Mountain's Secrets

Autumn leaves crunched beneath his boots as he once more made the journey. Nightfall was upon him, and he knew he would soon need to find a place to rest. The climb to the mountain’s peak was a three-day endeavor. He had made this pilgrimage before, yet this time the goal was different.

He found a small rocky ledge and sheltered there for the night. Tomorrow would bring the final stretch of his ascent. Even from two-thirds of the way up, he could see far across the wilderness. Out here there were no cities, no buildings of stone or timber — only nature, endless and untamed. The setting sun spilled splashes of pink and violet across the heavens, hues no canvas could ever hope to capture.

Settling under the shelter, he prayed to the gods that no beast would trouble his sleep. He had made a promise years ago, and now it was time to keep it.

He awoke at dawn as a sunbeam crested a nearby ridge and pierced his eyes. Rising quickly, he prepared himself; he must reach the monastery before nightfall, else risk another night in the elements.

By the time the sun was setting once more, he arrived at the summit. The monastery, though raised by humble monks, was an exquisite sight, bathed in the fire of a mountaintop sunset. The colors danced across its intricate stonework. Passing through the open gate into the courtyard, he was met with nods from the monks, who knew he meant no harm. Some were training in martial skill, their movements sharp and disciplined.

Among them was a young woman in flowing white robes, gliding through the air with deadly grace as she struck down each obstacle. He turned to a nearby monk.

“Where is Evangeline?” he asked.

The monk gestured toward the courtyard. At first, Morgan could not discern which of the robed figures he meant. Then the one in white finished her round and landed in a lunge, fist against the ground. As she lifted her head, a spill of silvery-blonde hair escaped her hood. Her gaze found his.

“Morgan!” she cried, striding toward him with elegance before throwing her arms around his neck. His mouth opened, but words failed him.

“I’m doing good, aren’t I?” she asked.

“You are doing well,” he corrected gently, knowing she had not been granted the education he had received.

She took his hand and led him into the monastery. “You must have traveled far. Come eat.”

The great hall was filled with monks at long tables, bowls heaped high with food. She led him to a table piled with fruits and vegetables, some unlike any he had ever seen. She filled his plate, explaining that she had grown them herself.

As they sat across from one another, he marveled at the freshness of the meal. Her blue eyes sparkled, a sight that warmed him deeply. When he had first brought her here months ago, there had been no life in those eyes — only despair. He had not realized until this moment how beautiful her smile was.

“You look well,” he said.

She smiled, and it was the first true smile he had ever seen from her. She seemed more like a younger sister he longed to protect, though after what he had seen in the courtyard, she appeared more than capable of protecting herself.

“I have news,” he said, “though I know not how you will take it.”

“Is Bresmal well?” she asked quickly, then seemed to regret the words.

“Who is Bresmal?” he pressed.

“No one. If you do not know, then it is not your news.”

“It is about the prince,” he began.

“I hope he is dead,” Evangeline said coldly. A few heads turned at her sharp tone, but only Morgan knew the horrors she had endured at the prince’s hands.

“I wish I could tell you that. No — he is soon to wed.”

The sparkle in her eyes faded, and she pushed her food aside. “Are you well?” he asked gently.

“Yes,” she lied, rising from the table. Claiming weariness from training, she left him.

Morgan was shown to the visitor’s quarters, where wanderers and the homeless shared an open chamber of temporary beds. One wall was a great window overlooking the mountain’s edge. The night sky stretched on forever, jeweled with stars. It was the most beautiful sight Morgan had ever beheld. Surrounded by others who would keep watch, he slept more soundly than he had in many months.

Dawn roused him once again. If the stars had been wondrous, the morning sky was even more so — streaked with colors beyond description. He stood at the window, lost in its glory, until he sensed a presence beside him.

“It is beautiful, is it not?” Evangeline’s voice broke the silence.

“I have never seen anything so incredible,” he replied.

“The view is best from here. I come often,” she said softly.

“How do you fare this morning?”

Her gaze remained fixed on the horizon. “Bresmal is my daughter,” she confessed.

His breath caught. “Her father is the prince,” she added.

In that silence, the missing pieces fell into place. Morgan’s task had been to rescue as many slaves as possible from the tyrant royal family, and Evangeline had been one of them. While most freed souls had returned to their homes, she had asked to remain. He recalled the malnourished, battered girl she had been, her spirit crushed, her family having sold her for coin.

“I fear the new princess may discover her,” Evangeline whispered.

Morgan knew too well what that meant. Bastard heirs seldom lived long, and their mothers even less so.

“Why was she not with you when I freed you?” he asked.

“I had her only a year before they took her away. I have seen her only in passing since. The boys are raised as soldiers. The girls — handmaidens.”

Anger burned within him at every word she spoke.

At last he said, “Shall we go and rescue her?”

Together they stared out at the rising sun. The mountains spread before them in divine splendor, his eyes feasting on their beauty. But his heart could not share in it.

“We must put a stop to that wedding,” she said through gritted teeth.

“And how do you propose we do that?”

“There can be no wedding if the groom is dead.”

Morgan tore his gaze from the window and looked into her eyes. He knew then: that was exactly what they were going to do.