To Scale the Emerald Mountain (The Willowbane Saga #1)

7. CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER SEVEN

I t’s around noon when the soft slopes of the mountain terrain transition into flatter ground. Locane has been becoming steadily more tense as the ground evens out.

The forest floor becomes less rocky and there are less fallen limbs and logs to step over. The winding stream of water that we have been beside for some time now is quieter, moving at a steady pace instead of the amplified flow from gravity. It’s not long before the stream we’re following bends inward to meet the curve of a road.

The sight brings on a new bout of anxiousness.

I should have expected this. I should have been preparing myself as soon as Locane mentioned stopping in a village. Of course there would be a road going into it.

He stops and turns to me, “You should probably wear the cloak now,” Locane says tersely, scanning the road in both directions. “There’s nothing we can do to hide your bare feet if we run into anyone, but you can at least be more covered.”

“Is it not suspicious for me to wear a stifling cloak in this heat?” My voice is an octave too high. “I thought you said you never see anyone.” Locane’s sudden tension is leaching into me like a poison steadily dripping into my nervous system.

“No, I said I rarely see my neighbors. Just put the cloak on.” Locane doesn’t wait for me to reply and produces the cloak from his bag. “This road heads straight to the village. When we get close, we can find a quiet place for you to wait. It will be fine.”

He sounds as if he’s trying to convince himself as much as he is me.

I’m not at all comfortable with any of this, but I can’t see that I have much choice. I grab the cloak and follow behind him reluctantly. After a few short steps, he turns and swiftly snaps the hood over my head and down across my brow, covering my face and hair completely.

“That’s better.” Locane’s fingers just barely graze my chin as he pulls his hand away, sending a zap straight to my spine, making it stiffen.

The temperature is warmer here at the base of the mountain. In no time, I am hot and sweating as we continue to walk. My hair sticks to my slicked neck and face. I pull off the hood briefly to twist my hair, piling it on top of my head and tuck the end into the bun.

“What are you doing?” Locane demands in panic when he sees my bare face.

“Fucking Mother, this is misery. How far into summer are we?” I ask breathlessly.

“The season has barely begun. Put the hood back on.” The tension in his voice grows with every word. He continues to scan the trees with a paranoid glint in his eye.

“You’re failing miserably at trying to be inconspicuous. If you want to draw attention, keep walking around like a strung bow with darting eyes.” I laugh and shake my head. “I don’t want to hear anything else from you about my panic.”

Despite my growing unease feeding off him, I can’t help being slightly amused at his sudden change. Locane seems ready to say something smart before thinking better of it. But he does loosen noticeably and his head stops swiveling from side to side.

Only a few minutes pass before we hear the unmistakable sounds of hooves clip-clopping and wheels bouncing along the road ahead of us. Before it comes into view, I ask Locane, “Are you sure about this? Is whatever you need in that village absolutely vital?”

He looks uncertain, but he nods at me. “Yes, absolutely vital. Try not to speak to anyone. If you must, you are my wife, and your name is not Ellya.”

“Well, what should it be then? And do I have to be your wife? Why can’t I be your sister?”

“Because we have no resembling features. And I don’t care what your name is,” Locane says hurriedly as the horse drawn wagon comes around a bend and into view.

It appears to only be one man, carting a large load of pungent purple onions. As he draws closer, I trail my eyes to the ground. Locane stiffens next to me. I glance up in time to see him give a curt, red-faced nod to the farmer as he passes—sweat dripping from his forehead.

Mercifully, the farmer barely even glances at us and doesn’t return a gesture of hello.

I loosen a breath and laugh. “Well, that was anticlimactic. You’re more nervous than I am. Why?”

“You are an escaped prisoner. What will be the repercussions for aiding a fugitive?” Locane’s words sound distant and superficial.

“Right. We should work on this story before we encounter anyone that speaks to us. Our avoidance of conversation is not paying off. I’m your wife.” I grimace. “And how long have we been married?”

“A year.”

“And where are we from?”

“I don’t know, Crane Hills,” Locane offers halfheartedly.

“But you do look distinctly Quinndohsi with your dark hair and dark eyes. And that lovely brown skin tone.” I flick at his cheek. He pulls away, shooting me a hostile glare. “I bet you look as sun kissed in the dead of winter as you do now,” I say, taking in his dark features again.

How have I only now made the distinction between his darker Quinndohsi traits and my fairer Brhadirian ones? Locane’s drawn accent that I’ve been trying to place comes to me as well, as distinctly Quinndohsi as his physical features. How do I know anything about Quinndohsi and Brhadirian features in the first place?

“Well then, I am Quinndohsi, but we have settled in Crane Hills,” Locane says, breaking me away from the new line of questions forming in my mind.

“What are we doing here? We are a long way from Crane Hills on the other side of the Emerald Mountains,” I note.

A mental image pops into my head of the small prosperous city built into the Emerald Mountain range. Somewhere I’ve clearly been before with the vivid details painting their way across my mind. The large valley between two peaks acts as Main Street with beautifully ornate buildings carved straight into the gray stone of the mountain.

The structures are multiple stories high. Stairways and passages are also carved into the rock to navigate between the city buildings. Hundreds of tiny waterfalls from the top of the peaks fall into carefully placed fountains and pools during the wet spring and summer months. The flow slows during the autumn months, misting around burgundy, orange, and yellow hues of the dying leaves. During winter, the flows slow to barely a trickle, freezing into thousands of icicles to decorate the city, shining and refracting light off the delicate drips.

The stunning sight makes it worth the potential of one breaking off and impaling you while you stroll.

The city itself is a work of art with the facades covered with carved birds in flight and climbing ivy and flowers, both stone and living. Some are painted in bright colors to stand stark against the mountain base around them. Some are left bare and equally beautiful in a more natural grandeur.

Locane watches at me with irritation, breaking me out of my trance-like state. “We are headed to visit family in Quinndohs.”

“It isn’t common for people to travel between Brhadir and Quinndohs.”

“No, Ellya, it isn’t common for people to travel through the dead Plains of Ire. There are plenty of ports, both along the coast and the Salt River, that travel between. Now, that is enough.”

Digging through the murky sludge of my mind for anything on these ports, I come up short. It seems my knowledge of the geography and infrastructures of our Continent only serves me so far. “I thought The Capital in Quinndohs had the only ports on the coast?”

“Again, no. The Bay of Quinndohs has the only ports that ships from the Mother Continent sail and trade through, given that the Great Trench has the safest passage of waters. Any more questions?” Locane’s patience is wearing very thin.

“Why am I barefoot?” I ask after a quick second of thought.

“Because you foolishly lost your shoes when you took them off to rest for the night and could not place them in the morning,” Locane says through gritted teeth. “That is enough. If anyone asks questions, I will do the talking.”

“I’m really not sure that’s a good idea based on your reaction to seeing one farmer. Behave like that with someone suspicious of us and you might as well seal my fate in that dungeon.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I’m not trying to be,” I tell him.

We continue along the quiet road. With every step, the tension in Locane’s shoulders ratchets tighter and tighter. That noxious smell of my fear blankets over me and invades my senses. The only other time I have been this afraid on this whole journey was the day I encountered Locane. Inexplicable dread sits in my gut like hot stones, weighing down my steps and making my stomach churn.

The sun creeps higher across the sky with a fiery haze. The discomfort of the hooded cloak does nothing to help my overall unease. The road winds on closer to our destination, and each step is more reluctant and forced. The sounds of life ahead become apparent as

I wipe my sweating brow with an equally clammy palm.

A group of three women, each wearing flowy dresses and carrying baskets, walks towards us. One of them smiles at Locane, her grin expanding further as she takes in his striking features. He gives her an arrogant half smile back, and I smack his arm.

Her attention turns to me before she glances back towards Locane to see the face of utter rage he offers me. She averts her eyes quickly and picks up her pace—avoiding us as we pass directly by each other.

“What was that for?” he asks, rubbing the spot I hit .

“I’m supposed to be your wife, remember? Not a very convincing story if you’re making eyes at every woman you come across,” I scold.

“Don’t be dramatic. It was just one.”

“Gods, you’re terrible at this! I’m going to find a quiet place to rest while you gather your supplies.” I veer off the path, moving along for several minutes. The ground is undisturbed in the area I choose, and I am confident that I can lay low and not be spotted.

Locane scans our surroundings, unsure. “Maybe a little further in.”

“Just be quick. And try to behave yourself, husband.”

Locane gives me a small knife and makes me reassure him, again and again, that I’ll stay in this same spot until he returns, adamant that he will be gone no longer than a couple hours. He shocks me when he squeezes my arm affectionately and whispers, “Stay safe.”

Locane takes off through the trees.

Tension lifts from my body when he leaves: a massive weight I didn’t know I was carrying. I’m tempted to take off without him. He infuriates me to no end, and he’s obviously keeping secrets. An internal battle rages with my distrust for Locane, my desire to get the answers that he carries, as well as my churning fear over being alone again with no plans.

I pace back and forth as I contemplate what to do.

If I leave now, will he chase after me or just let me go? And where would I go? I have no coin. And the idea of going back into the deep woods of the mountains sounds less and less appealing the more I consider it.

I’m tired. I’m so tired. I just want to rest. I want to rest my body and rest my mind. My thoughts are momentarily distracted by that insistent tug that pulls deep in my gut. Struggling to ignore it, I continue to pace.

Too much time goes by.

The sun creeps across the sky. The noise of civilization nearby thrives, but no sounds come closer to where I’m waiting.

The strong urge to run—and my mind trying to fight it—makes my head pound and my heart race. I’m drenched in sweat, sitting in the stagnant heat of a too thick cloak and suffocating hood. Unable to take it anymore, I unfasten it and throw it on the ground with shaking hands as a small trickle of blood escapes from my nose.

It’s been more than a couple hours.

Panic starts to set in when the light of day dips and the promise of dusk comes on in hues of periwinkle and pink.

The fear of being thrust back into solitude sits heavy on my heaving chest.

Something is wrong. I can feel it.

I’m just about to abandon Locane, damn the consequences, when there’s sudden rustling ahead.

Locane comes into view running through the trees with three large men, dressed in gleaming silver armor and black cloaks, hot on his tail. He ducks down as something small zooms past his ear, narrowly missing him.

Locane picks up his pace, racing towards me as he crashes through the dense foliage.

The largest of the men waves his arm in a practiced motion.

I only just notice that he wields no weapon when fire erupts from his hand and he forms it into a large lasso, throwing it towards Locane .

As fire sails through the air—hissing with blazing heat through thick humidity—the large man’s eyes lock with mine and grow wide.

Locane reaches me and grabs me tight around the waist.

The fire wielder curses loudly and stops the force of his magic just before the rope of flames wraps around Locane and I.

“She’s here! Go tell them. Now ! ” the man screams.

Locane holds me tight and says calmly—as if nothing alarming is happening at all, “Time to go.”

“No! Stop! ” the man who recognized me yells, surely realizing what is about to happen.

Another small dart comes flying through the air, right between our faces. It misses Locane’s cheek by a hair’s breadth, sinking into the tree beside us.

Before I have time to process anything, Locane pulls us into the void; the echo of an outraged scream follows us into the pressing abyss.

We reappear still in the forest, but what appears to be closer to the edge as the trees are smaller, newer, and spaced further apart. The lichen that I’ve grown used to seeing is nowhere in sight. The faint outline of the two moons appears on the horizon, illuminating the forest around me in haunting shadows.

My eyes scan around me, expecting to see more men closing in on us, but the woods are silent other than crickets singing in the summer twilight.

Locane stands doubled over with his hands resting just above his knees, his long, black hair curtaining his face. He pants hard and struggles to catch his breath.

“How far did we jump? And who was that?” I fight the urge to cry as my fear swallows me whole .

“Come on,” Locane says, wiping his brow and sluggishly stepping forward. “We have to get within the borders of the wards.”

I don’t move. That familiar tug pulls at me again, harder than ever before. “I want answers,” I say defiantly.

“And I’ve already said you will get them. Those were Brhadirian royal guards, and we need to go.” Locane roughly grabs the top of my arm, dragging me forward and holding me tight enough to make me whimper.

We walk a few paces before stopping.

“Give me your hand.” His breathing is ragged, his voice more hurried and panicked as his eyes search the forest. He’s produced a long, vaguely familiar dagger in one hand and holds the other out expectantly.

“Why?” I ask, burning dread creeping up my throat.

“Godsdamnit with all the fucking questions!” Locane screams with sudden rage, making me flinch. “GIVE ME YOUR FUCKING HAND!”

Locane is fully unhinged, and I choke on the nauseating terror taking me over.

Without waiting for me to reply, he roughly takes my right hand and slices a deep, jagged line across my palm. Blood immediately pools, and I clench my fist over the stinging wound.

Locane drags me forward, nearly pulling me to the ground with the rough swiftness of his movement. He uncurls my fingers and swipes my hand across an invisible barrier, naked to the eye, like a pane of cold glass beneath my hand. Just as I’m taking in the odd sensation, the barrier fades, and Locane pulls me through thick, cold, humid air. Magic zings as we pass through the reluctant barrier, and my breath catches in my lungs with the unnatural sensation .

A strangled sob escapes as Locane releases me, practically throwing my arm away from him and making me stumble.

My heart hollows in my chest, a cold fist squeezing around it.

“There. Stay within the wards and no one will ever find you,” he says to me with relief in his voice. His face is pale and covered in a sickly sheen of sweat. It’s obvious to me that Locane stretched his magic to the max, draining himself in one jump for us to escape capture.

Locane doubles over, heaves once, and then vomits.

My head whips around as a screeching call pierces the air. A large flock of birds on the other side of the barrier flies screaming from a tree. I study the ominous cloud with growing apprehension as my body begins trembling.

Locane spits and raises his head enough to watch the birds with me. “They can’t get to you now.”

I stand with my mouth open, speechless at his words and actions of the day, trying to recover from the events of the last several minutes.

Despite all Locane’s anxiousness as we drew nearer to the village, when a true threat was chasing him—shooting at him with darts and lassos of flame—he was cool and calm. He spoke with an air of nonchalance shortly before he angrily demanded my hand and cut it open.

Locane begins walking away from the barrier of the wards; I follow, leaving my shuddering fear behind. The scream of fury from the royal guard before we fled rings through me, making me suddenly grateful for the sanctuary Locane offers.

My fear eases minutes later when his house comes into view. I stand staring at it in shock. I glance at Locane and laugh. “Not quite the quaint forest cabin I was expecting. ”

I envisioned a small rough log cabin, but the house is large—a true house. A two-story craftsman with smooth hewn wooden siding painted a deep navy blue. There are white wooden ornamental accents and a ruby red front door. A large porch wraps around the house. Multiple trailing plants hang from hooks on the porch, and lavender and hydrangeas decorate either side of the steps leading to the porch.

It’s incredibly cozy and luxurious at the same time.

I smile at him and say sarcastically, “It matches your overall colorful and sunny disposition.”

Locane glares at me and leads me up the porch.

We enter a small vestibule with beautiful hand laid mosaic flooring. A dark stained wood bench sits to the left and an open spot for shoes to the right. The door ahead has a rectangle transom window of stained glass, the bottom kicked out for air flow. I inspect the stained glass closer, taking in the profile of a fox in a field of clovers.

I stare at it in open mouthed wonder. “Gods, that’s stunning.”

“My mother made it,” Locane says.

“Really? That’s impressive.”

“My father’s distinct Quinndohsi traits may shine through, but my mother was from Brhadir. Her parents were artistic glass blowers. She grew up learning the trade and ended up being exceptionally talented herself.”

“I can see that,” I murmur in awe, taking in the details of the beautiful window. “Where is she now?”

“Gone,” he says simply, sadly. I remember him telling me that he didn’t have a family anymore, and I’m hit with a pang of guilt.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“No matter.” Locane opens the door to a small foyer. There’s a wide staircase with a dark stained banister that curls at the end. At the base of the staircase is an opening to what appears to be a formal sitting room.

Straight ahead is a long hallway, too dark to tell what lies ahead. I look up towards the landing on the second floor and see the shadows of stained glass flicker lamps hanging, brass finishes at the top and bottom

“More of your mothers work?”

“My grandparents’. They made most of their livelihood off their lamps and fixtures.” He turns the key on the wall to control the flicker lamps, allowing a small drop of magic to transfer from him to fuel the lamps. “I’m starving. I know you are as well. I could hear your stomach since we passed through the wards.”

We walk down a hall that ends in a large living area. There’s a door leading to what I assume is a kitchen. Locane lights a couple of flicker lamps, and the soft glow shows a breakfast bar with stools. A wooden, roll-down window has the bar closed off from the kitchen.

“Sit,” Locane instructs, indicating his head towards the plush chairs and couches placed around a large fireplace with a bookshelf to one side. The other wall is covered in paintings and dried, pressed leaves.

Large blankets are draped casually over the backs of chairs and couches. Surfaces are covered with books, figurines, and vases of dried flowers. The trim and bookcases are the same stained wood as the vestibule and staircase. It would be dark and dreary, if it weren’t for the endless windows on the far wall to let in ample natural light without the room baking in the sun.

The sudden noise of the wooden roll door above the bar breaks me out of my inspection. This house is so grand, yet cozy at the same time. Nothing about it seems like it would be the style of this rude and increasingly unstable man.

Locane takes me in briefly, noticing the surprise on my face. “What?” he asks with a bite.

I laugh and say in wonder, “This is just not what I expected. It’s truly lovely.”

“Yes, thank you. It will be a quick meal tonight, I’m afraid,” he tells me, plunking down a cutting board with a loaf of bread and array of spreads in glass jars.

We eat quietly. When we finish, Locane briefly shows me a small half washroom accessible from both main and formal living areas. I notice all the doors inside have stained glass transom windows, kicked out to ventilate the summer air. All similar to the one in the vestibule. All equally as stunning.

He brings me upstairs to show me a full bathing room with a large clawfoot tub. I groan longingly at the sight. Locane smiles and says, “Soon. Let me show you your room first.”

The style and decor of my bedroom is similar to the rest of the house. It has a metal framed bed, a large armoire in the corner, and a small vanity with several brushes and hair pins laying on top.

“You should be able to find everything you need here. I’ll allow you to get settled then wash up. I’ll see you in the morning.” Locane pauses at the threshold, shoulders tensing. I wait for him to say something—but all that comes out is a weak, “Goodnight.”

“Wait!” I nearly yell as he begins to walk away. He looks back at me with an odd expression. Uncertain and almost pained. “Aren’t you going to tell me anything?”

“Tomorrow. It’s been a long journey. We both need rest. Goodnight, Ellya. ”

With that, he leaves before I can say another word. I sigh in frustration, mostly at him, but also with myself for expecting anything more.

Glancing around at the room, I count myself very lucky. I open the armoire and find it fully stocked with all manner of women’s shoes, leggings, blouses, undershirts, and underwear. There are plain sundresses and evening gowns.

All appearing to be just the right size for me.

“What?” I whisper to myself, confused.

Did Locane prepare for me? Or did there used to be some other woman here who just happened to be the same size as me? My gut tells me it’s unlikely. I do my best to shake off my growing questions and grab everything I need for my bath.