Beckoning of the Gate

Copyright © Benjamin J. Ryan 2021

The moral right of the author has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the Australian Copyright Act 1968, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.

Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia: www.catalogue.nla.gov.au

Title: Beckoning of the Gate

Subtitle: The Vāyilian Threads (Book I)

Author: Ryan, Benjamin J. (1989-)

ISBNs: 978-1922311412 (paperback)

978-1922311429 (ebook)

Cover artwork by Nino Is (www.artstation.com/isnino)

Cover design by Benjamin J. Ryan and Michelle Lovi

Map of Seratora and Map of the Allied Kingdoms © Benjamin J. Ryan

This book is brought to you by Benjamin J. Ryan in partnership with Odyssey Books (www.odysseybooks.com.au)

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For Kate,

my Yin

and Yang.

The tapestry of time twists the lives of mortal and immortal alike. What once was, is, and will be are but moments in history, woven together in a never-ending pattern. The ultimate design: only the maker truly knows.

Aeons ago—before the written word—the old gods clashed with their terrible foe. Although the victor is uncertain, a great desolation followed, a lingering stillness in the very earth as if the soul of the world had been uprooted and cast aside.

But time and its tapestry mends all. And nature is nothing if not resilient.

Many thousands of years since, humanity thrives, but so does its arrogance. The remnants of the old gods—of the air, land, and sea—are all but forgotten. As civilisation expands and respect for the ancient ways dwindle, the fae fall further and further into obscurity. These once great creatures of power and dignity have become nothing but whispers in the night: bedtime stories and tales by the hearthfire.

It is during these times—where fate is the master and choice an aberration—the tapestry laughs as it weaves a new thread into its design. This new thread—this new life—manifests change.

One has only to look upon history to bear witness.

Prologue

Marget wiped the sleep from her eyes. Standing at the cottage threshold, she peered into the night. Mist blanketed the dense wood of spruce, fir, and witch-hobble east of the village. Beyond, silhouetted by the rising moon, stood the ruined towers and walls of a castle. Eerily beautiful, but nothing at all worrying.

But then why would this feeling not leave her?

Unless …

She strained her eyes, her ears, her will. It was much too still. Not a branch stirred. No insect sang. The fog carpeted the mossy ground, dense and opaque, like a slab of marble. She’d felt this absence before, had grown almost accustomed to it, though not quite.

Cold pricked at her chest and her pulse raced. The hunter.

In her mind, the master shouted, Run!

Marget flung herself from the doorway, into the night, skirts drawn up, her bare feet churning the fog as she fled into the forest.

East! cried the master. East!

Pure white light erupted from the necklace at her chest. Marget clutched at it, shrouding it from prying eyes in her fist. The evergreen trunks flickered past, a mural of shadows.

Faster! Had she ever heard the master so fierce? It thrust the power upon her and she drew from it. Marget accelerated, her feet ensorcelled, until she glided over land and fog like an eldritch spectre. South! Marget veered, one hand gathering her skirts, the other at her chest to keep the master safe.

As she sprinted towards a grove of spruce and birch, she felt the absence grow stronger; a deeper shadow hidden in the night. From within the foliage came an insectile chittering, sudden and oppressive, momentarily drowning out her own pounding heart and haggard breaths.

East, east! To the river.

Marget spun, kicking up a spray of dirt and needled leaves. The din of insects abated and the presence, the feeling of that heavy shadow, drew inexorably closer as the master’s influence waned. She slowed. No, not again. She gritted her teeth. Keep going. Not much farther.

And still she could not shake the shadow. Unlike the others whose presence she sensed like the beating of a drum, his was barely a whisper. Sweat plastered her hair to her scalp. Every stride threatened to be her last. But she was close. She had to be. Then, just beyond the trees, a torrent of cold water glistened in the moonlight. Once she crossed it, pursuit would be impossible. No wight could follow her there, not even the hunter. They were saved!

The master lashed her chest with cold: a warning. Marget gasped and tried to sidestep—too late. An enormous weight barrelled into the small of her back. Breath erupted from her lungs as she was sent sprawling.

She choked and spat dirt and pine needles from her mouth. The great pines and elm trees pressed about her, deepening the shadows and confusing the eye. Yet something was there, something broad and squat and sidling towards her. Iron bands seemed to clamp Marget’s chest. Her knees, torn and bloody from the fall, spasmed beneath her so she had to pull at a low-hanging pine to scramble to her feet. No, no, no, no! The river. She lurched towards the promise of the black, flowing waters, taking only two steps before a hand gripped the back of her neck and lifted her off the ground. Squealing, she struck out with fist and nail, knee and foot, but he was impervious. Grunting, the hunter flung Marget to the ground, smashing her forehead against the base of an elm. Dazed and breathless, she pushed her face into the rough bark, putting her back to the fellbeast that had pursued her for months.

‘Leave me be,’ she whimpered, her left hand going to the leather pouch—the master—suspended about her neck.

The hunter chuckled. ‘That we cannot do.’ His voice was not as she had imagined. It was too gentle, too human, though instinct told her it made him all the more dangerous. She curled into a ball. ‘Look at us, Marget,’ he commanded.

Marget bowed her head lower against the elm, wishing it would swallow her up.

The hunter sighed. ‘We said, look at us, Cahbrúin.’

The breath halted in her throat. When had she permitted such evil to learn her true name—her very soul? Jaw clenched, nostrils flaring, Marget resisted at first, but it was no use. Hissing and spitting through her teeth, she turned to face the creature. Her glimpse of the immortal being, hunched over her in an ill-fitting cloak, dark eyes pinning her, turned her bowels to water.

‘Thou hast led a good hunt.’ His lips, though drawn and twisted, imparted his words slowly and elegantly. ‘It has taken thee down a different path than the others.’ The grey one stepped closer, hunched and peering. ‘We almost thought … Ah, well, thou knowest what must be done now. Give it up and we shalt end thy pain. It can be over in an instant, Marget, if thou will it.’

Master, help me, she implored. And the master reached out with reassurance—and a name. Marget rolled upright, feeling the rough bark pull at her dress, and pressed her back to the elm trunk, a solid sensation that gave her courage.

‘Please, Mortthis. Please do not do this. Mortthis …’

He reared back with a growl, gnarled hand raised. Marget braced herself, but the grey one composed himself, clasping his hands behind his back.

‘Tch, tch. It goes too far, but thou art not to blame.’ His lips unknotted into something resembling a smile. ‘On our honour, we shalt hasten thy death if thou dost give it up,’ he said, his words like honey. ‘Consider well, Marget. We grow impatient.’

Marget swallowed hard, and though her heart was in her throat, she drew herself up. ‘To die quickly or slowly? A beggar’s bargain,’ she snarled at him, looking the wretched thing in its coal-chip eyes. ‘I will not beg for either, Mortthis. You’ll have to do better if you would make me give up the master.’

Her left hand reached up to the leather pouch at her neck and grasped it. Help me, she pleaded. I know not what to do.

Fear not, said the master. It flooded her with calm, the chill of it smoothing her doubts, inviting her to yield as it had countless times before. It whispered in her mind and she obeyed. It had never led her astray. Marget rose and pulled the necklace off over her head. She held it out to the immortal.

‘Take it,’ she said. ‘Take it, Mortthis!’ The grey wight reached out and Marget laughed as she drew it back slightly, baiting him. ‘If you can ...’

But then something changed. A sudden wrongness.

The master tugged itself free from her grasp and launched into the air. Pain lanced Marget—in her chest, behind her eyes, her hands—as if something inside her had cleaved itself free. The pouch generated a blinding whiteness that seared her vision, blinding her for a moment. The hunter grunted as they both retreated a little. The glow faded. Suspended in the gloom, the master had woven itself a dazzling cocoon of white, and the sight filled Marget with a great sense of loss. She had been judged and found wanting. She was no longer its chosen.

‘Why?’ she screamed. ‘Why?’

With a loud noise, like an immense limb from an ancient tree snapping off, the master was gone, the light it had brought forth sucked from the very air.

Hands trembling, Marget sagged with exhaustion, and she wept. A wicked laugh escaped Mortthis’s lips and she felt the master’s betrayal all the more keenly. Her whole body began to shake. Tears streamed down her swollen face and she slumped to the forest floor. Forsaken.

‘Cahbrúin,’ Mortthis rasped.

Without the master’s influence, the power of her true name hit Marget with a terror that silenced her sobs. She rolled onto her back, paralysed, her eyes no longer her own as they stared up into the face of death.

‘Did we not warn thee?’ he said. ‘It has used thee and cast thee aside. Now, for thy foolishness, thy life is forfeit.’

Mortthis hissed, his hatred for all humanity keen in Marget’s ears. Her eyes, though, showed her only her doom—but for one brief moment when she saw a small man perched in the elm above them, observing the scene with weeping eyes. I’ve gone mad, she thought. Clenching her teeth, spittle frothing at her lips, she fought against the wight’s hold.

‘Hickory! ’ was all she could manage, but the man shook his head sadly, and when she blinked, he was gone.

Along with any hope Marget had of living.

PART 1

A BEGINNING

{1}

Working in Stone

Beads of sweat fell to the stone floor as Santha tried to keep up with Dandon’s considerably longer legs. In odd moments like these, she wished she was a little taller. Being mistaken for a child at nearly twenty years of age was a sore point she realised she’d never overcome. Taking four steps for every one of his, she followed grimly behind.

Colours flickered past in every hue from the stained-glass windows of the school’s archways, painting rainbows of light on the walls. Dandon took a sharp left into the northern corridor, catching Santha off guard. Grazing her shoulder on a pillar with a grunt, she suddenly realised where they were going: Dandon’s private quarters.

‘Why are we …?’ she began when he stopped.

Their footsteps continued to echo for a moment in the still hallway of the school as Dandon turned to her, his eyes gleaming.

‘Contain yourself, Santha,’ he teased. He was practically shaking with anticipation. It was obvious, then, what this was all about.

He pushed open the rosewood door and made his way inside. Crossing the room, he disappeared through another doorway where his study and bedroom lay. Santha did not follow, not that it would matter in the slightest. Staying with the man, in his own home, without witness or chaperone—the rumour mill would already be grinding that bit of chaff to dust. But it was the principle, to Santha at least. The impropriety of visiting an unmarried man’s bedchamber was something she was unwilling to tally to her personal list of sins, the town gossip be damned.

Making herself comfortable in the greeting room, she strolled amongst the countless pieces of art instead. Most were Dandon’s—chiefly among them, those from his university days when he’d first discovered his talent for the visual arts—though not all, such as a strange clay model of a mother holding a child. Both their faces and bodies were warped and distorted as if someone had punched them into place none-too-gently. A depiction of the old gods, Santha remembered Dandon saying. There was also a painting of a horse on grassy plains with the sun behind it stretching over the hill, its rays reaching out to embrace the creature, giving it warmth.

If that did not speak of Dandon’s wealth, his furnishings did. They were luxurious and out of place in a town of simple farmers. Soft, padded chairs packed with duck down and cushions of sky blue with delicate pink embroidered flowers sat in one corner. A large oak table, carved by his own hands, of course, was the greeting room’s centrepiece. It, too, was cluttered.

Dandon was well taken care of. His ageing uncle, an earl in Berisolis, funded his nephew’s endeavours quite generously. The school itself had been commissioned by the old man with little more than a letter from his nephew stating his intentions to teach long-term in the Silver Valley. The expense would have been considerable. The rosewood exterior and stone pillars at the front entrance, imported all the way from Nagha Baahgnee in Vaera, would have beggared the entire valley alone. The stained-glass windows on the northern and southern corridors were, to Santha, an unnecessary extravagance, though one she freely admitted taking advantage of every morning as the sun’s light peeked over Mount Tira in the east.

It was fortunate Dandon had such an amiable and wealthy relative to call upon. He certainly wasn’t teaching for the coin. Not in the Valley.

Dandon returned with something veiled, clutching it to his chest. Santha’s intuition was rewarded: he was about to reveal a new piece he’d created. And by the look on his contorted face, it was heavy. Laying the bulk on another sturdy table that wasn’t completely crowded, he stood back without so much as a patch of sweat on his brow—an irritating sight as Santha felt rivulets trickle down her own back. He looked up and beckoned her to come closer.

‘What is it this time?’ she asked, curiosity taking hold as she walked over.

He said nothing as he gripped the cotton veil and pulled it off in one fluid motion. Santha gasped in awe, for before her stood a dog, or so it seemed at first glance. When she looked closer, she saw it was completely made of dark stone.

She turned to Dandon, a tad confounded. ‘It’s not wood …?’

He tilted his head. ‘An astute observation,’ he said mockingly. ‘Marble, actually. Black marble from a renowned quarry merchant just outside the capital. I thought I would try my hand at sculpting stone for a change.’

Santha turned back to the masterpiece, black and veined with white, which made it appear a deep, deep grey. What could she do but gape? She had never seen worked stone before. Not like this.

‘Surely this isn’t your first.’

‘Why do you look so surprised?’ He chuckled and then shrugged. ‘Of course not. I have been practising in secret until I had the technique right. It is a very hard stone, difficult to shape, but I had to experience it for myself—the stone of the masters—if only once.’

‘It looks so real, as if it’s actually alive.’ She looked at Dandon again in disbelief. He stood to the side, arms crossed, an air of satisfaction about him.

‘And so it should,’ he said. ‘It has taken me over a full season to work the marble.’

It must have. It was a magnificent sculpture, the size and shape of a small canine, but for the life of her, she could not tell what breed. It had long pointed ears with a bushy tail and a slender body that spoke of swiftness and cunning. The detail was perfect, from each strand of fur to its delicately engraved nails and small nose that sat upon its long, pointed snout.

‘I know what you are thinking, and it is not a real breed. I made it up, though it does have some characteristics of animals you do know, predominantly a fox.’

Yes, thought Santha, that’s what it looks like, a fox, but not quite.

‘What shall we call her?’ he asked, as was their tradition.

‘I’m not sure,’ she pondered, feeling the immensity of her decision this time. Choosing a name for such incredible art somehow seemed different to all those times before. Then something came to her. ‘What do you think of Biahnd? I heard a Vaerese merchant mention the name in a story he told at Ulric’s inn. I liked it. It was unlike anything I have heard. And this piece, I must say, Dandon, is unlike anything I’ve seen. Your best work yet.’

‘Biahnd Des’rhatna. Ah yes, that will do nicely,’ he praised. ‘The name of a great female warrior in Vaerese lands. Very fitting. And thank you, I appreciate it. Art should always be shared.’

Santha punched him in the shoulder. ‘Just don’t make me wait this long next time,’ she scolded him. ‘Now, I’d best be leaving if I want to see to the goats before dark. It’s getting late.’

‘Fine, fine.’ He ushered her out of his private quarters all the way to the front entrance of the school, a gentlemanly gesture so unlike him that there had to be an ulterior motive. ‘Make sure you dine with me for supper tonight. Knowing you and your penchant to sneak out at the crack of dawn to tend your unsavoury short-haired beasts, breakfast tomorrow will be out of the question. And so will half of the day, I would wager.’ He looked around conspiratorially then cupped his mouth with a hand like a child telling a secret. ‘I want to show you something else, something I think you will find very interesting.’

She frowned at him, suspicion and intrigue warring with each other, but asked no questions as she tied her bonnet beneath her chin and took up her handbasket, full to brimming with offcuts from Dandon’s kitchen, a delicacy for her goats. She stepped down the stairs into the afternoon sun. The commotion of the late-afternoon markets was finally starting to slow. She turned, impulsively, to say something more, but Dandon got there first.

‘You should talk to them, you know,’ he said carefully. ‘Especially Lilay.’

Santha went rigid, her defences going up at once. ‘I will do no such thing,’ she hissed up at him. She glanced over her shoulder at the thinning crowd in the markets, the sweat down her back turning cold. The fear of being overheard made her march back up the slate stairs.

Dandon held a hand out as if to appease. ‘You avoiding your mother is giving me quite the headache.’ His attempt at humour was ruined by his faltering smile. ‘I have never exchanged so many letters with one living quite so close. And all of them enquiring about you, in the roundabout way you both seem to favour. Like mother, like daughter.’

Santha’s nostrils flared. ‘She tossed me out, Dandon. Practically disowned me, and you want me to—’ A sudden thought came to her. ‘You haven’t told them anything you promised not to, have you?’

‘I have kept your secret and will continue to do so until my dying breath, Santha. Shall I swear it again?’ She shook her head with downcast eyes. ‘Lilay and Tomm need to hear the full story, not just gossip from the street,’ he told her gently. ‘They will understand. You are their daughter. Talk to them.’

A memory, from all those months ago, hit Santha like a blow to the gut. She felt nauseous for a moment, dizzyingly so, as she remembered the smell of hay and sweat in that barn. The pain, the shame, she swallowed it all down into the quiet place at the pit of her stomach. I won’t let him win. I can’t. Her ire returned.

She strode right up to Dandon and thrust a finger into his stomach, his figure looming over her in his pristinely pressed white shirt and brown trousers. ‘Do not presume to tell me what to do. This is mine to bear, no one else’s, least of all my parents. The man’s dead anyway and good riddance. He got what he deserved.’

Santha regretted her words immediately, and Dandon’s comforting hand went to her shoulder.

‘Ah, little one. So, you have heard the new rumours, what they are saying about you?’

She looked up at him solemnly. ‘I have.’

‘Then your parents have too. It could get worse, you know this. The death was suspicious and fingers will start pointing. You need them by your side if something should happen, and the truth will be better coming from you—’

‘Enough!’ Santha’s hands clenched at her sides, her breath seared her nostrils. ‘You have offered your home to me and for that I am grateful, but now you go too far, Dandon D’Avery.’

Dandon nodded slowly, his brown curls bobbing. The crow’s feet at his deep-set eyes intensified as he regarded her for a moment. ‘Although I am old enough to be your father, I often feel like your older brother: full of sage advice to give and no one to follow it. I have grown to love you over the years, Santha, despite your best efforts to thwart me at every turn. Your parents, on the other hand, have loved you from the very beginning. They will understand, I promise.’

Santha fumed on the doorstep for a few seconds more, glaring back at her friend and host silently. Then, for a moment, her spirit failed her and she wilted like a daisy under the midday sun. Shoulders hunched, head down, she took a deep breath and straightened, disgusted by her weakness.

‘Evict me from your school if you must—I am getting quite used to that by now—but I will not be pushed and prodded, Dandon. Not even by you.’ Spinning around, she left without another word.

{2}

Friendship and Gossip

Doubt and contempt pierced Santha’s mood like a nail in her own coffin. Doubt for herself and whether she would ever find a way out of this mess. Contempt for Percival and the dreadful tales that had sprung up since his death two months ago.

Mister Percival McKascey. The name still sickened her, and she wondered, not for the first time, how many others there had been. How many young and impressionable women he had preyed on, how many he had violated in a drunken stupor, leaving them battered and bruised in his barn. To hope there had been others, others he had hurt and defiled, perhaps even his own daughter, made her feel wretched indeed, but not as much as the thought that she had been special. That Santha had brought this on herself; gained the attention of one of the most respected farmers in the Silver Valley, and brought him lower than a base animal.

Santha licked her lips, recalling the last time she had seen the man … almost precisely two months prior. She should never have confronted him—not in his own home, and not in the manner she had—with no regard for her future. Her tendency to act before she spoke, and to speak before she thought, had gotten her into trouble before, although there had been no ‘before’ like this, not ever in her life. Overwhelmed, without the clarity that perspective can bring, and with no one to turn to, she had reacted thoughtlessly and the repercussions were harrowing. Of course, the town wouldn’t believe the word of a girl over a man almost thrice her age, with a wife, a family, and a respectable estate. The words she’d spat at him that afternoon were nothing but bitter ashes in her mouth now. Gossip was rife. Even from the grave, Percival McKascey was still tormenting her. And maybe she deserved it.

A wind rose, though she barely felt it touch her skin. She wished to be away from this perplexing heat so late in alban-heruin—the wet season. Where crops were supposed to be thriving, they withered and died under the sun, irrespective of the deluge they’d received this year. The perversity had farmers whispering: their luck must be tied to the fae unrest in the north. Coincidence? Santha thought so. But the Silver Valley was a small town of farmers in the highlands of southern Seratora; superstition and old wives’ tales were their daily meal. Half the folk wore their clothes inside-out, and the other half were too scared to venture into the forest lest they be attacked by an eldritch beastie. The town was so isolated and starved for news, it was ready to believe anything from the lowlands, no matter how farfetched.

Here in the Valley, perched on great Tora’s back, mountains hailed the sky and lavish forests grew wild. It was a magickal place, she had to agree, though only so far as its beauty and mystery—confound the fantastical stories. She’d spun similar tales (albeit less fanciful) to her mother and father to get out of trouble or to while away the boredom on cold and dark evenings. That did not make them true.

Making her way through the town centre, Santha wiped the sweat from her brow and readjusted her bonnet. The hustle and bustle of the markets was continuing to wind down. Even so, the town square had an open stall or two selling last year’s harvest to travellers and foreign merchants. Visitors paid well in commodities the Valley lacked, primarily coin and news from across the four kingdoms.

Alban-heruin was a harsh season, even in the mountains, and she was glad that they didn’t live farther south. Or—spying one of the dusky-skinned foreigners—worse: Vaera, a land the visiting merchants described as beautiful, but so humid one could drown in the very air within its jungles.

As she approached the stalls, one of the vendors called out to her. ‘Ah, Miss Lathagin. I’ve a barn that needs mucking out. And me wife’s deathly ill. Could you spare some time to check in on her?’ He grabbed his belt buckle crudely. ‘No coin to spare, I’m afraid, but I’m certain we can come to another arrangement.’

Some laughed, most kept silent, sending sympathetic or scornful looks her way before scurrying out of the heat. Santha ignored them all as best she could, though it still made her quiver inside. She wasn’t quite sure if it was anger or distress. She gripped her basket so tightly, her knuckles turned white—anger, then—and hurried on her way.

As she passed Ulric’s inn, she noted a group of capital city fops chattering by their horses and wagons. She’d heard a new group of fools was coming to try their luck mining silver from Serrin’s least forgiving mountain. They looked the part—another expedition by a well-to-do academic or lordling. Would they never learn? One might think so, considering the lives Mount Tora had claimed over the decades. But every year they came. The promise of riches and precious metals was too great.

The chief fool—louder and more richly dressed than the others, with a flat cap he apparently thought looked dashing, tilted upon his head—caught her eye. He stood in the middle of his men, talking animatedly. They all roared with laughter. The man with the hat, slapping one of his colleagues on the shoulder, looked over at Santha as if sensing her gaze upon him. He smiled at her and touched his brim in greeting. Santha blinked slowly and turned away, pretending she hadn’t seen him. Eyes firmly ahead, she continued on her way.

Her mind occupied, Santha did not see the ball until it was too late. Thud! It hit her squarely on the side of her head, taking her bonnet with it. Her hand went to the smarting skin, her basket falling to the ground and spilling half the kitchen scraps.

‘Sorry,’ squeaked Stephon, a lanky boy from Dandon’s classes. ‘Didn’t see you there.’ He stood amongst a rabble of older children in the middle of a game.

She made no reply, stunned from embarrassment more than the contact the rag-stuffed pig-hide had made with her face. Her gloomy mood had been replaced with shock and the urge to be away home with her goats.

‘Do you mind kicking it back?’ Stephon called meekly.

Snatching up her bonnet and basket from the ground, Santha marched away, leaving behind a scattering of potato peels, carrot tops, and withered cabbage. She could feel their eyes on her back and heard a snigger or two as she retreated.

She let out a sigh of relief when the sounds of play resumed and became contemplative as she left the gaiety behind. It was an odd reminder that, save for Dandon, she had almost no friends. And only the old gods knew how he, of all people, had become her confidant and ally.

Two years ago, Santha had been unable to even stand the sight of Master Dandon D’Avery, who had come to their quaint little town mere months after his fortieth birthday. A graduate from Berisolis University, he was also well-travelled, having left the capital the first chance he got.

After nearly two decades of teaching at other schools, academies, and universities throughout the entirety of the allied kingdoms, he’d somehow come to the conclusion that the Silver Valley would be his next conquest. Educating the snooty broods of upper-class merchants and the nobly born wouldn’t have enthused Santha either, but why he’d chosen this isolated farming town out in the middle of nowhere was beyond the comprehension of rational thought. He was the pure embodiment of all the pomp and circumstance of the capital: a peacock, preening his feathers with his perfect manners and condescension, prattling on and on about writing, arithmetic, and the fae unrest to the north.

His folklore classes were particularly tiresome. She’d never understood their importance, nor why her parents had insisted she had to be in the same room as the dandy once a week. (‘To learn how to protect yourself, of course,’ had always been their reply.) When in her entire life would she ever need to recite a love ballad to appease an angry sprite? Or recall the trees and plants favoured by the forest aelfe for home and hearth? Potions and wards, magickal creatures and long dead cultures—these were the classes of idle children whose parents desired nonsense to keep them mistrustful of the world around them. No matter what was going on in the kingdom, wights had no place on Mount Tora and the highlands, and neither had Master D’Avery.

For reasons unbeknownst to her, Dandon had taken this resistance as a personal challenge, seeking every opportunity to improve Santha’s learning. ‘Your daughter has a bright mind,’ he’d told her mother after summoning her whole family to luncheon at his school, where they’d dined on cold meats, braised vegetables, and expensive sugared cakes decorated in blue and yellow icing. ‘But she lacks the discipline to advance herself.’ Mama and Papa, nodding like lunatics, were beguiled at the first. To have one of such status take an interest in their daughter’s education, despite her background and advanced years, to them it was a boon. And, quietly (at least to Mama’s mind), the potential for something more.

That was when the gifts of books and Dandon’s unannounced visits to her home had begun (much to Mama’s delight). At first, Santha had spurned his attention. He achieved nothing for many months, Santha thinking, as Mama had, that the pompous fool really was seeking her out for betrothal. But they were both mistaken, as an abashed Santha discovered after calling out the lordling’s true intentions.

He’d promptly laughed in her face.

Like an earworm burrowing slowly but relentlessly onward, Dandon’s failed attempts to educate his self-appointed charge eventuated in something else entirely: quiet evenings of meaningless chatter, invitations to extended family dinners, and stories of his travels of a world Santha yearned to see for herself. An unlikely bond formed, one that had outlasted all others. When the lies first started about her and Percival almost a month ago, Santha had learnt how quickly friendships could be broken. But not Dandon’s, and she would be forever grateful to him for that.

His generosity in offering his home to her had been a godsend. It gave her time to reflect on her past actions and how she’d come to this moment. When she’d flown into his school only weeks ago, agitated and pacing like a feral cat, he’d calmly taken her into his waiting room and fed her tea and biscuits. He’d known for a long time now that Santha was not one to share her feelings freely. Yes, her thoughts and ideas on how things should be done, those were verbose and often tactless, but she’d never been one to display unnecessary emotion. All Dandon had to do was wait. A few hours of nibbling butterscotch biscuits and watching him scribble in his books was enough. Taking a final sip of her now cold rosehip tea, Santha had realised just how much she’d needed to talk. The words had poured out then, like a torrent of water spilling down Mount Tora’s side after a heavy rain. And they hadn’t stopped until she was a haggard heap folded into Dandon’s arms.

Her mentor had stated then and there that she would stay with him until she felt ready to return to her parents, to talk through and remedy the appalling situation she’d gotten herself into. It had been the right advice—the only advice, really. But how could she make him see it wasn’t that simple? Where Dandon was all composure and logic, her mother was as ardent and clumsy as she. Santha knew Mama had noticed her erratic behaviour for months now: the unusual irritability, withdrawing to the goat pen for days at a time, her anxiety in going outside the estate or visiting the town centre. Santha had sensed her mother’s concern grow, but she’d ignored it, hoping it would go away. How foolish she’d been to expect that of her own flesh and blood.

Like most things for the women of the Lathagin family, it had come to a head swiftly. A tentative discussion turned into a heated argument when Mama had started to prod and probe. In hindsight, a confrontation had been inevitable. An hour of arguing, cursing, and finally begging and pleading, yet Santha had given her mother nothing. She wasn’t sure why she’d held onto the truth when the easier thing to do would have been to lay everything bare. What she did know was that her home, the one place she thought Percival McKascey couldn’t reach her, didn’t feel safe anymore. She’d had to get out. She had to leave.

‘Excuse me, ashezūna,’ came an accented voice from behind, abruptly interrupting her reverie. A gentle hand touched her elbow, and with it came the scent of sandalwood.

Santha’s reaction was involuntary and immediate. She flinched, pulling herself out of the man’s grasp as if stung.

‘Excuse me, pretty one?’ said the voice again, a little unsure of himself this time.

Santha closed her eyes, her anxiety threatening to cripple her. Oh, gods, please don’t do this to me. She turned in place to confront the male voice, letting her face go slack, masking her revulsion, and took two well-practised steps back before answering.

‘Yes?’

The stranger gave her a grin that Santha supposed was charming. He appeared to have already overcome his uncertainty. Her bile rose.

‘I think I’m lost,’ he stated in his throaty and pinched inflexions, the familiar tone of the visiting Calig merchants. ‘I’m looking for my travelling party. I appear to have misplaced them. Or perhaps they have misplaced me.’ He flashed another smile, which Santha returned with a tightening at the corners of her mouth.

Santha thought she recognised him. The young man in the group of fellows outside Ulric’s inn, with his chequered flat cap atop a mop of sandy-coloured hair. Taller than Santha by at least a head, she had to lift her gaze to him and his pale blue eyes. The way he was looking at her—determined and much too brazen—made her feel like retching.

‘I’m sure they will be at the inn,’ she told him coolly. ‘Just follow the street back the way you came, almost to the town square. You will not miss it.’ Santha nodded curtly, turned, and kept walking. She was about to let out a sigh of relief when, from the corner of her eye, she saw the stranger walking alongside her.

‘My name’s Erod,’ he declared,