Treacherous Shadows (Avalon Valley #1)

ONE: Pastimes

Beat you there!" I shove past Aeron, gathering up my skirt as I go. The ground is hard beneath the thin soles of my shoes, the air cool under the canopy of trees. The scent of pine is so thick it sticks to the back of my throat.

"Aeria! Not through the woods," he cautions. Always cautioning.

"Don't worry so much," I call back. My voice is heavy, sounding strange in my own ears. But this— ducking under low-hanging branches and jumping over fallen trunks and avoiding lichen-covered rocks that threaten to turn any inept ankle—this is effortless for me. More natural than breathing.

My brother, Aeron, is less agile here, but once he crosses over to the clearing, he's sure to gain on me. He can outrun me any day, soaring as if the wind carries him along. For now, I am solidly in the lead.

Ahead, I can see where the trees give way, parting like a curtain, granting passage to our destination. For beyond the back door of the thatched cedar cottage that Mother, Aeron, and I call home, cupped in the tender-loving hands of these beloved woods, lies a sprawling man-made meadow we call "the clearing." Residing on all sides of the extraordinary expanse are towering trees as diverse as the seasons that change them—birches and pines, oaks and poplars, cedars and firs. In the distance, majestic mountain peaks inspire a jagged western skyline. But most prominent of all is Eliysha Falls, a double waterfall as breathtaking and picturesque as the pool of endlessly blue water beneath her.

This part of the village, the clearing and the surrounding woods, which has been in our family since Avalon Valley was founded, is restricted property. Here we will be alone—we always are.

We've been coming to the clearing since before I can remember, before we were born, for even as we shared our mother's womb, we were here. In fact, this is where Aeron and I were born a little over sixteen years ago. The clearing had been our mother's favorite place, too. It was the setting of most of our bedtime stories growing up.

Aeron inherited his affinity for storytelling from our mother. Seldom was she more animated than when telling of her days spent in the clearing as a child. She would wave her hands, as if painting a picture on the ceiling of the bedroom Aeron and I share, recalling how blue the sky was, or how the wispy clouds sailed high overhead. She'd recount memories as if you were living them right along with her. You could savor the fresh air as it swept through your lungs, feel it brush against your cheeks. Feel the grass between your toes. We didn't protest bedtime, for we loved the stories far too much.

Of course, we have our favorites. Aeron's always cherished the one when Mother was fifteen and her father persuaded her to jump the falls. Mine has always been the one that involved a certain moonlit adventure when she was a few years younger than I am now.

I never told her this, but I used to dream of her black stallion. I would clamber onto his back and he would ask me, "Shall we race against the darkness, you and I?" Then I'd say, "I'll race with you anywhere," and together we would fly through the night, faster than lightning bolts.

I think of Mother's stallion, of her adventurous spirit, as I draw nearer to the wood line, preparing myself for an outright sprint. Though I've never beat Aeron, I pride myself in the fact that I have never failed to try.