“Sit,” she commanded.
“Honestly, I feel better than I have in ages. I don’t think there is anything more to be done.”
“I’ll be the judge of that, thank you. Now sit.” She pushed him down onto the edge of the bed and lifted his shirt to inspect his side. “Extraordinary,” she mused. “Just two days ago you were at death’s door, and now there isn’t…well it is as if the wound was never there. You don’t even have a scar.” She brushed her fingers against the perfectly smooth skin in amazement.
“You are a very good healer.” Garren yanked down his linen shirt. “I thought I might explore the village today.”
Haldis scurried back to her table of herbs and potions, blankly staring at the vials. But she waved a hand at him nonetheless, silver braid swaying along her back as her head from side to side, and she began grabbing different bottles, “Yes, yes. Go on your way.”
Garren hurried out the door before she could insist that he stay for her to inspect his wound–or lack thereof–further. He knew she was pondering his speedy recovery, wondering what poultice she had created to improve his predicament so quickly.
The town of Sardorf bustled with life. The sun hung high overhead doing little to warm him as a swift breeze whipped around buildings chasing any of the heated sun’s rays away. Garren was greeted with the delightful scent of smoked meat and something sweeter that had his mouth watering even though he had just eaten. The townspeople filled the streets, going about their daily tasks, selling wares from carts. Children played, chasing each other down the road, laughing and shouting. A smile played upon his lips as he took it all in.
As he continued to survey the town, his eyes caught specific details, such as the strange clothing the people wore, the lack of a single horse or carriage in sight, and the build of the architecture throughout.
Men wore long tunics that hung just above the knee, with tight stockings of varying greens and browns to cover their legs. Heavy, woolen capes lay across their shoulders, and upon their feet were odd, pointed shoes that looked little more than rags crudely sewn together. Their garb was outdated by many years and paltry compared to the rest of Svakland. Garren looked down at his own clothing: his thick black breeches to his black leather boots laced to the knee, his gray linen shirt tucked into his trousers, and his padded woolen overcoat lined with coarse bone buttons down the left side. He cocked his head to the side as he continued to study the town.
The buildings were constructed entirely of wood. At the base of each structure was a cellar of stacked, interlocking logs that formed the shape of an anvil, narrow at the base and fanning outward at the top. A small door had been cut out of the structures, just big enough for a single person to fit through head or feet first.
Atop the sturdy, cellar bases were great square structures that looked like homes and businesses. Each one had its own ornate carvings etched into the wood above the doors and windows. Some were as bare as the rustic wood they were originally built with, while others had been smeared over with an off-white clay in order to trap in heat.
Garren looked up to the tops of the buildings and nearly gasped. A garden grew atop each roof, full of grass and vegetation spreading along the shallow wooden peaks. He felt as if he had been transported into an entirely new world.
He watched in awe as a small boy climbed a rickety old ladder up to one of the rooftops and began plucking ripe red tomatoes and cucumbers of the deepest green from the vines growing there.
The entire village was an amazing sight of weathered buildings with vivid rooftops overflowing with flourishing greenery. It was incredible.
As Garren walked in the center of the street enraptured by the odd happenings in the town around him, his gaze lingered on a small woman with auburn curls cascading down her back, her hair much the same color as the other townsfolk, but somehow, he had picked her out from the crowd. Her movements were more graceful, more precise than any of those around her.
Her silken locks were tied back with a vibrant ribbon the color of new spring leaves. It brought an echo of memory to the forefront of his mind of brilliant eyes that twinkled like emeralds looking down at him. He blinked, and the vision was gone, carried away on the icy wind that had swept past him, sending a chill down his spine.
He tilted his head, studying the woman further as she moved to a cart full of dried meats. The brightness of the morning illuminated the paleness of her skin, giving the appearance of sparkling snow on a sun-kissed winter day.
The woman brought a hand up, flicking a stray strand of hair over her shoulder and, for the briefest moment, Garren could swear he saw a lock of white fly over her shoulder before it settled alongside the rest of her hair, the same auburn color he knew it had always been.
He shook his head. Maybe he wasn’t fully over the delirium of the fever just yet.
Garren looked back to the woman just as she turned to face him. Her eyes connected with his. They were a startling green, almost a perfect match to the ribbon in her hair. The left side of her mouth quirked into a slight, magnificent smile, and he found himself wondering how he had ever thought her to be ordinary the night before. “Oriana?”
Oriana walked toward him, her smile slowly fading from her mouth as she took in the look of confusion he knew was plastered on his face.
The closer she came, the more he noticed that she really was as ordinary as he thought her to be the previous night. She had rather plain yet sweet features, and what he could now clearly see were blue eyes, not green. The light must have been playing tricks on his vision.
“Good morning, Garren. It looks as if you are faring well this morning,” came her lyrical voice, cheerful yet timid.
“Good morning. Yes, I am very well. Thank you,” he rasped, clearing his throat. His skin felt unbearably hot all of the sudden. Strange, he thought, tamping down the urge to adjust his overcoat.
“I was just on my way to the market square. Would you like to join me?” She squinted up at him.
He still couldn’t comprehend how she had carried him all the way from the forest’s edge. There was just no possible way. Garren wasn’t only double her in height, but probably more than double her in weight as well.
“Yes,” he offered in reply. “I would actually like to see more of the village.”
Oriana nodded politely before spinning on her heel and leading him down the dirt road they were standing on. As they went, Garren noticed that the road curved rather than forming a straight line as most towns in Svakland had, creating a grid of intersecting pathways.
Garren looked to the line of buildings on his left that followed the circular path of the road; beyond them was a field of tall grass which seemed impossibly green for this time of year. His gaze traveled past the swaying verdant green field was the Phantom Wood.
In the clear light of day, the trees looked like great sentinels standing guard over the town. Yet, the forest still held a heavy darkness, a silence he remembered well but now, it seemed to almost bleed from it, creating a barrier, warning anyone from entering its bleak depths.
