Rembrien Chapter 3.

Chapter 3.

 

The Empty Spaces.

 

“You knew I needed to come here,” she murmured.

Shade snorted softly.

“I think we need a night’s rest and a long think before we set off again,” she told him. He stamped once, then began to walk.

The sun was low by the time they reached Stump. Shade slowed as they neared the inn, his hooves quiet on the mossy cobbles. He didn’t glance left or right; he simply stopped at the door.

Sophrayni dismounted, brushing dust from her cloak. The innkeeper recognised her, of course. Everyone did. But he said nothing beyond a nod and a gesture toward the corner room, one with a deep window seat and a view of an old orchard.

A waiter brought food, and Sophrayni ate without much thought, her mind busy with everything Rembrien had told her. When she finished, she made her way to a quiet bedchamber and let sleep take her.

She woke before dawn. Mist silvered the inn’s yard. Wrapped in her cloak, she sat in the deep window seat and watched the light grow. Her thoughts circled the hidden gate and the urgency of her task.

She whispered, “Calizone went everywhere. Except to Rembrien’s garden and where the third gate lies. She would have dealt with it if she had found it. It would save a great deal of time if I knew where she had been, so I only have to go to the places she didn’t visit.”

Shade stirred beneath the elder tree. The innkeeper passed through the common room, muttering about storms. Sophrayni ignored him. “I need to read her diaries, but the Cottage is too far to reach by spell, and it will take too long to ride home, even with magic to speed things up.”

Another thought struck her. “The whole point of my journey is to let the world see the new Witch of the Dark Forest. Rushing home defeats the purpose.”

After a quick breakfast, Sophrayni stepped outside. The village was still hushed. She mounted Shade. “Well,” she said to him, “you brought me here, so you choose which way to go.”

With a flick of his ear, Shade turned toward the orchard. At its heart stood a stone well, half-covered in ivy. She dismounted and walked toward it. The air shimmered. Rembrien’s voice rose from the depths.

“Eight powers you carry. But one gate remains. Use their powers.”

She needed the diaries. She needed the Cottage.

She stood, thinking fast. The Cottage had always been sealed to outsiders. No one lived there; no one watched it. But every Witch of the Dark Forest had left behind her diary, and Calizone had taught Sophrayni how to reach the Cottage’s heart without crossing the miles.

There was a spell, not for travel, but for fetching. It was dangerous. If she miscast it, her mind could scatter like mist, lost and broken. It needed all her power to send it as far as the Cottage. But she had no choice. She drew a circle in the moss with her foot, placed her palm at its centre, and whispered the spell that Calizone had made her repeat a hundred times.

The world tilted.

Sophrayni felt the Cottage, its silence, its dust, its waiting. She reached for the shelf where the diaries were kept. Calizone’s volumes were there, just as they should be: big, heavy books. Calizone had lived a very long life. Gently, Sophrayni lifted them from the shelf. They landed softly at her feet. She sighed with relief and picked them up.

“Plenty of reading to be done,” she said to Shade, who waited patiently nearby. “We ride,” she added. “To places no witch has ever written about.”

Shade stamped once. The orchard gate opened. They rode on.

Sophrayni paid little attention to where Shade was taking her. She sat sideways in the saddle and opened the first diary. Most entries simply described Calizone’s days, potions brewed, spells tested, notes on weather and wildlife. In the early pages, Calizone hadn’t left the Dark Forest at all. Sophrayni skimmed until she found the first-place name: Brockton. She wrote it down in her own diary.

“This is going to take a long time,” she said to Shade. “It’s hard not to read why she went there and what she did.” Shade didn’t reply, just walked gently along the road.

“Even worse,” Sophrayni muttered, “I don’t know where any of these places are. We could wander the kingdom for years, just crossing off names.” She closed the diary with a sigh. “I need a map,” she said aloud. “A proper one. With names and roads and forgotten corners.”

Shade flicked an ear, then turned off the road toward a low rise. Beyond it lay a town, not large, but bigger than Stump. Its rooftops were slate-grey, its chimneys crooked, and its streets worn smooth by years of quiet use. The sign by the roadside read: Weyrham.

Sophrayni had never heard of it. That was promising.

As she rode through the market square, heads turned. A baker paused mid-knead. A child dropped a chalk stick. Two old men leaned closer to their game but didn’t speak. No one approached or called out, but Sophrayni could tell they knew who she was. She found that oddly satisfying. At the far end of the square stood a narrow building with a faded sign: Thistle & Thread: Books, Maps, and Other Oddments.

She dismounted and stepped inside. The air smelled of dust and old paper. Shelves leaned under the weight of forgotten titles. A bell rang somewhere in the back, and an old man emerged, his spectacles fogged and his robes stained with ink.

He looked at her for a long moment, then gave a small nod. “You’re the new Witch,” he said, not a question, but quiet recognition. “My friend the clerk mentioned you. Said your name came up when the king’s new portrait was delivered.”

She met his gaze. “So Syldan did send a message about me when he sent the portraits?”

He nodded.

Sophrayni exhaled slowly. “Then the world is beginning to notice me. As it should. I need a map,” she said. “Of the kingdom. A good one.”

“You’ll want the copy King Syldan ordered a few years ago. It’s the most up-to-date. You’re in luck, I still have one.” He shuffled off and returned with a rolled parchment tied with twine. “This was ordered by someone who never came back to collect it.”

She handed him a silver coin. He took it, but didn’t put it away. “You want to say something?” Sophrayni asked.

The man took a deep breath. “I’m old, and I have no family. I have a friend with a bookshop near the royal palace. He told me Calizone used to buy books from him. Said she was kind, if treated with respect.”

“That sounds like Calizone,” Sophrayni smiled. “And?”

“There’s something else,” he said, voice low. “The town clock. It stopped three winters ago. No one can fix it. It’s not broken. It just refuses to work.” He looked at her over his spectacles. “It’s a small thing. But the town needs the clock.”

Sophrayni considered. “Where is it?”

He led her into the square. The clock tower stood above the old well, its hands frozen at twilight. She stepped forward, placed her palm against the stone, and whispered, not a spell, but a reminder.

The clock ticked once. Then again. The hands moved, slow and sure, until they reached the correct time. The townsfolk didn’t cheer, but windows opened and curtains stirred.

The bookseller bowed. “Thank you.”

Sophrayni nodded. “I’m not here to change the world,” she said. “Just to keep it turning.”

She sat cross-legged beneath the bookshop’s awning, the map spread across her knees. She ticked off the places Calizone had mentioned. One region caught her eye: a wide stretch of land bordered by three named towns, yet never mentioned in any diary.

“An empty space,” she said. “That’s as good a place to begin as any. We won’t find the gate by sitting here; we’ll find it by going to as many places as we can.”

Shade stamped once before he set off.