Vessa

Lysa had made it halfway through examining the scrape on Toren’s arm when Garran called his name.

She looked toward the gatehouse, then back at Toren.

“You should go.”

“I was hoping he might forget.”

“Garran?”

Toren sighed.

Lysa released his wrist.

“Exactly.”

Behind her, the gatehouse was returning to order. The dead Kraithe had been bound at the arms and legs so it could be moved without anyone going near the blades. The wounded Warden sat against the wall while a healer cut away his blood-soaked sleeve, and two others inspected the restraint pole the creature had nearly severed.

The gate itself was shut again.

Barred.

From where Toren stood, there was nothing to suggest that only minutes earlier he had been running toward it with a Kraithe behind him.

Except for the blood.

Garran waited beneath the inner arch with Senn, Marek and Kellan.

Lysa stepped aside.

“Try not to say anything foolish.”

“That seems unfairly broad.”

“It needs to be.”

Toren left her smiling and went to meet the chief.

The debrief lasted less time than he expected.

Senn described their route, the hunt, the ridge, and the Kraithe they had spotted below them on the path they had used that morning. Marek confirmed the distance and the lead they had gained from the cliff. Kellan confirmed the signals.

Garran listened.

When they finished, he looked at Toren.

“Where did your arrow hit the deer?”

Toren blinked.

“The deer?”

“Yes.”

“Too far back.”

“How far?”

“About a hand.”

Garran nodded once.

“A hand is a long way when something is dying because of it.”

Toren felt his first instinct rising.

I know.

He swallowed it.

“I won’t make the same shot again.”

“Good.”

That appeared to satisfy Garran.

Toren waited.

Nothing followed.

“The Kraithe?” he asked.

“I heard about it.”

“I thought you’d have more to say.”

“You saw danger early. You had the high ground and used it. Senn ordered the game dropped, and you dropped it. You signaled correctly and returned by the safest route.”

Garran glanced toward the wounded Warden.

“The gate received one Kraithe. The Lance killed one Kraithe. One man let his arm drift too far forward and paid for it.”

The Warden, who was close enough to hear, muttered something Toren could not make out.

Garran ignored him.

There was no lecture about how close they had come to dying. No warning that Toren had finally learned why the walls existed. Garran did not need to invent a lesson when the morning had already provided one.

Senn shifted the strap of his pack.

“We lost the deer.”

That hurt more than Toren expected.

Garran noticed.

“Good.”

Toren stared at him.

The chief’s mouth moved very slightly.

“You were carrying enough already.”

Then he dismissed them.

Months of anticipation, half a day outside, his first deer abandoned beneath the trees, and a Kraithe dead inside the gate.

Toren had imagined his first excursion ending differently.

He was beginning to suspect that imagination was generally poor preparation for reality.

By the time he left the gate district, Vessa had already absorbed the alarm.

Carts moved again along the broad road. Workers carried timber toward the festival squares. Children who had been ordered away from the gate were now attempting to learn what had happened from anyone too slow to escape them.

The village continued.

A warm breeze came from the sea, carrying the familiar taste of salt.

Toren breathed it in deeply.

The forest had smelled of wet bark, dark soil, leaves and standing water. Even at midday, the canopy had pressed close around him.

Vessa smelled open.

Salt. Bread. Smoke. Flowers warming in the sun.

Home.

He had never thought of the village as particularly beautiful.

From the upper districts, after hours beneath the forest canopy, he found himself reconsidering.

Vessa was vast enough that no single view contained all of it.

The great walls enclosed a broad stretch of green country between the inland heights and the sea. Homes, gardens, workshops and public squares spread across rolling slopes and old terraces, broken everywhere by mature trees. Whole streets disappeared beneath canopies of rainwood, palms and fruit trees before emerging again farther down the hill.

The freshwater lake occupied part of the inland basin, blue-green beneath the afternoon sun. Reeds grew thick along sections of its shore, and people fished there from stone banks, small piers and shaded coves. Children swam in the shallows where the bottom remained visible.

But most of Vessa’s fishing happened elsewhere.

Southward, the settlement descended through increasingly busy districts toward the sea. Beyond the rooftops and trees, the ocean stretched across the horizon in a hard blue line. White water broke against the reefs farther offshore, and fishing boats moved beyond the headlands where the deeper water began.

The sea was never completely absent from Vessa.

It left salt on shutters, swelled doors during the wet months and sent wind through streets that faced south. Storms announced themselves from that direction days before they arrived.

So did much of the village’s food.

The quarry that had once occupied part of the land was harder to see.

A settlement had already existed around it in those ancient years, and after the quarry was abandoned, people had simply kept building. Three centuries of Vessa had softened what remained. Trees grew from old cuts in the stone. Houses occupied former work yards. Gardens covered terraces whose original purpose nobody remembered.

The past survived mostly in fragments.

A broad stone ramp beneath a market street.

Square anchor holes cut into walls and now used to hang lantern ropes.

An unnaturally straight face of rock hidden beneath flowering vines.

If someone had arrived without knowing the history, Toren doubted they would have looked at Vessa and thought quarry.

They would have seen a city-sized village drowning in green, with a lake behind it and the sea shining beyond.

Lysa waited for him at the fork below the gate road.

“You took too long.”

“Garran interrogated me.”

“He asked you about your deer.”

Toren stopped.

“You were listening?”

“I know my father.”

She carried the same wicker basket she had dropped when the alarm sounded. Several of the white flowers inside had been crushed.

Toren nodded toward them.

“Those look terrible.”

“They do.”

“A shame.”

“You’re helping me replace them.”

He should have expected that.

“Because of the Kraithe?”

“Because I ran all the way from the gardens after hearing the alarm.”

“Marek sounded the horn.”

Lysa started down the path.

Toren followed.

“You should tell him he owes me an afternoon.”

“I’ll mention it.”

“Do.”

The medicinal gardens occupied a long series of sun-facing terraces above one of Vessa’s central districts.

Calling them gardens made them sound smaller than they were.

Beds climbed the slope in broad ordered bands, separated by narrow stone channels carrying water from cisterns higher on the hill. Some contained medicines. Others held dyes, cooking herbs, flowers or plants valuable enough that the village cultivated them even when no one particularly enjoyed having them around.

Lysa spent most of her days here.

When they arrived, three people were standing beside one of the lower beds.

An older woman named Nara saw Lysa and waved her over.

“There you are.”

Lysa set down her basket.

“What happened?”

“They cut the south bed.”

Lysa crouched beside the row of pale-leafed plants.

“How much?”

“Most of it.”

A boy from one of the orchard crews stood nearby looking miserable.

“They told me to take the whiteleaf.”

“It is whiteleaf,” Lysa said.

Relief crossed his face.

Then she touched one of the cut stems.

“You cut below the second joint.”

The relief disappeared.

Toren came closer.

The plants had been taken almost to the base.

Lysa pointed farther up another stem.

“If you cut here, it grows back quickly enough for another harvest after the rains. This low, we may lose part of the bed.”

The boy stared at the damage.

“I didn’t know.”

“I know.”

Nara folded her arms.

“We don’t have enough in the north bed for the festival and the infirmary.”

Lysa looked along the rows.

“How much whiteleaf does the infirmary need?”

“All of it, if the fevers keep spreading through the lower streets.”

“Then they get all of it.”

“And the Sanctuary garlands?”

Lysa thought for a moment.

“Moonvine.”

“Wilts too quickly.”

“Mix it with salt jasmine and cut it that morning.”

“That means gathering before sunrise.”

“Yes.”

Nara watched her.

Then nodded.

“Fine.”

Lysa looked at the boy.

“You’ll help.”

He nodded quickly.

“And tomorrow I’ll show you the difference between the joints.”

Another nod.

Only when the two of them moved away did Lysa notice Toren watching her.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“I didn’t know you were deciding things now.”

She frowned.

“I have been for months.”

“I’m rarely invited to meetings about leaves.”

“That may be because you call them meetings about leaves.”

Toren smiled.

He liked watching her work here. In the gardens, Lysa rarely bothered being clever when she could simply be right.

She handed him a small cutting knife.

“Whiteleaf.”

“I know.”

“Second joint.”

“I know that too.”

“You shot a deer in the wrong place this morning.”

“That was completely different.”

“I prefer not to gamble.”

They worked.

For a while, Toren was grateful for how ordinary it was.

Cutting stems.

Tying bundles.

Moving baskets between rows.

The breeze shifted constantly across the terraces, carrying salt up from the sea and stirring the leaves above them. Somewhere lower in the village, hammers rose and fell as more tables and lantern frames were assembled for Sanctuary Day.

His body slowly began to believe the running had ended.

The ache in his shoulders remained, but the tension beneath it eased. His breathing had been normal for hours.

The Kraithe’s scream still returned occasionally.

Lysa did not ask about it.

Eventually Toren said, “You can ask.”

She continued cutting.

“About what?”

“You know.”

She sat back on her heels.

“All right.”

For once, she seemed to consider the question carefully.

“Was it frightening?”

“Yes.”

“How frightening?”

Toren saw the creature breaking from the forest.

“Enough.”

Lysa watched him.

“And you still liked it.”

“The Kraithe?”

“The outside.”

He looked down at the plant in his hand.

“I almost died.”

“That wasn’t what I said.”

Toren cut another stem.

Lysa had known him long enough to recognize when silence meant she was right.

“You have the same look,” she said.

“What look?”

“The one you get after finding some old travel account in the library.”

“That isn’t a look.”

“It is.”

“You’re inventing things.”

“I’ve known you since you were small enough to cry when Maera hid your shoes.”

“I was six.”

“You cried.”

“She threw them onto a roof.”

“Still cried.”

Toren shook his head.

Movement on the terrace above caught his attention.

Kellan stood there with three small red plums in one hand.

He tossed one down.

Toren caught it.

“Thought you might want something that didn’t run away first.”

Toren looked at the fruit.

“Where did these come from?”

Kellan took a bite from his own.

“Upper stores.”

Lysa looked up sharply.

“Kellan.”

He paused.

“They had many.”

“They’re for Sanctuary Day.”

“So I was told.”

“After you took them?”

“Shortly after.”

Toren bit into the plum.

It was extremely good.

Lysa stared at him.

“What?”

“You’re encouraging him.”

“I’m hungry.”

Kellan tossed one to her.

She caught it despite herself.

For a few seconds she simply held it.

Then she sighed and took a bite.

Kellan nodded.

“Better.”

“This changes nothing.”

“I wasn’t expecting absolution.”

His gaze shifted to Toren.

“I told Senn you should get credit for the deer.”

“Did you?”

“I left out the part where you nearly shot it in the stomach.”

“Generous.”

“I thought so.”

There was a comfortable silence.

Toren had known Kellan for so long that neither of them needed to fill one.

Eventually Kellan pushed himself away from the wall.

“I’m helping with tables.”

Lysa looked at the missing plums.

“You should.”

He started away.

“Kellan.”

He turned.

She pointed at the remaining fruit in his hand.

He looked at it.

Then at her.

With obvious reluctance, he tossed it down.

Lysa caught it.

“Now you can help with tables.”

Kellan shook his head and disappeared up the path.

Toren looked at Lysa.

“Were you going to return that?”

She put it in her basket.

“No.”

Before Toren could answer, a pack landed on the wall beside him.

“You’re getting worse at hunting.”

He knew the voice.

Maera stood on the steps above them.

She had clearly just returned from a route.

Dust dulled her boots, and dried mud climbed one trouser leg nearly to the knee. Her hair had been tied back for travel, though several strands had escaped in the wind. Two narrow route tags hung from the strap crossing her chest, marked with the symbols Vessa’s Wayfinders used to record roads and territories checked beyond the wall.

At twenty, Garran’s elder daughter had already spent several years ranging outside the village.

Toren found this unfair on principle.

“You heard about the deer.”

“Kellan appears committed to preserving the story.”

“He exaggerates.”

“He said you hit it.”

“That part is true.”

“Then he was unusually restrained.”

Maera came down into the garden.

She embraced Lysa briefly, then looked Toren over.

Her gaze stopped on the scrape along his arm.

“That yours?”

“Stone.”

“Not much of a trophy.”

“I’ll find something better next time.”

The amusement disappeared.

“Don’t.”

The word was quiet.

Toren nodded.

Maera held his gaze for another moment before letting the matter go.

“What route?” he asked.

“South.”

“How far?”

“Past the third marker.”

Toren straightened.

“You went that far?”

Maera picked up the plum from Lysa’s basket.

Lysa slapped her hand away.

“That’s mine.”

Maera took it anyway.

“You were outside three days,” Toren said.

“And came back.”

“What did you see?”

“Storm damage. Merchant tracks. A broken bridge rail. Two places where the road has started washing out.”

“That’s all?”

“No.”

Toren waited.

Maera bit into the plum.

“You’ll see the route map after Sanctuary Day.”

“All of it?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because Garran would notice.”

“That has never stopped you.”

“It has stopped me several times. You simply weren’t invited to those occasions.”

Lysa laughed.

Toren looked between them.

He was beginning to feel badly outnumbered.

They finished the work as the afternoon began turning toward evening.

Toren carried two baskets down toward the storage rooms while Lysa and Maera shared the third.

The breeze strengthened as they descended.

It moved through the broad streets, rattling shutters and setting Sanctuary banners snapping gently overhead. The farther south they went, the more strongly Toren could smell the ocean.

They passed one of the larger markets, built where an ancient stone ramp widened into a plaza. Fishmongers occupied most of the southern side beneath woven awnings.

The day’s ocean catch lay packed in wet reeds and chipped ice.

Long silver fish.

Blue runners.

Shellfish piled in shallow baskets.

A man held up something nearly the length of Toren’s arm while arguing loudly over its price.

The lake supplied food too, but differently. People fished its banks and coves, often for their own households.

The sea fed whole districts.

Past the market, the road opened onto a high crossing.

Toren stopped.

The view always existed.

He simply rarely looked at it.

Vessa spread beneath them in every direction, so large that entire neighborhoods disappeared behind wooded rises before reappearing beyond them. Roofs broke through dense green canopies. Garden terraces climbed the hills. Smoke rose from kitchens already preparing evening meals.

Far inland, sunlight flashed across part of the lake.

Southward, the land descended toward the coastal districts and then the sea.

The ocean filled the horizon.

Fishing boats were beginning to return, dark sails and hulls moving toward the protected coves beneath the cliffs. Farther out, waves broke white over the reef.

The wind reached Toren a moment later.

Warm.

Salted.

Familiar.

He closed his eyes.

For most of the morning, the forest had surrounded him so completely that seeing fifty paces ahead had felt generous.

Here, the world seemed to have no end at all.

When he opened his eyes, Maera was watching him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

She continued walking.

Toren frowned.

She sounded exactly like Lysa.

The walls were visible beyond the northern districts, rising above the trees and rooftops before curving away in both directions around the settlement.

From inside Vessa, they did not look like the boundary of a refuge.

They looked like the edge of a world.

Somewhere beyond them stood the ridge.

The path.

The place where they had left his deer.

Beyond that were roads Maera had traveled and places Garran had marked on maps and cities Toren knew only from books.

Lysa called his name from farther down the road.

Toren turned to follow.

The wall had never looked so high.

He kept looking past it anyway.