by C. M. Lind
“Aela, you know I hate-“
He was cut off by her bloody hand silencing him. “It’s alright.” They were speaking their language; it’s beautiful, strong cadence sprang off her tongue.
He stepped forward and kneeled down. There was a knife like Aela’s in his hand. He plunged the blade into the deer and he expertly began to cut the membranes holding the innards to the spine. The smell, that had before made him puke as a child, didn’t seem so bad anymore.
“You are a natural.” Aela smiled at him, showing the small gap between her two front teeth.
“I don’t think so.” There was silence between them as he cut the diaphragm. Blood spilled out in a wave, soaking his robes and feet. So much blood he thought, much more than there should be, but he didn’t hesitate.
“No. You’re not a hunter, are you?” She sounded so young. While his mind had aged her body to what she must have looked like now, his memory kept her voice high and fragile.
Ulrich glanced at her. She was finally a woman, with wide hips and heavy breasts that men craved. Her hair was much like his, and the two looked more like siblings than cousins. It was shaved around the sides of her head, and down the middle ran a long, thick blonde braid that ended at the small of her back. He turned back to the deer to pull the viscera free in one strangely proficient motion.
“You’re no hunter, but you have killed many.” He heard her knife drop into the blood at their feet with a loud splash. “Complicity is your weapon.”
The beast was still bleeding; it wouldn’t stop. He was standing in a deepening pool of blood and organs. How could a juvenile deer have so much blood, he thought?
“You have set loose a hunter in a forest of men, brother.” Aela stood up, and he heard her slosh through the wet innards as she walked away.
He glanced to see her walk away, and then turned to the pile of innards. He would recover the heart and save it for Aela; she loved to bake them with thyme and garlic. For a moment he allowed himself to anticipate the scent of it and the family dinner that would follow the hours of cooking.
He saw the carcass and dropped the knife. It splashed into the pooled blood in the torso. It was no deer, but his own corpse.
He awoke in the inner ward of the temple, still leaning against the stone wall. He leaned over and heaved several times, expelling nothing but water and stomach acid through his mouth and nose. He pulled his sleeve up, wiping the bile from his nose. The pungent smell of meat and blood was lodged in there, and he wanted nothing more than to remove it.
He quaked. He told himself to close his eyes and to breathe deep, that the nightmare was over. But, he couldn’t close his eyes. If he did, he might see his disemboweled body again.
He breathed for a few minutes, but he couldn’t stop shaking. Ulrich never had nightmares. He was still afraid, and it was also cold. His breath hung in the dark air, but he couldn’t see it. This holy place contained no polluting lamps, and all he could see was the moonlight filtered through the leaves of the nearby Mourning Tree.
The sound of squishing grass made him jump. He looked to the left but saw nothing except shadows teased by moonlight. If anything was there, he had no hope of seeing it at this hour. He stood up slowly, keeping his ears alert and his eyes towards the phantom sound.
His heart pounded as he backed a few steps away.
“Is now a bad time then?”
Her voice was bright and strong, different than before. She had always spoken softly when he’d visit her, afraid that someone might be listening.
His hand went to his chest to steady his heart. He took a step forward and enthusiastically proclaimed: “Vitoria!”
She took a few steps out of the shadows, passing through scattered beams of light until she was close enough to touch. Her features were obscured, but Ulrich could tell that her hair was shorter; it was only a few inches long. She wore tight yet practical clothing, styled like the cheap body guards that sold their services by the docks. She smelled strongly of oiled leather and rosemary, an odd, yet pleasant, mix.
Ulrich grabbed her shoulders tenderly; part of him was convinced that she was only a dream. “Where have you been? I’ve been worried. It’s been days, and I hadn’t heard a thing from you or Conyers! Do you know there are posters throughout the city about you?”
Vitoria didn’t pull away from his hands. She smiled. “I’m aware. I changed my hair to look different after all. Hair down to your ass is a dead giveaway.”
His hands went to her head, running his fingers briskly through her hair like an older brother. She flinched for a moment, but she let him touch her. “My god! You look more like a man than I do!” He felt safe with her there in front of him, and the nightmare from moments ago fled his memory.
She laughed quickly, but it was genuine and full, as if she was half-intoxicated. He couldn’t believe she was the same person from before. She was smiling and laughing; she was letting him touch her.
“That’d better be a compliment. Aimee thought it was a good idea to lighten it too. She used some concoction that smelled like lemons. Burned my scalp, but it got the job done.” She winced slightly when his finger brushed past a group of fresh scabs.
He removed his hands at her wince. “That witch?”
“I don’t think she’s really a witch, Ulrich. People call her that because she’s smart and a woman.”
And old, Ulrich thought. “She may be. She might not be.” There was no way he was going to apologize for calling Aimee Turmont a witch. Conyers had called her a witch a few times, and if Conyers thought she was a witch then Ulrich had no reason to disagree. “Why didn’t you send word or see me sooner? I’ve been worried.”
“I’ve been knocked out in bed for days, Ulrich. You weren’t on the top of my list.”
“Are you ok?” His eyes started to look her over, but it was pointless in the dark.
“I am now. That witch took care of me. She also gave me something to recover. I haven’t felt a thing—just straight, empty, peaceful sleep.”
“What happened? Was it that bad?”
“Some minor injuries. Nothing major.”
Ulrich couldn’t help himself, he felt oddly proud. “How does it feel to be the first person to escape The White Cliffs?”
“I feel the same, I suppose…” She trailed off.
“Really? The same?”
She put her hands in her pockets and looked up at the dark tree branches above. “That’s not true…not entirely. I feel…anxious. It’s extraordinary, isn’t it?”
It took Ulrich a second to realize she was talking about the tree. “Yes, it is.”
“I’ve seen it a thousand times from far away. I’ve always wanted to see it up close. You can see it all throughout the city, so in a way I guess someone can always find their way here. Is that what it’s here for, to guide people?” Standing on her tip toes, she reached her hand up to touch one of the leaves.
Ulrich grabbed her hand and held it. “I wouldn’t suggest doing that. It’s poison.”
She lowered her heels. “A holy tree no one can enjoy then?” She pulled her hand free of his strong grip and put it back into her pocket.
“Oh no, not at all. You enjoy it every time you see it in the city don’t you?” Ulrich crossed his arms, not sure what to do with his hands now that Vitoria was free from them. He turned to the tree. “The whole thing is poisonous: the bark, sap, and fruit.”
“Why would you keep such a dangerous thing around? Why not cut it down? Should have gotten rid of it before it became too much of a problem. ”
“It’s special. There are no others like it that I know of. Those who are worthy enough contribute their knowledge to it. Every priest that has ever served here is part of this tree.” Ulrich’s dream from before flashed through his mind in an instant. He could smell the blood, but it smelled musty and distant in his mind. “The dead’s blood is poured onto the roots, ensuring their knowledge is kept alive within. Part of them will forever live on in this world.�
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“And what does a tree do with that?”
He walked forward. His eyes were searching for one of the immature, green fruits that were still forming. Within a few moments he found one near the edge of a branch, illuminated by the moon. “There.”
She stepped towards it and inspected the overhanging fruit. “Yes?”
“That fruit is what is so special.” He joined her at the edge of the tree. “The juice, when ingested correctly, gives knowledge. Visions. The tree is filled with secrets that it wants to tell. We just have to find a way to listen.”
“Then eat it. Tell me its secrets,” said Vitoria.
“No. That’s a death sentence. Just a small bit of juice is used. Even then, this temple hasn’t made the brew in a few decades. There is too much risk for brain damage. I haven’t met anyone who’s had it, but I heard that there were far too many drooling priests who couldn’t even eat by themselves.”
“Sounds like a waste to me,” she said. Her eyes returned to Ulrich. “Do you know what Conyers wants with me?”
“You haven’t talked to him yet?” Ulrich raised a brow.
“No. You were my first trip. No one has told me any details, but he must be desperate. He had a whole guild behind him that he could have used at any time to release me sooner, but he waits until he doesn’t have that anymore?” The brightness in her voice was gone. It was dark, somber, and frightening.
“He doesn’t tell me much,” Ulrich said with a hushed tone, “but I hear people’s prayers. People are going missing at night. They’re never heard from again. Not even a body part is found to bury. Can you imagine that? Not even a part of a body? I hear them every day, begging Anker for an answer. Have they run off? Are they dead? Did something worse happen?”
The two locked eyes.
“Aimee told me that many fled,” said Vitoria.
“Good. Because that many missing people…if they were all dead?” He shook his head.
“Nobody cares about murder when it’s against the undesirables,” she stated with disgust.
“Undesirables?”
“That’s what they called us in prison.”
There was a long, still moment of silence between them. Ulrich thought about the guard she allegedly killed. Did he use that term towards her? Or were his words worse? Did he only use words?
“They say you killed a boy.” While it was a statement, it begged for an answer. His conscience wanted nothing more than absolution.
“Yes.” Her eyes never left his.
He waited for her to continue, to pull the heavy burden of the boy’s death from his shoulders, but she seemed to have nothing further to say. She would never absolve his conscience, he thought for a brief moment. “Thank you for letting me know that you’re alright.”
She nodded her head.
“What are you going to do now?”
“I’m waiting for word from Conyers. Until then, I’m planning.”
Something seemed very sinister in the way she proclaimed that. “Do I want to know?”
“Do you? I think you like it all, don’t you? You are a dabbler after all: working with assassins, aiding a prison break, meeting a wanted woman after dark in a restricted area.” She counted off the list with her fingers. “Tsk, tsk.” There was a strange mirth to her voice, as if she was not entirely sober.
“When I first came to Aveline I noticed quickly that there were not many who followed all the tales of Anker—especially the old ones. The bloody and frightening tales of love, lust, betrayal and undeath were whitewashed for these people. Gone was his fixation—no, that isn’t adequate—his obsession with the mortal Nox. Their adulterous love affair, if it could be called that, was ignored. Would any mortal have a choice when fancied by a god? Whether or not it was mutual love, I will never know. But he loved her. He broke many bonds to be with her, including the natural order of life. He refused to let her soul rest upon her mortal death, leaving her somewhere in between. While he gave her many powers, he couldn’t stop her death, only her passing. These stories implore the faithful to aid those of Nox, in honor of her lover. I don’t follow what I find convenient. I follow what is taught.” Ulrich tried not to sound like he had practiced the speech before. His tone was confident and powerful.
“But you know that I do not follow your god, or Conyers’ goddess. Yet, you always aid me. I think you just enjoy being so close to the dangerous ones.”
“By helping you, I help him, and all those faithful with him.” He maintained his professional and confident demeanor.
Vitoria looked as if she was going to spit more venom at Ulrich, but she said nothing. Whatever was brewing within her gullet must have gotten stuck halfway up.
Ulrich was glad she didn’t press the subject. “What are you planning then, since you don’t know what he even wants with you?”
She paused, but her face took a delighted look. She appeared to be taking a moment to think. “I’m not sure what to call it yet: revenge, justice, or a long since due reunion? I’m not even sure when it will happen. But for this? I can wait as long as is needed. It will be glorious.” The last word she spoke heavily and seductively, savoring every vowel. The hair on his neck stood at attention.
She turned her head into the strong wind, closed her eyes, and delighted in the last of the chill.
Ulrich had no idea who or what she was talking about. She had never mentioned anyone besides Aimee and Conyers before.
The large wooden doors from the inner ward opened, and light from within the temple poured out onto the grass. A few priests were calling for Ulrich; he had slept right through his custodial duties.
Ulrich turned towards the noise. “Dammit.” He moved to stand in front of Vitoria. If she was found there it would have been trouble for both of them.
Vitoria smirked. She patted him on the shoulder and said, “Time for me to go.”
Chapter 9
The weeks passed quickly and uneventfully for Soli. Most nights were filled with appointments. Since Roed’s death three weeks earlier, two other noble houses took her in place of his contracts while a few others declined. Even with the other appointments, it was Etienne Reinout who took up most of her evenings. The other contracts were easy for her, a bit of music over dinner, and then she would take her petals and head to her empty home. But Etienne was far more engaging. He wanted music, stories, discussions, and debates. When Etienne learned how educated Soli was, such as on the history of the noble lines of Osterlock, he was particularly delighted. Three nights already were spent in nothing more than conversation and wine.
Always there was a new bottle of something that was supposed to be impressive for them to imbibe. She always watched him with both eyes when he opened the bottle and poured the wine. She had heard far too many stories about Avelinian nobility to do otherwise.
Etienne was kind and courteous to her, which she still found surprising. Lord Jae Reinout was whispered about in Queensport, and it was not flattering what the rumors said. By reputation he was a consummate, voracious lothario. He supposedly never turned down a woman, and, apparently, he never let a woman turn him down.
But it seemed to Soli that Etienne was vastly different than his cousin. He was never inappropriate with her. Still, he left her exhausted. Many times she returned home to wish the morning sun goodnight before she toppled onto her bed and slept the day away.
Randolph, on the other hand, was different. He was a bit of an oddity to her. She wasn’t quite sure what he even really did at the Reinout Estate, and he wasn’t always at the house when she was there—strange for a man who seemed like a body guard. Etienne explained that Randolph was Lord Jae’s man, and he accompanied him wherever he was needed.
The times when he was there, she would catch him in passing or wave to him as she saw him leave on the small, sable horse he always rode on. Many times she would see him trotting into the darkened streets at ungodly hours.
Even though Randolph was a busy man, he always made time to give h
er a welcoming smile. The few times they spoke were pleasant enough, even if the man’s intentions were as blunt as a maul. Soli ignored his blundering advances, and so far she had dodged his requests to escort her home. He was pleasant, and he even made her laugh a few times, but the last thing Soli needed was to become entangled in something complicated.
Etienne paid her well, but she still needed far more for passage north. Travel by ship was preferable but, with the war in the north, impossible. She could have purchased her own horse and supplies and taken off on her own, but she would have surely been attacked by bandits. The safest choice would have been armed escorts, at least as far as the Osterlock border. She would only need a few competent, armed men for such a journey—for she herself was no novice when it came to traveling in dangerous areas. Northern Aveline was fairly unprotected (not by lack of trying, but through a sheer shortage of resources, incompetent local lords, harsh terrain, and far too many ambitious outlaws seeing it as a perfect place to hide). Many thieves, murderers, and brigands ruled the area just south of the Osterlock border.
So Soli did what she could do: her job—and she did it well. Every morning she said prayers as Roed used to do. She made her own food in their apartment, home-cooked meals that reminded her of home. She figured by then the place was probably permanently permeated with scents of pig and garlic.
She kept busy, but her days were hollow and lonely. She felt Roed’s absence deeper with every day that passed. It wasn’t fair she was in Aveline. It wasn’t fair his remains rested there and not at home, save for a small leather pouch she collected from the pyre of ash, teeth, and bone that hung around her neck. Every night she would lay her hand on the pouch around her neck before laboriously falling asleep.
Even then, sleep was nothing but cruel to her. Her dreams replayed her best memories of the man: Roed teaching her to juggle with red plums they found growing along the roadside, the time she watched him turn bright pink and fumbled with his words when an overly appreciative patron grabbed his buttocks, or the time he taught her to stitch her own wound after she fell off her horse, and her leg was sliced by rocks below. There would be no new memories of him for her. All that they had was gone.