At dusk, they reached the village of Ralmes. They had been walking in the cold since they left Lesser Vior in the late morning. A pleasant, little settlement, thought Van with relief, flexing his numb fingers, with warm fires. Oh, so warm fires. It was Ferangis who knew the widow that reigned over it: her husband had been executed in Greater Vior many years ago.
"Will she give us special treatment?" Reyen asked the green woman, his voice muffled by his scarf, "you did say you saved her village, yes?"
Ferangis had told them, as they traveled, about her history with Lady Lombrea of Ralmes. An arm of Greater Vior visited the village and demanded the men to serve in their forces. They asked for the ownership of Rodrim's Wood as well. Rodrim was the name of an ancestor of Lady Lombrea's husband, Lord Waynis. When the lord refused, knowing the true and vile nature of Greater Vior and its greedy leaders, he found himself dragged to the city to meet the noose. "I only stopped in Rodrim's Wood to rest," Ferangis had told them, "when Lady Lombrea found me, using my flori to help a sapling grow, she thought me a spirit of the forest." Lady Lombrea had been born to a tribe that believed in such things. Ferangis listened to her troubles and agreed to help her.
When the Greater Viorians came again, this time with sharpened blades, to collect the men and survey the woods, they found no one. But what was even stranger about the village was the infestation of dark purple mushrooms. They were unaware of the deceptive cloud they emitted: the spores had a bizarre but strong effect on the minds of men. "Some of the soldiers swore they saw Lord Waynis falling upon them," Ferangis had said, "riding a skinless horse with hell beasts hiding in the shadows of his wood." When the soldiers fled, Ferangis removed the fungi. When the air cleared, the villagers returned; they had hidden in Rodrim's Wood. Since that day, Greater Vior, and any other city, for that matter, never bothered with Ralmes or Lady Lombrea. Though, there were always other villages around to intimidate.
Vyncent thought Reyen's question to be uncouth, but Ferangis responded without taking offense.
"We will be taken care of," the green woman responded softly, "I understand how cruel the cold is."
"It doesn't bother me," Reyen defended himself, though Vyncent knew he was only trying to sound brave, "I just wanted to know, that's all." He wiped his runny nose with a sleeve. "A warm manor house, with hot broth waiting…"
Vyncent could see the fields where the winter wheat was growing, but the village lay within the thinly spread trees. They followed a beaten path into the woods and came upon a large clearing where several structures sat: some cottages here and there and a few longhouses. Vyncent saw a bony man fletch arrows in one of the houses, wiping his nose often as he worked by candlelight. Men laughed and sang in another, a lively fire burning within to keep the drunkards warm. Next to the lady's manor was a short wooden temple, much unlike the stone, holy structures Vyncent would see back home in Virtera.
All went silent, however, when they saw the green woman approach Lady Lombrea's manor. Despite the cold, the villagers left the warmth of their homes to stand outside to greet Ferangis. Some even lowered themselves as if she was royalty.
"Back so soon?" asked a young blacksmith, smiling.
"Mother!" a small child was shouting with excitement, "Fera's come back to play! She's brought back friends!"
"That man in blue," a man, gently rocking a sleeping babe in his arms, said to his wife, "is he kin to fair Ferangis?"
"The nepher returns," said one of the kneelers, this one an old woman with long, greying hair, "a blessing in such fearful times."
Nepher? Vyncent wondered. He was familiar with the term. The nepheri were a race of spirits, sent crashing down from the heavens to the realms of men after rebelling against their god-king. The vicar of Aventyne cursed them in his sermons as creatures meant to deceive and deter them from the Highest who speaks through the stars. Vyncent could not find himself to fear Ferangis or Pyran if indeed that is what they were; the only ones that have done him wrong were of the same kind as him. Did the vicar and his god-king stop the red princess from hanging my mother, who'd done nothing wrong but love my father?
Ferangis went to her and gently lifted her from the ground. "You know there is no need for that, Melia," she told her, gently, "you are all my friends, and friends need not lower themselves to each other."
The doors of the manor swung open. A woman, who looked to be in her fifties, stepped out, two of her guards going before her. She smiled at the woman in green.
"Melia has seen troubling things in her moonbowls," the woman said as she walked down the cold grey steps, dark green slippers upon her feet. Under her thick cloak, she wore layers of lambswool. From underneath her hood, a braid of dark hair rested on a shoulder, veined with white.
"Lady Lombrea," said Ferangis, her voice reverent.
Just as Reyen hoped, the lady treated them as honored guests. She lived quite nicely: the stone walls were well maintained by its owners and defended the inhabitants from the chill. At the main hall's table, the five dined with her and her steward; the man sat between his wife and child.
Lamb stew, fresh bread, and mulled wine were their supper. Pyran kindly refused the meat and requested some water. Vyncent and the rest could hardly resist the stew, however: cubed potatoes, carrots, and slices of mushrooms swam between the cuts of lamb and bacon bits; glassy slivers of onions clung to the chunks.
They discussed several things at the table but kept the talk of moonbowls, Viorian conflict, and other troubling things out of the air.
"So you are to see Mistress Farrok," Lady Lombrea said to Vyncent and Larissa, "I have longed to see her myself, but it is here I must remain. The Island of Myri is quite far, and I must never leave my people for too long."
"I hear it's a beautiful place, my lady," said the steward's daughter. Molly was her name, and she looked to be about eight years of age. "I wish I could go with you all."
"There'll be plenty of time for adventures, sweetling," said the steward as he mussed up her hair and planted a soft kiss on her forehead.
"Yes," Vyncent responded to the lady, "we need her help." Vyncent's heart told him to keep the talk of Espers a secret, even though there was nothing to fear from the lady. Perhaps it was, truly, to keep the silent pact: keeping troubling news out of a pleasant evening.
"I hope it is not too dire, my friends," Lady Lombrea said solemnly, "But I have heard those that make the pilgrimage have even the most severe ailments cured." She took a sip of wine, then said: "I wish you the best of luck on your journey." She made a wry smile; to Vyncent, it seemed she knew more about it than she showed. She, too, kept the pact.
"Thank you, my lady," said Larissa, sweetly.
An amusing little argument between Reyen and Molly erupted to lighten the mood, thankfully. The two argued about cats: Reyen expressing his dislike for the beats and Molly, her deep love for them. Vyncent giggled at Reyen's drunkenness, knowing it was an act; the boy's wine was watered down by the servers well enough to keep him sober.
"Haven't you smelled a cat's leavings?" Reyen argued, purposely slurring his speech, "it's the foulest thing you can smell!"
"All leavings smell foul," retorted Molly, crossing her arms, "surely Lesser Vior has no shortage of evidence."
"Children," said Magnus, the steward, trying to suppress his own amusement, "must we talk about leavings as we eat."
As soon as Reyen started laughing, he knew he lost. "Well," conceded Reyen, "I guess there are too many cats in the city."
When dinner was over, they all headed off to bed. Margla, the steward's wife, led them to a room with a small fireplace that burned lowly. Outside two, narrow windows with square-shaped panes crawled vines that covered the full moon's glow. The snow had abated, and the sky was only half-clear; the cold hadn't, however. "We keep this room for guests," she explained, "sleep well, friends, and if you need anything, the nightmaid will be down the hall."
Two straw beds were available to them, each one with extra feather pillows and wool blankets. Reyen jumped onto his choice and looked to smother himself in the blankets.
"Gods," the boy mumble into the pillows, "better than the ones at home." Moments later, he fell asleep, snoring softly.
"Oh," said Larissa with slight sadness, holding her red tome in one hand and a candle in the other, "I wanted to read to him."
"Maybe they didn't water his wine enough," quipped Vyncent as he dug out a tunic from his sack.
"Best to get as much rest as we can," said Ferangis, "we'll need our strength."
"As much as we can muster," said Pyran. There was something ominous in his tones, Vyncent heard, despite understanding the big man's blankness.
But Ferangis sensed his grim mood, too. "Is something amiss, Pyran?"
Pyran lifted one of the chairs from a table, set it at the window, and sat. "That woman's moonbowls had dire readings." He crossed his big arms and stared out the window. "I, too, have seen such readings in mine own." He took two tiny pearl-white bowls out of a pocket. From another, he produced dry, dark leaves of which he crushed in his hands and sprinkled into each bowl.
"What is he doing?" Vyncent asked Ferangis.
"He seeks news, given to us by the living winds," the green woman answered.
"And the leaves?"
"An offering. An ingredient."
Pyran looked to his partner. "Ferangis," he said, nodding at her, "the banfrow."
Drawing a small black vial from one of her pouches, she went to him. She poured the contents into his right hand: a white powder that glowed: it wasn't a trick of the moonlight, Vyncent saw. It's getting brighter, mused Vyncent silently as he stared at the substance sitting in Pyran's palm, it's not stopping. Soon its glow outshined the light of the fireplace, and it burst into white-hot flames.
Though his hand was aflame, Pyran felt no pain by the looks of him. He tilted his palm over each bowl, the fire dripping into them like burning fat. The flames within died after a few seconds. The big man looked into each of them, the embers dying, leaving the shadows to claim him once more.
"What do you see?" Ferangis asked.
Pyran looked up at her; for a moment, he did not speak.
"The Waif In the Weeds," he finally said, his tones flat again, "Rayhanei. She has come."
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