Dragonlands(9)

Tressa’s eyes narrowed. Did he really think it was necessary to do this now? If the elders had agreed to stop the chosen three from venturing into the fog, then Tressa would have time to figure things out. She wouldn’t have a random man as her husband, not for pity, and not for Udor’s twisted desires.

“So I don’t have to prepare to leave tomorrow?” Tressa chose to ignore his entreaties. She would never be his. Never.

Udor glared at her. He knew better than to force her into something against her will. The townspeople may not appreciate her using up resources when their children might need them, but they wouldn’t stand for forcing a woman into coupling.

In such a small place, the criminals were few and far between. Jealousy, conniving, and persuasion all ran rampant, but no one dared cross the line of propriety. The sentence for crime was simple: banishment into the fog, blindfolded and bound. In case there was life out there, they had to fight to find it, hampered by their bindings. But they wouldn’t be allowed to stay in the village. There was no offer for rehabilitation.

“I’ve saved your life.” Udor opened the door to the hall, holding his arm out to the side. “Maybe you should think on that tonight.”

Tressa held her head high, and strode out the door. She did have much to think about. In less than a day, everything had changed. Just yesterday she had thought she was moving toward death in the fog. Then Granna suddenly fell ill and passed. She hadn’t been prepared for that. Now Tressa had her reprieve.

Everything was backward. She didn’t know which way to turn. Her cottage looked the same, but empty.

Tressa lay down in her bed, pulling the covers up tight to her chin. The only light came from the faint moonlight that tore through the fog’s unrelenting veil. She rolled over, scooting against the wall. Something scratched her back. Tressa reached a hand behind her, and was surprised to find a worn piece of parchment crumpled up between the bed and wall.

Tressa set the paper on her lap and lit a bedside candle. Bringing the candle closer to the parchment, she squinted in an attempt to read it.

Age had cut into the folds of the parchment, slicing through image. Orange foxing framed the edges. It was a faded picture of a man, bound in a tree. Shock pulsed in her veins.

Tressa had never seen this before. All of the documents they held at Hutton’s Bridge were kept in the hall, guarded under lock and key. Long ago, the elders had taken this step to preserve their past. They’d lost the ability to purchase parchment after the fog fell. Most in the newer generations didn’t know how to read or write. It wasn’t important anymore. But Granna had taken great pains to teach Tressa.

At the bottom of the picture, a hastily written message stood. Smudged, it looked like it had been written with a stick and the remnants of the black soot on the end of a candle’s wick. Tressa glanced at the candle in her other hand. The wick listed to the side.

She held the parchment up to the candle, careful not to catch it on fire.

Tressa,

My visions were about you. You must enter the fog. It is your destiny. It was my intention to live long enough to see you through the fog and welcome you back into my arms when you returned, but this sudden illness has rendered me weak.

I love you always. Never forget this. I have always followed my heart. All I can do is ask that you do the same.

Granna

Visions. Not that again. Tressa sighed and folded up the note. Granna had been further gone than she’d thought. No one returned from the fog. Ever. There was no reason to think Tressa would be any different.





Chapter Seven


The gong of the town bells woke Tressa from a deep sleep. Images of Granna flickered in and out of her memory, but the shouts outside her door roused her quickly. Tressa shimmied into her dress, pulling it over her underclothes. She tied a woven belt around her waist, one of her own design, gathered her hair into a sloppy ponytail, and ran out the door.

Three more dead bodies rested in the town square. A knot formed in Tressa’s throat. Granna’s illness. Now more were dead.

Tressa walked over to Mariah, her neighbor. “Who died?”

“I don’t know yet. I still need to feed the baby before I can go and see. I sent Marcus, but he hasn’t come back yet.” As if to back up her story, Mariah’s baby cried out from inside the house. “You’ll excuse me?”

Tressa nodded, but Mariah didn’t wait to see what she said. The baby’s needs were more important. Tressa understood that. It didn’t make it any easier, though. She’d slowly grown away from all of her friends as they coupled and had babies. They said Tressa couldn’t understand their lives anymore. She wasn’t sure any of them ever gave her a chance.