Prelude

I heard, or rather I overheard the news, as so often, in passing. I am one of those people whom others do not readily see. It is a skill I was born with and have cultivated for its usefulness. I am now, as it is said, “a woman of a certain age”, and dress darkly, discretely. It is safer that way. Early in this life, I learned that humans are prone to fear half-borns like me, but the story of the half-borns is a tale for another day. You might say I am as invisible as any incarnate being might safely be, and that it suits everyone’s best interest that way. When I go to market, I do not visit and gossip; I watch and I listen, and sooner or later, I am sure to learn what is of consequence to me.

And so it was that I learned of the journey into Lemurian lands: a pilgrimage to the Sanctuary of Mnemosyn. The Inner Voice told me it was the call I had been awaiting. A snippet of gossip gleaned here, followed by discreet inquiries and seeded questions in other exchanges, revealed what little information was to be learned, and it was enough for me to know where travellers were to be and when.

I learned that the main party had departed on Twelfth Night, but also that the Portal would remain open until the next full moon, so that straggling pilgrims might pass through and join the expedition. It would be time enough, if I set off immediately and made good use of the moonlight.

As a seasoned journeywoman, accustomed to travelling fast and light, my preparations were quickly made. My journeying clothes are always ready. It took less than an hour to fill my backpack with the necessities — a change of clothes, my journal, healing herbs, and the odds and ends I knew I’d need underway — and ready the house for my absence. After that, all I had to do was put on my travelling shoes, strap on my pack, don cloak and staff, and seal the house with a spell of protection.

The sun was already setting I laboured up a steep pathway behind the house that led into the Holborn Hills, but, for me, the twilight would be sufficient to make a head start until the moon rose to light my pathway through the night. The Holborn Trail is narrow and demanding, but not treacherous, and I had walked it, by day and by night, many times. By moonlight, I reckoned, it would take me until morning to reach to summit. Come morning, I would traverse the hills, and descend through the summer pastures into the Wigh Valley. I could then follow the Wigh river through the wetlands and, with luck, would reach the Murmuring Woods by nightfall. So it was.

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