“This is boring as all hell,” grumbled Count Strongbull. “Not a single auroch in sight.”
“That’s because this is civilization, Richard.” Count Archibald shook his head.
“It’s late spring now, the aurochs are at their most aggressive. This is the *perfect* time for some wrestling.”
Dame Josefine brushed past William. “Raimunde is looking for you.”
Sighing, William pushed off from the wall and started toward his most recent employer. The party, or ball or whatever, was in full swing now and he found Raimunde Gale talking to Kirk Renett. Perhaps an alliance, though frankly William disliked the boy. He stood to the side and waited for their conversation to end.
“I can’t *believe* Rosomon and Alexandra are going to be finished schooling soon. It’s such a waste,” the Renett boy was saying.
“What do you mean?”
“Well. Why *should* they study. It’s not like they’re going to be doing anything *important*. Just wives and mothers. Why don’t they learn things that would be more fitting to them?”
Raimunde shifted uncomfortably. “Well, it’s better for everyone when knowledge is more widespread. Otherwise why would the University be there.”
“*I* don’t think women *belong* in the university. Like I said, they should be learning things more fitting to their future tasks.”
Raimunde smiled to William, then looked back to Kirk. “I’m sorry, I’ve been waiting for news. Perhaps we’ll find more time to talk later.”
Kirk looked at William. “He looks like a clown to me. I thought you’d grown out of that sort of thing, what’s with the mask?”
Raimunde shook his head, but maintained his smile. “Excuse me.”
Leading William away from the boy, he apologized. “My father told me I should make friends. No one my age seems to be worth knowing, frankly.”
“I’m sure that I couldn’t say, my Lord,” William replied.
Shaking his head again, Raimunde sighed. “Anyway. Did you hear anything interesting?”
William glanced toward the table where the representatives from the Houses were sitting, specifically toward Count Dracian, who he assumed was the one who was really employing him, rather than Viscount Harlan, Raimunde’s father, who sat beside him. “Oh yes,” he began.
“I heard a rumor that Baron Valerian there came in the same carriage as Count Bradford. The Valerians *could* use the support and the Bradfords haven’t the military to defend themselves if anything were to happen. Though at the same time, Baron Telford sent a few gifts towards the Valerians as well, so perhaps it has something to do with trade, rather than warfare.” He paused as one of the Ascalon servants passed by.
“Master Corvo di Talmerin, there, with the Baines family. He swore he’d seen a servant of House Drake slipping a sealed note to Viscount Avery when she was pouring his wine. Meanwhile I also heard that Count Gareth Addison has sent his second son in secret on a vampire hunt towards the City of Lanterns as well. I *believe* that his eldest hasn’t yet had that opportunity, so perhaps there’s something there.”
Raimunde smiled and pressed a coin into his hand. “Thank you. You’ve done wonderfully so far.”
William nodded, bowing slightly. “There’s nothing else for the moment, but I think I’m going to go wait by the drinks and see who comes around.”
Nodding, Raimunde put on a more serious face.
William laughed. “Keep smiling Raimunde, you’ll find better company that way.”
Raimunde’s façade broke somewhat and he smiled again. William patted him on the back and headed toward the drinks. He stopped at one of the tables on the way and wrote a quick note, then handed it to a passing servant. “Can you take that to Dame Josephine please?” He gestured in her direction. The servant acceded and headed that direction. William watched until Josephine had received the note and had started heading toward its true intended recipient before he continued toward his destination.
Sir Harry Callahan met him there and William smiled again. “Did you talk to Baroness Ismania Faulkner?”
Harry nodded. “She says there’s nothing you can do about the trade guilds on Ard Kreight.”
Sighing heavily, William shook his head. “I wish more of these noble houses acted like the Telfords. They’re not *all* bad.” He wrote another note and did the same as the last, sending this one toward Corvo.
Turning back to his companion, William shook his head. “I’m sorry, Harry. You probably don’t care.”
He laughed. “You asked, I answered. I owe you after how you helped me with the Faulkner’s problem.”
William shrugged and smiled. “I’ll find you later if I need anything else. Thank you. I mean it.”
Harry shrugged and took a drink, then walked away.
William listened for a while longer, then moved to a corner to write his reports. As he worked, he hummed along with the Wind Singers guildmembers staffing the party. A hand came down on his shoulder and he looked up, glad he’d been writing in his own personal code.
“You are William, yes?”
Nodding, William covered his notes and turned. “How can I help you?” He noted the House Valerian sigil on the man’s armor.
“You will come with me now.”
William stood. “I’m sure there’s no need for that. Perhaps we could talk here? Or someplace quieter?”
“Come with me.”
The man walked away and William sighed, waving to Harry as he followed.
They walked out onto the balcony and the man punched William in the gut. He fell to his knees, winded, and let out a groan of consternation. “What was *that* for?”
“Stop looking into House Valerian’s business. It’s none of yours.”
William shook his head and stood, using the balcony railing for support. “Alright, alright. I have nothing against you or your house.” He backed away a little, putting a hand between them in case the man tried to hit him again.
The man went inside and William sighed and straightened. A moment later, Harry came out. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah, I’m alright.” He shook his head again. “Just business.”
So a priest and a paladin go to a bar…
Late at night finds Adrian sitting in one of the booths in the Stoic Swordsman next to a crackling fire. An unfinished mug of ale keeps him company while he peruses a tome, waiting for his meeting to start.
The door to the tavern opens slowly, framing a white robed figure who casts a few nervous glances around the tavern before noticing Adrian. Lysander slowly approaches the table, pleasant, if practiced, smile on his face. The young paladin raps his knuckles on the table a few times before sitting down, “Good evening, Adrian.”
“Ahh, Welcome to my office good sir. I’m glad you’ve come. Can I order you a drink while we wait for Brother Ansel?” he says with a cheery smile on his face as he slowly closes his book.
“That would be lovely, thank you.” Lysander replies, leaning his sword on the table, “I’ve not been here before, how is the ale?”
“Safer then the water, probably.” Adrian catches the waitress’ attention with a quick wave and soon enough there is another full mug at the table. “I was hoping we could figure out a way to deal with the maelific when she shows. I know at last forum I was somewhat incorrigible on the topic. Im hoping we can have a semblance of a plan for when she returns, because based on how she spoke to me during our meeting with Percival, I believe shes going to come back, and is going to probably be angered by something and start spreading fire around.”
“Start setting fires?” Lysander thinks for a moment, “She did have those burns last time we saw her…” He glances over at his sword, in particular silver chain hanging just below the pommel, “I’d hoped to find some people willing to marry before she returned. An eager engaged couple to symbolically resolve the malefic,” Lysander looks back at Adrian, “unfortunately, given recent events not many people are feeling festive enough for a wedding.”
“So the one thing that was different is that last forum she actually spoke to me. The first time we encountered her, she was completely nonverbal. Im wondering if it might be possible to find out who killed her if she’s willing to speak of it. Im sure doing so would enrage her, but it might be possible to actually give her justice?” He finishes his ale in a deep gulp. “Downside, i’m pretty sure anyone else nearby would quite crispy as she became emotional.”
Lysander takes a small sip of his drink, “Her willingness to talk to you is good. I am not sure how comfortable I am with you risking your safety to engage with her, but we may not have a choice.” He sets his mug down, gently tapping his fingers along the side, “Did she appear before you last forum? Or was it more of a voice? If you’re able to choose where you have your conversation it would allow us to minimize risk of collateral harm.”
“She spoke to me without appearing. She mentioned wanting to have our ‘wedding night’ and how happy she was going to make me. I’m not worried about her. I don’t think she can actually harm me. And as for others, I have this.” He slides across a sealed bottle filled with an opaque red liquid.
Lysander sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Adrian what is that?”
“Something to insure whoever drinks it doesnt feel the heat. I managed to purchase it from a, how shall we call it, a disreputable source.” Adrian smiles coyly, motioning for the waitress to refill his drink.
“So it’s Mortal Gluttony, gotcha.” Lysander looks back up at Adrian, “I must insist that you not use that.”
“Ohh it’s not for me. It sort of dropped in my lap and I figured it would be good for anyone else to have in case things get a little.. Out of control.” He pauses for a sip from his mug. “Ideally we won’t need it, but I would rather someone use it to survive the encounter rather then die because of a maelific we are trying to help.” Adrian reaches out across the table and grabs the potion, pocketing it.
Ansel emerges from the back room of the tavern, his robe and tabard stained with dirt and blood. Most of the patrons don’t seem to be put off by his appearance, but a table of Capacionnes breaks into a mix of snickers and looks of either pity or disgust. The priest makes his way over to his friends, while setting out his mug in anticipation of the server. “Thank you for waiting for me, I had some business to attend to…” he trails off. “Have you come up with a solution for your lost bride yet?”
Lysander raps his knuckles on the table again at Ansels approach, “It’s good to see you, Ansel. Not yet,” he nods towards Adrian, “We were just discussing what we currently know and can expect.”
Adrian nods and smiles as Ansel sits down with them. ”I’m glad you could join us. As I was telling Lysander here earlier at last forum she didn’t appear to me but she did speak to me. She spoke to me about having our “wedding night.” The fact that she actually spoke to me when previously she was completely nonverbal has me wondering if I could gently ask her about what happened to her. Maybe find out enough to take revenge on the one who took her life.” He pauses briefly before continuing. “Lysander, do you still have the ring from last time? I may need it again.”
The templar furrows his brow. “How did she speak to you? As if in a dream? Or just a voice in your head? You say she was killed. How do you know that? Do we know who her betrothed was or what fate befell him? Do we know if she was buried? What would you do with the ring? What did it do for you before?”
Lysander gestures to his sword, “The ring is hanging from the chain. I’m afraid that I can’t remove it, otherwise the ritual will be undone. Currently, we don’t know anything about her other than her relation to fire. But even that may just be symbolic. We’d need to ask her more questions first. Or maybe do some research on her, but we don’t have a name.”
Adrian pipes back in, “Not having any information at all makes it really difficult to start anywhere. I may be able to get some basics figured out, but it’s not a sure thing that I would be able to do so this next forum. As for the ring, I was thinking of just giving it back to her. Proposing to her with it was what actually calmed her down in our initial encounter. To answer your question, she spoke directly into my mind, as if by magic. I know its probably your least favorite option, Lysander,” he gestures to the paladin, “But im not entirely unopposed to actually marrying her if it’ll help the poor soul find rest. I’d like to pursue some form of revenge on her behalf first, but as a method of resolving her, I would do it.”
The paladin shakes his head, “Marriage is more than just a ceremony. It binds souls together. You would be tying yourself to her on a deeper level than I can possibly convey.” He clasps his hands together in front of him, “It’s not an option I can allow. You’d be sacrificing your soul. I’m sure there’s another way.”
Ansel chimes in, “Last season you waited for her, hoping she would be drawn toward the flame you were tending ceremonially. I think this next forum you should seek her out. Find a couple that is willing to be wed… I’m sure Adrian knows half the city and should be able to find someone who is ready… and take them to the Atopos. Marry them using the ring. That’s my idea. Or… Lysander… have you sworn an Oath of Chastity? It is a vow of love that is often taken in lieu of a wedding. I wonder… if you were willing… to swear one to her?”
“I haven’t, no,” Lysander replies, “It’s an option. But I don’t think it would be enough. And besides, my heart wouldn’t be in it.” He wraps his hands back round his mug, “I think finding couples willing to be wed would be best. Taking them back to Atopos wouldn’t be difficult, I’m sure I could find it again.” Lysander looks up at Adrian, “Would you be willing to put the word out? Find us a couple who wants to be wed of their own volition, and who’d be willing to use their union to lay a spirit to rest?”
“Im sure I can probably rustle up a few people willing to tie the knot,” Adrian replies quickly. “The issue becomes timing. If she shows up in the forum im not sure ill be able to break away from her long enough to get our perspective lovers to us quickly enough. Plus I worry for their safety, if things go wrong she gets angry quickly, and it’s a little bit unpleasant to experience.”
“I’m not sure you’re listening, Adrian,” Ansel begins. “We’re talking about taking the couple to the center of her haunting, the Atopos. The nuptual couple won’t be around or at risk until then. But… you do make a good point that we need a way to protect them. She shoots flame? What kind of protection are you using, Adrian? I don’t generally advocate the use of magic, but this seems like a supernatural problem that warrants supernatural solutions.” The eparch looks pointedly at the new Nightwarden as he says the last.
“I think that, so long as we are careful, she will not attack us. It seemed that she generally wasn’t aggressive so long as we didn’t outright antagonize her.” Lysander hesitates, “But… I am also worried for anyone we bring along. She didn’t outright throw fire, she just made it feel like we were surrounded by it. It starts with a feeling of dread, and if the course of action is continued, you start to burn.” The paladin absently rubs the leonem around his neck, “I’d partaken in the daily bread just before we left. I think that the blessing is what kept me safe. We could offer it to the couple as well.”
Adrian nods. “Ill see if I can drum up a few interested individuals for this. Do you have any idea when you would want to go out and try to marry them?”
Lysander takes a moment, sipping from his mug before responding, “Next forum, preferably. I’ll have to think on it more, but I’ll let the two of you know when I figure it out.”
“Cheers than!” Adrian stands up grabbing his cloak and the tome. “I better get this back to university before Azzam realizes its missing. You two have a wonderful evening!” He slams the remainder of his ale, winks, and turns to leave.
“I’d best be off as well. It was good to see the two of you again. I’ll get in contact once I’ve figured out a time.” Lysander finishes his drink and reaches out his hands to pat the other two, “Stay safe!”
A Wilted Lily
William pushed his hair out of his face, grinning as he tied off his final line. He waved toward the Capitan. “Julio! I’m going to go! I’ll see you later!”
Julio laughed. “Say hi to Lile for me.”
William waved again and snatched his bag, and the box next to it, from by the gangplank as he left. He smelled the lily he’d gotten for her; his terzo regalo. She’d finally asked for it when she gave him the ring. He grinned as he thought about it, shifting his gear around himself to make it more comfortable.
“William!” came a friendly call from behind him.
Laughing, William turned. “Slaine MacAlister, what are you doing out here?”
“What, I can’t come see the Sea Beggar make its triumphant return?”
William rolled his eyes. “What do you want Slaine?”
His friend put his hand on William’s shoulder, smiling. “Conor and Malmuira are making a big meal tonight to celebrate, why don’t you and Lile come?”
“I suppose we should,” he laughed. “Since we’ve skipped the last few.”
“That’s not your fault, you’ve been travelling a bunch. How many are you at now?”
William smiled. “I don’t keep track. Not enough until we can fix the whole issue.”
Slaine shook his head. “You’ve helped a lot of people William. Don’t forget to take care of yourself.”
Laughing, William shook his head as well. “Why do you think I’m trying to get back to Lile.”
Slaine grinned and patted his shoulder again. “I’ll see you later.”
Craigellachie was beautiful in the fall. William took a deep breath as he walked through the town. He waved to a few people he knew as he went. It’d been nearly three years since he’d come to Dunland. He’d never thought he’d fall in love, not with the city or with Lile. Something was different in the air that day. Maybe it was that he’d been away a couple of weeks, maybe it was that he was going to see Lile again. He smiled as he thought about Saoirse, the girl he’d taken to Port Melandir, who reminded him so much of Lile. But there really was something different on the air. He sniffed it again. There was the smell of fire on the wind. He frowned. Was there a fire somewhere? There was no smoke on the horizon. Leaving the city boundaries, he kept walking toward the Tiarnan family farm, still thinking about the fire. It didn’t smell like a cooking fire, nor really a bonfire. He shook his head. It seemed too much for that.
William stopped on the corner of their farm, hands growing weak as he saw the stake rising from next to their house. He dropped the box in his hands and sprinted toward the building, dropping his bag when it got in his way. There was the pyre, burnt out on the yard. There was the stake, still standing from the charcoal. He paused there, looking at it. Who had been burned? What had happened here? A moment passed and he tore himself away. He pushed open the door. “Lile!?” he called.
Llwyn, her brother, was standing next to their crying mother. He turned to William with fire in his eyes and ran forward to meet him, then slammed his fist into his jaw.
William collapsed against the doorframe, eyes wild and hand to his cheek.
“It’s your fault, you bastard!” Llwyn yelled in his face.
William shook his head, not understanding. Then his eyes grew wide and he staggered back out of the building, back toward the pyre. “Lile!?” he cried out again as he pushed through what was left of the pyre. His palms were tearing open on the rough wood as he cleared the wood. He found a bone, carbonized flesh fused to it. He cradled it and screamed out.
He didn’t know how long he sat in the pyre, ash coating his skin. When he came back to himself, it was raining. His exposed skin was burning under the ash, but it didn’t matter. His heart was broken. What had happened? He began to cry, probably not for the first time. He slowly began to stand, pulling what bones he could find from the pyre. He pulled his blanket shawl off himself and wrapped up the bones. He walked up to the house, but Lwyn stood at the door.
“You’re not welcome here anymore.”
William didn’t say anything, he just stared.
He glared at William. “They said she was a witch. She was screaming about ‘just wanting a child’ as they burned her.”
William still didn’t respond.
“Get out of here. You’re not welcome here,” he said again.
After a moment, William turned and walked back toward the pyre. He stopped, tears still streaming down his face. He bent down and picked up the little tressertag bracelet he’d given her months before.
He walked to the pyre and paused again, then pushed past it. He kept going, stopping only to take his bag before he continued back to his ship. He left the lily behind, wilting in the mud.
The Fine Enough Figurehead
A fleet shadow topped with bouncing copper curls darted in the dark into the fen, shoes and staff being sucked into the mud with every step – it didn’t matter; she was filthy enough already – no one would follow her this way. It was slower than the road; she would have to make up for it with her pace.
Bullfrogs croaked, insects sang… and dogs brayed in the distance behind her. Saoirse lengthened her strides.
She’d had no time to say goodbye; no time to explain; no time to think, not yet. Misty air puffed from her lips, breathing growing heavy, head aching almost worse than her body.
It didn’t matter that she couldn’t trust the sailor with the mask and the colorful clothes; the young Dun decided that the only choice she had was to throw her lot in with him. The mud beneath her turned to sand, lending more strength to her burning legs carrying her as quickly as they could to the boat. “Take me with you,” she begged through labored breath, cheeks flushed pink with exertion, “please,”
The man – who she would soon learn to be called William II de la Marck – looked up as she spoke with eyes drooping like a hound’s. “You… I’ve seen you before. Aren’t you… you’re from Craigellachie,”
“Aye,” Saoirse panted, “Please, ye must have room for one more,”
He frowned, looking out over her shoulder. “Do you have papers?”
She did not have papers; she did not have anything at all. “No, I…” She faltered, and shifted demeanor – she could not fail tonight, “I’m getting on that boat and ye cannae stop me, even if I’ve got tae lash myself down tae the bow like a figurehead,” she declared as insistently as she could, her accompanying stomp muted by fatigue and the sand.
“I would pay to see that, maybe we should,” he responded, looking back at another sailor behind him, a patronizing glimmer of mirth in his eyes. They shared a laugh before he turned back to her, “Or you can hide down in the hold with the grain?”
A Traveler of the Woods
She skipped as she avoided another tree root through the forest. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so free. The crunch of the snow under her feet was so soothing. She always marveled at the snow in Gotha. They never really got that back home with it always being so warm. Her soldiers should have been safely reposted in Portofino shortly after she left. Her familial responsibilities taken care of. She had even pieced together another part of the puzzle before leaving. Sure, she knew she had to face whatever new mess this cursed land had in store for her but she had discovered something truly beautiful.
She pulled another twig that must had gotten in her hair out as she looked at the setting sun. It was probably a good time to make camp for the night and catch her meal.
As she cooked a hare that evening by the fire, she opened up the book she always kept by her side. With a quickly demolishing piece of charcoal, she drew what must have been the tenth rendition of the same image. Pausing only once when she swore she heard movement nearby.
After resheathing her sword and dagger upon deciding it was just her imagination, she went back to her drawing. Smiling and giggling to herself the entire time.
In the morning, she opened her book back up however this time she opened to the first two pages titled family tasks and personal respectively. Each had items listed as in progress or completed. Taking her charcoal back up, she crossed off a line on personal. Smiling to herself, Isabella closed and reattached the book to her belt before heading towards Stragosa. With a steadying breathe that sounded much like a sigh, it was time to put away Isabella the person and become Dana Isabella Scordato the knight commander again. Hopefully she wouldn’t have to deal with too much nonsense upon her return.
To El Maestro di Mille Delize
To El Maestro di Mille Delize
I have done as you have asked and learned some fascinating things. Despite having followed them and learned what I could, I learned much less than I expected. I was surprised to find their information gathering skill the same or higher than my own. But despite this, I have still learned much. Their current practice and occupation seems the least of their skills. They are a skilled craftsman and inventor, who’s focus seems lit on the incendiary. Specifically those outside the techniques of Capacionne-born technology. But I also learned that if they are capable beyond natural means of creating this fire, they are unrelated to the guild. Unfortunately I was unable to determine the full truth of their abilities. Additionally, I have been told that their current services are quite addictive, though they had few, if any, customers at this last gathering. Unfortunately I don’t know how much of that is innuendo or if it just emphasizes the skill of their practice. I know they prefer wine to beer, and the current deal they have arranged with the Farmer’s Daughter.
Despite my small harvest, what I did learn has given me much to think about. I don’t know how much you knew about them before, but I hope that this service has been performed adequately.
With Regards,
The Friends of the Orange Baron.
To Consume the Heart
~His heart I would eat first.
I flex my hand.
Fire and brittle ice collide in my bones, shattering up their lengths and jumping joints, from the tips of my fingers all the way to my shoulder. I gasp at the pain, but pull in no air. My lungs are a sucking void, screaming silent in the dark.
Then my eyes open. Staring into the sky, all glimmering with stars, and I’m trying to breathe but there is no breath.
It hurts.
Sitting up, I lift my hands. Stare at them, slicked in black blood. I look down to the earth beside me, at the grass growing there in nighttime shadow. Everything in gray. I touch the grass, but I cannot feel it. All I feel is jagged, brittle pain like saw teeth.
Bending my head back, I stare into the stars. I stare long, letting ice-water memories trickle down my spine. The gnawing teeth. The slashing hands.
Balthazar vanishing before my eyes while I was eaten alive.
The ice and the howling and madness.
With the feeling of bursting blisters, my lips peel back from my teeth and I scream at the sky. He made me promises. I made him promises in turn. I am dead, and Balthazar too will die.
***
My feet shamble weak beneath my legs. My body is taken by tremors, as though the disparate parts of it are trying to shake themselves free of one another. I fix my eyes on the lights of the tavern, then the two figures standing outside. Watching me.
“BALTHAZAR!” The sound spills out of me like a waterfall, rising from my bowels to my throat and tumbling out. “WHERE IS BALTHAZAR?”
“Who is asking for him?”
“I am Freydis the Undead.” I feel my voice reverberating through my body more than I hear it with my ears. The senses are nothing to me now, except for the pain. “And I want Balthazar.”
There are whispers in the air—some giggle sharp like glass and joyful like children playing in spring. I hear it and I shudder. My body wants to pull itself to pieces.
More voices. My head snaps to the side, the bones of my neck clicking and grinding against each other. A tremor runs through my body as I watch people pour out of the tavern. Not one of them adorned in feathers, not one of them a bird. I open my mouth, teeth bared, and snarl at them.
“What do you want with Balthazar?”
Whipping around to this voice, I set my eyes on him. Some features begin to take form in the gray. The voice is familiar. Long robes, deliberate steps. Ansel. “Priest,” I snarl.
“Yes,” he says, “you know me, Freydis.”
A laugh rumbles in my chest. My hand pulses like a heart around my dagger. “Your god is not real,” I growl at him. I feel flashes of Sveas, cruel and horrible, tearing through me a tremor takes me almost tumble to my knees. “I have died. I have looked on the face of god and it was not your god I saw.”
“But we’re still friends,” he says, extending a hand to me.
I watch the hand—out, then in, like a beckon. I briefly recall him putting himself between me and a Malefic just the night before.
I remember Sveas’s hand outstretched, the push like howling wind at my core and the pull from behind. Being torn apart.
“She doesn’t want me,” I croak out, my eyes on fire in their sockets. “I looked on her horrible and beautiful—and she still doesn’t want me. Because of this!” I hold out my arms, force him—force all of them—to look on the horror that I am. “Because he did this to me!” I turn on the gathering crowd and watch them flinch back. “WHERE IS BALTHAZAR?”
“What do you want with him?” Ansel calls to me.
My head snaps around, and I lurch forward and scream. My feet drag through the grass, toward the priest who circles out of my reach but holds out a hand to signal all the gathering southerners to stand down.
“We’re still friends,” Ansel says, gesturing to the space between us as though there were a bridge there.
“Friends!” I throw my head back and laugh. “Friends.” I grip my knife. “I have no friends.” I run toward him, slicing the air and as he dodges back, turning on another who is close at hand to slice at them. If they cannot give me Balthazar, perhaps I should take them all instead.
“What do you want with Balthazar?” Ansel is asking, shouting at me as people lunge out of my way, panic-stricken and drawing their swords. He tries to wave them down. “What do you want with him?”
“I made him a promise!” I scream back.
“And what was this promise?” Ansel asks.
“I would be honored for you to eat my corpse.”
“I promised I would devour him,” I growl, my legs lurching me towards the priest, “and I am so hungry.”
I swipe with my blade. It glances off shields and scrapes through fabric, but fails to find flesh and I scream. Someone grabs me but I dodge and I parry, I slip and slide away until suddenly there are hands on me, holding me on my knees in the gray light of the tavern.
Their hands are a thousand shards of electric ice and glass—and my stomach is tearing itself apart. I bend under their grasp, my back arching with brittle snaps and pops, my skin pulling at the seams, and I scream. Their swords strike me in a dozen brilliant bursts of flame, but they cannot kill me.
***
There was a place I remember him going, where he took Sir Connor and I. Where I watched him cast his circle and weave his magic. It was horrible, and beautiful—as horrible things so often tend to be.
This is where I am, where my memories have drawn me. I stand here in the dark, listening to the whispers in the wind. Despair whispers, laughing wickedly as the door creaks. I see shadow pass through, and I tip my head. I listen. I hear. His voice.
Balthazar.
I rush the door, slamming it with my hands, with the whole of my body as I scream to him. “BALTHAZAR!” I am so hungry. “BALTHAZAR! COME OUT YOU COWARD!” I beat the door with fists and forearms but he does not come. I hear the voices within and grind my fingertips against the door. “LET ME IN.” Slamming and pulling and gripping and…
Finding the doorknob.
The door wails as it swings slowly open. There is someone blocking the way, and Ansel is here, and—
He is a bright splash of color against the unrelenting gray. Red feathers in a flaming burst. Blue tundra eyes. I break in half.
“Balthazar…” He doesn’t look, keeps his head bowed, his brow furrowed, he closes his eyes. “Balthazar?” My throat creaks weakness. When was I rendered so weak? “Why won’t you come to me, Balthazar?”
“Freydis,” he murmurs, and lifts his eyes. There is such darkness hanging over him. The whispers swirling within them palpable.
I step up, reach my hand over the shoulder of the woman in the doorway—and he takes it. Warm—warm in the bitter, aching cold. This hand that had caressed my cheek, this hand that had beckoned me to dance in the clouds.
Never again will I be beckoned to dance in the clouds.
“You left me.” I hear my voice come out, low and breaking. I feel fire streak my cheeks. I clutch at his hand and I sob. “Why did you leave me? Balthazar, it hurt—it hurt so bad—”
“I didn’t,” he says, “I didn’t Freydis—I came back for you.” He’s gripping my hand now, and the pressure of his fingers is a sweet release from the cascading pain rolling through my brittle skin. “I love you—”
“You never loved me.” The words spill out of me as I remember him dropping me from the sky for being too coy. “No one ever loved me.” I remember my mother’s fists raining down on me in the snow.
“Freydis—” There’s a frantic panic in his eyes now, and he pushes toward me, looks to Ansel and the woman standing between us while the darkness looming behind him giggles sweetly. “Let me go to her!”
I don’t hear what Ansel or the woman says, I only hear his voice. Only see the bright color of him—the cream of his flesh, the brown of the stubble on his jaw. I grip his hand and pull, as though I can pull him through his woman, this—
A scream splits me in half as I yank at him, then slam into the woman, bringing the knife I’d forgotten I had to her throat. Her body goes rigid and she bends back as I pull her with the blade, pull her to force her to look up into the face of Freydis the Undead. I stare down at her—stare into one white, dead eye. I recognize her as a Njord—then, through the furs and the armor—recognize the sigil of Benalus on her breast. Traitor. My whole body quivers as I press the blade to her throat—I see her lips moving but all I hear is white-noise screaming. I could end her now, she who turned her back on us, I could end her and have Balthazar—
His grip is loosening on my hand. I feel myself slipping away. No, no—he’s all I want, he’s all I’m here for—
I lose my grip on him. My veins are submerged in ice as I tear away, pain flooding me. I turn on the first person I see, wanting nothing more than blood to pay for this pain. I fall on the stranger, all open mouth and screaming teeth and hungry tongue, and I am swinging, catching shields and arms and scraping flesh and drawing blood and—
I am struck. And again. And again. I am descending into the darkness and in the darkness there are whispers and icy laughter. The Miracle, I tell the whispers, and I don’t know how I know, but they’ll tell him to come.
I will have Balthazar’s heart tonight.
***
~Should he die, I would lay his body out and peel his skin back from the muscle beneath.
Somehow, from somewhere, I hear them come in. He is not alone, but that does not matter. I open my eyes. In the darkness of the church, all I see is the rich color of his being.
~I would make gentle work of it, and savor the last remnant of his scent off the nape of his neck.
When he sees me, already walking toward him with feet I’m barely aware of, he stretches his hand out to me. Gratefully, I take it. The heat of his skin pushes back the pain. I sigh.
~I would do it while the blood was still hot in his veins so that it would slip warm over my fingers.
“Freydis,” he says softly, “I’m here.” I kick aside the chairs that stand between us, so I can be closer to him. Stepping into the aura of his color and his heat, the pain begins to dull. “I’m here,” he says. “I love you.”
~And I would take the flesh from his bones with care—but not before I reached into the hollow of his chest and wrested free his heart.
I kiss him. Ice melts away. Fires are doused.
I slit his throat.
His eyes widening as a stiff shudder of shock rushes through his body—it is exquisite. I cannot recall having ever seen anything so beautiful in all my life—save for, perhaps, the sprawling snowy tundra of my homelands. Balthazar DiCarvagio—tumbling to the ground, his life spilling bright and red from his body, as beautiful as the tundras of Njordr.
I fall on him. His blood on my hands makes me feel alive again. I can remember what it feels like to live. Thank you, I think, frantically breaking him open. Thank you thank you thank you. The pain subsides though my stomach is broken glass grinding from within.
~His heart I would eat first.
Descending, I sink my teeth into his open chest cavity. He is so warm. His heart still fighting to live, up to the very moment my teeth break into it, and its bursts, bloody and hot in my mouth. I cannot stop—cannot stop the chewing, the gulping, the ravenous swallowing, cannot stop….
Until, suddenly, I can. Stomach no longer wailing, pain no longer bristling the length of my skin. I sit back, looking down on him, on the fading glint of light in his bright blue blue eyes.
All else falls away. Soft. Quiet.
I smile at him as the light dims, and the darkness descends.
What is this strange peace?
Arriving at Costa Nera
William blocked the sun from his eyes, looking toward shore. He would’ve smiled under different circumstances. Glancing over his shoulder, he shrugged to his friend. “There it is Leo.” He shook his head. “Costa Nera.”
“Dreary place isn’t it.”
William nodded in agreement.
A voice rang over to them. “William! On the lines!”
William glanced to the speaker. “Aye Capitano! Moving to Port!” He laughed and shrugged to Leo again. “Duty calls.”
Leandro smiled. “Get going then. We’ll talk when we dock.”
Moving to the portside beam, William called his readiness and, as they pulled alongside the dock, he leapt across the gap with the line and tied it off. “Lines Secure!” he called when the others were done as well.
“Full stop! Hale up the brails!”
A chorus of “Aye Capitano”s rang out as the crew moved to store the mizzen sail.
William looked over to one of the crewmen on the dock. “Trice that line,” he called to the man, who coiled the spare line.
William waited while the gangplank got moved into place and the crew began to disembark to their various chores. For his part, William pushed his way to the Capitano. “Julio. I’m going to miss you.”
The man laughed and wrapped him up in a hug. “With your luck William, you’ll be back aboard the Sea Beggar in no time. Just take care to save some of that coin, don’t gamble it all away. You can’t win anything with nothing.”
William looked at the purse that held the last of his inheritance. It was all his mother had left him. “Don’t worry. I’ll buy back the Sea Beggar if it kills me.” He smiled. “I can’t let my mamma’s company just disappear.”
Leandro laid a hand on his shoulder. “You ready to go?”
He nodded to his friend and hugged the capitano one more time. “I’ll see you soon Julio. I’ll write you when I can.”
The capitano smiled. “Take care of yourself, piccino.”
William and Leandro headed down the gangplank together.
“Thank you for coming with me Leo. You didn’t have to.”
Leandro laughed again. “You think I was going to let you leave Le Sorelle without me?”
William smiled. “No I suppose not.”
The two headed toward the town.
On The Importance of Self-Forgiveness
The sounds of shouting were far behind them now, and the only thing left was for them to make it to the woods and disappear. Declan and Liam had already made it past the tree line with Orla and Brody not far behind them. Niall was lagging behind carrying the bundle of supplies they had lifted from the caravan and Conner behind him to watch his back. “Oi lad we’re home free I can’t believe we pulled this off.” The young Dunn grinned brightly at his best friend as the sounds of his heart pumping in his chest started to drown out everything around them.
There was a brief moment before his reply that Niall thought to himself that it was too easy–a split second where the colors of the world seemed more vibrant, and then almost thunderously the silence was shattered with a grunt of pain. The look of wide eyed shock on Conner’s face as he fell forward burned itself permanently into Niall’s brain. The bright red fletching of the arrow sticking out of his back a stark contrast to his yellow tunic. Niall froze in place watching his best friend crawl up to his knees, his muscles tensed as he prepared to move towards his friend.
Before he took a step Conner’s voice boomed out across the field, “Niall MacCraig don’t you dare stop running!” The archer that had shot him from the watchtower was lining up another shot if he acted quickly he could get them both out of there. “Get home Niall. Don’t let them get the both of us mate.”
He wanted to argue, he wanted to rush forward and shield his friend from further harm, he wanted to make sure he would have to tell Conner’s parents that their son wasn’t coming home. His body had other ideas however and his legs were pumping carrying him towards the forest as if commanded by Conner’s order. He couldn’t even bring himself to look back as his friend’s final pitiful cry echoed in the empty field.
—
Niall woke up with a start clutching his chest. He’d had this dream every night since the events of Night Lord’s Feast. Watching his best friend die every night was starting to wear on his state of wellbeing. The sun was starting to raise over the horizon and rather than attempting to go back to sleep Niall carefully crawled out of bed as to not wake up Fiona. Moving around the house quietly as he could Niall got dressed and left for the necropolis. He found himself there more and more lately; well there or the nearest tavern drinking more ale than he probably should.
He found himself on standing amongst the very familiar gravestones in the cemetery and headed to his favorite spot among them. It was nestled in a rarely traversed part of the cemetery and had a small circle of trees nearby to sit under and get lost in his thoughts before the tavern opened so he could start drinking.
Setting up under his favorite tree Niall gave a deep sigh watching his breath frost in the cold winter air, “Gods I’m fucking pathetic…” he muttered to himself for what felt like the six hundredth time this week. He couldn’t help but think of what Conner could would say if he saw him now wallowing in depression. He could almost hear the sarcastic voice of his fallen friend.
“I didn’t die so you could sit around feeling sorry for yourself MacCraig. Now get yourself together and go be the man I know you can be. The hero I know you can be.”
A small smile broke onto Niall’s face, even if it was in his own head hearing Conner’s voice was a small comfort to him. He wanted to make his friend proud—to keep his death from being in vain. Clutching the Lionem that Conner had forged for him for his birthday many years ago Niall made a promise to himself. He would claw out of this hole he was in and forge a legend for himself that would be spoken of for years, and he’d be sure to tell the tale of the man that sacrificed himself so that Niall could become a man worthy of the title hero.
He wasn’t ready to forgive himself just yet, and the Malefic that cornered him had been right he would never outrun his guilt. But if he kept doing well, if he kept using his strength to save people and protect his friends maybe that would start to outweighing the heaviness in his soul. This was something that he was going to be living with for a long time to come, but like Father Heinrich had told him he had done a lot of good since the follies of his youth.
“One day I’m going to show the world what you saw in me Conner.” Niall muttered closing his eyes and picturing his friend in his minds eyes, “I just need to see it in myself first.”
Last Night in Stromburg, A Prologue
“So, Stragosa is it, Professor?”
Narcisse raised his eyes to look across the table at Brandon, egg tumbling off his fork as he stopped it halfway to his mouth. Brandon had always been among his better students back when he still taught at the Parliamentary University of Port Melandir, always had a way of deducing the truth from but a whiff of evidence. He should have known the boy-, no he was a man now, would catch on eventually.
He gave one of his sheepish half-smiles.
“How did you guess?”
The rotund black haired man chortled with a self satisfied look, stirring his own breakfast like a witches cauldron.
“Nobody ‘winters in Stromburg’ for a month before packing their bags, especially with the snows coming in the next few days. We’re well north of Rogalia, so you had to have a reason to come here. But it’s just as much a crossroads as it is a destination, so you could well be on your way just about anywhere on the northwestern coast of Gotha. But what’s been the heart of the world’s curiosity for near half a decade and stands just over the mountains?”
“Stragosa,” he admitted, shaking his head with a wide smile and spearing his eggs again.
“And you’ve always been sentimental,” said Brandon, popping a grape into his mouth. “Thus inviting me to brunch with you.”
“I confess, I confess!” Narcisse laughed, holding up his hands. “I’m leaving for the miraculous frontier.”
“When?”
“My ship arrives tomorrow morning and departs at midday.”
“Bah!” spat Brandon. “You never give me time to do anything.”
“Excusez-moi?” he asked, eyebrow raised as he brushed egg from his beard.
“Isn’t it obvious?” the student replied, as if it was. “We’re going to need to throw you a going-away party. I’m a wealthy man now, your tutelage saw to that. Run the books for nearly all Stromburg’s fabric exports to the northern Rogalian counts. Let me repay the favor, Professor; it won’t be any trouble.”
“I don’t know, I can’t miss the-”
“Put it out of your mind,” Brandon said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’ll take care of everything. It will be just like old times when you visited us in the dormitories after final examinations! You’ve a lot of friends up here who would be heartbroken if they learned they didn’t see you while you were here.”
Narcisse smiled slowly, folding his napkin and brushing crumbs from his coat as he rose to his feet. He’d left the University in a hurry, and had missed many of the relationships he’d built there in the cold winter months since. It would do him well to see some old faces, blow off a little steam and enjoy one last night in a beautiful city he’d hardly had time to properly adore.
“Well…” he sighed “I certainly wouldn’t want to disappoint them, eh?”
—
“It’s of a merchant’s daughter brought up in Vigevano~!”
The faces of friends and strangers around the table upon which he stood grinned up at him, steins in their hands as his heel stomped out the beat. Whether he’d met them years ago, just tonight, or never before made no difference; they all knew the song’s reply.
“Hurrah~! Hestrali girls~! Doodle let me go~!”
His own stein sloshed beer onto the table as he raised it high, boots splashing the bitter puddle onto those closest in the press of bodies. He wondered idly why he’d had it filled just before leaping onto the table before deciding it hardly mattered and the remedy was as simple as drinking it.
“She brought me in the parlor and said ‘won’t you be me beau’~?”
“Hurrah~! Hestrali girls~! Doodle let me go~!”
He brought the glass to his lips and started chugging, hopping and jigging along the tabletop causing mugs and plates to scatter in his wake. All the while he drank, and all the while the crowd sang out the chorus.
“Doodle let me go, me girl~! Doodle let me go~! Hurrah~! Hestrali girls~! Doodle let me go~!”
His head swam with the warm buzz of the alcohol as he danced and sang. Verse after verse thundered by in a blur, and he tried his best not to tumble off into his audience.
Halfway through he lost his barrette and his jacket unbuttoned to the waist. As the final chorus rang out and the audience clapped and cheered, Narcisse slung the stein with all his might over their joyous heads. It shattered into a thousand sparkling crystals, and they cheered all the more.
—
“So you’re the Professor everyone’s talking about, hm?”
Narcisse pulled the wine glass from his lips and shook his head.
“Please, you were never one of my students. You have no need to call me that. Narcisse is fine.”
“But you are him, aren’t you?” The blonde had hope in her eyes and a smile tickling the corner of her mouth. He couldn’t help but smile back, he always was weak for the kindnesses of women.
“Oui, I am. Professor Narcisse, Master of the Seven Liberal Arts, poet, playwrite, and partisan,” he said with a sloppy, heavily intoxicated bow. “Though not necessarily in that order.”
“But you’re so…young! I always thought academic were stodgy old coots up in high towers.”
Narcisse chuckled, running a hand through his hair. He wondered for a moment where his hat made off to before promptly forgetting he ever had one.
“I, eh, had a very educational upbringing one might say? I did not have long to go when I made it to the University; it was more a matter of proving my knowledge and filling in the gaps than anything.”
“Well you certainly know how to throw a party,” she grinned, gesturing to the merrymaking all around them. His own grin widened too. Flattery would get her anywhere.
“My specialty is people. People in groups even more so. It only makes sense I would know how to put a smile on their face. With suchshortcuts as alcohol and song, it’s truly not so hard!”
“Well…” her eyelids fluttered. “Do you know what would put a smile on my face?”
—
“Tu n’es qu’un poulet mouillée!”
He wasn’t certain precisely when he’d reverted back to his mother tongue, but by now the toxins coursing through his veins burned enough that he hardly cared. Who knew if they understood him? They certainly weren’t making any effort to speak Cappacian.
He swung a right hook which Randel neatly dodged, smacking him upside the back of the head and knocking him off balance. He would have fallen flat on his face if he hadn’t instead collided with the wall of bodies that framed their makeshift boxing ring.
“Celui-ci était gratuit, mais vous n’en obtiendrez pas d’autre!”
“You’re in the Throne! Speak Gothic ya fucking frog!”
Rage boiled up in him the way it only ever did when he drank. No one insulted his country and lived to tell of it! He’d kill Randel right here in front if all these people, and he hardly even cared if they saw. He’d do it, and nobody could stop him.
He spun and lunged, arms outstretched as he roared his fury. Randel, the greasy haired man who he’d only met tonight, one of Brandon’s friends in the cotton trade, looked taken aback for but an instant.
As the fist connected with Narcisse’s jaw he remembered why he took up the pen instead of the sword.
—
Sunlight shone down on the poor poet, whose eyes pierced into him like shards of glass as the blinding Ray’s tore through the shades. A smokey haze filled the room, and groaning revelers made their way around piles of snoring drunks as they made their way about their business.
Hissing and holding his throbbing head, Narcisse crawled to one of the nearby tables that hadn’t toppled over, using the chair to climb to his feet. His shirt was gone, as was his hat and jacket. He had one boot on and had no idea where the other might be, but something told him he wouldn’t have time to find any if his belongings. Even his coin purse was missing, and it hardly helped that his head was ringing like a bell.
“Excusez-moi monsieur,” he begged, wincing at the sound on his own voice as he reached out and tugged on the cuff of a passing party goer.
“What is the hour, do you know perchance?”
“Eh, nearly noon I’d say. Sun is nearly at its peak.”
“Merci beaucoup, monsieur, truly,” he nodded, his head dropping into his hands. At least the whole day wouldn’t be wasted, and all told he still might have enough time to find the other boot before-
The boat.
“Merde.”
