The Ferryman - Book 1

Chapter 55:

The Fire-Melted Ring

It was the last day at the House of Spring.

Moth – at Agate’s instruction – awoke before dawn and went to the mansion, where Agate was waiting with two guiles. It was the two women from before who had helped Moth with her toilette.

    Moth followed them to the bath, her face set and her shoulders squared, and endured their aggressive scrubbing and primping. The woman chatted in a swirl around her, Agate seemed to know them well and Moth learned that their names were Holly and Wilona – half-sisters.

    The two worked diligently for hours, plucking eyebrow hair and using hooked instruments to dig ancient grime out from under Moth’s fingernails, as well as oiling her skin and braiding her hair.

    “How do you want it?” they asked.

    Moth opened her mouth, but realized they were addressing Agate.

    Agate held open her miniature journal that hung in a gold holster from her chatelaine. Inside the journal was a beautifully rendered sketch of a hairstyle – though the braids themselves were not complicated, the many ornaments that interwove through it were.

    Holly and Wilona arched their eyebrows and glanced at each other.

    “Pre-Ovian bridal hair?” Holly asked, as Wilona took a box of hair ornaments from Agate.

    “She is the bride,” answered Agate. “There are times for subtlety, and times for attack.”

    At the end of the session, Agate brought in the outfit Moth would wear on her return to Hiren, and she was laced and tied into it by all three women.

    It reminded her of being prepared for her offering by Halig’s family. She was dressed in several layers, and finished off with an ornate apron with a wide band of trim, and an embroidered headdress.

    It was surprisingly restrained.

    “The first day you will be traveling only to stay at the Cride’s farm,” said Agate. “You still need to make a good impression on them – but the outfits meant to woo Hiren are bundled up for later. I marked it all for your convenience, each with an instructional letter full of every detail I thought was important.”

    Moth recalled Agate’s expression in the greenhouse – one of resignation and self-doubt as she poured out her worries to Correb. Moth said earnestly to her, “Thank you. I’ll read every word and do my best to do your wardrobe justice.”

    “Your wardrobe,” corrected Agate. Then, in a strange moment of earnestness, she grabbed Moth’s hand between her own and said, “You’re beautiful. Use that.” She was then so shocked by her forwardness, she hurried away before Moth could formulate a reply.

    Moth thanked Wilona and Holly profusely, and they looked at her with uninterested expressions and waved away her thanks like it was cigarette smoke. Left alone in the bathroom, Moth searched around for her bag.

    During the many trying-on sessions with Agate, Moth had seen a hip bag that was beautifully tooled reindeer leather, and it was the one thing she had specifically asked for – Agate was happy to consent as it had been offered from Hiren’s region.

Inside it, Moth had placed several important items – such as the ferryman’s map and Lander’s letter. She fastened the bag onto her belt.

Primped and fresh and feeling as ready as she could be, Moth descended the hallways and stairs and went to the grand, ancient foyer of the mansion.

At first, she could not see the ferryman in the dim light of the empty place.

But the ferryman was there, waiting by a window. He was a long river of inky feathers from his head, down his back, to his tail – he was framed by a tall stained glass window of ultramarine blue and peach tones, depicting a night sky.

Moth felt, under that beautiful lighting, he did not look so monstrous.

Lord Correb turned when he heard her descend the final few stairs. He bowed his head to her and said, “I believe it is still rings?”

    ““I’m sorry?” said Moth.

“Are rings worn on the finger still used for marriage?” Correb held a jewelry box.

Staring at it uneasily, Moth said, “Yes.”

“It used to be nose rings. It’s still that practice on Tiding.” The ferryman crossed over to Moth, bending low to her and opening the box.

In it was an array of the most expensive jewelry Moth had ever seen – nine rings. The entire pile of sunstones would not be worth one of these. “Oh,” she said faintly.

“Please choose.”

Ruby, tourmaline, amethyst, morganite, ruby, jadeite, diamond, and several emeralds. Ancient rings beyond appraisal, the colors were alive in the light. The bands they were set on were crafted with minute details, needing a magnifying glass to appreciate the work.

They were all perfect, and though Moth’s eye was drawn to one with a morganite gemstone, she kept her hands at her side and looked at Correb.

“Would you choose for me?” she asked.

He tilted his head, waiting for an explanation.

“In Hiren, the husband chooses a ring for the bride, and the bride a ring for the husband. I would like to say truthfully to people, when they ask, that you chose and gave me a ring. That you picked it out.”

Correb listened and gave a slow nod.

He glanced over the rings, and he picked – of all of them – the simplest one. It was a single, large yellow tourmaline set on a thick band of black metal. Moth had never seen metal like it before. The ring looked as though it had been damaged by fire, deeply warped, with a wobbled edge – though the gem remained as bright as ever.

He extended his hand, and Moth gave him her left one. He, carefully, slipped the ring on, over the fog-gray flesh of her finger.

“That was a ring I gave to one of my dearest friends,” said the ferryman. He thought for a moment and added. “A very long time ago – before this kingdom was called Coewylle.”

The band of the ring was far too large, but within seconds had shrunk to lay flush with her skin. Amazed, Moth tugged on it, but it could not come off.

“I am the only one who can take it off. If you are ever tired of it, or finished with the title as my wife, I will remove it.”

Moth nodded gravely. Correb turned from her to open the front doors of his mansion.

Outside, waiting amidst the billows of ivy, was Oliver with the black and white gelding called Aggo.

Aggo glistened in his black and white colors. His mane and tail had been carefully braided with hair ornaments as well. It was fortunate he was such a large breed of horse, as he was burdened with many bags of clothes, as well as all the sunstones.

The sunstones had been packed carefully in small trunks and secured with great care to Aggo’s saddle. Despite these many burdens, Aggo didn’t seem to notice the weight and turned his head to get a better look at Moth.

Correb took Moth’s hand and brought her over to Aggo. Correb spoke to Aggo, giving him firm instructions in another language, and Aggo seemed to listen.

When Correb had completed his instruction, Aggo turned and bowed his head to Moth to be pet – she could feel the heat from his breath. She scratched him gratefully.

“Thank you for diligence, Oliver,” said Correb. Oliver nodded, looking as though he was avoiding Correb’s direct gaze, and returned quickly to the barns.

Moth mounted Aggo, who thrummed with life and health. She had never seen a horse so beautiful or well-trained, and she stroked his neck and grinned joyfully at Correb. “Thank you for allowing me to borrow Aggo! I’ll take care of him.”

Correb studied her expression for a minute, and then the stitches around his mouth crinkled with a smile. He took Aggo’s reins and walked with Moth down from the mansion, down to the towering gate sitting under the arch of the gatehouse.

“I marked on the map the best door for you to go through to enter Hiren, the one closest to the Cride’s farm,” said Correb. “I sent word to them though dreams that you are coming, but even if they did not heed the dream, they will welcome you.”

Moth nodded nervously. After a two-hour ride she would be there.

“In addition, I also marked all the doorways that are still open. Though you can go out most of these doors, you cannot return to the marches through them.” Correb paused at the gate. He touched the filigree bars, one hand still holding the horse’s reins, and looked deeply troubled. The expression flickered off his face, and he said to the gate:

“Rakkavataus.”

Moth’s ears tingled at the word. The gate groaned open, ripping up tendrils of ivy and showering down dirt and dust, disturbing clusters of woodlouse and ladybugs.

Correb stood to the side – reluctantly – and Moth rode out into the forest, pausing to looked back at the ferryman.

The Ferryman closed and latched the gate behind her, but stood holding the bars and watching her through the gaps. He watched her intently with his pale moon eyes, and said, “What you are doing is invaluable, and much larger than you yet know. It could alter the future of this kingdom.”

He bowed his head to her, kept it low for almost a full minute, and without looking at her again, he returned with slow labored steps to the mansion.