Excerpt #7: The Huntress

Another fifteen years passed, thus it was thirty years since the Day of Lights. So far, I have shared excerpts from chapters 1 and 2 which establish some of the necessary background. In chapter 3, we meet a new character who happens to be (spoiler) one of the major protagonists….

The grass indeed was withering. Green plains surrendered to the Winter’s dominating hand. The northern wind swept through; the grass shivered, the decrepit soil cracked, and the dust blew by. The pine trees in the distance sang a mournful tune, and the clouds cast fleeting shadows upon the rocky hills while the hazy light faltered—the sun relinquishing command of the day.

A hare pranced through the weather-worn weeds but stopped to scratch at the crumbling earth. Crouched low in the browning grass and nearly camouflaged by a fur parka, Ysolda watched it carefully. Her bow was ready; her arrow nocked. Her blue eyes honed in on the hare and the hare alone. She was aware of the wind’s effort and acknowledged its sway but otherwise denied it is effect. Her hands were cold, but she did not shake. Her steady fingers firmly pinched the bowstring, and her breaths were slow and silent. The hare hopped forward but stopped to sniff the air. Ysolda loosed the arrow. The hare was hers.

She stood and brushed a strand of her long, auburn hair away from her young, fair, freckled face. Another success; she needed it to be, but the times had trained her for it. The harsh existence forced Ysolda to become adaptable and as wild as the changing wilderness. She inhaled a heavy breath and turned towards the north, from whence the cold wind was traveling. She then approached the kill and kneeled beside it. She took another moment to scan the windswept landscape. It was so empty. Once, benevolent spirits remained close; they sang softly through the grass. But it seems they had departed, and the Goddess her people worshipped had abandoned them. Every day Ysolda listened, but the joy of the grass-bound graces was long gone. She crouched down and took the hare in her hands, caressing its pelt gently before removing the arrow.

But then she was distracted by a passing shadow. Glancing up at the sky and squinting in the sunlight, she noticed a hawk circling above. It was a familiar sight; she knew the hawk well, for they shared the same hunting grounds. Iris was her name—that is, the name given by Ysolda’s people. Ysolda watched with a timid awe as the bird completed yet another cycle before soaring eastwards, banking in the wind and descending beyond a nearby knoll.

Having turned thus, Ysolda met the gaze of her companion—a shepherd boy about her age named Roah. He smiled gleefully when she looked at him, asking “Have you ever missed?”

Ysolda slipped her bow around her shoulder and casually answered, “Of course not.” She had nearly forgotten that Roah had been there; she would have preferred that he wasn’t. He had the profound ability to disrupt a moment of peace, and, though it please him to play, she was often annoyed by him. But she and Roah had grown up together. He was like a brother to her, complete with all the brotherly quirks.

Taking the hare in hand, Ysolda stood up straight again and was immediately grazed by a particularly bitter breeze. Again, she faced northwards and took into view a range of serrated hills—the Iycathan Hills. Another torrent bowled past her as if spewed from the very hills themselves. She would not be surprised if such was the case. She kept those hills at a distance—everyone did—and not even her curious nature bid her test the shadows there. Her people were fond of describing the land across those hills—the land called West Kaida—damned and whose lurking darkness scarred the rocks and sent them clawing their way south upon the grassy slopes….

…“Shall we stop by the lake on our way back?” Roah asked, breaking Ysolda’s daze. “We have plenty of time.”

Ysolda looked from the landscape to Roah and smiled, “Alright.”

The lake was a regular spot for the two of them to visit. It was isolated, tucked away in a rocky glen in the higher hills above where their people had settled. It was enclosed in such a way that the surrounding hillsides blocked the winds, but also allowed for sunlight to warm the often cold water. Arriving there, Roah shamelessly removed his clothes and hurled himself into a deeper part of the water. Ysolda preferred to swim in peace, and Roah had a habit of splashing. She waited until he was far enough away before she removed her own clothes, slowly exposing her tattooed body to the severe elements, and tentatively stepping into the water. It was a strange feeling. Of course, the water was cold. But as every day passed, it seemed to become increasingly icier. And even on that day, wading into it was not at all pleasant. But she figured that she would get used to it. Reaching the place where the water was up to her waist, she lay back and floated across the surface. Closing her eyes, and pushing past the cold sensation, she relaxed, feeling the heat of the sun upon her skin.

Time passed and Ysolda opened her eyes to see Iris above again. The hawk screeched and passed out of her view, leaving her to see a thick layer of cloud passing in front of the sun. But the sun was not blotted out, for its rays broke through the clouds and beamed brightly down upon Ysolda. She quickly closed her eyes, but the light flashed in her head. Suddenly, her vision darkened, her body tensed, and she lost control of her mobility, sinking into the water.

It seemed to happen so fast, but when she opened her eyes again, she was no longer in the water, but on the grassy shore, wrapped in her dry clothes. With some struggle, she sat up and gasped for air. Out of her periphery, she could see Roah kneeling beside her, and having recovered her breath, she sighed, “It happened again.”

Roah nodded caringly.

Ysolda covered her face with her hands, “I do not understand. They only used to happen in my sleep. What is this, the fourth time that I have been awake?”

“I think so.”

Ysolda then glanced at the lake, “I could have died.”

Roah smiled and placed his hand on her back reassuringly, looking intently into her eyes, “What did you see?”

Ysolda looked at Roah with a frown, “Please, Roah, I told you never to ask me that.”

Roah held his hands up apologetically, “I know, I know; I am sorry.” He then waited until Ysolda had composed herself more, though she remained distressed—pulling her legs closer to her and resting her chin upon her knees. But taking a deep breath, she said, “Thank you, Roah.”

He nodded in reply, “Shall we go back?”

But Ysolda was looking westwards towards the mountains; the pines stood there with a luring gaze. The darkness amid them deepened; the shadows raced towards their roots. The wind greeted each, and they bent with its passing. She sat up straight, listening intently to the pines’ seductive tune. They were summoning her, reminding her of what secret they contained.

“No,” she replied while standing up.

“But the Rite of the Queen is tonight.”

“It is only the late afternoon; we still have time.”

“For what?”

She pointed to the western wood, “I need to go back there.”

Roah glanced in that direction, and, though the trees themselves were not a threat, he knew what she was referring to. Shaking his head, he rebuked her, “Ysolda, that place is forbidden. We are not allowed to go there.”

“Only Vivyan has forbidden it.”

“And you should listen to her—she is your mother.”

“Vivyan is not my mother; do not insist otherwise. Roah, we are going.”

But Roah whined, “Ysolda…that place is…is evil.”

“We have been there before; nothing happened. Stop being superstitious.”

“They say it was built by demons.”

“That is what Vivyan says. And even if it was, I need to go there.”

“Why?”

Ysolda started walking.

“I’m going to tell Vivyan.”

She stopped and turned back, “No you are not, for she will be angry with you too.”

“Why me?”

“Because either you went to the ruins with me, or you let me go alone.”