A gold signet ring lay face-down on the path near an underfoot berry bush. The yellow band was thick and scarred with years of wear. A breeze tugged at the leaves of the short brambles with a soft whisper. Ripe fruit sweetened the morning air. Near the ring, u-shaped prints touched the dry, brown earth with the barest of impressions. Footsteps drew closer as a woman’s humming filled the air.

The podgy old woman carried a basket, half-filled with leaf-grass, berries, shavings of bark, and stringy root. Fretful, she searched the foliage for palmil leaves. She walked over to a thistle bush and pulled at the leaves. She crushed one with her fingers and sniffed the released pungency. “You would be bitter. It’s been two weeks already. You know you’re late.” She tossed the leaves and spied the gold ring on the edge of the path. She looked about. “Certainly your owner will be most worried about you.” Quietly, she listened for sounds on the breeze but heard nothing. Pulling her grey shawl tighter, she ambled over to the ring.

She picked it up and examined the gold band, which was richly detailed with vines of full grapes. In the center lay a stone of depressing grey. The image of a falcon in flight was masterfully carved, yet she thought it was more artistic fluff than practical realism. “A falcon’s tail feathers would never separate in such a manner.” The thought crossed her mind, and she placed the ring on her finger but got only as far as the middle joint. “Indeed.” She pulled it off and placed it in one of her many pockets. Then she examined the ground. The horse prints led north, and she would follow them.

The hour’s walk would have been shorter if she was not required to stop and pick some roseweed and sych. There was no law stating that she could not complete her own tasks while doing a good deed. Ooh, silver leaves. These would require a diligent eye. One had to be careful not to pick them too pale; almost white and you die in the night, a dull grey will get you through the day.

Voices. She was certain she heard a man. Did he yell? Maybe it is the ring’s owner. The path led up and over a knoll. Once at the top she should be able to see him. The silver leaves would have to wait.

A sudden, sharp wind raced down the knoll, pulling at her shawl and skirt as it blew the dust of the trail away. Bitter was the dirt in her mouth, and she spit it out.

“Don’t do that.”

She looked up and turned around to face the road. A woman in a white robe stared at her. The woman’s hair hung straight, despite the blowing wind. Eyes the color of seafoam weighed Sheriligh.

“I do not enjoy the taste of road.”

“Spit now if you must and be done with it, but do not crest the hill,” the young woman countered.

She spit twice and then wiped her mouth. “I know what you are,” she said as she straightened.

“And I know who you are, Sheriligh of the Green Woods. Into the bushes now, for the time is short. Be still and speak not. Move quickly if you would survive this day. I will shield you.”

Sheriligh stared at her for a moment, but it was useless to ask questions. A year could pass and still she would have no answer from the agnola. She rushed behind a shrub that was well taller than she. Certainly she would be able to find a vantage point from which she could peer through unseen.

Horse’s hooves! The clop grew louder as she heard the beast crest the knoll. A great shadow moved through the air. She looked to the road, but the agnola was nowhere to be seen. Clop, clop, clop, it neared. The dread drew nearer. She wanted to crouch, but she feared her muscles would betray her if she shifted. It was foolishness to let curiosity get the better of you. She could do nothing but stare at the road as the beast neared. The heaviness in the air forced her will down.

Then Sheriligh saw the beast. A dark, massive horse walked slowly forward, bridled with silver and black leather. Thick legs rippled with muscles under the shiny black coat. It shook its head near where she last remembered the agnola standing. Then she saw the rider. Honey hair fell from his handsome face, his strong jaw tight under perfect lips. She was unable to see the color of his eyes as he remained focused on the road ahead. Sheriligh noted his regal tunic of blue and gold, yet it was lost to her when she saw the dead woman in his arm. Blond tresses swung from her lifeless neck with the rocking motion of the horse. Her eyes were rolled back so only the whites showed. Her lips were blue and her skin blanched. This beautiful face would never smile again. She was wrapped in her cloak, but that could not hide her nobility.

Southward ambled the horse and rider, but Sheriligh would not move until the clopping was gone. They were headed to Ashburton. Once the silence returned, she warily straightened.

“You must hurry.” The agnola appeared at her side.

“What.”

“To the road.” She pointed to the path.

Sheriligh made her way to the road. She turned back and saw that her hiding place was not as far as she would have liked, but it had worked—thank the Creator. She examined the ground. She lifted her foot and saw the print. She looked back down the trail but found that the prints of her journey were gone. The wind.

“Time is closing, Sheriligh of the Green Woods, and there is yet much you must accomplish. Crest the hill and run toward the mound. Wait there. I will come to you when it is safe.”

Sheriligh raced up the knoll and saw a great glade. Long stemmed grass grew to the height of her knee, and wild flowers were scattered throughout. From her vantage point, she spied the dark earthen mound and ran to it. Her feet pounded the ground as a strong wind swirled about. That made her all the more nervous. Was the agnola trying to hide her passing, or was it a regular wind? She reached the broken earth and saw a finger protruding from the soil. She faltered and went to her knees. The world had become strangely quiet, and she dared not move.

The sun was at his high point before the agnola returned. “You must place the ring on the hand.”

Sheriligh looked at her incredulously, but it was better to acquiesce and be done with it. She uncovered the man’s right hand. With fear and respect for the dead, she carefully put the ring on the finger. Then, as was proper, she covered his hand with earth.

“He was killed today, wasn’t he?”

“It was his scream of death that you thought you heard.” The agnola’s face was stoic. “Please sprinkle the sych on the mound. It is important that he does not give off a strong scent.”

“Why?”

“That is not for you to know.”

That did not settle well with Sheriligh; agnola or not, manners were manners. She removed the sych from a pouch at the bottom of her basket. Normally, she would have stripped the stalks from the seeds and ground them into a poultice. But that was in a perfect world. She sprinkled the sych, walking about the grave to get an even distribution. Once satisfied, she turned to the agnola. “Won’t it be blown away with the wind? There seems to be a many great breezes today.”

“Rain is coming,” she answered, yet Sheriligh could not see a cloud.

“May I go now?”

“Yes, but this I will tell you. You will forget this morning, the ring, the rider, the dead woman, and the dead man. It is for your own safety.”

“Why? The rider went to Ashburton. He does not know of me.”

“You are fated to move there. Once you climb the knoll, the memories you hold, this morning’s events and others, will be hidden deep within you until the appointed time. The hiding will keep you safe while you are in the enemy’s midst.”

“But I don’t understand.”

The agnola looked at her. “When you woke this morning, you did not understand the course of events the day would hold, and in that manner today is like any other.” Then she disappeared.

Sheriligh looked at the rise of the knoll and wondered whether she should cross it.