A menacing smile brightened the iron-bearer’s face as he waited for the one with the oil to finish his chant. The bright, glowing end of the pole curved around into several loops to form a design.
The man with the oil drew a line running through Dorhen’s navel and then another going over his face to his hairline. He stood and stepped aside for the other man, poised for the press.
Dorhen thrashed. Hands came in to keep him steady. The man aimed the glowing iron at the spot where the first one had drawn the oil pattern and didn’t hesitate to land it on Dorhen’s skin.
At the last instant, Dorhen wiggled to the side and screamed. The brand pressed against his side, searing through his flesh, melting the skin upon his rib cage. Dorhen’s screams echoed off each tall wall. His raw flesh stuck and ripped as the iron peeled away.
“Shit,” the man with the brand said. “You little puke!”
He kicked Dorhen in the side with his booted foot, knocking his wind out. The brand had missed the oil pattern target. But it was done. The flesh-melting heat and short, uncontrollable gasps consumed Dorhen’s consciousness.
Lamrhath approached as his vision faded, his mouth straight and solemn. “Welcome to Ilbith, little heir.”
Chapter 20
Her Escort
Kalea’s stomach growled as she thumbed through her coin purse, counting one last copper dendrea. Hoping she and Dorhen would be foraging for their dinners, she hadn’t expected to have to rely much at all on her little fistful of savings. After a week of trudging her way toward Gaulice, it had nearly run out.
She unwrapped the salted fish from the convent’s larder and took a bite, only to find it as satisfying as a fistful of salt. She spat out the first bite and leaned over the stream to rinse the salt off the rest of the fish. The effort hardly helped. Memory provided her with the image of seeing preserved fish soaking in buckets in her convent’s kitchen. There was no time to soak the fish for several hours. She made do, eating the salty thing as best she could and making sure to refill her waterskin before leaving.
She quickly ate through the rest of her food stolen from the convent in the following days and whittled her money away at a springtime fair in a field, purchasing a few squares of hardtack to gnaw on for the next few days.
Deep in the forest, she wandered, lost until she stumbled over a hedge and onto a road with deep ruts carved into it among a mess of traffic footprints. It led her right into Gaulice, the next town up from Taulmoil. She’d skipped Taulmoil, her hometown, to avoid a confrontation with her parents or any neighbor who might recognize her.
In Gaulice, she sat huddled in a corner in some pub. The bouncer glared at her as she awoke from a nap. She hadn’t bought anything yet anyway. She pulled herself to standing with a hold on an empty chair and gathered her basket and cloak.
The bouncer stomped over to her, his boots rattling the floor. She searched for a clear path to the door. As he moved to block her way, two Grey Knights from Wistara stopped him.
“Excuse me, sir,” the first one said as the second unrolled a wide parchment.
Kalea skirted around the tables, keeping the knights between herself and the bouncer.
The knight continued, “Our establishment is missing a young student. He’s a mage in training. Has anyone with this likeness come in here?”
Though she hurried along, she glanced at their swords to make sure they didn’t have one that stood out. They carried matching swords with short handles and slim crossguards—not at all like the one she was searching for.
The bouncer stretched his neck to watch Kalea until the knight mentioned “a handsome reward.” Kalea scurried out the door into the soggy spring air. He might demand she give over some money for having slept so long in there, but Kalea hung onto her last copper.
The tall fleche of a sanctuary jabbed the sky behind rows of town rooftops. Evening was setting in, so she hurried toward it.
Along the way, she eyed every man in her path, checking to see if he carried a sword. She needed a shiny, molded one. Swords turned out to be a scarcity. Mostly farmers and workers of all sorts walked around here, no swordsmen. Another pair of Grey Knights strolled along one of the alleys, but they all carried the same typical, brass-hilted longswords with grey leather wrappings.
Gaulice’s sanctuary could almost be a cathedral; it was bigger than her whole convent. She found her way to the back door after working her way through several darkening alleys. The orange sunset bathed light over the sanctuary’s alley. Along each wall, several old, lame, and sick beggars had settled down, scooping scraps of mutton off broken trenchers. A handful of others ate pieces of trenchers.
Kalea knocked on the heavy oak door at the top of a few stone steps. After no answer, she knocked again. The door opened, and an elderly man stuck his nose out.
“Yes?”
“Hello, Father. I walked all the way here from the Hallowill convent, and I’m so hungry. I’m alone. Do you have any trenchers left?”
“Go away, girl, no prostitutes.”
Prostitute?
“I’m not a prostitute, sir. I’m a vestal, and I need help. Can’t you spare some leftovers?”
“You don’t look like a vestal or a beggar to me. Go on now.” The door slammed in her face.
Kalea looked down at herself. True, she hadn’t brought her habit along, but in her normal laywoman’s clothes, she didn’t look that good. Dirt smudged her dress, and by the weight of her numb face, she must look haggard. She should’ve passed for a beggar.
She stepped away from the door. A thin-haired old lady on the ground licked mutton juice off her blackened fingers.
“You need it more than I do anyway,” Kalea mumbled, and walked on.
She trudged along the street, collecting more mud on the hems of her skirts. Each step sent pins through her feet. Around a few corners, another pub opened. Its lamps were being lit and people filed in. She tucked her coin purse deep into her bodice so no one could pickpocket her last copper, and crammed in with the crowd.
Once inside, she sat in the corner. Elbows on her knees, she rested her head on her hand and watched the merrymakers, remembering to check out any sword to enter the room. None of them resembled the one in her dream, not in the least.
Plenty of busty ladies with plunging necklines moved about, sat with the men, and ate the food they bought. Those were prostitutes. Prostitutes didn’t need to beg in the alley behind the sanctuary. She’d watched this exchange several times before as she hung around the pubs and taverns spying on men with swords. The ladies laughed and sipped ale, showering the men with compliments while petting their shoulders and twirling their hair around their fingers, and after a while they went up the stairs together in pairs. They worked this routine in all the places she’d visited.
Kalea scowled and leaned her head against the wall. She too had been offered food before by men like these. She had refused and walked out, retaining her pride and dignity—and her virginity.
Crossing her arms over her knees as if to protect the coin in her bodice from the pickpockets, she allowed herself to fall asleep.
Her arm tickled. A kid tugged at the shimmery handle of her washing bat. She swatted at him, and he ran out the door empty-handed.
“Find someone else to wash for you!” she yelled in her sleepy daze, although he had obviously wanted to steal it. After all, it gleamed like silver. It would be a tempting target.
The windows showed pale grey light, so it must be dawn. Half of the patrons from last night still moved about and occupied the tables in a calmer air than a few hours before.
The doorbell jingled as a new patron entered, heaving a huge pack on his back under a ratty grey cloak with one side thrown over the shoulder, hood drawn up. He looked like a turtle wearing that thing. He peered from side to side before rushing to a table to sit. He glanced around before throwing the hood off with a sigh. This man, who didn’t wear the Grey Knights’ livery, wore a sword. The tip of his scabbard peeked out t
he side of his cloak, a ratty, discolored scabbard with threads dangling off.
Kalea leaned far over to see more of the sword around the table. It didn’t shine like the image Arius Medallus had shown her because it was bound in rags all over, including the hilt, which did slope like the sword she needed. No guarantee she’d found it, but she couldn’t let this one go without a closer peek.
The newcomer appeared old enough to be her father. If only he were; ten years since seeing her dad might as well have been an eternity. She took off her kerchief and combed her fingers through her hair. Clearing her throat, she glided over to him, pausing until he finished murmuring to the barmaid, ordering “whatever they had” in a raspy voice.
She couldn’t see much, especially after he moved his cloak over the sword like the wing of a protective mama-bird. Kalea released a breath through clenched teeth and cleared her throat again before swiping the spot on the bench next to him, close enough to touch shoulders. He jumped as soon as he noticed her.
“Hi,” she said.
“What do you want?”
“Um…” She lowered her chin, dodging his eyes as they stabbed into hers. “Can I…can I see your sword?”
“Tch.” He turned forward again. “I don’t have time for a romp. Ask someone else.”
“I’m not talking about a romp!”
He made a shooing motion with his hand. “Leave me alone. I’ve got serious business to think about.”
Chewing her lip, she eased up off the bench. He kept his head low. She approached the bar and fumbled her coin purse out of her bodice. Slapping her last copper down, she ordered a pint of ale and placed it before the scruffy man.
“My treat,” she said. He turned and eyeballed her with a lowered brow.
“I don’t drink.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Sit down, girl.” She obeyed. “And be quiet for a bit.” He took a sip from the tankard. “Who are you?”
“My name is Kalea Thridmill. I’m a vestal from Hallowill.”
His eyes dipped and returned to hers. “You’re not wearing the costume.”
“Costume? Oh, my habit. I’m actually an ex-vestal. I left. And now I’m looking for a shiny sword with a human figure on the—um—the flat part, you know?”
He frowned and eyed her again before inching away.
“Can I see it briefly?”
“No. Who sent you?”
“No one.” She shifted her eyes. She shouldn’t have mentioned the sword yet. The roads were so dangerous, people commonly traveled in groups, especially if any of them were skilled in combat. If she had used the I-need-an-escort angle, he might’ve been less suspicious. “I don’t know if I can explain this to you, but I’ll do my best if you’ll listen.”
“I suppose you’ve got as long as it takes me to drink this.” He took a big swig.
“I was a vestal, but I fell in love and ran away from my convent. I planned to run away beforehand, but a terrible calamity happened and my lover got kidnapped. I’m looking for him.” She peeked into his tankard to find the liquid halfway gone. “I need a swordsman to take me north.”
“I’m not stupid,” he said. “I haven’t forgotten that you want to know what my sword looks like.”
He opened his cloak and halfway unsheathed a sword. He possessed more than one, and showed her one with a short leather handle and brass hilt.
“That’s not the one. But yes, all I said is true. If you have the right sword, I need you to escort me.”
“I’m not exactly going north, madam. I’m going to Carridax.” Carridax lay to the north-east by a few days’ walk. “And I can’t help you unless you explain to me why you need to see the sword.”
“I’m a vestal. I experienced an ecstatic vision…from the Creator. He told me to find a man with a certain sword.”
“Oh, for cryin’ out loud.” The scruffy man rubbed his eyes. “What can you pay me for my service?”
Pay him? Kalea had forgotten about the possibility of paying for an escort. She’d been so wrapped up in swords and her sighting of Arius Medallus that she’d failed to imagine the difficulty in persuading this man to let her follow him—that perhaps she’d have to strike up a real escort deal. He couldn’t be the one if he headed toward Carridax. Kalea had assumed she’d be traveling due north.
“Hold on,” she said. “I don’t yet know if you’re the man I’m looking for. You still haven’t showed me your sword.”
“I did.”
“What about the other one you wear? I need a sword with a sloping guard and a naked figure sculpted on it.”
He put his hands up. “Look, miss, I think you need an escort more than I need your money.”
“I need you to be the right man.”
He chugged the rest of his drink. “Don’t they all say that?” He belched as he stood and headed for the door. “Thanks for the treat.”
Her mouth dropped open. Before he reached the door, she grabbed his cloak. “Please don’t go yet!”
He whirled around and drew a dagger in one quick motion. She gasped at the blade pointing toward her. He twirled it in his hand as fluidly as if he hadn’t drunk a whole tankard a few minutes ago.
“Don’t do that, miss.”
“It took my last copper to buy you that treat. I’m done for. Please listen to me. I need help.”
“So you expect an escort for free?”
“I have a close connection to the One Creator. I can pray for your sins. I can help you find the light or teach you to read or…”
He laughed in her face. “You’re funny.” He turned and went out the door with her clinging to his cloak.
“The box you wear looks heavy, so let me carry it. I can cook. I can sew. Even better, I can wash for you!”
He sighed and put his face in his hand.
A young man with his hair held back by a headband ran up to them. “Bow!” He grabbed the scruffy man’s arm.
“What, Del?”
“The crazy man! He followed us here.”
“What? Did he see you?”
The young man hesitated. “Yeah.”
“Son of a bitch.” The two of them took off.
“Wait!” Kalea called.
The young one turned back to eyeball her. “Who’s the girl?”
“Our washerwoman, apparently. And our spiritual leader too.”
The young man’s nose wrinkled.
“You mean I can accompany you?” she asked.
He didn’t answer, but would he have made that joke if he wasn’t going to let her follow? Then again, she still couldn’t tell if he carried the right sword. She’d follow until she found out, and make the next plan from there.
The young man—Del, the scruffy man had called him—sighed and grunted as he tossed some wood on the pile. “I thought we’d get to stay in a room tonight.”
The scruffy man crouched by the woodpile, trying to ignite the kindling with flint and steel. Kalea hovered nearby, twiddling her fingers. She’d followed them all the way out to a meadow off the wooded road like a lost puppy. Del’s eyes often flitted toward her with a frown, but then he’d shake it off and continue unpacking their food for supper.
He dropped down beside the scruffy man, stretched, and yawned. “So what’s her story?” he finally said.
A crackling glow flared up, and the scruffy man poked the sticks under the new flame. He turned to regard Kalea and smiled before a laugh rattled out.
“I don’t know,” he said. “She wants to go north, and she paid me with a tankard of ale plus additional services: praying, washing, cooking, and whatnot.” He fed a few more sticks into the little fire.
“You mean I can come with you?”
“I let you follow us all the way out here, girl!”
Del took a large smoking pipe off his pack, a thick and heavy-looking thing. He held it level, forearm muscles tensed, to stuff the bowl with tobacco. With a flaming twig borrowed from the fire, he lit it up.
“So what
’s the extent of your services?” Del asked.
She crossed her arms over her breasts. “I’m a vestal! My services involve cooking, washing, teaching, and praying.”
“Not true,” the scruffy man said, leaving the fire to grow the rest of the way on its own. “You told me you’re an ex-vestal and you’re looking for a lover.”
Del asked, “Long term or short? Because I—”
Kalea threw up her hands. “Oh forget it! Eat your dumb questions! I no longer care!”
The scruffy man sprang up and grabbed Kalea’s hand before she could walk into the forest. “He’s joking, all right? He’s joking. Best to ignore him; Del’s a stupid kid. Now look, it’s getting dark, and you don’t want to go into the woods alone. Especially with a crazy man stalking around.”
“Are my terms fair enough?”
“I saw your bracelet.” He pointed at her wrist. “It gleamed like pearl. Considering the small size and softened edges of each segment, I’m guessing it’s white abalone, exclusively found at Ravian Cove and arduously collected from the sand piece by piece.”
She cupped her hand around her bracelet. “I can’t.”
“Then I can’t help you, miss. I work for payment, not for prayers.”
Her jaw trembled as she fingered the bracelet. Dorhen’s sweet gift. He’d gone all the way to the crescent of Ravian Cove and picked up the little broken shells. He certainly had been all over the Lightlands. Finding him was most important to her.
She paused. “Let me see your sword.”
His mouth formed a tight, straight smile, and he opened his cloak. “Here.”
He wore two swords and at least one dagger as far as she could see. He pulled out the other sword, and its blade blazed with the sunset colors of the sky. The handle and guard were bound in a rag. He unwound the filthy cloth to expose more gleam. And yes, that sleeping nude figure lounged on the cross section exactly as she’d hoped. He flipped the sword over to show the word “HATHROHJILH.”
“I figure this is the owner’s name,” he said.
“You’re not the owner?”
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