The Blighted City (The Fractured Tapestry)

by Scott Kaelen

  CHAPTER FORTY ONE

  THE SYMMETRY OF DISTANCE

  The evening wore on and the drink flowed as the three serving girls glided from table to kitchen to bar and back again. No cups tonight but tankards, brought out for the special occasion, not that Oriken could see much special about it at all. He sat with his back to the wall, barely listening to the babble of conversation around him while his ale-fuelled brain wandered from moment to detached moment back in the furthest reaches of the Deadlands…

  “Is life without purpose a life at all?” Gorven had mused. “Or is it merely an existence?”

  He recalled Krea’s face as she glistened in the steam, her blue eyes shining with experience and vitality. “I’ll forgive your ignorance,” she’d told him sternly, “and your bull-headed disinclination to open yourself to reason.” Laughing silently to himself, he stared into his ale as her parting words whispered in his ear. “Well then, my outlander. If you ever decide to return, don’t leave it too long.”

  And then there was Sabrian, taking a long pull on the tobah. “Immortality comes at a hefty price,” he’d told Oriken. “If I could trade my existence for yours, I might be sorely tempted to do so. And, with my few remaining decades, I would head out into Verragos and fill my life with meaning.”

  Oriken’s mind drifted forwards to the night when the proverbial black clouds twinkled briefly with a silver lining, as Jalis had placed her hand on his chest and whispered, “I can feel your heart beating,” and he’d paused as their bodies touched, her face a perfect vision in the moonlight. “You do this, and you do it now.”

  As he glanced to the next table, where Jalis sat beside Alari, nodding and listening to the seasoned freeblade’s chatter, Dagra’s voice came to him with sudden clarity: “Are we tail-tuckers or are we freeblades?”

  “We’re freeblades,” Oriken said.

  “Aye, that we are.”

  Oriken flicked his eyes to Henwyn.

  The bowman raised a tankard to his lips and took a drink, then winced and glanced at his forearm. “Third glass of the strongest wine in the house, and the wound’s still smarting.” He looked at Oriken. “Copper for your thoughts?”

  Oriken rested his head against the wall. “Just contemplating my place in the world.”

  Henwyn nodded. “As do we all, from time to time. Especially in moments like this.”

  Young Kirran was watching them from across the table. “Gods, man,” he said to Oriken. “No offence, but you look like you stepped back in time to fight in the Uprising. Are you sure the Deadlands were as empty as they’re meant to be?”

  Oriken glanced down at his calloused, scabbed hands and visualised the numerous cuts and bruises his body had sustained over the last weeks from cravants, corpses, Mallak, the peasants, even the little critter that had tried to liquidise his innards as he slept. The wounds were all on the mend. The swelling around his eye had disappeared and the purple bruise was fading fast. They were all remnants, soon to be ghosts, though some would become permanent scars.

  “There were a few monsters down in the sticks,” he admitted to Kirran, with a nonchalant shrug. “But show me a place where there are no monsters, and I’ll show you a place where there are no men.”

  The serving girl, Diela, glided across from the bar, an empty wooden tray in her hands. “Who’s for a refill?”

  Oriken drained the last of his ale. He summoned a weak smile as he passed her his tankard. As Diela wandered away, he took the case of tobah from his pocket and said to Henwyn, “Next drink’s my last.” He took a candle from the table and crossed to the saloon doors, stepped out into the night and set the candle into an empty sconce. He lit a roll of tobah and slowly exhaled a spume of smoke, watching it cascade over the flickering candle to dissipate into the darkness. As he eased himself onto the bench, an errant breeze caressed his face and guttered the flame. Taking another pull on the tobah, he slouched forward with his elbows on his knees and filtered out the chatter that drifted from the common room.

  His reverie was stirred by the crunch of dirt under heels and the swish-swish of the saloon doors. Glancing across, he saw Luthan pause to straighten his shirt and vest. The chef inclined his head in greeting and the candlelight pitched his eyes into shadow before setting reflections into his pale irises.

  “First time I’ve seen you out of your whites,” Oriken said.

  “It is a rarity,” Luthan admitted with a smile. He paused a moment, then said, “You know, it wasn’t easy for me to leave my home when Maros offered me the job of head chef here. As much as I loved my life in Aster and the surrounding dales, I had little to keep me there; no wife, no children, no regrets. The one thing that tugged at me, that tried to keep me there, was the land itself – the northern mountains, the golden-white sands, the magnificent dawn that sets the sea ablaze. These are the ties that bind us to one place or another. I’d be lying if I said I don’t miss Asterdale; I do, but I’m glad I accepted Maros’s offer to join him in the Peddler, and I’m glad to have met so many I can proudly name as friends. Dagra was one. You are, too.”

  Oriken rose from the bench. “I appreciate that. And I know what you’re telling me.”

  “The pain will fade. The memories, too, but the most important of them will stay forever. That’s the nature of pivotal moments in a person’s life. It’s all about the road we travel”—he tapped his fingers to his chest—“in here.”

  Oriken nodded and offered his hand to the chef. “Thank you, Luthan. And thank you for joining us tonight. It means a lot to me.”

  Luthan’s hand clenched Oriken’s, and his eyes shimmered with empathy. “It was an honour.” He released Oriken’s grip and walked away, the crunch of his footfalls fading into the night.

  Oriken ran a hand through his hair, then took a final, long suck on the roll of tobah before stubbing it out and dropping it into a keg beside the bench.

  I miss you, Dag, he thought. I know I always will. But I damn well miss my hat, too.

  He returned to the common room and mingled with the remaining freeblades for the duration of his final drink, exchanging pleasantries, weathering condolences, and side-stepping questions. Draining the last mouthful of his ale, he set the tankard down and wandered over to stand behind Jalis. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he leaned down, his face close to hers. “I’ve had about as much as I can take for the night,” he told her quietly. “I’m heading upstairs.”

  She half-turned, her lips close to his. Before she could answer, Alari leaned across with a conspiratorial wink. “I love you, girl,” the veteran said. “You know that. But now you’re hanging your blades up, I’m reckoning Oriken might be in sore need of some company.” She smiled slyly up at him. “For the contracts, of course. What say you, feller?”

  “Maybe, Alari,” he said with a tired smile. “Maybe.”

  His hands slipped from Jalis’s shoulders and he bid a hasty farewell. Striding to the stairs, he swayed and grasped the bannister to steady himself, glancing back to see Jalis looking at him. He held her gaze for a moment, then climbed the stairs and wandered along the corridor to step into his darkened room.

  With the moon of Haleth hidden behind the clouds, only vague outlines guided his way as he crossed to stand beside the bed. He removed his boots and socks and tossed them into the corner where Dagra’s gladius leaned alongside the blade Ammenfar. He stripped to his skin and slowly stretched his tired muscles. As he finished and sat upon the bed, he noticed Jalis stood poised within the open doorway, her curves cast in silhouette by the muted glow of the corridor.

  “I didn’t hear you,” he said.

  “I didn’t want you to.” She stepped into the room and closed the door. Kicking one shoe off, then the next, she released the bow of her chemise and drew it over her head, dropped the thin material to the boards without a sound. Then she pushed her leggings down and slipped them over her feet.

  Oriken traced the shadows of her body as she glided across to stand before him and rest her
warm hands on his shoulders. Gently, she forced him down until his back rested upon the sheets. The clouds broke and twin crescents shone in Jalis’s eyes as her lips curled into the lopsided smile he’d seen so little of since they entered that far-away graveyard.

  The memories will fade, he thought as he rose to kiss her. But the most important ones will stay. Forever.

  In the hour before sun-up, the forest of Eihazwood was all streaks and swathes of black and grey as Ral glanced over his shoulder to the glow of lanterns from his cottage’s rear window. Dropping the pack containing his mother’s entire worth to the needle-strewn ground, he turned to regard the open grave before him.

  He drew in a breath, eager to get the task over with but scarcely possessing the nerve to do so. “Hello, Mother,” he sighed.

  The headstone looked unimpressed, and the lid of the deeply-shadowed casket three feet below uttered no response. He gave a start as leaves shuffled nearby, and glanced along the ground to frown at a tiny rodent as it scuttled onto the second grave, paused, sniffed the air, then scurried behind the moss-strewn headstone. A fresh squirt of birdshit adorned the grave marker’s front, partially concealing the name Daneira and the date 641 below.

  “And hello, Grandmother,” he said tiredly. He’d never met the woman, and all he knew of her was through his mother’s oft-spoken fondness of her, showing that she cared more about the dead than the living. With a derisive sniff, he turned his attention back to the casket where his mother’s body lay, weeks past fresh. The knowledge alone was almost enough to make him lose his nerve, not to mention the contents of his stomach, but he fought against them both.

  “Some people think I never loved or respected you,” he muttered. “I did. All I wanted was to provide security for my family, and for you to be at rest in the proper, gods-given way – not like this.”

  An acrid taste rose in his throat and he coughed; swallowing it down, he sank to his knees and rummaged into the backpack for the jewel. “You don’t know how tempted I am to take you to the jewellers in Brancosi, or to the bank,” he told it, shaking his head. “You could net me some serious dari. But then what?” Spitting upon the ground, he dropped to his belly and reached for the casket lid. As he eased it open, the stench of decay blasted into his face. His stomach heaved and he retched, raised the lid higher and tossed the jewel inside. It landed with a soft, wet thunk.

  “Oh… Gods above and below…” He scrambled to the side and vomited loudly, while high above in the boughs of a maple, a nightingale trilled a liquid song as if cheering his display.

  Rising to his feet, he regarded the pile of regurgitated food. “The job is done,” he gasped, wiping a sleeve across his mouth. “Your final wish is granted. I hope you’re happy.” Snatching up a shovel, he plunged it into a soft mound of soil and glared down at the casket.

  “Rest in peace, Mother, and may the Dyad guide your soul.” He slung the dirt into the hole and watched it scatter across the lid. With a snort, he muttered, “Not fucking likely, in either case.”

  Oriken awoke alone, tired and tangled in the bedsheets. He cracked his eyes open and glanced through the window; the deep red of dawn hung behind the town’s roofs and the forest beyond, painting the buildings in the deepest crimson. Kicking the sheets away, he sat up and ruffled his hands through his hair. With a groan, he slung himself from the bed and wrapped a towel around his waist, padded from the room and made his way down to the yard. After using the outhouse, he crossed to the washroom to brush his teeth, scrape the journey’s growth from his face, and scrub himself down in the cool water left in the tub from the previous day. Drying himself off, he wandered back through the silent tavern and returned to his room.

  From the wardrobe he took Gorven’s freshly-washed breeches and pulled them on, followed by a tan drawstring shirt and his less-worn, hard-leather boots. As he fastened the straps, his gaze landed on a folded square of black material upon the dresser. Smiling to himself, he reached over and took the cloth, flicked it open and wrapped it around the top of the breeches; as he stood, the embroidered crossed-blades dropped to gather neatly at his thigh. The two gladiuses were still attached to his swordbelt as he clasped it around his hips; settling them into place, he selected his best coat of soft brown leather and pulled it on, the hem hanging just below the jewelled crossguard of Ammenfar.

  He paused as the fringes of a memory rose from nowhere, his mood brightening as he reached his hand to the back of an otherwise empty shelf. His fingers found the object he’d stuffed there and forgotten about, an item acquired from a bandit leader during the golden days when he, Dagra, Jalis and Maros were an inseparable team. With a chuckle, he grasped the crown of the cow-hide hat and placed it on his head, pinched the lightly-curved brim and twisted it just-so.

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” he said with a grin.

  He turned to face the mirror, and nodded in approval. Everything had changed, and it was time to go it alone, whether he liked it or not. The long journey to Eyndal would give him enough time to sort through the tumult of emotions and questions he had about himself and his future. “Perhaps a spell of solitude will do me some good,” he muttered to his reflection.

  He gathered all the essentials he would need for the road, plus a few extras, and stashed them all into two packs. With a last, wistful glance around the room, he stepped out, locked the door and palmed the key. He walked quietly along to Maros’s door and gave it a gentle knock. Within moments, Maros opened the door and peered out.

  “You’re up early,” Maros said, eyeing Oriken’s attire. “Going somewhere?”

  “Yeah, I’m going somewhere,” Oriken said, beginning to feel the weight of his decision. He passed the key to Maros. “Can you keep this in the safe for me?”

  “What’s going on, lad?” Maros poked his head around the door and glanced along the corridor.

  “Dagra’s family needs to know,” Oriken said. “It’s not just his grandparents, but his uncle and aunt, nieces and nephews, too. It’s only right, and shouldn’t be delayed. They have to hear it from me, not a nameless guild messenger.”

  Maros nodded. “You’ll be wanting his savings then.”

  “And his wooden idols of the Dyad, if you’d get them from his room for me. I think Gafrid and Ilhdra would appreciate something to remember him by. It’s scant comfort, but it’s better than nothing.”

  Maros regarded him for a long moment, then said, “Give me a few minutes, lad.”

  “I’ll be downstairs.”

  He made his way to the common room and climbed onto a barstool, rested an elbow on the counter and planted his freshly-shaved chin on his knuckled fist. A feeling of melancholy drifted over him, but with it came a sense of acceptance amid the hollowness that had dominated his heart since Dagra’s death. His hand strayed to the pommel of Ammenfar, touching the oval of thunderglass, and he smiled to himself as he remembered the similarly-sized oval of bloodstone that was still within the side pocket of one of the packs.

  I’ll pay a visit to a smithy on the way to the Downs, he promised himself, then closed his thoughts and waited.

  After a few minutes, Maros came creaking and grunting down the stairs, a sheen of sweat on his brow as he reached the bottom. He limped across to the bar and held his hand out to Oriken. Two small figurines nestled in his large palm, one of Aveia, one of Svey’Drommelach. “Here you go, lad,” he said.

  Oriken took the idols and stashed them inside a pack while Maros limped down to his office. When he returned, he dropped a heavy money pouch onto the counter. “One hundred and fifty silver dari pieces. Plus another thirty three which Dagra saved up.” He fished in his pocket and took out three silvers, dropping them into Oriken’s palm. “Figured you’ll want to keep a little at close hand for the road. You sure you don’t want any of your own coins?”

  Oriken shook his head as he pushed the pouch deep within a backpack. “If I need any, I’ll fill out a chit with the nearest branch.”

  “You might wan
t to buy yourself a mule,” Maros suggested. “Sure you could find a scrawny one for a few silvers. It’s a long road, and a little company’s better than none.”

  “I might just do that.”

  “Does Jalis know you’re leaving already?”

  Oriken sighed. “No. I didn’t want to wake her. Besides, she’s likely got her hands full with Dee.”

  Maros eyed him carefully. “I’m no fool, lad. Don’t think I can’t see the change that’s come between the two of you. I care for you, Oriken, like a brother and a son all combined. But I love Jalis as much as you loved Dagra. Don’t hurt her.”

  Oriken pressed his lips together. “It’s been a trying time for all of us – including you, I know. I don’t think Jalis or I know yet where we’re going. We both need time to figure things out. I’d never hurt her, and I hope you know that. I hope she knows it, too.”

  Maros clasped his hands to Oriken’s shoulders. “You do what you need to. See you in a couple of months?”

  “Possibly.” He pulled his eyes from Maros’s scrutiny and glanced to the saloon doors, to the brightening sky beyond. “Possibly.”

  As the first light of Banael burst over the woodland, Jalis stood at her window and looked down to the streets, watching as Oriken made his way through the town.

  Goodbye, Orik. She allowed a tear to fall unchecked to her nightshirt. I wish I could send you a thought as easily as they do down in Lachyla.

  Behind her, Demelza stirred in the bed they’d shared. The girl yawned and glanced over.

  “Good morning,” Jalis said, hiding her sadness with a smile. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Better’n I ‘ave in ages. It’s nice to, er…” Demelza’s brow furrowed as she searched for the right word.

  “Snuggle?” Jalis stepped over and perched on the bed.

  Demelza looked unsure.

  Jalis laughed softly. “Yes, it is nice.”