2. Ilaris
Ilaris
Asuit of armor crafted by an expert blacksmith used to be a rarity, a signal of family wealth and prosperity. Despite her penchant for mischief, my grandmother had apprenticed to—and later married—a blacksmith who made her a beautiful set of armor, silver-edged with gold braiding.
Today, rings are exchanged as a vow of love, but back then more work was required to prove one’s devotion.
Instead of bartering gold for diamonds, labor was required to show how intensely committed the giver was to their beloved, and the work was a sign of how willing they were to sacrifice for the life they hoped to build.
The suit of armor was the most valuable possession that Mother and I had.
It sat in its own corner, sometimes covered with a blanket to hide it from prying eyes.
No matter how tough our situation got, she refused to sell it for profit, and later gifted it to me when I left to begin my education in the city.
I assumed I’d never have a use for armor, and it took up so much space, I was often tempted to sell it. But now, as the train crawled to a halt in the middle of a grassy pasture, I was grateful I’d packed it, although I wished I’d worn it at the beginning of my journey.
I gritted my teeth as I limped off the train, dragging my bag behind me. My ribs were still sore from the beating, and my bruises were swollen, adding to my discomfort. A soak in a hot bath would do wonders; I could only imagine how I must smell after being cooped up on a train for a week.
A whistle blew as the train pulled away, barely five minutes after I’d stepped down. I didn’t move fast enough and ended up with a cloud of dust in my face, grit settling between my teeth as I stood, coughing until the air cleared again.
I glanced back. Nothing marked the place as a train station.
No platform. No ticket booth. No schedule posted, no way to signal for a return trip.
Just tracks slicing through the wild grass.
A whisper of disquiet went through me. Was this a one-way ticket then?
A way for the House of Scholars to get rid of me once and for all?
I shook the thought loose and turned back to my surroundings.
The air smelled rich and earthy, and the grassy hills rolled down, showing off the coast and a path with a sharp descent, winding back and forth as it led to the water’s edge. A mist of white clouds hung low over the water, hiding signs of the island and anything old and ancient that waited there.
Movement caught my eye: a figure standing off to one side, a short distance from the train tracks. A wizened man, his bald brown head gleaming, white beard trailing down his chest. One hand gripped a rope attached to an ox that grazed placidly.
I waved. “Hello. I'm looking for the village of Stonehaven. Do you know which way it lies?”
He blinked slowly, like an owl, lifted one gnarled finger, and pointed.
I squinted, the sun in my eyes, as I followed his finger.
There, barely visible through the grass, ran another dirt path, wide enough for a lone rider.
It pointed farther south, but still ran along the coast. That’s where I’d find my contact who’d take me across the water to the island where the ruins lived.
I glanced back at the man, calling, “Thank you.”
His lips moved, but no sound came out. I thought I made out the shape of his words.
Don’t go.
A chill threaded down my spine despite the afternoon’s warmth. I hoisted my bag and started walking before I could think too hard about what I’d seen. Behind me the ox bellowed, a low, mournful sound that rolled across the empty field and coiled tight around my chest.
Not long into my walk, the land opened up before me.
Trees sprang up, mountain ridges appeared in the distance, and a strange sort of golden glow danced through the grass.
I was tempted to stop, to write down the way the golden light slanted through the stalks and the shadows pooled in the hollows between the hills.
It was easy to believe there were tiny imps out there, watching me from the shadows, planning mischief as I passed.
My grandmother would have loved the wildness of this, the sense of standing at the edge of something ancient.
But my ribs ached with every step, and my footsteps slowed.
Just as soon as I thought I’d drop from the weight of my bag, the valley unfurled before me.
It spread out like a painting, huts nestled against the slopes, chalets dotting the hillside with their weathered shutters and stone chimneys.
Smoke curled from rooftops in lazy spirals, the scent of woodsmoke drifting on the wind.
Plots of farmland lay in perfect squares, their furrows dark against green.
Mountains rose in the distance, ridges sharp.
I sucked in a deep breath, it was so beautiful it made my heart hurt.
I wasn’t aware there was such beauty hidden in the secret places of the world.
Wind tugged at my skirts, a rustle of whispers in the air. Seek. Explore. Find.
I limped down the main road, ribs protesting with every step.
Despite the picturesque setting, a stillness hovered around the village.
Curtains twitched in windows, faces appearing and vanishing.
A woman sweeping her stoop stopped mid-stroke to watch me pass.
A child ducked behind his mother’s skirts, eyes wide, frightened.
Perhaps they weren’t used to strangers here.
The swish of a broom on stone broke the silence. A young woman stood on the doorstep of the tavern, which sat in the village center. A wood-carved sign creaked in the wind, depicting an apple with a mug and a tree beside it. The woman swept with vigor, although the stones were already immaculate.
When my shadow fell across the threshold, she looked up. Her face was open, bright eyes curious as she looked me up and down. “You’re the scholar?” she asked, her voice slightly accented.
I imagined what she might see. My long hair dry and frizzy from a week of train-grime, dirt caking my shoes and my clothes that didn’t fit the slight chill in the air. “That obvious?” I asked with a smile and a shrug.
“You’re certainly not from here, and you’re covered in dust. I gather you rode here on the roaring beast.”
I blinked, glancing at the sky.
She laughed. “That’s what we call the train. It’s loud, dirty, and sends all the sheep scattering. My brother was supposed to give you a ride here. I thought the idea of a city woman might tempt him, but no, he’s off somewhere, probably in the hayloft with someone he shouldn’t be.”
“I like walking,” I replied. “Besides, all I saw was an old man with an ox. He pointed me in the right direction. I assumed he was from here.”
Her smile faltered. “Old man? I don’t know him, but there are plenty of folk in the hills I’ve never met.
” Pushing the door open, she beckoned me to follow.
“Come in, have an ale and a meal. You’ll sleep here tonight, and tomorrow, Harlan will take you across to the island where your hut awaits. I’m Yonnie.”
“Ilaris,” I said, stepping into the doorway.
The tavern’s interior was warm and honey-scented, all rough-hewn timber and mismatched chairs worn smooth by years of use. A handful of patrons hunched over their mugs, conversation dying the moment I stepped inside. Eyes tracked me to the bar, not hostile, but with cautious curiosity.
I collapsed onto a stool, my bag thudding to the floor.
My stomach growled while Yonnie moved behind the counter with practiced grace.
She pulled down two mugs of hammered copper, old and dented, pouring generous servings of honey-colored liquid.
“First drink’s on the house, so’s the food.
You’re practically swaying on your feet. ”
“Thank you,” I said politely, hands wrapped around the mug.
“We make the mead here. The soil is rich for growing fruit, and honey is the sweetest this side of the mountain.”
She paused, watching me carefully as I took a sip.
Flavors lingered on my tongue: honey and wildflowers, with a dark undertone of something oak and earthy.
It warmed me from the inside, loosening the knot in my chest that had been there since the beating.
“This is delicious,” I breathed. “I’ve never tasted anything like it. ”
Yonnie winked. “I know. We send crates of it to the city, but there’s nothing like getting it fresh. Something about the mountain air improves everything.”
She swung into the kitchen, and a moment later, set down a plate.
Fresh bread steamed, its crust cracked and golden.
Beside it lay a wedge of sharp cheese, dried meat, and sliced apples.
My stomach growled, and memories of home returned.
The scent of yeast always reminded me of Mother kneading dough and working with cheeses, vegetables, cinnamon, or sugar.
She wasn’t a baker, but those who knew her always came to trade: fresh milk for a loaf of bread, a round of cheese, wool, cloth, and that other, more mysterious item she tried to hide from me.
Eventually, I discovered what she did in secret when she hoped no one was watching.
I knew what it was like to seek a substance to either numb feeling or heighten emotions.
Now I forgot about bruised ribs and the judgment of the scholars, and relaxed for the first time since the scandal. I ate and drank, the honey mead dulled my discomfort while the salt of the meal cut through the sharpness of the cheese, balanced by the warm bread and sweetness of fruit.
Yonnie sat down at the corner of the bar and took a long drink from the second mug she’d poured. She watched the room, keeping an eye on the patrons, attentive to any potential needs.
“What do you know about the ruins?” I asked around a mouthful of bread.
The temperature in the room dropped, a fork clattered loudly, and I sensed eyes watching me, ears straining to hear our conversation.
“What do you know about the ruins?” Yonnie’s eyes dropped to her mug.
I shrugged. “The ancient city used to belong to the giants, but there were tales of their brutality and violence, or so the scholars taught us. One day fire came from the heavens and destroyed them, leaving behind the ruins. Everything burned except the stones with runes burned into them that none could read. Many have studied them, but the House of Scholars sent me to record the runes for the official records.”
Yonnie set down her mug, and for the first time, the twinkle in her eye faded into something serious. “There you have it. That just about sums up the tale.”
“Wait.” I touched her arm. “That's just a story, but it can't be the whole of it. You live right here, so close to it, surely you have your own tales.”
She stood and turned away, busying herself wiping down the already pristine counter. “We stay away from the ruins. You’ll want to speak to Harlan. He’s the only one who goes there. He’ll take you across. Tomorrow.”
“How far away is the island?” I asked, wondering how to get answers without her shutting me out completely.
“About two miles offshore. You can see it when the mist clears, but it doesn’t clear often. Your hut’s out there too, they sent word ahead. Supplies, firewood, everything you’ll need for your stay.”
I sensed the conversation had ended, yet my heart thudded behind my ribs. Curious. No, more than that. She was frightened, I was sure of it, and a glance around the tavern told me the others were wary too.
I turned back to her. “Any chance of a bath?”