After half an hour had passed, Chárlotte rose and said to her friends, “I must be leaving. It is late already, and I promised Moon’sheen that I would give Willowmere medicine for her sickness. I had an enjoyable time. Thank you, élysia, for encouraging me to come to the party. I am glad you returned safely from your trip to the Obwán Mountains, élberteeth. Good evening to you both. I will see you tomorrow at the service.” Chárlotte embraced her friends and left the room. In the next room, she paused by Roseleaf Leafton and thanked her for inviting her.
“I am so glad you came! It is not common that you have gone out, especially since Gwenyth died.” Roseleaf waved her fan, composed of peacock feathers, back and forth as she continued. “Have a safe walk home. Oh! Moon’sheen says it will snow tonight, so be careful. Farewell, Chárlotte!” Roseleaf then turned back to the young man with whom she had been conversing.
Chárlotte exited the house and strolled down the walkway. Pausing, she felt unwilling to leave the merry music and warm lights that flooded from the open doors and windows of the mansion, but she turned and continued her walk into the night. When she was on the road, she looked up. Moon’sheen was right. The sky was enveloped in thick clouds. Faint beams from the black steel light posts that bordered the road at intervals lit the roadside. The only sounds were the occasional calls of owls and the eerie rustles that came from the forest as animals stirred in its depths. Chárlotte could hear the faint whispers of the plants as they spoke to each other. The air had the sting of snow in it, and a steady wind was blowing from the mountains.
Chárlotte shivered and continued walking, deciding to enjoy the quiet beauty of the night instead of flying swiftly home. “I should have brought my coat,” she thought regretfully. “At least I am almost home.” She quickened her pace. “Oh well, the snow beat me,” said Chárlotte to herself as she arrived in her garden.
Hurrying inside, she changed her dress to a warm, dark green cotton one and opened her wooden medicine case, which was filled with bunches of herbs that were as fresh as on the day she had placed them inside it. Small glass bottles containing powders and liquids, several stirring rods, and three bowls of different sizes were nestled beneath the herbs. On its lid, there was a raised ivory plaque on which was a figure holding herbs in one hand and a golden bowl in the other. Gwenyth, or the Widow as many feyns called her, had given the medicine case to her on her tenth birthday. It was a strange box because it could hold much more than it ought to have been able to, and preserved the exact appearance and quality of its contents as when they were first placed inside it. Often, Chárlotte wondered how such a box had ever found its way into Gwenyth’s possession, for it was a gift meant to be in the possession of a king’s daughter and not an orphan girl.
Chárlotte began preparing Willowmere’s medicine. After much careful measuring of herbs, mixing, and boiling, she poured a honey-colored liquid into a blue bottle and sealed it with a cork. She then set it on the kitchen counter to cool while she wrote some instructions on a piece of brown paper.
Chárlotte turned to the window and looked out at the thickly falling snow. “I am sure I can make it to Willowmere’s house before the snow becomes too thick. Anyway, it is about half a mile away, and I can fly there quickly.” She went down the hallway until she reached the hall closet and put on a warm coat lined with rabbit fur, the most that she could afford. Opening the door, she pulled the hood of her coat over her head and walked outside, putting the precious glass bottle of medicine into her pocket and buttoning the pocket down to keep it secure during her journey.
The snow was a few inches deep as she left her house, and more was falling from the sky as she soared above the road that ran through the forest, only lit by the lamposts set at intervals along it. The wind was cold against her skin and wings, but flying was faster than walking this late at night. Overall, she had enjoyed the party, and it truly had been a long time since she had had as much fun as she had that night. She let her mind move on to what had been discussed in the fire room. Everything had to be true, yet she wanted it to be just a dream that would disappear soon. She understood why the North had sat around waiting, hoping that what they feared was nothing more than an alarm, but the South was begging for help and had received none for the past two years.
“If only we had woken up when we first heard the rumors! We would have gotten rid of Lársh, but we are more likely to be defeated now because of our slowness, regardless of what Firewings said,” grumbled Chárlotte. After a moment’s thought, she added with more hope in her voice, “Yet, in the Great War, we were delayed in joining the war, yet we still won it! Back then, though, we had Ch’lant. Now we have no one except Lightness.”
Chárlotte landed before a gate and opened it, following the dimly glowing pebble pathway to Willowmere’s door. Knocking loudly, she waited for Willowmere’s voice to give her permission to enter.
“Come in, my girl,” called a tired voice from inside.
Chárlotte turned the door handle, found that it was unlocked, and entered the warm house. She closed the door behind her and looked around.
“I’m in my bedroom,” added Willowmere’s voice. It came from the doorway to Chárlotte’s right across the living room.
Everything about the living room showed that the woman living in the house was a water feyn. The window overlooking the road was covered by deep blue curtains. The walls and rugs were various shades of blue, as were the couches and chairs. Upon a small table sat a large bottle inside of which floated a perfect model of the Rising Dawn, one of the warships of Sunset Island. Chárlotte passed through the room, noting the dying embers in the fireplace, and entered the bedroom.
Like the living room, the room was also blue, only a much lighter, more sea-green blue. In a high bed, propped up by pillows, Willowmere lay. Her faintly blueish blonde hair lay over the pillows and her nightgown. Her blue eyes were tired and feverish, but they greeted Chárlotte warmly when she entered.
“I’m here with the medicine for you,” explained Chárlotte as she placed her cool hand over her friend’s feverish forehead. Willowmere’s skin was hot to the touch. She reached into her satchel and produced the vial of medicine she had prepared earlier. “Has your headache stopped?”
“No,” replied Willowmere. “It’s more bearable now than before, but it is still a pain.”
Chárlotte nodded silently, uncorked the vial, and gave her a spoonful of its contents. “This should help ease the fever,” she said after giving her the dose. “Take one spoonful every six hours, and if the fever doesn’t stop after a couple of days, let me know. You must also continue to stay hydrated. Take these for your headache.” She passed Willowmere some small capsules that would soothe the pain from the headache.
“I will,” replied Willowmere. She motioned with her hand to the glass of water at her bedside. “But how was the party? Tell me about it, for your face tells me it must have been interesting.”
“Well, I had a good time at the party overall,” Chárlotte began. She told Willowmere about the visitors, the discussion in the fire room, and the results of élberteeth’s hunt.
Willowmere leaned back against the pillows after Chárlotte told her everything. Her eyes rested on the farthest bedpost. “I wish I had been there,” she breathed. “If only this horrid sickness hadn’t begun this morning!” She sighed and met her friend’s eyes. “Chárlotte, there will be a council soon, if I am not mistaken, and I want you to be there.”
Chárlotte felt shocked and confused. “B-but–,” she stammered, “why must I be there? And why would I even be asked to attend? Surely, the Mayor will not allow just anyone into a council of war!”
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
“He wouldn’t do such a thing, but I believe he will send for you because you must be at the council. You will understand why soon enough,” replied Willowmere gently.
“You are confusing me, Willowmere. What makes you so sure about this?” persisted Chárlotte. “There is nothing I could share at a council that is important. I am just a physician, an orphan whom Gwenyth adopted and reared.”
“Chárlotte!” said Willowmere half-sternly, half-softly, “Look at me. How old am I?”
Chárlotte did not answer immediately, for Willowmere had asked one of the hardest questions a feyn could ask. Age was something that could not be judged merely off of physical appearance, for one feyn could appear young and be hundreds of years old, while another could be barely fifty and look as if he had lived for ages. Thus, Chárlotte felt the question was a little unfair, for she did not know her age. She only knew that she was older than herself. “Seventy-five?” she guessed, feeling certain that she was far off the mark.
Willowmere laughed a little. “I am flattered, but I am a few centuries old, Chárlotte. I have seen much, heard much, and have known many things which you have yet to experience. You will have to trust my words for, when the time does come – when a council is called together – you will be present for it. You will learn something that will make you understand all that I have told you just now, but you cannot learn that from me. Others are responsible for imparting that knowledge to you. Just be assured of this: when you are called to the council, you will have something to say, something to show, and something to do.”
Still perplexed, Chárlotte stood in silence, staring at her hands, forehead furrowed in thought. So much had been shared with her tonight that she felt as if her mind could not process everything.
“You do not understand what I say?” continued Willowmere as she took Chárlotte’s hand in hers. “Then just trust me. Someday soon, you will understand—sometime soon and sometime later. Fear not. Through Lightness, your path will be lit even in the darkest times, and he will aid you. Always remember that. But I have said enough...my headache worsens.” Willowmere closed her eyes as though spent from pain, but reopened them a few seconds later. “Say, Chárlotte?” she began in her normal way. “Oughtn’t you be going home now? It is late, and the snow is about to get rather deep.”
“I will go,” said Chárlotte. Pausing at the door, she reminded Willowmere, “Remember to take your medicine.” She started forward, but paused once more. “Lightness bless you, Willowmere. Goodnight.”
“Lightness protects you,” responded Willowmere. “Goodbye! Hurry home because I think there will be another snowfall.”
Chárlotte left Willowmere’s house. The snow had stopped falling, but there was just enough on the road to make her walking difficult, for she had forgotten to fly home—so absorbed she was in considering what Willowmere’s words meant. Though she tried, she could not understand except that she was going to be at the council – somehow, someway.
“I don’t understand, Willowmere,” Chárlotte muttered to herself. “Either she or I am right. Maybe she is right, though. What if I am called to the council? But why would I be? I’m not anyone special: I’m nobody.” She didn’t speak for a few moments. “Oh, well,” she said, “if I am called to the council, I will go.” In silence, she trudged onward.
The clouds above had grown thicker, and a chilly wind was rustling the pines’ and firs’ boughs. Everything, even the plants and animals, was silent. Chárlotte could see her breath in the frosty air and could hear the crunch of the snow beneath her shoes as she made her way along the road. It was so silent and beautiful that she did not want to fly and ruin it.
Suddenly, above the treetops, a prolonged and eerie wail, like that of a ghost made destitute of its resting place, rose high into the air and drifted slowly off into a high-pitched shriek. At the cry’s sound, Chárlotte’s heart felt as if it had been pierced by a sword of fear, and she stopped, glancing up at the sky in terror. She thought she caught a glimpse of something black in the sky, but it vanished swiftly from view, blocked by the treetops. With a pounding heart, she wondered what it was that had cried aloud like that, for she had never heard a cry like it in her entire life. She decided not to fly swiftly to her home in case the thing was hostile and spotted her while she was flying. Instead, she continued homeward, looking around and above her as she went.
Then, on her left, a dark shape burst forth, having been concealed by the trees’ tops. She heard its wings as they beat overhead. Carefully, she looked over her shoulder to see what the creature was. What she saw made her gasp in terror! Its wide bat-like wings rose and fell, and its yellow, cat-like eyes were fixed upon her. Two spirals of smoke rose from its nostrils, vanishing into the cold air. The lamp posts’ light reflected off of its myriad scales and glistened darkly on its long, sharp talons. Trembling, Chárlotte recognized the beast from the pictures that she had seen in the Hall of Books. It was a Zarkvalgh!
All this she noted and realized in a second. She wanted to run, but she could not move! Petrified, she stared into the Zarkvalgh’s eyes as it drew closer to her. Finally, she broke free from its gaze and ran, half-opening her wings to escape into the air. Realizing that it was approaching too swiftly for her to escape that way or outrun it, she turned out of the Zarkvalgh’s path and to the side of the road. She ran, trying to get among the trees where the Zarkvalgh would have difficulty following her. However, just before she got there, she tripped on an exposed root and fell! She had no time left to escape.
“Oh, Lightness, help me!” she cried as she raised her arms to protect her face from the Zarkvalgh’s talons as it descended upon her.
She felt pain tingle through her body as its talons tore a long gash across her elevated arm. Blood sprinkled over her and dripped down her arm, and Chárlotte’s head spun as she thought about what was going to follow. The Zarkvalgh would have snatched Chárlotte up, but a white bird flew in between her and the dragon, striking it with just enough force to cause it to lose its balance. The dragon swept into the air, pursued closely by the white bird, and was quickly hidden from view as it flew southward.
Frightened and shocked from pain, Chárlotte lay in the snow for a few moments, trying to collect herself. The pain in her right arm brought her mind back to the fact that she had to take care of it before she lost too much blood. Leaning on her left arm, she pushed herself into a sitting position and then untied the sash from around her waist. She wrapped the sash tightly around her upper arm, right where the artery lay. With the extra cloth, she wrapped the wound, pressing it with her uninjured hand. Quiet whimpers escaped her lips as she worked. When she was finished, she was pale and faint.
She looked up at the night sky. The clouds hung quite low, and Chárlotte remembered Willowmere’s warning about another storm. The Zarkvalgh could not be seen and had not returned. How it had not taken her mystified Chárlotte, for she had not seen the white bird that had rescued her. Even if she had known, she still would have been puzzled by it. Despite that, though, Chárlotte was thankful to still be alive. She struggled to her feet, but immediately after, she sank to her knees in the snow, head bowed.
After a few quiet moments, she got up and covered the blood-stained snow where she had fallen as best she could. Then she slowly flew home, keeping herself below the treeline and anxiously scanning the skies for any signs of the Zarkvalgh. As she flew, her wounded arm throbbed with pain, but the bleeding had stopped. As time went on, Chárlotte felt drowsy. Her vision blurred, and her mind clouded over, as if someone had laid a thick, warm blanket over it and was putting it to sleep. At times, her vision was so bad that she had to land because she could not see where she was flying.
After what seemed like hours, Chárlotte reached her house and went inside. She made her way to the kitchen and opened her medicine case. Drawing out a vial of tea tree oil, she diluted some of it in a bowl of water and then bathed her wound in the solution. She then bandaged it carefully, though with some difficulty because of her clouded mind. When she had taken care of herself, she made some tea and sat, wrapped in a heavy quilt, before the kitchen fire to get warm.
“No one escapes a Zarkvalgh alive,” she said to herself, repeating the words that Gwenyth had spoken years ago. “Then why did I escape? How then—Oh! Oh!”
A sudden realization struck her almost dumb. “Lársh is scouting the North and will invade soon!” She rose from her chair, intending to fly to Bérnsted to warn éltoth and the Mayor, but checked herself as pain surged over her. Groaning, she placed her hand on her head as dizziness and pain blurred her vision. “I must rest,” she murmured. “I can’t get there like this! Not in the state that I am in.” Chárlotte felt a sinking feeling rising within her. She staggered like someone intoxicated as she climbed the stairs to her bedroom. With a sigh, she placed her head on her pillow and immediately sank into a feverish, troubled sleep.
