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1

WUTHERING GALES blasted through the spruce trees, scattering a fine powder into the wind. It was deep midwinter, but neither the cold nor the thin mountain air stopped the children from their mischief. Enid tromped through the hard, packed snow in her oversized boots towards the altar, the frightened chicken squirming inside her burgundy cote-hardie as she gently held it against her body.

Dustin placed the fat baby pig atop the pile of leaves beside a water trough, and his sister Sienna set down the chicken she had kidnapped from the coop. Enid knelt down and released her fowl, because every Freysian baptism required at least two witnesses, and everyone knew that chickens were the trustworthy friends of swine.

The young girls giggled as he anointed the pig on the forehead with ash, and he began speaking melodramatically as he broke off a dying maple bough and split it into reeds. He charged the creature with a myriad of sins, citing “gluttony” and “indecency” as its gravest offenses, not to mention slothfulness, with the chickens as his honest-to-God witnesses. He dipped the reed into the Holy trough-water, and bellowed:

“O thou who art unclean, in the name of the First Father, repent! Repent, and be cleansed!” He sprinkled the water on the piglet, snatched it up, and dunked it into the trough.

“Dustin, we’re going to get in trouble!” Sienna pleaded.

“It’s too late to back out now,” Enid said, grinning.

The confused creature squirmed out of his grip, charging as soon as it hit the ground. Water splashed everywhere, and the chickens squawked in terror. Enid nigh wheezed with laughter, and the lanky boy picked up a pile of leaves and tossed it high above them to conclude the sacrament.

A moment later, the morning bells tolled behind them from atop the monastery—they were late for terce.

“I told you,” Sienna said, running her fingers through her long flaxen hair.

Dustin frenzied after the pig, hollering and screaming for the animal to stop eluding him, and Enid was laughing too much to be of any help. When he finally seized the pig, he immediately handed it off to Enid to be rid of it. She swaddled the wet animal in a dry blanket, and the siblings scooped up the chickens just as Sister Margaret caught them in the end of this strange act.

The tall, slender nun stood beside the wood fence in her robes and wimple, arms crossed. Dustin explained to her that the animals had escaped their pens, and that they were late for terce because they were kindly bringing them back to safety.

“Is that so? In that case, ye did the right thing by bringing them back,” she said. “But I would very much like to hear the story from Enid’s mouth.”

Enid squeezed the shivering piglet tight and said nothing, mired in embarrassment.

“Think you that silence isn’t an answer? If ye won’t tell me what happened, I’ll know that he’s spinning yarn.”

“We’re spinning yarn,” Enid confessed. She couldn’t lie, but she wasn’t a canary; she wouldn’t tell the nun precisely what they were up to. Last time they had done something like this Dustin had taken the fall for her, and earned himself a lashing—a true martyr.

The animals were promptly returned to their homes, and Margaret told them to go straight to the refectory so that the priest wouldn’t see them coming in at the end of the sermon. If they were lucky, their absence would go unnoticed, but if they entered now he would certainly spot them and note their tardiness. When she told them to go to the refectory, it was implied that Sienna was meant to go to the women’s refectory, but she followed Enid and Dustin to the men’s wing, because they wanted to see how long they could get away with it.

They ascended crumbling steps up a mossy scree, reaching the old wooden door that they often used to sneak in and out. Enid tugged on the heavy cast-iron ring, struggling to pull it open. Dustin moved in front of her and slowly pulled open the huge, creaking door to the hall, trying to conceal his labored breathing. He was a couple of years older than her and his younger sister, and was always looking for new ways to show off.

Enid gave him an affectionate peck on the cheek, and the colour rose in his face as though she had planted warmth there. He smiled infectiously with what seemed to her to be triumph, and he weaved his fingers into her little brown-spotted hand.

The tapers were unlit, and pale blue light flooded the corridor from the intricate stained-glass windows.

The children timidly entered the refectory–a large, open dining hall with high vaulted ceilings. Rather than being composed of many separate tables, the men’s refectory had one long, wooden table lining the perimeter on three sides, and the friars would sit around it with their backs to the wall so that everyone faced the room. The nuns and barefoot friars were kept strictly segregated, but Enid was always made to sit with the men because she was the Soulkeeper. She still didn’t fully understand what that meant, and everyone she asked gave her a different answer.

Sienna had never seen the men’s refectory, and Enid caught her staring at the room in awe, looking absolutely precious in her ochre lace-up cote-hardie. Dustin’s tunic and trousers were drenched with holy trough water, and his black hair glistened with sweat. The three of them still had to wear common clothing, since they wouldn’t get their monastic garbs until they entered the convent.

A massive Freysian mark shaped like a “Y” hung from the wall by nails driven into the stone, and the mosaic mural on the ceiling above was a feast for the eyes. Hundreds of square tiles, each one-foot by one-foot in dimension, portrayed mineral-chalk paintings of various characters and miracles from the Freysian Tome in exquisite detail; Rinoch and the serpent, Minah crossing the river of alligators unharmed on a raft, Cinnait and Bethel escaping from prison during the earthquake, and Machar taming the lion he was meant to be fed to, just to name a few.

Each painted tile was a priceless work of art in its own right, but in summation they formed a massive portrait of the First Father’s face. Each of these intricate square paintings was but a small fragment of the grander picture, a work of elegant craftsmanship so effortlessly resplendent that Enid never tired of looking at it.

She saw Brother Olav sitting alone at the far end of the refectory with a vellum manuscript and an inkhorn, gazing listlessly above at the mural of murals with dreamy reverence beneath beams of dustlight.

Olav was one of the eldest friars in the monastery, but he carried himself with a child-like optimism that Enid adored. He was modestly tall and slim, apart from his distended belly, with small, pale blue eyes set deep in his face, and a beige cowl thrown around his hunched shoulders. He was bald like all the other barefoot friars, apart from fringes of thin, receding hair, and neatly-trimmed graying muttonchops. He had a large round nose, and big dimples that lit up his whole face and creased his eyes when he smiled. These creases around his eyes had formed permanent wrinkles over the years, because he was smiling more often than he wasn’t.

It was typical of Mellifuge people to have complexions dense with freckles, and like Enid he was covered in them from forehead to heel, though some of his were undoubtedly born from age.

Enid folded her arms across her chest, rubbing her elbows as gooseflesh crept over her. In the mornings it felt colder in the stone refectory than outside.

“Ye never quite get used to it, do you?” he said softly. He tore his eyes from the ceiling and faced the children, smiling wanly. “What are you younguns doing here so early? Shouldn’t ye be at service with the others?”

“I could ask you the same thing, Brother Olav,” Enid said as she frolicked up to him. She ducked beneath the table and scooted up to his side.

“I just came here to clear my head. I’m supposed to be working, but… nevermind that, what brings you here? Did ye need something?”

“We got in trouble for being late. Sister Margaret didn’t want to offend the verger by sneaking us in at the end of service, so she sent us straight here,” Dustin said.

“Ah, yes. I suppose that’s the sort of thing she’d do; most would say, ‘Better late than never,’ but she never was most. What was it this time?”

“We baptized a piglet,” Sienna said.

“A piglet?” Brother Olav said with an amused smile. “Why?”

“I said it was foolish, but they made me join them. It was all their idea,” Sienna said.

“For the same reason we baptize babies,” Enid said fervently. “Because they have to be baptized when they’re infants.”

“Seems kind of silly to baptize an animal that we’re going to eat,” he said with a chuckle.

“What are ye working on, Brother?” Enid asked, peering at the Mellifuge writing in front of him. She could read her native language just fine, but the friars all had miserable longhand.

He studied her pensively for a moment. “It’s quite mundane work, but it involves you, little one.”

“Me? Wherefore?” Enid said, narrowing her brows.

Brother Olav inhaled sharply and snapped the book closed. “I reckon we have a good quarter-hour before they’re done with that sermon in there, how would you like to visit the sepulchre with me? There’s some lovely murals I’d like to show you.”

“The graveyard?” Dustin said, intrigued.

He nodded. “Ye can come along too, if you’d like,” the old man said, turning to Sienna.

“Yes, please!” she squeaked.

He stood, stretching his creaking limbs in front of him. He grabbed his leather-bound vellum sheets and retrieved a little brass candle from the desktop to lead the way. Out in the hall, she heard the beautiful echoes of friars and nuns extolling in hymns of worship. They passed a handful of men in their cells—small, closet-sized stone rooms where they retired to rest or study—and Brother Olav led them out into the bailey nestled betwixt buildings.

The main eye-catch of the courtyard was the massive, ancient beech tree that stood just off its center. It was a sturdy hardwood tree, with jaundiced mossy bark and large, twisted limbs entangled in a web above. No one had dared to carve into the flesh of such a beautiful and ancient tree, and to keep track of its age the friars of the last three centuries had chiseled dates into stones and piled them at its base. Enid had once dug through the entire cairn; they dated all the way back two-hundred and eighty years.

They passed beneath the statue of the Founder, one of the earliest Freysian monks and the architect of the Misten Monastery. When Enid was younger, Brother Olav used to regale her with the stories of the First Brothers. They had spent forty years in the Mellifu mountain wilderness labouring at the monastery’s construction, and the Lord had blessed them with good weather, clean water, figs, and berries. To thank the First Father their Lord and honour the Founder, every morning at lauds the friars and nuns would bow their heads, say a prayer, and eat a fig in remembrance.

The cracked stone archway leading into the burial grounds was crumbling beneath an invading bramble of weeds, yet it was hauntingly lovely in precisely the way that only ancient ruins could be.

The little group passed a dried-up, dirty bird bath that sorely needed to be cleaned, and traversed across the burial grounds, where the tombstones were faded, split, and chipped from decades of erosion, and the soil had grown full with grass the colour of pale spearmint. The overgrown vegetation made it difficult to see the path of stones that had once been laid out, and Enid treaded carefully, trying not to accidentally step on someone’s grave or trample the poppies that had sprung from the fertile ground.

She shivered, thinking about how everyone eventually became fertilizer.

They approached the tomb, and Enid felt a chill swelling up through her body. There were several tombs around the perimeter of the burial grounds, but this one was by far the largest and most ornate. The round dome was carved from composite stone, and two womanly angels guarded its entrance on their knees in the form of statues, their faces concealed by their wimples and their fingers intertwined in prayer.

Brother Olav unlocked the door with a rusted key and creaked it open; the candles inside were spent, and no torches lit their way. Sienna was right behind him, and she stopped at the threshold of the dark tomb in fright.

“Don’t fret, child,” Olav said with a reassuring smile.

Dustin scoffed. “Well, I’m not afraid,” he said, shoving past them and plunging down the steps.

Enid tittered quietly to herself at his bravado, and they followed down the cracked steps into the dark passageway. It wasn’t dark for long; up ahead, a beam of waning dustlight from the slit in the ceiling illuminated the inmost chamber of the sepulchre. Veins of wild ivy covered the stone bricks around them, and the lid atop the grave looked heavy and unmovable.

Brother Olav raised his lamp, unveiling three faded murals; on the left, a depiction of the birth of the first Soulkeeper. In the center, a flat, pastel depiction of a woman in the barren Kalistani desert. And on the right, a depiction of the First Father, Founder, and four angels welcoming her into Paradise above the clouds, her fair hair always crowned with a warm nimbus.

“Aren’t they beautiful?” he said presently.

The murals were pleasing enough to the eye, but Enid didn’t care much for them. It was the grave that arrested her and captivated her attention; there was something deeply amiss with it. It was calling, beckoning to her, as though it had bound her heart with threads and was drawing her nearer.

Seeing her interest in the grave made Olav perk up. “What is it, child? Do you feel something?”

“Yea,” she blurted. “I should think so... I know not.” Enid trailed the perimeter of the stone coffin, running her fingers along the engravings.

“It is just a grave.”

“No, there’s something unright about it,” Enid said, looking up at him. “Whose grave is this?”

“I can’t imagine that it would matter,” he remarked.

That’s wrong. She didn’t know how to explain it, but the grave was speaking to her. She somehow knew who it belonged to—but it was urging her to stay silent, not to say anything.

Then, tentatively—

“Why do ye ask? Is there something special about this grave, Enid?”

She crossed her arms and glanced away, a warm blush boring holes into the sides of her cheeks. “It says I shouldn’t talk to you.”

At once Olav’s face filled with disbelief, and he shook his head, his flabby jowls swaying. “Ye mustn’t heed that—tell me, if you can, whose grave is this?”

She looked back at the coffin, its commandment still insisting that she obey. Say nothing.

“There’s no doubt that it belongs to Aelia, the fifth Soulkeeper.” After a hesitant pause, she added, “But ye probably already knew that.”

Olav’s brows knotted, and he failed to conceal his astonishment. “Oh, you marvelous child…” he muttered.

“The fifth?” Dustin said. “What happened to the sixth?”

He frowned, looking at the boy. “Nobody knows. Ofelia disappeared ever since the Frost started—” He stopped and pursed his lips, as if he’d said too much. “Aelia was the last Soulkeeper whose final whereabouts were known.”

He turned back to Enid, his eyes shimmering ardent with zeal.  “I can get in trouble for showing you this,” he started, “but you of all people deserve to understand your kindred’s past. History doesn’t always repeat itself, but it always rhymes.”

Dustin stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets and kicked a rock across the floor, earning an echo from the walls. “I thought we would at least get to see some bones,” he said, disappointed.

Brother Olav turned and flashed him a smile. “If it’s bones ye wish to see, I’d suggest looking into a mirror.”

The boy gaped incredulously at the insult, and Sienna buckled over with laughter.

He turned back toward Enid, his mocking smile fading. “How was it that ye knew Aelia was buried here? Did someone else tell you?”

She thought long about his question. Someone–or something.  “As to that, I don’t know how it’s talking to me. I’m sorry,” she replied. She suddenly didn’t want to be in the sepulchre anymore, it made her feel uneasy. She glanced up at the pretty murals; she much preferred those.

Brother Olav sighed, peering askance at the stone coffin. “Well, it was worth a try.” He inhaled slowly. “Come now, little ones—and speak of this to no one, or else I won’t turn a blind eye to your future foolishness.”

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THEY RETURNED whence they came to the refectory, but by the time they reached the dining hall it was already bustling with activity; terce had ended early.

Olav slipped inside with the children trailing behind him like ducklings. Normally, Sienna wouldn’t have been allowed because it was a male-only space—Enid being the only exception—but they were too busy arguing to notice the young maiden; every seat was full, and they were engaged in heated debate and back-and-forth accusations. It was Prior himself in the middle of the fray, donning his white robes and purple garb, with wide gold-trimmed sleeves and a white band around his head.

It came to light that one of the nuns had fallen sick with child, and the Prior and his clergymen were cross-examining all the men to find out who did it. Both she and her paramour had broken their vows of abstinence, and the woman was so distraught and ashamed that she refused to say who the father was. She apparently had gone and hid herself up in the grain-loft with the malt and spurned anyone who came to check on her, weeping and utterly inconsolable.

A young deacon suggested in jest that the reason they couldn’t get any of the men to confess was because it was a miraculous virgin pregnancy, and none of the men were guilty; and if the Prior took issue with this, he should take his grievances to the Lord.

The Prior fumed red in the face and expounded–

“Who are you to be making such crude remarks? You’re still a deacon training to be a priest, and ye only completed your studies at the convent half a year ago. It was probably some sod like you who did it. Nothing like this has ever happened at the monastery, until shortly after the new apprentices arrived. Am I to believe that’s just a coincidence?”

“Of course it’s not,” a clergyman said.

“Your lot has brought terrible shame on the entire priory; what will the nearby villages think when they catch wind of this from the local midwives? Must our reputation always hinge on the folly of the few?” he continued.

“They just let anyone into the convent these days, leave it to the new recruits and the incorrigible youth to break every sacred vow the moment they get tingly,” another said with a scowl.

“I’ll find the father,” Enid piped up from the back. A flock of eyes turned towards her, cold and disapproving. “Bring me to the Sister and I’ll use my Truth on her,” she continued.

“Under no circumstances will I allow it. We will not desecrate your purity for the sake of convenience,” Gregor said.

“But I can help!” Enid protested with a stamp of her foot, and the deacon shot her a furtive glance.

“Surely, under your careful eye, it wouldn’t be an unreasonable thing to ask…?” Dustin began.

“You’ve already my answer,” said the Prior.

A gentle friar approached and ushered her and the other younglings out of the room, saying that this was no discussion for children. He closed the door and barred them out in the hall, Dustin included.

Enid didn’t understand why they tried so hard to keep the truth from her. Despite their best efforts to protect her innocence, she already knew where babies came from. Unlike most of the children who still thought that newborn babes were delivered onto the monastery doorstep in a basket, she knew that they came from the bellybutton–which was why giving birth was so painful–and that babies were made when two adults cuddled beneath the same covers before marriage. She also knew that when the midwives spoke of bloody rags, it was because they had to stitch the belly shut again after the baby was successfully delivered, which was a grisly and unpleasant task.

“What are they talking about?” Sienna asked, confused. At some point she had started snacking on blackcurrant berries, and now the girl’s mouth was smeared with berry juice. She always seemed to have nuts or berries in her possession—she was like a squirrel making ready for winter, and it didn’t help that she had mouse ears.

“One of the men broke his vows and made a baby,” Dustin said grimly.

“How’s that happen?” she said. “Wait, know you how babies are made, Dustin?”

“Of course I know where babies come from,” he said hesitantly. “But I’m not going to tell you that.”

“If ye do, then prove it,” Enid said.

He shook his head. “I can’t, ‘twould be unseemly. You’ll figure it out when you’re older.”

“I already know,” she replied.

“If ye won’t tell me then at least whisper to Enid, so that she can tell me if it’s true or no,” Sienna said.

“Fine, I will.” He flashed his sister a distrusting look. “Step away, no listening.” He leaned into Enid’s ear and whispered that they came out of the navel, and were made when two adults shared coverlets before marriage.

Enid nodded. “He knows,” she said, giving her seal of approval.

“Tell me!” Sienna implored.

“Under no circumstances will I allow it,” Enid started, the biggest grin stretching across her freckly face. “We will not desecrate your purity,” she said, mimicking Prior Gregor’s gruff tone.

“Ugh, not you too!” Sienna grumbled, crossing her arms.

Enid snorted, delighting in Sienna’s innocence.

One of the barefoot friars mentioned to the children in passing that he had seen a patch of orange cloudberries over by the pond that had survived the cold, and could they go gather some before lunch?

They sallied out and followed the worn path while Enid imagined the poor, disgraced nun weeping in shame in the loft; she would never have to worry about being left alone and lovelorn like her, though, because she was going to marry Dustin in a few years once they were of age.

A season ago, right after his fourteenth advent-day, he had taken Enid to the big pond where the pike fish and hardy carps were, and there he confessed his young love to her and gave her a hand-carved promise ring he had sculpted from a large chestnut. Chestnuts were rare in the Mellifu mountains because they didn’t grow unless there were a few consecutive seasons without frost or snow, which wasn’t wont to happen, even summer considered. But he had scoured the forest floor until he found one.

She made him swear on his dagger to be a good husband, and once he vowed to be good to her, she put the chestnut ring in her pocket and kept it close to her heart ever since. She had later gone and swiped a piece of cotton yarn from Sister Margaret’s spinning cabinet while she was away shearing sheep, and fashioned a little necklace onto the chestnut ring. She wore it everywhere she went, secretly tucked underneath her cote-hardie, and whenever Dustin misbehaved too badly she would privately remind him that he had to become a good man for her, and a soft word always made his ways strait again.

The rest of the day flew by with merriment and good company, but it stood out in Enid’s memory as one of her most bitter-sweet.

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IT WAS particulary windy the following morning.  Once terce prayers had ended, Enid followed the quiet runnel that ran northwest of the monastery, to find repose in her usual hiding place. The babbling creek carved a little path through the rime-covered rushes, the smooth stones beneath the rivulet set in ice. Hugging tight to the bottom of the limpid stream, clumps of moss and ribbons of dark grasses shimmered and waved. If she looked close enough, she could make out the dark forms of tiny minnows hiding still in the shadows. Gripping the hem of her thick dress up to the top of her boots as she walked the frosty path, she drew near to the edge of the world, where the cliffs overlooked the ocean of mist below.

Though she had sought solitude here many times before, each time she walked along these giddy heights she felt an unspeakable thrill. The cold wind in these parts had a way of biting right through her cloak, but something about the chilly grip on her heart when she approached the ledge was invigorating and wild.

Up ahead on the trail there was a great rocky pinnacle, and the path that wrapped around the base of the tor plunged down the hillside beyond. That was the long way down the mountain pass, but she wasn’t allowed to venture so far down the col, nor had she.

Her spot was marked with a fine spruce tree, which stooped over the ledge like a supple flower bent by the breeze. Its roots held fast to the rocky cliff’s bosom, which made it easy for her to climb down into the little cleft in the rock where she liked to sit.

As Enid watched the misty clouds tumble and swirl below, she sat on a patch of blue grass and etched swirling patterns into the side of a blade with a small, black stone. It was Dustin’s trusty dirk, the same dagger he had sworn his oath of husbandry on. She grew increasingly entranced by the impenetrable sea of fog as she etched away, and before she knew it she had spent all the space on both sides of the blade.

She heard someone approaching behind her, and turned—it was one of the nuns, Sister Abigail. She was coif-clad and altogether lovely in her dun gown, but she looked different from the other sisters—she was smaller and scrawnier, and had a light brown complexion unlike anyone else at the monastery, with her little nose upturned slightly.

“Is this where you’ve run off to play with your knife?”

“It isn’t mine,” Enid said defensively, straining her neck to look up.

“Yours or Dustin’s, it’s all selfsame,” said Abigail. “Ye shouldn’t come so close to the cliff, it would spell disaster if you were to take a spill.”

“Am I in trouble?” she asked curtly. She liked to get to the point.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” Then, to her surprise, Sister Abigail climbed down and joined her on the shelf. Settling down beside her, she reached into her robe pocket and pulled out a chestnut ring—Enid’s ring. “Would you like to tell me about this?”

“Wherever did you find that?”

“It was under your pillow. Did Dustin give this to you?”

A blush slowly crept over Enid’s ruddy cheeks, and she nodded.

“I haven’t come to chasten you,” Abigail assured her.

She was quiet for a moment, and finally she managed to speak. “I s’pose I should thank my guardian angel that it was you who found it, and not Sister Margaret. I can only imagine what would have happened if it were she.”

“Actually, Enid, it was Sister Margaret who first found it—we were cleaning out all the cells together when she chanced on it.”

Enid went pale as bast. “Oh.”

The woman chuckled, looking straight ahead at the southern sun, its soft glow smudged by some distant fog. The sky was so washed out and grey this time of year, and it was strange—even the sun seemed pale. She twiddled the ring in her fingers, and Enid stared at it possessively, waiting for her to give it back.

“Did you know that it’s possible to see Al-Haven from here on a clear day?”

“Is it?” Enid said. She didn’t believe that one bit—not when she couldn’t see a single speck of ground below.

“Yea, if there is such a thing as a clear day anymore. Those days might be gone.”

“What’s below the fog, sister?”

“Well, let’s see here…” Abigail started. She pointed a finger due south. “Right below us there are the valleys, and beyond that is Al-Haven on the peninsula—but the Gratelli grasslands and Esland lie the other way, to the north—” She pointed up at the trail by the tor, making a funny winding motion with her finger. “Somewhere.”

“Is that where you’re from?” Enid asked.

“Me? Nay, I’m Natalian, love.”

“Where’s Natalia?”

Abigail laughed. “Natal is a faraway place, south of the eastern deserts. Pray you never have to go there.”

Enid didn’t say anything in response, and she could feel what was coming next; but no amount of bracing did her any good.

“No Soulkeeper has ever married, you know.”

“Is it not allowed?” Enid said—not unkindly, but jealous to guard what she held dear.

“There’s no law forbidding it, once you two are of age—but ye ought to consider your future carefully. Neither of you have any inheritance, and this messy business might prevent you from doing your duties. Would you be forever yoked under God to a man with no kinsmen and no land, without even knowing where Providence will send you?”

Enid swallowed—it sounded so hopeless when she said it that way. “In troth, can it really be as dismal as all that?”

“Well…” Sister Abigail hesitated, and the silence grew long between them. “Ye aren’t supposed to know anything about your kinsmen until you’re of age, but ye have a father, David son of Steffen, whose brother owns nine acres of land with no heir—mayhap ye can one day file suit for it, but it would be a most brash thing to do, and I cannot advise it.”

“My—father?”

Sister Abigail raised a finger to her lips. “Be chary with this secret and treasure it well, and don’t let on to anyone that I told you of your worldly kin. Canst you do that?”

Enid nodded, flustered beyond words. A freezing wind nipped her through all her layers, and she wrapped her little blue cloak around herself.

“I can’t fault you much if ye still want to accomplish this betrothal, ‘tis only natural for a young maid.”

Enid was too embarrassed to speak, and Sister Abigail unclasped a little silver brooch from her breast and held it out to her. “I’d like you to have this.”

Suddenly the words leapt out. “But, Abigail—I could never take that, it’s silver—”

“Every betrothed maid needs a dowry,” she said. She reached out and clipped it onto the neck of Enid’s cote-hardie. “If it should chance that ye need it one day, sell this for a small fortune—it will likely be enough to pay for a betrothal feast or some cattle.” With that, she handed the ring back to its rightful owner.

It took Enid some time to find the words—she stared down at the silver brooch in disbelief, beautiful in its luster. It had an intricate image engraved upon it, showing a hawk weaving vipers together into a nest, twisting snakes into withes. It looked like a family crest of some kind—did her own kinsmen have a family crest, too?

“O Abigail, I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you!” She lurched forward and flung her arms around the nun, and Abigail sat surprised for a moment, before embracing her in a tight squeeze.

The sister released her, and said—

“So, tell me about this boy… how has he won your affection?”

“Oh, no, I could never speak of that—”

The sister reached out and started straightening Enid’s shoulder-length plaits, smiling expectantly. “I mean you no ill-will, but out of all the boys I have to wonder why you’ve chosen him of the lot. Is there something particular about him that ye like?”

Enid thought for a moment while the woman fondled her hair, and answered softly, “I know he can sure be haughty betimes, but he’s tender to me, and he takes care of me. I sense that he would defend my honour from any man if it came to blows.” She looked away, all abashed–she felt silly talking about it, like she’d said something stupid.

Abigail nodded. “Yea, I suppose that the heart has reasons which reason knows not. No doubt word has already gotten around of your little betrothal—likely the Prior will have hot words awaiting you when we return. Brother Olav might be a bit more reasonable, but it’s Sister Margaret you have to worry about; she was beside herself with raving when she found the ring, and I had to talk her down. But that’s all they are, child—words. Come, now—let’s face the words together.”

They worked their way along the runnel, when suddenly the bells began to toll from atop the monastery. Who would be ringing the bells at a time like this? Scarcely an hour had passed since morning prayers had ended. All the clergy were being summoned to a meeting—now?

Enid didn’t say anything about it on the way back, but she had a terrible feeling it was about her.

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

BROTHER OLAV returned to the monastery, and found that all the men had skipped midday prayers and gone straight to the refectory. This was the second day in a row that either terce or sext had been skipped for a meeting, and it was the fourth time this month. He was beginning to wonder when people would stop taking these conferences seriously and begin ignoring the summons altogether.

He had half-expected this conference to be a continuation of yesterday’s disastrous meeting, but there was no arguing, rather a stern and awful silence had permeated through the room. Some of the friars murmured amongst themselves beneath the searching gaze of the clergymen, wondering aloud who it was that called the congregation.

Olav took his seat at the head of the deacons with the other clergymen, as he was now a magistrate above the regular friars but below the priests and Prior in rank. He apologized for keeping them waiting; he was outside the monastery when he heard the gongs struck.

Prior Gregor inhaled and rubbed his eye lethargically in vexation. “It seems everyone is here,” he started loudly, looking around the room. “Who was it that called this meeting?”

The young deacon of yestermorn leapt to his feet. “I did.”

“What for?” the Prior asked. “Have you something to confess? It would have been better to save it for the confessional before Mass, rather than wasting everyone’s time.”

“It isn’t that, Prior,” he said. “Moments ago I was in the main abbey, when a weary messenger from Tørnsgaard arrived on a horse to warn that an army from the south was spotted marching north.”

One of the clergymen scoffed. “That’s what this is about? The southern city-state is still fighting over the lands between the valley and Esland, they’re on their way to build a garrison. What makes you think they’re coming for us?”

“Tar-burners from the valley claim they’re after the monastery,” he continued.

“Pitch-burners? Local tradesmen aren’t equipped to understand matters of war, they don’t know the half of it,” the Prior said. “They see an army marching north and think, ‘There’s a monastery up north, so the army must be on its way to destroy the monastery.’ This is the third time they’ve marshaled men north to attack Esland, this meeting was a waste of time.”

“They aren’t heading for the Esland border,” he insisted.

“It doesn’t make sense for Al-Haven to be sending men north in the middle of winter, in the past they only made incursions early in the summer before harvest. We should listen to the deacon, it would be better to take action and have it be for naught than to stick by our pride,” a friar spoke.

“How many men are there, boy?” Brother Olav asked, raising his brow.

“The messenger claims about two-hundred,” he said.

“That’s a lot of men,” Olav remarked.

“No it isn’t,” another friar said, chuckling dryly. “They’ve sent half their army north so far, if they needed more men, why only send another two-hundred?”

“Maybe Al-Haven is running low on young blood to send, they might be getting desperate,” said some other.

“It would make sense for them to send a small army if they only wanted to destroy the monastery,” a concerned friar said.

“How many able-bodied men are there at Tørnsgaard?” Olav asked, turning towards the Prior.

Gregor propped his round cheek against his hand and twirled his other hand dismissively. “Not many. About seventy, according to last census.”

“They’ll be here by tomorrow’s end, we need to flee!” the young man said urgently.

“Merciful Father, tell me this isn’t true!” a clergyman said, slamming his fist on the table. He looked around the room accusingly. “How are none of you stirred by this? Last summer those southern devils razed Ingleborg county to the ground and pillaged the homes and churches for payment, slaughtering all and sparing only the baron for ransom. The enchanters must have figured a way past the seals—we need to warn everyone!”

Olav deliberated on the young deacon’s words carefully. An invasion should be impossible, because the Mellifu mountains had been protected for hundreds of years by a powerful, enchanted barrier put in place by the First Brothers; but he didn’t want to fully ignore the threat of imminent danger.

Gregor turned to the young deacon, wearing a sardonic smile. “They aren’t coming our way, but if they were it would be but a trifling thing—the seals have held for seven-hundred winters, there’s no reason to expect they’ll fall now,” said the Prior. “This wild fearmongering doesn’t leave this room, lest it spread like wildfire and cause a panic. Brothers, this is a test of our faith—we will not waver!”

Olav leaned forward and folded his hands together, propping his body on his elbows. “What’s your name, lad?” he asked the deacon.

“I’m Petur, Brother Olav,” he said. He cleared his throat and corrected himself. “Magistrate.”

“Brother is fine,” Olav said. “Tell me, Petur. Let’s say this southern army was indeed marching on the monastery; how do ye propose they might get past the seals?”

“The seals!” a clergyman exclaimed. “Good God, none of this matters! Even if Al-Haven was marching on the monastery, they’d never make it past the seals placed by the First Brothers. Many have tried, and all have failed. Whether there’s a hundred men, two-thousand, or a hundred-thousand is irrelevant; so long as the seals are in place, no one can make it through the mountain pass unwelcome. The Prior is right, this meeting was a waste of time.”

One of the friars abruptly gathered his things and rose from his seat, heading for the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Gregor snapped.

He turned, his lips pressed flat. “My brother and sister-in-law are here at the hostelry with my nephews. I’m taking my family and riding north to the Gratelli grasslands. If these rumours are true… best of luck to you, brothers.” He closed the door behind him, the echoes bounding off the stone walls.

“I think he means to take one of the sumpters,” a clergyman muttered under his breath.

“This charade has made a mockery of our council,” the Prior said. “Disband and return to your duties at once. All of you are dismissed.”

“But we still haven’t—”

“I said you’re dismissed,” Gregor said sternly. “And for God’s sake, someone go after that friar and make sure he doesn’t steal a horse.”

The friars, deacons, and clergymen pushed out of their seats in near unison, filling the air with the sound of chairs scraping against stone. Brother Olav didn’t believe that an army successfully marching on the monastery was possible, but he would keep his ear to the ground.

He quietly withdrew to his cell; he had some crocheting he had to finish.

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

11

THAT EVENING after vespers, Enid volunteered for vigil. The practice of standing vigil was an ancient tradition; while everyone else in the priory slept in their cloisters, one person stayed awake all night in front of the main abbey. Some seven-hundred years ago when the Founder and First Brothers were constructing the monastery, and the seals had yet to be partitioned and put into place, at least one monk had to stand watch all night so that the others may rest. It was a form of sacrifice that everyone was encouraged to partake in.

Some would volunteer for vigil to atone for a sin or transgression. Others might volunteer if Prior Gregor decided to make an appearance at vespers, because they wanted to look good in front of him.

She had volunteered because Dustin stood vigil alone in the cold the night before, and on many occasions Brother Olav and Sister Margaret had taken vigil on these very steps. It was frigid, and Enid shivered, snuggling herself up in her cape. Deacon Petur had lent it to her after she volunteered, and it was lined with fur, which made it superior to anything she owned.

The night was chilly and quiet, and Enid knelt on the stone bricks with her hands folded in her lap. The spruce trees were hauntingly beautiful at night; the Mellifu wilderness was shrouded in impenetrable shadows, but even on the darkest of nights there was always a rich, midnight blue in the sky’s backdrop that transformed the trees into flat, black silhouettes.

The first hour passed by at a glacial pace, and by now her knees were aching with pain. One-by-one the lights in the monastery were snuffed out, until Enid was alone on the dark steps, with nothing but her thoughts to accompany her. The forest began bustling with strange noises; a white snow owl hooted off to her right, the wind whistled in the thistle brush, and somewhere far off she heard the distant, shrieking cry of a distressed hawk.

Hawks don’t fly or hunt at night, because unlike owls and nightingales, they can’t see in the dark. Margaret had once read an old, cautionary folktale to her about a proud hawk who often strayed too far from home during its flights, ignoring all the other hawks when they tried to warn him. One day, the arrogant bird flew too far from its nest before dusk, and when nightfall came it became lost and distressed, calling out for the other birds because it couldn’t see. The foolish hawk never found its way home, and was still searching for its nest to this day.

Enid heard the sad, piercing cry of the hawk again, this time over a different part of the forest.

She wondered how the forest sprites were getting along with the other wildlife; Sister Margaret was very insistent that there were no such things as forest sprites, and that they were nothing but pagan nonsense, but Enid knew that the sprites were real. She’d seen the circles they had made out of mushrooms, and Sienna even saw the faeries herself a couple of seasons ago.

She once went and told Brother Olav she wanted to lure the sprites out by leaving gifts for them, and he gave her permission to do so. That day, she went and left her favourite woolen scarf on the stump by the old elm tree where the sprites lived, and two days later she woke to find it had been returned to her room with new embroidery.

A week later, she gave them her stuffed doll, and the sprites had returned it with a little hat.

For her twelfth advent-day she had been given an entire jar of sugar plums, but instead of keeping the rare delicacy for herself, she decided to give it to the faeries. It had been her best offering yet, but that was more than a season ago, and she still hadn’t seen the sprites nor received any gifts from them since. She hoped the little faeries were alright… maybe they didn’t like her offering.

She kept vigil deep into the night, but at some point the warmth of her cape and the irresistible allure of slumber overcame her.

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

ENID AWOKE to the sweet chirping of finches in the trees above, lying at the top of the stone steps bundled up in the sanctuary of her fur cape. Her frigid face was red and rigid, but her body warm. No longer did she hear any frightening sounds from the forest, but when she roused herself awake and realized she had failed her vigil, she was deeply embarrassed. She sat up straight and puffed against her hands for warmth, her breath emerging raw against the cold.

It was still quite early, and the sun had just barely begun to cusp the horizon.

She discreetly opened the abbey door behind her and peeked inside; no one was awake and out of their cells yet, except for an elderly nun who had risen early to sweep out the vestry. She remained at the steps to pick up her vigil where she left off, and some time later when she began to hear bustling inside the dormitories, she returned inside to take a short nap before terce prayers.

The vestry at the front of the main abbey was special, in that the entire room was also a sundial; the building had been constructed with the sun in mind, and the skylight was positioned so that the gnomon’s shadow moved along the old numeric digits on the floor. During the long days of summer the sundial’s accuracy began to wane, and the clergymen still often argued over whether to adjust the “time” to the dial, or simply say that it was behind and add an hour to whatever was displayed in the morning. Oftentimes, whenever there was a dispute over what “time” prime started at, the written notice posted in the vestry would comically read, “Prime will be held at the usual time, or not, either at six or at seven o’clock, depending on whether ye agree with Brother Dunan or Brother Elric.”

She returned to her cell when it was late enough after sunrise for it to be considered appropriate to end her vigil, and found a gift had been left on her bed by the forest sprites. It was a jacket of worsted cotton, with wooden buttons sewn into the placket. It even had a little hood!

Enid unclasped the cape and enthusiastically slipped the grey cardigan on over her dark blue cote-hardie; it was snug and warm, and the cotton was so fine that it barely itched or tickled. The sleeves were slightly longer than her arms, but she could ball the slack around her fists like mittens.

She forgot all about her nap and set out at once to find Brother Olav to show him what the faeries had left for her. He was the only person who believed her about the forest sprites, besides Sienna. Even Dustin laughed and said they weren’t real when she told him about them.

He’ll have to believe me now, Enid thought.

He was neither in the refectory nor his cell, but she found him outside in the bailey on a bench, scribbling away at his vellum manuscript dutifully.

“Brother Olav!” Enid exclaimed, bounding up to him. He looked up and smiled. “Look what the forest sprites left for me!” She spun on the heels of her boots and almost toppled over, showing him the cardigan in all of its glory.

“They left you that?” he said, clearly impressed. “They must have really liked those sugar plums you left for them.”

Her eyes wandered to his lap, and she noticed that his hands were shaking; the tremors had begun a few seasons ago, and were getting progressively worse. But today they were trembling much more fearsome than usual.

“Are you unwell, Brother Olav? Your hands are shaking.”

He glanced down abashedly and shook his head. “I’m quite alright–I may have the infirmity of age upon my body, but I haven’t entered second childhood yet, fear you not of that. My fingers are just a little unsteady because I wrought them hard last night, and because I work them doubly with this writing. This ink is poor, I don’t have any pumice, and these accursed pens are so bloody difficult…” he muttered, the ink reed trembling in his hands. “But it’s very sweet of you to worry about me, little maiden.”

Enid nodded and plopped down on the bench beside him, peering at his calfskin paper. “Will you tell me what you’re working on now?”

He gave her a sidelong glance, smiling oddly. “A personal history, of sorts,” he said. “Ye know those old books about the saints that Sister Margaret makes you read?”

She nodded.

“All of them were written and reproduced painstakingly by hand, and so that is what I’m doing.”

“You’re writing history?” Enid said, wide-eyed.

“It’s just one person’s; it’s a field called hagiography.”

“Hagy…. what?” she said, fumbling the word.

“Maybe that one is a bit advanced,” he conceded with a smile.

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

BROTHER OLAV lingered long after the little maiden went her way. He continued writing until the fibers in his fingers could no longer articulate the letters on the page, and finally he sighed and packed up his work. He had to wrap it up soon, anyway; it was almost time for terce.

He made his way through the sequestered garden outside his cell, drifting beneath the wooden pergola. Many of the seasonal flowers had been brought inside, and all that hadn’t had withered from the cold, except for a patch of pale blue forget-me-nots beneath his room’s window.

Pushing open the great oaken door took the wind out of him; he shook the melting flecks of snow onto the doorstone and stepped inside. He stretched out the pages to dry, and his pair of turtledoves cooed and purred from their cage in the corner.

He reached for their feed, and recited a fragment of a travel song that he often whispered to the little birds–

“Whither must I wander,

Down to the valley yonder?

There sits the turtledove,

Sighing for her bonny love

I fare thee well, my dear,

I must be soon to depart,

I am faithful, have no fear.”

He scattered their seed at their feet, and the pigeons rushed to feast–they were such sweet company to him. He’d had them for half a score and a quarter more, and yet these two held as much fidelity with each other as they did to him.

Olav turned to bar the door behind him, when a fit of violent coughing seized him by the lungs and sent tremors quaking through all his body. He coughed up something thick and dark into his hand–a clot of blood.

His breast had been wracked with the tremors ever since he was stroke-struck a year prior. This new body of his was already close to expiring, but how much longer it would last, he couldn’t tell.

As he leaned on the doorpost and considered his options, he noticed a flighty figure in the distance weaving past the hostelry. It was deacon Petur, hurrying beneath the cloistered colonnades.

Wiping his hand with a cloth, Olav stepped outside and closed the door behind him, keeping his eyes fixed on the young man. The deacon disappeared around a corner, and he trailed discreetly, following him all the way to the stables by the servant quarters. The young man glanced around to see if he was being watched, wearing his spurs and a marten traveling cloak.

“Going for a morning ride?” Olav said from behind, startling him.

The young man jolted and turned. “Brother Olav—I mean magistrate—”

“You’re fleeing?” he said.

Petur shook his head. “I’m riding to the old southern trails. To see if they’re coming.”

  “I doubt you’ll see anything of consequence, and you’d have to ride for several hours to get an unobstructed view,” he said.

“If I’m wrong, then the Prior can send me back to the convent for reformation. But if I’m right, we could sound the alarm and warn everyone before it’s too late. I’m sorry magistrate, but I have to do this.”

“We’ve only the two sumpters left, and they’re old and unfit for hard riding,” Olav said as Petur saddled the horse. “The Prior would be furious if he discovered one of them was taken without permission. He’ll be even more livid once terce ends, and it’s discovered that both are gone.”

His hands stopped and he turned, confused. “Both, brother?”

Olav nodded. “I’m coming with you.”

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

LATER THAT day after the none hour came to a close, Enid remembered the cape she had borrowed from Petur, and went back to retrieve it from her cell, having accidentally stolen it by not returning it to its rightful owner. When she reached her private stone room in the dormitory, the fur-lined cloak was already gone—he must have retrieved it already.

She was startled by a sudden metallic clatter that reverberated through all the cloister–someone had begun to ring the gongs at the front of the monastery.

Whenever a congregation was being called in the refectory, the gongs would ring three times; but after three loud blows, the gongs continued to be struck. Then the bells tolled from the main abbey ahead, which were only rung when service was starting—but none had just ended. What was going on?

She opened the wooden shutters and peered outside through the window; crowds of people were rushing by towards the main abbey to see what was happening.

Several nuns in the women’s dormitory emerged from their cells, whispering and murmuring amongst themselves. The children asked if they were supposed to be going somewhere, and the nuns began rounding them up, saying they were heading for the burial grounds.

“Come on, Enid, we’re all going on a trip to the tomb,” Sister Abigail said softly, a subdued panic written on her face.

“Is something wrong?” Enid said, as the slender nun pulled her along into the flow of children.

“We’re just going to go to the tomb for a while and play some game,” Abigail said.

The nuns corralled the children into the bailey, passing by the ancient beech tree. Enid looked around at all the other girls, wondering why she didn’t see Sienna’s face amongst them. That was when she remembered that Dustin had gone out into the woods to play with his dagger after midday prayers had concluded, and Sienna had gone to find him.

As the girls traversed the monastery, the nuns kept them busy by having everyone loudly sing hymns together. Once the crowd of children were led to the crumbling archway, Enid ducked behind one of the pillars and waited for the right moment to slip away. There was a brief moment when all the girls were singing and the nuns were distracted, and she quietly climbed up the shifting dirt behind the arches, the ground gripped with frost.

She made straight for the part of the forest where she thought Dustin would most likely be, and as she ran through the crunchy frozen leaves in her boots and baggy cardigan, the sound of psalms began to vanish behind her. Powerful, breath-snatching winds met her with great resistance, and after some time the sweet sound of hymns had completely ceased. All the vegetation began to blend together, and it wasn’t long before all the spruce trees started to look the same.

Enid slowly began to realize that she had strayed too far from the beaten path, and was now hopelessly lost. She whispered prayers under her breath as she scoured the woods for signs of either Dustin or Sienna, and in return the forest hit her with blasting gales of wind, as though all her prayers were being blown back into her face.

For hours she searched, and she yelled Dustin and Sienna’s names as loudly as her lungs would allow. The realization struck her that the two children might have already returned to the monastery and joined the others in the safety of the sealed tomb long ago, and that she was now alone and lost. Worse still, no one knew where to search for her.

Dusk descended upon the sky like a hawk, and Enid’s legs were growing stiff and cold. Her throat had a dry ache from screaming for her friends, and now she was beginning to worry more about her own immediate survival. The shadows stretched long upon the ground, and the air grew thin and chilly. Too weary to continue, she stopped to rest beneath a twisted, ancient ash tree. She huffed into her hands and rubbed them together for warmth as the sun plunged beneath the horizon, when suddenly she heard the distant sound of timber wolves howling in the woods somewhere. A terrible, heavy dread filled her soul, and she felt nauseous like she might vomit from fright.

Tears of helpless frustration welled up in her eyes as the sky fell dark, and she knew she had no choice but to give up finding her friends and try to make her way back while it was still possible. She didn’t know exactly where she was, but she could still make out a tiny sliver of dying light on the horizon, which meant she knew which way was north. The monastery was located in the furthest southwestern corner of the mountains, so if she traveled in that direction, she would eventually hit either the monastery or the nearby village of Tørnsgaard, depending on which direction she had strayed in.

Enid gripped her chestnut ring tightly, and raised it to her lips, kissing it softly. I’m sorry Dustin, she thought, you’ll have to fend for yourself.

She turned around and figured out which way she had to go, but she had to go quickly; once the sun winked out of the sky, she would have no guide in the darkness. She made her way southwest for over half an hour, and nightfall arrived, bringing out the stars and forest spirits. Shivering, she hiked through the forest with her arms folded tightly across her chest, praying and hoping that she was still going the right direction. She didn’t dare make a sound, and she stepped quietly with shallow, frantic breaths.

Something cold and wet melted on her cheek–snow.

It started falling gradually at first, then rapidly, and as she continued it accumulated on her from head to heel. The ground grew slippery and treacherous, and grabbing the frozen limbs and fingers of trees for balance burned her hands with cold and sapped all her warmth.

Eventually, she saw some light in the distance, an orange haze looming over the trees. She continued toward it, unsure of where the light was coming from. After some time, she reached the great pond where she and Sienna had played many times before, now iced over, and she passed by the stump near the faeries’ elm tree. Even in the darkness, she now knew exactly where she was, and she wasn’t far from the monastery. A wave of relief washed over her; she knew this place like the breath in her own lungs, and could follow the worn path all the way back to the tombs.

It became difficult to breathe, and she broke into a coughing fit. She covered her nose and mouth, and realized the falling snow was black–it was snowing soot.

As Enid drew near to the monastery, the incandescent orange glow grew larger, and plumes of smoke filled the air. Then, through the branches, she saw it.

In the valley below, the monastery was burning.

Wide-eyed with panic, she rushed towards the sacred burial grounds. She tripped on a root and hit the ground hard on her knees, but she leapt to her feet and kept running, ignoring the throbbing scrapes on her palms. She burst from the brush, and saw the ancient beech tree in the central courtyard engulfed in flames. People fled from every orifice of every building, scattering like ants.

In the distance, soldiers in glistening harness piled into the front abbey with polearms, while many circled behind it into the bailey. She heard a cacophony of screams from the dormitories in the South Wing, but the graveyard was still untouched. She lurched forward to rush for the tomb, hoping that they hadn’t sealed it off yet from the inside. But then she saw soldiers with green and black banners marching through the crumbling archway, and she froze, ducking down behind a mound of boulders.

On the other side of the monastery a garland of trees blazed like torches—the entire forest was in peril.

She heard a twig snap behind her and whipped around in fear, a yelp leaping from her lungs.

Sienna reached out and covered Enid’s mouth with her hand before she could scream, and her breathing steadied once she realized it was her friend. The girl was filthy and frightened, and she removed her hand from Enid’s face after a moment. She put a finger to her lips, and quietly retreated behind the nearby trees, gesturing for Enid to follow.

The two slipped behind the thistle bushes, lying low, and silent except for the tears choking them up.

“You haven’t seen Dustin, have you?” Sienna said with anxious urgency.

“He’s not in the tomb with the others?” Enid said.

Sienna shook her head, distress mounting on her face. “We were separated, once the alarm sounded he told me he had to go to Tørnsgaard and that he’d meet back at the monastery with the other men, but I haven’t seen him anywhere…”

That fool! Enid thought, cursing him. That stupid, brave fool…

“If he saw the flames he probably knew not to come back,” Enid said, trying to be optimistic.

“I don’t know how to get to Tørnsgaard from here, and the nuns sealed the tomb shut and blocked it off from the inside. It’s all so awful, what do we do?”

Enid’s pounding heart threatened to punch a hole through her chest, and she looked around while a thousand thoughts bounded around her head. There were some warriors in Tørnsgaard, but they were mostly old and retired veterans from local border disputes. Still, Dustin might have joined them, and it was possible they had put up a solid defense against the invaders, or at least fled in time.

It seemed better than taking their chances with the wolves.

“I know how to get to Tørnsgaard,” Enid said resolutely. “We’ll see if your brother is there.”

Sienna nodded trustingly, and they circled the peripherals of the monastery along the edge of the woods. The screams of the massacre below only grew louder and more piercing, and Enid bit back the bile that was rising in her throat as the images swirled in front of her eyes. Crowds of people surged past them, rushing into the trees.

A young servant girl from the hostelry saw Enid and stopped, recognizing her—but before she could say anything, her father swept her off her feet and carried her away in his arms. A little boy stumbled and fell in the grass, and several people trampled him as they fled up the hill. He cried out in pain, and Enid rushed forward and helped him to his feet, as a passing nun’s knee connected hard with her chin.

She yelped and grabbed her throbbing jaw, and the woman barked at her to move out of the way.

The boy ran off with the others, and Enid stopped and froze; up ahead, several nuns from the women’s wing of the dormitory fled up the scree into the trees, and a posse of a dozen mounted cavalrymen quickly gained on them on horseback, shouting and cheering as they closed in.

Enid gripped Sienna by the arm and yanked her hard to the ground, and she covered the girl’s eyes with her fingers as the soldiers cut down the women and their screams filled the air. She trembled in the tall grass, averting her eyes and staring straight at the stars above while the men committed their barbarity. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the noise as Sienna quivered against her hand.

But she heard every gruesome detail of what was happening, and she heard when one of the women wasn’t cut down, but was instead pinned to the ground while the men did the unthinkable.

She placed her free hand over her mouth and bit down to keep from making a sound as the woman screamed against the defilement. Still she didn’t look, and after the last of the nearby screams had stopped and the men had left, she took Sienna by the hand and they made their way east past the back of the monastery, weeping quietly and trying not to look too closely behind them.

Several times Sienna wanted to stop and rest, but Enid wouldn’t let her.

“Please, I can’t go on, I’m too tired!” Sienna said panting, after they had run some distance.

“We can’t stop, keep moving!” Enid yelled, tugging on her hand. “Come on, keep going!”

After some time, they put the monastery behind them and continued the path towards Tørnsgaard. It was not a long ways away, but was far enough that the situation might have been better there. They reached the fork in the road that led to the village, and Enid told Sienna that she could stop to rest while she scouted ahead to see if the road was safe, so long as she stayed hidden.

The girl nodded, her cheeks wet with tears.

Enid followed alongside the trail for some twenty minutes, until she heard muted talking somewhere ahead. She couldn’t make out what was being said, and she inched closer, until she saw torches through the bushes. So bright were the torches in the night to her sensitive eyes that she couldn’t see whether it was locals from Tørnsgaard or the invading soldiers that held them. But she saw a dead horse in the road, and several scattered bodies sprayed with blood. The handful of men didn’t linger much longer, and after they left towards the village, she took in a deep breath and ran up to see whether it was friends or foes that had been slain.

The bodies were mostly older men from Tørnsgaard, with a few younger men who had been killed. The destitute locals had fought against the soldiers with pitchforks and axes; most didn’t even have armour apart from their coats. Out of the ten or so bodies, only one belonged to the invading soldiers, and he wore a crest on his steel cuirass that she didn’t recognize.

One particular body caught her attention.

Off to her right, a young boy lay slain on the side of the road, in blood-soaked weeds. Enid approached, her stomach heavy with dread. It was Dustin, and there was a crimson cavity releasing billows of life where his gut was supposed to be. His eyes were still open, and his body was stiff and pale, already covered with insects.

Enid collapsed on her knees and broke down in tears, choking back sobs as she beheld his lifeless face. His dagger was beside his arm, covered in someone else’s blood. From the looks of the surrounding scene, he had died trying to fight alongside the other men from Tørnsgaard. She squeezed his cold, limp hand, but he didn’t squeeze back. She caressed his face briefly, disgusted and angry that the ants had come to pillage his youthful flesh so soon.

She reached down and removed his chestnut ring from her neck, and she tilted his head up and slipped it over him. With trembling fingers she gently pushed his eyes closed, and she folded his arms across his chest to make him look more peaceful. She saw that poppies and sunflowers had grown in the brush behind her, and she gathered them up and placed them in his hands, so that when the sun rose, it would see them and know that he was loved.

She knelt over his body and said prayers for him as her tears splattered against his cheek, and a nerve-wracking terror came over her when she realized she would have to tell his sister what had happened to him. She didn’t think the little girl could take it. She didn’t think she could take it.

She solemnly dragged herself back to where she had left Sienna, numb from misery.

Sienna had waited a long time anxiously waiting for Enid’s return, and the girl asked whether the road was safe. It was then in her moment of weakness that Enid did something so terrible and cowardly that it would haunt her for the rest of her days.

She told Sienna that the path ahead wasn’t safe, and that they had to go around the other way, but she didn’t tell her that she had found her brother dead. Sienna was a simple and trusting girl, and she didn’t ask any other questions.

And so they returned to the fork in the path and followed the longer, roundabout trail towards Tørnsgaard, while Enid maligned herself in her thoughts and wished she had died in Dustin’s stead whenever Sienna spoke about reuniting with her brother at the village. She said nothing, and knew for certain that if her soul had ever been in danger of damnation, it was at this moment when she was furthest from God and loathing in despair of her own sinful nature.

Every time Dustin’s sister spoke it was a dagger through her heart, and when it became too much to bear she snapped at Sienna to shut her mouth and be quiet. The girl bit her tongue, and Enid burned with shame at her own deplorable behavior. She whispered an apology, but Sienna didn’t say another word.

Almost as bad as her lie by omission was the fact that she had no idea where to go. They were following one of the roads that led to the village, but she knew the chances were high that enemy soldiers were already there if they had found the main road. But going back to the monastery would be suicide, and there were no other settlements or towns within riding distance, let alone walking.

The clouds poured rain and hail down on them, the strong winds spraying their miserable faces as they shuffled along in the cold. Perhaps the rain would prevent the entire forest from being razed to ash—but if that was supposed to be a consolation, it fell short.

After traveling some distance in stiff, exhausted silence, Enid spotted an abandoned rye mill protruding from the brush, and said they should stop there. It was a tall, cylindrical structure with fading whitewash that had fallen into disrepair. The breeze felt strong along the road, but the shafts above didn’t turn.

The bricks and wood beams forming its foundation were rotting in a sludge of silt, a dark patina of moss and grime coating the exterior.

Enid had forgotten that there was a windmill outside Tørnsgaard; it had been abandoned some time ago after the local charter stopped maintaining it, although she didn’t know precisely why it had been left to ruin. She often regretted how little she knew about present events; of so many things, she knew nothing.

It was at that moment that she realized she would probably never see Olav or Margaret ever again. She had passively understood this when she saw what was happening at the monastery, but hadn’t put the full weight of that reality to her mind until this moment.

She felt her pulse throbbing dully in her temples, like an artery might burst above her brow, and then a heavy ache deep in her chest. As they crossed a small bridge over the wet silt, she hunched over and gripped the railing tightly, laboring for breath.

A wave of nausea struck her violently, and she vomited over the edge of the bridge, coughing and choking on bile. She imagined sweet Olav’s face crumbling in the flames like the mural of the First Father on the refectory ceiling, and she would have gladly sat still and listened to Margaret lecture her a thousand times over if it meant getting to see her face one last time. She would have gone back and listened better to the histories, and she wouldn’t have cared one bit about present events.

But she couldn’t.

The world she knew didn’t exist anymore.

Brother Olav had once imparted her with a granule of wisdom that she was too young to understand at the time. Even now, Enid could hear the words brushing against her ear. “No one ever grows up, little one. They’re just thrust into a world where they can’t be children anymore.”

Sienna crept up and wrapped her arm around Enid’s shoulders, embracing her tightly to comfort her; she was so touched by her bravery and the undeserved kindness that she wiped her eyes and tried to reassure Sienna that she was alright.

Enid opened the door, spilling a bucketful of moonlight across the room. The mill was dark and dank, reeking of mildew, and the rafters above were clogged with cobwebs. The floors groaned, and a large, vertical wooden shaft cut through the middle of the tower, informing into the spoked gears that converted rotational movement into a rolling millstone.

She locked the bolts tightly behind them; the door seemed heavy and durable. The stone tower beneath the mill was old, but it wasn’t too different from a defensive turret; it would make for a hardy shelter. Sienna was frightened, so Enid took her hand and led the way up the stairs to the loft. They had to make sure they were alone and safe if they were going to spend the night there.

Right when Enid cusped the final step, she saw Dustin’s body strewn across the floor, covered in moths, and she revulsed in terror. She shouted for Sienna to go back down, and the poor girl didn’t understand what was happening. Enid grabbed her by the hand and dragged her back out into the deluge, ignoring the girl’s pleas and protests.

They stumbled upon Dustin’s moth-eaten corpse once more in the road, and she had to cover Sienna’s eyes and lead them in a different direction. Shortly thereafter they came upon a vacant hermit’s hut, but they couldn’t stop there, either; Dustin’s body was in there. The same happened at the grain silo right outside Tørnsgaard, and then everywhere she went she saw him, until at last she turned to Sienna and saw that she too had Dustin’s pallid, lifeless face, and the piercing cry of the lost hawk became so head-splitting and loud that it shattered the world around her, until—

Enid jolted awake with a start, gasping for air. It was the middle of the night, and she was safe in her bedroll beside her dying campfire, while her mule Grunter slept soundly beside her like a silent guardian. She trembled, clenching her dagger so tightly that her knuckles ached. Eight years had passed since the attack, but she still frequently had night-terrors about that night. No matter how many times the childhood memory visited her, each time still felt fresh and visceral. Her head throbbed with pain, and her eyes were moist; she wept a little anytime she thought too much about Sienna.

Enid eased her grip off her dagger’s hilt and wiped her eyes. She leaned forward and tossed the last couple pieces of dry wood into the dying fire. She curled up in her bedroll beneath the stars and tried to find solace in sleep, gently rubbing the faded scar on the back of her neck—a permanent reminder of how close she came to dying at the tender age of twelve.