Aidan thought on it for a moment. “Frankly,” he said, trying to think of words as not to scare her, “I’m not entirely certain where we should go next.”
Of all things, the girl spat into the grass. “Can you, you know, feel for a place near us?”
“I could try. But if no one’s near for a few miles, it’ll be hard to say.”
“Go on, then.”
Aidan shook his head but closed his eyes anyway and reached out for Pulls. To his surprise, he found quite a few. The Pulls were weak, but strong enough to tug at him, meaning they were within at least ten miles. Finally, a bit of good news. “There’s a village,” he said, taking the bladders to the pond, “around seven or eight miles west from here. Its Pull is familiar, and the population is a small size. Might be Wontworth. Might be another town entirely. I’m not putting all my hopes in sheer dumb luck.”
* * *
Slaíne foraged for anything edible whilst Aidan filled the bladders and Dismissed any harmful properties from the water. This took some effort and concentration, and by the time he had cleansed all six, he’d worked up quite the sweat. His clothing had begun to dry, and his head throbbed in time with his heartbeat.
An hour later, Slaíne emerged from the woods with a dead goose hanging from around her neck. She dropped it at his feet, her expression expectant.
Aidan smirked, and Dismissed all the feathers. He Summoned his copper knife and stuck it into the dead bird’s flesh. “Don’t expect me to gut it.”
“Nah,” she said. “The innards are the best parts. You mind startin’ a fire, though, Ai— Sir?”
His smirk deepened into what might have passed for a smile if he were not so hungry. “You can call me Aidan, you know. That’s my name.”
Slaíne shook her head. “Nay, sir. Can nay do that.”
It occurred to him to ask why, but he had no desire for any more banter, playful or otherwise. So he set about working on a spit to roast the bird on while Slaíne gathered wood for a fire, skirting around each other in silence, the mood in the air uncertain.
He got the fire going and let it die down after an hour, and Slaíne helped him skewer the gutted carcass as to roast it above the small flames. The innards Slaíne insisted on stewing in his patera, something she claimed to never have seen the likes of in her life. The moments dragged. The tension built. Finally, Slaíne broke the silence. “I’ll be back,” she said, swatting at flies Aidan could not see. “I think I saw some wild onions growing o’er not far from here.” She muttered something else, but Aidan could not make out the words.
The bird roasted for an hour, and still Slaíne did not return. Had he not been keeping track of her Pull, he might’ve gone looking for her. He felt her, some yards off in the woods, singing to herself. For whatever reason, it made Aidan uncomfortable, like he was listening in on a private conversation. The words were nonsensical. Gibberish, if he half ignored it. And yet….
“Lock and key
The girl in the parlor
Crept on her knees
A’scrubbin’ the floors
Woe to she
For listening
At the keyhole
in the door
Oh I murthered a man
Said the smith to the banker
Oh woe to she
The wench at the door
I cheated he
Said the swarthy ol’ banker
But who is this
A’listenin’ at keyholes
They murthered a wench
A deal was struck
Beware to you eavesdroppers
You’ll learn what’s more for your luck.”
The tune was all over the place, and her voice was raised and angry in some parts. Honestly, Aidan did not think he wanted to know what or whom she was singing about. It put him in mind to shut out her voice entirely and focus on the pressing matters at hand.
“Find old Cedric’s grave,” Meraude had said to him. Yet, judging from what everyone had said, and what he himself had witnessed in the dream, the mage was not one to be trusted. But if she had the power to Summon what he could not – whom he could not – it might be worth the risk of losing…everything. And that meant finding the Goblets Immortal. The Goblet buried with Cedric the Elder was the first option, though he had no idea where it might be. The only one who might have known its location was goodness-knows-where, and possibly out to kill all magical beings. Then again, if Meraude had known the grave’s location, why hadn’t she given the information to him? “She mustn’t have any idea,” Aidan said to himself.
What was he missing? The mage had mentioned freeing him herself. That did not bode well. He and Slaíne would have to be on the move again, and soon…right after they finished filling their bellies and had hidden any traces of their presence.
And that was another problem: Slaíne. She would resist his plan to find the grave and the Goblets if it meant helping Meraude in any way, shape, or form. Not to mention, it would put her in danger as well. But what could he do? Aidan had no family he could leave her with to watch after her, and even if he had, would the curse take her when he left on his quest?
Staring into the dying embers had a hypnotic effect on Aidan, and he found his eyelids drooping. “No,” he said, shaking himself awake. He needed to remain alert. There was too much at stake, too much danger out there for him to take a rest even in broad daylight.
Slaíne began singing again, this time about vilest murder at midnight, and Aidan definitely did not want to hear her thoughts on that matter. Again he tried to shut out her voice, leaning back against a rock.
Maybe Cedric’s grave was a trap. Maybe the answer lay with the elves he had tried to cheat. Perhaps he could convince them to give the Warring Goblet back to him, or trick them again somehow.
Aidan closed his eyes, just to rest them. He would remain alert and awake.
The smell of the goose’s flesh burning assailed his nostrils and jolted him back to wakefulness. The bird had nearly caught fire, but Slaíne was rushing up just then, her face scratched and dirty.
“You let it burn?”
He opened his mouth to snap a retort, but thought the better of it. He hadn’t the energy to argue, and he knew it would get him nowhere anyway. “It’s still edible.”
She gave him a look but went about saving their dinner. By the time she got to the patera, the organs had grown too tough and dry to eat, so she tossed them into the fire, causing an even greater stink.
* * *
After waiting for the meat to cool on a stone, they both ripped into the flesh with their hands, stuffing as much of the succulent bird into their mouths as they could. It felt like he hadn’t eaten in days, which very well could have been true. It had been hard for Aidan to judge the passing of days and nights with the nymphs keeping the land lit up the whole time.
Slaíne finished first, grease splattered all over her torn and weathered shirt and slacks.
Before thinking it through, Aidan opened his mouth and asked, “Why those clothes?”
The girl looked down at them like she’d never considered her attire before. “Huh,” was the first thing she said. “Them’s what was given me.” Her cheeks grew rosy and she wouldn’t make eye contact. “Haven’t really thought ’bout it, honest.”
Aidan Dismissed the remainder of their meal, along with their still-cooling supplies. “When we reach the town,” he said, “we’ll find something more suitable for you to wear.” For a moment he thought she might take offense at this gesture.
Slaíne did make a face, as if she were not quite certain about the offer or the intentions behind it.
He let the matter drop and got to his feet. “We should probably get moving soon. The day is aging, and we should cover up the remains of camp.”
She shrugged and got to her feet as well. They both would
not quite look at the other, and Aidan knew she felt as he did: this awkwardness could not be over with quickly enough.
* * *
It took them half an hour to hide what traces of their presence that they could, neither speaking more than monosyllabic words. After a swig of water each, they followed the human Pulls southwest, stopping twice to rest. The longer they stumbled through the woods, the more convinced Aidan was they were headed for a small town called Abbington, miles away from where he thought Meraude would guess them to be. Hundreds of years ago, the provincial town had started out as a small collection of buildings that made up a monastery. Shortly after, more of the wood surrounding had been cleared to make room for an abbey. Aidan had traveled once to the resulting strange sprawl of ancient stone giants, patched up after weathering many cold, damp seasons. He’d been a youth at the time. Hopefully now he would be unrecognizable, as he had stirred up quite a scandal when he wouldn’t give alms to a nun.
Yes, this must be the way to Abbington. Most woods looked like the other, but this one had a familiar feel to it. They were certain to have a decent place to rest that night.
But something made Aidan uneasy. It went beyond Slaíne, who was quieter than usual as they tramped out of the woods and onto a byway. There was a Pull out there, strong as any regular human’s, at a distance behind them. He couldn’t be certain, but when they stopped the second time, the Pull stayed where it was as well, as if its owner were trying to be covert. Aidan said nothing to Slaíne; he did not wish to alarm her.
It could be a nomad. It could also be a highway robber or worse. There were strange rumors going around about Abbington, wraiths that came out at night, plaguing the woods beyond with noise and banditry. Nonsense, probably, Aidan thought. Still, the sooner they reached the small town, the better.
The person kept their pace, sometimes slipping a ways behind, but always within a mile, now walking parallel with them. If only they would come out onto the open road; then he could put his mind at ease and see who it was and what they wanted. But the fact that they remained hidden made him certain their intent was malevolent.
“What you keep lookin’ at?” Slaíne asked.
Aidan started and looked over at the girl. She was keeping pace with him, her jaw tense and her eyes set ahead. “It’s nothing,” he reassured her.
“Ain’t nothin’,” she said in a lower voice. “Someone’s out there, ain’t they?”
So much for not worrying Slaíne. “It’s probably just a stray dog or something, thinks we have hand-outs.” She didn’t buy a word of it, he could tell, but she said nothing on that score.
Though they were both tired and hot and getting somewhat winded, Slaíne picked up her pace by a measure, and Aidan matched it. “Not so quickly,” he said below his breath. “The town’s just up ahead. Besides, the Pull out in the woods is getting weaker.” A lie, but she seemed to latch on to it, as her pace slowed back to a brisk walk and less of the beginnings of a jog.
Ten minutes later, somewhere in the late afternoon, they walked into the bustling village, dodging horse traffic and ignoring the stares that were directed their way. They must look something dreadful after having been in the woods for a day, and during their journeys before that.
Aidan reached into his pocket, where he Summoned a few coins. “Take these and find us a place to stay the night,” he said to Slaíne, handing her the money.
“I can nay, sir. The curse—”
Right. That. He needed to be away from her for a while, so he told her to purchase something sweet from the stand out front of the nearest store, close enough to prevent the curse from attacking – her Pull would warn him – and far enough to clear his thoughts.
There was that scandalized look again, like he’d suggested she strip stark naked or hang upside down from a branch. “I ain’t a child.”
Aidan continued to hold out the money, waiting.
The girl hesitated at first, and then snatched it up as if wanting to have as little physical contact as possible. He did not blame her. He felt the same way.
After enduring one final withering glance, Aidan walked into the first shop he saw: a bakery, where he was greeted with odd stares and some whispers. Aidan tried to ignore the unwanted attention and ordered some pasties from an ample woman with a crooked nose. He couldn’t be familiar, surely. It had been going on fifteen years since his last visit. Nonetheless, he remained on the receiving end of some strange looks.
“Are you related to the Wentworths?” the baker asked as she wrapped his wares in grease paper.
“No, ma’am. I am not from these parts.” He held out a hand for his change and his purchases. It was a temptation to lower his gaze and hide his face, but he knew that would only make him stick out all the more. Aidan watched as she sorted through her drawer, holding every other coin she handled up to a small gas lamp.
The baker, it would seem, was in no hurry to release him. “Could’ve sworn you bore a resemblance to their son…what was his name? Jervis?”
“Aye,” said a young woman who stood near the counter. She flushed and grinned when she met Aidan’s eye. “Jervis, it was.”
Aidan shook his head and looked away from the girl. He tried not to show his relief at being mistaken for someone else, but the hints of a smile tugged at his lips. “I am sorry I am not acquainted with the family.”
“Mm,” said the old wench, handing him the parcel of pasties. “They were a good family. High blood— But all of them was murdered in their beds.”
“Aye,” said the young woman by the counter. “’Twas quite the scandal, that.”
“Sorry to hear it,” he said, trying to hide his impatience. He hadn’t dealt with many women in the last ten years; he’d forgotten how chatty some of them could be.
“Will there be anything else for you, sir?” The woman bit down on one of the coins he’d handed her minutes before. Once apparently satisfied that they were in fact real, she counted out smaller coins for his change.
“That will be all, thank you.”
“Have you any notion how long you’ll be in these parts, m’lad?” asked a plump man by the over-iced cakes.
Aidan forced a smile as he accepted his change from the woman behind the counter. “I am just passing through.”
The man coughed. “Not one for words, are you?”
“Sir?”
The young woman giggled, her skirt brushing the air next to Aidan as she took her turn at the counter. “Don’t mind old Jon. He’s into his customs.”
Aidan looked at this Jon, feigning curiosity when all he could think about was escape and sleep. “Customs, sir? Have I done something amiss?”
It was the baker behind the counter who spoke. “Didn’t give us your name, didn’t tell us where you were from, didn’t share anything personal about yourself. You see, young sir, we’re a nosy folk in this village. We do need our gossip.”
Big talk rolled in a wrapper of chit-chat. If only he could simply run out of there and eat a pasty in peace, even if it meant more coldness from Slaíne. Adult manners, however, dictated that he must stand and take whatever petty nonsense they could throw at him. They were waiting for his answer. “Aidan Powell, at your service.”
The fat man’s ears perked up. “Powell? Hmm, Powell. Now there’s a name worth noting. Any relation to the Powells of Fairbrooke?”
How his mother’s obscure name had reached this far south was beyond his comprehension. He hid his unease, despite his rising panic, and replied, “Distant relatives, I believe. I come from farther east than Fairbrooke. Small village, you wouldn’t have heard of it.”
“Don’t bet on it,” laughed the woman behind the counter as she finished serving the girl in the overlarge skirts. “Small towns is our business here.”
Aidan forced a laugh. Powers that be, get me out of here without dying of boredom or giving myself away. “Th
is is a charming town.”
“Your first visit here, I take?” said the girl, her skirts again brushing his leg.
Aidan tipped his hole-riddled hat. “Just so. Now, if you’ll excuse me, ladies, sir, I’m in search of lodgings for the night.”
“The Firestone Inn is run by me father,” said the girl with a giggle.
The look shared between the counter wench and the fat old man did not go unnoticed by Aidan. What were they up to? Something underhanded surely was going on.
The girl coughed delicately and moved toward the door. Before Aidan could get ahead and open it for her, the young woman turned to him and blurted out: “Would you mind very much escorting me on some errands, Mr. Powell? I’m afraid there’s been some disturbances lately, and it ain’t suitable for a lady to be out on her own.”
The fat old man hid a chuckle as another cough, and only then did it dawn on Aidan that the girl just might be setting her cap at him. Was there anything in the laws of social etiquette that would allow him to politely decline such a request?
Mercifully, a young man entered the bakery at that moment, pushed past Aidan, nodded to the girl with a smile, and made for the counter. “One of my beaux,” she whispered to Aidan, to his relief. “Best not let him see us walking together, Mr. Powell. He’s got a jealous streak; don’t want him throwing a fit.”
Aidan gave her a look that he hoped was good-natured, bid them farewell, and left the shop behind him.
When he emerged, he found Slaíne standing right where he had left her, scowling.
His eyebrows shot heavenward as she thrust the coins back into his hands. “And it’s good to see you, too.” Aidan sighed and tried giving the money back to her without causing a scene. “I don’t take back what I give. These coins are yours.”
“I didn’t earn those.”
Was that all? He laughed and led her away from the sweets salesman, who eyed them both with distaste. “Slaíne, look at me.”
She did, her nose wrinkled up. “What?”
The Goblets Immortal Page 13