Misguided: Book One of the Memories Trilogy

By Nathan Zako Forester

About the Book
It has been over three centuries since the Captain of the Guard, Molglove Deathblade, single-handedly overthrew High King Oedipus. Since then, he has crushed every insurrection that has threatened his reign, causing most to give up hope of escaping his tyranny. But there are few that still fight against him. Rosner of Tikthrim did not think he would be one of them.
Strange things happen in a rapid series of events, all stemming from whispers in the wind. Given nothing but a fairy tale of a promise, Rosner is forced to begin a journey across Omnimentus, undergoing trials he is wildly unprepared for. His only driving force is the desire to find, and save, his brother.
Secrets are revealed, or further complicated. A world which Rosner never dreamed of experiencing opens to him, but all he wants is his brother.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Jan 17, 2024
• ISBN: 9798889257332

Book preview

Prologue

Behind the New York City skyline, the sun spills from the blanket of darkness, giving light to a city already buzzing with activity. From the top of his apartment complex, Nathan Forester inches closer to the lip of the roof and sets his mug on its three-foot wall. He smiles as he leans against the brick. Looking down, he watches cars move about like balls in a pinball machine, the sun and skyline as its backrest.

A cool summer breeze blows across the tops of the buildings, sneaking tendrils of cool air into the folds of his bathrobe, prickling his skin. He wraps himself tighter and looks off at a patch of green in the distance. In about an hour, he will be on his routine walk around Central Park. A little nature amidst such a materialist area can be quite soothing.

Inside, he slips a shirt on before a short, high-pitched yelp sounds from the kitchen. Nathan pauses, listening carefully as seconds pass by. When nothing comes, he makes his way to the door as he tucks his shirt in. In the kitchen, his daughter glares at a pot on the stove, one hand wrapped in a damp towel.

You know, Claire, Nathan says, chuckling, it usually works better if you don’t grab the hot metal object.

She gives him a rigid stare. You’re a cruel man, you know! Your daughter just burnt herself and all you can do is laugh?

And I thought I had an intelligent daughter, Nathan counters, a smile playing on his lips.

Claire combs her fingers through her hair, then gestures at the pot on the stove, still filled with hot water. And I thought I had an intelligent father who picked up after himself.

Have I apologized yet?

No.

Well, Claire, I’m sorry, Nathan snickers, quick to add, I like my morning tea.

Claire opens her mouth to respond, then closes it as though finding the effort useless. She returns to nursing her wound. Nathan’s snicker fades. She grows to look more like her mother everyday…just like the others. Nathan shakes himself; he’s gone through centuries worth of relationships, and they have all ended the same. But that was the past; this is the present. It will be different. It has to be. As he ponders this idea, his eyes drop to the floor with an expression heavy enough to weigh down the world. He has said this so often the words have lost their meaning—nothing ever changes.

After he collects himself, Nathan returns his attention to Claire with a forced smile. She now has her back to him as she rummages through the refrigerator. Her springy, dark brown hair barely passes her shoulders. A beautiful tan arm, not unlike her mother’s, pulls out a gallon of milk. Claire swings the door shut with her foot and reaches for the cupboard in search of a glass. He watches her eyes—deep green but rigid as steel—as they search for the cup she wants.

Now that he thinks of it, her gaze has never been anything but rigid, at least around him—something he understands and occasionally deserves. It cannot be easy living without a mother, especially after finding out how she died. In truth, he never wanted to tell her. But she always insisted on knowing. Stubborn. Nathan smiles. Just like her. So when she started sixth grade, he caved. But instead of being sorrowful or thankful for the knowledge, as he had anticipated, Claire was angry. Not for him finally telling her. No. It was for not preventing something that could never have been prevented. And she hated him for it.

Her mother was shot a year after Claire was born. Nathan was in his study writing while she went out to fetch groceries. He heard the car pull in the drive and a door shut. Seconds later, he heard a gunshot. He stumbled over the chair in his rush to get outside, but it did not matter. She was dead before he got there. The shooter nowhere to be seen.

Claire’s argument was that he should have gone with her. Nathan tried explaining she preferred shopping by herself, but she would not hear it. In her mind, he could have prevented it. She has never stopped believing that, and it continues to affect the way she feels about him. At least once a month throughout high school, she reminds him that once she turns eighteen, she will leave. He prays she doesn’t go through with it. But then again, would it really be better than the other option?

Nathan shakes his head again. These thoughts are poisonous.

Through the corner of his eye, Nathan spots Claire eyeing him while she rinses her glass and places it in the dishwasher. Are you okay? she asks. Nathan notes the partial concern in her voice.

He nods. Yes, I’m fine. Just a small headache.

Why don’t you drink some more tea, she suggests as she walks by him, toward her room. Her sour words shave off another sliver of his heart. She has not broken it though, nor will she ever; he understands her situation too much for that to happen. It is a repeating pattern with all his children that he has accepted will never end. There are, however, certain things he cannot believe himself to ever understand.

Claire’s phone pings. She looks at her screen and her mood shifts, something Nathan finds himself dreading every day. He knows that look, that excitement. After a few seconds, their eyes meet. Nathan watches his daughter’s eyes shift from relief to annoyance. Before she can utter a word of plea, he tells her, I’m still going down.

He moves toward the apartment door.

You went last time, she calls out.

Nathan doesn’t stop himself from a short laugh, calling over his shoulder, And today is a new day.

He hears Claire run after him. Halfway down the first flight, she cuts him off, pressing one hand on either wall, determination flaring in her eyes. Exactly.

Instead of listening to his daughter, Nathan looks down at her feet with a smirk. You sure you don’t want shoes? His smirk widens as Claire looks at her feet and back into his eyes with anger and knowing defeat dancing across hers. She stomps past him and back into the apartment. To add to the mix, Nathan calls after her, I’ll meet you downstairs!

Outside, Nathan and Claire stare at each other like they did in the apartment. In the street, two Camaro convertibles wait for her—one bright red, the other pure black. Three kids sit in each one.

Why do you do this? Claire demands under a whisper.

Nathan chuckles. Because I can.

That doesn’t really answer my question, Claire counters.

Her father raises an eyebrow. Well that is your answer. He glances at the vehicles. I…you know I do not like you hanging out with them.

Claire’s expression darkens. They’re my only friends. Without them, I’m stuck here, with you. That is, if you’re around.

Before he can reply, she jogs over to the cars and hops in the red one behind the driver. He is almost relieved she breaks the conversation. Her words cut deep, leaving him speechless. Mostly because they are true. There are periods when he locks himself away in his office, writing for weeks. If not that, he is in meetings with his publisher. But he does try to be there when he can. She has no idea the number of meetings and end dates he has missed to be there for her when she needs him.

Don’t worry, Mr. Forester, the kid driving the red Camaro calls out with a wave. We’ll be fine.

Nathan fakes a smile. The comment does not give him comfort. Nor does it comfort him that he knows nothing of these kids. None of them have done anything illegal, at least that Nathan is aware of. But something doesn’t sit right. Especially the boy that calls out to him. He wears a leather jacket and the stereotypical careless attitude, topped with dark shades. He also looks to be a year or so older than Claire, so he definitely does not trust him. The boy is up to something, but he can’t figure out what. And to make things worse, he believes he has seen the kid before, before he knew Claire, but he can’t place him.

A thought crosses Matt’s mind. Could this boy be…? He shakes off the radical thought. There is no… Well he just won’t think about it.

Even if what he thinks is remotely true, he has greater interest in the other five. As far as he knows, none of them are related, but they always travel together. One of the boys and another of the three girls are about Claire’s and the driver’s age. The rest look to be about a year less than each other, down to the girl of about fourteen—the one Nathan is most on edge about.

Nathan feels a prickling sensation in the back of his mind. Out of habit, he imagines an infinite body of water. A sudden movement and flash of light catch his attention. His eyes find the girl behind the driver of the black Camaro. The youngest girl, in her rose-red windbreaker, stares at him. His gaze glances over the band on her head, adorned with a small, clear stone, and falls on her eyes. The fear within them washes over Nathan like a waterfall, visibly cascading down her body in shivers. Even as they drive away, the two never break eye contact until the cars disappear around a corner.

Nathan holds her gaze, long after they have gone, allowing his mind to run rampant. What commanded her to display such a fearful frenzy in her eyes? Did it have anything to do with that nag in the back of his head? No, that can’t be possible! As far as he knows, the last person with a slight inclination on how to do that died years ago. Still… his mind wanders to the gem on her head. He was not able to get a good look at it, yet something about it felt familiar. But what?

As he walks back inside, the gem takes precedence over the kids, leaving them to themselves without his worry lingering over them. He makes his way back to the apartment and grabs his coat for his morning walk, considering where that girl could have found such an item every step of the way.

Once he reaches Central Park, however, the kids and the gem disappear from his mind. This is the one moment when he feels at peace. The birds of Central Park fill his ears with a beautiful symphony, barely heard over the cars flying by. He closes his eyes and breathes, letting the faint call of the birds carry him to where they can better be heard. With every step, the engines fade, and the birds become clearer. He walks on, absorbing the chorus as its volume increases. The rustle of leaves as the wind blows through the branches of the trees adds to it.

Nathan opens his eyes and looks around. This is what he needed. He will worry about his problems….

He catches sight of a group of three men in black suits watching him from the cover of some trees. Casually, he turns to the side and walks away, keeping them in his sight.

They follow.

Just as he reaches some more trees, three more men cut him off.

Stop right there, one of them instructs.

Nathan obliges, taking them all in. All of them are clean shaven with short hair, like him.

What can I do for you gentlemen? he asks calmly, waving at them with his hands. Or are you expecting someone else?

One of the men steps forward. He is older, experienced. The man smirks. Commentary will get you nowhere, Mr. Forester.

Nathan keeps his expression controlled. Look, I write books for a living; I can get you free copies, but I don’t think I can do much more.

We do not want your books, the man states. We want you. Let’s just say our boss is interested in how you get the inspiration for your writing.

Nathan shrugs. I suppose just as any other writer would. Through experience, late—

Precisely! the man hisses. "He is curious about your experiences."

What are you getting at?

The man reaches to his side and pulls out a pistol, aiming it at Nathan’s chest. My boss—he is curious to know why you’ve been around so long.

Nathan’s shock gets the best of him. For a moment, his eyes widen, only to return to normal as he collects himself. This is the last thing he expects. He hasn’t been threatened in…well anyone’s guess is as good as his at this point. Then this guy shows up saying his boss is curious about his life?

Nathan looks over the men before him again. Each has a pistol and keeps a fair distance from each other. This boss of theirs knows more than Nathan is comfortable with. He scans his surroundings through his peripheral. The trees may allow him brief cover, but the odds of getting away are not high. He is out of practice. And he has no clue how much he can take right now. No, his best choice is to try and deescalate the situation…Nathan smiles. Or he can test the waters. It is not like they are here to kill him, right? Intimidate and injure, maybe. Being put to sleep is likely. But death?

Nathan lowers his arms and stares off at the tops of the buildings around them through the canopy of branches, skyscrapers, and apartments alike. You know, Nathan shares, this city is really quite beautiful.

The man pointing the weapon at Nathan falters for a half second but regains his composure. Are you really taking this time to complement the city?

Instead of answering, Nathan smiles, opening his ears so he can hear the city’s heartbeat return, however faint it is. The hum of the vehicles; the calling of birds; the whisper of the wind twisting around the buildings, carrying the sound of children’s laughter, the gossiping crowds, dogs barking. They all fill his ears with joy.

Finally, his gaze falls on a group of gargoyles shadowed by the rest of the building towering above them. His smile fades. Funny, he doesn’t remember seeing gargoyles on any of the buildings before.

The man lets loose a short chuckle. You have nerve, my friend. Before he can think any more about it, the city’s noise is replaced with a painful ringing, and Nathan’s vision goes black.

CHAPTER 1

Asmall distance away, several horses whinny. The sound resonates in Rosner’s ear like an eager fly. He turns on his side and tries to zone them out, to no avail. Annoyance pulls him off his straw mattress. A small growl follows. It takes Rosner a second to recognize the noise, but when he does, he smiles. Curled on one of the cloth blankets is their lazy old hound, K.C. She must have snuck into his room during the night.

Rosner ruffles her ears with a small, slightly calloused hand. Hey, girl. He throws on a white cloth shirt that is too wide for his thin frame and a pair of similarly large, brown, cloth pants. He takes a thin rope from the top of a dresser and ties it around his waist to hold them up. He takes one last look at K.C., still sprawled on his bed, and walks out. Rosner passes his brother’s room across from his, and his sister’s and parents’ across from each other, not five steps down the hall and veers to the left, entering the kitchen. He makes a direct approach for the bread, rips off a piece, and continues outside.

As he steps across the threshold, a cool, gentle breeze greets him. The damp air coming off the sea presses against his skin and his clothes, making them stick to him in the faintest way possible. The rainfall of last night still lingers, as most do when Marhis first awakes from her slumber. Riomar is always a period of constant rain. Above him, the Life Giver continues Her slow ascent, casting a brilliant array of reds, yellows, and oranges across a cloudless sky; Her warmth like that of a mother’s loving embrace.

Hearing another short burst of whinnying, Rosner turns to his right and leans on a wooden post holding up the porch overhang. He brings the bread to his lips but smiles before he takes a bite. A stone’s throw away stands most of the family’s revenue: the stables. His mother transports materials and goods between the local towns for what most would consider a fair price. Not only that, but from what Rosner has seen, among the few that do transport goods, she is the most respectable and most respected. Although it is hard to tell whether some respect or just fear her. She does not back down easily, nor is she afraid to end a deal with someone.

Rosner tears another piece off the bread and jogs through the grassy field over to one of the stable windows. Inside, he spots his mother struggling to harness Sandstone, a dirty white mare who tends to give them a little trouble. Next to her, the beautiful brown mare they call Creekbed waits patiently, already harnessed to the wagon. Besides her calm demeanor, Rosner has always liked Creekbed’s white stripe that travels between her eyes and down to her nose.

Next to his mother, Sandstone throws her head again and pulls away. After helping his mother for the couple of years that he has, he knows at this rate she is not going to accomplish anything without help. Rosner shakes his head before he jumps away from the window and darts around to the front and pulls the stable door open. He swears. Now and then, Sandstone can be the most difficult thing to deal with.

His mother glances over her shoulder at the new arrival. Was wondering when you would show up, she says with a smile. Now help me with this stubborn mare.

Rosner smiles in return and strides over to her and puts a hand on Sandstone’s neck. After a few hand strokes, the horse calms down enough for his mother to put the halter on. As this happens, his mind drifts to the back of the stable where Mason and Twig sit across the aisle from each other. The two stallions watch them for a little, then seem to lose interest and go back to eating the hay in their stalls.

Rosner looks back at his mother and sees the familiar love in her eyes as she steps away from the horse. She is a strict woman, when need be, but all-around kind and forgiving—usually only for family though, even if they test her. She has no tolerance for ignorance outside it, however.

 While his mother wipes an arm across her forehead, Rosner sneaks another piece of bread. Now that we have all that done….

Rosner feels his mother’s eyes bare down on him while he chews. As he looks up, he slows his jaw to a stop and carefully moves the remaining bread behind his back. He watches her hands go to rest on her hips and feels the weight of them pushing down on him. When she opens her mouth, her words balance on the edge of annoyance and peace. Did you already raid the kitchen?

He stays quiet, but the silence does not last long. The guilt consumes him. Unable to stop himself, he blurts out, It was only a piece of bread, and holds out the bread. When this does not change his mother’s expression, he returns it to his back, defeated.

His mother shakes her head and sighs. You have known fifteen of Esterm’s reigns, and still, you raid the kitchen. She pauses for a moment, looking as though she is considering what she just said. Seconds later, she smiles and confesses, And the gods know you, or your siblings, are not about to stop. Let us get you all fed, then we can start the day.

While Rosner heads to the kitchen directly right of the front door, his mother continues to walk down the hall to wake his siblings. As he sits down, his father enters the room. The large man stands just inches below the top of the door. With a shaved head topping a clean-cut face, he looks down at his son. Where is your mother? His deep voice unsettles Rosner. It is one thing to have a deep voice, but his father’s has sort of a menacing tone to it.

She is waking Kirdorec and Asrah, Father, Rosner answers.

He grunts, They should have been up a long while ago.

Rosner watches his father grab a lump of bread and a piece of dried meat before heading out. As he does, Kirdorec and Asrah walk in. Their mother is close behind with K.C. at her heels. The hound starts sniffing the air before she even enters the room, searching for food. As his siblings find their seats, he stares after their father, despite not being able to see him anymore.

Why does Father do that? Kirdorec asks, staring at where their father stood.

Their mother walks over to him and ruffles his short, dark brown hair, a sad smile on her lips. Only the gods know the answer to that, dear.

Soon the smell of egg fills everyone’s nostrils and their stomachs right after, alongside bread from the loaf Rosner snagged from earlier.

When everyone is done, their mother asks, Are you ready, Rosner?

Wiping his mouth, Rosner replies, Yes, Ma. He scoots himself from the table to wash his dish.

Asrah, who has witnessed Marhis’s reign twice less than Rosner, looks at their mother through a thick curtain of brown hair and asks which horses she is taking. A short, humored laugh escapes their mother. Rosner watches her walk over to Asrah and part her hair with two fingers. Both the mares, their mother tells her.

Through the parted curtains, Asrah frowns. But I like the mares, she complains.

And the stallions still need exercise, Asrah. Otherwise, I will never be able to use them.

Looking past their mother, Asrah peers at Rosner with dirt brown eyes, hoping for a way around this, but he smiles and shrugs. Asrah’s gaze turns to stone. Unfazed by this common occurrence, Rosner matches it, waiting until she softens her features and returns her focus to their mother before he relaxes his own. She tells their mother, I know.

Their mother straightens up. Wonderful! Your brother and I will be back before the Life Giver’s Kiss in five days. The both of you, make sure Twig and Mason get exercise.

Outside, Rosner and his mother take off at a gentle trot away from their small, wooden house and pass under the wooden arch marking their property line. On either side of the vine infested arch, large pines wrap around the entire plain their house is centered in. Below them, the mares’ hooves strike the soft dirt with muffled thuds. The cart jars occasionally as the wheels pop in and out of wheel ruts from previous trips.

Further down, they follow the road to the right, hugging the forest’s edge. To their left, a large hill comes right up to the path, as though it is trying to push it over. Halfway down the path, Rosner’s eyes traverse the aggressive mound until they reach its crest. There rests a castle older than Tikthrim, the village that is built around it.

Renamed Weeping Castle after its rightful name was lost, the stone structure’s towers stretch toward Linil like fingers of a dying soul, championing everything within its sights. Trees, even the castle has outlived, spot the hill, as do their children. Despite the radiating sorrow from the entire mound, Rosner finds himself attracted to it. Something about it calls to him, like a whisper in the wind—some days more literal than figurative. He feels as though a voice as quiet as the wind on a breezeless day calls his name, pulling him in the castle’s direction.

Every now and then, he follows the voice up the cobblestone path, well taken over by nature, to the castle’s giant oak doors. All that is left of the path are small spots of stone here and there. Some disappearing completely for a few strides. Just a good stone’s throw from the doors is a fountain with a statue of a tall, cloaked man hiding his face beneath a stony hood centered in it.

He has never found the guts to open the ancient doors. Not that he needs to. When he presses his hand against them, he swears he can hear the castle’s history. Parties of glorious proportions, celebrations worthy of song and memory, hushed conversations with secrets that should not be overheard, brawls over women and dignity, and war full of blood and pain; they all flood his mind with beautiful, yet painful, clarity. One thing he has noted just after his last visit a few days ago is they seem to tell a story. Not just any story—nothing random from its past. What he has been seeing, feeling, hearing—it seems to be happening in a certain order: from the moment the castle was erected…to its demise. And he fears he is getting close to that end.

As they draw farther away, faint shouts enter his mind and pull him back to reality. Just ahead, the path runs into the main road. On the far side, about eight wooden buildings make up most of the village: two taverns, a butcher’s shop, and a handful of houses.

As they shorten their distance from the road, the volume of the shouts increases drastically. To the left, hugging the base of the hill, is a small hoard of merchants and local farmers, hunters and the like, all fighting for a spot to set up in the small area. Instead of a collage of yelling, Rosner can now pick out some words of the merchants, calling out to early risers, advertising their wares and other knick-knacks.

Although he enjoys watching the merchants fiddle about, he lets his eyes drift to the harbor, just visible over the stands. Merchants that have slept in scurry around the Snake’s Den like the reptiles they are. Ever since the Venmyrian soldiers started to occupy the Eastern Docks, these snakes have slipped into the village and caused the respected merchants to leave. There were fewer then, but Tikthrim does not have many people to trade with. Those here now mostly sell to the soldiers and the occasional traveler. Word has it those few were threatened, and some even disappeared completely. Now they are left with greedy dealers who offer little for high quality goods and sell low quality at a premium.

A small shutter redirects Rosner’s attention back to the cart. His mother halts Creekbed and Sandstone in front of Casper’s Cutlery, almost directly across from the path they were on. Leaving Rosner to guard the cart, his mother walks inside.

As she disappears through the door and reappears on the other side of the glass window, Rosner spots a soldier stumble out of the Forgotten Gin, the closest building to the harbor, as well as the more popular of the two taverns. The tavern tends to find itself full of Venmyrian soldiers, night and day. By the way this one is stumbling, it seems like he has been there for a particularly long while.

Even from this distance, it seems to Rosner the man is drunker than he can handle. He can hardly manage to keep himself upright, crossing his legs and tripping over nothing as he walks. A small laugh escapes Rosner’s lips as he watches. If this is what a soldier of the Seventh Army looks like—the army of the High King—then there may be hope for them after all. Or so, that is what he hears. When no soldiers are present, the villagers talk, saying the Venmyrian are the worst plague they have come to witness. That before them, there was actual peace and harmony. Now the only reason people do not do things is because of fear.

This fool, however, instills no fear in Rosner. He eventually makes his way over to a stand and dumps the entire contents of his money pouch on the counter and begins counting for a purchase. Unbeknownst to him, however, Rosner bets all the money the soldier just dumped, the merchant is busy slithering away one coin after the other.

The smile, however, slowly fades. Most of the soldiers that journey here are not as stupid as this one. Sure, they drink, but they know their limits. Besides, from what Rosner hears, every visit they make, they carry precious cargo for the High King himself. So, it is not surprising that they claim the largest part of the harbor. Doing so also grants them control over the main road, since most of it opens to that part of the water. They have barred off so much of the road near the harbor that the merchants barely have enough room to squeeze two carts up and down a path between the soldiers’ barricade and a row of thick shrubs and rocks. Farther into the village, merchants and travelers alike find the road widens a stride or two and stays that way as it travels inland.

Most stop there and carry on their way, but there is a third dock, this one tucked away and partially hidden from the rest. It can only be accessed by a small path hidden behind the thick brush near the edge of the Snake’s Den, but where it is, and what that path consists of, Rosner does not know. All he knows is that it is built onto the face of the cliff right below the castle. Old, worn piers bounce on the waves, leading to a tavern set in the rock. There have been days where he has been tempted to investigate but talk of the pirates and mercenaries and bounty hunters that take rest at the tavern there turn him away without fail.

Behind Rosner, a door creaks open. He watches as Casper and his mother both carry out a crate of meat. The giant man has hands the size of Rosner’s face. And Rosner is convinced his gut hides a small animal, like a newborn sheep. Streaks of white hair mingle with a thin black mop on his head that part around a surprisingly sharp face.

Thank you again, Bendra, Casper says to Rosner’s mother. I cannot think of anyone who does not appreciate what you do. It makes it much easier on all of us.

Rosner’s mother nods. So long as it helps keep my family alive, I am happy to assist.

Casper returns the nod. Just before they set off, he calls to Rosner. Be seeing you after you return, right boy?

Rosner looks at the man and returns a smile. That we will, Casper. You have no worries. Casper snorts and heads back inside. His pegleg strikes the porch with a dull thud every other step until he disappears inside.

After their encounter with Casper, Rosner’s mother directs them to a side road near the village’s boundary not too far inland. After a few jokes and a couple of laughs, they stop at a winery. A few crates later they pick up grain, then flour, beans, potatoes, herbs, and several other items. Before long, they are back on the main road.

After traversing a small hill, the two mares pull the cart past the blacksmith. Thick, black smoke rises from the chimney of the small, wood and stone building, the occasional ring of the hammer pounding on a new sword resonates from within.

Once the blacksmith is a small distance behind them, they take the left side of a fork across a planked bridge spanning Silver Creek. As they cross, the Life Giver has nearly seated Her throne. Waves of heat descend on Rosner and his mother, causing both to sweat. Rosner looks up at the sky and shades his eyes with his hand, watching the ascent.

They set camp as the Life Giver Kisses the horizon. Next day is the same. On the third, right about halfway through the day, the two trot into the town of Venik Dmai. Rosner takes it to be more like a city, even though he has none to compare it to. The one thing he does understand is that it is big, much larger than Tikthrim. Without his mother, he knows he would get lost just turning a corner.

As soon as the two enter the town, the road gradually slopes downward, leading to its namesake. The Venik Dmai, or Lake of Wonder, is what started the town, from Rosner’s understanding. People say the water is magical, but to him it is just water that is clearer than glass and just as reflective when the Life Giver’s light strikes it. He has heard some say something, or someone, must awaken the magic within the water. Others have claimed it is not the water that is magical but what lies within it. Rosner cannot see any of it being true. They are just stories and fantasy tales to make their town seem special.

Still, he cannot help but be mesmerized by it.

His mother pulls on the reins, bringing his gaze back to town. In front of them is a tavern and inn called Wonder’s Greetings. His mother climbs out and walks inside while Rosner stays to watch over the goods. Unlike the name suggests, the building is more of a turn-off for Rosner. The wood frame is worn and rotten. The porch pitches away from the building at a slight angle. Plus all the windows are smeared, like someone did not really want to wash them, so they put their fingerprints all over them instead. The only thing that looks nice is the sign. Gold letters printed on a light green background. After looking at the sign, Rosner glances back at the rest of the building. Is that the color the rest of the building is supposed to be? Because to him it looked more like week-old vomit after someone ate green algae.

As usual, a few seconds later, his mother walks out with the owner. As his gaze follows them to the back of the cart, he cannot help but think if they were in a more heavily populated area, he would not be able to stop anyone from grabbing what they want. All they would have to do is push him to the side.

Rosner’s mother calls his name, tearing him from his thoughts. Free from the what if’s, he climbs to the back of the cart while they talk and searches for a crate labeled ‘Wonder’s Greetings.’ When he finds it, Rosner hands it to the man, who takes it and nods at Rosner. He thanks his mother and heads back inside.

The next several stops follow the same trend.

As the Life Giver hovers halfway through Her descent, the two pull up to one of their last stops. Rosner’s mother pulls the reins, and the familiar jerky stop vibrates through Rosner’s body. Before his mother climbs out, she turns to him with a smile. Almost done, she promises.

Rosner nods. He climbs into the back and waits. A kid who has witnessed Marhis once more than Rosner, and twice the size, comes out and meets him in the back.

I am grabbing stuff for my father. His voice sounds surprisingly rough for his age; it sends a chill down Rosner’s back, but he refuses to show it. Instead, Rosner looks up the name, and hands the kid a crate of bread and wine.

Once he is alone, Rosner looks back and lets out a satisfied sigh. Only one more stop, he mutters aloud. Curious, he peers down at the name and frowns. Who is this?

Hey!

Rosner whips around; it is the boy again. A painful silence passes between them. The boy looks mad, and it gets worse by the second, but Rosner already gave him what his father ordered. What? the boy said, finally breaking the silence. You going to stare at me like an idiot, or am I going to get the last crate?

This catches his attention. Hold on, Rosner says with more vigor than he expects. He knows this kid does not have anymore because he just looked at the same name on the last two. Let me check. Rosner acts like he scans the cart and remaining crates. Nope, you got everything.

The kid shakes his head. No, I have seen my father’s order. I need another crate of bread.

Despite the situation, Rosner resists a laugh. No you do not.

Am I going to have to grab it myself? the boy threatens.

Rosner’s eyes narrow. That is not happening.

The boy starts up the back of the cart. Caught off guard, Rosner does the first thing that comes to mind—stand in front of him. The boy does not bat an eye. He reaches up, grabs Rosner, and tries to throw him to the side. Rosner manages to hold his ground for a few tugs, but his hand slips off the side of the cart and he goes tumbling over the kid’s head. He lands on his back and casts up a cloud of dust, which encompasses him. He tries to recover from the wind being knocked out of him but instead sends himself into a tearful coughing fit. At this moment, both his mother and the kid’s father wander outside.

What in the Seven Realms is going on here! demands Rosner’s mother.

This little weasel—!

Watch it boy, the man interrupts. And get down from there.

Through tear filled eyes, Rosner notices the boy wants to argue, but a hard look from his father tells him to listen without question. After the boy lets out a growl, he surrenders and climbs down. Once on the ground, the kid spits his mind before he can be told otherwise. They refuse to give up the last crate!

His father raises an eyebrow. What in—boy, we have what we need.

The boy and his father continue to bicker while Rosner’s mother tends to him. Are you all right?

Rosner nods. Just some dirt in my eyes. But I am fine, he tells her through shallow coughs.

She looks him over once more, then helps Rosner up and tells him to get back in the cart. As he does so, the boy storms into the building. Rosner’s mother turns her attention to the boy’s father. Dyte, his mother warns, if this happens again, you will have to find another way to get your goods.

Bendra, please, Dyte begs, both palms up in surrender. I-I will talk to my son. I or someone else will take care of handling things from now on.

We will see. Without looking back, Rosner’s mother takes her spot at the reins and takes them away. After a moment, his mother asks, So who do we have left?

He shrugs and looks back at one of the two crates. Not sure. I have never seen the name before. Rosner tilts his head. Noc...Noclyon?

Rosner’s mother nods. Ah, yes. I received a notice about them. Moved here not too long ago. They are not much further.

A few minutes later, they stop again. The small, wooden house sits on the outskirts of town. Large trees dot the grass around it, creating a sense of peace and seclusion from the world.

While his mother retrieves someone to take the crates, Rosner sits in the back of the cart, dangling his legs off the end. His eyes drift back to the lake. The near perfect bowl reminds him of a pot, one a cook brews stew in. Only this cook would have to be a god. He watches the Life Giver’s light reflect in random harmony across the surface of the water, captivating him. A faint breeze brushes against his arm.

Beautiful, is it not?

Rosner’s eyes widen as he stifles a yelp, pressing himself to the wall of the cart. What he first takes to be a talking snake