The tutor had continued, staring at them, his gaze severe and warning, to tell them how the scratch—for it could barely be called a cut at all, truly—had grown infected, to tell them how Benedict had sickened over time. When the infection was finally discovered, it was too late. The man’s last hours were spent raving and screaming until he was hoarse, his body wracked with spasms and unimaginable pains until, finally, mercifully, he died.
Cameron had a thought that the doubt lurking in the back of his mind was like that. A sliver, no more, but one that could infect. One that could kill. With these dark thoughts in his mind, he wandered the city aimlessly until, finally, he found himself standing in front of a tavern in the poor district, known as Cheapside to most of those in the city. He glanced up at the sign, faded and hanging askew. The Knight’s Inn, the sign was supposed to say—a nearly audacious claim in many ways, for there were no knights any longer, not since before the Fulmination and even had there been, he had an idea they wouldn’t frequent such a rundown tavern as this. Weather and time had faded the letters on the sign so that instead of its intended message, it read night’s In.
He paused, staring at that for several seconds, thinking that the sign’s message was perhaps not the one intended but more accurate in any case, for him, at least. Then he walked inside, deciding that the doubt that could not be reasoned with might yet be drowned.
The tavern was busy, filled with men and women in the short, calf-length trousers and sleeveless shirts of sailors and fishermen and a few others whose frayed and grimy clothes made it apparent that they had no profession at all. At least, no legal one. Cameron sat down at the bar beside one such as this—for there were no other spots open. The man, a gray-bearded, balding man of painful thinness looked up from where he’d been studying his half-empty mug of ale. He started to say hello then cut off, noticing Cameron’s eyes. The man picked up his mug, bearing the rotten stubs of his remaining teeth in a feral gesture that was too pitiful to be threatening then hurried away deeper into the common room.
Cameron rubbed at his temples where a headache was beginning to develop. “An ale, please.” He said. The tavern keeper—a pot-bellied man whose shirt was nearly as filthy as many of his patrons, glared at him. The tavern had grown terribly silent upon Cameron’s arrival—as was often the case—and so the tavernkeeper had no problem hearing Cameron despite the fact that he hadn’t raised his voice to little more than a whisper. Still, the man hesitated until Cameron reached into his purse and tossed a gold coin onto the counter. “Keep them coming.”
The coin landed with a loud clang and the tavern keeper’s eyes lit up in surprise. Such a coin would likely be as much as he made for running the tavern for a full day and night, perhaps two. He stood there for a moment, greed and hate of the coin’s giver warring visibly on his face then, finally, he grabbed the coin, snatched it as if Cameron meant to put a dagger into his questing fingers. Then he spat, looking at Cameron with nothing short of hate before turning and pouring the ale.
Cameron sighed, watching the man’s hands as he poured. As a Harvester, you learned early on to watch the preparation of that which you would take into your body; more than one of Cameron’s companions had died from a poisoned ale or piece of bread. Once the mug was in front of him, Cameron turned and surveyed the people in the room who all immediately started back with their conversations and whatever it was they’d been doing before he’d walked in. He’d meant to have a drink, maybe two, but he decided then that he was going to get good and drunk and damn the lot of them.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
By the time Cameron stumbled back to his house, the moon was far into the sky and the streets were empty of all but the most enterprising of thieves and prostitutes. He stumbled up the lane to his door, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other while and holding back the rising gorge in his stomach, brought on by far too much alcohol. These two things took nearly all of his attention, so he didn’t notice the lamp on in his study until he’d already closed the door behind him and hung up his swordbelt. You damned fool, he thought, snatching up his sword and knocking something—an umbrella, it appeared in the near dark—over in the process.
Blinking to clear his blurry vision, he eased his sword out of its scabbard, listening for any sound of intruders. The light could not belong to Brunhilda, not this late, for the Caretaker always went to bed early, claiming that a sensible person should rise and fall with the sun. Cameron felt a shiver of dread run up his spine, and he put his back against the door, ensuring himself it was closed and locked. It was not a common thing for Harvesters to be assassinated in their homes—almost without fail, such attempts took place while they were out and at their work—but it wasn’t unheard of either. And you, you fool, he scolded himself, so drunk that you can barely stand and so stupid that you don’t even notice a light where no light should be until you’re damned near touching it. And was it really any wonder that Marek wanted nothing to do with him? Was it?
Refusing to hesitate any longer—for all he knew there were two outside about to bust their way in, or one standing in the shadowed landing of the staircase—he rushed into the study.
He was raising the blade above his head when he glimpsed the figure in the room, took note of the familiar gray hair, the stooped shoulders, then, before he could react, something struck his leg, and he fell, the sword flying out of his grasp.
He grunted at the pain in his shin and realized he’d run into the study’s small reading table. “Ah. You’re drunk,” a dry voice said, and Cameron looked up to see High Priest Perdeus staring down at him with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes.
With that said, the priest turned to look at the mantel and the sword of Cameron’s father set upon it. “I am glad you’re back, lad, though I haven’t been here for so long, an hour no more. Still, I don’t much like being alone anymore—haven’t for a long time, in fact. Too many memories, I suppose, fighting to fill up the emptiness. Too many ghosts always waiting to break the silence.”
Cameron was drunk, very drunk in fact, but he thought that, even had he been sober, the High Priest’s words would have unsettled him. “Sir? Is everything alright?”
The older man shook his head slowly, not turning to look even as Cameron came to stand beside him. “No, son, no I don’t think it is. In fact, I’d say everything hasn’t been alright for a long time now.”
Cameron opened his mouth to comfort the High Priest but found that he had no comfort to give from his own dark thoughts, and so he remained silent.
“Tell me, Cameron, do you what the most amazing thing about the Astrians was?”
“Their metal craft,” Cameron replied immediately, “it’s said they forged the best blades ever made by the hands of men.”
The old man let out a sigh that was at once weary and frustrated, “So they did. But their true blessing was not their gift with metal—though I’ll confess it is that skill for which they are known. No, lad. The gift of the Astrians was not in their hands but in their words, for it is said that they never told a lie. Many scholars debate on it—in my mind, they love nothing more than a topic to argue on that can’t be proven one way or the other—but certainly the histories show that throughout time the Astrians told the truth, even when it wasn’t in their best interests to do so, even when it led to their deaths. What’s more, they were said to be impeccable judges of character. Perfect judges of character, in fact. It was commonly believed that within a single breath of meeting a man or woman, an Astrian knew their worth.”
Cameron frowned, thinking of his father—a known traitor—and the Astrian blade that even now sat on the mantle, but he let it pass. “High Priest, let me have Brunhilda fix you some tea. You don’t look well.” An understatement, that. Perdeus’s skin was a chalky pale, and deep dark circles lay under his eyes as if the man had not slept in days. Stranger even than the High Priest’s appearance, however, was his presence in Cameron’s house. Although there was no rule against it, he’d never
heard of a High Priest visiting a Harvester before.
Perdeus grunted, his eyes finally leaving the sword and roaming around the room as if he expected to find someone lurking in the shadows. “Never mind that,” he said in a hushed tone, “I sent your Caretaker away for a time.” He leaned forward, a desperation in his gaze, “I would not have her present for the things I’d tell you.” Lightning crashed outside, and the High Priest jumped, his gaze darting around the room before he swallowed hard, wiping a nervous hand across his forehead. “Divines help me,” he muttered, “Give me strength.”
“Sir,” Cameron asked, suddenly sure that the old man was going to fall down, faint, maybe. “Please, have a seat.” He gently grasped one of the man’s arms, meaning to lead him to a chair, but the High Priest shook it off.
“I will not be long and there is no time for that. Tell me,” the older man said, leaning forward and grabbing both of Cameron’s shoulders in a bony grip that was surprisingly strong, “what do you know of your father?”
The abrupt change of topic threw Cameron’s already ale-befuddled thoughts, “Sir?”
High Priest Perdeus grunted, “Smoke and sulfur it’s the Pit’s own luck that you’d pick this night of all nights to be drunk. Tell me, lad, and quickly for we haven’t much time. What do you know of him?”
Cameron felt the familiar stab of shame that thoughts of his father always invoked, “Only what everyone knows, High Priest. He was a Harvester, one of the best. Then he plotted to kill the King. He was a traitor. Sir.”
The High Priest nodded slowly, “So it is said. Yet, have you never wondered about him? Have you never wondered what type of man he was before his … betrayal?”
Only every day, with every breath, Cameron thought, and found that he was angry at the High Priest. Not just angry, furious. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have enough to concern him, now this man decided to show up and pick at the wound that would never heal. And had Marek asked Perdeus to come? That seemed the most likely, a way of feeling him out. “I am a loyal servant of the Church, High Priest,” he said, with more force than he’d intended, “as for my father, I do not concern myself about him overly much. I’m sure he had his reasons—all madmen do.”
The High Priest nodded, “Ah, so they do. Tell me, Harvester and be true. Do you trust in the Church? Do you trust them to always be honest with you, to tell you what is best?”
“Of course, sir.”
Perdeus leaned forward, grasping his arms once again, his eyes so intense that it was all Cameron could do not to look away, “Why?”
“Sir?” Cameron asked, recoiling at the man’s intensity.
The older man started to speak but paused at the sound of the front door opening, his eyes wide and terrified. “They’re here,” he croaked.
Soft footfalls echoed in the hallway and Cameron found himself raising his sword once more, the horror the High Priest felt communicating itself to his own racing heart. A dark figure stepped into the arched opening of the study, and Cameron took two quick steps, placing his blade at the figure’s throat. “The light, Priest,” he hissed and, in a moment, Perdeus stepped forward carrying the lantern and revealed Brunhilda, her eyes wide as she stared at the tip of the sword that was, even now, pressed against her throat.
She let out a squeak of fear, “Divines, master,” she said, her free hand going to her heart, “It’s only me, your Brunhilda.”
Cameron let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding and let the sword’s tip fall, “Pit be damned, Brunhilda, I’m sorry. You surprised us. We thought … Well,” he glanced back at the High Priest, a laugh cut off when he noticed that the man still looked terrified, “Anyway,” he said, shaking his head and turning back to his Caretaker, I’m not sure what we thought.”
He moved so that the High Priest could see, “It’s alright, sir. It’s Brunhilda, that’s all.”
Perdeus seemed to gather himself and finally nodded, “Of course,” he said, smiling a smile that Cameron thought held no humor in it, “how foolish of me.”
Brunhilda’s curtsy to the High Priest was that of a much younger woman, “Please forgive us, High Priest. As I said before, had I known about your visit, I would have done a better job at the cleaning. Also, my lord is of course wiser than to curse in front of a holy man such as yourself, but I ask only that you forgive him,” she said, glancing at Cameron with a look that conveyed both respect and disapproval, “he has had a trying few days, I’m afraid.”
“Ah,” Cameron said, realizing that he had cursed, “I ask for your forgiveness, High Priest.”
Perdeus’s gaze didn’t leave Brunhilda, but he waived a dismissive hand, “No apology necessary. If the Divines condemned a man for swearing, I suppose we’d all march to the pit together.”
“Perish the thought!” Brunhilda said, kissing her index finger and holding it to the sky in the gesture of worship normally used only in church, “but I thank you for the understanding you show my lord.”
Several moments of awkward silence passed then Brunhilda smacked herself in the head, “Ah, but I am a foolish old woman. I’d nearly forgotten the medicine you asked for, your Holiness.” She held out a bottle of amber liquid, and Cameron thought he detected a hesitation in Perdeus before the man took it.
“I thank you, madam,” he said, “sometimes, when the leg pains me, Yhangdhu sap seems the only remedy. Cameron is very … lucky to have you.”
Cameron was shocked to see the normally dour and disapproving Brunhilda beam at the compliment like a student given high marks by her tutor. “It’s my honor, I assure you, your worship. I’d be happy to fix you a tincture of—”
“No, no!” Perdeus blurted in an overly loud voice, then he took a deep breath, visibly composing himself. “That is to say that you’ve done quite enough already, my good woman. Besides, I really must be going. Like your master, I, too, have sleep to catch up on. Son,” he said, turning to Cameron, “walk me to the door, won’t you?”
“But, sir, you’re welcome to stay,” Cameron said, “our conversation—”
“Can wait for another time,” Perdeus interrupted in a forceful, somehow desperate voice. “Now come, I really must be going.” He bowed his head to Brunhilda, and Cameron noted that the High Priest’s hand trembled where it held his cane. “Ma’am, it was a pleasure.”
Brunhilda smiled, “I assure you, your Worship, the honor is mine.”
The High Priest adopted another wooden smile then headed for the door, Cameron following after. Once they were outside, Perdeus wiped his forehead with a shaking hand, “Ah, Cameron, I am sorry. I am a coward. Yet, for his sake, there is much that I would tell you. Nothing is—”
“My lord,” a voice said, and Cameron turned to see his Caretaker standing in the doorway. “You should get out of the cold, my lord. A storm’s coming. You’ll catch sick and the Divines know you need your rest.”
“Of course, Brunhilda,” Cameron said, fighting back the urge to snap at the woman that he was no child. After all, she was only trying to help. “I will come inside in a moment.”
She nodded and went back into the house, closing the door behind her. Then Cameron turned, “Sir, I’m sorry. What were you saying?”
Perdeus shook his head, “I … I cannot, Cameron. Not here,” he said, his voice a whisper that seemed to border on panic, “take this.” Before Cameron could reach out, the older man grabbed his hand and stuffed a note into it, then he leaned forward so that he spoke directly into Cameron’s ear, “There is much you need to know. I know you’ve questions. About the Harvesters, about your father. If you want the answers to those questions, follow the note. Do it tonight or not at all.”
A chill went through Cameron, one caused more at the High Priest’s manner than his actual words, “Forgive me, sir, what do you mean?”
Perdeus shook his head again, “Not here. Read the note.” He started hobbling away, leaving heavily on his cane, but he turned back after a few steps, “And Cameron?”
&nb
sp; “Yes sir?”
“When you read it, read it alone.”
With that, the older man turned and made his way down the street. Cameron waited until he could no longer hear the priest’s breathing, could no longer hear even the click clack of his cane on the street’s cobbled stones. Then, his head awhirl, he walked inside.
Brunhilda was in the study, rubbing at a spot of dirt on the mantel that—to Cameron’s eyes, at least—didn’t exist. She looked up as he entered, “Everything alright, my lord?”
“Everything is well, Brunhilda,” he said, only now realizing he still held his sword and, feeling more than a little silly, he sheathed it and placed it by the door once more. “I think I’m going to bed.”
“Of course,” the Caretaker said, “Still, it’s curious, isn’t it? The High Priest showing up like that.”
Cameron shrugged, “I suppose it is.”
“Surely, my lord will forgive an old lady her nosy ways but … do you know what drove him to visit you here so late at night?”
Cameron opened his mouth to speak then hesitated—When you read it, read it alone. The High Priest’s words seemed to ring in his head and, at the last moment, he changed what he was going to say. “The High Priest came to congratulate me on my latest mission and check on me—he must have heard Marek is angry with me.” The lie was out before he realized it, and he felt a stab of shame at being dishonest with the woman who’d cared for him since he was a child. “Goodnight, Brunhilda. Until tomorrow.”
“Of course, sir. Goodnight,” she said, looking after him as he went up the stairs to his room.
The note seemed to grow warmer in the side pocket of his tunic with each step he took and, as soon as the door to his room closed behind him, he withdrew it, recognizing Perdeus’s precise, stunted script immediately.
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