Free Awaken by Anya Richards Page B

“Everyone feels that way when they see everything they hold dear falling apart before their eyes. But you have the strength to go on, Myrina. Life is a hard road, no doubt about it. Each time we think it has smoothed out for a pace, another mountain rises ahead. ’Tis just the way of the world, sweetling. All we can do is struggle on, do our best, and hope ’tis enough.”
    Exhausted, Myrina made no effort to protest when the goodwife tucked her into bed, although it was the middle of the day, and she drifted to sleep in moments…
    …and found herself in the glade, wind-whipped snow thrashing her face and arms with an icy sting, biting and stabbing at her exposed skin.
    “Ryllio,” she shouted, trying to see him, go to him, but the swirling flakes created a veil of whiteness, and the buffeting wind held her in place.
    “Why do you call to him, Myrina Traihune?” A mocking voice came to her and, turning her head, squinting against the flying crystals, she saw a golden-haired man standing in distant sunlight. “You never truly cared for him. If you had, he would be free.”
    “What do you mean?” she cried, fear clawing at her heart, more chilling than the winter’s cold. “Was there some way I could have freed him, something I didn’t do that I should? Tell me, please, and it shall be done.”
    The golden-haired faery shrugged, his lips tilted in a mocking smile. “I have no spell to rule the dictates of a human heart, the conscience of a human soul. It is too late, anyway, for the prince is almost completely stone now, by his own doing. Once there was a chance for him, but now he will never again awake.”
    “No!” Myrina struggled again the icy bonds restricting her movement, the torturous agony of his words. “That cannot be true. He but sleeps awhile, as Mab dictates, and will awaken once more at her whim.”
    With a sardonic lift of his brows, the faery replied, “The spark of life that once beat within the stone is all but gone. So it is when a man loses all he holds dear—especially hope.”
    “No! Ryllio,” she cried again, “Ryllio, please, don’t go. Help him.” She turned once more to the faery, holding out her hands in appeal. “Help him, please.”
    “There is nothing more I can do, Myrina Traihune.” He began to fade from sight, taking the sparkle of sunlight with him, leaving her in an icy grey miasma. “Except to wish you peace.”
    She awoke, sitting up, arms still outstretched, heart pounding in fear and sorrow. Around her, the farmhouse slumbered. Outside the wind moaned and sighed in perfect harmony with her soul.
    It was just a dream—vivid, realistic and terrifying—she told herself, even as she was swinging her feet over the edge of the bed. She had not been visited by Kestor, the golden faery Ryllio spoke of, but had simply created him and his words from her own imagination. Yet, driven by a compulsion too strong to resist, she pulled on her stockings and tied them in place and dressed in a warm wool petticoat and overdress.
    There was no room for thought, only action, although everything around her seemed suddenly bright and sharp despite the darkness. Instinct guided her to her mother’s bedside, where she placed a kiss on the paper-dry cheek before quietly going downstairs. Farmer Harbottle’s hound lifted its head as she passed through the kitchen, tail thumping on the wooden floor as it watched her lace her boots. Swinging her cloak over her shoulders, she bade the hound stay as she opened the door and slipped out into the night.
    Cold connected with her face like a slap, stealing her breath. The snow lay in huge drifted heaps against the building, having blown off the clean-swept fields. For a moment she faltered, wondering if it were even possible to find her way to Ryllio without his call, but determination pushed the thought aside, and she began to trudge as fast as she could toward the trees.
    Time lost all meaning as she fought her way through the forest,