Michael Sullivan - The Crown Tower

She looked back toward the hooded man and lowered her voice. “What if I never reach Colnora? What if he kills me right here on this barge?”

“I won’t let that happen.”

“I wish I could believe that, but you won’t be able to stop him. He could slip into my cabin, and in the morning I would be dead and no one would care.”

“Here’s what you should do. Lock your door, and block it with whatever you can find. He won’t be able to reach you without making a racket, and I’ll come right away.”

She wiped her eyes. “I’ll do that, thank you. I just hope it will be enough.”

After the beating, even the weight of the empty buckets hurt Gwen’s back and shoulders as they swung from the yoke. Grue had been hard on her for involving Ethan. He’d left no marks, though; damaged goods were sold at reduced rates.

Reaching Wayward Street’s common well, she dropped the pails and sat on the edge, looking back the way she had come. It was still early, the sun just peeking between the bent roof of the tavern and the lopsided one of the building across the street. Avon had told her it was once an inn, but that was long ago. She could almost picture it. No one stayed there now, except for the rats and the dogs that ate them. The state of the inn was indicative of the whole Lower Quarter, Wayward Street especially-a dead end in every sense.

For as long as Gwen could remember, her mother had spoken about Medford and how they would one day make it their home. Gwen imagined it must be a beautiful place, full of fine carriages and stone houses. She had dreamed they would live in one of those beautiful homes with a fountain outside for water and market sellers who would sing and chant like those in Calis. Even as she sat on the stone lip of the well, Gwen marveled at how different her reality turned out to be.

Did my mother have any real idea about where we were headed?

Her mother had been dedicated to a single purpose-reaching Medford. She had spoken of the city for years. Looking back, Gwen now saw things that a child missed. They had traveled alone. A woman with a child in tow would never set out to cross a continent on her own, without a good reason, even if they were headed for a paradise. Besides, Tenkin women never traveled unescorted.

Strange as well was the name Illia had picked for her only daughter: Gwendolyn. Her mother was born to the Owanda tribe, and custom dictated Gwen should have been named after an ancestor, but surely no one in their bloodline had ever been called Gwendolyn. A pretty name, but it wasn’t Tenkin.-Gwendolyn was a name given to pale, blond-haired girls with blue eyes. Gwen hadn’t even seen blond hair until they had reached Vernes, and even there it was rare. Not until years later, when Gwen finally reached the north, did she meet other girls with similar names. Still, even this concession had not been enough to find her acceptance in the foreign lands. All the light-skinned travelers and shopkeepers eyed her with contempt.

In Calis, people were equally suspicious of pale visitors. Most Calians thought the foreigners were ill, but that didn’t prevent Tenkins from doing business with them. The same could not be said in the north. Even in Vernes, Gwen and her mother were shunned.

They might have died of starvation if not for her mother’s gift. Vernes was rich with Calian immigrants. They had settlements in the hills outside the city, a large camp with colorful tents just like in Dagastan or Ardor, and the camp leaders understood the values of a seer. Illia was able to find work reading the palms of fellow Calians delighted to have such a fine fortune-teller among them.

The talent was always passed from mother to daughter, and Illia had taught Gwen everything she knew.

“You can’t read your own future,” Illia had told her, “any more than you can see your own face, but just as you can sometimes see your reflection in a darkened glass or calm pool, you can find your way in the stories of others.”

She had taught Gwen to read, to see , using customers’ hands. “What do you see?” she had asked while holding out a man’s weathered palm.

“A boat, a big ship with sails,” Gwen had answered.

“What color?”

“Blue.”

“That is likely the past.”

Gwen had looked at the man whose hand she held, and he nodded. “I arrived by ship yesterday.”

“Recent events are the easiest. They’re the strongest,” Illia had told them.

At first all she could see was the recent past, and her mother completed her readings so that the customers wouldn’t become annoyed. This was how all the lessons had gone, and Gwen wondered why her mother had never offered her own hands for practice. Initially, Gwen thought it was because they were too closely related for it to work, but as Gwen’s skill increased, Illia took to wearing gloves.

Eventually they joined with a caravan headed north, but they had to leave it when Illia became sick. Gwen had brought her mother into a city where it had taken days to find a doctor who would see her, but nothing helped. Knowing her mother would die, Gwen finally asked all her pent-up questions. Why did we leave Calis? Why did you give me a northern name? And most importantly, Why does it mean so much to you for us to go to this mythical place called Medford?

Stubbornly her mother had refused to answer, except to say that God had told her to go. When Gwen asked which god, her mother had replied, “The one who walks as a man.”

Gwen had used nearly all their money paying for the cramped room where Illia ultimately died. For days Gwen had done little more than wipe her mother’s head with a damp rag while Illia lingered without opening her eyes or speaking a word. Then one morning she had stirred. “Promise me … promise you’ll go to Medford as we’ve always planned. Promise me you won’t stop until you reach it and that you’ll make a life there. You must do what I failed to do. You must be there for him .”

Gwen didn’t know who her mother was referring to and she never learned any more about him from her, but she had agreed just the same. She would have sworn to marry a goblin and live on a cloud if her mother had asked her to.

Illia died two days later in that little room in an unfamiliar town far from both Calis and Medford. Gwen had been just fourteen.

Allowing her mother the luxury of dying in a bed had left Gwen destitute. She didn’t have enough money for food, much less for a burial. She couldn’t stomach turning her mother’s body over to the city guard, who had always been so cruel. Alone in the tiny room, Gwen did the only thing she could; she sat and wept. She almost hadn’t heard the knocking over her own tears.

The man at the door had been tall and thin and carried a leather satchel over one shoulder.

“Excuse me, but I am here to see Illia,” he had said politely.

“My mother has died.” Gwen wiped her face. It hadn’t occurred to her at the time to wonder how the man knew where to find them.

He had nodded without surprise. “I’m sorry.” Lifting his eyes to the bed where Illia lay wrapped in her favorite shawl, he added, “Your mother used to read my palm, and the last time I had no money to pay her. I’ve come to settle my debt.” He had placed six coins in Gwen’s hand, making her gasp when she noticed the color.

Gwen shook her head. “This is too much. Mother charged three copper dins. This is … this is…” She couldn’t bring herself to say what she had thought. Holding the metal coins was like cupping summer or sunshine. She recalled thinking, Such power should not be in such dirty hands .