Kaelum: The Book Of Legend

Dedication

For Eileen who thinks she nursed me through this.

One: A room for the night

More like compressed cloud than ground cover, turf covered three-fourths of Itar’s surface. The turf was white, sheet white, fresh linen dancing to the silent harp of the wind white. Like unsheared wool, it spread in every direction, the horizon flat as a becalmed sea, all sound muted by the thick, springy turf. Still, one was surprised the peeling was silent. Such violence should be accompanied by rending or tearing, or a scream perhaps. There was none.

Faron sat nestled into the turf, his eyes on the surface in front of him as the struggle began once again, a struggle inside him as well. A ripple raced away from him, then back again, a hand under a blanket before a cocked kitten. Twenty paces away a bulge appeared, strained upward for a moment then plunged back down, leaving, like a pebble in a pond, concentric rings of undulation that sped from the center and died. Another bulge appeared, farther out, a much larger one, and as it strained upward, as if driven by some subterranean force, several hundred feet of turf tore loose from the mother earth and shook itself, free and shivering in a new dawn. And Faron shook with it.

Movement increased all along the peel. Damped waves, diminishing toward the tail, throbbed along both sides, growing in amplitude. The jewel that hung from Faron’s neck pulsed -- bright/dim, bright/dim -- in perfect unison with the undulating peel. Soon the need would be too great and the peel would tear completely free. The head of the peel hung suspended several feet above the turf. Long tendrils of spun silver still clung to Itar as the peel twisted and pulled, a sheet of gauze flapping in the wind. His eyes were locked in thrall to the looming beast as ripples ran its length and back into the turf. The near edge of the peel curled its loose tendrils into long, beckoning fingers. Come.

Commanding his chest to expand, he forced himself to breath. The peel’s summons called to something deep inside him, a dark, ancient need, a primitive urge long since forgotten. As if charged by the jewel at his chest, his muscles tightened and loosened, flexed and unflexed, to the rhythm of the pulsing beast, his viscera driving him to rise, race across the turf and leap heedlessly onto the fleeing peel. Without his bidding them, he suddenly found his legs beneath him, coiled, ready to spring him erect. His long fingers, at first in lover’s caress with the thick turf, now twisted desperately into its strands, barely rebuffing the burning need to join its fleeing child. His nails dug into his palms as he forced himself by will alone to remain where he was. Vaguely, he recalled the first time he’d felt it, the hunger, the ache. He thought it must have been there since his first illicit viewing as a boy, barely out of swaddling. At first the hint of a secret sweet, the need grew more urgent with every peel, grew to become the promise of paradise, and now, had become precious oxygen to his suffocating lungs. How much longer would he be able to resist?

With a final, violent wrenching that nearly tore Faron in two, the peel tore free of the last strands holding it back. Wispy, the peel twisted slightly as it drifted up and away, a giant, albino butterfly. Only then, when the peel was fully free and wheeling away, was Faron able to tear his eyes from it. The hypnotic throbbing of his heart lessened increment by increment as the peel drifted farther away. He sat there, panting from the effort of restraint. How much longer would he be able to resist? How many more peels could he observe before…?

He shook himself angrily. Those were thoughts he’d have to avoid until… until the next time. He patted the turf reassuringly, a boy and his dog in the dark, and rose to his feet. The peel was almost invisible now, occasional flashes of thin sun reflecting off its concave surface as it gyred away. Faron looked down at the gemstone hanging from a cord around his neck, its pulse rapidly diminishing to a soothing purr. Something inside of him was diminishing as well. Some hope, some dream, that he could not quite name, was now lost to him. A low moan formed on his lips and died there. With a heavy shrug, he tucked the gem back beneath his shirt, and, turning on his heel, headed south toward Picarro, covering the turf in long, smooth strides.

The sea of fluffy turf that was Itar was dotted with four islands of rock and soil. Although these four broad hillocks that curved gently up from the turf totaled less than a quarter of Itar’s surface, each was a community unto itself and provided everything needed to sustain its inhabitants. Each island was neatly checked with farms and woodlands, the water needed for the crops and animals supplied by artesian springs. In the center of each island was the community’s town. The four islands were almost equidistant from the edge of their world and the center, and many Itarans referred to themselves by their quarter: southern, northern, eastern, or western, though the oldest of them still referred to themselves by clan: Picarro, Frontia, Janteer, or Belwar, respectively.

The sun had slid a third of the way across the sky by the time Faron found himself on the outskirts of the southern island, home of clan Picarro. Though the resources of their island limited construction materials and methods, personality was the final architect of the village. The perimeter of the village was neatly fringed with conical structures built of poles covered with skins. Tall and erect, they dared the winds to topple them. These were the homes of the Borzoi, a class of Itarans who, like their structures, challenged the world around them. They were the visionaries, the dreamers, the romantics. Even their clothing was bright and promising. Three men, huddled in front of the nearest structure and talking in low tones, looked up as Faron approached. Travelers were uncommon on Itar but not unknown. A stranger of his height, however, the tallest Itarans came barely to Faron’s chin, drew long, questioning stares. Faron smiled and nodded to the group.

It was not his height, however, that drew there stares, it was his attire -- comfortable boots, brown, loose-fitting trousers cinched at the waist, gauzy, white shirt -- the attire of a ranger. Peels could occur anywhere, at any time. When the turf peeled away too close to an island, a ranger would come and warn the occupants away. Peels were not to be observed by anyone other than the rangers. It was the law. Faron shook his head to the unasked question. There would be no peel this day. Their fallen faces told him they were as much disappointed as relieved.

"Borzoi, he thought, as the three brightly-clad villagers returned to their conversation. Curiosity about the peels was deeply rooted in Itaran mythology, and hence their hearts, and not all those who resided in the village were always easily restrained, especially the Borzoi.

Safely inside the ring of taller houses were neatly arranged rows of a different kind. Low and sturdy structures of pole and adobe, they were the residences of the largest class of Itarans, the Pragma. Practical and efficient, the Pragma were the lawmakers, the doers, the executors of the Borzoi’s dreams.

More villagers noticed Faron as he walked toward the center of town and stared inquiringly. Again, he smiled at each villager and politely shook his head. Mostly Pragma now, with their dark shirts and neatly cuffed trousers, they accepted his answer with a nod of relief. Word would soon spread throughout the town that the ranger was just passing through.

Faron entered the town hall, a rambling structure with various, unmatched appendages that served as private rooms or discreet meeting places. Part inn, part tavern, the town hall was the hub of Itaran social life. The main room was twenty paces square and liberally spiced with tables and chairs. It was dimly lit by a handful of strategic lamps hung from the rafters. The aroma of cooking meat wafted from the kitchen, pulling his eyes that way. Whatever it was, it smelled delicious. It was late afternoon and only a handful of men were scattered about the main floor. Soon, it would be bustling with hungry and thirsty customers. Faron picked a table near the back wall and sat down. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his feet on another, his elbows out to the sides and his long fingers interlaced behind his head. It felt good to sit back and relax.

Sitting, he was just another Itaran. He wore his shoulder length blonde hair pulled neatly back with a leather thong, his features distinct but not sharp. Only his clothes marked him as different. A serving girl appeared almost immediately but he waved her away with a shake of his head and a smile. He would have a drink and some of that wonderful meat, his mouth was watering nonstop now, but not yet. He wasn’t exactly sure why he was waiting. Maybe it was because it had been such a long time since he’d been in the village, since he’d been around people. His stomach complained loudly just as three Pragma, hurried in, but he ignored it. For now, he was content just to sit in a real chair and listen to human voices again. He felt the muscles in his back and shoulders start to relax as he watched the Itarans beginning to come in from the shops and fields in two’s and three’s.

Some time later, the town hall was nearly full. All but one of the side rooms resounded with loud talk and laughter, and almost every table in the main room as well. Faron still sat alone along the wall. Several Itarans had approached his table but when they got close enough to recognize his attire they found other tables to join. Rangers weren’t feared exactly, but they were associated with peels and anything or anyone having to do with peels was best to be avoided.

A slight figure materialized in the doorway, a young woman by her size and build, hidden in the dark, voluminous robes of a priestess. Ebony curls sprang from beneath her hood, but the rest of her face remained in shadow. Conversation ceased at the tables next to the door as their occupants became aware of her presence. Those nearest them noticed their silence and also looked up, and the next, like a wildfire leaping from grass to brush to tree, until the entire room was consumed in a silence, not of fear but of awe and reverence. The young woman, barely more than a girl, really, slipped back her hood revealing cascades of midnight curls that tumbled over her shoulders like a waterfall of ink as she peered into the gloomy interior. Her eyes were as black and brilliant as her hair, her skin a light mocha.

She searched the room, obviously looking for someone. When her gaze fell on Faron she nodded slightly, as if she had found what she was looking for, and began moving toward him. She carried herself erect, but smooth and supple, a cat on parade, and every eye followed her as she crossed the room and stopped in front of him. Up close, her beauty was more sublime, seeming to emanate from within her. She was slender and mysterious and more sensuous than he could ever remember a woman being.

She stood before him for a long moment, studying him. When she addressed him it was in the formal language of greeting. I am Wolf, Healer and Scribe for the clan Picarro, she announced. Welcome.

Her salutation stung him back to reality. A formal salutation. Whatever her reason for singling him out it was official business, not personal. Masking his disappointment he rose to his feet. I am Faron, Ranger of Trust for the Southern Quarter, he quoted the proper formal response. I accept your welcome and bid you long life and safe transfer. He nodded formally and offered her a chair. Wolf accepted with a nod and permitted him to hold it as she sat.

So much for the formalities, he said, crossing to his own side of the table and sitting down again. He offered her his right hand. I’m Faron.

Her smile as she took his hand seemed to brighten the entire hall. Her hand was much smaller than his and the color of dark tea. Wolf.

Interesting name, Faron said, noting that it somehow seemed to fit her lean features and hungry gaze.

It’s from the old mythology, she explained, her dark eyes never leaving his as she spoke. A wolf was a loner, fiercely independent. It relied on no other creature, not even its mate. My mother died giving birth to me. I never knew my father. The village priest named me on the third day and took me as his apprentice.

Her unblinking scrutiny made him both nervous and cautious. A priestess. The poet-priests made up the third and final caste of Itarans. They were the smallest class, numbering only a few dozen. They lived under the stars with no roof over their heads. Most were nomads who roamed from town to town as they pleased. Their knowledge of the healing arts and magic made them both welcome for the former and feared for the latter wherever they appeared.

I also am an orphan, Faron confessed, finding himself strangely pleased he had something in common with her, as if that might make them equals of a sort. Do you think it’s a coincidence?

For the first time since her arrival, her cool, confidant demeanor slipped. A quick flare of surprise flickered in her eyes. And just as quickly, vanished. An orphan? He was an orphan, too?

I don’t know anything about my parents, he was saying, nor that much about my childhood.

Why? If he is the one, why an orphan, too? Another sign? Her face revealed none of her thoughts as she scrutinized him, noting the clothes he wore like an insignia. It seems a long way from orphan to ranger, she said. How did you manage that?

The way she said it, it sounded not like his life had happened but that he had made it happen, that it had been some sort of choice. It hadn’t been that way at all. I don’t remember much, he said. I was found in a basket in front of our meeting hall.

Again a flicker of surprise across her face, a mosquito in the dark. Here on Picarro? she asked, keeping her voice as neutral as possible.

No… Frontia.

Disappointment this time. "But Frontia’s in the North Quarter. Didn’t you say you were Ranger of Trust for the Southern Quarter?"

That’s part of the story. I was taken in by an elderly couple who ran a big house for orphans and foundlings. When the town found out I was different I had to leave.

Different? Her tone was curious and a bit skeptical, as well.

His right hand started up toward the stone hanging around his neck, but he stopped it at his waist. After a discrete glance toward the lump in his shirt, he returned his gaze to the girl and leaned forward to conspire. The stone, he said, just above a whisper. They found out about the stone.

They chased you out of town because you were a ranger?

Not just that, though they avoided looking at the stone at any cost. A child was stillborn and I had just happened to pass their door the night before. There were other things as well. He was obviously reluctant to elucidate.

And the old couple kicked you out?

Not them, he answered. He could see them now… commanding the dinner table… but commanding it with love. They would have kept me there for as long as I wanted. But the town elders, Pragma all, thought I was a witch or something worse. On the eve of my sixteenth birthday, they showed up in front of the home. Half the town, with torches and axe handles. They had somehow concluded I would come into my full power at manhood and were determined to destroy me before that could happen. The master, we never knew his given name, nor the missus’ neither, sneaked me out of town.

She was not sure the elders of Picarro, who were all but one, Pragma, would have acted any differently under the same circumstances. How did they sneak you out?

Faron grinned sheepishly. Under a wagonload of manure, actually. I couldn’t get the smell out of my clothes for a week. She couldn’t help but smile at the image his words conjured up.

His gaze turned inward then and she could see through his eyes, as if a drama played on his retinas and she peered through from the loges. The smile vanished as she saw the frightened boy fleeing into the night, the missus’ face a scar of concern as she handed him a heavy bundle, a mixture of fear and anger… one last desperate plea to the master, a silent scream from his eyes, before he turned and trudged off into the awful darkness, only the stars overhead to guide him.

He was looking down now and her gaze followed his. His hand was clutched to his chest, the jewel safely encircled by his long fingers. I had no choice. I had the Ranger’s Stone. But if I was to be a ranger it couldn’t be in Frontia, the people would never accept me. Janteer was the next closest village.

It is said to be more than three weeks’ walk from Frontia to Janteer. An arduous journey for a boy on foot.

It didn’t seem to take that long. The missus had given me enough food if I rationed it and warm clothes for the nights. She even included my oldest boots, those that were most familiar with my feet.

The priestess smiled to herself as she straightened up. She had picked well. There was something special about this ranger. Like the way he was sitting there just looking at her, his expression half wonder and half longing for…? Are you here for a peeling? she asked, drawing her hair forward to hide the sudden color on her cheeks.

Faron’s blonde ponytail danced as he shook his head. Not at this time. Her disappointment was again obvious. But we don’t know the future, do we? The mysterious smile she offered in response suggested maybe she was not so limited as he. Well, I don’t, he confessed.

But, you’ve come from a peel? she asked, the tenor of her voice a mixture of curiosity and jealousy.

North, half a day, he answered.

She looked to the north, those black eyes peering into the distance. So close, she whispered. She continued staring north, her thoughts locked within her. When she spoke it was to herself, not to him. Soon there will be another. Faron’s eyes widened for just an instant. How could she know that? Was she guessing? She returned her gaze to Faron and went on, seemingly unaware she had spoken aloud. Was it a big one? she asked.

What? he asked, his thoughts on the girl across the table. Why had she made that remark about another peel? She seemed awfully preoccupied with peels. Perhaps it was because he was a ranger. But her interest seemed more urgent, more desperate, than that. The peel? About average, he said, with a nonchalant wave of his hand, ten paces across.

Ten paces! Her eyes were black pools shining at midnight. Her mouth slightly open, she gazed into his eyes as if she could see in them what they had seen.

You’ve never seen a peeling? he asked. That was a stupid question.

She shook her head and the dim light of the common room flashed and glinted from her curls. No.

It’s…, that familiar ache returned as he recalled the last peel sliding and spinning away, beautiful.

She frowned at him, quiet anger in her voice. It is forbidden by law for any but a ranger to view a peeling.

It was an old issue. One he’d dealt with many times. Because it is dangerous, Faron said.

Just to see? she asked. He could hear the disbelief in her voice. What danger is there in that?

He saw himself twisting and writhing on the turf, the peel rising above him beckoning, beckoning…. Oh yes. Faron was very familiar with the danger. Some part of him seemed to be lost each time he witnessed a peeling. It’s difficult to explain.

Wolf studied his face. He was weary. And not just from the walk. You’re tired. She made a small gesture with her right index finger. The roundest Itaran, Pragma or Borzoi, Faron had ever seen appeared at their table with two steaming mugs and a beaming smile.

Faron held up his hand. Oh no, thank you, he began, I don’t --

Wolf nodded to the server, his drab attire identified him as Pragma, who put the mugs down and left. Faron looked at the mugs and then back up at the priestess. Really, I --

Please. It will warm you. Her tone was gentle, but insistent. He could almost picture the missus offering him hot cider after a brisk morning’s play.

But I’m not cold, he pleaded, feeling a shiver pass through him even as he was denying it.

Wolf smiled and picked up her own steaming cup. Please. Be my guest.

Faron surrounded the mug with both hands and raised it to his lips. Sweet spice assaulted his nostrils and he drew his head back as he breathed in the wonderful aroma. It had been a while since he’d had mulled wine. He took a large gulp, grimacing when the hot liquid burned his throat. Ow! It’s hotter than I thought. But it is good, he added with a smile. Very good. Thank you.

You’re welcome.

They were beating around the bush. Not even that really, they were just killing time. Faron wondered why the priestess was talking to him. It wasn’t an accident. She had obviously been looking for someone when she came in and as soon as she saw him she had come right over. At first, he’d thought she was just greeting him as an official of the village, priests and priestesses who had committed their lives to a particular village were held in high esteem and often served official duties. Now it seemed their meeting was something more than that.

He studied the young woman curiously. They were opposites in every way. She was a priestess, healer and mystic, bearer of health and life, of hope, of dreams and plans. He was a ranger of trust, harbinger of termination. Yet, perhaps they were not so different. That end was a beginning also. For some, it was the opportunity to throw out all the bad that had accumulated and begin anew, refreshed, a second chance. For most, however, he was a bleak reminder of endings, termination, the inevitable loss of all they had accomplished, achieved, gathered.

Am I boring you?

Her words broke through his reverie.

What? he mumbled, blinking his eyes back into focus. I’m sorry. I didn’t… I wasn’t….

It’s all right, she said with a soft laugh, like the first, high notes of an oboe, sweet and pure. I asked if you’d be staying long, Wolf said.

Faron shrugged. A day, maybe two. I never know. It’s like that in this business.

Sounds interesting. The slight tone of amusement was unmistakable. So was the undertone of longing, but for what?

It can be, he answered, sipping the wine to see if it had cooled enough. Satisfied, he took a deep draught of the wine and shivered again as its warmth spread through his belly. I’ve seen more than a hundred peelings.

Her eyes glistened with interest. A hundred?

At least that. It was more like several hundred, actually, since the first.

Where do they go?

Huh? he said, though he had heard her clearly.

She had that look in her eye. The same look she’d had when she’d peered off to the north. The peels. Where do they go? she repeated.

It was a question Faron asked himself every time he watched them drift out of sight. I don’t know, he answered, unable to mask his own curiosity. Away. Out into the void.

She pursed her lips for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to speak, though she knew she would. She had to. She leaned across the table and motioned for him to do likewise. And the fliers? she asked in a low voice with a furtive glance at the nearest occupants of the room to insure she wasn’t overheard. Have you seen many of them?

Faron’s laugh was a little strained. There was a growing number of Itarans in every village who hungered to ride the peels, including, though there was no evidence to support them, some who claimed to have actually done so. Fliers were rumored to be everywhere, in every village and island. Most of them were Borzoi, young, idealistic, and rebellious. All of them were a little crazy. Would-be fliers, he corrected, straightening up, and resuming at a normal tone. Yes. They’re everywhere. And their numbers are growing.

Do you think there’s any truth to… it?

The it she was referring to was the re-emergence of the oldest religion on Itar. Once believed archaic and extinct, Transfer had recently shown an unexplained rebirth, especially among the younger Itarans. Transists believed the world was composed of many turfs, not just Itar, and that these turfs, and Itar as well, floated about the rocky planetary core. The old legends told of fliers, visitors from other turfs who had floated in on a peel and then floated out on another. It was a ridiculous idea. Scholars had determined hundreds of years earlier that without a means to steer, anyone who tried to ride one would drift forever in the endless void. Yet each time Faron observed a peeling something inside him longed to accompany the peel on its journey, longed to see what it would see, longed to know what it would know. The question was all the more curious coming from a priestess.

"Well, do you?" she repeated, more insistently than the first time, and Faron had the distinct impression he was being interrogated. It wasn’t the third degree, exactly, but it wasn’t just a casual inquiry like, how’s the weather, either. He wondered once again, if she were testing him. But for what?

He shook his head, almost sadly. It’s a wonderful dream. If it helps some to carry on…, he shrugged, so be it. No one is harmed.

His answer was not enough, not for what she wanted… needed. But there have been attempts to fly on the peels, she said, her tone a statement, her eyes a question.

Have there? Faron raised an eyebrow.

She took a sip of her wine before answering. I have heard of some, she said, replacing the mug on the table. It is rumored an Itaran rode the last peel, the one you’ve just come from.

Up until this time Faron’s face had revealed only two emotions, awe of the mysterious priestess and a sort of hopeless attraction. Now a note of skepticism crept across it. He shook his head. It’s only a rumor. I was there. I saw no one, he said, raising his mug.

Yet someone could have been there, rolled in the turf, she argued. She leaned forward for emphasis. Ten paces is a lot of area.

Faron stopped the mug halfway up. Why was it so important to her? I suppose it’s possible, he conceded, still holding the mug.

You see? she demanded, as if his concession were proof enough. To Wolf it had to be more than just possible. It had to be.

Now the skepticism showed itself in Faron’s voice as well. Faron shook his head. The girl seemed determined to prove something, but he wasn’t sure what. I said possible. That doesn’t mean it happened.

Wolf started to say something, then changed her mind and smiled. It doesn’t mean it didn’t, either, she said wagging an admonishing finger at him.

Faron felt the change in her attitude, as if she had proved something, to herself, at least. Point made, he said with a laugh. Truce? He raised his mug.

Safe transfer, Wolf said, touching her mug to his. Her eyes, the previous fire now replaced with cool detachment, held his for a moment longer than necessary.

Safe transfer, he answered, lowering his eyes as he took a long drink of wine. It still warmed him all the way down. Or was it her? So what about you? he asked.

"What about me?" Again that indecipherable air of amusement, but this time it didn’t quite mask the underlying urgency.

"Do you believe in Transfer?" he asked.

Wolf’s eyes clouded in thought. "I don’t think believe is the right word. But I am curious. It’s a provocative idea, and a seductive one, too. That we could fly to heaven."

Or fall to Helles, he added. There was something more she was holding back.

A moment of uncertainty shadowed her expression. Helles. The black void that spread forever in all directions from their known world. She brushed the brief doubt from her face with a wave. Perhaps. But isn’t that what life is about? Making choices? Taking risks? Some larger and more dangerous than others? Her voice was like a tingling bell, awakening something inside him.

He laughed lightly and his eyes sparkled like the sky at noon. You’re right again. It seems I am overmatched in this contest. I am but an illiterate ranger and you a learned scribe, a master of words.

Her fingers brushed the back of his hand. You seem to express yourself quite well, illiterate ranger. Her smile lit up his heart and tinted his cheeks with rose.

Perhaps, he answered raising her fingers to his lips, I’m inspired by the company. The color of her cheeks suddenly matched his.

Wolf set her empty mug on the table. She caressed its rough surface absently, part of her mind noting the gnarls and bumps. How long did you say you were staying? she asked coyly. One or two days?

I wasn’t positive about that. You know. You never can tell.

She nodded. No, you can’t. He couldn’t tell if she’d emphasized you or not. She studied him a moment and then stood up. I must go now.

He didn’t want her to leave yet. Yet? He didn’t want her to leave ever. Do you need a room for the night? he asked, trying to stall her departure.

She studied him a long moment before answering. Her gaze seemed to penetrate into his very thoughts. She blushed slightly. No. Do you?

He looked at her quizzically. I have one already.

I know. Do you need it?

Every time she opened her mouth he became more confused. I don’t think I understand, he said.

If you do not require a roof over your head, she lowered her eyes demurely as a tinge of rose returned to her cheeks, you are welcome to share my camp with me.

Rangers were nomads like the priests. Bred to transience, they seldom slept indoors. Equipped with little more than a bedroll, the turf was their mattress, the sky the roof over their heads. An opportunity to sleep in a real bed was considered a luxury. Looking at Wolf at that moment, Faron couldn’t remember why. I’d like that very much, he said.

Two: The book of legend

Wolf’s camp was located in a small, dense wood just outside the perimeter of the village. As he followed her through the trees and shoulder-high brush, Faron wondered once again why she had invited him there. She had made no effort to hide the fact she was looking for something, someone actually, when she’d entered the inn. And she had come right over as soon as she’d seen him. Though he’d known from the moment her eyes found his, he was her destination, he couldn’t believe his eyes as she wound her way through the tables, her gaze never leaving his face. He recalled the pounding of his heart and the shortness of breath he’d felt when she’d started toward him. How it had risen to a paralyzing crescendo as she stood there, studying him, those startlingly innocent eyes, beacons in the night that exposed every secret of his soul.

Then she had greeted him so formally. He naturally assumed she was greeting him as the hostess of the village. In his old village, Frontia, the mayor often deferred such duties to the resident priest or another person of esteem. Yet, there was something more in that dark gaze, a question. He had felt the electricity of her, too, and wondered if she’d felt it as well, but had dismissed the thought with a shrug. A young woman of such beauty, his gaze rose from her lithe form to the cascade of brilliant curls dancing with her stride, could hardly be attracted to a simple ranger. Yet, their conversation had been a strange one. And she had invited him to share her camp.

In front of him, Wolf disappeared through a narrow opening in a dense copse of trees. It’s not much, she said, holding aside a leafy curtain, but its home. As Faron peered through the narrow gap his eyes widened with amazement. The camp itself, like his own, was very Spartan, a shallow fire pit rimmed with rocks, a narrow space to stretch out, a bedroll, and a small pack of personal belongings leaning against one wall of the opening.

But the site! Most nights, rangers slept out on the turf with only the stars above as a canopy. The clearing Wolf had chosen was rimmed with young Greenleaf trees growing so closely together they formed a natural curtain for the room inside. It was almost as if they had been planted for that reason. The lower trunks of the trees were virtually invisible beneath a thick mat of short-stemmed leaves and moss. Close overhead, the trees sprouted long lush branches similarly decorated that bowed reverently over their heads forming a living canopy. A