“Is this finally it?”
Cyrrienne sped through the fern-choked copse, travel-stained robes flying everywhere and catching on brambles and branches. She didn’t have time to mind. Her running became leaps down the slight slope of the forest floor. Any number of branches or loose stones could be lying hidden in the undergrowth here. It would mean a twisted ankle or worse if she were to misstep. If what she’d just heard were true, would it be worth shattering a leg over? Too late now, anyway. There was the edge of the treeline and she’d gathered momentum. Recklessly bursting from cover, she looked about wildly for her leader and friend. The news was important.
Lendrick was deep in discussion with the elven ranger Michesavu. It was only battle tactics; nothing more in-depth or long-term, not after last time. Michesavu still bore the ugly welt on his cheekbone where Len had lashed out at him for blaspheming. Cyrrienne was certain the elf’s scepticism was about to be laid to rest. She unintentionally blazed right past them in her haste and had to stumble to a halt. Not even waiting to catch her breath, she forced the words out between gasps for air.
“She’s… here… It’s her… it has to be!”
Michesavu fell silent. His scepticism had not dried up. A frustrated furrow dented his brow as he realised his pragmatic discussion of strategy had been derailed by more of Lendrick’s superstitious speculation, but he knew better than to express his displeasure again. Suppressing a sigh and an impertinent eye roll, putting one of the hands he’d been gesticulating with to the bruise on his face, he began shifting his weight on his feet impatiently, waiting for his leader to recover from this lapse into fantasy.
“You’re sure?” asked Len. “Breathe, now. When did she arrive? And how do you know it’s really her?”
“It has to be her. The timing is right. She matches the description. She calls herself ‘Mea’. Gods! Turned up this morning, terrified and helpless. I glimpsed her horse on the way here; it was the most majestic beast I’ve ever seen. There was a chest strapped to its back so inlaid with gold that it’s probably worth more than every possession in the camp. Len, it’s happening!”
She’d had doubts when she and Lendrick left their homes together over a year ago. She’d felt so foolish during the first weeks looking for work on the road, moving from place to place while just waiting. It was easy to believe in the Codex late at night in her church’s study room, alone with Len; they would pore over his copy together and pick out parts that matched with the world around them, trying to pinpoint their place in the prophesied timeline. Everyone in the church — everyone in the town — just laughed them off. Crazy kids with conspiracy theories.
She was defiant. That’s why she left with him when Lendrick turned up at her house in the middle of the night. She considered turning him down; he was so riled-up that wouldn’t allow her time to even pack a bag. She calmed him, reassuring him that Destiny could wait twenty minutes for her to grab some food and throw on a cloak.
The first few weeks were the hardest. Neither of them had any travelling experience or survival skills. Len became delirious and wild-eyed, through fervour or fever, as they slept barely-sheltered in the woods during the rain and the cold. They bought or worked for food when they were able and ineptly foraged when they weren’t. Life on the road was hell for the pair of them. It was too great a departure from their comfortable lives in the heart of civilisation. Cyrrienne’s despair grew with Lendrick’s madness, a madness that had reached new heights the night she decided to give up.
Unbeknownst to him, she waited long enough for Len to fall asleep and began to pack her few possessions. But he’d not been sleeping. He’d been wandering the perimeter of their camp with a lamp and his tattered book. As she tried to slip away, he almost walked into her. He, too distracted to realise she was leaving, dragged her into unknown woodland in the pitch dark and once again, his desperate clutch on the sleeve of her robe gave her a jolt of hope that galvanised her faith. Resolving to indulge him one last time, she again set off with nothing to go on but the man’s excited whims. She had never told him that she was trying to leave that night. She was grateful to him and the gods and fate and luck that she’d given into him that one final time, because that was the night everything changed. That was the night they found the minotaur.
Khoroldar was one of the few people actually mentioned by name in the Codex. Up until that point, their faith had been in Len’s interpretation of rough descriptions in its pages. Yet, as described perfectly, there he was; wounded and lost and furious, hammering on the sealed door to an overgrown, abandoned temple in the forest. It was straight from the Codex, every aspect of the encounter set down as accurately as if the pair had written it themselves while it was happening. Most people thought it was only a parable, some metaphor for finding help in unlikely allies. Lendrick knew how to open the stone door of the temple. Bringing Khoroldar inside doubtless saved his life that night and the honourable minotaur swore his loyalty to the man. There could be no doubting the Codex by this point. Privately Cyrrienne also made a pledge to stand by Lendrick. It was their prophecy to share now: three lives irrevocably entwined with the strands of fate.
Len didn’t look surprised at the news of Mea’s arrival. His frustrations with their recent setback were alleviated as his surety in the Codex was far more mature than Cyrrienne’s and though her excitement bubbled through her, his took the form of a complacent half-smile. Cyrrienne shot a smug glance at Michesavu and turned to lead the pair back through the woods to the camp to meet Mea.
