Wyndano's Cloak
by A. R. Silverberry    

Alert, Jen backed away from the tree and studied it at a crouch.  The air was still.  The grass motionless.  But the leaves stirred and fluttered.  Words floated down.  At first they were indistinct, as if someone called through a distant snowstorm.  One word emerged clearly, and an icy finger traced down her spine.

She heard her name.

She backed away until she squatted on some rocks that extended into the pool. Every muscle - sun-hammered and wind-hardened like metal in a forge - was poised to spring.  Phrases whispered down.  The only sense she could make was that something was coming.  Something dangerous.

She thought of her family.  Fear tightened around her heart.  She was a hair's-breadth away from running to them.  Her feet stayed rooted to the spot.  Maybe she'd hear more.

A small splash made her look at the pond.  Two more followed, as if someone had thrown pebbles.  Nothing had fallen into the water.  But ripples spread out and ran into each other.  More splashes erupted like tiny volcanoes, until the whole pool was agitated with colliding rings.  A circle of calm emerged below Jen's feet, pushing the waves back.  Pale and ghostly, a face rose from the muddy bottom of the pool until it floated just below the surface.

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