Chapter 12

Southeast of Faerson Land, the Kingdom of Wuthia, 1126

Solomon Laenas (Jared Faerson)

After spending hours with Oliver and the gnawing thoughts of Mabel and Richard now lulled in silence in my mind, I left my chamber, well-energized and adjusted to the day. The manor’s corridors greeted me with that familiar hush—stone floors cool beneath my boots, the wall tapestries stirring only when a draft crept through.

I needed space, the breadth of the world about me, not walls and shadows. So, I belted my cloak, buckled my boots, and made for the stables.

Rolf greeted me as he led a gray mare to me. She was called Briska, and she greeted me with a toss of her mane. I stroked her neck and whispered her name before mounting. Soon we were upon the southern road, hooves beating steady against the packed earth, the manor falling behind us like some solemn sentinel.

Passing familiar landmarks on our land, I headed southeast. The ride was long. The new lands, won through Mabel’s diplomacy with Lord Calder, lay in the far southeast, where our holdings had once ended at the river bend. Now we possess what lies beyond—a sweep of forested ridges and vales, near untamed.

It was autumn, and the season had painted the woods in every hue of fire. As Briska carried me beneath boughs arched like cathedral vaults, leaves drifted down in slow, golden spirals, carpeting the path so thickly that her steps seemed muffled. The air was crisp, with that faint bite that stirred both melancholy and vigor.

I drew the rein atop a rise where the trees broke, granting a view over the greater sweep of Calder’s ceded lands. Vast, hushed, and lonely. The forest seemed to brood, as though it remembered other masters than men. Mabel had secured it with words and tact, yet I wondered if any mortal truly owned such places.

I let Briska breathe, my eyes roving over the expanse. To the east, mist hung low, tangled among trunks like pale banners. Somewhere a raven called, its voice stark against the quiet. I thought again of my siblings—how they do on their journey. While they ventured to silence our family darkness, here I was, the one left to ride the borders of this new land. A steward of shadows, while they braved mountains.

Still, a flicker of humility kindled in me. She had bent a lord to her will; she had seen our house grow. Perhaps, when they returned, they would find the Faerson lands greater, richer, stronger than before. We all have skills that we bring to the table, all work in perfect harmony to raise my family higher, stronger, and united than ever. This land shall be proof of such harmony of our family.

I turned Briska down the slope, into the heart of the wood. The leaves whispered as though speaking secrets I was not meant to hear. And I listened, for I had naught but silence and the sound of my own thoughts for company.

The deeper I pressed into those woods, the more they revealed themselves, though never freely. It felt as though I was still, despite being one of its four true owners. The forest gave us what it would, and no more.

First, I came to a stream, narrow yet swift, its waters clear as polished glass. Stones jutted from its bed like the backs of sleeping beasts, and the current whispered ceaselessly. I dismounted, crouched, and dipped a hand; the chill was sharp, biting. Such a brook would serve well for trout and salmon come the warmer months. Already, I marked in my mind where a mill might stand, should we ever tame the flow.

I rode on, the canopy overhead alive with autumn fire. There were glades where sunlight struck freely, great circles of gold in which mushrooms grew thick, and stags had left their prints. One clearing I lingered in, imagining it as pasture, should we wish to drive cattle this far south. Yet I doubted the beasts would take kindly to the wolves whose distant howls carried on the air.

Beyond the glade rose a ridge. Briska bore me up the stony slope until the land opened wide below. From that vantage, I beheld the span of Calder’s former realm: forest in every quarter, rolling away like a dark sea, touched with red and gold. To the east, I spied a marshland, its waters glinting like tarnished mirrors. Fowl rose from it in sudden flight, their wings catching the sun like quick silver. Marsh meant reeds, and reeds meant craft—baskets, mats, and perhaps even arrows fletched with their down.

Descending again, I stumbled upon ruins: not Calder’s, but older by far. A scatter of moss-grown stones, half-swallowed by earth. Pillars broken at their middles, carved with sigils no mason now recalls. I reined Briska close and laid my hand upon the weathered surface. It thrummed faintly, though mayhap it was naught but my pulse. Still, I shivered. Another testament is that these woods once belonged to powers greater than the lords of flesh.

Further south, the trees thinned to a stand of towering beeches, their bark pale as bone. In their midst ran deer trails, well-trodden. I marked it as hunting ground, rich enough to feed us through two winters, and should need press. Yet I felt watched, as though the forest kept tally of every step, every breath.

By the time I turned Briska northward again, the sun had wheeled high, and shadows stretched long upon the leaf-strewn floor. I saw streams, glades, marshes, ruins, ridges, and games. Enough to call these woods ours—at least upon the map. Yet in truth, I felt more akin to guests than master. Mabel had won the deed, aye, but it is the forest itself that shall decide if the Faersons may endure here.

As we rode back, I resolved to tell her all when she returned. Of the water, the hunting, the ruin, and the weight that pressed upon me in those trees. And perhaps—if courage should not fail me—of the longing that burdens me most.

I hope their journey is going well.

The manor’s roofs rose at last above the fields, their slate dark against the sky. The air smelled of smoke and bread—Osgood’s doing, no doubt. I should have felt at ease crossing the familiar gate, yet a prickle stirred at the nape of my neck.

At the courtyard’s edge, waiting as though he had planted himself there by right, stood the priest of Olnfield. Priest Emerick—gray, old, yet sharp-eyed as a crow. His cassock was worn at the hem, his hands clasped about a walking staff that matched his humble cloth. He inclined his head only slightly when I drew rein.

“The young man who seeks history,” he greeted, voice thin but firm. “A good morning’s ride?”

I slid from Briska’s saddle, patting her neck to steady my own unease. “The new lands,” I answered. “I have surveyed them.”

“Ah.” His gaze lingered on me longer than courtesy allowed. Then his lips pressed into the shape of a smile, though without warmth. “And did your survey include anything ... borrowed?”

The words struck harder than I let show. My pulse quickened. Borrowed. He meant the book, of course—the tome now resting in my room where I had left it. Its absence from his shelves could not have gone unnoticed long.

I drew a long breath. “The book. The codex from the church’s library. I confess it was I who carried it away. I could not resist its call. Yet know this—I meant to return it. I swear it.”

The priest studied me in silence, the wind tugging at his gray hair. I braced for anger, censure, the weight of holy words. But none came. Instead, he stepped nearer, lowering his voice.

“And did you read it?” he asked.

I hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. I read of things now lost yet shaped the Elder Days. Some of their names haunt me still.”

A spark lit Priest Emerick’s eyes, one I had not seen when I first met him. It was hunger—not unlike my own, though cloaked in the robes of piety. “Good,” he said at last. “Then the book has not lain silent in vain. Few dare open its pages, and fewer still confess it. You did both.”

I blinked. “You are not angered?”

He smiled, faint but genuine. “Angered? No. Intrigued, rather. That book is no common relic. I suspect it found you as much as you found it. Return it, aye, when your heart is ready. Until then, let what you have read take root.”

His hand came to rest upon my shoulder, warm through the fabric of my cloak. “You are troubled, my young friend. By more than stolen tomes. Yet take comfort—knowledge itself is no sin. It is what we do with it that weighs upon the soul.”

He released me then, as though the matter were settled. My shame was not gone, but in its place stood a sharper curiosity. Why would a priest guard such a book, and yet be glad that I had read it?