Please R&R!
George Riley was the seventeen-year-old town vagrant. He had been orphaned two years before the cousins' had been born; his mother died in childbirth, his father had never stepped forward to claim him. His fiery red hair and quirky disposition had always been somewhat of a curiosity among the younger children of the village; among them, he was king. He had long ago chosen Lana to be his queen.
Lana did not approve of this.
He watched her now in a way that made Robbie uncomfortable. There was no denying that his cousin was a beauty; but she was also the village's best rider, archer, and wrestler. Robbie had a hard time imagining his cousin settling down with anyone, let alone George Riley.
Lana had tied her skirt up around her legs like a pair of breeches, her dirty blonde hair coming loose from its tie as she looked up. She scowled at George, who grinned maliciously. Robbie sighed and looked back down at the map.
"What's it say, Robbs," said George, looking over the younger boy's shoulder. He couldn't read, like most of the villagers; Lymo had made sure that all of his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren were able to read "just in case." Whatever that meant. Robbie read the quatrains aloud, his eyebrows pressed together as if in conference.
"Sounds gruesome," Lana muttered, trying to tie a strip of her skirt into a splint. George held it down for her. She pulled her ankle up under her, leaning forward to look at the wrinkled parchment. "Why's it all addled like that? With the different ink lines?"
George leaned over into Robbie lap, pressing his nose onto the map. Robbie tried to push him away, but the redhead persisted. Sitting back up, he shook his head.
"That isn't ink, my kids. That's dried blood. Really old, but you can still tell." He tapped the side of his nose. "The nose knows."
"That's disgusting," said Robbie matter-of-factly, scooting back from George, lest he take another dive into his lap. "But look…these lines here. See how they are darker than the others? This symbol here's a house or a barn or something, the one with the dotted lines. These other dotted lines, here," he traced his finger along the lines, "must be nearby. Which means…"
"It's in the forest," Lana said, squinting at the map.
"Right. So the tom—"
Lana started coughing harshly. George patted her on the back, but Robbie could see her eyes. Don't mention ANYTHING. Robbie nodded, and the coughing petered out.
"You alright?" George said, looking concerned. She waved him off.
"George, you have to go back to Caceril and warn them about the Jaragons," she said, wiping her watering eyes. He laughed, draping his arm over her shoulders.
"You're kidding, right? And when I go back and say, 'Well, Master Welling and Master Sheppard, I saw your kids in Elanwood with the Jaragons, but Lana told me to leave them there.' I'd be skewered. Not a chance. You're stuck with me, kid."
"Damn," she muttered, pushing him off of her. Robbie raised an eyebrow. She glared at him, leaning closer to whisper, "Lymo said!"
"Lymo is dead. I don't think he would have wanted us to go on alone. And with Jaragons on our tail, we need all the help we can't get."
George poked his head in between theirs. "Mind telling me what in the Good King's name is going on here? I nearly got gutted by a Jaragon raider, mind. I think I deserve a telling."
Lana sighed, rolling her eyes. Robbie took charge. "The Good King, indeed. That's exactly what's going on."
"What?"
"King Harriam. The Good King. And his tomb—"
"Opialus," George murmured, glancing at the map. "You don't mean…"
"Yup," said Lana, "and if you tell anyone else, we'll boil your…"
"Tell anyone? Are you mad? A map to the greatest treasure in all of Merderon?" He let out a sharp bark of laughter. "So that's where you're going, then? To Opialus?"
"Yes. Lymo said we'd know it by the light of Cantrell."
"And that it was under the Elanwood tree…next to the mews," said Lana quietly.
"Load of good that does us. Cantrell is full tomorrow night. Everything'll 'be known' by its light. And every other tree in this forest is an Elanwood! How in hell are we supposed to track down one moonlit tree?" George leaned back, chuckling, and plucked a sprig of long grass from the ground. He chewed on it, his eyes dancing with amusement. "This is a fool's errand."
"Then it should be easy enough for you!" Lana growled, snatching the map away from Robbie.
"Not everything," murmured Robbie, staring contemplatively at the ground. The leaves above cast green shadows on the ground, which danced gently whenever the breeze blew across them. He leaned forward, tapping the shadows. "A clearing. It would have to be in a clearing. Only the tallest trees would be in the moonlight. Elanwoods aren't as tall as the hodgentrees. None of them would get any light. A grove, perhaps, of Elanwoods, that circle a clearing."
"The barn! There's a really old Elanwood there, that huge one! I'll bet it was there when Opialus was built," George said, pointing back the way they had come.
"Not built. Dug." The boys looked up at Lana, confused. "It's a cave. Opialus is in a cave! Look here," she said, pointing out the red dotted lines. "These lines are a map of the surface. You know that pile of old stones, just outside the barn clearing? I bet that was this tower, here." She traced the outline of a short building made of dashed brown-red.
"The trees must have gotten closer…taken over the old clearing, where this tower was. And Olfsen's barn…"
"Would be right over the entrance," Robbie whispered.
"Good work, lads. We couldn't have done it without you. Now, kindly stand up and give us the map."