Kiersten's Arc

Chapter 22 of 33

Kiersten woke on the boards at dusk. The dream-door was shut. The waking road was open. She had two nights before her teachers arrived at the wood behind the porch, and the hunter was walking that same road now. She went to the front window and looked past the cracked glass. The sagging roof cast a long shadow over the broken steps. Nothing moved in the tree line. Then she heard it, faint from the direction of the village. A dog barking twice, then a voice she did not know, then another voice answering. Someone asking. Someone answering. The scout was in the village. Villagers were talking about him. One wrong word and he would walk straight up the path to this porch. She sat on the boards and reached for Witness. "I need them," she said. "Now." Witness pulsed under her collarbone. The room thinned. She was still on the boards and also somewhere else, a gray space the four of them had used before. Quantum arrived first, calm behind his round glasses. Mother Angel's wings folded as she stepped in. Ananda Luminae came last, purple sash swinging. "He is in the village," Kiersten said. "Someone will tell him about the pressed roses. Someone saw them." Quantum's voice was low. "Then we cut the story before it reaches him." "Ooh, a rumor problem," Ananda said. "Crystals can't fix that. People can." Mother Angel touched Kiersten's wrist. "Foodie Gwen keeps the feast hall. Every mouth in the village passes through her door. If she plants a different story tonight, his will not take root." "What story?" Kiersten asked. "A traveler who left three days ago," Quantum said. "Headed south along the stream. Tall. Quiet. Stayed one night. Gone before the scout arrived. Give them someone to point to that is not you." "He will still come this way," Kiersten said. "He will come slower," Mother Angel said. "He will ride south first. That is the gift." Kiersten nodded. "Do it. Please." Ananda winked. "Consider us the town gossips." The gray space closed. Kiersten was on the boards again. She did not sleep. She sat by the window and watched the tree line and counted three, six, nine until her hands stopped shaking. Once, near midnight, she heard boots on the path below the house. The boots stopped. A man's voice muttered a word she could not catch. Then the boots turned and went back the way they came. At first light she looked out. No one was on the path. A single pressed rose lay on the top step, dry and brown, placed there by no hand she knew. He had come close enough to leave a mark. The teachers had turned him. He had not found the door. She pulled the rose inside and shut it in her palm. One night bought. One night left. And now he knew a house existed at the end of this path, even if he did not yet know who was in it.