Rebecka Evertrue's Arc

Chapter 3 of 66

By dawn Rebecka reached the edge of her old maps. The trail she knew ended at a split creek. Past that, the land climbed into three passes she had never crossed. One was right. Two were wrong. A wrong pass meant a day lost circling back, and she did not have a day. She dismounted and crouched by the creek. She pulled her folded map out and laid a stone on each corner. The ink stopped where the creek forked. Beyond it, the paper was blank. Her brother had meant to walk this country with her the summer he turned eighteen. He never got the chance. The bow warmed against her back. Not the killing heat. A softer pulse, the reading tone. Something living, close, watching. She stood slow and turned. A small round door had opened in the side of a mossy mound she had taken for a boulder. Above it, glowing mushroom caps she had missed in the dark. Lanterns strung on vines. A whole cluster of stalk-houses tucked into the hillside, breathing light. A fae village. Her mother had told her these people traded in true directions, if you had something they wanted. A small figure stepped out onto a bridge of woven root. She was no taller than Rebecka's hip, dressed in petal cloth, and she did not smile. "You are off your map, hunter," the fae said. "And in a hurry." "North pass," Rebecka said. "Which of the three carries a horse through in a day." "The middle. The left drops you in a bog. The right ends at a slide." The fae tilted her head. "That answer has a price." Rebecka's hand went to her belt. Coin. A knife. She had little to spare and no time to haggle. "Name it." "The rug under your saddle." Rebecka blinked. The woven cloth had been her daughter's gift, pressed into her hands the night she left. Star patterns. Long tassels. Ninka had said it would keep the cold off her at night. "It is my daughter's," Rebecka said. "Then she chose well. It is a made thing, full of her wanting you home. We can use that." The fae waited. "The middle pass, hunter. Or guess." Rebecka thought of Marcus at the homestead, potions on his belt, wards drawn thin. She thought of a curse he had sworn never to cast and might cast anyway if she was late. She untied the rug and folded it and laid it on the bridge. "Middle pass," the fae said. "Ride the ridge on the south side. Do not cross the stream until you see a white stone." Rebecka mounted and rode. By afternoon she was on the ridge, above a bog on her left and a slide on her right, moving fast on ground she had never seen. She had bought the day. She had spent her daughter's gift to do it, and the cache was still one hard push ahead.