Chapter Twenty-Six. Unexpected Travel.
Twenty-Six
Unexpected Travel.
The sunlight that slants in through above hits a collection of black spikes, and as the illumination is refracted up and into my eyes, it’s like a rainbow at midnight, all the colors that exist flowing through ribbons of dense darkness.
I’ve never seen anything like it.
Drawn by the iridescent display, I go to touch what turn out to be crystals—and the pad of my finger is sliced sure as if I’ve been bitten.
As I jerk back my hand, my blood, red and vital, falls in drops that slip down in between the various levels and seem to be absorbed. Even though that can’t be right.
“This is not for me,” I hear myself say.
The box very nearly shuts on its own, and it’s a relief to flip that latch back into place. For good measure, I return the lot of it into the pack and resolve that I will never, ever touch the thing again.
And then I wait some more.
The compass ends up back in my hand. And then my thumb shifts over to the release at the top. Bracing myself for a revelation that is equally mysterious and beautiful, I trigger the mechanism and the top pops open to reveal—
A bog-standard white face with a black arrow and black directional demarcations around the outer edge of the circular face.
Nothing special at all. It’s not even pointing in the right fashion, for the sun rises in the east and the tidy little pointed head indicates north as I pivot my palm toward the rays that pierce through the treetops.
At least it doesn’t try to draw blood.
It’s as I’m shutting the cover with disappointment that something stops me. I lean down, staring at the face more closely.
The compass is looking back at me.
That’s the only way I can describe the eerie feeling as my gaze becomes captivated by what is actually nothing much, visually speaking. I find myself searching the tidy black N, S, E and W, and the combined letters NE, SE, SW, NW—
Both the hand and the directional markers begin to spin, slowly at first, then faster and faster, and warmth comes with the movement—
The black of the tempered steel changes to red, as if it’s gotten hot as a horseshoe newly from the forge.
“Magic…” I whisper as I trail my fingertips over the glass.
Folktales have described the force that used to weave through everything on Anathos, and hushed voices have speculated over what the Dark King harvested and corrupted for his evil ways.
And indeed, books have recorded both the history and the embellishment of what actually happened.
But I’ve never actually seen any magic outside of the Fulcrum—my strange dances with death notwithstanding.
Maybe not all of the sacred force is in that swirling barrier, after all?
Abruptly, an image of the black bands of contamination and the floating black snow comes to mind, and I think of the root of all evil and his army of demons—
A subtle pull registers on my right side, as if my arm is being tugged. I even jerk my head up, expecting to see Merc hauling me to my feet. I’m alone. And as soon as I look back down at the compass’s face, the spinning intensifies until—
POP!
The vortex claims me and the world disappears.
My only anchor becomes the compass face, and it’s no longer standard at all.
The simple letters on the outer rim are multiplying, and then they swirl off the instrument, lifting up such that the optical illusion becomes not alphabetical, but …
linear? Lines, lots of lines, now, that twist in and stretch out, to form a jagged pattern that closes in on itself.
Anathos. It’s the pattern that is etched on the front cover.
And beneath the mirage, the now-red directional arm stops.
Tilting forward, I look down through the map until a dot in its center lines up with the anchor for the directional arm … and a shiver goes through me. Just as I could pick out my village on the etching, I find my position.
And it’s where the arrow is pointing to.
Except it doesn’t stay there. As a vibration shimmers into my palm, the red arm slowly swings in a southerly direction.
Until it stops.
On the face of the compass, the original black letters reappear. Dead south. The arm is pointing … directly downward.
At the Kingdom of the South.
The journey Mr. Lewis presented me with—
The swirling returns, the flow churning in the opposite direction. Instantly, the magical map disintegrates, the lines are sucked back into the face, and the heat as well disseminates. Another pop! sounds somewhere in my head, and I gasp as scents of the forest fill my senses once again—
Something has changed, and alarm rings in my chest.
I’m still in the glen of trees, except I’m no longer sitting on the ground. I’m up on my feet, and a moment of pure panic has me whirling around—
The pack is on my back.
Ripping it off my shoulders, I shove my hand through the bag’s throat—
The box is in there, and so is the compass in its satchel.
When did I put the latter back?
That’s when I notice the sunlight. Through the canopy’s interlaced pattern of leaves, I can tell that the angle is all wrong. No longer low to the horizon, the bright, piercing beams are directly above me.
It’s noontime.
“Merc?” I turn about. “… Merc?”
As I go to pick up his pack, I grunt as I get it off the ground and settle its weight on my shoulder, and his leather surcoat is just as heavy with all its chains. Neither are as wet anymore, and I worry I’ve lost not hours, but days.
Paddling through branches with the heavy load, I fumble and trip my way along the forest’s maze of trunks, blindly running.
I have no idea how far I go or in what direction, but when I hear horses off in the distance I freeze and duck down.
Through the branches, the travel road that winds its way around to the entrance of the village is barely visible, but I see enough to assess the men who appear in the distance.
It’s our mayor. His plump figure is jiggling in the saddle, with both his threadbare suiting and the faded red banner that proclaims his pitiful status straining to confine his girth.
He’s flanked by two of his three sons, who function as his personal guards, such as they are.
Given how much they share their sire’s affection for ale and bread, it’s hard to see them offering much defense if the lot of them are set upon, and they also share his current dissatisfaction.
None of them seem pleased about whatever outing they’ve been on, their ruddy faces set in thin-lipped frowns.
I’m guessing this has something to do with me, although I can’t imagine they went all the way to Prosperitus to report what happened to the King’s court. Besides, they couldn’t return this quickly—
Unless I have lost days.
Triangulating their position, I decide no, they’ve probably just been to the Temple of the Sooths for advice, and going by their expressions, the foretelling was a grim one—
I sense a presence looming at my rear.
Before I can stop myself, my lips part in a startled scream.
Only the hard palm that slaps over my mouth keeps me silent.