The Ruens of Fairstone (Aeon of Light Book 2)

by Sethlen, Aron

  Pard shrugs and his eyes can’t help falling on the black marks dotting Miles’s face, another firm reminder that last night was very real and everything has changed forever.

  Miles gently touches his cheek. “It’s that bad, isn’t it?”

  Pard quickly looks away and lies. “You look fine—can hardly notice.”

  Miles shakes his head. “You suck at lying.” He grunts and glances at Star’s dead corpse. “I wish I could’ve been the one to shove his face in the fire! While he was still alive.”

  Penter turns toward the cave entrance. “Never would’ve happened. He would’ve killed all of us before any of us took a single breath. Forget him, he’s dead and you’re alive. Time to move on.”

  They file out of the cave and descend the scree field and turn right, east, on the path.

  “Where are we heading?” Pard says to Penter, his breath visible in the frigid air. He wraps his grey scarf tight around his neck.

  Penter raises his chin and eyes a line of white cloudy steam rising high above the tips of the pine trees. He points to it. In the distance, the chug of a train engine echoes as it makes its way over the tracks. “I say we follow the tracks north to the next town with a train stop, Ravin Town, which according to my maps is about forty miles and several towns north of here. Then we hop on the first available train to either the coast of Elemerin or Bivmerin. Once we get to a port city, I’ll catch a boat that steams down the Estrone Strait and make my way home to Brenton and find what’s left of my family. You two can head north to Lord Marlow’s father and his protection.”

  Miles rips a hunk of bread off the loaf and hands the piece to Pard. “Sounds good, lead the way, Iinian.”

  “Don’t call me that, I’m not Iinian.”

  Miles flinches, taken aback. “Okay, okay, touchy, touchy. But if you’re not Iinian than what are you? You said you’re from Brenton.”

  “I am Brenton.”

  “Well, Brenton is part of Iinia, unless some magical revolution occurred that no one heard about.”

  Penter scowls. “After all that’s occurred in the last year, I hold no affiliation to any country, Iinia, Brenton, or any other—only to myself and my family.”

  “Got it, a lone wolf.” Miles points at Penter then bites down on the bread crust and chews with his mouth open.

  “So what should we call you?” Pard says. “Is it all right if we call you Penter?”

  Penter ignores Pard and clicks open his pocket watch and stares at the inside cover.

  “Hey,” Miles says, “what time is it?”

  Penter snaps the case shut and slides it into his pocket, then he pulls out his compass. “I don’t know the time.”

  Miles chuckles. “What? How can you not know the time? You seem to always have your nose buried in that watch of yours.”

  Penter gazes up at the sky. “I guess it’s about seven or eight in the morning from the looks of the sun.” He points ahead. “This is our direction.”

  Miles squints in confusion then glances at Pard. He whispers, “How doesn’t he know the time?” Miles wobbles his head. “He guesses it’s seven or eight by the sun even though he has a watch—stupid.”

  Pard shrugs.

  “You can call me Deet,” Penter says. “Now keep up. We move at a fast pace—no more talking unless I say so.”

  LES & RAD

  Hours pass as they continue trudging through the snow-laden trail, weaving in and out of the forest along the train tracks. The sun sets on the horizon and the temperature continues to drop.

  Pard and Miles drag through the snow in a dreary state, well behind Deet. Pard fixates on Selby, and Miles on a warm room with a roof.

  “Can we stop and rest?” Pard says, yelling ahead. “I think my feet are going to fall off or freeze.”

  “We need to keep pushing through if we’re going to outrun Alexa and Eeva,” Deet says without turning around. “And no yelling—keep silence protocol.”

  “Keep silence protocol,” Miles mumbles as his stomach growls, “who does he think he is?” He raises his chin in defiance. “Hey, slave driver! I vote for a stop too. That’s two votes to one—we win.”

  “So this is a democracy now?” Deet looks up at the sky. “You’ve got to be kidding me. This, this is what you give me to work with.”

  “Come on,” Pard says with a slight plead in his tone, “we’ve been going hard all day.”

  “Yeah,” Miles says, “and where does your map say is the next town? We need to find a room for the night before it gets dark.”

  Deet lets out a sarcastic chuckle. “A room now?” He slows and turns around and faces Miles. He opens his arms wide and slightly bows. “Sorry, Lord Marlow, we aren’t staying in any room in any town. This isn’t one of your vacations or hunting retreats. That course of action is way to dangerous. You might as well just hand yourself straight over to Alexa and save her the trouble of hunting you.”

  Miles places his hands on hips. “I’m not sleeping out in this cold two nights in a row, and we won’t have a nice cave to sleep in like last night.”

  “You’re right, you won’t have a cave.”

  Pard, freezing, rubs his hands together. “I agree with Miles, we should find a room.”

  Deet snorts. “Of course you agree with him. What do you know.” Deet eyes them, scanning them both head to toe, judging them.

  Pard and Miles both raise their brows and look at each other, unsure of what Deet is thinking or what to say back as he continues to stare at them.

  Deet pulls out his pocket watch and rubs it in his hands.

  “What’s it going to be?” Pard says, teeth chattering and body shaking.

  “You two, spoiled pansy Fairstone boys, rich and privileged, with relentless killers on your trail, and all either of you can think about is a warm bed and meal.”

  “Yeah,” Miles says, “what’s your point?”

  Deet sighs and shakes his head, slips his pocket watch back into his duster, then pulls out his map.

  Miles leans into Pard’s ear and whispers, “Looks promising—I guess we convinced him.”

  “I can hear you, Lord Marlow,” Deet says.

  “Still looks promising,” Miles whispers again.

  Deet continues to scan the map as he runs his finger over the surface calculating where they are. He looks up to the sky then scans the trees and then his compass. Deet gestures to the left and into the evergreens. “Two miles straight through the trees is your warm bed and meal if you want it.”

  Miles nods. “Sounds good.” Then he looks at Pard. “What do you think?”

  “Umm, yeah, warm bed and food. I can hardly feel my nose, hands, or toes, and my stomach won’t stop growling, and my ears are numb, not to mention some of the other parts of my body.”

  “Mine too. I say we go.”

  Pard turns toward the trees and moves into the forest with Miles right behind him. He stops and glances back at Deet not following them and is eyeing his pocket watch. “You not coming with us?”

  Deet, head down, clicks the case shut. He lifts his gaze, and it meets Pard’s eyes, and for the first time it feels different. Deet isn’t looking at Pard as if a menacing terror or the man who was hunting him or tormenting him for the last few weeks. Instead, his eyes say something else. Deet looks at Pard as if he knows him, he knows him on a deeper level than even Pard knows himself. A look reminiscent to the one Professor Videl always gave him, or his mother, or his father. Deet sighs and grunts and steps forward, reaching Miles and Pard and pushing past them to take the lead. “Fine, but no talking on the way there or when we reach town. Once in the inn or wherever we find a roof, no looking at anyone under any circumstances. Especially you, Lord Marlow. Both of you should make up cover names, don’t call each other by your given name in public.”

  Pard smiles at Miles. “What should I call you, Lord Marlow?”

  Miles, in deep thought, pinches his chin. “You can call me—umm—Les.”

  “Easy enough. Har
d to forget that one,” Pard says.

  “All right, how about you?”

  “You can call me Rad.”

  Miles, with a goofy grin, tilts his head to the side and talks in an accent. “It’s very nice to meet you, Rad.”

  Pard returns the same goofy smile and accent back to Miles. “As it is very nice to meet you too, Les.”

  “All right, Les and Rad,” Deet says, “enough joking around, get serious.”

  Pard grins and nudges Miles. “Hey, Les, what should we call Deet in public.”

  “I don’t know, Rad, that’s a good question. He looks kinda like an Ed.”

  “Hmm, I don’t think so, more like an Albert or a Stew.”

  Pard and Miles chuckle, and for the first time in two days, Pard feels as if he is halfway normal. The thought of Selby momentarily slips away.

  “Ha, ha, ha,” Deet says. “While I thank you for your input, I already have a name picked out.”

  “What should we call you then?” Pard says.

  “You can call me Yaz.”

  HAWKE EYE

  It’s dusk, and Pard and the others exit the forest and come out onto a small dirt road which is slightly plowed. Ahead, an arched bridge extends over a creek followed by a small town with four stone buildings on either side. A mill with a giant paddlewheel churns and farmhouses dot the hills and fields of the surrounding rolling landscape.

  “Polin Town,” Deet says, stopping before the bridge and surveying the buildings and then the mill for any suspicious activity. “I imagine there’s an inn up ahead.”

  “I don’t think I’ve walked this far in my whole life,” Miles says with a groan.

  Pard stomps his feet to remove the caked snow, and he rubs his mitten-covered hands together to warm them. “Let’s keep moving, I’m freezing.”

  They enter Polin Town, and Pard points to two yellow signs hanging over the door of the first building, one sign with a bed on it, the other one with a tilted pint of black ale. “This looks like the place.”

  Deet steps in front of Pard. He angles his head back and stares at Miles. “Not a word, either of you. I’ll do the talking. Nod if you understand.”

  Pard nods.

  “I understand,” Miles says.

  Deet scowls at him.

  Miles rolls his eyes and reluctantly nods.

  “Stay close—here we go.” Deet opens the door, and a blast of warm dry air hits Pard in his lungs.

  Pard’s body relaxes as the warmth washes over him like a summer breeze. He stands up straight, reinvigorated. He strides through the door and forgets his numb feet and sore legs. Ahead, a pub half full of patrons. The space is dimly lit by oil lamps and two fireplaces, but it’s a comfortable hue, and the floors and walls seem clean but old and musty. The guests, laid-back, as the noise level is rather low. His smile grows larger. He glances at Miles who has the same smile on his face as the aroma of warm fresh bread and beef stew lingers in the air and enters his nose. Pard’s mouth waters, and he leans forward toward the siren of stew calling his name.

  Deet quickly scans the room for danger and turns left and walks toward the inn front desk. “This way, stay close.”

  Pard and Miles both sigh and rock backward away from their muse and they pivot and follow Deet.

  Behind the wood counter, a pudgy, pleasant-faced, middle-aged woman with course auburn hair and wearing a grey wool garment greets them. “A frigid chill in the air tonight. From the looks of you, I’m guessing travelers like yourselves may need a room and a warm meal.”

  “You guessed right,” Deet says, “a warm room and meal on a cold night is exactly what we seek.”

  The woman smiles, accentuating her deep dimples in the corners of her mouth. “One room for the three of you?”

  “Yes, one room is all we require,” Deet says.

  Miles coughs and mumbles, “Two rooms.”

  Deet gives the woman a stiff smile as he talks through his clinched teeth, “Like I said, one room is all we require.” He tilts his head behind him and stares at Miles, giving him a dirty look.

  Miles glances away.

  “Right on, dear,” the innkeeper says, “just scroll your names on the next available line on the ledger and annotate the number of nights you’ll be staying with us.” She turns around and unlatches a brass key off the wall. “Room four is yours, up the stairs and to your right.”

  Deet scribes Yaz Roe on the first line then writes Rad Roe and Les Roe underneath his name. “We’ll only be staying one night.”

  “As you say, dear. That’ll be two silver.”

  “Are meals included?”

  “Only breakfast, dinner is not included with the room.”

  “Can we have our meals brought up to our room?”

  “Sorry, dear, no room service in this establishment. You’ll have to mingle and fend for yourselves with the other guests and locals down here in the pub.”

  Deet purses his lips. “All right.” He sets two silver coins on the counter and snatches the key off the wood. “Thank you much.”

  “You bet and enjoy your stay and keep warm.”

  Deet climbs the stairs with Miles right behind.

  Pard glances at the pub and then back to the woman, giving her a smile then runs up the stairs to catch up to the others.

  The inn door swings open and a burst of bitter, drafty winter rushes inside and sweeps up the stairs and floods over Pard. At the top of the stairs, Pard peeks back and his eyes narrow focusing on the foyer below.

  Two rough men stroll inside and stomp their boots, announcing their entrance to all in the establishment. The first man, elegant, young, blondish hair, mid-twenties, square jaw and stubble, athletic and an aura of a pleasant disposition, he gives off a glow and a large smile. He lifts his light brown wide-brimmed leather hat and takes a few more strides into the inn. His long, newer brown duster coat extends to his knees. The other man, maybe mid-fifties to sixties, grizzled but fit, whitish-grey wiry hair that rests on his shoulders, he scowls and flicks his head toward the innkeeper behind the desk. His worn dark leather duster marked with war and hardship a thousand times over, and might even be older than the man wearing it. The coat flaps and opens as he pivots, revealing two pistols with silver grips, one attached to either hip, and another thick strap extends over his shoulders tethered to something Pard can’t see. Bullets line his belt, and two daggers with gold handles are fixed at a forty-five degree angle on his chest, one over each breast.

  “Cold night,” the innkeeper says, “I’m guessing travelers like yourselves look to me like you may need a room.”

  The grizzled man grunts and plops down a small leather coin purse on the counter. He turns around and eyes the other man. “Hawke, one room or two?”

  “I think two tonight, major.”

  The grizzled man nods then turns back to the woman. “Two rooms.”

  Seeing the weapons and duster coats, Pard slowly crouches in the hallway against the wall, hiding his body from sight, then pokes his head over the edge. These two guys sure look like Acue.

  “That’ll be four silver, gentlemen.” The woman snatches two brass keys off the wall and sets them on the counter. She pushes forward the register toward the men. “Just need your signature and nights you’ll be staying.”

  “Not sure on how many nights yet,” the grizzled man says, and he scribes his name on the line below Les Roe. “Names Cray, Cornelius Cray.”

  Hawke leans forward on the counter and gives the woman a playful grin on his handsome face. “My name is Hawke—people just call me Hawke.” He winks at her.

  The woman blushes and smiles then presses her hand over her mouth. “Cornelius Cray, as in the famous Cray?”

  Cray grunts and snatches his key off the counter.

  Hawke nods at the woman and sweeps the key off the wood in a fluid motion. And then he tosses his key high up in the air and catches it.

  Pard, unable to take his eyes off the two men, continues to stare and is obvious about it.r />
  Hawke glances up the stairs, eyes Pard, tips the brim of his hat with a nod and winks at him as he strolls behind Cray into the pub.

  Pard flinches and snaps his head out of view and back into the hallway.

  “What part of not staying close don’t you understand?” Deet says, gripping the scruff of Pard’s cloak and pulling him away from the stairs. “I swear, that light thing and not listening must be infectious, just like—” Deet puckers his lips and gestures toward the open door to their room. “Never mind, just get inside.”

  Pard lowers his head and ducks into the room.

  Miles leans forward close to a mirror and stares at his reflection while poking his cheek where Star tattooed him.

  Pard collapses onto the bed. “It’s not that bad, don’t worry.”

  “It’s horrible. I look like a circus performer.”

  “Don’t exaggerate,” Deet says, “it’s just a few black dots—they’re hardly noticeable.”

  Miles circles his finger over a small deep-red scrape. “Where he gashed me, it will leave a scar too.”

  Deet sits in a wooden chair in front of a small desk, unslings his pack, and sets one of his maps on his lap. “Many people have scars, so get over it, Marlow. I don’t want to hear you whining everyday on our journey.” Deet clicks open his pocket watch and stares at the inside cover.

  “Easy for you to say, you’re not the one with the scars.”

  Deet snaps the case shut and eyes his map. “Not all scars are visible, and most are worse than the little black dots and scratches on your pretty face.”

  CORNELIUS CRAY

  After an hour of warming their numb bodies in the room, and Pard explaining about the two mystery men in the pub, Deet, not recognizing Cray’s or Hawke’s description, decide food is too important, so they make their way down to the pub for a hot meal. They sit at a small square wooden table next to the side wall and away from the patrons sitting at the stools in front of the bar. Around them, ten other tables sporadically placed around the room, all with three candles perched in the center of each table. Oil lamps stick out from the walls and a large chandelier hangs in the center to brighten the space. Though the pub is somewhat muted, as if twilight, unless standing right next to the fireplaces or candles.