Blackveil

“We must carry on,” Grandmother said to her people. “We must continue our journey. Regin would wish it.”

Swiftly they took up their packs, one or two with tears in their eyes. They redistributed Regin’s burden, setting aside personal items of his they could not use. Grandmother then turned, stepping carefully through the forest, following the direction indicated by the magic salamander’s tail.

In a moment Lala was there beside her, grasping her free hand. Grandmother smiled down at her. Lala gave her the strength to carry on, as did her conviction that the empire must rise again.

After an hour or two of bushwhacking through undergrowth and wading through muddy, sluggish streams, they found the road. The salamander had led them true. They all cried out their thanks to God and Grandmother. Grandmother then released the salamander to the wind, and it vanished in a quick, brilliant spark. Only when she stood firmly upon the wet, mossy cobblestones of the road did she close her eyes and loose a sigh of relief.

Her relief turned to a cry of joy when the shifting of mist unveiled a huge, stone figure ahead of them. The statue, carved in the likeness of Mornhavon the Great, marked the joining of the Circle of the Ways. The salamander, it turned out, had led them better than true.

The roads they traversed were not built by the Arcosians, but by the Eletians of Argenthyne long before Mornhavon’s arrival. When Grandmother and her little group left Sacoridia by passing through the breach in the D’Yer Wall into the forest, they followed the Avenue of Light, the main artery heading south to the center of the peninsula. There it terminated at the Circle of the Ways.

In the chronicles of Grandmother’s people were maps of the peninsula and the Eletian roads. Apparently Eletians rarely built in straight lines, for the Circle was indeed a circle, and from it spun six main roads, including the Avenue of Light, that tailed off in graceful spirals where once there were major settlements. Her ancestors had not straightened the roads. Perhaps with the Long War raging, they hadn’t the resources.

“Here we shall pass the night,” Grandmother announced. After the day’s exertions and loss, they needed rest, time to collect themselves and prepare for the next leg of their journey, which was to follow the eastern half of the Circle toward the south. They’d bypass the junction of Way of the Dawn and continue to Way of the Moon.

Yes, they would spend the night beneath the statue that to her was like a guardian. Mornhavon: strong, heroic, the heir to an empire, his gaze stern and looking outward toward the Avenue of Light, with shield and sword at hand and hair flowing back from his face. His boot crushed the bodies of his enemies, the faces of those souls contorted in agony. According to the chronicles, each junction of the Circle had such a statue to greet travelers and to remind them of who ruled here.

The pedestal had once held some other statue, something Eletian. Whatever it was, it was toppled and replaced long ago, as well it should have been.

The statue filled Grandmother with pride, never mind Mornhavon’s nose, and most of the sword, had crumbled away, and the stone was darkened with moss and lichens, vines creeping up his legs.

Mornhavon may have been defeated, but that did not mean he hadn’t fought valiantly, despite great adversity. No one knew why Arcosia abandoned him, and perhaps they never would, but Second Empire lived to resurrect the ideals of Mornhavon and the empire, to continue the conquest and make it succeed.

We will make things right, Grandmother promised the statue. I shall see to it.

Setting up camp was a well-practiced routine, though now they had to attend to Regin’s duties as well. Deglin attempted to build a fire with the sodden wood collected from around them. He did carry a faggot of dry kindling, which he used sparingly. He struck steel to flint with a resolute expression on his face, for he knew Grandmother was reluctant to help after what happened last time. She did not doubt his efforts would prove successful, and she looked forward to the warmth of the resulting fire that would chase the damp chill from her bones.

Griz and Cole set up their tent shelter. The oiled canvas could not dry out and smelled of must and mildew. She thought wistfully of her small but cozy house with its kitchen garden, now probably blanketed by snow, that she had abandoned in Sacor City when the king started running down members of Second Empire. She must not dwell on the past, however. There was much to look forward to.

Min and Sarat sorted out pots and pans, and discussed what supper would be. Either a thin stew, or gruel. They, too, must be careful with their stores, for much of the vegetation in the forest was poisonous, and the creatures too dangerous to hunt.

With these reassuring and accustomed chores taking place beneath the statue, Grandmother focused on her own task, which was to set wards in a perimeter around the campsite. She removed small balls of snarled yarn from her basket: red, indigo, sky blue, and brown.

She placed them in a wide circle around their camp, murmuring a word of command as she did so. Each glowed briefly, then faded. When all were in place, she shouted, “Protect!” The forest rippled around them as though viewed through water, then stilled, all appearing normal. The eyes of wild creatures might glow yellow and green around them in the night, but nothing would pass the invisible barrier she had created. At least, nothing had thus far.

Weary beyond belief, Grandmother hobbled over to the statue and sat at its base, watching her retainers continue with their duties, not really taking any of it in or listening to their chatter. Lala sat beside her and leaned into her. Grandmother put her arm around the child. “Not an easy journey for little girls or old women, eh?” she murmured.