The Goblets Immortal

by Beth Overmyer

  While he sat and tried to read, he kept himself open to the feel of Pulls. There was nothing particularly strong within his reach…well, beside one, but that he ignored as much as he was able. But the reading material was dull, and he was tired. So, despite the boisterous nature of the folk down the stairs, Aidan found himself nodding.

  Coldness crept from his shoulder and down his limb, but he did not wake.

  Instead, Aidan found himself standing where the barn on his estate had once been. Hunger tore at his stomach, his weakened limbs shook with effort as he carried a stack of wood indoors. Somewhere, deep inside, Aidan knew he was asleep, that this half-starved body he walked in was but a shadow of the past. But soon he lost himself in his memory self, and they became one, trudging to do the work of a servant.

  The night air was crisp, yet thirteen-year-old Aidan was covered in sweat from the evening’s work. Uncle had been in a mood again. He must suspect, he must know that something was not quite right with his nephew. But Aidan had not lost control for at least a year, and even then it had never been in front of the dour man, who surely would see Aidan burned at the stake if he found him out. It was a dangerous waltz that he danced.

  “Aidan! Say, Aidan, I brought you something.”

  Aidan dropped his load in relief and stumbled to the iron fence. It never felt right, meeting near the metal, but at least it didn’t nag him like every other blasted object and person did. “Tristram, you shouldn’t have come.”

  “Fine way to greet your only friend. Here, Mum will horsewhip me if she finds out, but I stole two hand pies that were cooling in the kitchen.”

  Aidan smiled a wry smile as his corn-haired friend shoved the pies through the slats. “You mean she’ll whip you if she knows you dared set foot in the kitchen.”

  Young Tristram shrugged. “What are you waiting for? Mr. Powell will swipe them from your hands, soon as look at them. Eat.”

  Despite being destitute for three years, Aidan still had a streak of pride in him. Taking things, even gifts from friends, didn’t come easy. “I thank you, friend. You really shouldn’t have risked it.”

  Tristram laughed, causing Aidan’s lips to twitch before he tore into the cold pies. “So, the lord of the manor. I hear he’s ill.” He eyed Aidan with interest. “Doctor York’s been out to see him on several occasions.”

  “’Tis news to me. I am usually kept out of the way when anyone calls.”

  “The old man’s a coward.”

  Aidan lifted one shoulder half-heartedly. “I suppose.”

  “It’s a ruddy disgrace, him using and abusing you as he does.”

  “I’m cheap labor.”

  Tristram surprised him by spitting like a commoner. “It isn’t right. The estate and the title are yours.”

  “Not ’til I’m of age.”

  “But you’ll die before then. You should just kill him. Put something in his drink. No one will be the wiser, and if they knew your plight…well, they wouldn’t blame you.”

  The pastry turned hard in Aidan’s mouth, and that which he’d already devoured sat like a millstone in his stomach. “I have enough blood on my hands, thanks.”

  With an exasperated sigh, Tristram put his hands on the bars of the fence and leaned forward. “You don’t even know if it was you. I mean, you didn’t actually see—”

  “What I saw,” Aidan cut in, “was a burning barn explode. I sent them somewhere, Tris. I just – I just don’t know where.” He tucked the remainder of the pastries in his torn pockets. “Thank you for thinking of me. I really must return to my work.”

  “He beat you?”

  Aidan flinched at the mention, but laughed. “When he can find me, which isn’t often.” He still hadn’t told his friend about his trick. It was difficult, and perhaps dangerous, but every time his uncle went into a drunken rage, Aidan would use his ability to make himself disappear. It was uncomfortable, but it had saved him several beatings.

  Tristram did not share Aidan’s smile. “I worry about you.”

  “You worry about everything.”

  Tristram wouldn’t back down. “That’s not true. You do all the worrying, save when it comes to yourself.”

  “You need to forget—”

  “Boy, where have you gotten to? The fire’s dying in here.” The old man’s voice carried all the way down to the road. Uncle sounded drunk. And he hadn’t had his supper yet. He’d be meaner than a wet cornered rat.

  “I really must go.”

  “Think about what I said.”

  With a smirk, Aidan turned back. “Which bit?”

  Tristram looked at him meaningfully and started walking backward. “You know.” He mimed putting a glass to his lips, then grabbed his throat and writhed.

  Aidan gave him a stern look. “When I wish to be hanged, I’ll think on it.”

  “Boy!”

  “Coming, Uncle.” Aidan returned to his dropped firewood, recovered it, and trudged up the hill back toward the house. Four stories tall, the gray stone mansion had fallen into disrepair over the last three years. For all his talk of investing and making himself properly rich again, Aidan’s uncle had failed miserably. He lost twice as much as what he invested, and the staff was reduced to four people: a serving wench, a butler, a farmer, and Aidan.

  “What took you so blasted long? Did you have to grow the trees?” The old man let out a bark-like laugh and rapped his walking stick in time to his merriment on the floor. He frowned as he looked up at his nephew. “You look too much like your father, the scoundrel. Dark hair. What Powell would wish to have such dark hair? As black as sin, your unruly mane. Chop it off. All of it.”

  Aidan ignored the man’s ramblings as he set about building up the fire again. He jumped when he felt the stick strike his back.

  “Impertinent fellow, turning his back to me, ignoring my words as if he were my equal. What do you think, boy? You think you’re something special, do you?”

  “No, sir.” Aidan ignored the throbbing pain where he’d been struck, and repaired the blaze. “Shall I see to your supper, sir?”

  “‘Shall I see to your supper,’ he says. What, you haven’t begun it already? Should have been done hours ago.”

  Aidan wished to argue that he only had one set of arms and one set of legs, but he was not a fool. In truth, the maid had told him she would see to the dinner preparations. He ought to have known better than to trust her.

  Hurrying out of the room before he could suffer another whack with the stick, Aidan did not watch where he was going and walked right into a late courier who was sniffing about the entry hall. When the funny-looking man spied Aidan, he straightened up at once and put on an air of self-importance. “Where is the lord of the manor?”

  “You make it your business, sir, breaking into this house and demanding to see the master of the manor?”

  The man frowned and looked down his nose at Aidan. “Is the master in or is he not?” He waved around the piece of correspondence, lily-white parchment with a black wax seal closing it at the fold. “Mr. Dewhurst requires an immediate answer.”

  “What does that old fool want?”

  That earned him a clap on the ear. “You scamp! Such cheek. Such nerve. I ought to—”

  “I shall bring the lord of the manor the letter, unless you wish to be met by a drunken Mr. Powell in all his wrath.”

  The man peered around Aidan, who stood his ground. Eyes narrowed, the self-important delivery boy bent down to Aidan’s level. “You speak so of your master?”

  Aidan laughed without humor. “Master? In faith, I hope not. Shall I have the letter, or shall I not? I’ve a many good things to do, and—”

  “Mr. Dewhurst expects a reply.”

  “Does he, now?”

  “Your master owes my master quite the sum. S’put my master in a terrible mood.”

 
That made no sense. Mr. Dewhurst loved it when people owed him money, especially Aidan’s uncle. Before he could snatch the letter from the man’s hand, a loud, drunken grunt sounded behind him.

  “What’s takin’ the fool boy so long? Got lost on his way to the kitchen.”

  Aidan tensed. He should have been paying better attention to the man’s location. In truth, the messenger had thrown off his sense of where things – and people – were in the house. “Uncle, I—”

  “Who’s this? Collectors? I haven’t any money, take the boy, if you must, but I haven’t a penny to my name.”

  Aidan had the pleasure of watching his uncle turn ashen gray, spittle spraying from his jowly cheeks as he prepared to plead his debt away.

  “I’ve, er, a message for you, milord. From Mr. Dewhurst.”

  That caused the man’s spine to straighten considerably. “Dewhurst? What does that old sot want?” The old man sneezed.

  The messenger, who had already been baptized with a wave of spit, took a quick step back. “My master said you owed him.”

  “Owe Dewhurst? I’ve paid him back in full.” The drunken man laughed heartily, and staggered into Aidan. “Tell that old wart that he’s remembering wrong.”

  Now the messenger fidgeted and went rather pale. “Sir? My master said that on pain of unemployment I should deliver this message to you and not leave until I had a reply.” The letter passed by Aidan, so close he could have snatched it, but of course he didn’t. His uncle received the missive instead, snapped open the seal and read. And as he read, his expression went from merry to somber, to contemplative. “Boy, fetch me my writing kit.”

  Aidan turned to go, but was caught mid-stride. “Sir?”

  “No, no. Just go to Dewhurst yourself.”

  That made no sense. “And what should I tell him?”

  “Tell him,” said Powell, tearing the letter into pieces, “that I send my regards and my nephew, and if he’s too stupid to figure out the answer for himself, then he deserves everything that’s coming to him.”

  Aidan’s sense of dread increased, and he found himself arguing for reasons to remain on the estate that night. “You haven’t had your supper.”

  “Cook can deal with it.”

  “We had to let Cook go last week.”

  “Then Thomas will deal with it.”

  “Thomas doesn’t know how to cook.”

  That drew the ire out in the old man. Swinging his cane, he drove both Aidan and the courier out the front door, swearing and spitting until, at last, he shut and bolted the door behind the pair of them.

  If Aidan didn’t know any better, he would say that his uncle had taken to singing sea shanties behind the closed door. “Well, that was not in character.” He made for the front gate, where he expected to see a saddled horse waiting. When he found none, he turned to the messenger. “You came on foot?”

  The man laughed. “’Course I came on foot. A servant’s not worth wasting a steed on.”

  “Right.” Aidan was liking this less and less by the moment. But Dewhurst’s manor was not far. Aidan would reach the place within the half hour, provided he was not waylaid by highwaymen.

  “Mr. Aidan? You awake?”

  Aidan opened his mouth to respond that, yes, he was awake. But instead he turned to the messenger and said the words he knew would seal his destiny: “I’ll take the back road, then. No need to show me the way.”

  “All right. I’ve got some business to attend to at the local pub. Just be sure to see yourself in the back door. It’s the staff’s night out, so no one will be there but my master and his missus.”

  “Mr. Aidan, you’re dreamin’.” Someone shook his shoulder.

  His shoulder had grown cold again, so cold that it prickled and burned. All was dark, and he opened his eyes to find himself full-grown, sitting in a strange inn at the end of a hall, with Slaíne staring down at him.

  “Where am I?”

  “You was sleepin’, sir. Ought I not have wakened you?”

  He blinked the sleep from his eyes, the memory of the dream clinging to the backs of his eyelids. It had seemed so real! Well, it was real; it had, in fact, happened, nigh nineteen years past. He closed his eyes again and pressed his palms against his closed lids. “No, you’re fine. I just – I just was dreaming strange things. Perhaps it is good that you woke…me.” His eyes had popped open and he was staring at someone who was Slaíne and yet was not Slaíne.

  Where there had been dirt and muck, there was clean skin the color of milk, never mind a few smatterings of orange freckles that made her look like she was flushed. Her hair, once tangled and matted, was wavier than he had first thought it, and not as auburn. And though she was back in the filthy clothing of a boy, somehow she did not look so masculine.

  Idiot, stop staring. Before he could make a total fool of himself, Aidan got to his feet and pretended to see something over her shoulder.

  Slaíne’s gaze followed his, curious. A maid wandered past at that moment, giving Aidan the excuse to pay attention to something else. “Excuse me? Miss? What might the hour be?”

  The maid gave him a look of utmost contempt. “I reckon it’s about dusk, sir.” She shrugged. “Might be earlier. Might be later.” And with that, she hoisted her broom over her shoulder, turned, and headed down the remainder of the hall.

  “Somethin’ wrong, sir?” Slaíne asked.

  Yes, something was very wrong. Next time he saw that wretch of a seer, he’d give her a good verbal thrashing, putting Slaíne and him in this situation. What would people think, now that she was so obviously not a boy? Not that she had ever looked like a boy, not really. This could ruin more reputations than one.

  “There’s more water, if’n you need,” she offered, her brow crinkled with worry. “Don’t think the water’s all that filthy.”

  Aidan nodded. “Right. Well, I just— Oh, for the sake of all, I almost forgot.” With a quick look around, he concentrated for a moment, then Summoned the parcels he had asked her to purchase earlier. If he was to ruin them, he might as well do the job thoroughly.

  Slaíne’s eyes popped. “Er, that’s all right.”

  “If you don’t want them, perhaps our all-knowing friend might be interested….” The words were scarce out of his mouth before Slaíne snatched the dressmaker’s boxes from him.

  She smirked and flushed. “Don’t think these are quite her color.”

  Aidan nodded solemnly, his lips twitching in spite of himself. “Of course.”

  Slaíne laughed, a forced sound, before turning on her heel and returning to the rented room. The door slammed shut behind her, and Aidan swore he heard the bolt being thrown not long after.

  While waiting, he did not sit down this time. He did not wish to return to that strange memory or dream, or whatever it had been. It was at least the third occurrence since the nymph queen stabbed him in the shoulder with that ice-cold blade. The thought of the weapon alone made Aidan shiver and rub the invisible wound.

  The creature had inflicted it moments before her death. Were they that spiteful, those creatures of light? She could have struck him to kill, right through the heart, he had been vulnerable to her attack. But it seemed almost as though she had chosen to merely wound him…for what reason, though? The more he thought on it, the less spite seemed likely. She had known what her weapon would do to him, dredging up vivid images of the past; that much was obvious. Was it a warning? Maybe it was a gift, though Aidan could see no merit to it, other than tormenting him further.

  He had thus far not dreamt of the biggest trauma of his life, merely skirting around the corners of the memory. He hoped he never would re-encounter the shock that had jolted him. “Jolted,” Aidan murmured. The word dredged up yet another memory. Where had he heard that word recently?

  The answer came to him easily enough: someone had said it in his first v
ision from the past. But who and why? The more he tried to home in on those details, the farther they seemed to flit away from his reach, and the more his mind wandered in opposite directions. He thought of the first vision – or had it been the second? – where the little girl had seen him through the Seeing Pool. Had that been a trick of Meraude? He thought not. It must have to do with the icy wound.

  And thinking of the little girl was when he realized that he knew who that little girl was. In fact, he knew not only who she was, he knew exactly where she was.

  Aidan shot forward, cursing, and began pounding on the seer’s door. “Seer!”

  “Go away, milord. It’s time for the bats to be about.”

  “I know who you are.”

  A pause. “Well, good for you.”

  Aidan stopped pounding for a moment, then resumed when he felt her Pull moving back toward the bed. “Open this door or….”

  “Or you’ll what?” she said. “Make a bigger scene than what you’ve already made? Go to bed, sir. We’ll discuss your impeccable memory in the morning.”

  Heads popped out from different rooms, and shouts and jeers were thrown at him, along with bits of trash. “Pardon,” he offered a half-dressed man who was giving him the eye of death. Once he was certain the inn guests had returned to their activities, Aidan leaned into the door. “Why didn’t you tell me we’d seen each other before?”

  Footsteps hesitated on the floorboards, and the Pull came nearer. “What are you on about?”

  Aidan pressed the words delicately through the door. “If you knew it was I you’d seen in the Seeing Pool as a child, why didn’t you say?”

  There was a long sigh, and the door opened a fraction. “Would it have made any difference? More likely it would have muddied the future. Besides, life has a way of unfolding. Best let it, milord. Best let things that are meant to be, be.”

  “You tried to kill me, after knowing I was….” He was what? He could not even finish the thought. She had helped him once, her as a child in the past, him as an adult in the present.