I thought it was only for a moment, but when I opened my eyes again the scene had changed.
Steed was reclined beside me, lazily winding a feather in his hand. Chevelle was across the fire. He looked up at me through his lashes, past furrowed brow. He brought me a piece of meat.
It was cold.
I sat there stunned. Had they nothing to say? Had they seriously not known? I started to speak but the words wouldn't come out. I was too drained for explanations, and I was scared. I didn't know what had happened, what was wrong with me. And I didn't know if Chevelle would take me straight back to the village if he knew.
We stayed there for some time, Chevelle and Steed seemed in no hurry. Chevelle glanced at me occasionally but kept himself busy around the fire.
Steed still played with his feather, eventually entertaining me with it. It spun toward me, and turned down, tickling my arm and then my nose. I giggled despite my wariness, and reached up to rub my nose where the tickle had been. I noticed the map on my palms. “What about spells?”
He eyed my hands. “Been working spells?”
“Not on purpose.”
He smiled. “Yes, spells can be dangerous.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “but why do you need words for spells and not magic?”
“A spell can be left, set with a trigger, or larger than your magic. They are complicated and wicked things. And the ancient language is… tricky. Definitely something you should stay away from. Years of learning and practice and you can still wreck a spell pretty good.”
I thought about that for a moment and then, suddenly, Steed jumped up.
“What do you say we water the horses?” He wore a wild smirk as he held out a hand for me.
I didn’t have to ask my horse to kneel; Steed just grabbed my waist and threw me up. He was mounted before I had settled into the saddle and our horses took off, galloping north in synchronization. I looked back for Chevelle. He was standing in his saddle, leaning forward, as his stallion raced to catch us.
We were covering distance so quickly I could barely take in the new surroundings. It wasn’t long before we were coming up on a large creek. I assumed Steed had control of my horse; I was simply concentrating on staying in the saddle as we ran beside him. The horses edged closer to the creek, splashing along the muddy bank and then the shallows of the water. Silt and cold water sprayed my face as we ran. I wondered if this was what it felt like to fly like the fairies. We followed the creek until it turned west and we kept north, slowing to a walk. I tried to catch my breath. Steed was watching me, smiling appreciatively, and I realized I was wearing a huge grin. And surely three pounds of mud.
The slow pace gave me time to look around. The ground had leveled off again, clearing to open meadows of low grass and a few scattered trees. Large gray rocks dotted the landscape. There was a haziness on the horizon but as we kept riding I could start to see clearer. A mammoth lake lay ahead, a hundred times bigger than the tiny forest ponds I was used to. It was as smooth as glass and behind it the haze cleared just enough I could see the outline of mountains. Mountains.
Chevelle rode up beside us. “The hills of Camber.” I looked at him, he seemed peaceful now. We rode closer, our horses in a quiet row.
When we reached the lake, the horses stopped and I realized I had forgotten I was riding. The mountains and lake were almost too much to take in; none of it seemed real. Chevelle was next to me before Steed had the chance this time. As my horse knelt, he held out his hand and I stepped down beside him. The three stallions followed Steed to a nearby tree and I watched as he fed them apples from its branches.
I looked back to Chevelle. He was watching me. I wanted to ask him if this was where he was from but he and the setting seemed so serene I was afraid to disturb it. I looked again out over the lake to the mountains. If I was incarcerated for a thousand years in the village, I would want this memory. I breathed deep; the air was cool, moist, and smelled so unlike the harsh floral scents that saturated every part of the village. I could smell the deep green moss covering the rocks at my feet, the fir trees that edged the east bank, even the soil smelled richer. My eyes were closed as I took it in. I felt something brush my cheek. Chevelle. I opened my eyes and realized he had brushed debris from my face. I wiped a hand across my forehead and felt the dried mud crumble away. I looked down; it was caked on the fabric of my pants and splattered about everywhere.