Chapter 1:
Convergence
The rustle of wings and the harsh, alien caw of an unseen bird had drawn him into the ancient Snow Forest. Its shadow led him through the green of the outer forest – the maples a riot of colour against the green stalwart pines, their leaves turning red then yellow as winter marched toward the mountains. The bird’s call had continued as the mountain trees thinned before the giant black pillars marking the edge of the inner forest. Its caw caw caw had rung off the slabs of granite, tall as two men and twice as thick, untouched by either the bleak mountain winters or time, marked only by the spells carved into their glossy surfaces.
He had hesitated before he crossed that threshold. Stood with his hands clasped tight within the billowing sleeves of his dark-blue outer robe while the sharp sting of fate tip-toed up his spine. Then the bird had cawed once more and some shadow had moved in the snow-covered forest, a flutter of wings within bare, twisted branches. That tug, the sharp sting of fate, had moved him forward.
There had been no gradual change from the delicate touch of natural winter to the glacial white of the land beyond the pillars. There was the green meadow and then there was snow, divided as if a sword had fallen from the heavens and driven the two forests apart. And where, in the outer forest, the rich scent of earth and loam rose with every footfall, and the sweet trill of larks graced the ear, here only the soft shush of his robes and the beckoning caw accompanied his feet.
He walked until the bright green and autumn colours of the outer forest were far behind, until the cold had crept through the seams of his boots and frost clung to the dark hem of his robe. He walked until the bare, ancient branches of the forest were a cage above and the breeze was thick with the sighs of long-dead souls. He walked, led by the shadow of the unseen bird, its harsh cry ringing like the clash of swords and the screams of men. He walked until he came upon a clearing, the branches above giving way to a small circle of open sky, the sun harsh, the air cold enough to frost his breath.
In that clearing, a woman lay in a puddle of white, her robes and skin a few shades darker than the snow. Foreign not just to the forest but the realm, her face a study in stark, square lines and the heavy folds of her clothes unlike any he had seen – the fabric plain and unadorned, bound at the waist by a delicate cord of silver. Nevertheless, the snow cradled her, the soft drift a pillow on which she slept, her dark lashes resting on bloodless cheeks, her hair a shadow against the brightness.
If not for that dark-walnut spill, he would not have seen her, so well did she blend into the snow-shrouded forest. The relentless sun and harsh moon had long since bleached the ancient trees, leaving the trunks a million shades of grey and white. No blooms softened the stark grey-white with a soft blush of pink, no leaves graced the delicate branches or sighed in the icy wind. No birds sang, no rabbits foraged, no wolves stalked. No life trod here, not since the war a millennia ago.
Not even the unseen bird with its eerie cry.
Nothing save the woman, her chest rising and falling in slow, gentle movements, sleeping where she did not belong.
The forest was a place… not of death, because if one unsheathed their eyes and looked below the surface, they could see life pulse deep in its heart. Slow, languid, as close to death as sleep could take it but still there, still… waiting.
He looked at the way the woman nestled into the land.
Waiting and perhaps finding.
The thought chilled his blood.
He stopped, the hem of his silk robes flirting with the white, woollen spill of hers, and he looked. Looked through the veil of sleep and cold, let his eyes sink through fabric and skin and bone, all the way down to the soul.
Power pulsed around the woman, as slow and languid as the Snow Forest itself… but different. Hot where the trees where cold, rich with death and blood, the gory scent of a battlefield where the forest air was crisp and cutting, smelling of nothing more than the ice itself. And still… and still the forest curled around her and pulsed in response to the slow, steady beat of her heart, the frigid silver threads of its magic caressing her cheek and winding around her arms.
One of her hands was outflung, her palm open, fingers gently curled, and even though her eyes were shut, her face was turned toward that open, empty palm as if she was looking at something. Something precious.
He knelt, robes spilling about his knees, his hand warm against the cool ivory of hers.
He touched that upturned palm, cupped the strong yet delicate fingers in his. What had she been looking at? What had those long, elegant fingers held onto as she slipped into the slow fog of almost death?
He leaned closer, drawn by the rise and fall of her breath, the utter colourlessness of her cheeks, the bones of her face sharper, her jaw squarer, eyes deeper set than other women.
She did not belong here, neither on this mountain nor in this forest nor this land. In so many ways, she did not belong.
And yet here she was, an exotic, dangerous mystery crumbled at his feet.
He traced a thumb over the dark swoop of her brow, and felt, as his flesh brushed the meridian, the heavy thump of boots on hard-packed dirt, heard the echo of drums and the fierce rush of wings. War trampled his spine and chilled his soul, even as it doubled the beat of his heart and brought the flush of anticipation to his skin.
The sounds of battle in this place, in this moment, curling around this strange woman with her outflung hand. Nothing good could come of them. He should leave her here. Even if he had not seen the pain and death in her aura, nothing peaceful grew in this forest, and that she was here now, as the stars above changed and the fabric of the world rippled with discord…
And still… and still.
Destiny skittered over his back.
He slipped his arms under her and rose.
She was both lighter and heavier than he expected, her frame willowy, delicate. Yet that cold, dark warning in his heart, the icy prick of fate, weighed her limbs, made her head rest heavy on his shoulder, her breath shiver across his neck.
He stood in that secluded clearing, with the bony fingers of the Snow Forest arching above, and knew as he stared at the pale, peaceful face, that this was the end.
The Story is just the beginning.
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