Canes of Divergence (39 page)

Bristlecone, Colorado

T
HE YOUNG BOY
turned as the man approached. In front of him, the dark river raged, overflowing with heavy snowmelt from the mountain peaks above.

“Zander’s not coming, is he?”

“No, Owen. He isn’t. He’ll be staying on the other side for a while.”

Owen nodded. “
I knew it was too dark now. It’s been almost ten minutes.”

“I know. I’m sorry it took me a little while. I came to walk you home, but there was someone else
I needed to walk home first.”

Look
ing up, Owen nodded solemnly, absolutely silent for several minutes.

“
I was all right,” he finally said. “I got the magnet. I was going to throw it in the river, but then I just knew that I shouldn’t, so I decided to wait. Was that wrong?”

“
No. It’s never wrong to listen to what your gut is telling you. The river is still too close to the gate. Throwing the magnet there wouldn’t have closed it. You need to take it somewhere else and break it, so it can’t be used again.”

“My dad has a hammer in the garage.”

“That sounds perfect. Shall we go and find it?” The man held out his arms and scooped Owen into them, carrying him up the path.

Writing this series has been an amazingly fun and heartening undertaking. The best part of it has been meeting all of the amazing readers who have shared the journey, and have sent me notes, and made me smile when opening my inbox. It means more than you could possibly know.

I also have to give some very sincere thanks to some of the special beta readers and others without whom these books would not be what they are. (These are in NO particular order!)

Janene
Silvers

Michelle Patrick

Kristy K. James

Mallory Rock

Danni Menard

Jennifer Simmons

Lori Dees

Dear Readers,

Thank you so very much for coming along on the journey of The Dusk Gate Chronicles with me. I have very much enjoyed hearing from all of you, and sharing these stories with you.

Originally, I really only intended to write the first four books in this series, but somewhere along the line, these characters have developed minds (and wills!) of their own, and the story begs to continue to be told. I do not currently know what my definitive plans are, but I’m pretty sure we haven’t heard the last from William, Quinn, Thomas, Linnea, Zander, and Owen. Or Alvin.

As for my
next
project (probably – some characters have a tendency to speak louder than others at times), read on after the end of this note for a chapter from my upcoming work,
Rumpelstiltskin’s Daughter.

If you would like to find out more, and stay up to date, or chat with me and other readers of The Dusk Gate Chronicles, you can do so in a number of ways.

My website is at
http://www.breeanaputtroff.net

I am often on Facebook, and respond to messages and posts at
www.facebook.com/duskgate
-- give me a like!

You can follow me on Twitter. I’m
@bputtroff
– usually chatting about my writing progress, and other silly stuff.

I also have a newsletter, where I send out stories, news, and sometimes exclusive content. My newsletter subscribers even got to read deleted scenes from the first draft of Blooms of Consequence – in the very earliest draft, William, Quinn, Thomas and Linnea did get to go for a visit to Bristlecone. I never, ever, use my newsletter list for spam, but I do occasionally send out prizes, especially Dusk Gate swag, to readers just for being part of the list.

If you’d like to subscribe to the newsletter, you can do so at this link:

http://ee
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Again, thank you so very much for sharing your time with me, Quinn, William, and the rest.

Reviews of any kind are always appreciated, and help other readers know whether they might enjoy the books. Thank you!

Sincerely,

Breeana Puttroff

[email protected]

One

“NOT THOSE ONES
, Leo, these green leaves over here.”  I pointed, again, to the small cluster of plants growing in the shade of an old tree stump.

“These are prettier. And they’re blue. I thought we were making blue,” he said, looking down at the two giant handfuls of flowers he’d picked from a nearby bush. “What’s wrong with these ones, Raya?”

I sighed, trying to keep my patience. My father liked to joke that the first time Leo ever spoke it was to argue. Nothing had changed, even though Leo was now eight and old enough to have learned better. “Those ones don’t make the right color dye. It comes out too pale. These leaves don’t look blue, but the dye they make is dark blue.”

“I like pale. Maybe Papa wants a paler color today.”

“Enough, Leo,” I said, rolling my eyes and wiping away the sweat on my forehead with the back of my glove. “You can keep the ones you’ve already picked and see if Papa does want them, but come over here and help me with these ones.”

Having Leo along wasn’t exactly the “help” my father had claimed it would be; when I looked over at him again he wasn’t picking flowers at all, but watching a rabbit burrow its way back into the ground, the forgotten petals strewn about by his knees.

On a normal day, it wouldn’t have mattered much. Papa would have indulged him, taking whatever plants he came home with and boiling them in different small pots so that Leo could learn how to make each of the colors.

Today, though, there was surely too much to do. Today, every pot would be full, bubbling away over small fires all over the yard behind our cottage, my father somehow managing to keep a watchful eye on all of them at the same time, waiting for the right moment to pull out each skein so that the thread would be the precise color he wanted for his patterns – for the two dresses and the riding cloak he was making for my journey to the palace.

Thinking of everything that still needed to be done, I let Leo be, and hurried to fill my basket with leaves and stems, careful not to damage the plants as I worked, pulling off only those parts that would re-grow quickly, or spots that needed a little pruning.

Even Leo, in all of his carelessness, would have left no sign of his presence among the plants he’d taken flowers from. Papa had taught us both to respect the plants we used. From the time we were able to walk, we could find a wilting leaf, or pull a flower from a crowded cluster, leaving the rest of the plant in better condition than how we’d found it.

Setting the last few leaves I needed into the basket, I looked over at Leo. He wasn’t there. The basket nearly flew out of my hands as I spun around, searching for him.

“Raya, look! It’s Caleb!”

My first reaction to the sound of Leo’s voice was relief. Although he’s finally getting to be old enough now to find his way around, and to get home by himself, anytime I don’t know where he is, I have memories of the three times he wandered off as a toddler. Once, we found him again already at the other side of the village, where he’d gone chasing after a butterfly.

Then it registered what he’d said.
Caleb
. Leo was already running toward him before I saw him. My little brother wrapped himself around Caleb’s legs, and Caleb lifted him up in the air. He still wore his soldier’s uniform – he must have just come from a training exercise – and his long red cloak fluttered in the wind as he held Leo, tickling him until he shrieked before setting him safely down on the ground again.

Leo was still laughing as Caleb pointed to the little wooden bucket Leo had dropped as he ran. “You’d better get those flowers back to your father; I’m sure he’s waiting for them.”

Why Leo listened to Caleb more than anyone – even though Caleb is only a year older than I am, I will never know, but he immediately picked up the bucket and began running down the path towards home, leaving me just standing there in the clearing, alone with Caleb.

My whole body felt stiff as his bright blue eyes flicked to the basket on my arm and then back up to meet my gaze.

“So you’re really going to do this?”

The handle of the basket dug into my hand; I had to work to loosen my grip so that I wouldn’t snap it or get a splinter or something. “What choice do I have, Caleb?”

“You have choices.”

“Really? What are they? Refuse to follow King Oriel’s decree?”

“You know as well as I do that nobody is going to come looking for you, Raya.”

The basket’s chances of survival were looking worse every second. I moved it up to hang on my elbow where it might be safer. “Why? Because I’m a poor orphan, and there’s no chance I’d be accepted at the palace anyway?”

“You know that’s not what I mean.” Maybe the stricken look on his face should have made me feel better about what he was saying, but it didn’t really. “You have just as much of a chance as anyone else.”

Did he notice the way the basket was trembling against my skirt? “Then why shouldn’t I try?”

He stared at me for several long seconds with those eyes that seemed to be able to peer into the depths of my soul, until finally I had to look away, down at the ground. His leather boots stood out on the dirt path. They still looked new, barely worn. He hadn’t even gotten any scuff marks on them yet.

“Is that what you really want Raya? The life of a courtier? Parties and dancing? A chance at impressing the prince? Perhaps impressing other men?”

It felt like he’d punched me. Now I narrowed my eyes at him. “That’s a low blow.”

“If anyone knows what the consequences of going to court can be, Raya, it’s us.”

“It’s
me
, you mean.
You
had two parents who wanted you.”

He closed his eyes; his chest puffed out with the effort of the breath he was drawing in. “Be fair. I had two parents only for a very short time. And of all the words that could ever be used to describe you,
Ry,
unwanted
is not one of them.”

My cheeks were suddenly warm, and I couldn’t look at him. I studied his boots again, the way the bottom of his cloak just brushed the spot where the laces up the back of them tied together. “It still doesn’t matter. I’m seventeen. If I don’t go to the castle, my only other choice is to stay here – and what? Hope that some officer in
Bronmar’s army offers to marry me before it’s reported that my father has a daughter who is of age and didn’t go? Perhaps Sabian himself will propose.”

“That isn’t funny.”

“None of this is funny. If I don’t go, you could be charged with treason for not reporting me yourself.”

“I wouldn’t…”

“I know. That’s part of the problem. And you don’t have anything else to offer me, Caleb. Not that I would expect you to, even if you could.”

His expression changed dramatically, became suddenly softer, but much sadder. “If I could offer, would you accept?”

I looked down at my hands. I didn’t even know how two leaves had gotten between my fingers, hadn’t even noticed myself pulling them out of the basket, but there they were, shredded into tiny pieces, little green flecks coloring my fingers and creeping under my fingernails. Picking at one of them, I rubbed it between my thumb and forefinger, willing myself to be calm. “I don’t know. That’s not something I can even think about, because it doesn’t matter. You’re one of his soldiers now – your life is not your own – and neither is mine. I’m of age. I’m going.”

Then we just stood there, for what felt like an eternity. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him, but I’m pretty sure he wasn’t looking at me, either, at least not at my face; he might have been staring at my hands, just like I was.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “Can I at least carry your basket and walk you home?”

I almost didn’t – afraid that when I touched the basket again, he’d see how badly I was still shaken, but then I took a deep breath, pulled it off my arm, and handed it to him.

“HELLO CALEB!”
My father called as soon as he saw us approaching the wooden fence that surrounded our little stone cottage.

“Rand.” Caleb nodded. “You’re hard at work as usual.”

“What’s done in love is hardly work, son.” As he spoke, he was setting a little pot on the grate over one of the fires. Behind him, Leo was busily crushing the leaves he’d gathered.

It shouldn’t still surprise me, I supposed, that my father’s endless supply of patience wouldn’t even be tested by the amount of work in front of him now – work he would probably have preferred not to be doing. My father didn’t like the idea of my going to the palace any more than Caleb did.

There was no hurry in his motion as he walked over to the gate to open it for us – no haste as he took the basket from Caleb and patted him on the shoulder.

Although his eyes flitted from fire to fire around the yard, and as soon as he’d set the basket down he was bending over a pot, stirring it and lifting out a bright red length of wool, his voice and manner were calm and cheerful – yes, he was infinitely more patient than I could ever be.

My hands were empty, so I took the newly red skein from my father, carrying it over to hang on the wooden drying rack that leaned against the wall of the cottage, listening to him speak to Caleb as I searched for a place to hang it among the already full lines of colorful yarn.

“I didn’t think you had training today.”

“Sabian will have us do as he wishes.”

“That’s true, I’m sure. An army that can take over a region of another kingdom can do as it pleases with those it has conquered.” I didn’t have to look to know that both of their eyes were on me now. I busied myself with rearranging some of the skeins, making room to hang this new one, positioning each color exactly right.

“I suppose they think the wages make up for it … it’s too bad it’s not enough to cover King Oriel’s taxes for a family.”

I turned around for this, in time to see the concerned frown on my father’s face. It wasn’t often that my father was willing to talk politics where I could hear. For a moment, I wasn’t sure if he remembered I was standing this close. “Oriel expects that young soldiers are spending their money only on simple pleasures.”

“Well, some of us aren’t just spending our free weekends at the inns in the cities.”

“I know, Caleb. Some young men have always had more responsibility – and care – than most.” He laid a dye-stained hand on Caleb’s shoulder. “Three months have nearly passed again.”

Caleb nodded.

“Raya,” my father called, without shifting his gaze from Caleb. “I’ve prepared four pouches already. Would you go and retrieve them for me, please?”

Yes, he remembered I was there.

I didn’t have to ask him where to find the pouches. Inside the cottage, I headed straight for my father’s room.

His room was the smallest in the cottage, big enough only for his bed and a small desk. Smaller by half than the one he’d given me, and the one he’d built for Caleb when he’d come to live with us eight years ago.

Sunlight streamed in through the window, creating a square of warm yellow light on the tapestried blanket. In the middle of the sunlight, there was an enormous, fuzzy black cat. When I entered, he stretched and yawned, flipping over to reveal the tuft of white on his belly.

“Hi Snowflake.” I walked toward the bed and rubbed his fur. He rewarded me with a loud purr before turning back over and closing his eyes. I chuckled and shook my head. “You really should be out catching yourself something for dinner – you ought to earn your keep.”

Snowflake’s eyes opened just long enough give me a look that told me exactly what he thought of that – and make me laugh again – and then they fluttered back closed.

Turning to my father’s wooden desk, I moved the heavy chair out of the way and pulled at the center drawer until it came all the way out. Setting the drawer on the top of the desk, I felt around the bottom edges of the drawer until my fingers found the two small grooves. Putting an index finger into each groove, I pulled, and the whole bottom of the drawer came up, revealing the compartment hidden underneath.

There were the four cloth pouches, red, orange, yellow, and green, each tied with a length of red yarn. For just a moment, as I gathered them in my hands, and I could feel the weight of the coins inside, and hear them clinking together, I was irritated.

It was a lot of money. Though I would never open one of the pouches and count its contents, I knew that it was more than my father ever took to the market himself. More than he’d ever spent at once in his life, probably.

Certainly, there was enough here to just buy me a couple of dresses – real ones from one of the fancy shops in
Tildoor or Moreland. Dresses like the ones the girls from the city would wear to the palace, instead of my father’s homemade ones that will identify me immediately as a village girl from the Flatlands.

It wasn’t that I begrudged where this money was going. The people my father helped with their tax payments needed it much more than we did. I would never have asked him to spend
this
money on me, instead.

But I didn’t understand where my father got this kind of money. I knew he did all right with his weaving – the tapestries and cloth that he produced were in high demand in the Flatlands. But seeing all of this money in one place, though, made me wonder where he got it – and how there could be enough to help anyone who needed, but not enough for me to have a couple of proper dresses to wear to the palace.