Chapter 2: Anthem


The gentle river Ilara was used to had never been more rapid than what she now struggled against, her arms aching from their effort to keep her riverboat heading in one direction. Several times she thought it was going to overturn but a burst of adrenaline had given her enough strength to steer the boat off to the side of a curve where the jutting ground protected her momentarily from the raging current. She had spent an entire night struggling to keep her boat in one piece and going in one direction, and now the sun was rising as she came to a fork in the river. She found enough strength to slow her boat and examine which way to go. She knew the fastest way to the town was through the narrower way, where the waters would crash against her boat the whole way and possibly deny her any safe place to land and rest for the night. The wider opening looked calmer, but it gave her slight misgivings. She did not have any idea where that way would lead, but that actually added to her sudden desire to veer course and take the unknown way. Even if she hadn’t had the adventurous spirit she did, her exhaustion would probably have led her to the same conclusion. Seeing how alluring it would be to have a bit of rest and a more likely chance of finding a safe place to dock her boat, she made her choice and began the final battle against the current until she was calmly floating down her new course.

After an hour of smooth sailing, Ilara began to look for a place to stop and rest for the hot part of the day. The forest surrounding the river was thicker than she had thought it should be. She stopped several times to pick at the brush with her paddle to find a clearing but each time she was disappointed. She kept going further and further until the sun was in the middle of the sky and an ominous stillness made her uneasy once more. Before long the river’s strength was picking up. At this point Ilara was exhausted and her eyes were strained from a lack of sleep. She began getting clumsy in her fatigue, letting her boat hit types of debris she would have been more careful to avoid hours earlier. When she began to despair of finding a place to land, she thought of just tying her boat to a log or low-lying branch along the river to regain her strength. One such anchoring point came into her vision and she paddled toward it, all the while the river seemed to be flowing more and more strongly. About to grab hold of the tree branch, her hand slipped and her boat continued forward with the strengthening current. One horrifying glance up and something she had been too tired to realize set in: this river was quickly coming to a drop-off, and the sounds of falling water crashing against rocks of indeterminate distance below came thundering to her senses. "God of heaven"… her voice took off without her control and formed words she didn’t hear. "Deus, help me!" she muttered under her breath as she turned in her seat and began paddling fiercely against the current and off toward one bank. It was pointless, even with the adrenaline coursing through her and making her limbs useful and her mind quick, the current was too strong to fight. She turned back again as she saw the approach of the ledge and out of instinct grabbed hold of the sides of the boat and pushed her feet into the bottom, every muscle tensing as forcefully as the next.

Her eyes were wide and her heart was in her stomach as the boat reached the end and began tipping forward with the flow of falling water. Weightless, Ilara and everything she could claim as her own careened downward and time seemed to slow to a halt. An eerie calmness took her and she found herself looking around and catching sight of the beautiful scene before her: the immense waterfall and the peaceful lake it flowed into, the wild hills and trees around it, the water droplets as they passed before her eyes and the strands of dark hair that were flowing freely around her face. This is my end, she thought, and the way time slowed and varying memories pushed themselves to the front of her mind in stark clarity actually fooled her into believing it were so.

As alternately quick or sluggish as time seems to arbitrarily flow, the moment of stillness ceased and a powerful, chaotic disturbance sped things up before the darkness of unconsciousness.

Coughing, Ilara awoke and expelled the water in her lungs. Her head ached in tune with her body and a cold numbness made her teeth chatter. She made the rash decision to crawl toward the dry ground, as she was currently lying in the rocky shallows of the lake. As soon as she supported her weight on her left arm, she felt a surge of sharp pain in her wrist and collapsed back into he shallow water. Looking down she saw red clouds spreading in the water. She had bleeding cuts on every limb and her ribcage stung and throbbed.

"I’m alive," she whispered to herself and closed her eyes at the pain of sitting up. She frowned and wondered how it was possible, then inwardly shrugged and brushed it off as luck. No Supreme Being could care enough to save her meaningless life, so what else could it be?

She cast a brief thought to her outcry to Deus, the god her older siblings had raised her to believe in. It was done out of desperation, but she was almost ashamed she had let herself be weak enough to cry out. She needed to be sufficient for herself, and even if she couldn’t be, Deus would stay as distant as always and no hand of help or voice of loving-kindness would He reach out to her. It was better to be in control and leave the tough things up to luck; chances were better there than with a god she couldn’t trust.

These cynical thoughts passed and she struggled to her feet. Her legs had minimal damage, most of her pain coming from her left side along her ribs, shoulder and wrist. Coming up to the sandy shore, she surveyed her surroundings and spotted her pack, still tied securely and seeming to be intact along the waters edge fifteen feet in front of her. More luck. She turned and looked for her boat. Tattered chunks of carved wood were scattered on both shores and many fragments still floated out over the calm waters the waterfall poured into. One piece the size of her hand floated toward her and she bent on her knees to lift it up with her right hand, discovering even with cautious movements that pain was inescapable.

She took the remaining fragment of her home and took a slow seat in the tall grass surrounding the lake. She rubbed her thumb across the delicate iris carved into the stained wood that had once formed part of the riverboat’s sturdy wall. Anger and disappointment mingled across her brow and she tried not to cry, looking through blurry eyes at the other massacred shreds of Daelia’s former masterpiece strewn about the lake. She lay down in exhaustion and anger and closed her eyes.

Unconsciousness took her again. She slept through the afternoon and into the evening. When she awoke, she was assaulted with the realization of her circumstance and the throbbing and stinging of every part of her body. Her eyesight was blurry and she felt dizzy; she had a goose-egg on the back of her head to account for it. She had a scrape over her left brow and bringing her hand over her face, she discovered it caked with dried blood and stinging at the touch.

Several moments of fuming and groaning and a fight with her will brought her to her feet to retrieve her pack. Everything was in order, though a little wet. This made her spiteful at her own pack, if such a thing were possible. She shoved it about and treated it like refuse in light of the loss of what was dearer to her. What is the retaining of amenities compared with the loss of a comforting, priceless memento as her boat had been? She had her quiver of arrows and her bow within the large pack, and for these she was grateful, but it gave little comfort in light of her loss.
She fished through the pack and retrieved an ointment Sam had given her. With this she treated her wounds and bound them in torn cloth. Finding that her wounds were mostly superficial and only her left upper body was much affected, She made a sling for her left arm and adjusted it for comfort. She easily took to favoring her right as she tested her abilities by gathering her things back into her pack. Carefully, she strapped her bow and quiver to her back, a more deliberate motion now that she was being careful with her left side.

When she was finished, she closed her eyes and tried to evaluate her condition. She felt pain, but nothing she could not bear. She knew she had damaged her head, but the dizziness had worn off and she was too upset to just sit still, even if she had still been dizzy. She decided to move on.
Before she turned to make her way through this foreign wood, she carefully crouched and took hold of the stray remain of the boat she had found earlier. She looked again over the lake that now sparkled in the moonlight and up at the waterfall she knew not how she survived, and placed the piece of wood in her pack. She could not leave every shred of Daelia’s gift to the decay of the elements. She would not let every piece of her former life be taken from her.

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After a full night of hiking over the forested hills her misadventure had destined her to traverse, Ilara found a clearing in between two small hills and deemed it as good a place as any to make camp. The sun was rising, her usual cue to get some rest when it wasn’t possible for her to take pleasure in the sunrise. She settled down under a pine and was asleep before the sky had lost its morning blush.

She had been asleep through the early morning when the sound of feet through tall grass awoke her. She opened one eye slowly and remained still, her nose telling her there was a beast in her camp.

All she could see were gigantic, black wings, spread open to a width as long as most trees are tall. She slowly and quietly sat up, reaching for her knife, knowing her injuries would not allow her to use her bow. What in the world? –she could not decide what kind of creature it was that had invaded her camp. It’s wings spread out a bit further, as if stretching, and then swiftly folded together over the back of a catlike beast. It’s back was to her, displaying its long, swaying tail, strong back legs adorned with fierce ebony claws, and the back of it’s head, which was covered with a thick black mane of the same tone and shine as its wings and fur—it was a male. It was some kind of winged lion; the likes of which Ilara had never seen or heard of. It walked slowly to her pack, a fair distance from her place beneath the pine branches, and nudged it with its nose. A soft, rumbling growl escaped its throat. It hadn’t noticed her—yet.

Ilara remained frozen, knowing not how to react to the creature. She was in no state to attempt to subdue it, like she would have been apt to do had this beast happened upon her a few days ago, but now she berated herself for her lack of readiness. Why didn’t I just take the set course? She asked herself, wishing now more than ever she hadn’t sought the unknown. If she had known the river path she had taken would lead to the loss of her boat and the loss of her ability to defend herself, she would have taken the rougher, surer course without a second thought. Still, she was where she was now and there was nothing to reverse it; she would meet with her fate whatever it may be, and she might as well meet it bravely.

She held her knife in the preparatory throwing stance, keeping her aim decidedly on the side of the beast’s chest, hoping it would just leave so she could avoid the need to fight such a majestic creature.

Perhaps it was the racket of her harsh breathing or the pounding of her heart that gave her away; the beast turned its head and looked directly into the eyes of the poised Ilara. It leapt in one bound to stand in front of the pine and stare down at her, its head just under the lowest boughs, and its wings held steadily spread to the fullest of their span. Spreading its teeth and growling what seemed to say, "Foolish creature, you’re now my prey," the lion crouched lower and moved slowly closer to her, it’s golden eyes intent on her own.

Moving would have done little good, and since her body set itself like stone in its place, she didn’t fight with it to gain a useless flight. The beast edged closer, its eyes glaring at her as emotive as that of a human—displaying an angry thirst for violence. It would have been easy, at this point and with her skill, to launch the knife the small distance and hit the beast between the eyes, but the thought—in the infinite span of a moment that can produce such complex movements of the mind—was somehow repugnant to her. What else could she do? On impulse, Ilara dropped the knife, closed her eyes, and did the first thing that came to mind—she sang.
The words and melody of her song were as foreign to her as they were to the lion-beast. She did not know she knew the song until it poured forth from her lips; an old melody her mother sang to her as a very young girl. It was a lullaby that bespoke the turn of the seasons and the ever-steady sun shining over it all. Tears came to her closed eyes as she sang, not knowing how she would live through this; not knowing if it mattered.

A moment for no more than a line of verse passed and nothing had happened. She sang on with unsteady voice. Two lines. Three. A stanza. Words came from nowhere. Her song was soon ended and she opened her gray-hazel eyes to see the beast standing calmly before her, his stance passive, head tilted to one side, and golden eyes set on her face. Shocked, Ilara stared. He sat down, much like a dog, holding her eyes captive with his own. He tilted his head the other way as if to request her to continue. What else could she do? She opened her lips again, a bit more calmly now, and began a song of which she had recollected as she had sung the one before it. It was an anthem of the deeds of Deus. How ironic, that worship should pour forth from her lips—steadier now than before—to a god she saw as distant, for a beast she thought untamable, and that it should be the very thing to save her life.

When her song was ended, the lion-beast got up and approached her. He sniffed her face and tunic and licked her cheek; the rough buds scratched in a way reminiscent of kisses from her father’s beard-covered face as a young girl. Feeling relieved as well as triumphant—lucky, again—she placed a hand to the lion’s thick mane and it was silky and warm. He rubbed his head against her arm and walked slowly out from under the tree and sat down in the middle her camp, yawned, folded his massive wings over his back, and laid himself down in passive observation. She stood up and walked over to him, marveling not only at the intense beauty of the strange creature with fur of obsidian and eyes that stared at her with the brilliance of sunbeams, but also at the absurdity of her safety.

Before she could discern what next to do, a shadow fell across the campsite. Dark clouds moving in so quickly? A glance up proved otherwise; two winged lions descended quickly, their combined shadows separating over the grassy clearing as they landed before her. With first observation, Ilara saw they were of the same species as the one who preceded them, but the arrivals were female—and as aggressive as the first had been prior to her songs. One was a red-brown from tail to wing, the other a less unusual tan, and both nearly as large as the male.

As the new arrivals took the expected course—stalking slowly forward with teeth spread and intent clearly to make the human their prey—the song-soothed male placed his body in front of Ilara’s. His wings spread to cover her so that she could see nothing beyond them. It was not long before the others attacked his protective stance and he took them on in defense as Ilara fell back to watch. Of everything she had yet experienced, this was perhaps the most surreal.

Her eyes followed the fierce struggle that ensued between her ally and the intruders; it was obvious that though the fight was unevenly matched, the male had the advantage. It was not long before the dull-tan colored lion was subdued and sent flying away unsteadily, it’s face wounded and bleeding and its left paw held awkwardly up from a debilitating bite. The red-brown was more determined it seemed. Ilara began to fear for her male when the female struck him a vicious blow to his side and blood from the wound shined as the sunlight hit his dark fur. Still, her hero fought on. Finally, feeling both relief and repulsion, Ilara watched as her ally held the female down with his teeth in her jugular until she ceased the struggle and lay dead. The victor released the fallen beast and let out a roar of triumph that made Ilara shudder.

Questioning herself only briefly, Ilara approached her protector and stood beside him looking down at the defeated. It was a pity such a creature had to die. Now Ilara’s attention returned to the mercurial beast at her side. His wound catching up to him, the beast collapsed at her feet and his eyes shut. She quickly took to tending the wounds with the supplies Sam had given her—she sewed the wounds shut with a needle and thread when they had been well cleaned and the last of her ointment at been applied. The beast just lay there as she worked, occasionally opening his bright eyes only halfway—a signal Ilara quickly realized was a request for a song. In the act of singing to the beast and wiping away the last of the blood on his fur, Ilara began to see that he and she were now irrevocably connected. He had shown her mercy and protected her in the span of a few minutes, and she had tended his wounds and soothed him to sleep in return.

Drowsy from the exertions of the past hour, having been awakened from equally as wearying occurrences from the day before, Ilara lay over the beast and he protectively covered her with one wing. Before she fell to a heavy sleep, she grasped a clump of thick hair from his mane and whispered, "Thank you, my beast. Anthem; I’ll call you Anthem."

Chapter One: Wood

The wind was picking up again. Ilara hated that. Of any time for the wind to bully the world with its strength, why must it always be when she was at the top of a tree? Eastward leaning, the pine bough that had been of ample strength to hold her lean frame a few moments before was now swaying violently in the gusts that came before a storm, prompting her to slide down a branch or two for stronger bearing. This necessary move was always an annoyance, for it detracted from the allure of her stance. There is always a modicum of novelty detracted when one has to settle for the second or third bough from top, rather than the actual top. Of course she knew the reason the wind always seemed to get so strong when she ascended to her favorite terrestrial position; when Ilara climbed, it was always to watch an interesting sky. There were the usual attractions—beauty, like dawn and dusk and wisps of irregular cloud formations. But usually, like a bleeding sunrise mingled with roiling thunderheads over a distance, views most glorious produced an accompanying wind of some strength. This particular blast was a result of the storm she was studying with keen interest, rapidly approaching the slope of the mountain her current pine grew upon. For now she clung to the thin upward stretching limbs of the pine’s peak and awaited the onslaught, mindless of the pine needles scratching her limbs and the sap and bits of shedding bark sticking to her hands and hair. She was intent on the black and flashing glory of the furor to come.

She certainly wouldn’t stay up there through the storm. When the wind died deceptively down, the sky grew ominously dark and hued green, and lightening became close enough to allow thunder an immediate retort, she would slip down to the bottom like a falling cone, to land gracefully on the soft soles of her leather boots.

Only a few moments passed before the signs were clear that it was time to descend. Once back on solid ground, Ilara prepared to delight in an activity her siblings used to say suited her moodiness and esoteric personality. She liked to walk around the forest floor during a storm, allowing the falling sky to saturate her. Even the lightening and its accompanying booms did not deter her from the practice. She would often wander during the most impassioned parts of the storm, when the sheets of water came so continuously down that it seemed each drop was connected to the one before and after it.

When she found a place, between the stretching branches of two adjacent pines, Ilara closed her eyes and waited for the wind to pick back up and the rain to crash against her shoulders and head and stream down into her boots. It did not take long for what she anticipated to arrive. She stood there for a few moments, feeling each drop and beginning the tensing effort not to shiver. When she was thoroughly soaked, her jaw clenched tight, she opened her eyes and began to make her way to the river. She wanted to laugh and cry but for now she knew she had to put off the strengthened feeling of the moment; she had just had the impulse to attempt something she’d never done, and if anyone knew Ilara, they knew she was impulsive.

Rushing and dancing in its cleansing flow, the Caerith River came into sight. This was the place she sought. Slowing when she reached the riverbed and crouching down, Ilara stilled herself like an ancient stone, as if she belonged there and there she would remain until the rending of the earth. Anticipation and excitement caused her heart the boost her body required to keep warm. Blood rushed through her veins and the effort to keep still was unhindered by any need to shiver.

She waited. Her eyes were held on a single rock jutting from the undulating waters. The rain kept on and the winds grew stronger. The crashing of thunder became louder, closer. Ilara kept still, her eyes intent on the jagged rock in the river.

She had been there for as long as the storm had raged—at least an hour’s passing—when a blinding flash of light struck her peripheral vision. A tree some distance away burst out into a sizzling explosion of light and heat and the most terrifying sound Ilara had ever heard—a growling, hissing, fleeting sound of agony. Poised and dangerously used to the sudden outbursts of a storm, her eyes alone lifted and she watched motionless as elder oak’s life slipped out of him with sparks and smoke. His limbs and trunk had been hewn down the center to reveal what youthful flesh might have sustained him countless years to come. She was nearly distracted as she saw the scorched wood doused with the continuing rainfall, but her will and purpose was resolute and her eyes found their former focal point in the swelling river.

When at last the storm seemed spent, Ilara nearly gave up hope of finding what she sought. Exhaustion and hunger nearly pulled her to her feet to return to camp for rest and supper, but what remained of her dwindling hope and conviction kept her still. When it seemed like this would result in merely disappointment, there came a sudden movement under the surface of the river, beneath the skewed reflection of the sky overhead and the intermittent ripples caused by the last remaining raindrops. A vibrant blue coil was there and then gone in so little time it could not have been known if it had ever existed. Ilara remained poised. Out of the corner of her eye came the shocking realization that a shimmering blue creature was climbing up the bank and then moving smoothly over the wet surface of the forest floor. She dare not move, but a slow turn of her head was more movement than she could contain. She stared as the shimmering scaled creature crawled on its four short legs over and through the little puddles of varying depth filling every depression in the ground. It stopped when it was facing the oak still mourning the flaming destiny its height had made inevitable.

I knew it! They exist. Ilara thought as she elatedly observed. The river dragon was smaller than she had expected, but moved as gracefully as she had imagined. It was the length of a small serpent and its body was as thick as Ilara’s arm, with sharp blue spines running down the length of its horizontally coiling torso. As the sun began to reemerge from the clouds, it’s rays caused the river dragon’s scales to shimmer in hues of varying color, all complimenting the stark blue.

As Ilara watched, the river dragon had yet to notice her as anything more than a rock or some other benign fixture of nature. Its slithering gait led it to the very foot of the stricken oak, where steam still rose in the mists that lingered after the storm was spent. To Ilara’s fascination, the dragon began climbing the hot, torn trunk and climbed down into the rent wood until it was obscured from her sight. She took this as her chance and moved fluidly to a nearby tree and ascended to a low bough with a swift leap. There she perched, looking down into the oak’s corpse and watching as the blue reptile devoured the glowing ashes of the tree’s very heart.

The ethereal creature was eating the steaming wood splinters by ripping the soft innards off with its sharp jaws and swallowing them whole. Steam and smoke lifted out of its nostrils as it ate in ravenous ferocity. By the time it seemed to have finished its feast on the still warm body of the unlucky oak, the dragon began discharging bursts of bright flame from betwixt its white teeth. Its energy seemed renewed and it crawled out of the oak’s trunk and slithered animatedly right back into the river, where it disappeared beneath the flowing waters.

Ilara got down and walked, still dripping, to the river’s edge and stared down into the depths where the creature she had just seen became as invisible as nonexistence. She felt a strange thankfulness wash over her as she realized her endeavor to see a river dragon would have been fruitless had she not been present for the lightning strike of the oak, undoubtedly what drew the dragon from its watery lair. She laughed at her luck, for that is what she assumed it was.
Next time she would use mostly-consumed firewood, still hot, to lure one to the surface. It would be a great improvement to just waiting for it to rain. She had assumed from legends that rain was what drew the beasts out of the rivers, but now she suspected the truth was that these beasts required burnt or heated wood to create their own flames. She wondered what purpose they possibly had for flame underwater. She laughed. Her love of adventure and mystery had had its fill for today and she felt satisfied, but she would continue pursuing this new beast. Surely she could get a reward for such a catch in a town, if only she could find some sort of apparatus to contain a wood-eating, fire-breathing monster, even if said monster was only as large as her own arm. She’d have to find a town nearby and make some inquiries and discover if anyone would be able to pay for such a rarity—that is, such an impossibility. She wondered if anyone would even believe her. But if they did, perhaps whoever could pay for such a catch could also provide the fee to a smith for making a metal basket-weave cage of some kind. Still, this would mean she would have to leave the forest, a place of solace and solitude she hoped she wouldn’t have to leave before the onset of winter. A sigh escaped her and she admitted to herself that she could not stay here forever.

And so she headed back along the riverbed, down the mountain, to the place she had made camp at the joining of the Caerith River and the River Theine, which had brought her this far. Despite the sobering realities of her situation, she still wore the smile that the afternoon’s pleasures had brought her, the smile which obliterated, momentarily, the pangs of longing she had for her siblings all that day and the two months she’d been gone.

But now, back at camp, the glory and ecstasy of that day’s discovery took a blow. It was agony seeing once more her overturned riverboat on the shore. She could not be near reminders of her memories without succumbing to an adhesive gloom, which stuck to her and followed her everywhere until some blissful distraction made rid of it.

Despite the acceleration of gloom she knew it would cause her, she went to the boat and began to trace the intricate etchings along its sides. She slipped under it and lay on her back, looking up pensively at the carved flowers and scenes Daelia had spent so much time and dedication carving into the seats and walls of the sturdy boat. Ilara’s fingers found their way over the patterns they knew by heart and she expelled a heavy sigh, her emotions having been too greatly varied and extreme lately to have much left to express. She wondered what Daelia was doing right now; where she possibly could be; if she was all right. She wondered similar questions for all her siblings as she lay there and freely partook of the moody gloom she was so prone to.

Having no strength to continue focusing on the reminder of her sister, Ilara slid halfway out from under the boat and looked at the clear, dimming sky of evening. She half fancied she saw one of Wren’s falcons flying overhead, but it was nothing more than a common hawk.

She had lost her appetite and will to move. Her eyes shed their nightly tears, grown less and less impassioned since that first night. For hours she lay there motionless, letting the deep of night set in around her. Eventually she slid back under the boat and reached up for the blanket she kept there and wrapped it around her for comfort and to still the shivering that had set in again. It was here that she usually slept—a practice of mingled comfort and torment. She felt close to her family under this last piece of home, but the unavoidable recognition of the emptiness she felt in their loss consumed her thoughts and made sleep a difficult thing to attain. But on this night sleep came quickly, for she wanted nothing more of the waking world.

It had been this way since her journey began; sleep came at such random hours that she never truly knew time save for when she saw the movement of heavenly bodies. She usually awoke late in the day, having had no luck with sleep for many dark hours. This became such strong habit that unless she was especially depressed and went to sleep early, she would spend most of her waking hours in the darkness of night. Late afternoon became the time she awoke each day, bathed in the river, and ate her breakfast. The rest of her day was soon the evening and night, where she roamed and hunted and climbed trees to watch the moonset and the sunrise and the cycle continued. Often she would explore a segment of land around the river for a few days and then pick up and journey further south. She didn’t know what she was seeking down the Caerith River, she only knew she was living. Just living.

In the two months she had been gone she had reached a mountain called Mt. Wedra, upon which a mainly coniferous forest clung to the steep slopes as far up as a waterfall that poured down to supply the Caerith for another hundred miles. It was in this forest she had seen the dragon and had learned the reason this forest had been called Dragonwood Forest for centuries.

On the morning after she had seen the river dragon, she gathered her things into her boat and set off for a town she knew of only as a spot on a map—a map which she hadn’t seen since the day before she left her home. Of course, it might not even be where she thought it was, twenty miles further down the river, but she had nothing to lose and so she set off with little anxiety. Had she known how far from predictable her journey was about to become, she might have chosen to change her course.

Prologue

It was evening. The sun was beginning to sink behind the trees of Braedoch Forest, throwing its leafy depths into shadow. It was early spring and the forest was still newborn; winter's chill could yet be felt in the air at night.

On the eastern edge of the forest, the eight children of Isaak Romany were gathering together. Their home was a small house of stone, composed of three circular chambers. In the central chamber a fire burned slowly, varying light dancing on the face of a tall man in a dark cloak. He waited for the eight to gather. His face seemed set in granite, as always; no hint of emotion, no whisper of affection for the children he had raised. He, Maeron Duard, was their guardian, nothing more. They did not care for him either. Though they had grown up in the house, they often chose to stay apart from it: they wandered the forest, worked in the woodshop, climbed the small mountains that overlooked their home in the north. They were not like others. Their life had been one of isolation. They knew weaponry and woodcraft, but little of humanity. They cared for each other and yet spent much of their time in solitude.

Their guardian was afraid of them. Once the clan of Romany had been strong and numerous. Duard's ancestors, druids and powerful, vengeful men, had cursed the clan nearly a century ago. In the succeeding generations, hardship, famine, and war had plagued them--helped along by the druids. At last only Isaak Romany and his wife were left. They took their children to Braedoch and tried to live with them there. But Isaak was a powerful man of great personal force, and the few remaining druids feared that he would father a new beginning for the clan. They sent Duard to kill him. And he did. He killed Isaak and his wife, but could see nothing to fear in the children... behind his face of stone there was perhaps a heart, for he kept them alive, and raised them. But he feared them now. Alone, he thought, they could be no threat. But as long as they stayed together, the clan Romany might again arise.

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"What would I do without Sam?" Ilara asked herself as she patted the herbal mixture into a fresh gash on her hand. It was a natural healing agent her younger brother had concocted for her recently—he knew how often she hurt herself. She grimaced as the ground herbs tingled in the wound; a slip of her knife in mid-throw had caused the mishap. She finished binding it with cloth and tying it off when she noticed the long shadows the trees cast on the ground in front of her. She sighed; it was time she headed back to the house. Maeron Duard had called for a meeting tonight. This did not bode well, but Ilara knew she couldn't avoid what this meeting would bring about.

She walked slowly down the path from the river, going past the woodshop on her way to the front entrance of the house. Daelia had been working in the shop, Ilara realized remembering that her sister had gone in at the same time she had gone down to the river. She hadn't seen Daelia leave; she must still be inside, engrossed in her art. Ilara's anxiety about the meeting was slightly abated with fond amusement at her closest sister's absorption in one of her many talents. Then again, perhaps Daelia was distracting herself, as disquieted by this strange appointment as she herself was.

She opened the door and smiled nervously at her sister. "I thought you may have been absorbed in your work; don't forget the meeting tonight." The look on Daelia's face made clear she had pushed the thoughts of this meeting out of her mind; intentionally or not, Ilara couldn't tell. She left her to put away her things and made way for the house, each step through half-melted snow an endeavor of will.

Opening the door to the main room, Ilara walked cautiously in. The only sibling between herself and Daelia in age, Arnan, was already present, and the only sibling yet to enter. His back was to the wall, face obscured by shadow. He seemed to avoid her gaze, but that was nothing unusual. Ilara loved all her siblings, but Arnan had never been one she understood, even for their closeness in age.

She turned her head slightly and was startled by the stony figure of Duard, standing like brimstone before the flickering fire. His emotionless face had always disturbed her, an effect strengthened by the anticipation of what this meeting was about. Perturbed by her own weak reaction to Duard's presence, Ilara backed away from him and to the left of the fireplace. He wouldn't be likely to give her one of his cold looks from where she had placed herself.

Her heart calmed as she saw Sam enter. Seeing the look of apprehension he wore on his face, Ilara pointed to her bandaged hand and smiled a silent "thank you." He seemed to distractedly acknowledge her thanks, his face unchanged. She became restless again until she saw her beloved Daelia, who came directly to her side and took her arm comfortingly as they awaited the others. Taerith, Aiden, Wren, Aquila, and finally Zoe had entered each to their own place in the room. Ilara would remember little of the silent communications of that evening, where her siblings stood, how they reacted when Duard had finally spoken the words none of them would forget.

"Braedoch is no longer home to you," Duard had broken the chilly silence, "nor are you any longer a family. You will each depart alone." Ilara's arm tightened around Daelia's, hoping this was a test or a cruel ruse, but knowing Duard was always serious when he made commands.

"You will have nothing more to do with each other from this day forward. You are not to communicate, and absolutely not to see each other. If you do, terrible consequences will follow—I am warning you now." Ilara's face burned with anger and pain as hot tears made their way down her cheeks. She glanced around and noted the dismay or cold numbness on the visages of the other eight. "No, no, this is not right! This cannot be happening," their faces said silently in tune with the cry of Ilara's heart.

"Make whatever preparations are necessary. You leave in three days," he added with harsh finality. Three days—the number lost meaning in weight with the certainty of separation. Ilara's thoughts became jumbled, her heart rushing to her ears.

"You are banishing us?" Taerith asked, standing closer to Duard than Ilara thought any of her siblings would have dared. His stance was fearless, but there was caution in his voice. Aiden stood beside him, the eldest. He looked too bewildered to second his brother's daring challenge.

"Do you question me?" Duard's stone words demanded submission.

Ilara watched the courage on Taerith's face drain away to nothing but a dim spark. It was not enough. "No," he softly replied.

No, Ilara's mind echoed. If we had freedom to question you, we would have freedom to defy you also.

Three days were clung to like the hope for eternity and passed like the fading light of dusk. Ilara had left hours before dawn on the third day. She would not have been able to bear seeing her siblings go, and night travel had always suited her. Her riverboat ready and packed with the basics she would need, Ilara looked one last time through the trees to the tiny, moonlit silhouette of her childhood home, a distance away from the river bed where she would begin her journey. Tears came unwillingly as she got in and began to paddle downstream. "This is not over," she vowed.

Meet Ilara Romany

Set directly in the middle of her eight siblings, Ilara has twenty-one years behind her when her life undergoes the biggest upheaval she has known since the death of her parents. Secluded for so long in the depths of Braedoch Forest, the thought of separating from her eight siblings, the only people on earth whom she can love and trust, terrifies her. She is proud and relies on none but herself, for to her, strangers are not to be trusted.

Ilara's abhorrence of anything deceitful has made her direct and honest. Blunt, even. Sensitive to the core, she wears her heart on her sleeve but backs off when it gets hurt- an occurrence too common for her to seek new friends.

A beautiful girl who doesn't know it herself, Ilara has long wavy hair as black as ebony that shimmers a fiery red by sunlight. Her eyes are the common hazel-gray of her family, her skin pale from her tendency to travel by night and hide in the covering of the forest rather than come across a stranger in the light of day.

Sharing a common trait with most of her siblings, Ilara has become comfortable in solitude and tends toward introversion. She has spent countless solitary hours honing her skills at archery, knife-throwing, hunting, and fishing. Having mastered the arts of survival, she does not fear the wilds she must tame to find her place in the world; what she fears most are the people who will cross her path. When it comes to beasts, she knows she can master them. When it comes to humans, she'd rather run away.


About Me

My name is Elizabeth Russell, but please, call me Libby. I'm a homeschool graduate of a few years, on the verge of adulthood while clinging desperately to the qualities of childhood I hope never to lose. Like imagination and the wonder of God's creation. I am a nanny and a PCA, a sister to three wonderful siblings, and an amateur foosball master. ;-) I love Jesus with all of my heart, and I love singing to him in the shower or on walks in the park. I'm a goofball through and through, but I can't repeat a joke to save my life.

I'm definitely not a seasoned professional when it comes to writing. I started just last year with my first novel, still in the works, Clarabelle (you can find it serialized here: xanga.com/All_the_while_immersed.) The occasional short story or poem comes out of the woodwork, but my true literary love is the fairytale, which is why my first novel is a retelling of Grimms' Snow White. Fantasy and chaste romance are integral traits of the fairytale, which is why writing a fantasy series with the girls from the Wayside Inn Writers Society was an opportunity I couldn't pass up.

Before writing took its grip on my interests, I was always interested in visual art. I've been drawing since I was able to hold a crayon. I hope to eventually hone my skills at drawing, learn some skills at painting, and combine them with my small skill at writing and become a children's book author and illustrator. My life is an open canvas.