Trin had thought about trying out the river trade, but had given up any ideas containing water after a single season at sea. She had been much younger then, still a girl really, and the ship she’d signed on with had been a small cargo boat. Too scrawny to row oars or hoist sails, she had been enlisted as a scullion and a maid, but the work had been shit. Every day had been a waste of time and she hadn’t felt like she was accomplishing anything. The boat never got any cleaner and the food never tasted any better with her help, so her work was simply a way to kill time until the ship pulled into port. It had all felt so pointless. Her work had done nothing to move the ship forward and it never felt like she had an active role in the journey. She hadn’t helped raise the sails, she hadn’t bartered, she’d done nothing of value.
Sailing just wasn’t for her. As difficult as it was with Fate’s meddling, Trin refused to spend her life as a passenger, and she didn’t want her father’s job either; she needed to see and feel the journey’s progression with each step she took. What would be the point of living if all her time was spent directing others to go and see the world in her stead? That one trip had been enough for her. With some money from her father, Trin had bought a horse and a wagon at the final port in Rori. Not a fancy stallion or anything, just a simple cart horse. With what she’d had left, she bought some supplies and made the trip home, buying and selling as she went. She had found her calling then, a life to call her own, and a way to pursue her research into Fate’s curse.
Life as a merchant had taken her to the best libraries in the world, and yet, ironically, fifteen years of research had led her back home, to the library in Trel, where she had found the answer. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the answer she had wanted.
But despite the sad end, her travels had provided her something more important. As a merchant, she had discovered what it meant to live. In those months it had taken to travel home, Trin had met more people than she had during her entire life on the estate at Trel. And those people had been different. They didn’t deal in emotions, didn’t barter words for influence, nor sell ideals in exchange for attention or self-importance. No, instead they traded money for objects. It was far simpler, far more beautiful, because it was honest. Emotions were not a thing to be given away. Not for power, not for money, not for fame. Emotions were a thing to be lived, and on the road, the only currencies were physical things. A bit of iron bought from a merchant in Rori was traded to a smith in Carn in exchange for a crate of horseshoes and an old bow. Horseshoes were given in exchange for an assortment of spices, the spices traded for silver, and the silver for gold. There were always cheaters, there were always liars, but each item was given freely. Every trade was a risk, but the worst was always within imagining, because the gain was known and the price was listed. There were no hidden strings, nothing to bind her down to a life she didn’t want, to a person she didn’t know, or to a man who dealt in words, rather than things.
If only she could break Fate’s curse as easily as she’d ended things with Taehrn, her life would be perfect. But it wasn’t.
Trin let her gaze wander to the boy sitting on the wagon bench beside her. With a hat upon his brow to guard him against the sun and food filling his stomach, he already appeared healthier. He wasn’t nearly as red as he’d been the day before, and the pale grip of fatigue had faded from his gaunt cheekbones. The boy had spoken little since the morning and she was rather disappointed. She enjoyed the company and knew it would be nice to have another on the long road to Trel. Alone, she might dwell on the man she had stabbed and left beneath a tree. She would dwell on what the Fatereader intended. She could not imagine a life as the god of Death. She dreaded the possibility, but what else could the old witch want from her? That was the bargain she had made, was it not? Bring Death into the world, and in return, she would become a god herself. What other god could it be, but that which she was meant to create?
Trin blinked as she forced her mind to happier thoughts. Glancing at the boy, Trin decided that if he was going to be silent, then she would have to press him; some folk just needed questions before they’d open up.
“Have you ever been in love, boy?”
Jem sat quietly for a moment, his eyes following the roll and sway of the reins bobbing between her and the ox. Finally, the boy answered.
“I think so,” he said.
A thoughtful one this, but so difficult to get a word out of him. Trin adjusted her hands on the reins. “You think so? What in Butcher’s name does that mean?”
The boy didn’t answer. Instead, he stared at his hands and the strange gray tattoos that crept up to his wrists. The edge had the look of rippling waves and water droplets. When the silence stretched, she tried again.
“Never mind then. Where is she now?”
“In Vale probably, taking care of her father until his leg heals.”
Trin paused to let the comment sink in.
“Uh, you didn’t break his leg did you, boy?”
“No, of course not. He was hauling lumber back into town when his horse got spooked and ran free. He was thrown from his wagon and broke his leg in the landing.”
“I see. So why aren’t you with her now?”
Jem ran a finger along the edge of his tattooed wrist. “Because,” he said. “I’m afraid she doesn’t love me back.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, boy. Rejection is never easy.”
The boy shrugged as if to dismiss the sentiment. “And you?” he asked. “Are you married?”
“Gods no,” she swore. “I almost was once, an arranged marriage sort of deal. I’d known him for a long time before that. Seemed the genuine sort, until I learned what he was really like. Tossed him aside real quick once I did. Lying bastard.”
“And after that?”
“Left home for a while, started doing this. Enjoyed it enough that I decided not to go back – other than a few visits here and there. So, tell me, boy, is she what you’re running from?”
The look the boy gave her was an unholy thing; so damning, it almost made her laugh. Jem was little more than a child, and yet he behaved so seriously, it would be hard not to needle him. Then again, given the scars on his body, and the harsh life they implied, perhaps she should show some restraint.
Stifling a chuckle, she said, “Fine don’t tell me. But be warned, we’re stopping at an inn tonight and you’ll be drinking if you don’t want to sleep in the streets. And once you are, you’ll be singing like a bird. Never met a man – nor a woman for that matter – who doesn’t open their mouth hole with a few drinks in it.”
“That easy, is it?”
“Course it is. Here’s a little secret from me to you, boy. The more drinks you put in ‘em, the more holes that open up.”
“I have a hard time believing you almost married.”
“I know what you mean,” she sighed. “Almost? What man wouldn’t fight till the last for a lady like myself?”
The boy smiled, the first smile she’d seen from him. He certainly wasn’t beaming, but it was a smile at the least. Briefly, she held the back of her hand against the bruise on her eye. Despite – or perhaps, because of – the guilt she felt for almost killing Jem, she was beginning to like the boy and wanted to win him over. Given the fact the boy still lived, it was heartening to see that Fate could lose for once, and just in case the bitch was watching, Trin wanted to drive the point home. Got to fight the witch somehow, right?
“But you’re right,” Trin continued. “There was a time that marriage was something I would’ve wanted. Luckily, I found this life instead. Think I like this one better. Lot of my old friends went for that life and I’ve seen a few since. The ones that’ll deal with me at least. Most of ‘em think they’re too good for me, say I’m nothing but a peasant now, even though most of their daddies or granddaddies got rich doing exactly what I am now, the skanks. But I’ve spoken to a few of them over the years, one of them looks to me she’s a pound away from snapping those legs of hers. Says it’s ‘cause of all those kid
s, but I saw the way she eats. Got eight of the little bastards. Eight! I says to her, ‘How you handle all them kids?’ Even though I knew just by looking at her that she wasn’t raising a single one of ‘em. She was always like that you know, a lazy one. But here we are sitting in the garden of her estate, eating lunch and one of those kids walks up to me, this chubby little thing with these puffy cheeks and a stick with a string tied to it – couldn’t of been older than five – and he says to me, ‘I’m going to be a fisherman.’
“Now, I thought it was cute, but that’s the last thing his mother wanted to hear. There was no way that her son was going to be a fisherman, as if being a fisherman was any worse than being a merchant. The way she yelled at that boy I thought my ears would burst. Of course, me not being the kid’s mother and all, I thought it was hilarious, watching her cheeks and forehead start to glow and all that, the boy running away screaming. But seeing that, I knew exactly how she handled all those kids and I knew I’d made the right choice. If a son of mine ever asked to be a fisherman I’d have a hard time telling him no. My mother would choke the life out of me for that, and that sure isn’t an experience I’d want to go through. Those cute, beady little eyes looking up at me saying that he wants to fish, my mother weighing my soul like Just himself. Tell him yes, and my mother would strike me down right then and there. Tell him no and break his little heart. Though, that boy didn’t look much like he was heartbroken – looked too damned scared to be feeling anything else. Turns out I was wrong though. She raised them kids as far as her voice could carry. And believe me, that voice carried.” Without transition, she continued. “You have any sisters?”
“Just me.”
“You’re lucky. I’ve got a sister myself and she’s wretched. She’s a weird mix of my mother’s propriety, my father’s ruthlessness, with a whole lot of arrogance mixed in. Woman is full of herself. Seems to think that every word she speaks is doctrine. She’s so stubborn she could argue with the High Cleric himself. Gods what I would give to see that. Maybe if I ever meet him again, I’ll introduce ‘im to my sister.” A shudder ran through her. “Oh gods, what if they get along? I think I’ve made myself sick.” Her mind wandered for a moment. “You know what’s funny? I think she married a fish merchant.”
“Your sister?”
“No, my friend with the fisher boy. I think she married that old merchant who owns all the drifters and trawlers that run off the coast. My sister, she married a legionnaire. The dick. Last thing she needed was another reason to be a pompous bitch.” Trin rolled her voice to a shrill apex, the note perfectly capturing her sister’s discordant screech. “‘He’s so great. I’m so glad you didn’t marry him because he loves me so much, and can you believe how amazing he is? And he’s so important. Last week he was honored by the Magistrate Godahn himself.’ Oh yeah, bitch? Well I shit in the High Cleric’s library and he thanked me for it. My shit’s more important than you or your butchering husband.”
Jem broke into a surprisingly deep and joyous laugh. It warmed her heart. She had feared the boy was devoid of mirth since he’d spent most of the day in a bitter sulk.
“The skank,” she continued. “Oh I hope she’s home this time. I’m going to trounce her with that one. See her face scrunch up into that sweet little pout she gets whenever she realizes that all she ever gets is my leavings. Course that’s never been true, but it’s what she’s always thought. Can’t be happy with what she has, instead she’s got to try and compete with me. To tell the truth, it’s flattering. I know I’m not that important, but if she’s dumb enough to believe it, I won’t correct her. It really is sad, there was a time when I loved her, but she’s burnt those bridges ‘cause of that damned contest she’s imagined between us.” She pointed to a dirt road that intersected the path ahead. “Look there, that leads to one of the lumber mills on this side of the river. We’re almost to Lane.”
“I assumed as much from the smoke,” Jem said. Sure enough, a light haze of smoke misted the skyline ahead. Too much smoke.
“Oh, look at that. Strange though, a lot more smoke than usual, but it’s not thick enough to be the town burning down. Looks more like the horizon over Trel than anything.” As they crested the next ridge, they soon discovered why. Below them, on the small plateau that surrounded Lane from the north, tents were arranged in ordered rows across the horizon.
“Shit,” Trin said.
CHAPTER FIVE
Beneath the lone tree in a field of green, Wilt lived an unmercifully long death. Once he had been a soldier, but now he was only pain. The knife wound in his right side had begun to fester almost immediately and now he cursed himself for discarding the only thing that could have ended his torment.
She had stabbed him. The bitch had stabbed him. And he had been a fool. Standing there, watching Trin Cavahl with eyes of disbelief and disgust, he had pulled out the knife and thrown it at her, only to have it land in the long grass beyond. The wound had been too much, and the shock of it all had brought him back to his knees. Last he had known, he’d lain on his side. But it was so long ago now that his senses could no longer be trusted.
Desperate to survive, he had tried to halt the bleeding by ripping strips from the sleeves of his shirt, but the blood had drowned the cloth and then resumed its slow and continuous seep. When he tried to replace the bandages, he had found that his arms no longer worked. A ghost writhed beneath his flesh, holding him immobile and searing every nerve. If not for the pain, he would doubt that his limbs still existed. He fantasized about the knife in the grass, wishing he could end his life, but his legs would not carry him.
Though rocky and snaked with roots, the earth beneath him became his only solace, for the earth was precisely what the wind and the sun and even his traitorous body were not; consistent. The dirt and rocks beneath him were his only constant. The rocks and the flow of blood.
Before his vision had failed, Wilt had tried to close his eyes, if only to spare himself the sight of his own death, but they would not close. At the time, he had thought that closing them would be his final act of defiance, that it would be the only act that could bring him peace, but when his eyes began to fail, he learned better. They were still open, immobile as they’d been, but the blur of vision had succumbed to the waves of pain. The clouds of sight wed the clouds of agony. Sometimes when the mind sees a cut, it is then that the body begins to feel. But the pain is far worse when that sight turns inward. For then, the mind truly sees the scars lurking beneath the surface.
Once sightless, the aches had begun to contract. As the feeling in his limbs withered to nothing, the pain flooded into his chest, through every organ and every vein. It continued to compact, continued to compress, until he was nothing more than hurt washing against the dark and tortured core that was all that remained of his mind.
He had started to dream. The Whore herself had come to him and she had blessed him. She had told him to wait, that soon his salvation would come. She had said that his soul must be cleansed before he could serve. Before he could become a god. But he had reasoned that these dreams must simply be the dreams of infection. For the Whore was ever indifferent, and a far crueler god had taken note of the deserter named Wilt.
A shadow fell over Wilt’s senses as a sudden buzzing merged with his consciousness. It was a familiar sensation and his inability to identify it stung him. Laughter echoed deep within his shriveled core. Even the last vestige of his failing mind began to mock him. But of course it would. Every other piece of himself had betrayed him. Certainly, his thoughts could do no less. He tried to flee then, to force himself outside that core, and for a moment, he succeeded. He forced himself away, and down, down to his last respite, there onto the cold and solid ground. He found the earth that was his last comfort, and thrust himself against it. And that is when the soil vanished.
Both panic and a presence swept through him at the same time. The paralysis of his limbs vanished as thought and feeling rushed into every crevice and nerve. The presence, he real
ized in shock, was his own. He had been restored. The solidity of the earth returned. Sudden lumps and hollows against his back. Bark. He was against the tree. He was sitting. He had moved. How had he moved? But then he knew. There were hands on his shoulders. The buzzing that had so taunted him, it was a voice.
“Do you understand me?” A low rumble, deep and vibrant. “Your eyes flutter without sight, but that will change.”
And so it did. A sudden clarity of both thought and vision. Light flooded his eyes, indistinct, but slowly reforming the world he had lost. The pain receded. A sigh racked through him – the physical manifestation of such potent relief. His first clear thought was more correct than any other he’d had in his life. He knew that this sigh, this simple reaction, would be the apex of his life. There would be no sensation more intense, no feeling grander, and no greater pleasure. This realization was more disheartening than the pain could have ever been. He wanted to die.
His eyes focused. A smile hovered before him, wry and triumphant. The face was that of an old man, pale, but freckled and creased. The man’s gray hair was cropped close, the eyes a dark green. The old man crouched in the dirt.
“You finally came. Thank you. Thank you. Tha-” Wilt could not stop his tongue. He knew he should. He could not. “-nk you. Thank y-”
A hand struck his cheek, the sensation mellow and empty compared to the pain he had lived, but it halted his tongue. He thought to thank the man again then stopped himself. Instead, “I’m Wilt. You must help me, I was attacked by a woman! She stabbed me and left me to die. We must find her.”
The hand struck him again, the motion blurring his thoughts. The hand had been too quick, too ethereal, and his mind too weak to follow.
Death's Merchant: Common Among Gods - Book One Page 8