The Faerie Knight

Chapter One (Part 2)

4

Dolaurys' church bell tolled in the twilight. It was late in the day, but the sun was stubborn in spring. It stayed awake just a little longer each day in preparation for summer.

Most families were in their homes, eating a tense dinner. Gwen wondered if it would be their last. Some people, however, were out in the street, loading their meager belongings into wagons and carts. These folks—brave or stupid, Gwen could not decide—were of a mind to take their chances on the road. Privately, Gwen wished them luck on their journey, though she could not bring herself to vocalize her well wishes as she passed. It was not out of superstition, but rather the atmosphere; an ill mood hung in the air, still and almost suffocating.

Dolaurys was a meager assortment of about a hundred hovels and perhaps twice that in people. There was Galaby's taphouse, where Gwen had rented a room, and a blacksmith, a tailor, and a church to Ylem, but not much else. At Dolaurys' north end was the hillock where Dinas Myr once stood, now where the village mayor, Lady Marigold, resided in a stately manor. A simple palisade wall ringed the village, interrupted only by the hillock. Though lonely cottages and farms dotted the countryside, Dolaurys was the only settlement for miles, the westernmost bastion of civilization, and about the farthest one could possibly live from the capital and still be called a citizen of Whystaria.

Gwen missed Afallach.

Gwen accompanied Galath out the rickety village gate on the east side of the village. To the south was the shadow of the Gloomwood, lurking. In the west, though the village blocked it from view, she knew stood the Netherfell Mountains, watching over Whystaria like prison wardens. But to the north and east were endless fields and pastures of golden grass, catching the late-day sun and making it plain why this part of the realm was called the Duskmeadow. Little white fluffs dotted the fields and delicate hills here: herds of grazing sheep that stirred up within Gwen a nostalgia for her childhood.

They abandoned the path immediately, stepping along rain-damp grass and following the palisade toward the hillock. Once they were out of sight of the nerve-wracked town watch posted at the gates, Twylyth extricated themself from Gwen's braid—one of their favorite hiding places—and flew alongside her, wiping their arms and face.

"Whew! I can't wait until we get back to the city. Sorry, fam, but you really need a bath—your hair is getting oily!"

"Hey..." Gwen raised an offended hand to her plait. "There are more important things than baths right now, Twyl."

"Yeah—soap!"

Gwen made irritated shooing motions at Twylyth, who nimbly dodged away with a cackle.

They came around a bend in the wall and beheld the hillock. In the village, a switchback path snaked up the sloping hillside to Marigold Manor, but outside there were no slopes. The ridge rose, squat and slanting, and terminated in a rocky, treacherous cliff. For a moment, Gwen's fancy ran away from her, and she imagined a grand spire perched on that bluff, reaching for the sky, filled with all manner of magical trinkets and priceless jewels, any one of which Twylyth would give a wing for.

"I besought the Lady Marigold to allow me a poke around her estate," said Galath as they walked. "After much wheedling, she allowed me the grounds, but the manor was off limits."

Gwen regarded him curiously. "I take it you didn't find anything?"

Galath guffawed. "If I had any leads at all, Sir Gwen, I would have been forthcoming with them before."

"Erm, right."

Then they were standing between boulders at the foot of the cliff, craning their heads to gaze at the twilit crag. Squinting against the sun, which lurked behind the hill, they scanned the weathered stone for a crack or crevice—any sign that might indicate a hidden door or passage. The wind whistled through the rocks, carrying notes of urgency and desperation.