Corrin made her way to one of the four corner towers that rose from the walls of Oddment, where the guards sent from the capital usually liked to stay. The current guard had moved here, oh, about a year ago. They changed in and out, usually switching in a fresh six or seven every couple of years. Corrin knocked, and when a voice called out to invite her inside, she peeked cautiously into the circular room.
The two guards inside were playing a game of Battle Dragon. The board with its little wooden figurines and chips was laid out on a rickety table. The guards had only their leathers on, no metal greaves or breastplates or any other pieces of armor. They greeted her with lazy waves and an invitation to join the game. “Want to pull up a chair?” asked the first, a bearded fellow with a beer belly and a tremendous mustache. He grinned at her. “Watch me crush my pal over here?”
“No thank you,” said Corrin politely, while internally, she despaired. If she recalled correctly, this guard’s name was Vern. She did not think him the most adept of guards, nor the most wise. Last spring, he’d taken a tremendously foolish dare out of boredom and perhaps too much drink: he’d agreed to stand with an apple on his head and be shot at, with the expectation that the arrow would just barely miss him and pierce the fruit. His companion had mis-aimed a truly impressive amount and hit him instead, and he had (understandably) screamed like a dying creature. His companion had told the tale while Vern quailed in a chair, flinching as Corrin applied numbing salves, removed the arrow, and cleansed and sewed up the wound. Vern had whimpered and squirmed as she worked, though she’d tried to be gentle. She’d felt awful for him at the time, but a mite incredulous, too.
Corrin mentally pulled herself together. He’s still a guard, she told herself firmly. He still went through military training, and he can still fight better than I can, if he has to. And that other one hasn’t agreed to be shot at on a dare, far as I know.
She took a deep breath and said, “I need you to do a favor for Oddment.”
Both guards frowned. “What kind of favor, lass?” asked Vern.
Corrin explained it all carefully, trying to convey the importance of the quest. The persistence of the sickness. The timeline. The urgent need for a cure. The potential solution that Bathilda had presented. She laid the map on the table and explained where it had come from. “No one who’s been lost in the Gloamwood had a map like this to guide them,” she concluded. “Not that I’ve heard, at least. So please. Help us.”
The guards balked.
Vern nervously scratched his beard. “That’s—well. Our job is to guard this little patch of Stalt. We make sure no bandits or wild beasts make it into your village. The Gloamwood, you see, it’s just not in our job description.”
The second guard, a short, wiry man with a perpetual scowl, piped up. “How do you even know this fruit will fix things? What if it only fixes one kind of plague?”
Corrin thought she’d told them, but she tried again. “Bathilda said the mechanism of healing—”
Vern raised a finger and cut her off. “Even if the old healer lady is right,” he said, as if there were any doubt to this—as if Bathilda weren’t a brilliant medical expert but instead delusional, or misguided, or simply not very smart—”the Gloamwood is too much of a risk. No, we’d likely lose our lives, and all for some wild fairytale hope. Best we can do is hope the ill recover, and if need be, set up a quaranti—”
The other soldier elbowed him, cutting him off. “Corrin, isn’t it?”
Corrin nodded numbly.
“Alright then. Corrin, go home. Mix your poultices, we’ll man the keep, and no one goes into that spirits-forsaken place. We’ll send a message to the capital about this town’s predicament.”
Corrin’s throat went tight, and something inside her felt stung. She’d been dismissed. Worse, the wisdom of her mentor had been dismissed, and by the same fool who’d let himself be shot for a game! A pressure built in her chest, a horrible, boiling-over feeling, like she wanted to yell at them. But the guards were already turning away from her, and she had no idea what words to use. She’d never been a yeller, anyway; if reasonable words didn’t work, making more noise felt futile. They weren’t listening. They wouldn’t help, and that was the end of it.
Blast it all, she thought, Bathilda was right. Of course she was.
Corrin turned to leave. Just as she drew the door shut behind her, she heard the thump of a hand swatting the back of someone’s head. The second soldier said, “A quarantine won’t help if everyone knows about it and runs all across the realm before we can set it up!”
Corrin retreated to one of her thinking spots. She scaled one of the ivy-covered walls of Oddment, her spindly fingers expertly gripping the vines, and sat with her legs dangling over the edge of the parapet. As twilight descended upon the village, her thoughts churned.
Corrin’s and Bathilda’s treatments couldn’t stop this illness. Their best hope lay in lands that even the guards wouldn’t brave. As it stood, the plague would creep in and take everyone, one by one—her da, her neighbors… The phantom of grief pressed in on Corrin, almost like a physical pain. She couldn’t let them succumb to this illness. She couldn’t bear it.
She had to fix this. But she needed help.
Surely there was someone bolder than both her and the soldiers. Someone well-traveled. Someone who knew their way around fearsome beasts and bandits and other troubles that could pounce on the unwary traveler. Most importantly—and most unlikely—someone who was willing to enter the Gloamwood. But where in Oddment could she find such a person? Where, among the peaceful farmers, quiet hunters, the young, the ancient, and all those laid low by sickness?
It hit her like a lightning strike: Trader Amella.
Trader Amella wasn’t a soldier or mercenary by trade, but she was the most well-traveled person in Oddment, the most raucous at festivals, and the loudest teller of tales. She claimed to have faced bandits and won all manner of bar fights. She always came back to Oddment with a pack full of rarities from across the land: spices, maps, seashells, silk, fine jewelry, and sometimes a griffin feather or the scale of a sea serpent. She had just returned this past week, in fact. If Corrin knocked on her door, surely she would answer.
Corrin had mixed feelings about Amella. She liked Amella’s friendliness and the way she brought stories and high spirits to a crowd. But Amella was also loud and intimidating, and she had a way of talking people into spending more than they meant to. Corrin never dared bargain with her. Sometimes, though she would never say this out loud, she also thought Amella a bit mad.
Then again, a bit of madness might be what she needed.
Like Bathilda, Trader Amella lived in one of the quieter corners of Oddment, out near the edge of the village. Unlike Bathilda, it wasn’t because it was a peaceful place to treat patients or peruse medical texts. Amella preferred her apartment because it gave her easy access to the exit gate and the main road.
Amella’s donkey, Oatmuncher, drowsed outside Amella’s home. He was a grey, round-bellied creature with a fuzzy coat and droopy eyes. He didn’t mind much of anything, it seemed. He would tolerate kids playing with his tail and cats winding around his ankles. Sometimes, if he was feeling particularly awake and someone patted him just right, he’d bob his head, as if to say, Yes, that’s the spot, please carry on.
Corrin petted his nose. He twitched an ear and blinked, but otherwise didn’t stir.
Corrin stepped past him and stopped on Amella’s doorstep. The door had a boar’s tusk mounted on it. It was a fearsome tusk, spanning the length of Corrin’s forearm and curving wickedly to a point. It hadn’t been there before Amella’s most recent trip.
Did she win that in a bar fight, or did she hunt the boar herself? Corrin wondered.
She mentally chided herself for getting distracted, then tapped the door with her knuckles.
No response.
She gulped, then tapped harder. Rap-rap-rap-rat-a-TAT—
Hinges creaked, and the door swung inward. Daylight threw Trader Amella into sharp relief. She was a tall woman with nut-brown skin and hair shorn close to the scalp. She wore a doublet, a thick, leathery one designed to take blows, and one she claimed had saved her from a knife swipe more than once. Even at home, she kept a one-handed sword and a hunting dagger belted at her waist.
Her doublet was loose at her neck and her bracers absent from her wrists, and she peered down at Corrin with curious brown eyes. A heartbeat later, a grin split her face, sudden and bright as a sunbeam breaking through clouds. “I’ll be starred, it’s our resident mini-healer!” said Amella. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you stop at my home. What’s brought you to my doorstep?” With a spark of mischief, she asked, “You aren’t here to tell me I’m on my deathbed, are you? Sick as an infected frog and had no idea?”
Alas, Amella’s humor was lost on Corrin, mired as she was in anxiety. “I, um. I have a favor to ask.”
Amella’s eyebrows rose, and her grin dropped. “Well, then. Ask.”
Corrin gulped. “Can you, uh, I mean, I need you to, please, go-to-the-Gloamwoodandretrieveacureforme?”
“You want me to what now? No, wait,” said Amella before Corrin could try again, “you should come inside and sit down for this. Seems like your favor is going to get complicated.”
Amella had a crackling fire in her hearth and woven rugs full of geometric patterns. Her walls and shelves were full to bursting with goods and trinkets. She and Corrin sat around her table, the map spread between them and bottles of ale at hand. Amella got through a third of her bottle, but Corrin’s remained untouched; she was too busy talking, explaining all that Bathilda had told her and how the guards wouldn’t help. How Amella could help. How Corrin knew she could.
“You would have this map,” said Corrin. “You wouldn’t be wandering blind, and that’s more than—”
“—more than most can say, yes.” Amella’s eyes reflected the firelight. Her expression was unreadable. “The Gloamwood… by the Churikin, what a thing to ask.”
Corrin’s hope flickered like a candle in the wind.
Amella took a draught of ale. Corrin waited, scarcely breathing. “All right,” said Amella at last. “I’ll go.”
Corrin opened her mouth to sing her praises and shower her in gratitude.
“If you go with me.”
The praises died on her tongue.
“Drink your ale, kiddo, you’re looking pale as a ghost-owl’s face. And hear me out. I’m not going into that forsaken place by myself, no way in stars. Not even for a cause as noble as yours. But with you? We’ve got a better chance. It’s a blessing to have a healer on the road, raises our odds of survival a good bit, and you’re a healer if I’ve ever seen one. Aye,” she said, before Corrin could correct her—she was still an apprentice, still learning—”you are, you’re good. Besides, you’ll know best what this fruit is supposed to look like. So we’ll go together.” With steel in her eye and fire in her voice, Amella asked, “You in?”
Corrin sipped from her bottle. The ale was sweet and heavy, and it settled warm in her stomach. It would’ve settled nicer if her insides weren’t tying themselves in knots, but alas.
Thing was, Corrin knew her answer. Alone, Corrin would surely end up a snack for a beast. But with Amella, she might—no, she would have a chance. A chance for Oddment, for Da… Corrin had to take it, even if the prospect of going left her shaking in her boots.
“I’m in. Th-thank you.”
A warm smile split Amella’s face. “I’m glad you asked me. You’re not the only one who cares about the people here, you know. This village has been good to me.” Amella stood and clapped her on the shoulder. “Let’s leave at first light tomorrow, before everyone gets sicker and those guards get a quarantine in place.”
Corrin told Bathilda first.
Bathilda beamed at her. “Clever, clever lass! You’ve made a wise choice. Amella will be a good travel companion for you, better than those dufts in the guards’ tower.”
Corrin’s heart pounded with anxiety and anticipation. She went over to help Bathilda mix medicine, but Bathilda pushed her away from the table. “No, you’ve done your work. You must pack and prepare, and get some rest tonight. You have a long road ahead of you. Oddment is counting on you to return swiftly.”
Alive, Corrin mentally added. Don’t die, that’s what she’s saying. Great. Will do, I hope.
“Be careful on the road, my dear. Hunt and gather when you can. And when you get to the Gloamwood, watch out for the bog sprites, the riddle beasts, the sink mud, the wyrms, and most of all, the trolls.” And then, much to Corrin’s surprise, Bathilda embraced her. Her mentor’s arms felt thin and fragile as dried twigs, but their hold was tight.
Fondness kindled in Corrin’s heart, and she hugged Bathilda back.
“Stay safe,” said Bathilda. “I will await your return.”
Corrin did not tell her mum and da that she was going to the Gloamwood, specifically. No need, she reasoned, to cause them more distress than was necessary. But she did tell them that she would be leaving to retrieve medicinal ingredients far to the north. Her parents were about as chuffed as one might expect to hear their child was wandering so far afield, which was to say, not chuffed at all.
After his initial protests—”must you go, really?”—her da hid his worry behind a hair-ruffle and a request for souvenirs. Corrin played along. She said she’d bring him back a seashell, or maybe even a book.
Her mum, though, was such a… well, a mum, which was both maddening and comforting in a way Corrin would never admit.
“Why couldn’t they send someone else?” asked her mum, as she heaped hard-tack and travel biscuits onto Corrin’s sleeping pallet. Corrin attempted to add fresh bread and a jar of elderberry jam to the pile. Her mum whisked that away, convinced that it would spoil on the road and take up needless space, which was ridiculous. Corrin would eat it well before then.
“What’s so far north that you can’t find in the forests here, anyway?” Her mum aggressively re-folded all of Corrin’s spare tunics and pants and placed them in a pile on her floor. She added Corrin’s festival vest and tasseled skirt, which were made to flare and twirl in a dance—and which Corrin knew she’d put back the moment her mother turned away. She’d have no use for festival wear on the road.
“How does Bathilda know this cure is worth anything?” Her mum yanked open Corrin’s medicine drawer, likely with every intention of sorting through which parts of it to pack, only to stop and frown in befuddlement. Corrin had at least a dozen jars of poultices, as many bandages as clothes, bundles of dried ingredients, a pestle and mortar, and other such tools. No mortal mum could be expected to pick what to pack, not even Corrin’s, unless they had a healer’s knowledge.
Corrin slid the drawer shut. “I’ll handle that, Mum. And I told you, Bathilda’s used it before. A long time ago, but she did. It’s our best chance of healing everyone, including Da.”
And just like that, her mum fell silent. No more whys or whats or hows.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can, Mum. I promise. I’ll finish packing, and you see to Da, okay? Make sure he drinks his fluids.”
Her mum’s hug was fiercer than Bathilda’s.
Corrin didn’t have a chance to tell her brothers until late that night. While she’d been out, they’d left to visit Petuni. Sam in particular had a soft spot for her, and if Frendel didn’t pull Sam into schemes himself, Petuni swayed him. When the door creaked open and the twins entered, their worry was palpable. Frendel’s brow was furrowed, and Sam’s shoulders hunched. They’re as worried about her as I am, thought Corrin sadly. Maybe even more so.
Corrin greeted them with sympathy and a hug, which they bore far more willingly than they usually would. Then she told them that she’d be leaving for the north to retrieve a cure—though, as with her parents, she obscured some details.
Frendel took it well. His expression cleared, and he told her to be fast and to beat up anything that stood in her way. Then he squirmed out of her embrace and charged off to do who knew what.
Sam, though… Sam was quiet. At least, he was until he found her later, when she was trying to pack and mourning the fact that she couldn’t simply take her entire medicine cabinet.
“You’re leaving tomorrow?” he asked tentatively.
“Yes.”
“Is it going to be dangerous?”
“You needn’t worry,” Corrin said, and hoped her little brother wouldn’t see through her. He was perceptive. He might have already figured out the secret of adulthood, which was that adults did all the things that they told children not to do, like lie to make people feel better. “I’ll have Trader Amella with me.”
“You’ll come back, and cure Da and Petuni?”
“Sure will,” Corrin said, and hoped she wasn’t lying this time. She reached out and ruffled Sam’s hair. “Just look after Mum and Frendel while I’m gone. Especially Frendel.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Don’t tell him I said this, but I think you’re the more sensible sibling. Less likely to get into trouble.” She paused. “Which isn’t saying much, in truth.”
Sam smiled crookedly.
“Go pull Frendel out of whatever mud pit he’s jumped into, will you? I need to finish packing.”
“Wait!” Sam dug around in his pockets and withdrew something in his clenched fist. He held it out to Corrin and uncurled his fingers, revealing… a rock. It was a nice rock, granted, smooth and rounded with ribbons of quartz decorating its surface, but it was otherwise unremarkable, of no more use than the pebbles Corrin kicked around on the dirt paths. “This is my lucky rock. You can have it. But don’t lose it.”
Corrin couldn’t bring herself to turn him down. “That’s very kind of you.” She plucked the rock from his hand and put it in her pouch. “I’ll take good care of it.”
“Okay, good. If you take care of the luck, it will take care of you too.”
“O…kay. Thanks.”
“Welcome.” And with that, he gave her one last, tight hug, then fled.
Corrin rose before the sun, when the land was cast in twilight and orange scarcely tinged the horizon. She crept past the sleeping twins and her da. She embraced her mum, who was awake, and they traded “love you”s at the door. Corrin clung to her mum longer than she would normally, and she slowed down as she crossed the threshold. And when her mum shut the door gently behind her, she had to fight the urge to turn back.
Corrin stepped softly along the paths of Oddment. Tiptoes wound around her ankles and mewed. Corrin regretted that she couldn’t spare the little cat any tidbits, but she gave her a chin scratch and a murmur of affection. Tiptoes trotted off with perked ears and her tail-tip curving like a fisher’s hook.
“Bye,” Corrin whispered after the cat’s retreating paw-steps.
Amella waited for her at the western gate. Oatmuncher was with her, laden with saddlebags. He looked ready to fall asleep on his hooves. Then again, he always looked ready to fall asleep on his hooves.
Amella clapped Corrin on the shoulder and grinned. “All right, kiddo,” she said. “We’re off.” She set off, in great long strides that ate up the path before them, with Oatmuncher shambling after her. Corrin nearly had to jog to keep up.
Strangely, they were headed dead west, and the Gloamwood—according to Corrin’s map—was dead north. “Where are we going?” she asked.
“Miritown. I have some merchant friends there who sail up along the coast. It’ll be faster and safer to tag along with one of them, then go east from the peninsula, than it would be to try walking across the badlands. Trust me on this.” Amella clapped Corrin on the back this time, firm enough to make her stumble forward. “Keep the pace as best you can. We’ve a long road ahead of us.”