Once Estral took up the broom and started to raise dust with it, Karigan retreated outdoors to find more wood. The horses, it appeared, had settled nicely into the paddock, and Enver was rubbing down Coda. The wood box beside the paddock contained a cache of split firewood, but it was old and would burn fast, so she decided to search the forest for more.
She was careful not to stray beyond the wards, and found Eli Creek rushing along nearby, its banks brimming with rain and snowmelt, glassy water smoothing over rocks. As she looked for deadfall on top of the snow, she thought about the decommissioned waystations and how, like most other Riders, she had scrutinized old maps to see where they were located in the event she required safe haven. The abandoned stations might be away from the usual routes, but one never knew when they might come in handy, just as Eli Creek Station had this day for her and her companions.
As she continued to gather wood, she found remnants of the old Eli Creek Trail. It looked long forgotten, overgrown, and blocked by fallen trees. At one time there’d been a whole network of trails and rough roads through this part of the Green Cloak, but no more.
By the time she returned to the cabin with an armload of wood, she found Estral and Enver sitting inside in the golden glow of lantern light. She noticed that water was no longer dripping through the roof.
Estral followed her gaze. “Enver found one of the shingles in the paddock and wedged it in place up there. If the wind doesn’t blow it away, we should stay dry.”
Karigan was pleased. She dumped the wood on the hearth and placed a pot of water over the fire for tea. Estral, who sat at the table, removed her journal, pen, and ink from an oilskin satchel and prepared to work.
Enver was seated cross-legged on the floor, quiet, his eyes closed as if he were in a meditative state. Karigan sat before the hearth and drew her knees to her chest, and gazed into the fire trying to absorb its heat. After a long day out in the damp cold, and then battling the groundmites, the dance of flames and warmth eased the tension of her muscles and made her drowsy. In time, she started to nod off and imagined, or dreamed, there were others there with them, filmy figures in faded green moving about the cabin, standing by the hearth, sitting at the table next to Estral, peering out the window. Ghosts or a dream, or some legacy of memory, she did not know. One walked right through her, and the chill of its passage sent a shiver rattling through her body.
“How did you get chosen for this journey?” she heard Estral ask Enver, as though from a distance.
The answer seemed to take a long time to come. “I was chosen by my prince to be tessari.”
“What is tessari?”
“A witness.”
There was a pause before Estral asked, “What is it that you are supposed to be witnessing?”
Karigan must have drifted off for she heard no reply. She attempted to pull out of her drowse, but it was like trying to claw her way out of a deep, black grave. When she finally managed to shudder awake, Estral was pouring hot water into a mug. Enver was gone, and the windows had darkened.
She stretched and asked, “What is the answer?”
Estral glanced at her in surprise. “Answer to what?”
“What is Enver supposed to witness?”
“Oh, that? That conversation was ages ago. I thought you were asleep.”
“I was dozing in and out, I think. So, what is the answer?”
Estral smiled and handed Karigan the mug. A glance and a sniff revealed it contained tea. “He wouldn’t explain, said it was an Eletian matter, if you must know.”
Karigan sighed at Eletians and their impenetrable ways. She would ask Enver herself sometime later. Estral returned to her writing, and Karigan relaxed with her tea. By the time she took her last sip, Enver returned looking unperturbed by the wet snow that had accumulated on his shoulders.
“The horses are well,” he said. He removed his cloak and hung it on a peg by the door. “The groundmites have left the area and taken their dead with them.”
“You went looking for them?” Karigan said.
“They took their dead?” Estral asked at the same time.
“To eat them,” Karigan told her dismissively. Estral’s eyes widened and she scribbled something in her journal.
Enver looked from one to the other. “Yes. You call it scouting? I scouted.”
Karigan did not think she’d ever go looking for groundmites unless she was ordered to, but it was a relief to know they were gone.
They ate warm stew that night, and after, with all three sitting on the floor, Karigan passed around Dragon Droppings. She told Enver that they each deserved one after their encounter with the groundmites. He did not argue.
He did ask, “Is it customary for your folk, when biding by a fire, to tell stories?”
“Sometimes,” Karigan said. “And sometimes there is singing.”
“Would you tell me a tale of your people?” he asked.
“I am not very good at stories, but Estral is.” She turned to her friend. “Would you mind?”
Estral looked like she might refuse as she had the singing on previous evenings, but she licked her lips and, after a moment’s hesitation, said, “All right. I’ll give it a try, though I’m rusty.”
She began the tale of Bovian’s Seven Secrets, the story of a poor farm boy—it was always a poor farm boy in these sorts of stories—who had to destroy a curse on his village cast by the evil mage, Bovian, by untangling the Seven Secrets. At first Estral was hesitant in the telling, but gradually her voice grew more assured, more powerful, the parts with dialog animated with distinct voices for each of the characters. While Karigan clearly heard Estral speaking, she detected an undertone of Idris.