The Year of the Witching(74)
As they journeyed on, the path became progressively steeper and then gave way to a series of winding and treacherous trails that carved around the foothills of the mountains. Immanuelle had never been in the mountains before, and she scorned the dark for depriving her of the chance to see them clearly. She wished, desperately, that Ezra was there with her. It would have been such an adventure, to explore a place like this with him at her side.
She wondered if he was still alive, or if the Prophet’s guards had executed him on the plains. Though Immanuelle was no longer in the habit of praying, she prayed for Ezra then. Begged the Father to save him or, if not that, give her the chance to return to Bethel so she could find a way to save him herself. He was too young and too good to die. Bethel needed him. She needed him. Because without Ezra, whom did she have left to turn to? Leah was dead and gone. Martha had betrayed her to the Prophet’s Guard, and Immanuelle knew that the rest of the Moores wouldn’t dare to oppose her. For the first time in her life, she was made to reckon with the idea that she might be truly, and totally, alone.
Immanuelle continued her trek up the treacherous mountain roads—head bowed to the roaring storm winds that swept in from the west, gripping the reins so tightly her fingers locked stiff. As the horse edged its way around a particularly steep crag, there was a loud peal of thunder. The horse lurched forward with so much force he snatched Immanuelle off her feet. They careened around a tight curve in the path, Immanuelle’s boots skidding through the frozen muck of the road as she struggled to pull the horse to a stop. But as they raced toward another bend—this one around a cliff so high Immanuelle couldn’t see the bottom—the cart’s wheel struck a rut in the road. Its back wheels slipped off the cliff’s edge, dragging the horse back with it.
The steed gave a scream that echoed through the mountain pass, struggling to drag the wheels of the cart back over the drop-off and onto the road. Immanuelle pulled the bridle with all her might—blisters bursting open as she gripped the leather strappings. But despite her best efforts, the horse began to slip and both of them inched—closer and closer—to the cliff’s edge, dragged by the weight of the cart.
Crates of supplies slid off the back of the wagon. There was a long pause before Immanuelle heard the crash as they struck the bottom of the valley, far, far below. The steed skidded back, and Immanuelle sprang forward, releasing her grip on the bridle to unhitch him. Her hands shook, stiff with cold, as she fumbled with the buckles—freeing him from the tacking and traces. The steed inched toward the cliff—pulled by the weight of the wagon—until his back hooves teetered on the edge. A split second before the cart dragged them down, Immanuelle undid the last buckle. The cart lurched off the cliff and crashed to the valley below.
* * *
IMMANUELLE MADE THE last of the journey on horseback, riding through the torrents of the storm. The rain came down in sloughing sheets that often gave way to sleet or stinging hail. By the time she saw the lights of Ishmel floating in the distant dark, Immanuelle was so delirious with cold and weariness she wasn’t sure she could trust her own eyes. But as she traveled up the road, those distant lights grew bigger and brighter, and she could hear the sound of voices, catch the scent of chimney smoke on the cold night air.
She entered a village in the shadow of a mountain, far smaller than Amas. Here, the dark was not so complete as it was in Bethel. The sky was the bruised blue of deep dusk just before it turns into outright night, and the streetlamps burned bright enough to stave off the shadows. All the houses that lined the streets had shuttered windows and doors bolted closed. To her relief, she saw no sign of the Prophet’s Guard.
Immanuelle rode on, through the labyrinth of narrow, packed-dirt streets, until she reached what appeared to be the center of the village. There, she found an inn with large bay windows that glowed with firelight. Every time its doors swung open, a rush of murmurs and the chords of what Immanuelle knew to be a mourning hymn spilled into the streets. Squatting on its stairs was a beggar, broad-shouldered, with bright eyes and a long beard badly matted. He cradled a small drum that looked like a child’s castoff toy. As Immanuelle approached, he began to tap out a rhythm—too fast and sporadic to match the fiddle music that spilled from the tavern.
Immanuelle stooped to place a coin in the cup by his feet. “I’m trying to locate someone . . . could you help me?”
“That depends on who you’re looking for,” said the man, and his accent was one that Immanuelle had never heard before.
“A woman . . . by the name of Vera Ward.” She might have explained that Vera was a soothsayer, hailing from Bethel, but she didn’t know whether it was safe to mention such things in a place like this. Certainly, Ishmel seemed devoid of the overt piety that distinguished Bethel—with its sprawling cathedral and the chapels that stood on its every street corner—but that didn’t make it entirely safe.
The man appraised her by the oily light of a nearby streetlamp; then he nodded, motioning for Immanuelle to follow him down a narrow road that snaked east. The beggar led her through a labyrinth of houses, then down a sloping street that wrapped around a tall hill, until they reached a small, pond-side homestead where a stone cottage stood.
Immanuelle tethered the horse to a fence post by the road and started forward. The cottage’s windows were warm with the glow of lit candles, and it was light enough for Immanuelle to distinguish the small symbol painted on the door: It was the shielding sigil, just like the one carved into the foundation stone of the Ward house ruins.