Rosomon’s hand lands on my shoulder. “Come,” she says. “Trust me. Please. The sprites are showing me the way.” She brushes her hand over my forehead and the pain from the stings lessens.
Opening my eyes, I drink in her beauty, her compassion—and her confident certainty. I remain skeptical, but Rosomon clearly believes in this literal fairy tale. Even if she’s mad, I must support her.
I rise. She retakes my hand and continues to lead me through the forest. As we progress, her other hand gestures, and she describes what she’s seeing—gardens, statues, flowers. Some ofher movements indicate that she believes she’stouchingthese things.
Another fear enters my mind. All of this—both the sprites and this garden illusion—could be the work of some mage trying to keep me from my hoard.
“Aren’t the roses beautiful?” she says. “And look at the wisteria climbing this arch! It must have been growing here for a century.”
Seeing none of this, I try to concentrate on where she’s leading me, relating it to my memories of the map, so we can eventually get back on course. If we hadn’t taken this detour, we’d have come upon a bridge that crosses a small river. I try to picture the terrain as it was the last time I was here. The river was there, but not the bridge drawn on the map.
Across the river, the landscape used to be rocky, with large moss-covered boulders that covered entrances to underground caves. Unless it’s changed considerably, once we get across the bridge, I’m certain I can find my way through the maze of boulders to the place where I long ago placed shields to guard the cave’s entrance.
I draw a deep breath. I’m confident that the magic I cast to guard my hoard has held. But I’m just as confident that we’re headed in the wrong direction. And yet, Rosomon keeps moving forward, tugging me after her. Her mood is light and awe filled as she enjoys this imaginary garden, and I lack the will to disturb that.
Also, I’m grateful that the sprites are no longer attacking.
But the sprites are likely leading us into a trap. This has gone on long enough.
I stop, and Rosomon’s hand slips from mine.
She turns to face me. “What’s wrong?”
I step up and take her face in my hands. “You think you know where you’re going. I understand that. But this is the wrong direction. The sprites are tricking you.”
She frowns. “How do you know that for sure?”
I want to tell her that I’m certain, but the truth is I feel less certain than she clearly does.
“I know where my hoard is,” I say softly, feeling like the entire forest is listening. “We need to go back to that path, then cross a bridge over the river. Soon after that, we’ll find a series of boulders, and I well know the route from there.”
Uncertainty flashes in her eyes, but then she looks behind us again as if considering what her path looks like compared to the one I described.
“I know the sprite stings are painful,” I say softly. “But we’ll survive them. We must.”
Breaking out of my hold, she backs away and then points through the trees. “The river you mentioned,” she says. “It’s right there. Can’t you hear it?”
I move up to join her, and suddenly I do hear the sound of water. Perhaps we can follow the riverbank to the bridge to get back on course.
I follow her to the water’s edge. She bends to cup some of the water in her hands and takes a small drink. In the distance, a heavy stone bridge drapes over the river.
“Come,” I say. “Let’s follow the riverbank and cross at the bridge.” I take a few steps, and the sprites attack.
Shouting and swatting, I stagger back toward Rosomon, and she wraps her arms around me.
When I open my eyes, I focus more clearly on the bridge.Trolls!
In the dark shadows under the bridge, the distinct yellow glint of lurking troll eyes flashes. Are the sprites makingmehallucinate, too?
“What is it?” Rosomon asks. “What do you see?” Her hands cling to me tightly.
“I’m…” I shake my head. “Perhaps using the bridge is dangerous.”
“Look,” she says. “We can cross there.”
I turn. She’s pointing toward a series of boulders downstream in a place where the river narrows, and… I blink several times. A line of sprites is marking a path toward it. At this moment, they do look like the tiny birds Rosomon first mistook them for, their skin shimmering in jewel-toned colors even in the dim red light.
I still believe they’re trying to trick us, but don’t want to deal with trolls. Troll magic will prevent me from crossing, unless I meet their demands, and deep in my gut I know that what the trolls will demand from me is Rosomon. A thought even more horrifying than fording this river.
