The Chosen (The Compendium of Raath, Book 1)

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The Chosen (The Compendium of Raath, Book 1) Page 12

by Michael Mood


  “That's me,” his brother said.

  “I know.”

  They moved over to a pair of plush leather chairs. Halimaldie had gotten the furniture from Caltas Bend, a village known for the most supple leather and the finest woodworking.

  Halimaldie opened a small wooden box and took out two cigars.

  Tellurian held up his hand. “I don't have a taste for that stuff, Hal. You know that.”

  Halimaldie shrugged. “Both for me then, I suppose.” He lit one and puffed on it into the silence.

  “Your fortune got you down again?” Tellurian asked.

  “Don't start in on me with that,” Halimaldie warned. “Not today. I got assholes and Kingsguardians both breathing down my neck. I need your insight.”

  “About assholes or Kingsguardians?”

  “You're an expert on both,” Halimaldie said. “But it's more about the Kingsguard. You work for the crown, so I want to know . . . I want to know about trusting them. I never have, you know.”

  “I do. Know, that is.”

  “So . . . can I? Trust them?”

  Tellurian shrugged. “There are good men and bad men everywhere, Hal. You know that as well as I do. The bad men muck it up for the good and the good muck it up for the bad. Just what in the hell have you gotten yourself into?”

  Halimaldie told him everything.

  Tellurian stood up at the end of Halimaldie's tale. “Seven hells, brother,” he said. “You were attacked by a Foglin and saved by a Kingsguardian? That's like something out of a story.”

  “So do you think I should cooperate with the crown on this?”

  Tellurian shook his head. “I'm not sure you have a choice. See, I would never have this problem.”

  “Oh no,” Halimaldie said, standing up to join his brother. “I don't want to hear this.”

  “But you need to. Give it up, Halimaldie. Leave it all behind.”

  “As you did?”

  “As I did. We talk like this every few months. It's always like this. You think that this time is unique, and it is, but only by the slightest of degrees. Come see what I do. Come see how you can escape all of this.”

  “You don't have problems? Your work at those underground hospitals doesn't cause you stress?”

  “First of all, the hospitals aren't underground,” said Tellurian. “Well, some of them are dug underground for extra room, but I know you're speaking metaphorically. They're mostly just underused and misunderstood. And secondly, it does cause me stress, but what you have to understand is that once I solve a problem it benefits someone else, not only myself. I work with a team, you work alone.”

  “Anyone else spoke to me that way, they'd be outta here in a few seconds.”

  “I've tiptoed for too long, Hal. Look at yourself. You're fat, unhealthy, your eyes look like you haven't been sleeping, your posture is awful, and you've always got whiskey on your breath.”

  “It's rum.”

  “Whatever it is, father drank the same stuff at one time or another.”

  “Don't bring father into this,” Halimaldie said, his neck hair bristling. “He taught me everything he knew.”

  “Then you'd be wise to filter that knowledge! There are better ways, Halimaldie. This world is killing you! I don't want to come upon you clutching your chest and gasping for breath. Work poisoned father and it's poisoning you!”

  “You don't know the half of it!” Halimaldie shouted. "Some break this is!" He threw down his cigar and began to pull the long glove off of his right hand, sliding it down his forearm with care.

  “The hell are you doing?” Tellurian asked. “You gonna challenge me to a duel?”

  Halimaldie held his bare hand up in front of his brother's face. The skin on his palm was black and festooned with sores. The malady spread out towards his fingertips and a little way up his arm.

  “Hal,” breathed Tellurian. “What is it?” He reached out his hand.

  “Don't touch it,” Halimaldie said, pulling back. “You daft idiot, it's some kind of disease. I got it from touching those tainted gemstones on the ship. Have you ever seen anything like it?”

  “No,” his brother replied. “The look of it makes me sick.”

  “Imagine the feel of it. It only hurts a little, but the damn thing pulsates with the beat of my heart.”

  “You need to come to the hospital,” Tellurian said.

  “Oh wouldn't that be poetic,” Halimaldie spat. “The hospital system – which you donated your share of the fortune to – is going to save poor – and I say that sarcastically – Halimaldie.”

  “It might be your only hope at this point. You know you're considering it or you wouldn't have showed me this.” Tellurian rolled his eyes. “Look. It's 'underground' enough that it won't cause a stir in the public eye and we've seen some intense things there. People who've run out of hope or get told to simply suffer by regular sawbones come there and find healing.”

  “I am a busy man,” Halimaldie said, somewhat sobered. “I will try to stop by when I can.”

  “Hal, you need to go immed-”

  “When I can,” he said firmly.

  “You know where to find me,” his brother said. “Fifth district. You don't need an appointment. Come any time. I'll see what I can do . . .”

  “And if I have to go away with the Kingsguard?”

  “Concentrate on now,” Tellurian suggested. “I don't know what kind of foul magic we're dealing with here, and I doubt you do either. We have a few Protectors in our service.”

  “Tree witches?”

  Tellurian cocked his eyebrow. “I'd prefer if you didn't refer to them like that when you come. Keep that thing covered up,” he said, indicating Halimaldie's hand. “I have to start my research on this right away. There are implications that . . .” Tellurian shook his head. “Nevermind that. And please, Hal. Think about what I said. If I mean anything to you, don't disregard my advice. About your money, I mean. You could live as I do. There is reward in it.”

  Halimaldie sighed, but said nothing more. He had talked all day it seemed, and so he merely shrugged his shoulders.

  As his brother exited the room, Halimaldie's clock ticked off even decands.

  He listened to it until he felt he would go mad.

  Chapter 11 – A Mouse in the Cellar

  -1-

  Wren couldn't be sure how long she had been in here, or even where 'here' was. A small cellar, that much was for certain. The glowing symbol on her arm was very dull at the moment, but it gave her enough light to see a little. Her eyes were bleary from crying and they burned horribly because of the dry air.

  She'd gone to the bathroom in a corner six times, so that was some way to measure time, however inaccurate.

  Right now she was simply lying on her side on the hard ground. It was freezing and she was still wearing the same shirt and pants she had been wearing at the carnival, but now they were stained and rumpled. She had thrown up on her shirt twice: once when she had briefly recovered consciousness on the wagon after the carnival, and once when she had awakened here.

  I'm in trouble, God. Where are you?

  The hours went by silently and she didn't try to cry out for help. The trapdoor above her was thick and it hadn't moved the slightest bit when she'd butted up against it. The lock was too strong for her. Something strong to keep the witch in.

  Wren stared at her glowing forearm. She knew it was magic. God's magic. She'd heard enough rumors from farmhands through the years to recognize magic when she saw it.

  “Just what's happened to me?” she asked the air in a scratchy voice. She started coughing then and it took a while to recover from that.

  Tears ran down her cheeks, taking with them some of the dust that covered her face. She hated herself for wasting her liquid this way, but there was nothing she could do about it.

  More hours passed. Wren faded in and out: from blackness to redness to blackness again. Sometimes she couldn't really tell if she was awake or asleep.

&nbs
p; She started having nightmares, gasping for breath when she woke from them.

  “Oh,” Wren sobbed finally. “If there's anyone out there. Anyone at all. God. I need . . . I am . . . in need.”

  She expected her words to be met with nothing but stillness.

  Instead, she heard the tiniest of rustlings.

  -2-

  Something furry brushed against her hands. Wren rolled weakly onto her stomach and then rolled onto her other side to try and see what had touched her. But whatever it was, it was gone.

  “Who are you?” Wren asked.

  Silence.

  Maybe I'm going crazy.

  Then she saw movement and heard someone talking right next to her.

  “I would suppose I am your savior," the voice said. "Although I don't know why I would help you. You nearly pulled me into pieces about five sun-turns ago. Mistress, I feel that you have a lot of anger for a human so young.”

  Wren tried to understand what was happening. The truth dangled on the edge of her mind, but she couldn’t bring herself to believe it. It's a mouse. I'm talking to a mouse. She felt its whiskers tickling her hand now. It's the mouse I tried to kill all those days ago.

  “You can talk,” Wren said.

  “I've always been able to talk,” the mouse said. “The fact is that you could not hear me, mistress. Oh, how I begged for you to spare me when you were pulling at my head.”

  “I'm . . . sorry about that. I stopped, didn't I?”

  “Just in time."

  “Do you know what's happening to me?” Wren asked. “Why I can hear you?”

  “A simple mouse such as myself only knows the root of the wheat. But there are those that may know more, and I will bring you to them, mistress.”

  “You will take me away from here?” Wren asked, her eyes watering.

  “I will do my best. Admittedly I am small, but everyone has their uses.”

  “Do you have a name?”

  “A name would not serve my kind well. So numerous are we that it would be impossible for our minds to remember everyone's name.”

  Wren nodded. She could see the little thing now, her eyes adjusting. “I will have to give you a name,” she said. “Are you a boy mouse or a girl mouse?”

  “Girl mouse.”

  “How about Tessa?”

  “It matters little to me. I will likely not be using it at all, mistress.”

  “Why do you keep calling me that? Mistress?”

  “It is the way animals address all humans, I am told. Master and mistress and the like. I will do your bidding if you like. You have dominion over me.”

  Wren found the strength to sit up. The little mouse was giving her hope. Her shoulder muscles screamed and cramped as she pushed up off the ground. She propped herself up, panting. Tessa climbed up Wren's shirt and sat on her chest, cleaning her paws. The mouse was just as Wren remembered her: gray, with an interesting white mark on her head.

  “You are the first human I have met that I can communicate with,” Tessa said. “It is refreshing. I suppose all animals know it's possible to communicate. Deep down in their being they know, mistress.”

  “My name is Wren, Tessa. You needn't call me mistress.”

  “Likely I will never use your name,” Tessa said. “It is not in my nature. Mistress.”

  “Alright,” Wren said. She sat up further, feeling returning to her body. Tessa scrambled up to her shoulder.

  “I would assume that you would want to get out of here,” the mouse said.

  “Yes,” Wren said.

  “You cannot squeeze through the cracks as I do. We will have to find another way.”

  “That trapdoor is the only way out for me, I think,” Wren said. She picked Tessa up and set her gently on the ground, then stood up on weak legs.

  “Seems like odd human behavior,” Tessa said, peering at the trap door. “To lock things, I mean.”

  Wren only shook her head, unable to voice anything more on the subject. She felt insane, but knew that what was happening was real. This was no dream she would wake from.

  “We will likely need more help,” Tessa said. “Can you bear to be alone again for a while longer, mistress?”

  Wren eyed the tiny mouse. “Please don't leave me,” she said.

  “I must, mistress. You Called to me, but I was close. You seem new to your powers so I doubt you could Call much farther. I will return to you.” And with that, Tessa scooted up to the trapdoor and squeezed through the tiniest of cracks in the wood.

  Wren was alone again. To stop her mind from worrying she glanced down at her forearm.

  The symbol was of glowing red vines with beautiful golden leaves. The lights were just under her skin. She rubbed her other hand on the design. It felt only slightly warmer than the rest of her skin.

  “Red and gold,” Wren said.

  She had no idea what magic was at play here or what this marking meant. Perhaps I'll be able to find out. Maybe my father would know . . . With any luck I'll never see him again.

  Wren began to feel a bit claustrophobic waiting for Tessa to return. The walls closed in on her again and her stomach churned from hunger. She took a hand at cleaning herself off, but it didn't do much good. She was filthy. What had the mouse said? That Wren had tried pulling Tessa apart five days ago? It had been two days before the carnival when she'd tried that. The carnival took a day, two, three to get back . . . I've been down here for three days.

  She began to pound her fists lightly on the floor to release some of her anger. They made a dull thud, but then they began to make huge pounding sounds that shook the room. She stopped, but the loud thuds continued. It hadn't been her, it was coming from the trapdoor above her.

  Thaboom.

  Thaboom.

  The whole door shuddered and bits of dust shook off of it every time a thud fell. Something massive was breaking through. Wren scuttled away from the door and waited, heart beating fast in her chest. What had Tessa brought back with her?

  Wood began to splinter off the trapdoor now, falling down to rattle on the floor. The thuds fell faster and harder, gaining intensity and becoming incredibly loud. The metal hinges of the door twisted and creaked and finally the door fell inward with a crash.

  Tess jumped into the cellar and skittered over to her.

  “Come, mistress,” the mouse said. "Up through the large hole."

  Just then a large muzzle poked through the hole followed by a huge, round fluffy head. Two beady eyes stared quizzically down into the root cellar. A halo of daylight surrounded the thing's head.

  “Tessa, you brought a bear,” Wren said weakly.

  “And didn't he do a fine job?” the mouse said proudly. “Pick me up. The bear will escort us to the Dryad Tree. Is that alright, mistress?”

  “Anywhere but here,” Wren said. “Absolutely anywhere.”

  The bear withdrew its head and Wren carried Tessa up and out of the cellar on shaky legs.

  The cellar had been - to Wren's surprise - in her own house.

  Her father's heavy dresser was tipped over. Maybe the trapdoor wasn't locked, maybe the dresser was covering it up. Was I . . . hidden? She had never looked under that dresser, and so had never been aware of this trapdoor. Or did he put me down there to die so no one would know I'm a freak? A witch.

  The bear had crashed through the window to get into the house and shards of glass were strewn about the floor. Wren had to step carefully. There was no sign of her father. It was daytime so he should have been around. Even if he was sleeping he couldn't have slept through what had just happened. And, sadly, she didn't see his corpse anywhere.

  Wren opened the door and stepped outside with the bear right behind her. It had a hulking presence that terrified her, but she had no choice but to trust it.

  “Why won't he talk to me the way you do?” Wren asked Tessa.

  The mouse shook her tiny head. “That is not something I know. Perhaps your Calling is not great enough to pierce his mind. Or – and don't te
ll him I said this – perhaps he is too stupid. I am but a mouse. My life is grain and bugs. We will try to find answers to your questions when we reach the Dryad Tree, mistress.”

  The bear laid down on the ground in front of her and looked up at her expectantly.

  “Am I . . . am I supposed to ride him?”

  “He seems to think so,” Tessa said. “Although I myself am not too keen on the idea.”

  Wren picked Tessa up and carefully put the mouse in her shirt pocket. “It'll be faster,” Wren said. She climbed onto the bear's back and grabbed two handfuls of his shaggy brown fur. “Giddyup?” she said.

  The bear made a sound almost like a laugh and then took off at a fast pace, Wren bobbing up and down on his back.

  -3-

  The water in the forest stream was freezing, but Wren didn't care. She guzzled it until she felt sick and then splashed it all over her body, rubbing vigorously at her skin. She dunked her head under and came up gasping. The moonlight shone down and bathed everything in a silvery light which was only interrupted by Wren's glowing red and gold mark. She scrubbed at that hardest of all, but it wouldn't come off no matter what she did.

  “Mistress, are you almost done?” Tessa asked. She was sitting on a small rock on the river bank, cleaning herself with neat, efficient little motions. “We really should keep riding the bear if you can.”

  Wren sighed. What have I gotten myself into? Every part of her body ached from riding on the bear and she was already so weak. “I need to walk, Tessa,” she replied, ducking behind a tree to retrieve her clothes from the branch she had hung them on. She was frantically pulling her shirt over her head when Tessa spoke again.

  “You cannot wear those filthy things, mistress.”

  “Well I don't have any other clothes, Tessa.”

  “I took care of that when I found the bear. You need an outfit befitting a queen!”

  “What do you know of queens?”

  “Termites have them,” the mouse replied. “Bees have them. Humans have them. Please just follow me.” The mouse nodded her tiny head towards the trees.

 

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