Read Online Gardens of Mist (The Traveler's Gate Chronicles: Collection #2) by Will Wight - Free Book Online Page B

that. This is different. Sometimes I think the Mist is moving around behind my back, you know. Reaching into me, pulling stuff out. The anger, the fear, the…you know what I mean. One day, I’m afraid the Mist is going to get what it wants, and everything I’ve pushed down all these years is going to bubble up to the top and come bursting out of me. It’s going to keep on coming, up and up, and the Mist is going to feed and keep feeding until there’s nothing left of me at all…”
    His voice drifted off. He didn’t seem to need a response, for which I was glad. If I had reacted honestly at that moment, it would have been to run out of my house, into the night, and to keep running away from this potentially deranged madman.
    I’ve seen dozens of people whose sanity has been eaten away by Asphodel. None of them are what I would consider safe living companions.
    I don’t know why I didn’t leave right then. Maybe something he said rang true in me. Maybe I just wanted to know. But I had to ask the next question.
    “Why did you come to me with this?” I asked. I had a positive opinion of Adrian, but we were hardly friends. In many ways, I barely knew the man.
    “You’ve been around longer than anyone,” he said. “You know what the Mist can do to folks. And there was your wife. And…well, I don’t want this conversation getting around, if you understand me.”
    I did. Not only did I stick to my own company, and was therefore not likely to spread any rumors, most people around here considered me the lonely guy who lived on his own because his wife had left him for mysterious reasons. I couldn’t ruin Adrian’s reputation in town because, frankly, no one would listen to me.
    “I understand,” I said. That probably didn’t sound too gracious, so I tried to offer him what advice I could. “Listen, if you want my opinion, I’d say you should go home. Get a good night’s sleep. Talk to your wife, if you can. But more than anything, keep control of yourself. You’ve managed to keep the Mist out this long; you can do it a little longer.”
    Today, as I look back on this conversation, I wonder if I should have said something different. Maybe I could have said something else, something that would have helped.
    Probably not.
    Adrian straightened up and nodded without looking me in the eye. He looked sober now, and his sweat was at least starting to dry. “You’re right,” he said. “I’ve gone this far. What kind of man would I be if I backed down now?”
    He stuck out one hand, and I took it. His huge hand had a set of calluses to rival my own.
    After that, he left. As he walked off, I would have bet money that I saw a wave of Mist following him.
    I know, it was probably my imagination. A dozen people have already heard this story, and they all said the same thing. But I can’t forget the Mist, slithering after Adrian’s footsteps like a snake. Outside of a mist-binder’s control, I’ve never seen it act like that.
    But, like you said. Probably my imagination.
    I managed to scrape up a couple more hours of sleep before the next knock came. This time, I wasn’t nearly so irritated. I knew what was coming. I’ve always had a sense for bad news.
    The foreman of my harvest crew—my boss—stood outside, holding a glowing cluster of pink night-roses like a lantern. She was one of the few bald women I knew, and she had tiny black eyes like a pair of beetles.
    She was also a Gardener, a Traveler with the power to call on the plants of Asphodel. Despite my exhaustion, I straightened my back and bowed my head in respect.
    “I beg your pardon for waking you,” she said. She wasn’t really sorry, but good manners were a matter of survival here. Provoking someone else can be just as bad as letting yourself get provoked.
    “No pardon necessary,” I said. “Is there a problem in the Fields?”
    The foreman lowered her bundle of glowing flowers, shifting the pale pink light away from her face. “Phelia Corydon