Trail's End was completely different from Drylliad. The castle there was square and looked like a chess piece.
The castle was so far to the north that there were images depicting Gelynian fairytales carved into some of the stone walls inside. There were still lines of demarcation to separate the nobility from commoners despite being out of style for decades. Trail's End hadn't seen a queen or king in years.
And now the castle was housing both for a season.
It had been Imogen's idea to spend a few weeks at Trail's End. Jaron quickly jumped at the idea of taking leave from court, especially after an incident with the kitchens catching on fire at Drylliad. They left the dangers of court behind for quieter adventures, like stringing holly berries over doorways and playing silly games like hide-and-go-seek.
Trail's End was not Drylliad, but the village was close and everything was clean, even if everything was devoid of color during the early winter season.
The sky was grey, the trees were grey, everything was grey.
Save for Imogen's nose and cheeks, which were turning redder and redder with every passing moment. No matter how many times she pulled her scarf over her face, the cold never left her skin. She'd rather be tucked in by the fire, but she was needed by those she loved most.
They were out there somewhere.
Depending on her.
Fresh snowflakes billowed through the air, heralding a new blizzard.
Imogen hiked up her skirts as she plowed through the snow. A vague path guided her around massive snowdrifts, stamped down every so often by multiple pairs of boots. The path stompers had seemingly stepped in the same place to avoid getting their feet covered in ice.
"I'll find them," Imogen muttered to herself. She pulled down her scarf, and called out a name.
No answer.
She shuffled a little bit farther, "Jaron! Fink! Where are you!?"
A splash of bright red waved back and forth.
There was evidence of their destruction all around her, now that she'd taken a moment to look for it. Deep gouges dotted with twigs marred the snow. She stopped once she saw the results.
"Imogen!" Jaron pulled his scarf down from his face, his red cheeks making his brilliant eyes even brighter.
"I told you I'd come," Imogen promised. She laughed as Jaron charged towards her, and swept her up in an embrace. "I hope I wasn't too late."
His smile was intoxicating.
Contagious.
The grin spreading across Imogen's face almost warmed her nose.
There were three sculptures made of snow. Crude sculptures. Icy towers made of three stacked snowballs of varying size, with the largest being on the bottom. Imogen wasn't sure what they were, but they did look a little like a man.
Jaron shook his head, and gestured to Fink. "Not at all, you're right on time. Did you bring, ah, the goods?"
"You mean these?"
"What perfect carrots," Jaron mused as he reached for the package Imogen brought with her.
Fink stuck his head out from behind one of the sculptures, a red cap covered in snow stuffed on his head. "Those'll make excellent noses!"
"Indeed they will. Come on Imogen, the snowmen look better from the front."
"Ah, they're snowmen," she reached for Jaron's hand. "They're round men, don't you think?"
Just as Jaron promised, the snowmen did look better on their front sides. There were lines of black stones to represent eyes and a mouth, as well as little twigs shoved into the snowmen's middle representing the outline of a vest. Fink was on his tiptoes, jamming a carrot into the middle of a snowman's face.
The light in Jaron's eyes was simmering; waiting to continue burning.
He wanted recognition.
Imogen tapped her chin, "I must say, I haven't seen this technique of sculpting since-"
"Since we visited the mad artist in Mendenwal?" Jaron asked, wrapping both of his arms around Imogen's shoulders as they both inspected the snowmen.
"Not quite," she said. "It's- it's riskier."
"But not too risky, right?"
"Oh it's a splendid method if I have to tell the truth! I'm truly impressed!"
"Does it look like it bears the weight of all human suffering!?" The fire in Jaron's unearthly green eyes exploded. He was playing along with the joke now.
They could pretend to be artists for a moment.
Imogen put her hands on her hips, and stared up at one of the noseless snowmen. The stones on the lower half of the snowman's face turned up in a wide smile. For something made of ice, its smile was warm. Warm and inviting.
The snowmen had each other. They'd weather through the blizzard huddled together. Not that snowmen needed to fear snow.
It was a nice sentiment. It was nice to know that the snowman before her wouldn't be alone.
They bore the weight of all human suffering together.
Her scarf came loose as she nodded. "Oh yes! Jaron, you're a brilliant sculptor!"
Warmth surged through her damp gloves as Jaron reached for both her hands, and spun in a circle. He twirled her, trapping her in his arms once again.
Words came with power.
Jaron was the type of person to crave the recognition words brought. It helped him. Imogen knew that it was her duty as his best friend to look for the tiny details he somehow got away with, and to encourage him to continue.
He did the same for her.
Fink shoved another carrot into the middle of the next snowman's face, muttering under his breath about being an unwilling chaperone.
Poor Fink.
"Are you both cold?" Imogen asked, trailing her hands over Jaron's forearms. "There's a warm fire and several warm drinks waiting back at the castle."
"Cold? Never, Fink and I must make an army of snowmen before we return to the- the-," Jaron heaved in a breath, and sneezed into his elbow. "It's a little chilly, I suppose."
"We're not going back inside," Fink argued, but he stood and brushed off his gloves.
"Are you sure? The snowmen can handle themselves," said Imogen. "They are made of ice after all."
A familiar weight settled on her shoulders. Jaron was leaning on her once again. She snaked her arm around his waist, an unspoken promise joining the flying snowflakes that they wouldn't try to wrestle each other into the snow.
Not with Fink around, at least.
They formed a line behind Jaron. He shuffled through the falling snow to clear a path for Imogen and Fink, but threw an occasional snowball when the air grew too quiet. Imogen quickly began dodging the snowballs, and when that stopped working, grabbed onto Jaron's waist to remind him how vulnerable he was.
Even the strongest soldiers were slightly ticklish.
Jaron started throwing the snowballs strictly at Fink once Imogen gave him a warning jab below his ribs.
The snow near the castle kitchens was slightly melted, signaling that something nice and warm was cooking inside. Scents of vanilla and cooking spices blasted through the blizzarding air. Three steaming muffins waited on the table for Imogen, Fink, and Jaron.
"Do you think our snowmen will survive the blizzard?" Fink asked as he pulled off his wintry boots. "I suppose we could always make more, just got attached to those ones. And it's also hard work pushing a snowball around, especially after it gets about knee high."
Imogen hung her damp cloak near the fire, and tapped her cheek. Jaron leaned in, and pressed a short kiss to her face before snatching up the largest muffin. She shrugged, "They might be a little covered, but I think they'll be okay."
"Building snowmen is fun in itself, and if they get buried, good. It'll keep you out of my way," said Jaron.
"Why, so you and Imogen can do something better without me?"
"Exactly."
A kitchen door slammed shut, the cook stormed in with a basket of apples, and stormed out again. In the orange kitchen light, the cook bore a striking resemblance to various monsters in old Gelynian stories.
Thank the Saints Jaron hadn't had the time to anger this cook like he'd done to the kitchen staff in Drylliad.
Jaron sat down on a stool tucked near the table in the middle of the room, and motioned for Imogen to stand beside him.
"I was talking to one of the squires," Fink bit into his bun. "They say there's a phantom that haunts this castle. And all of Trail's End."
"And what does this phantom do?" Asked Imogen. She set her hands on Jaron's shoulders, waiting for an answer.
"They say that-"
"There's no such thing as phantoms," Jaron interrupted. "I heard this legend. It's not true."
Every so often, there were moments that Imogen couldn't understand the laughter in Jaron's voice. They were rare and she kept her thoughts to herself.
Phantoms used to terrify her. They were the reason why she'd run to the well and back as a child when working in Bevin Conner's household.
The dark didn't frighten her; it was what lurked in the dark that made her skin crawl.
Even if Fink's phantom was a myth like Jaron claimed, that didn't mean there wasn't a different danger in the woods.
Fink jabbed a finger at Jaron, "This one is true. The squires say that the phantom snatches people up at night to eat their souls, but only if they stray from the main road. I'm fairly certain that they mentioned that-"
"Ah, Imogen, how do you feel about taking an evening walk tonight through the snow?"
Imogen shook her head, "I'd rather not entertain legends about phantoms."
"Even though they're not real?"
"Love, if you entertain things like that, it invites them."
"Fine, I'll take Tobias."
Jaron, true to his word, dragged Tobias out of the warmth of the castle once he'd finished his pastry. They didn't reappear for some time.
The blizzard continued into the evening. Shutters were closed on the lower levels as the snow rose. Imogen nestled into a large chair in the small front hall, a book balancing on her knees. Though the wind managed to creep through the occasional cracks in the stone walls, the roaring fire kept her mostly warm. Amarinda settled into the chair beside her.
"Good book?" Amarinda asked, her hands in her lap.
Not exactly. Imogen shrugged and held it out to Amarinda, "It's a series of sonnets, but they're mostly about death."
"Eerie," she said, flipping open the book to a random page. Amarinda squinted, "And disturbing. Where did you get this?"
"Renlyn recommended it. She's going to be joining us soon, most likely with more macabre poetry."
"Ah, I can't wait to see what she's gathered for us," Amarinda grinned.
The poems, though dark and dreary, were still poems. Renlyn Karise, Imogen's favorite lady-in-waiting, was quiet and reserved, but she caught on to the things other people enjoyed.
Imogen loved poetry, and Renlyn did her best to provide.
"I think once we've finished with all the books here, we're going to travel a little farther north," Imogen said, tucking the book beneath her arm after Amarinda handed it back. "There's a cathedral near the Gelynian border that I'd like to see."
Amarinda kicked off her heeled shoes, and leaned back in her chair, "I'd love to go. I think I know the cathedral you speak of. Greyfriers was the name, right?"
"That's the one! I've heard stories about the bells and the cathedral itself. I hope the sky is clear when we go."
"The mountains have notoriously bad weather."
"Bad weather doesn't scare me," Imogen said with a smile.
The main door rattled shut. Imogen leaned forwards, but couldn't see who'd slammed the door. Her mind flickered back to the conversation she'd had with Jaron about phantoms. Specters. Restless spirits waiting for a moment to no longer be alone.
She shivered. No harm could come to her in the castle.
Where was Renlyn?
"Amarinda, do you-," Imogen began, but the door handle to the hall rattled, and in stepped Renlyn with a short man by her side.
The wind howled, hurling snowflakes through the openings in the shutters. Imogen tightened her shawl around herself as she looked at the short man in his fur lined clothes. His beard puffed out of his face, rivaled only by his gargantuan nose. A pair of beady black eyes glinted beneath his hedge eyebrows.
She could see those greedy magpie eyes from where she sat by the fire. Imogen was no stranger to those who'd once been filled with ill intent.
But people changed. It wasn't fair to the magpie-eyed man to instantly brand him as somebody not to be trusted.
"Sorry to disturb," Renlyn dipped her head, firelight glinting off the Gelynian style hood she wore. "But this man here brings an important message."
Imogen sat up straight, and nodded to the man. "Tell me your name."
The magpie-eyed man was covered in powdery snow. He bowed low, and pulled off his long cap. "Your majesties, I hope you've found your stay in Trail's End satisfactory, I hate to- I hate to be the one sharing this news, but it can't be kept quiet any longer." The crow-eyed man bowed again, but snapped back to his full height when he remembered to answer Imogen's request. "I, ah, you may call me Nolan."
"Any longer?" Amarinda arched an eyebrow. Her voice was filled with sympathetic concern, "You mean to tell us that your news has been happening for some time?"
Nolan shifted on his feet, "We try to accommodate visitors by keeping our business as our business."
"And what kind of business do you speak of?" Imogen asked.
A log in the fireplace cracked and showered sparks through the air. It was almost loud enough to block the ever-howling wind.
"The business of shades," Nolan clutched his cap. "Trail's End is a quiet village, your Majesty. We get by. We try not to anger those we cannot control, but with your blessing, we Trailblazers might be able to put the spirits of the forest to rest."
With her blessing? Imogen rolled her shoulders back; Nolan's words hung on her skin like used sink water.
Sending restless spirits to rest was the work of priests and sisters of the holy book.
"Take a seat Nolan, Renlyn," said Imogen. She gestured to the other upholstered chairs near the fire. "We should discuss this before any decisions are made. I'm sure that King Jaron wouldn't mind being included in this particular endeavor."
She needed a moment to think of what she could say.
There was a tugging in her heart towards appeasing the spirits Nolan feared. Imogen wanted to believe him. It made sense, what with the effects the Great War had all over Carthya. It made sense that there were those among the deceased wandering around in a fruitless quest for justice.
How could the dead ever know that a war had been won?
But there was also a tugging in her mind towards assessing the situation. As a young maid working at Farthenwood, Imogen often had to retrieve water for washing. The well was deep in the surrounding woods, and taking a lantern meant she wouldn't be able to carry her bucket with two hands to avoid spilling precious drops of water. She'd walked the path to the well on many a moonless night and never once dealt with anything not of this world.
It was possible that somebody was using legends and shared fear to their advantage.
It was possible that a bandit had hid behind the cover of a restless spirit in order to get away with robbing the villagers of Trail's End.
"Can you tell us about these shades?" Imogen motioned to one of the servants waiting near the door. She'd need a cup of tea to get through this conversation.
Nolan tapped his toes together. "Ah, well, they come and go, but they've been present for the past several months. They make noises at night; sometimes children on the streets vanish. Beggar women, too. There was a noble lord passing through the area a few weeks ago. We found him not ten miles from town in his unmentionables, hanging by his feet from a tree. Everything was gone. All of it."
Renlyn's cheek twitched, but she remained silent. She folded her hands in her lap. Imogen resisted the urge to frown.
"And what else has happened?" Amarinda's gaze flickered from Renlyn to Imogen and back to Nolan.
"Odd things. Barrels and barrels of sour cabbage appear in the middle of the square," he said. "Not quite a bad thing, but it is odd."
"Do things go missing?"
"Every so often, yes. Mostly bottles of mead. The stronger the liquor, the higher the chance that it'll vanish. We started leaving bottles of beeswine. They'd be gone before the night was over, and we'd hear even more of the sounds. More of the wailing."
Waling. The frown struggling to break through Imogen's placid face won the battle for a moment. Imogen quickly regained her calm expression, "What kinds of sounds? Is it like the wind?"
"Is it chanting names?" Renlyn asked. She shrugged after all eyes looked to her; she'd been silent for the majority of the conversation. "I've heard of a story like that once before an old battle."
Nolan shook his head ever so slightly, "It's- I can't quite describe it. It's loud, the sound carries for miles. And sometimes the cows listen. They'll push their way out of stalls and corrals to answer the song of the spirits."
"How often do the spirits sing?" Imogen tightened her grip on her shawl, however, the chill that settled around her wasn't something that could be cured with a blanket or a mug of tea.
A pair of shutters slammed open against the wall. Snow forced its way inside, only to melt as soon as it hit the stone floor. Nolan jumped.
"Singing spirits," Renlyn sat up a little straighter. "Perhaps they're attempting to make a choir from beyond the grave."
Imogen shot Renlyn a slight glare.
"There are- there are multiple voices, yes," Nolan nodded. "But the sounds- the singing, it's far too deep to belong to any choir, holy or not. No, this phantom music is low and deep, like a man."
Renlyn crossed her arms, and finally fell back in her chair. She had something to say, but had no intention of sharing it. Imogen wrinkled her nose, preparing herself for the conversation they'd all have once Nolan was out of earshot.
The maid Imogen had sent away returned with a tray of teacups. She set the tray down, and quietly mentioned that Jaron and Tobias were raiding the kitchens before she slipped away.
Nolan continued sharing his tales of the spirits and their strange behavior. He never raised his voice. Never stuttered. He knew exactly what he was speaking about.
Nolan fully believed that there were spirits in Trail's End. Spirits singing into the night, stealing beeswine, leaving behind gifts of sour cabbage.
"Please, your Majesty, all we need is your permission to expel these spirits," Nolan swung out of his chair, and bowed before Imogen. "We will not disturb you again should you choose to say no to our humble request."
Imogen sat a little straighter. She had to make a choice at that moment. It would be cruel to leave Nolan and his fellow villagers waiting for an answer. She didn't look at Renlyn or Amarinda as she stood up and helped Nolan to his feet.
"I have something better in mind," Imogen said. "I will go into the village and see these occurrences for my own eyes. We will look for answers together."