The cloak, the ring, and the watchtower

“There weren't always dragons in the Valley.” Edhor’s words escaped in a choking rasp, as his hand, Orra’s very definition of strength, clutched onto hers like a frightened child.

His words were part of a story-like game they had played. He’d make such a statement, forcing her to reply, “there certainly aren’t any I can see even now.”

Edhor then chuckled, pointing to whichever dragon-like object happened to be near. Showing Orra that dragons did exist if one paid enough attention to see them.

But the game no longer mattered, as the man she viewed like a father clung to life. After a sudden sickness had enveloped him, tugging him into madness.

Edhor swallowed with great difficulty. His eyes, a milky sheen, roamed the room until they found Orra. His hand tightened painfully around hers as his free one moved upward. “I’ve kept this safe all this time. You must take it before it’s too late.”

Orra struggled to understand as he drew a tiny leather pouch from around his neck. What the cord held had always fascinated Orra, leading her to believe it was some sort of medallion for valour or his family crest.

He tugged it, believing he still maintained the strength to rip it from its perch. As he failed, his face fell. Another tug brought a growing frustration, a helplessness that made Orra’s heart ache.

Releasing his hand, she slid it from his neck in a move that made him groan in pain.

Once free of it, a shaky breath escaped him. “Put it around your neck immediately. Tell no one of its existence.”

Large trembling hands felt along the blanket for hers, and she quickly donned the necklace before reaching for him. The moment her fingers interlaced with his, he smiled, closed his eyes and exhaled one final time.

Orra remained, holding his hand in the only embrace they ever known. Technically in reverse, her hands holding his, comforting him in a sleep he would never wake from. Reminding her of her terrifying childhood dreams, where Edhor would wake her by brushing the matted hair from her face. Soothing her with a lullaby.

Pulling a hand free, Orra brushed back a lock of his silver hair and tucked it tenderly behind his ear as she began to sing the lullaby. A song about a great beast, wrapping its wings around her in protection. Her ability to love it, the only thing that could turn it back into a man.

At dawn’s arrival, so too came the castle’s knowledge of their ruler’s death. Orra, her voice hoarse from a night filled with lullabies, was hastily removed from Edhor’s room by his son. The new ruler, a man unlike his father in every way, despised her for many reasons, foremost Orra being the only person his father appeared to have loved.

Joran had shown his dislike for Orra from her arrival. Wrapped in a cloak and left on their stoop in the dead of night. Not only had Edhor, the ruler of the village, taken her in, he had treated her like a daughter.

Later, Edhor only further insulted his son and his people by insisting Orra train in combat with the boys of the village in the protection of the Valley. Protection from what, Orra had no clue. The Valley was peaceful. Each of the five villages and the subsequent five ruling families came together to form a bond to maintain their survival. Creating a circulating coupling system, pairing individuals who had come of age, not based on compatibility, but preventing inbreeding.

Escorting her out of Edhor’s chamber, Joran’s hand clutched her upper arm. The moment they were out of sight of the household staff, Orra shook him off.

His icy blue eyes pierced hers. “The blessed day has come, Orra. You may stay for the funeral pyre as is expected, but on the morrow you shall be leaving us.”

‘Leaving us,’ echoed in her mind and his thin lips moved into a sneer, as if he read her thoughts. “The time has come for you to be joined to the Scorran. A very nice family is expecting you for their son.”

With Edhor no longer protecting her, keeping Orra off the marriage mart, Joran was immediately shackling Orra to another, with lands at the farthest end of the Valley. She knew if Edhor’s own people had despised her for her unknown origins, she would be treated with disdain by the other villages.

“Pack what you need to leave at first light. You may take your horse as a wedding gift.” His sneer attempted to twitch into a smile.

Orra would not lower herself to comment. What she really wanted was to use her considerable skill off of the training grounds on Joran. It would not be the first time she bested him, but now more dangerous with his newfound power. It would give him the perfect excuse to send her to her own funeral pyre. Slightly shocked that he hadn’t already instigated a skirmish, she figured a fight would have been to the death. And without outside assistance, it would have been Joran joining his father on the pyre.

With great difficulty, Orra lowered her defiant chin as the silence stretched between them. Finally, with too much pleasure, Joran said, “You may go.”

#

Tor knickered at Orra’s outstretched hand holding an apple. The chestnut stallion, apprehensive of such a gift.

“It could be a carrot.” She chided when he took it, moving her hand to stroke his nose.

After exiting the castle, Orra had found Tor saddled, his reins tied to a post. No one around to say farewell to, even if she wanted to. If she looked back at the castle, she would undoubtedly see Joran through a window. Unable to give him the satisfaction, she placed her satchel in a saddlebag, untied the reins, and pulled herself into the saddle.

Wishing to nudge Tor into a trot, Orra held herself back, slowly making her way to the drawbridge. At least the day held the promise of warmth and Orra brought Tor down into the waking village with the knowledge she would not miss the lands or its people. Only the solitary individual who had made the castle her home.

Passing through the main thoroughfare, she followed the road out of the village until she reached the crossroads. With its small number of signs tacked to a post, each pointing to the borders separating the ruling families. Looking at each marker in turn, Orra knew any path would lead her to Scorran. With the paths snaked out before her, she was tempted to dismount, walk to the middle of the crossroads, extend her hand, close her eyes and spin. Whichever path she pointed to when she stopped would be the one she took.

As she was about to dismount to facilitate the childish game, a shrill bird’s song caught Orra’s ear. Unable to place the bird itself, she scanned the sky. Her eyes latching onto red feathers flying at such heights it made Orra dizzy. The call sounded so close, but the bird appeared far off in the distance. Orra remained almost entranced by the bird’s flight path as it swooped towards treetops at the top of the Valley.

“What are you doing, little bird?” Orra asked aloud. Tor’s neigh and nervous shift beneath her, her only reply.

The bird continued arcing up and down, its trajectory taking it closer and closer to the fog perpetually shrouding the Valley hilltop. A mist, obscuring the view over the pass, whether the sky was cloudy or remained blue. A legendary unpassable border.

An errant thought flitted through Orra as she continued tracking the bird, one of many forbidden to be spoken aloud by Edhor and everyone within the Valley. Thoughts she had ignored until they had no longer existed in her mind.

Would the fog allow the bird to pass?

Orra could not remember ever paying attention to such a thing before. If the fog only bound the people to the Valley, or if it also restricted the wildlife within its hills?

She watched the crimson tail feathers of the bird dance in the sky, closer and closer to the fog. Her breath hitched in her throat the moment it looked as if it was about to pierce through. Only to watch it hover midair and rotate as if to fly back towards her. It remained aloft, as if indecisive of its own path. In a blink, it no longer hesitated, rising again before rolling backwards to disappear into the fog.

Orra’s gasp startled Tor, forcing her to lean forward and pat his neck. Unable to take her eyes from where the bird had disappeared, eagerly waiting for it to swoop back into view. “Shh, it’s alright.”

Had Orra somehow discovered something kept from those in the Valley? Could the fog actually be pierced?

The well-trodden paths disappeared from Orra’s thoughts as she turned Tor towards the woods. Her mind focused on seeing the fog up close. Seeing the barrier that was said separated the Valley from what lay beyond it.

Tor’s attempt to pull back on the reins and redirect them to one of the clearly marked paths could not deter Orra. The misty border called out to her. It would be days before anyone noticed she did not make it to Scorran. Finally, Tor realized it was fruitless and allowed Orra to spur him into the surrounding trees. Their new path: upward.

It was past midday when Orra stopped at a large rock in a clearing close to her Valley top destination. Having long left Tor’s back, deciding it was best to continue on foot with their increasing incline. Tor had only grown more fidgety and reluctant, twice since their last stop had Orra coaxed him forward with an apple. She now ran low on fruity bribes.

“I would allow you to go back if it would not alert someone to my sudden reckless choice. You would not lead them to me, would you?” She bit a piece of loaf she had hastily grabbed from the kitchen.

Tor’s whinnied reply was unconvincing.

“What reckless choice?” A voice asked from the bushes behind the large rock where Orra sat.

With a scream, followed by a choking cough, Orra jumped forward, whirling around. Her body instinctively assumed a defensive crouch.

“I did not mean to frighten you?” The voice said, a slight giggle on its heels.

Before Orra could respond, Tor stuck his head into the bushes. Was her horse about to nip whomever had scared her?

“Hello, pony. Nice to meet you.” Came the hidden bush voice. “Alright. I will introduce myself properly.”

It appeared as though the person was communicating with Tor. And Tor whinnied almost as if in response.

The leaves on the bushes rustled as Tor clomped backwards, his reins aloft as if being held out by something or someone. Her notion proven correct as a small boy crawled onto the rock; the reins held in one of his hands.

Orra could not immediately discern his age as he held himself oddly, with his arms and shoulders drooped between legs holding him in a crouch; like a spider. His unkempt hair curled around a dirt-streaked face, and he wore clothing similar in colour to the surrounding bushes, allowing him to camouflage amongst them.

“I will not harm you.” His gaze scanned Orra from her head to her boots. “You would probably hurt me very badly.”

At his words, Orra relaxed, standing straighter. She would never injure a child. “I did not expect to encounter anyone up here.” Wondering if she should offer some sort of apology.

Mirth filled the boy's eyes, “Oh, no one has ever come this high before. Well, not around here, that is.”

Orra’s gaze flickered behind the boy to the top of the hill. From her vantage point, she could see the mist was not static, but moving lazily like fluffy clouds.

“It gets mighty cold the closer you go. You should put your cloak on if you plan to go further.” The boy spoke reassuringly. Tor sidled closer, entranced by the boy’s tone, a puff from his nostrils forcing the urchin to giggle.

Watching the pair, Orra wondered what he knew of her cloak? The only one she had packed, being the one she had been left in. This had been the first time in years she had taken it out of her trunk. It and Edhor’s leather pouch had been the only items she needed. It was silly to think the boy’s words had been anything beyond sage, as she could feel the temperature falling. And no one ever travelled without a cloak.

“Your horse is handsome.” Tor rubbed his nose along the side of the boy’s face.

“His name is Tor.”

“I know.”

“How?” Orra asked. Realizing he must have heard her call Tor by his name.

“He told me so.” The boy’s eyes twinkled. “My name is Tree.” He extended his hand between them.

Tree. What an apt name for the boy, Orra thought. Although bush or rock would suit him just as well. A part of her warned her not to, but Orra closed the gap between them. As Tor was a better judge of character than Orra, if he liked the boy, she could too.

“I am Orra.” Her palm met his smaller one. His fingers calloused, nails short and lined with dirt.

His hand fit comfortably in hers. “Nice to meet you, Orra. I can offer a safer place to rest. It is back down a bit, though.” His earthy brown eyes skipped behind her.

“A safer place to rest?” His words chilled her skin as she repeated them.

“Tor is rather frightened to be this high.” Tree released her hand, bringing it to Tor’s long face.

Orra let her hand fall. A bereftness seeping into her as she looked to the top of the Valley, which was at most an hour’s walk from where she currently stood.

Had this been as far as she was ever meant to go? Could Tree answer her growing questions? It appeared he lived near. He might know more than anyone else about the fog. And willing to tell her.

“I do not think he wishes to go closer.” Tree glanced towards the barrier.

Opening her mouth to agree, Orra asked instead, “Would you take him, Tree?” She could not stop. Not now.

“Take Tor?” Tree’s jaw slackened.

Orra nodded, taking a step towards Tor. “Would you mind going with Tree?” Her eyes suddenly stung from unshed tears, and she could not focus. With a knicker and a puff from his nose, Tor tucked in against Orra’s shoulder. “Good, boy.” She stroked his mane and pressed her lips to the side of his face.

“I will take good care of him until you come back.” Tree grinned at her. His words were open ended, holding a shifting meaning of time.

“Thank you, Tree.” Orra took a step to remove her leather bag, slinging it over her shoulder.

“Make sure to put on your cloak, Orra.” Tree looked to her satchel, before his eyes darted to her neckline. “Donning, that might also be beneficial.”

Orra stopped herself from reaching for Edhor’s leather pouch hanging around her neck. She hadn’t opened it, as it had been easier to feel its weight against her body than risk taking a peek.

“How do you―” She had difficulty speaking through clenched teeth. “What do you know?”

Before Tree could respond, he nearly toppled from the rock as Tor turned, tugging on the reins the boy still clutched. With a surprising agility, Tree landed on his feet. Tor continued to pull at Tree, the stallion no longer wishing to remain.

“Until we meet again, Orra.” Tree dipped his chin, shuffling to keep up with Tor.

She could not let the boy leave without asking. “Tree, can people pass through the fog?”

With a one last glance over his shoulder as they reached the treeline, Tree shrugged. “I’ve never seen it. Doesn’t mean it can’t happen.”

Just before the boy and her horse disappeared, Orra thought to call out again, ask where the boy lived, in order to retrieve Tor upon her return. But the words did not come.

The moment she could no longer hear their friendly, one-sided conversation through the trees, Orra turned toward her intended destination. The wind picked up, whispering against her skin, further tangling the wisps of her hair. If she listened hard enough, she could almost hear her name on the air.

Looking at the bluest part of the sky, Orra wondered if she had lost track of the time. Sleep had eluded her since Edhor’s death, and exhaustion hung on her shoulders like the Valley’s hilltop fog.

As the temperature continued to drop, it convinced Orra to put her cloak on. Her hand sliding into her large satchel, her fingers brushing against the wrapped package. With a shake of her head at her own foolish hesitation, Orra pulled it out.

Moving to the stone that Tree had perched on, she laid the package down before slowly unwrapping it. Having no memory of the cloak, it surprised Orra the moment the garment was no longer shielded by its wrap. Emerald green it rivalled the intricate greens of the surrounding woods. Folded to allow the clasp to lie at the very top, Orra traced its three intricate golden swirls. The middle swirl holding a stone the colour of blood. Lifting the garment to shake it out of its folds, its weight confused her, feeling significantly heavier than the fabric made it appear. Hesitantly, Orra undid the clasp and slipped the cloak over her shoulders. It billowed to the ground, bringing with it the knowledge it had made for someone significantly taller. A man, perhaps?

Securing the clasp, Orra pulled the string at her neck until the leather pouch emerged from the top of her bodice. Her stiff hands struggled to loosen the puckered top, holding it closed. Once opened, she turned it over, allowing a golden ring to fall onto her upturned palm. Twisting the dainty band, two more jewels winked up at her, identical in colour to the one on the cloak’s clasp. The stones sat at an odd angle, each slit-like shape giving off the appearance of eyes. The intricate carvings in the gold band enhancing her thought the jewels looked like the eyes of a dragon. Although beautifully crafted, Orra worried that, like the cloak, the ring might be over large. Attempting to place it on her thumb, it would not fit, and she moved it along each finger until it found its home. The sensation as it slid past her knuckle sending a shiver through her.

Unhindered by a reluctant Tor, it took no time for Orra to find herself standing a short distance from the fog. Its lazy billowy quality had shifted upon closer inspection, now rolling like an oncoming storm cloud, but maintained its pearly hue. Fascinated, Orra felt even more drawn to the boundary.

What would happen if she got too close?

Could she touch it?

Testing her theory, Orra extended her ring clad hand, with the belief the fog would feel slightly denser than the air itself. The moment her fingers should have touched, the mist shifted as if repelled, forcing Orra to step forward, actively trying to catch a piece within her grasp. One step turned into several, and in a blink, she found herself surrounded. The wind tugged at her cloak while the mist remained at bay, rolling around her, untouching.

Glancing whence came, she felt there was no other choice but to continue. Her need to know what existed on the other side, more integral than what little she was leaving behind.

The fog continued to part as she moved forward several strides until a sudden suction caught the sides of her cloak as if she were being drawn out. With one more step and a slight popping in her ears, Orra stepped out of the clouds at the top of what appeared a vastly different Valley.

Gone were the blue skies of moments ago. The storm cloud-like mist of the Valley hilltop now encapsulated the sky above. Orra shrank back as cascading lightning highlighted the rippling clouds, as if trapped, and unable to strike out at the ground. The deafening rumble of thunder shook the soil beneath her feet as rain pelted the ground just past the fog.

Needing shelter, Orra waited until the lightning lit up the sky once more, and glimpsed a tower-like structure several yards ahead. Bringing the hood of her cloak up, she left the foggy boundary and ran forward.

The sky lit her steps twice more, as Orra wondered if the tower was further than she initially thought. Nearly there, she was brought to an immediate halt when a roar ripped through the sky. A stark contrast against the thunderous backdrop. The sound, like that of a wounded animal.

Her lungs tightened as the sound repeated, and she tipped her head upward. An accompanying burst of lightning illuminating what appeared to be a terrifyingly enormous shadow above the clouds, before Orra saw some kind of object drop. The misty veil shimmering as whatever it was continued its impressive descent.

Unable to move her legs, she watched the object plummet towards her. A fluttering giving the impression of an injured bird. Could she catch it? But the closer it drew, the larger it became, and she realized the ruffling was in actuality a billowing cloak.

Logically, she could not soften their impact, their size large enough to crush her. But it did not stop the instinctive extension of her arms. Orra wanted to close her eyes, but like her legs, they would not heed her command.

Orra found herself fervently wishing the cloaked body would slow, and, as if hearing her plea, its rapid descent abated. With her legs finally obeying, she lurched forward to catch their hooded head and support it as the cloaked body sunk to the ground.

With the hood obscuring the cloak wearer’s face, Orra’s eyes halted on the cloak’s clasp, three swirls identical to the one she wore, the only difference being the centre jewel; a brilliant yellow.

Her hands remained supporting either side of their head. And as a groan came from the body, Orra’s fingers itched to draw back the hood. But before she could summon the courage, a bloodied hand emerged from inside the cloak to grasp onto her wrist.