Cherriese's Arc

Chapter 9 of 13

Cherriese reached the arch before the first guardian came through. She counted as they stepped under the stone. Two children with a guardian carrying a third on his back. Then a woman limping on a bound foot, held up by another guardian. Then a man with his arm tied across his chest. Then the last guardian alone, walking backward, watching the path. Five exiles. Two short. She had promised seven names to the valley, and the valley stood at the lodge door counting with her. She did not let the count show on her face. She stepped into the arch and raised both hands. "Inside," she said. "All of you. Now." She pointed past the pillar to the flat ground near the inner spring, where she had cleared a circle that morning for whatever came back. "Set them there. Water first. Talk after." The guardians obeyed. The valley people watched. She felt the question behind their eyes and did not answer it. She walked to the supply lodge and pulled out the bundled poles and folded cloth she had cut and sewn over the past three nights. She raised a tent on the cleared ground in under a quarter hour. The cloth glowed soft from the inside where she had stitched moss into the seams. She set the shelves against the back wall and laid out the jars, the bandages, the folded towels. "This is the healing tent," she said to the valley. "Every fairy who walks through the arch comes here first. Wounded or whole. No questions at the door. That is the rule." She took the second wand from her belt. The crystal staff was pale and clear, threaded with blue veins that brightened when her hand closed on the grip. She knelt by the child the guardian had carried. She set the point above his bound ankle and drew a slow line. The skin closed under the light. The child breathed out and slept. She moved to the woman next, then the man, then the other two. The wand grew warm but did not dim. When she finished, every wound in the circle was clean. She stood and walked to the edge of the cleared ground and drove a wooden stake into the soil. She spoke the naming words her mother had taught her. A carved figure pushed up from the earth, a woman of pale wood with one hand held open, metal vines curling up her arms. "This marks the place," Cherriese said. "Anyone who arrives stops here." Then she turned to the valley and spoke the count plain. "Five came in. Two did not. We do not know yet which two, or why. Tonight we feed the five. Tomorrow we send out again." No one spoke against her. The valley moved to the fire. She stayed by the carved figure and watched the arch until the light failed.