“And I do,” Aspen added. “I know the way to the Monastery well. It’s the only other place of interest in this empty tundra––I used to visit quite often, before this vicious creaking in my joints settled in.” He chuckled and poured himself another cup of tea.
“You’ve met them, then––the monks,” July said.
“Like I said, it’s been a long time. But yes, when I was there, I was a good friend of the Head of Acolytes, Gallant. He was sour at times, and terribly meticulous, but dear to me nonetheless.”
“And Calcifer?”
He paused. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time. Yes, I knew Calcifer; I knew him well. Whether he still resides at the Monastery, I am unsure. He is––was, perhaps––their resident alchemist. They possessed a rather formidable cabinet of herbs and wares––it’s said he could concoct medicines of incredible delicacy with them. And, of course, the centrifuge.”
Mel perked up. “Calcifer uses a centrifuge?” July stared at them both, making her lack of understanding obvious. “A centrifuge is a set of rotating chambers that separate liquid from solid; solution from solute. It’s an invaluable tool, but also quite difficult to puzzle out.”
“Calcifer was a master of the centrifuge; he even had his own design,” Aspen explained. “It positioned an array of light collapsing lenses, and––well, it’s rather technical, but I assure you, a marvel to behold.” He placed the teacup delicately on a shelf. “We should fix something to eat, no? The only thing heartier than hot tea is a hot meal!”
Aspen showed them to a small room in the back of the library, where he put to use the ancient glass garden as he described it. It was a tall chamber with many thick glass panes suspended from the ceiling, stacked on top of each other and coated in a greenish solution. The floor was taken up by a wide variety of plants in porcelain pots and trenches, many of which bore fruits and vegetables. Her stomach rattled like an angry prisoner against his bars. She and Aspen began to move handfuls of the vegetables back to the lantern-kettle, in which he revealed a spot for a pan inside its body, hidden behind a hinging panel––she supposed that made it a lantern-kettle-stove. After outlining the path back to the fire quite clearly, they left Mel to inspect the glass garden.
As it turned out, Aspen was also a skilled cook, doling the vegetables out in liberal amounts and accenting them with handfuls of spices, which he let July sample before throwing into the pan. The result of their labor was a piquant stir fry of grilled vegetables and rice.
“Rice is in short supply, but this is a special occasion,” He added secretively, heaping an overfull serving into a porcelain bowl, which matched his teacups. She wondered if it was the only set he had––but the thought didn’t last long after tasting the food. At his insistence, she had two bowls, and a healthy amount of tea. Mel, on the other hand, excused herself with her bowl to the glass garden, where she was taking notes in a small leather journal. Aspen made sure her serving was large enough for two.
Then it was only Aspen and July, comfortably dozing in the warm glow of the lantern. He was right about two things; it did seem like a special occasion, and good hearts with which to share tea were in short supply. July felt fully at ease, sinking into the soft pile of curtains at her side. Sleep touched the edges of her vision. Aspen, on the other hand, sat cross-legged in front of the lantern, calm but alert.
“I’m glad you are finding some comfort here,” He said, unprompted. She didn’t know how exactly to respond, but he saved her the trouble and kept speaking. “You seem the very highest of spirits now; especially in contrast with the pale, worried expression that stalked into the room a few hours ago.”
“I was suspicious,” She admitted. Her voice sounded slurred, equal parts tea and sleep addling her speech. “We’ve been lured in by some pleasant folk before, and they turned out… well…”
“Unsavory?”
“Yes, that.” She smiled. “But you seem okay.”
He nodded with a smile of his own––not the open, jolly smile of a few hours prior, but a gentler, more thoughtful one. “I’m glad of that too. But I think there’s something else weighing down on you, little rabbit.” She turned onto her back, looking at Aspen more fully. “Is there?”
July thought for a moment, running over their entire visit up to now. “Well, you called me ‘sir’ when I came in, and I didn’t correct you. So I guess that’s a lie?”
“You guess.”
“Well, I don’t know if not correcting someone constitutes as lying,” She reasoned.
“So you are a woman, then,” He said, watching from behind the lip of his cup.
“Yes,” She said, although it made her gut protest. Aspen seemed to know this, as a slight smirked his lips as he put the cup back in its saucer. There was a moment of silent eye contact, and July felt an overwhelming sensation of transparency; as if her feelings were written all over her face, and all he had to do to know her deepest anxieties was read them in plain. She conceded, feeling blush creep into her cheeks. “I don’t know. Maybe?”
Aspen startled her by laughing, a deep sound from his sizeable gut. “You are a tricky one, July. You are obviously grappling with something, but you refuse to surrender to it, even when losing means winning. Perhaps you’re more Aslatan than Amoran.” She said nothing, only drinking from her tea. “I knew a man like you once, many years ago. I grew up with him. Perhaps that’s not the most accurate statement, but I value his feelings more than something as meticulous as names and titles. He was born into all the wrong things––a bosom and child-rearing hips, namely. All through his service in the military he bound himself up so tight in bandages that he could hardly move––and I might add, it caused him some breathing troubles later in life. But it was the only way he was happy. Do you see?”
Slowly, as if walking along the razor-sharp line between a thought and an action, she nodded. Julius, her heart whispered. “I do. What happened to him?”
“Are you familiar with barrenclove petals?” He asked. She shook her head. “They’re a nasty little imp, found mostly in squishy, dark climates, not unlike fungi. They were once quite common in some short-term sedatives, until a clever physician named Gaol pieced together a number of incidents involving pregnant women and stillbirths. After that, they got a nasty nickname; ‘devil’s midwife’.”
“It kills babies before they’re born?” She asked, alarmed at the turn the conversation had taken.
Aspen saw this and hastily explained. “Nearly. Gaol looked to nearby towns and interviewed the women there. Many of them experienced difficulty becoming pregnant at all. He theorized that barrenclove was causing infertility, and recommended they start using dancing fieldcress instead. Within a couple of years, the towns were repopulating as usual.”
July began to piece things together. “So your friend used barrenclove to make himself infertile?”
“One better,” He smiled. “He worked with an alchemist–one of Calcifer’s teachers, as fate would have it––to mix a solution that repressed some of his more… feminine features. That solution is called a ‘foxtail draught’. For use in rare cases, like yourself.” Her eyes glanced down at her teacup, where the watercolor fox pranced. She wondered if Aspen had anticipated this conversation, or if that was circumstance teasing her again. She felt excitement begin to well up, burning her anxiety like fuel.
“Do you think Calcifer would know how to make it?” She asked, sitting up. “Or at least know someone who knows?”
“I am certain of it!” He declared, letting out a merry gale of laughter. As he settled back down, a thought seemed to occur to him, and he reached into the front of his shirt, producing the end of a necklace on a leather cord. It was a key, old and detailed with excessive care. Its bronze surface glinted in the lantern’s dimming light. “This key belongs to Calcifer. If he is there, he will recognize it, and know I sent you. I intended to bring it to him myself one day, but… the time feels right. Take it, and tell him about the foxtail draught.
I’m sure it’s in his old notes somewhere.” He lifted the cord gently around his head, and held it out. She stood up and took it, as if handling a piece of ancient glass, and placed it around her own neck, letting it fall into the front of her shirt comfortably.
Suddenly, she lurched forward and hugged him, barely noticing the sharp stab in her leg. He seemed surprised, but let his arms rest around her back. There was a lot of him to hug, which was somehow very comforting.
“You know, I’ve never met my grandfather,” She said into his shoulder. She felt a rumble of laughter well up in his stomach.
“Well, I never had a grandson,” He replied, “but now I know what I missed, I think.”
“Julius,” July said.
“Julius,” Aspen confirmed.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
When he awoke the next morning, Julius saw Aspen and Mel sitting at a short wooden table, discussing intently over an aged piece of paper he assumed was a map. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and looking for a window––in this chasm of a room, it was difficult to tell what time it was. He could see thin slats of light pushing their way through the boarded windows near the ceiling, so it was probably late morning. He realized he was being watched; he looked back to the table.
“Look who finally decided to wake up,” Mel jibed, sporting a curt smile.
“Oh, don’t tease. If he wants to sleep in, let him,” Aspen said. “It’s not as if you will get this opportunity often.”
Julius yawned and stood, gliding over to the table. “Yeah, what he said.” He noted the teacups from the night before had not disappeared, but the tea inside them was much lighter in color, and smelled like flowers. Hangover cure, he mused, giving the map a cursory glance.
“Northeast,” Mel said, “then follow the creek to Lake Shina. The trees will begin to thin. Look for cobblestone paths, and listen for barking.”
“Barking?”
“Yes, the monks of Saint Shina raise dogs. They say the companionship helps ease the loss of their connection with the world outside.” Mel spoke in tones of reverence, despite her claim that she was not religious.
He thought back to the night before by the rabbit snare, and felt a rush of recognition. “Medium-sized dogs? Black fur?”
“Yes,” Aspen confirmed. “How do you know so?”
“I saw one last night, in the woods.” He leaned against the table. “He was starving. I cut open a frozen deer carcass and let him eat. He seemed nice enough, now that I think about it.”
“Could have been domestic,” Aspen said, looking troubled. “But why a dog of the Monastery would run away, I don’t know. They were treated quite well, to my knowledge.”
“Could’ve been wild, too,” Mel countered. “She didn’t––sorry, he didn’t see a collar. Did you?” Julius shook his head.
Aspen sighed and put on a nonchalant expression. It was forced, a curtain over a curiously deep sadness, but comforting nonetheless. Julius sat down as he filled a third empty teacup. “One of life’s great mysteries, I suppose.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
MORGAN’S GAME. THE REVISED CONTRACT.
It was time to set the game in motion.
Morgan knew this in the same way he knew how to push Bolton’s buttons––a lot of experience and a little intuition. They had passed Saul almost a week prior, making breakneck speed now that Morgan wasn’t stopping and changing direction every hour or two, leading them in serpentine figures and spirals. They stopped briefly in a nearby village, Delwin, where Bolton spent almost an entire day holed up in the local pub, thawing his bones by the fire. Morgan, on the other hand, was making preparations; talking to locals, sending correspondence, and hiding the payment he had already received from Bolton and the pampered prince. Then they were off again, bound for the Monastery.
The first piece of business was simple happenstance. As they neared Delwin, they followed a thin but violent creek, entrenched in the snow by the sheer force of its movement. Morgan kept his eyes on the bank until it was almost level with the water.
“We should cross here,” He said.
“What? Why cross at all?” Bolton countered. “There might be a bridge ahead.”
“You’re right, but Saul is travelling on the other side of the creek. If their tracks veer off into the woods, we’ll have to backtrack all the way here in order to cross again. Or, we can cross here.” He nodded to the river. “I’m going to jump. You do what you want.” He heard the captain sigh, as he had taken a habit of doing in response to Morgan’s ideas.
Morgan took a running start, and in a single bound crossed the moving water. The benefits of being slender, he thought. Then he turned back to watch Bolton, who opted instead to ford the river in wide, sloshing steps.
As Morgan predicted, the moment his legs were submerged, the torrent took his weight out from under him, plunging him into the icy deluge. He struggled to the edge and rolled into the snow as Morgan watched, amused. He was lucky this worked out the first time; he had been prepared the ford the river at least twice more to get this result.
“If I get a cold because of this, it’s on your head,” Bolton barked. Morgan only nodded absently, turning back to the woods, where a smile crept onto his face.
Predictably, a ravenous cold descended upon the captain, wearing away his focus. It looked like a bad one, too; Morgan almost pitied him. But if he had pitied the man, he wouldn’t have tipped a barmaid in Delwin to slip a phial of clear but potent fluid into his drink––and that he certainly did.
All of this led to the second matter of business, the moment in which Morgan intuited the beginning of the game proper. For hours, the captain had crept along at a mule’s pace, hardly eating or speaking unless prompted. There were dark rings around his eyes, and the hollows of his cheeks ran deep. All in all, he had the appearance of a dead man walking––and Morgan made sure that was exactly what he did, for miles longer than usual without so much as a comment. Morgan guessed the phial of poison was working its way into his head by now, drawing out time into tender, aching seconds.
Now, his instincts commanded.
“Captain,” Morgan said, turning to the massive husk. “I want you to drop your weapons and kneel on the ground.”
Bolton watched him with a violent, disbelieving stare, as if he had tasted something awful. “What did you just say to me?” His voice was quiet, intending to convey power, but only succeeding in sounding ill.
“I said, drop your weapons, handsome.” He stalked up to the man, drawing one of the daggers off his back, and slashed at his waist. The belt holding Bolton’s sword dropped to the ground, revealing a deep gash in his side. Blood started to leak out onto the snow. His arm came up to try and push Morgan back, but the dagger lurched out and bit his forearm. He didn’t even have the energy to cry out––he only contorted in an anguished expression of hate and confusion. Morgan kicked him onto his back. “Well, not kneeling, but I’ll take what I can get.”
“What are you–” Morgan cut him off with a kick to the side and mounted his waist, putting a hand on the cords of the man’s thick throat, like a twisted imitation of lovers.
“Are you ready for the explanation, big man? Cause it’s only coming once.” He flashed the dagger, then placed it against Bolton’s throat. “You sent a letter to your commanding officer, requesting double the payment we agreed on. You insisted that the assassin was an invaluable tracker and combatant, and the letter you had sent before was dishonest to the amount we had actually agreed upon. But he had earned your respect, and you were honor-bound to compensate him properly. Then you signed it. I know this because I did it. Are you with me so far?
The commanding officer agreed. Your praise was sterling, and the money was a pittance to the Throne. You decided to meet in Delwin after the deal was sealed, to pick up the money. You’re going to do that.”
Bolton tried to lift his head, but failed. “Fuck you,” He spat to the sky. Morgan prodded the man’s neck with the dag
ger, prompting a new stream of blood out onto the snow. His face distorted with pain once more.
“You’re going to do that, because I’m going with you. If you try anything funny, I will kill you and the entire battalion you answer to. If you try to screw me over before then, I will kill you and say that the doctor’s bodyguard did it. If you even think about contacting the Army to come rescue you, I will sever your hands from your arms and let your own blood and the cold kill you for me.” He leaned in close to the captain’s face to emphasize his point. “There is one scenario where you survive this. I am going to write your updates from now on. You’re going to play nice. I will get my money. Then you’re on your own. I might even give you a cut of the earnings, if you’re a good boy.” Morgan sat up, giving his thighs a tight squeeze as he did so. Bolton coughed a mouthful of blood. “Those are the rules. Don’t ruin my game. Are we clear?”
A few moments passed in silence. He almost worried that the cold had gotten to the poor fellow, until he saw a faint but definite nod. Bolton tried to grumble something, but only red spit came out. Morgan stood up and watched as the captain assembled himself. As an afterthought, he kicked the captain’s sword, along with his belt, into the river. A hearty gulp of water swallowed them whole.
Morgan lifted the dagger, gesturing deeper into the wood. “We could be moving quicker than this if we added an hour in the mornings and an hour in the evenings,” He echoed. The captain, recognizing checkmate, only dropped his head and shuffled on. “Good man.”
The game had begun.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
A GOOD BOY KNOWS HOME. HEAD OF ACOLYTES.
The next week saw an elevation in the pair’s moods. As they traveled further into the bitter north, their sureness that the Monastery was nearby only grew. At every stop they would find something to point out; one day it was a carving on the white bark of a tree, depicting a sigil neither of them recognized; another, it was the remnants of an ancient fire pit. They concluded that they were nearing a settlement––and regardless if it was the Monastery, it would be a pleasant change from the seclusion of the woods.
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