Ardi exhaled and listened to the snow’s whispers hidden under the gusts of the wind. He gathered crystals from the glittering, white blanket and spun them in a dance, making them sing a barely audible trill of soft chimes. It was lighter than the song of a young bullfinch, but clearer than a spring drip. The wind, relishing the sounds, carried them around, and Ardi listened intently. At some point, between the crunching snow, the rustling wind, and the icy song, he heard a name.
It slipped from the young hunter’s lips with a frosty breath, and a snowflake appeared on his palm. Ardi bit his lip, trying not to lose this name and its essence. He whispered and the snowflake listened. It changed shape, stretched, solidified, and soon, Ardi was looking into the eyes of a snow leopard cub that wrapped its long, icy tail around his little finger and-
Something hit the back of the hunter’s head. The winter magic vanished, once more turning into just the wind chasing a light blanket of snow, and with the magic, the name vanished as well; the snow leopard yawned and scattered into a cloud of white dust.
"Atta’nha!" Ardi shouted, standing up and turning to the she-wolf. "I had it!"
She was sitting on a stone, whispering to the birds and trees, and looked at her little friend or student with her usual warmth and a bit of non-offensive mockery. In her paws, the wolf held the staff that had just greeted Ardi’s head.
He still could not believe that Atta’nha had done this. For the first time in five cycles, he’d managed to not only hear the name of the Ice, but also say it!
"It’s not enough to merely say it, little Speaker," the she-wolf smiled, releasing the birds back into the paths of the clouds and winds. "You must be able to keep it. In the future, whenever you try to speak, place a needle between your fingers."
"Why?"
"To learn how to ignore the world around you," Atta’nha explained. "When you can speak without paying attention to the needle, immerse your feet in boiling water. After that, when you can still speak even with that distraction, the final test will be a claw," she held out her hand, said something, and a swirl of snow spun across her gray fur, leaving behind a claw of blue ice. "Plunge it between your ribs and try to speak. If you succeed, only then will your mind and heart be strong enough to attempt to learn a True Name. And only those who possess a True Name can be called Aean’Hane."
Ardi listened attentively and nodded, but... he understood little. If the needle seemed like something he could manage, the rest... It was hard to keep a name stable even when someone was just being noisy nearby. Boiling water and a claw between the ribs...
"Don’t worry," the she-wolf rose from the stone and approached, ruffling Ardi’s hair as usual. "Even with your talent, little Speaker, this path can take more than seven decades to traverse."
"Aean’Hane," the young hunter repeated thoughtfully. "It means Maker of Magic in the Fae language, right?"
"Yes and no," Atta’nha shook her head. "Humans can create magic with their Star Magic. Aean’Hane means much more. It’s more than just a Speaker who can string a few words together. It’s someone who can not only speak and summon names, but knows that..." The wolf seemed to be searching for words that Ardi would understand. "One day, you will understand, little Speaker, that the power given to you by the Sleeping Spirits should not be called into this world often, and that what you can do with its help, you can do with your own two hands as well. This is what it means to be Aean’Hane — to have great power and the even greater wisdom required to not use it."
"And are you an Aean’Hane?"
The she-wolf laughed. The sound was light and bright. A little growl and a little bark could even be heard within it.
"Sometimes, I forget how little you know, my dear friend."
Ardi frowned unhappily.
"I have read almost all of your books and most of your scrolls," he muttered. "I know how to light moonlight in the middle of the Spirit of the Day’s path; I know how to hear part of the storm’s name and summon an icy bolt of lightning; I know how to make a cloak from darkness that averts the eyes; I know how to whisper words that open closed passages; I know how to mix hundreds of herbs, roots, and fruits; I know how to create a star map from sparks; I know how to-"
"Not all knowledge, little Speaker," Atta’nha interrupted him. "Can be gleaned from books and scrolls. And the most important knowledge you’ll ever find will not come to you through books."
Ardi had his own opinion about that. Yes, he liked spending time with Ergar, Guta, and his other friends of the forests and mountains. But he much preferred the icy hut of the she-wolf, bathed in the light of the dancing fire petal she would summon so that the hunter wouldn’t "ruin his eyes." Books and scrolls were much dearer to him. They didn’t frighten him with fear, starve him with hunger, torment him with thirst. They simply told him their stories and asked nothing in return.
"And how-"
"Like this," Atta’nha covered the place where the hunter’s heart was beating with her palm. Then she scooped up some snow and let it melt on his cheek. "And through this," she added more heavily. "This is the way."
Ardi understood none of that. Knowledge would come to him through the rhythm of his heart and melted snow?
"To answer your question," the she-wolf stepped back and smiled. "I am the one who teaches the Aean’Hane."
"And what do they call you?"
She laughed again. Ardi had always loved that sound, the sound of his wise friend’s joy. And also her warmth. It reminded the hunter of something. Something he both wanted and feared to remember.
"You will know that someday, too, my dear friend, and..." Atta’nha stopped abruptly, stepped back, turned with the wind and sniffed, closing her eyes and twitching her black nose in an amusing manner.
"The blood of the traitor is near..."
"The blood of the traitor? Who’s that?"
Atta’nha suddenly grabbed Ardi, hugged him tightly, and pressed him against her. She buried her wolf’s muzzle in his hair and breathed in heavily.
"Hey... What’s wrong?" The hunter barely managed to say.
"It hurt her so much to let you go," the she-wolf whispered. "By the Great Mothers, it hurt her so much..."
For a moment, Ardi felt like he had seen this somewhere before. That someone, somewhere, had held him just as tightly and had been just as afraid to let him go.
"Come on," he patted her strong, broad back. "Even if today is the last day you teach me, that doesn’t mean I can’t come visit you to play and chat. You’ll see! When I become a full-fledged hunter, I’ll visit you even more often than I do now!"
She rubbed her cheek against his, poking him with soft but sharp fur. Then she suddenly stepped back, leaned down, and looked into his eyes.
"Remember, my dear friend," she whispered in the language of her tribe. The Fae tribe. Ardi could read it well and understand it when he heard it spoken, but whenever he tried to speak it, the she-wolf would burst into uncontrollable laughter. "This is your home, the land of your ancestors. They lived here. Died here. They took care of it for their descendants, as a mother takes care of her child. Every step among the mountains, plains and hills, forests and fields, rivers and lakes of this land is your blood and flesh. Here, your spirits reside. And whatever happens, no matter how far the path takes you, no matter how lonely you feel, remember that you are welcome here. And always will be."
Then she held out her hand, whispered something over it, and handed Ardi a small figurine of an oak tree. In Fae tradition, oaks, though not as sturdy as Iron Trees, nor as long-lived as cedars, were the guardians of the stories and legends of those they shaded with their generous branches.
"This is yours," Atta’nha whispered as she wrapped the oak in a thin band and tied it around the hunter’s neck. "Now go — our last day is over, and I am no longer your teacher, only a friend."
"My friend," Ardi repeated, then smiled broadly and hugged the wolf. "See you tomorrow, Atta’nha, my friend. I’ll be there with Skusty and Kaishas! They wanted to play hide and seek again. That pair knows the woods even better than Shali and Guta, and I rarely win, but I think that together, we can beat them easily! By the way — a whole blackberry bush is at risk! The stakes are higher than ever!"
"Of course," Atta’nha nodded. "Until we meet again, my dear friend."
Ardi smiled again, hugged the wolf once more, and ran down the path toward the forest. For a moment, he wondered why she’d been so sad today. After all, nothing terrible would happen just because she could no longer teach him. They could still talk and play. Or just go for a walk together in the Alcade. That was more than enough...
Ardi did not see the blizzard swirling around the wolf, nor did he hear her howl as she stared into the cold eye of the Spirit of the Night rising in the east. Nor did he see the squirrel that climbed onto her shoulder with a small twig in his paws.
"That was painful, wasn’t it, Mistress?"
"Painful, Sage... I knew it would be painful, but I didn’t know it would hurt me this much."
"It hurt her too, Mistress. Perhaps even more than you. Funny, isn’t it? A half-blood... The first in thousands of years, a mortal with human blood, studying under one of the Winter Queen’s daughters."
"But she knew her son would return," the she-wolf said, as if she only cared about one part of the squirrel’s words. The part that mattered most. "She knew that-"
"She hoped. She even believed in him. But mostly — she just hoped he would," Skusty corrected her firmly.
They both watched his fading tracks in the snow.
"I was so scared, Sage," Atta’nha whispered. "Scared that I would never wake up again."
"We were scared as well, Mistress," the squirrel straightened, held up his twig, and pointed it somewhere to the north. "But... I believe, or... I just hope that one day, we will wake again, and our dear friend will smile at us, call us to play, and tell us so many stories that we will..."
He trailed off.
In the clearing, there was now a wooden totem in the shape of a she-wolf with human features. She held a carved white staff in her paws, and tears of transparent amber ran down her cheeks. On the mythical creature’s shoulder sat a large wooden squirrel the size of a young fox. The wind blew again, swirling around in the angry blizzard and shrouding them in a snowy veil.
It also hid the peak of this mountain, which resembled an ice-carved fang, and extinguished the light in the hut, which turned into a simple rock; it then covered the writings and pictures on the walls of the deep cave and flew on. It caught the four-winged eagle running among the clouds, pressed it to the ground, and placed it on the shoulders of a huge mountain goat with horns that even the proudest of elk would envy. And so they stood like wooden statues on a wide mountain plateau.
And the wind went on.
It covered the paths in the forest with snow and ice, bound the rivers and lakes, dressed the trees in fluffy white coats, and ran, ran, ran until it caught the bear dressed in the dawn and the lynx with a coat of spring grass. And now, within the meadow, surrounded by swaying pines, there was another wooden totem, depicting strange beasts from long-forgotten tales.
The wind continued to blow, and Ardi, laughing all the while, tried to outrun it, unable to notice how the Alcade fell asleep behind him, as if soon, just a minute later, the last spark that had given it the breath of magic would leave it forevermore.
***
At every rustle, every creak, every strange reflection in the terrifying darkness of the forest, she reacted in the only way she knew — by pointing the barrel of her pistol at it and putting her finger on the trigger. A pistol... As if this trinket her uncle had given her when she’d been a child could really be called a pistol.
"Caw!" The wings of a red-eyed raven flapped as it disappeared into the night.
Her heart was beating so fast that she sometimes couldn’t hear her own thoughts. Her light white coat was barely keeping her warm, and her ears were red under her wide-brimmed hat, and... She’d touched them once and had almost screamed in pain.
Her feet were wet in her high boots, and she couldn’t feel her toes.
Everything about her screamed that she couldn’t have possibly found herself in the heart of a mountain forest, amid a bitter frost, under the light of a waxing moon. And yet, she was. When that old woman with the wolf head pendant had said that she could help her find medicine for her daughter in exchange for a single drop of blood, she’d thought it was just part of the Winter Festival show. Who could have known that a blink later, she’d be standing in the middle of a terrifying forest, with only the stars above her and the mountains rising up to meet her?
"Don’t come any closer!" She yelled, turning to what she thought were predatory, animal eyes watching her.
She cocked the hammer of her gun and was about to pull the trigger when the clouds parted and the forest was bathed in silver light. Not believing her eyes, she lowered her gun. Standing at the edge of the clearing was not a small snow leopard, as she had first thought in the dark, but... a child?
From the back, his height and broad shoulders might’ve made him look older, but his still naive and kind eyes, coupled with those chubby cheeks, suggested that he was twelve, maybe thirteen. His black, wavy hair fell over his bushy eyebrows, and his neat nose was dotted with funny freckles. His ears stuck out, but not so much that one could call him big-eared.
Quite the opposite, in fact. He looked like a handsome boy who, when he grew up, would be the cause of many a woman’s tears and heartbreak. Especially due to those strange, almost inhuman, amber eyes of his. They were charming and unfathomable. Like... like the eyes of that old woman at the Festival.
"Do you know her? Do you know the witch?" She breathed out clouds of steam, her hands shaking.
The boy tilted his head to one side and frowned. He seemed like he was desperately trying to understand something, but couldn’t.
"Ana’elat asha egokta ana?" He said in a rough, broken language she didn’t recognize. "Elat tur?"
"What? I don’t understand..." She shook her head. "I don’t know that language. Can you speak Galessian?"
The boy shuddered, and a vague recognition appeared in his eyes.
"It sound... mmm... language speak you," he said slowly, almost growling, like a beast. "Who language it?"
"It is the language of the New Monarchy Empire," she spoke slowly, trying not to gesticulate too much — the boy kept looking at her pistol. "It’s the name of one of the human countries on the Western Continent."
"Humans?" The boy repeated. He seemed familiar with the word. "You humans?"
"Human," she corrected him. "And who are you?"
The boy thought for a moment, then touched his chest. Only now did she notice that he was wrapped in a ridiculous cloak that had been crudely stitched together from various furs. But each of those furs would fetch a high price in the Metropolis fur market. Many fashion houses would not hesitate to pay hundreds of exes to buy them.
"Ardi," the boy replied. "My name Ardi. You?"
She hesitated before deciding what to say.
"Atura, my name is Atura."
The boy sniffed the air, then stepped back.
"Lies," he shook his head. "Lie. You lie. Why lie? Lie not good. Teacher say lie bad."
For a moment, she thought he was not a human child, but a young cat ready to turn and flee into the forest.
"Wait, wait," she pleaded, and when the boy stopped, she continued in a soothing tone. "You’re right, forgive me. Atura is my servant. That’s the name of my servant."
"Servant? That you pack?"
"Pack? Ah... family?"
The boy nodded.
"No, no. A servant is... a helper. She helps me with various tasks."
"Help? Friend? Atura friend?" The boy’s face brightened and relaxed a bit.
"Yes!" She smiled.
The boy smiled too, and she shivered slightly at the sight of his too-long fangs. Maybe... maybe she had jumped to conclusions and this child was not of human descent? But what Firstborn race looked so much like a human? He didn’t have the long ears of an elf, the gray or green skin of an orc, nor did he resemble a dwarf. And he certainly wasn’t a descendant of giants.
And he definitely didn’t fit anywhere on the long list of semi-intelligent races ranging from goblins to lamias.
She was about to turn around to see who was calling her, to make sure she hadn’t lost her mind, when her hand was painfully squeezed by strong, slightly calloused fingers.
"Don’t turn, Okta. These are the voices of the shadows. They want to lead you off the way. If you turn, we’ll lose the way and be stuck here for a year and a day, and I don’t know how to hunt on the local trails and-"
"You can speak normally in Galessian?" She nearly shouted in sheer confusion.
"I can’t," the boy shook his head. "But here, it’s not necessary. Here, everyone speaks their own language, and everyone understands each other. That is what the Queens decreed."
"What the Queens decreed..." She looked ahead, not understanding where the strange visions ended and the truth began, but something deep inside of her told her that the truth lay somewhere in the middle. "Where are we, Ardi?"
"This is the Land of the Fae."
She almost stumbled.
The Fae... An ancient race that had not been heard of for over half a millennium, ever since the birth of the Empire, when the human kingdoms had united to overthrow the oppressive Kingdom of Ectassus. Back then, a group of soldiers led by the legendary Sergeant Mendera, may the Face of Light bless him, had managed to steal the Flame of the Sidhe from the Fae’s castle, turning the tide of the war.
With the Flame, the mages of the Empire had been able to draw almost unlimited energy from the Ley, and the war, which had lasted nearly a quarter of a century by then, had ended in just two years, and out of the ashes and smoke had arisen the Empire of the New Monarchy.
Soon after, the Fae and their aristocrats, the Sidhe, had disappeared from the pages of history. Some scholars claimed that they’d perished, but most believed that the Sidhe, with the help of the Speakers’ magic, had managed to hide in the shadows — in the very folds of reality where they couldn’t be disturbed by mortal conflict.
The Fae had always been known for their magical prowess — even the elves couldn’t match them when it came to spells and enchantments.
"But-"
"We’re here," the boy interrupted her.
He took a step forward and she followed him, and everything around them changed. They were standing at the edge of a stream that flowed into a small lake, and around them... trees stood with trunks of bizarre shapes that resembled the courtly dance called "pas." Their dark crowns intertwined in a wide arc, and instead of leaves, colorful stars sparkled there. Flowers and grasses reached for her feet, but she ignored them.
She was mesmerized by the sky. Up there, along the star path, the constellations of both hemispheres and all four cardinal directions seemed to shift around in a wild dance. They swirled and swirled in a rapid manner, and she-
"Don’t look, Oktana," the boy squeezed her hand again. "It’s a trap. We came here without permission, so it will lure you in and not let go."
The child’s words were like a cold shower, and she still barely managed to turn away. Now all she could see was the magical island. It was big enough to hold a hundred people. In its center grew a cherry tree, from which a steady emerald light seemed to be pouring down, illuminating the lake and the surrounding forest.
But that wasn’t what made it magical. It was the endless array of colorful flowers. There were some she knew by name, but many more were simply amazing and unknown to her.
"Let’s go," and the boy, hopping easily from stone to stone, led her across a sort of bridge over the lake.
For some reason, she knew that as long as she held the boy’s hand, she wouldn’t stumble. Otherwise... Even without looking at the surface of it, she knew that the lake was not filled with water, but with something else entirely.
When they stepped onto the floral blanket, she forgot how to breathe. She beheld flowers whose petals were flames and winds, flowers shaped like animals, flowers with petals made of a child’s first laugh or the warmth of young love. Flowers made from a sunbeam just barely touching the canvas of a young artist, giving them inspiration. Flowers made from a heart trembling in anticipation of a miracle. Flowers made from a mother’s grief at not seeing her son return from war. Flowers made from the first drops of blood from a split lip.
Flowers-
"Oktana," the boy’s firm tone pulled her out of the whirlwind of visions and emotions. "If it’s too hard for you, close your eyes."
She nodded and closed her eyes.
Who knew how long they walked along the flower island. Maybe it was a minute, maybe an hour, maybe a whole year. She could swear by the Eternal Angels of the Face of Light that she felt only the crunch of snow beneath her feet and heard only the howling of the winter wind.
"Here it is..." The boy whispered. "Don’t open your eyes! I’ll ask the island to share. I think it won’t refuse."
And the child began to speak, but she couldn’t make out what he was saying. She just closed her eyes and held the boy’s hand, hoping with all her heart that the island wouldn’t refuse, no matter how silly it sounded. That she would indeed get the medicine for her daughter. That this morning wouldn’t be the last time she ever stroked her fiery hair, tapped her freckled nose, and promised her that everything would be okay. That it hadn’t all been a comforting lie and-
"The island can feel your pain," the boy whispered in her ear, placing something cold and smooth in her free hand. "Now let’s go back, just don’t open-"
But she couldn’t.
Her eyelids lifted, and the first thing she saw was the wondrous flower. Each of its petals was like a magically cut shard of mountain crystal, but it wasn’t hard. Rather, it was soft and seemingly alive. At the center of the bud was a small, pink heart, barely beating, and growing from it were stamens like rays of sunshine.
"Little Speaker," the wind whispered suddenly.
The flowers beneath her feet stirred, their buds swaying and torn petals swirling into a dance, but instead of scattering, they gathered into the shapes and outlines of a slender female figure. Butterflies flew in, folding their wings to become her eyes; cherry tree branches came down to become her hair and lips; the earth rose to become a beautiful face, and the buds and flowers filled with light to become a body of incomparable elegance.
A moment later, she and the child were standing before a woman who would make even elven princesses look like average peasant girls by comparison and the famous beauties of the Principality of Scaldavin and the Kingdom of Urdavan weep with envy.
"Why have you come to my garden without permission, little Speaker?" Her voice was the rustle of summer woods and the trill of spring birds. "Do you not know the Queens’ law about thieves?"
"Forgive me," she felt the child’s hand tremble, but he tried desperately not to show his fear. "There has been a slight misunderstanding. You see, I am not stealing anything — just borrowing something for a while. And not for myself, but for Okta. Her daughter is sick because of Fae magic. It would be right if we helped her."
The flower maiden gave her a cold, green-eyed look.
"This is the blood of a traitor, Ardi," the Sidhe said. "I do not care for the blood of a traitor. Even if the wisest of the wise cursed her child, I would only turn away and thank the spirits for their mercy."
She started to say something in response, but the boy squeezed her hand so tightly that her words turned into a faint groan.
"Ardi... You know my name, but I don’t know yours."
The Sidhe looked at the boy and laughed. It was a laugh that contained not only the whisper of flowers in a meadow, but also something like the creaking of dead trees.
"You have learned well from my cousin, Ardi. You know we cannot be questioned."
The boy nodded.
"Only if we are not bound," he added. "And I still don’t know your name."
The Sidhe stretched out her branch arms toward him, but suddenly, something on the boy’s wrist began to shine and she drew back.
"Your teacher has left you a gift, yes? Would you like to exchange it for the flower you tried to steal?"
"I’m not arguing with you right now, just reminding you that I still don’t know your name."
The Sidhe’s eyes flashed, and the wind swirled around them, tearing off petals and breaking flowers in half, but the boy didn’t so much as blink.
"So be it," she said quietly, and everything fell silent. "Thrice spoken, thrice heard. My name is Lady Senhi’Sha, Keeper of the Queen’s Garden."
The boy suddenly stopped trembling, and his tone filled with confidence.
"Lady Senhi’Sha... I may be mistaken, but I believe it was your favorite, a distant cousin of Lenos, Guardian of the Southern Gates, whom I helped six cycles ago."
"That is true," the Keeper nodded.
"Then, as the Queens have decreed, I propose to exchange my help for yours."
Senhi’Sha, who moved gracefully through the garden, like a stalking cat, approached the boy and leaned in so close that not even an autumn leaf could fit between their noses.
"Are you sure, Ardi? Are you sure you want to part with my debt to you for a human?"
"I have proposed a trade."
"You don’t even know who she is," the Sidhe did not react to the child’s words. "And yet you want to help her? Just because you feel sorry for her pain? You pity her daughter? What would you say if I told you a little secret? In the veins of the one you so desperately want to help flows the blood of those who have caused so much pain that it could fill a hundred lakes and a thousand rivers."
The boy shuddered, then lifted his amber eyes to boldly meet the emerald depths of the Sidhe’s gaze.
"I have proposed a trade."
"Foolish child," the Sidhe sighed, waving her hand. "Thrice spoken, thrice heard. You may take this flower, and I owe you no more."
"Thank you, Lady Keeper," the boy bowed slightly, then turned and pulled at his companion, but she could not take a step.
"I said you could take the flower," the Sidhe laughed again. "But I didn’t say you could give it to anyone," then she turned to Oktana and wrinkled her nose. "Today must be your lucky day, blood of a traitor. I offer you a deal."
"Okt-" Several buds clung to the boy’s lips, silencing him, and some unseen force was preventing Oktana from tearing her gaze away from those emerald eyes.
"I’ll allow Ardi to give you the flower, and with it, I’ll give you the recipe for making the medicine. And I promise to write it so clearly that even the disciples of those you call magicians," the Sidhe almost spat out that last word. "will be able to prepare the elixir and save your offspring. And in return, I only ask for a favor, blood of a traitor."
Oktana was about to answer, but stopped herself. She thought for a moment, then said slowly:
"I know the price, but I don’t know what the favor is."
The Sidhe snorted and stepped back.
"Clever and observant, eh? Excellent qualities for someone like you. So," the Keeper looked at the pale boy who was obviously not afraid for himself. "It’s been a long time since I’ve met such a foolish child as this one, blood of a traitor. I even pity him a little. Just a little. Since he used his debt for you, it is only fair that I use mine for him. The favor I ask of you, blood of a traitor, is that you will not harm this child by word, deed, gesture, look, letter, hint, story, or song, even if your heart desires it above all else, and so-"
"I agree!" Oktana shouted, fearing that the Sidhe might change her mind.
"How dare you interrupt me, human?" The Sidhe hissed like a snake in tall grass, and the flowers reached for Oktana’s feet, but suddenly, they stilled. "For this insult, the price will be raised. In addition to what has been said, you will also help this child three times. First, you will help him with words — that one will be easy for you. Second, you will help him with possessions — that’ll be harder, but you can do it. But for your insult and for polluting my garden with your unclean breath, the third time, you will help him with deeds, and, by the spirits, it will be magnificent. Do you agree?"
Oktana looked at the boy. Legends said that dealing with the Sidhe and the Fae was hardly any safer for mortals than dealing with actual demons. And not so long ago, she had believed both to be mere children’s fairy tales.
But to help her child... Even if the One-in-the-Dark had stood before her and denied her this flower, she would have jumped into his maw to get it! What was a Sidhe by comparison...
"I agree."
The Sidhe waved her hand, and flowers swirled around her.
***
Ardi once again found himself in the middle of that same snowy clearing where he’d met the strange creature called Oktana the Human. At first, he thought it had all been an illusion, one of the images from Memory Mountain appearing to him as a blizzard, but then...
He clenched and unclenched his fist, trying to remember the warmth on his skin from when he’d held her hand. Now, standing here alone, he was smiling foolishly at the thought that yet another adventure had taken him by surprise.
"But it’s good that I could help her," the hunter whispered. "I just hope that the Keeper doesn’t complain to Atta’nha and she doesn’t tell my teacher about it in turn. He won’t speak to me for a whole cycle if he finds out I helped a human."
And it didn’t matter that he hadn’t helped Oktana herself, but her descendant. Even Ergar, who always spoke ill of humans when asked about them, only ever mentioned their adults and independent ones, never their young. The young were innocent... Well, until they grew up, anyways.
"And their language is strange, isn’t it?" The hunter could not leave the clearing for some reason. "And it’s even stranger that I have heard it somewhere before... and even know a little of it. And also... The New Monarchy... What does ’monarchy’ mean?"
"I’ll ask you once more, as the rightful representative of the authority of the New Monarchy..."
"Huh? What?" Ardi turned around, thinking he’d heard the wind speaking to him. "Those words... I have heard them somewhere before."
The hunter wanted to dismiss these strange thoughts that belonged to tomorrow, but he couldn’t. He clenched and unclenched his hand, and a trickle of red blood ran down his skin — he had cut himself a little while holding the Crystal Mountain Flower. Luckily, this flower was not dangerous. On the contrary, it healed hearts and removed enchantments and magic.
Ardi’s memory suddenly conjured some things. Some images from the past. Some smells. Sensations.
He closed his eyes and began to leaf through them carefully, as if he were holding an old, fragile book.
"Is that a cave? A hut? It’s like Atta’nha’s, but not made of ice. It’s made of wood instead. Where is this? It smells of blackberries... and warmth and something... something strange. Grass and earth... flour... That’s called flour, isn’t it? But where..." He flipped through these memories faster and faster, searching for some sort of clue, until he saw something that had until recently seemed like just a dream to him. A high stone cliff. "That looks like... Hawk’s Cliff? But there are no such places in the Alcade," and on top of it was a stone, weathered by wind and rain, resembling... "The butt of a pimply ogre."
Ardi opened his eyes and turned to the west.
"I know where this place is..." He whispered thoughtfully. "But how? I’ve never been there before..."
The hunter stood there for a moment, then he started running along the trail of the wind that smelled of blackberries and flour.
And somewhere high in the mountains, a snow leopard who had sensed that the words he’d once spoken were losing their power, roared, howled, and leaped through the gathering storm.