what Charlotte meant when she said Elyas was a wealthy country, because along the way, they passed dozens of lavish manors and sprawling estates.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  The wagon came to a hook in the road, a wide turn descending into a narrow, secluded valley. At the bottom of the path, Simon pulled on the reigns, bringing the animals to a stop, and his guests looked about in awe of their breathtaking new surroundings. A glen filled their gaze, so green it became hard to fathom a different color. Grass carpeted every inch of ground, and lichen wrapped the trunk of every tree. The fall season seemed to have no grip on this place, as not one leaf had yet turned color. And the quiet was profound, interrupted only by the scattered movements of the horses. A barely discernible path led to what must have been the church, a noble structure of wood and stone large enough to merit attention, yet modest enough to complement the forest’s peaceful surroundings. Numerous dragonflies hovered within shafts of light, zipping to and fro, but all other aspects of the vale seemed frozen in time, a haven set apart for the end of the world.

  “It’s like something out of a painting,” Charlotte whispered. “Simon, what is this place?”

  Simon nodded, seeming to appreciate the view as much as them, if not more. “St. Meran Valley. My home, and the worship place of our city.” He stirred the horses, and they continued on into the forest.

  “It’s lovely. Just so lovely. I could stay here forever.”

  The priest brought the wagon to stop before a moss-covered well, situated in a tiny courtyard before the church. Three young men emerged from double doors to meet them, dressed in the same garb as Simon and beaming equally pleasant smiles.

  “You’re back, Roshi! And you brought guests,” one said.

  “Yes, yes.” Simon climbed down from the wagon, followed by Micah and Charlotte. “Friends in need, Benjamin. Will you run ahead and see that rooms are made ready for them, and make sure extra settings for dinner are prepared, too. Elzo, would you and your brother please unload the grain barrels for me?”

  The apprentices happily set about to the tasks appointed them while Simon led Micah and Charlotte onto a small path that curved around the church. Upon closer inspection, the house of worship proved to be even grander than it looked from afar. Ivy slithered up stone walls imprinted with detailed carvings, and thick rafters were littered with old bird nests. But the long, rectangular structure was otherwise well-maintained despite an inescapable feeling of antiquity. Micah would have believed it to be older than the forest itself.

  The church turned out to be the first of many buildings in a complex sprawling over acres and surrounding a central commune with a large stone fire pit. Some thirty helpers of the monastery were visible, out and about and conducting various activities. There were teachers in the forest with students sitting before them and listening, young men meditating or training with staves, and still a gathering of others talking animatedly while washing clothes in a brook.

  “This is all part of the church?” Micah asked.

  “Quite a sight, isn’t it?” Simon said, leading them off to a corner where a long row of several dozen individual huts drove deep into the forest. “We have been blessed with much.”

  “Does everyone live here?”

  “No. Some do, while others come when they can. We are a community, which does not require membership or commitment. A haven for the weary, much like yourselves. We turn away no one, welcoming those in need with open arms.”

  “Are there any women?” Charlotte asked.

  “Oh yes!” he replied with a laugh. “You probably ask because you have not seen any. Of their own accord, for which we inept men are forever grateful, the women volunteer to oversee the workings of our orphanage, which provides for many dear children now.”

  Simon tapped his staff on the ground, coming to a stop before two of the huts. “Here are your cabins, my friends. Benjamin will have drawn hot baths and produced a set of new clothes for each of you, in case you want to blend in and avoid drawing too much attention to yourselves. If there is anything else you should need, come to me, and it will be done. Dinner will be at six, if your bodies find that food should win the struggle over rest.”

  Charlotte suddenly embraced the priest, bursting into renewed tears. “How can we ever thank you, Simon?”

  “There, there,” he said, patting her back. “God provides, my child.”

  “Yes he does!” She smiled her brightest smile to each of them before rushing up the short staircase of her hut and retreating inside.

  Micah waited until her door closed before turning back to the priest. “Roshi, we are forever in your debt for this hospitality. We have traveled a very hard road.” He exhaled deeply, exhausted both in mind and body. “But the last thing I want is to deceive you. We are fugitives from Carnel, and our presence might endanger everyone here, though I believe we are safe now. Even so, if you should desire we leave as soon as possible, we would not be offended.”

  The priest sidled forward and placed a gentle hand on Micah’s chest. “Son, this is not a place one is driven away. This is a place… one comes home. I knew the moment I laid eyes on you that demons haunted your path, but you have nothing to fear. Stay as long as you like. Rest. Be at peace.”

  He patted his chest before smiling and starting back for the church grounds. “Oh,” he said, turning back again. “But I would like to talk with you when it is possible. I can see that much is on your mind, and I would very much enjoy listening to your tale. But rest, rest. That can be later.”

  Micah nodded. “Deal.”

  As Simon suggested, there would be an inevitable fight between sleep and hunger, but it turned out to be no contest at all. After a hot bath, Micah succumbed to his immense fatigue and sunk into the warm, comfortable bed provided. In no time, he slipped into slumber, deeper even than the first time.

  He slept through the whole night, awaking half a day later in a daze that forced him to remember why he found himself in a tiny, square room. A dazzling beam of morning light streamed in through the lone window, parallel to the floor, which meant the sun had just risen. Micah rubbed his eyes, smiling in amusement. He’d slept over fifteen hours. Despite sore muscles and the pain in his arm, he still felt really good. If only he could sleep like that more often.

  He pulled back the covers and immediately shivered. The temperature must have plunged from the previous day. His breath fogged in short bursts through his mask, and frost painted the edges of the windowpane. Getting out of bed, he crossed the small space to a chair beside the bathtub where he had placed his clothes the day before. His scarf and gloves, jacket, and shoes remained where he left them, right next to his gear, but his ruined shirt and pants were missing, replaced by white garments and a mantle sitting in a neatly folded bundle.

  Cal wasn’t present, which meant he had found some place warmer to sleep. Micah considered summoning him for a fresh set of clothes, but thought better of it. His Murr had been just as exhausted the previous day, and he didn’t want to disturb him from possible rest.

  This meant, however, that Micah faced wearing white clothes. It seemed a simple thing, but it was unsettling, as he’d never worn anything but black. Donning a white scarf was one thing, but this was a different matter. He fingered the material of the tunic and finely stitched cloak, noting how soft the material felt. After several minutes, the choice became clear, and to his surprise, it wasn’t as hard to make as he thought. Either he could tolerate white clothes for a few hours, or he could wait until Cal appeared with his bureau. And he was never one to wait.

  He dressed himself in the foreign clothes, pulling the cloak over his body last. Looking down at himself, he marveled at the strangeness of what he was seeing.

  I’m wearing white.

  Just the thought was hard to fathom, and the more he dwelled on it, the weirder it seemed. He equipped his gear and decided to go for a walk to clear his mind. But first, he would check on Charlotte. Stepping out into the brisk morning air, he breathed in a frosty lungful. Lingering fog shrouded the forest from view, gray and wet. He crossed over to her hut, putting his ear to the door. Hearing nothing, he turned the knob, careful to swing the door open in silence.

  Clothes were strewn everywhere, and Micah’s bureau sat in the corner, drawers pulled out in various measures. Charlotte lay sleeping on her bed in a funny but comfortable-looking arrangement, one leg dangling over the side. A heaping mound of blankets covered her, and an arm draped over Cal, who slept in a ball beside her.

  Micah smirked. Traitor.

  He made a quiet crossing to the bed and observed her sleep with interest. There was something reassuring about it. Since the day they’d met, all he’d wanted was to provide some amount of comfort to her. Seeing the peaceful way she slept, it made him believe the goal was accomplished, if only for a moment. But could he believe it?

  He slipped one of his gloves off and tentatively reached a hand out. When it rested on her cheek, Charlotte smiled. She remained asleep, but a happy sigh escaped her lips. Hearing it, Micah smiled as well. And as he stroked her face with his thumb, dwelling on the softness of her skin, he supposed he might never see anything more beautiful in his life.