Chapter 8 Odessa
Eight
Odessa
“‘A man with golden hair stands on a…’” I studied the next word in the book, trying to translate it from the old language. “Clelvi’if-selfayd.”
Brother Skore urged his horse closer, peering at the page. The sting of his magic was worth his help in translating this journal. “Cliffside.”
“Cliffside,” I repeated. “Got it.”
With a grunt, the priest moved away.
Skore had begrudgingly agreed to teach me the old language, and for the past three days, if he wasn’t instructing or correcting me, he was his normal, silent self.
We’d started deciphering this journal the day Brother Dime left Damon and Sally’s house. The lessons were short—not only was there a limit to how long I could stand being around his magic, but Brother Skore seemed equally bothered by my company.
Though not bothered enough to leave us alone so we could escape.
Since we’d left the cabin, the only time he gave Evie and me space was so we could relieve ourselves in the trees—he made sure to always keep Freya in those moments.
So while I bided my time and waited for an opening to bolt, I was learning the old language.
Thankfully, it wasn’t all that complicated. It was more of a dialect that Calandrans had shortened and simplified over time.
We’d made it nearly halfway through this journal, and I stumbled over words less and less frequently. There was a music to the old language, a cadence I’d started to hear when I read it aloud or whispered phrases to myself.
Mostly, I struggled with the handwriting in the journal. Some pages were clear and crisp, the elegant, swirling scrawl a work of art. But on others, the writing was sloppy and smudged. The pages were wrinkled, too, like Luella had spent more time studying some than others.
“‘A man with golden hair stands on a cliffside,’” I continued.
“‘A ship is anchored in an ocean bay, the waves rocking it back and forth. Seven circles of women sit huddled together on the deck, their heads bent in quiet prayer. But one woman with unbound red hair stands apart from the others. She keeps post at the stern, watching as the last rowboat of her sisters pushes away from a sandy beach beneath the cliffs. Only when those women are aboard, nestled in their own prayer circle, does the woman look to the golden-haired man. The call to raise the anchor rings out, mingling with the caw of seabirds. Tears stream down her face. The man stands on the cliffside until the sun sets, crying for his beloved as she sails into the unknown.’”
Like most of the tales in this book, the story was short. But reading it took forever as I paused to interpret the sentences and squint at the illegible sections of script.
Cathlin had said the book read almost like a person’s dreams. Like Sonnet’s Ninety.
I wished my friend was here to talk about it with me. To help me understand how Luella had taken inspiration from these tales to create an elixir that contributed to the most deadly and dangerous infection our continent had ever known.
Was Cathlin alive? Had she survived the night of the crux in Ellder? Gods, I hoped so. I signed the Eight, praying that one day, we’d meet again.
“Do you think she ever came back to the man with golden hair?” Evie asked, staring at the journal in my hands.
“I think so.”
Evie thought about it for a moment. “Me too.”
In truth, I had no idea if they had ever seen each other again. But right now, I needed to believe in lovers reunited. That the man had found his beloved before they went to the shades.
“I’m hungry,” Evie muttered, looking to Brother Skore. “Can we stop?”
He didn’t reply.
That meant no.
“That means no,” Evie mumbled, making me laugh.
Day by day, she was clawing her way back to herself. We still had plenty of tears and sad moments, but my brave, sassy girl was breaking through her sorrow.
“When we get to Quentis, you’ll get to meet Arthalayus,” I said, hoping to distract Evie from her hunger.
“Who’s that?”
“My brother. We call him Arthy. He’s about your age, and I bet you’ll be friends.”
It was a small hope for us both. We were clinging to small hopes at the moment. Anything to look forward to. Anything to keep us going until we reached Quentis.
I closed the journal and tucked it into my satchel. I’d learned the hard way that reading too much while riding meant a miserable headache and dizzy spells. “How about another story? One I read about in a book of myths and legends? Did Cathlin ever tell you the tale of Sora?”
“No. Who’s Sora?”
“Sora was a woman who sailed across the realm. She was gone for one hundred years, and when she returned, she brought with her creatures we’d never seen before.”
“What kind of creatures?” Evie twisted to look up at me. “Animals? Or monsters?”
“Monsters,” I whispered. “In Sora’s story, they were created by a powerful god. A god we don’t know. And she brought them to Calandra.”
Evie gave me a sideways stare. “Luella told me that monsters were created by the Six.”
“They were.”
“But who is this other god? What’s his name?”
“I’m not sure. I only know of the Eight. Maybe his name was Harry. Or Hank. Or Herman.”
“Herman?” Evie dissolved into a fit of giggles that filled my heart.
“Okay, maybe not Herman.”
Sora’s legend was just a story, likely a farfetched children’s tale. But if it earned me a laugh, then I’d spend hours listing silly names for a make-believe god.
“I bet Luella would know. She knows lots.” Evie faced forward and hummed. “I miss Luella.”
“I miss her, too.”
Keeping Luella’s death a secret felt more and more like a lie, but I couldn’t bear to add more to Evie’s grief, not yet.
Evie didn’t even know she’d lost her mother. To her, Luella had always been a caregiver and a teacher. When the time came to tell her the whole truth, I wanted it to come from Ransom.
There were secrets upon secrets wrapped in this girl’s identity.
She had no idea that Ransom was her brother. That she was the daughter of the king and queen of Turah. And she didn’t know that Zavier was not her real father.
Hell, Zavier wasn’t even his name.
It was Dray.
Dray was Ransom’s cousin, and because of their resemblance, he’d been the prince’s royal double for over a decade. Yet I couldn’t seem to make myself think of him by any other name than Zavier. The name might have been given to Ransom, but it belonged to his cousin.
Zavier was the man I’d thought I’d married. Zavier had introduced himself to my father as the crown prince. Zavier was Ransom’s most loyal ranger.
But he was not a prince, nor was he Evie’s father.
That was King Ramsey, a man I loathed with every fiber of my being.
Someday, Evie would need to know the truth. But I was in no hurry for that day to come. Not when it meant she’d lose her papa all over again.
“Do you think we’ll ever see Damon and Sally again?” she asked, tearing me from my thoughts.
“I hope so.”
And I hoped someday, we could pay them back for their kindness and hospitality.
Sally had made sure our bellies were full, and she’d managed to get most of the bloodstains out of Evie’s shirt—only a hint of discoloration remained. Even Merry, the fuzzy rabbit with floppy ears, looked as good as new.
Damon had spoiled Freya, giving her grain and a bath. He’d found a set of saddlebags so that I didn’t have to carry everything in my satchel. And when it was time for us to go, they’d sent us on our way with spare clothes, food, and canteens for water.
Without gold or coin, the only way I’d been able to repay them for their generosity was with a warning. As I bid Damon farewell, I’d told him about the crux scout and urged him to prepare for the migration sooner rather than later.
The day we left their cabin, we rode around the southernmost tip of the Axmar Mountains. That night was the last I’d slept beneath the Turan sky.
We’d crossed into Ozarth today and had since been traveling along the other side of the Axmars.
The landscape was much the same as it had been, an evergreen forest at the base of towering, jagged mountains.
But it wasn’t Turah, and all day, I’d had this nagging feeling that we were going the wrong way.
We were too far from home.
And to get to Quentis, we had a long, long way to go.
Evie tipped sideways, holding on to the saddle’s horn as she craned her neck to stare up at the trees. She scrunched up her nose.
“What?” I asked at the same time I caught an acrid scent. “Brother Skore, is that smoke?”
He lifted a finger to his thin lips, then veered off our current path, riding through the trees.
The scent grew stronger as we followed. Past trunks and limbs, a slight haze rose in the distance.
Skore was leading us straight toward it.
“Is that a good idea?” I whisper-yelled.
He kept riding.
I frowned, gritting my teeth as we followed him toward the smoke. It got thicker and thicker, enough to singe my nostrils and make Evie cough. Then, with a gust of magical wind, it was gone, floating up past treetops and into the azure sky.
With the smoke cleared, a fire came into view, orange flames bright against the brown-and-green landscape. A loud pop boomed off the trees, followed by a constant crackle.
A woman with stringy gray hair tossed a heaping pile of pine needles on a blaze built as tall as Brother Skore. She wore a dingy tan dress that might have once been white. The sleeves were gone, cut off at the shoulders to reveal thin arms and pink, wrinkled skin.
She stared at the fire as a cloud of gray smoke billowed, oblivious to us riding up behind her. Another pop snapped her out of her trance, and she hurried to a nearby blanket, swaying as she walked. She dropped to a seat beside a wicker basket, a pail of water, and a knife.
Brother Skore held up a hand for me to stop as we drew close enough to feel the heat from the fire. He dismounted his horse, tossing me the reins as he walked toward her.
The woman finally noticed him. The corners of her mouth turned down as she looked at the Voster and extended an arm.