A small piece of cloth has been tucked between the pages. I flip to the bookmark, squinting down at the markings. Inked words bleed beneath the roselight’s faint pink glow.
Day eleven, second month of spring.
I was right. Itisa diary. And if I’m not mistaken, this is Mother Mabel’s elegant script. So how did it fall into the Orchid King’s possession?
Hunching nearer to the page, I begin to read.
Tragedy has struck Carterhaugh.
A message arrived from Veraness. Seemingly overnight, the entire population was wiped out, having succumbed to a storm the likes of which I’venever seen. Days ago, I watched the tempest approach Thornbrook. Low, roiling clouds swelled with thunder and the bright clap of lightning.
My charges were frightened. I told them to pray, that the Father would take care of the rest. But sometimes, His kindness comes at a price. For though we were spared, the people of Veraness were not.
My eyes snag on a single word: Veraness. The town that had once been my home.
Once the storm cleared, I took my charges to Veraness, or what was left of it. We searched for survivors. There were few. I sent a message to Pierus, asking if he knew the storm’s cause. Supposedly, the West Wind had attempted to sever his bond. As one of the Four Winds, his power was unsurpassed. Although he was unsuccessful, the damage Carterhaugh sustained was immense.
A sense of foreboding slinks through me. The Four Winds. I wondered why the name sounded familiar when Lissi first mentioned it. I have read of this event not in the Text, but in the history books held in the abbey library.
My hand shakes as I flip to the previous page and note the date inscribed on the top right corner—three days prior to my mother’s disappearance. According to Mother Mabel’s personal account of these events, Zephyrus is responsible for my home’s destruction, the event that triggered what followed: a harrowing journey through a storm-drenched night, waiting in the hollow of an old tree, my abandonment on the abbey steps.
I shove the diary into my pocket, my breathing choked. Curse Zephyrus. Curse the Orchid King. Curse this vile place, its rotten core. And curse my own frustrating naivete. Is that what Zephyrus saw upon our first meeting? Was it then that he decided to exploit my goodwill?
“Eternal Father.” The strained plea comes unbidden. “Lead me to your quiet waters.”
Pushing to my feet, I reclaim the pole and steer around a corner where the current drags. The tunnel curves ahead, cast in the glow of the flickering roselights. My vessel drifts past the open gate the Orchid King mentioned. The air smells of old growth and decay.
“Grant me protection, and in your protection, strength.”
As I round the bend, the current slows, and a shallow strip of beach comes into view. Once the boat bumps against the sandy shore, I scramble onto dry land.
The rush and retreat of the river has dissolved the tunnel’s limestone walls into vast pockets and warped pillars, the ceiling scooped hollow. Ahead, the Grotto lies partially submerged in the black water of high tide. It boasts an impressive archway inlaid with rubies, their color darkened to rust in the frail light. I cannot see what lies within. It begins and ends in obscurity.
“May your light be my guide,” I whisper. “May you walk with me through darkness. In your name I pray. Amen.”
The tips of my boots brush the water’s edge. I will have to swim across. I have no choice. I’ve come to meet my fate, whatever form that might take.
But first, an offering.
The point of my dagger produces a spot of blood on the pad of my finger. I let the red bead drop into the water, shallow ripples disturbing its glassy stillness.
Toes, ankles, shins, thighs—the icy water drags at my dress. Beneath, sharpened pebbles line the riverbed like teeth, the smallest bones. My boots skid along the bottom. As the water hits my waist, the roselight tucked inside my pocket gutters.
I’m halfway across the channel when a long, shallow ridge of water emerges, hurtling toward me in an elongated, unbroken wave.
My heart leaps, and I scramble forward, my arms cutting through the chest-high water, which crashes against the walls of the echoing chamber.
A rounded snout breaks the surface. Two large nostrils flare, exhaling steam. I bite back a scream and plunge blindly through the churning river. My boots gain traction. I shove upward, ripping free of the water’s hold. My knees fold. I collapse onto the shore, shivering, puffing hard. At my back, the River Mur settles.
A mortal woman. It has been a long time.
My skin pebbles in the stale air, for a voice blossoms inside my mind.
Pushing to my feet, I glance around the expansive cavern, its smooth floors laden with gold: mounds of sloping hillocks, towering peaks crowned with gem-studded collars and tarnished diadems. All gleam beneath the rosy glow pulsing from the roselights in the main chamber. The most lovely tapestries paint the walls, their colors undimmed. One section contains an extensive array of shelving stuffed with bound manuscripts, piles of loose parchment, scrolls secured with velvet ribbons, precarious stacks of dusty tomes. Silk garments drape a coat rack in one corner. And still, there is more. Cluttered arrangements of chalices, goblets. Gold-spun thread. The treasure of a thousand lifetimes.
Pulling my eyes away from the collection, I search for whoever spoke. The weight of my dagger reminds me I am not without defense. “Are you the one they call the Stallion?”
I am.A thread of intrigue colors the voice—male, I believe.But I admit I do not know who you are. Why have you come, mortal woman? It is a long way from your abbey.
