The man implored her to eat of the fruit of the tree and learn for herself good and evil. Yet she
refused and would not partake. And the man’s eyes were opened, and he understood the nature of all things, both good and evil. So she drove out the man, and the Oldknow placed to the west of the garden of Clairvaux an angel sworn and, of flame, a sword, whirling to guard the way to the
Gallows Tree.
—Origin, the Tale of the Queen Mother of Clairvaux
* * *
CHAPTER ONE
Edelweiss
There was no place in all the world as beautiful as Clairvaux. Rugged cliffs rose on either side,
forming a wedge-shaped valley between them. Waterfalls cascaded down their speckled faces.
Some large and fierce. Some hardly more than a trickle. There were seventy-two waterfalls in all.
Cimree had counted them and knew each one. And where the valley stretched to its widest, there
loomed snow-peaked mountains showing a change in the weather was coming. Honeysuckle,
purple catmint, blanched aspen, and meadows of wildflowers provided colors that dazzled the
eye, and combined with the ever-present soothing noise of the waterfalls, they created an
impossible beauty and feeling of serenity. Every morning, choirs of angelic voices sang from the
upper heights of the cliffs. This morning had been no different. Why did she feel she didn’t
belong there?
Cimree knelt in the tall meadow grass, watching bees dart from within the violet flowers
of a catmint bush. She brushed dirt from her trews as she knelt there, her cloak snug against her
shoulders as she observed the hive’s activity. Their droning noise made her nervous, but she’d
been working to tame her fear. When she was little, she’d shriek if one lit on her, for even though
she knew the insects were harmless, they terrified her. But they shouldn’t. If she was going to be
a healer in the valley, it would be to her benefit to befriend the creatures. Not that she could ever
become a true Beesinger, that was asking too much of herself. But honey was nutritious and
could sustain a life. Bees were hardworking and industrious—as she was supposed to be herself.
The breeze tousled her hair and she sighed, trying to summon her courage. She slipped the distaff
from her belt and held it in her cupped palm, her gaze on an individual bee foraging the blooms.
Cimree bit her lip and focused. Grafting magic was the birthright of the angel sworn. It
allowed them to join, temporarily, with beast, bird, or insect and claim an essential part of their
power to combine with their own. Every person had a natural affinity for some creature or other,
and it was up to the individual to discover what that was. That natural affinity made the grafting
easier and last longer. Otherwise, a creature’s resistance to any bond which caused discomfort,
pain, or weakness meant the magic lasted only a short while. But for those who shared an affinity
to that animal, there was a mutual acceptance.
The distaff in her hand—about the length of her forearm—she had inherited from a
previous angel sworn. Distaffs were broadly used to wind wool or flax. Their particular shape
made it easy to gather wool or flax to twist it into yarn or thread. Every inhabitant of Clairvaux
made their own clothing. But these wands, when made of ancient scionwood, were also used for
the grafting magic, so every angel sworn carried one with them.
She gazed at her solitary bee and began coaxing the magic. She didn’t compel the bee.
She coaxed it. The distinction between telling and asking made all the difference. The magic sent
a shiver down her spine as she felt it connecting her to the tiny insect. She was looking for
edelweiss flowers, a hardy variety that grew in the cliffs. It was incredibly rare and had the very
interesting properties of a double-star formation and white woolly hairs. It was helpful for
stomach pangs and breathing illnesses, and it was good for the heart. She thought of its
distinctive shape as she joined her mind with the insect’s tiny one. Bees ranged far and wide to
collect their nectar. Had it seen any edelweiss flower yet?
The grafting released as the bee tugged away its thoughts, but not before she’d glimpsed
the flower she sought up in the mountains on the northern face. Cimree felt a tingling sensation
in her fingertips and her nose, a small consequence of the magic she’d used. She rose from her
knees, brushed off her trews again, and continued to hike through the wildflowers in the direction
the bee had indicated.
Her teacher, Milena, would be pleased to know that Cimree had tamed a bee to help her
find the plant. She passed several of the smaller falls as she ventured deeper into the valley. The
majority of the inhabitants of Clairvaux lived in the village at the head of the valley. She’d never
felt comfortable there, preferring solitude to talkative neighbors. Being a healer in training meant
living in the hinterlands. Spread apart. Separate. Every person was different, though they shared
certain similarities, or so the Queen Mother taught. Some people preferred solitude to company.
Some preferred confrontation to attack problems head-on and others demurred. Cimree would
never be a leader in Clairvaux, not with her shy if slightly rebellious personality, not when social
hierarchy was modeled after the Queen Mother’s virtues.
As she neared the narrowed part of the wedge of the valley, she took a footpath to the
cliffs and began to climb. Some angel sworn would use their grafting magic to borrow the agility
of a goat, allowing them to climb more quickly and with surefootedness. But Cimree didn’t have
an affinity for goats. Or for cows. Or a rare minx. Birds ignored her completely. Horses snorted
at her. What if her affinity ended up being something loathsome, like snails? She knew one of the
field-workers, a young man by the name of Calvor, who was particularly fond of snails and liked
to talk about them and how useful they were. No one liked talking to Calvor.
Cimree’s legs burned as she scrambled up the trail to the higher reach. There were other
smaller communities farther up the mountains, but the trek was difficult, and those who lived
there had affinities for birds or climbing animals. She puffed out her breath and kept plodding
on, feeling her muscles ache with the exertion as her brow dampened. It was a steep, challenging
ascent, but she’d done it before. She was winded by the time she’d crested the rise, only to find
more mountains looming above. Gazing back down at the valley, she admired the beautiful scene
below.
“You’re not supposed to be up here, Cimree.”
The voice startled her, and she touched her chest and laughed. Of course one of the
Morgarten would have caught her unaware. They were the guardians of Clairvaux, the expert
hunters of the valley. The defenders of the Gallows Tree. She saw the mirror blade that rode on
his hip, one gloved hand gripping the pommel. He had a bow strapped to his back and a quiver
full of arrows. A long dagger was fastened to his thigh. His drab hunter garb helped him blend in
with the rocks and scrub.
“There’s some. . . edelweiss growing. . . near here,” she panted. “A bee told me.”
“I saw some yesterday,” he replied. His name was Damion. The members of the
Morgarten were quite memorable, and as they were so few in number, she’d encountered most of
them over the years. Damion had hazel eyes and a rugged face. The training he and his cohorts
went through was secretive, as was the initiation they endured. His narrowed eyes offered a little
reproof, but then he shook his head. “I won’t tell on you for wandering out of bounds, but be
careful. You’ll want to be off the mountain soon.”
“Thank you, Damion,” she said. She admired his physique as she wondered how many
lifespans he’d already lived. Because of the fruit of the Gallows Tree, he could have lived for
centuries already. But everyone knew Cimree was a novice. She was in her first lifetime, a
maggot in comparison.
She hiked farther up the steep slope, searching for evidence of the elusive edelweiss. It
was colder higher up, and Damion hadn’t been wrong. The clouds were coming down quickly,
blotting out the sky. Soon they’d engulf the mountains and maybe even reach the valley floor.
The weather in Clairvaux was often temperamental. In mid-spring a freak snowstorm could
blanket everything in white only to melt off by the end of the day. That’s why it was only
sensible to wear a cloak and sturdy boots.
She continued her search, climbing so high she felt the brush of mist against her face.
That added to her frustration, for it would make it more difficult to—
There!
Her heart thrilled as she recognized the star-shaped flower with the buttery core. Cimree
knelt near an outcropping of rock and slid the dirk from her belt sheath. Along with a distaff,
everyone carried a dirk for cutting cheese or meat, a short double-edged blade always kept sharp
with a whetstone. Gently, she lifted at the base of the edelweiss petals and gently nicked the stem
to separate it. A few others grew nearby, so she cut off three more and stopped. She slid the dirk
back in her belt sheath and then smelled the petals of the edelweiss. A smile curved her mouth.
She opened her shoulder pack, gently wrapped the flowers in burlap, and stowed the
bundle atop her other supplies. Then she hiked to a nearby stream and cupped some water in her
hand to drink. The mist thickened around her. Better to get off the mountain in a hurry, before the
way became too difficult to see. She backtracked down the trail, feeling an uneasiness creep into
her stomach. There was no reason to be fearful. A snow lynx wouldn’t be so close to the valley
floor, especially at that time of year. They didn’t typically prey on lost young women either.
The mist swirled around her, limiting visibility, and she began to regret her choice of
seeking the flower. Her display of independence would be thwarted if she needed Damion to help
her navigate back down to the valley floor. That would be embarrassing. But Milena would only
tease her, not report her transgression to the high council.
A feeling of dread began to form a knot in her belly. Something was in the mist.
Something was coming for her. This was not the fear of a potential bee sting. It was a much
deeper fear, a primal fear. She’d walked the mountains hundreds of times and never experienced
such a feeling before, not even when the mist came or when a lightning storm lashed the sky. The
fear was compelling, full of danger and warning.
Run.
She found herself breathing faster and faster and not just from the pace. The impulse to
flee grew stronger and stronger. But that was foolhardy. In the mountains, you couldn’t run, or
you’d risk tumbling off a cliff. She gazed ahead, trying to quell the irrational fear that had
gripped her. She thought she saw a bulky shadow moving in the mist off to her right.
“Damion?”
She walked through the mist in the direction of the shadow but tripped over something
lying before her and went down with a gasp of shock. She put her hands out and felt stiff leather
beneath her fingers. Cimree quickly rose, about to utter an apology when she saw Damion’s
lifeless eyes staring fixedly at nothing, a grimace of fear frozen on his face. His hunter leathers
were shredded and bloodstained, the gashes deep. Claw wounds. In a daze, she lifted her hands
in front of her face and started shaking as she saw the blood there as well.
Cimree gazed at the hunter in abject fear. His mirror blade was still in its sheath. So were
his daggers. He’d been attacked and savaged by a monstrous animal, and she hadn’t heard a
sound except for the breeze in her ears and the distant roar of the falls.
Damion was dead.
Impossible.
An angel sworn didn’t just die.
She bent to touch his neck, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. She leaned over him, her ear next to his lips. No breath. And then Cimree saw the bulky shadow again, and fear locked her legs and gripped her
throat.
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