‘Anna— Stop him—’ says Lysander through bouts of coughing.
‘How?’ she asks, ruing ever accepting to come to this place and knowing she’ll take the blame if the rogue escapes.
‘Concentrate— Do not think, will.’
The lithe Trickster glides past Anna, cloak fanning behind him. And he produces the faintest chuckle. Inaudible at any range, but not to Anna. Helpless woman, am I? Raising her hands, eyes a normal shade of brown, she shoots a jet of sticky mud from her hands, pouring out in a cone that covers the entirety of the rogue’s body, rooting him to the spot. Tangled in this gummy substance, of which the wet parts plop to the ground in neat bundles, the Trickster squirms left and right, unable to lift a finger, let alone a dagger.
Staggering out of the smoke, the men wipe the tears from their eyes and try to focus on the mud-drenched figure in front.
Cesar tilts his head left, then right, puzzled. ‘When I said she was a dirty fighter, I did not mean it quite like this.’
The Trickster is mumbling something. The band meets at him and, by Anna’s hand, rips off the hood that has hidden his face. But it is not his at all. It is hers. Fair of hair and skin is the girl, with a proud nose and coral lips. If she weren’t covered in brown sludge, she would be fairer still.
‘Lady Kara?’ says Lysander.
Blowing a fallen curl out of her face, she replies, ‘Was that really necessary?’
Eight – So It Begins
The monks of the Illuminate Order had retired for the evening, bar Elder Francis who sat bolt upright to the ceiling, not yawning – it was rude to yawn – but displaying signs of tiredness around the eyes.
‘So you steal from the rich to give to…yourself?’ grilled Cesar, taking to the role of inquisitor with gusto.
‘A lesson on morality from a Venecian? How quaint. I believe I may have entered a nether region of the Shadowland. Let’s see: there’s a witch, her low caste companion, three Venecian bandits and two monks. Seems about right,’ said Kara, rattling the chair by shaking her bound limbs.
‘Why steal? Your father is one of the richest alchemists in these lands; he could buy you anything you wanted,’ said Lysander.
‘You dear, dear man. I hunt for sport.’
‘Many of your stolen wares have been found in other’s hands.’
‘Well, one does need pocket money.’
‘Sold for hundreds of gold sovereigns.’
‘I have large pockets.’
‘There are many good people who would benefit from that money,’ said Anna, trying to reason with the girl without knowing when she herself had entered into sainthood. ‘Many members of the low caste who haven’t even a loaf of bread to eat.’
‘And I suppose I am to be held accountable for their poverty? Toss them loose change so they can spend it on ale?’
‘You could at least try thinking of someone other than yourself.’
‘No, shan’t.’
Anna screwed up her fists. ‘She is insufferable.’
‘That’s a very big word,’ said Kara. ‘Can I come stay with you monks too? Just think of what you could do with my vocabulary.’
The birth-branded girl leaned in. ‘You’re missing a few words. “Good.” “Fair.” “Honourable.” But don’t worry, you’ve got “heartless” and “shrew” down pat.’
‘Strange, I can’t see any pulpits but I do hear sermons. Elder Monk, I believe it is your turn. Or bandit number three. The stuttering one. Would you like to address the congregation? We’re in a judging kind of mood.’
‘Bite your forked tongue, girl,’ said Elder Francis. ‘This is not a place for you to use it without consequence.’
His authority silenced the room.
‘I am not going to watch a rabble of young things argue into the night. Sixty years have I walked this earth and what senseless acts have I witnessed in that time. Talent squandered on crime. Juveniles vandalising because it is easier to ruin than create. If you follow this path, Kara, you will decline. The joy of the street-people you disdain will scratch at your insides. You will seal yourself away in a fortress buffered by hate, distrusting the stable boy and the suitor equally. And when they leave and the thrill of that so-called hunt wanes with your physical prowess, you will not delight in the wealth you horde. You will nest with sorrow and find little warmth in your barren bed.’ When there was no comeback, Elder Francis continued. ‘It is late, Cleric Lysander. Her father is prone to spending the night locked away in his lab; she will not be missed. Let her stay here and ensure that she is comfortable. If she protests and wishes to leave do not stop her.’
‘Elder, I do not understand,’ said Lysander.
‘The urn is safe and sound and this girl can hide no longer.’
‘You can’t be serious. She’s a criminal,’ complained Anna.
‘Do not speak as if I am not here,’ said Kara.
‘As you know, Anna, that label is woolly. She would be hanged for her crimes in Old Haven square, woman-loving town or not. Lysander, I leave this matter to you. There will be no rebukes for your decision.’
‘But I need your guidance in this,’ said Lysander.
‘No, you want my guidance, there is a difference. Let the girl choose her fate, for it is not ours to decide. Good night. May you not dwell in this room too long.’
Elder Francis departed, running the day’s events through his head with a knowing smile on his face.
Tension entered the room and stayed. Tommy and Andres were exhausted, having turned to archery after sword-fighting. Tommy was far better at wielding a bow than a blade, and it had hushed the fidgeting and the turmoil of leaving home. He held a Trickster vial to candlelight and then shook it by his ear. ‘It makes an unusual sound; an eerie swish.’
‘Unless you have a penchant for boils I’d put that down.’
Tommy promptly did as he was told.
‘H-h-how do you make them?’ asked Mateo.
Ignoring him, Kara said, ‘His Holiness said I can go. You, ruddy looking lad,’ gesturing with her head to Andres, ‘you have a sturdy pair of hands on you. Unfasten these knots.’
Andres looked to Cesar for guidance, but the latter was busy chiding the rogue for not answering Mateo’s question, insisting that she do so.
‘And hand over secrets my kin have guarded for generations? I think not.’
‘Alchemists make dyes, tinctures, remedies. These are potions,’ said Anna.
‘I am no mage, birth brand. While we are on the subject, what exactly are you? Besides a peasant, of course. You’ve permanently stained my favourite cloak so I deserve an answer.’
‘You tell me about your magics, then I’ll tell you about mine.’
‘Sharing time at the monastery…I think I’ll pass. Does someone care to untie me?’ Kara raised her eyebrows and let out a wicked beam of sunshine from her mouth. Stony-faced stares came back at her. ‘Oh, you six are no fun.’
The group moved to one side of the library to discuss the girl. There was a concern that she would steal something, but Andres reminded them there was little of worth in the monastery. An idea proposed by Tommy that she may surprise an elderly monk in the night, pouring a concoction down his gullet with glee, was met with chuckles all round. Lysander did not “do” chuckling, so his face looked like he was choking on a pine cone.
‘She h-helped us at the Manor,’ said Mateo, trying to get them to see clearly.
‘True,’ replied Anna. ‘And she did protect me. Twice. I wonder where she learned to fight like that.’
‘We would have taken those guards. I was just getting warmed up,’ said Cesar. Anna wanted to make him bristle. She had a witty remark about his biceps left over from a separate argument the other day, but it was unwarranted at the present time and had to go back into storage. But the next time he tormented her with some sexist, never-ending joke…
‘What do you want to do, Lysander?’
‘Yeah, it’s your decision anyway.’
T
he monk scratched an imaginary itch on his chin. Five sets of eyes were on him and he felt the strain, knowing to hide it. ‘“Let the girl choose her fate” – those were my Elder’s words. She does not wish to stay and we cannot make her.’
The group accepted his decision, for they knew it was the right choice. Turning around, they were met with an empty chair and a set of ropes folded neatly on the seat. The daggers and vials were gone.
‘Should I ask who tied her up?’ asked Lysander.
Anna and Tommy’s eyes fell on Cesar.
‘Mateo, what have you done?’ The boy stood mutely, receiving a wink from his comrade whose Venecian accent became conspicuously stronger. ‘His Carric is not so good. His Venecian also. You trust in me, Lysander. I will see to it that he improves, yes?’
Lysander swallowed his distaste. Cesar began telling off Mateo in their tuneful tongue, leaving the room with his brethren and not making it down the corridor before he burst into a fit of laughter, whereby he took delivery of an almighty thump to the side.
Kara stood in the alchemist’s workshop, filled with linium vials and beakers, mortars and pestles. Dried wormroot leaves had gotten into every nook and cranny, and there was the impression that the alchemist had no time to clean.
She had made a poor apprentice – by her own admission, no less. It was frightfully dull tinkering and watching pans boil, and though she knew the recipes by heart, she did not hold them there. ‘Alchemy is part science, part art,’ he often said. Yes, and completely boring. He was masterful, though, her teacher. Through his genius had many of her rogue vials come into existence. Did he know that she stole batches? Did he think to ask where she went with them? No. His head was firmly stuck in his work. It had been that way since his wife died in childbirth.
‘I didn’t think I’d see you in this place again,’ said Meric, moving past her to get to the workshop.
‘Lot of memories here. Mostly of brews blowing up in my face.’ Her voice drained away. ‘I went to Manor Hamilton yesterday to see that urn on display. It was an exceptional piece.’ True. ‘I met some people while I was there. We walked by the river. They said they’re leaving Carrigan and going on an adventure. It sounds exciting.’ Downright lie. ‘Could I go with them, Father?’
‘Would you pass me that jar of mopweed? It’s by your foot, to the left.’ Had he heard her? ‘Yes, a journey with some people you’ve met. Sounds marvellous. The jar, if you will.’
Kara bent her knees, grabbed the jar in her hands, and brought it to him, seeking a look, a transient acknowledgement, but he had marked out the mopweed for sole attention. ‘They’re planning to pass through the Sidian Mire.’
He looked up. ‘Oh really?’
‘Yes. People say it’s haunted, don’t they? Wouldn’t it be something to stay there a night?’
‘You should survey its flora; see what you can discover and document it. Imagine what plants lie untapped in those pools.’
How silly to assume his interest lay in her.
‘So I can go then? On a perilous journey with strangers?’
‘Yes yes, make sure you have a good time. Don’t worry about me and this house; it’ll tick over.’
Kara grabbed the stash she had hidden away. It would have been an appropriate time for emotion, yet it did not come. Had she lingered there, given it a chance, maybe she could have summoned something. Unlikely, though, that he would have said anything unless the noise became distracting.
Strewn across her bed pillows, Kara pondered it all. She didn’t really want to go with the six and they wouldn’t accept her in any case. Echoing in her head were those rotten monk’s words. ‘If you follow this path, Kara, you will decline…you will nest with sorrow and find little warmth in your barren bed.’ The old man had discerned that in ten minutes, Shaper knows what he’d get out of her in a day. One man that knew too much, one that knew too little… You could dangle conspicuous figurines in front of her father’s face and he wouldn’t notice, hence why she had converted the second guest bedroom into an art den. The maids had grudgingly accepted that they may under no circumstances enter, but one had snuck in to dust and been half-blinded by the Bang Si canvas. Had to be let go after that. Shame.
After last night there would be no more sneaking into Bernard the Butch’s millinery to plant lingerie in his coat pockets for wifey to discover. No more midnight runs to the convent to give headaches to the ugly figurines and warty nuns. It was these acts of mischief she’d miss the most. All that remained was for her to stay and marry into some fabulously rich, normal household. Her father wasn’t interested in what she did and he’d lost interest in society since…
Kara undid the locket around her neck and ran her fingers over the familiar depiction of freesias in gold. Inside were two portraits: one of her brother Theren, the knight who had instilled his love of the fight in her; and that second, faded portrait, stained by her tears as a child. To grieve for someone you have not met is an odd sensation. You realise that the life-rope, though broken, did link you for a time, yet it was before feeling or memory. Before you could break up the sound stream into digestible chunks and attach meaning to symbol.
Your connection to this figure who should have been the most important woman in your life is weak, and while her vessel sinks further into dirt, yours floats in the realm above, requesting information. What was she like? What did she do? Who did she love? What did she feel about the world? Answers come and grow cool on the skin. The nurturing hand of the woman cannot spread its warmth and its duty is not taken up by the man, who loses himself in work, hoping to lose the woman too. The daughter born is not abandoned – she is raised and showered in gold – but she matures. She develops into a woman herself. She develops into the woman herself. The hair and the eyes and the pose and the disposition. The man cannot bear to look. And so, one day, the woman gambles, packing up her possessions and veritable vault of gold, and leaving before she is as devoid of spirit as that vessel in the dirt.
Tommy gave Mateo a funny look. ‘A sword is a sword.’
‘N-n-n-no. One sword is unlike the next. Each man should forge his blade himself.’ Mateo grew comfortable as his speech flowed, similarly to how he had grown at ease with his new friends. ‘I forged my own sword at sixteen. My father is a weapons-s-smith; he taught me everything I know. But my blade was taken in Leitrim.’ Mateo cut through the training room air with a downward swing. ‘Th-this replacement the monks have given me is good, but it isn’t mine.’
The two went back to fighting. At the back of the room sat a sweat-drenched Andres, Anna and Cesar supporting themselves on wooden railings while the monk analysed the two fighters, his pristine Cleric robes as still as his mind.
‘That boy has a lot of energy,’ said Andres, puffing.
Cesar left the steps and went to practice on a training dummy, starting lightly then hammering it with blow after blow, ripping off chips of wood. ‘Lysander, fight with me,’ he said. The monk did not want to at this time, thank you. ‘Andres, you are sweating like a mud-baked pig. Dry yourself off then fight with me.’ Not a chance. ‘Anna?’
‘Really?’
He nodded. ‘Maybe I will save myself a verbal beating later.’
Anna picked at her cuticles. ‘We both know that’s impossible. Anyway, I don’t fancy it, sorry.’
‘I do not understand this concept of “chicken” exactly, but I think you can explain it to me.’
Cesar started clucking.
‘You’ll get a mud bath in a minute.’
‘Booorkk bok bok booorrrk!’
‘Okay okay, anything to shut you up.’
Cesar playfully tapped Anna on the stomach with a short sword. In the past she had picked up a blade to defend herself, not out of choice. Whirling the thing around, she couldn’t see the attraction. He demonstrated defensive manoeuvres and she followed. She was not, at any time, distracted. There was not a moment where she considered his thick eyebrows. The squareness of his jaw. To claim such a thing
would be daft. Wait, he’s giving her the stink eye. Has he said something? Something she’s missed? Impossible.
‘Enough practice,’ she said, distracting herself. ‘You and me, right here, let’s go.’ Cesar would not agree to a duel. Not because she was a woman. She was not weak, just untrained, unprepared, skinny-armed, delicate. Eh? What had he said wrong?
‘Delicate?’
‘Oh no. Not this again. I did not say anything!’
Anna beat his blade away in a flash of metal, toffee hair whipping out behind her. She was circling him, trying to figure out how to strike a blow in their head to head.
‘Okay, you made your point. Let’s just—’
Primitive wildness in her eyes, Anna let loose a further strike aimed at a rather sacred area, which provoked a trademark Cesar wink and a second strike at said area that was barely deflected in time. Shocked, Cesar imbued his sword with strength, overwhelming Anna with successive hits, forcing her to the floor and positioning the blade tip over her throat.
‘Any last words, Miss Gray?’
‘Yes: you’re a plonker. Let me up.’
He pressed the tip deeper into her skin, barely shy of drawing blood.
‘Apologise.’
‘Stop it, you’re hurting her,’ said Tommy.
A memory of the Venecian bandit on top of her in Leitrim flared up, and a flurry of wind blasts pinned Cesar to the roof of the monastery training room, coming out of Anna’s hands in a pulsating channel of air, eliciting gasps and a somewhat gormless-looking expression from Tommy. Anna rose and swayed her hands, wiping the ceiling with Cesar.
‘Any last words, Mr Castila?’ she said with a grin.
‘Get me down from here!’
‘If you insist.’
Anna let the monastery calm percolate into her mind. ‘Shut out the aches of the world and let your mind lapse,’ said Lysander again. With the serenity of the place clearing out the clutter, she dismissed the channel of air, leaving Cesar to fall from the roof screaming with his two helpers rushing and darting to try to figure out where he was going to land, collapsing under his weight as he dropped onto their outstretched arms.
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