Everything was starting to look the same to Wren. Sheâd left the Greyfeather Hills and joined what seemed to be a reasonably major road for a while before reaching a fork, where sheâd decided to go for the more southern road rather than the one that headed more straightforwardly westwards. The western road led to Ellinton, according to a couple of signposts - that was the largest city in the county of Nievenden, as Wren recalled. Still not a big city by the standards of most of Gradia, though; probably seventy or eighty times smaller than Din (which was, to be fair, less a single city and more a miscellany of smashed-together smaller cities and towns that had decided theyâd quite like to be seen as one big and important place, which had ultimately worked out rather well for them).
She wasnât sure why sheâd decided to go south, other than that sticking closer to the coast felt somehow safer: at least sheâd always know she was going roughly the right way if she kept going west along the bottom edge of the kingdom. Now, though, she had no idea where she was or even which direction she was facing: everything was just woods again.
Wren had little patience for woods. What was the point of them anyway? They were all just trees and more trees with nothing to distinguish them, no line of sight to any landmarks that mightâve helped, and only the most basic of trodden footpaths, deviating from which was sure to result in twisted ankles or a violent trip and a faceful of mud. It felt as if she had walked through the same couple of acres of woodland a dozen times in the past few hours; the daylight was starting to thin again, although she couldnât see the sun through the leaves and branches all around.
When she found a stream that quickly burgeoned into a full-fledged river, she followed it downstream, reasoning that the water must be flowing down towards the sea, and soon emerged into open fields filled with dozens of thick-haired brown and white cows, all lazily grazing. She had a little more time before sunset than the light-snatching woods had led her to believe, and she didnât much feel like setting up a tent right in the middle of a herd of cattle who looked as if theyâd be just as gratified to eat a tent as a grassy field, so she carried on alongside the river a while longer.
Before long, the riverâs winding path carried her to an inn bearing a sign that depicted a vulpine head with an air of dignity, its whiskers greying, a fine hat on its head and a pair of fashionable glasses on its nose: The Silver Fox, the sign proclaimed, was the name of the place.
A hot meal? A night in an actual bed? Wren couldnât pass that opportunity up. She headed for the door, but paused as she spotted an older man coming the other way: north, upstream, along the river in the direction she was heading.
âExcuse me,â she said as their paths crossed. He took two more steps before stopping, blinking in apparent surprise at being spoken to. His face was lined, his white hair thin (the tufts Wren could see sticking out from beneath his thick hat, anyway) but his beard thick; his eyes were distracted, but piercingly green. It was a peculiar effect, making him seem both older and younger than heâd looked at first glance. âHave you ever heard of⦠someone, maybe, called Myrinna, or Cotton Mossford?â
The creases around his eyes deepened in momentary thought, or perhaps curiosity. âI know âem, yeah.â
Wren let out a hefty sigh of relief. âOh, good. I have to find them - I made a promise to a dying man, see - but I have no idea where Iâm going. Could you point me in the right direction?â
The old man turned to look back along the river in the direction heâd come. âYouâre on the right path. An hour or so along the Marten this-a-way, andâ¦â He paused as a new sound drifted to them on the twilight breeze: the ringing of bells in the distance, each note collapsing into the next like a never-ending spiral of tumbling dominoes. âAh. Mm. Follow that sound. Thatâll take you where you need to be.â He sighed heavily, giving Wren a brief, appraising glance. âTheyâre good people there. Not always the most trusting, but good. The kind of good thatâs worth preserving and protecting, Iâd say. Yeah?â
Wren frowned, fighting the sensation that she was being given valuable advice rather than simply told generic pleasantries. The old manâs eyes narrowed just a fraction.
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âAnd you,â he said in a tone that wasnât unfriendly, wasnât judgemental, wasnât hostile, but somehow felt deeply arresting, as if she were about to have a sentence passed. âYou could do great things. Hmm. But youâll have to be careful. Having great potential means having choices to make, and those choices can determine whether things are changed for the wonderful or the terrible.â
âUm,â said Wren.
He gave a little shake of his head, as if dislodging something from one ear, and smiled a tranquil smile. âAs I say,â he said, as if they were suddenly having an entirely different conversation, âhour or so along the banks, take the western stream when it forks, and youâll find what youâre looking for.â
âThank you,â said Wren, because she had no idea what else she might have said.
âEvening, then,â said the old man, inclining his head politely, and he went on his way up the river.
Wren watched him go, breathing hard as peculiar sensations bubbled around inside her, bumping into one another, blocking her airways, occasionally popping with an unpleasant lurch. It had been a brief interaction, and a peaceful one, but she was left with the stomach-fluttering, throat-constricting, breath-catching feeling of having been in the middle of something tremendously important, or perhaps something terribly dangerous.
When her breath steadied, she glanced at The Silver Fox. A meal and a bed were tempting⦠but if she could wrap up her promise to Dachran before nightfall, she wouldnât have to worry about it another day. If it really was only an hour to⦠to⦠to wherever she was going, she could be there before dark.
So, with a last regretful look at the inn and the warm light spilling from its windows, she continued down the river.
~~~
Forty or so minutes later, after trekking through fields inhabited by more cows, the bells were ringing clearly in Wrenâs ears. She came to a spot where a smaller stream forked from the wider River Marten (as the old man had called it); there was a bridge, painted in bright red and blue, that crossed the main part of the river, but Wren stayed on the western side to follow the stream. Ten more minutes and a few more cows after that, she reached a cobbled road that headed uphill to both her left and right; following the sound of the bells, she turned right.
She had come to a village, or perhaps a small town: to the side of the road were a range of buildings, from what looked like a schoolhouse to a town hall, and plenty of side streets leading to rows of houses. Halfway up the hill, a narrow path to the left led up to a grey stone building with a circular window of stained glass in its front wall and an impressive tower rising from the back, which bore the face of a clock that must have been about as tall as she was. In that tower, Wren was sure, she would find the bells - and the people ringing them.
Attached to a low wall, which acted as the boundary of a small graveyard in front of the church, was a sign: Parish Church of Saint Auspicious in the Tradition of Unity. Established 102 AC.
Wren strode to the twin wooden doors and, with some difficulty thanks to its weight and a latch that seemed determined to get stuck, pulled one open. There was a thunderous scrape of wood on stone, though it blurred into a low rumble against the higher and louder pealing of the bells. She stepped inside, pulling the door closed again behind her; the sound of the doorâs movement felt louder now she was inside - and, she realised, on account of the fact that the bells had gone silent, their resonant hum flitting around the space and gently dissipating.
A vague anxiety rose in her stomach, though she wasnât entirely sure why. She could deal with meeting new people, in general. But then, she knew what to expect from people in Din, and traipsing through a church at twilight to find the ringers of now-silent bells felt like an ominous scene from the kind of scary story told to children around campfires. Still, she took a steadying breath and walked through the church, passing from the small entry space into a wide area with pews on both sides, facing a dais and lectern at the further end of the building. Above the dais was a balcony or a mezzanine or some other structure for which Wren didnât know the official name; heavy, dark green curtains hid whatever was there from view, although she could see the cloth gently swaying. To the left of the dais was a door, slightly ajar; she entered a narrow space where a wooden ladder led up to a closed trapdoor. A few coats hung on hooks from the walls; a couple of bags sat on the floor against the walls.
So, because there was nothing else for it, Wren dropped her pack in a corner, took a few steps up the ladder, raised her fist, and knocked on the door above her head.
A second later, someone pulled it open from above.