A Trail of Embers

by C A Kinnee

  The narrow alley adjoining the broken boarded buildings gave way to the street of the inns. As the road widened, broad rough-planked walkways rose above the mud, and the steeply angled eaves shielded her from the worst of the rain. The gleam of lights began to glow through the shuttered windows. The harsh jangle of voices drowned out the silence.

  The street of the inns—a sprawling collection of drinking holes and gambling dens—had sprung up over the town’s long years of life. From the tiny battered shacks that served the ditch diggers and laborers, to the opulent meeting rooms of the rich merchants, the inns were the backbone of Vendonne society. Some, like the Inn of the Whispering Woman, catered to special groups. Most nights Zarnache and the watch congregated under its dark green roof. Meara planned on staying far away from it.

  Her target, the Inn of the Waking Rooster, was more welcoming. It looked after the wagon masters and strangers passing through Vendonne’s gates. There Meara could almost fit in. Everywhere else her black hair and gray eyes marked her as an outsider. The people of Vendonne tracked their bloodlines back centuries. Meara’s beginnings were more recent. She claimed seventeen years of life with ties to nothing. Five of those years, she didn’t remember. No, her bloodline started with Shay Lann on the rough streets of Vendonne.

  A brick-red roof topped the inn of the Waking Rooster and its sprawling collection of rooms. Thick white-washed walls kept the wind from the great room during the winter. In the summer, the walls left the heat outside where it belonged. Meara stopped in the shelter of an overhanging roof and searched for signs of the watch. The inn-keeper, Baylon par Dimion had once been a watchman. When Zarnache took captaincy Baylon resigned his commission. The two men hated each other. If the watch was near she would hear the yelling well in advance.

  It was a busy night at the Rooster. The raucous laughter of a well-filled common room floated onto the street. Inside a fiddler was entertaining the crowd. While he sawed out a song on a set of ill-tuned strings, his audience pounded tabletops in accompaniment. Meara chewed her bottom lip and wished she could see through the heavy walls to be sure Zarnache was nowhere in sight.

  The inn’s heavy door crashed open, the impact rattling the scarred wooden wall. Meara jumped and tried to blend with the shadows of the storefront behind her.

  “You drink my ale and think it’s free?” roared the hulking man who staggered through the door. A roar of approval followed him onto the street.

  “No! Wait! Let me down! I have gold. I—” The bearded man wriggling in the bigger man’s beefy hands yowled. “Curse you, Baylon par Dimion! May the Dark One eat your—”

  Baylon’s heavy shoulders flexed. He scooped up the bearded yelling man, whose arms were still swinging, and catapulted him high. The man touched down a stone’s throw from the door and slid heavily through the muck.

  “Be gone, Ozwal par Shendon. Find another place to drink. Next time, carry coin,” Baylon roared.

  Laughter followed Ozwal’s flight. Baylon didn’t wait to see where the man ended up. He straightened, brushed the mud from his hands and glanced in Meara’s direction. The beginnings of his smile changed to a scowl.

  “Here’s another to leach off the generosity of my inn. Well, No Name, what mischief have you been up to?” he demanded notching his ham-like hands onto his hips and examining her mud-streaked face and crud-covered sandals.

  Meara paused to gauge his mood before replying. She had hoped to creep through the small door at the back while Baylon was busy somewhere else.

  “A good evening to you, Baylon par Dimion. May the Great One smile upon you and your house.”

  Baylon shook his head sourly. “The Great One, eh? More like the Dark One if it brings you scuttling out of the alleys.” He relented. “Don’t worry, small one. Zarnache par Chandon is nowhere in sight. Go find Shay Lann. Perhaps she can teach you to behave as a proper woman,” he muttered, turning his back to greet a guest.

  Meara sketched a quick bow in answer. It was better not to rise to Baylon’s barbs.

  As if guessing her thoughts, Baylon turned. He cast her another frosty glare and pegged a thumb in the direction of the kitchen.

  Meara couldn’t decide if Baylon let her through the doors of the inn because of his love for Shay Lann, or if letting Meara in let him thumb his nose at the watch. She wouldn’t put it past him to use her to taunt Zarnache.

  “Move, runt! I don’t have all night to stand in the street,” he growled.

  She bobbed another bow, scurried through the massive oaken door, and dodging through the crowd of people, threaded her way the length of the crowded public room to the kitchen.

  “Watch out!”

  She shifted direction to the left.

  “Careful!” A barmaid swept by on the right.

  The clanging pots and clatter of dishes announced she had reached her goal. Serving maids jostled past, picking up and dropping off trays. The newly arrived caravan tripled the inn’s business. The inn, lying so near the gates, made the public room a favorite watering hole for the tough men hauling the freight. On a night like this with no rooms to be found, many would idle away the hours until sunrise drinking in the common room. Meara dodged out of the way of a barmaid carrying a full tray of ale and ducked through the door to the kitchen.

  “Meara!” Shay Lann called, raising her head from the cauldron of soup she was sampling. A tendril of thick flaxen hair escaped her headscarf and flopped across her eyes. “You’re safe, child?”

  She hustled forward, breathing heavily at the exertion. Her pregnant belly slowed her usually lively steps.

  “And this? You search out beatings now?” she demanded, reaching a hand to finger the bruise on Meara’s forehead. Her sharp eyes searched the face in front of her for signs of further hurt. Satisfied her troublesome foster daughter was whole, she relaxed and planted her hands on her hips.

  “You’ve been up to mischief. I’ve heard of your doings. Stealing apples in the market place . . . What were you thinking to lead Zarnache par Chandon on a merry chase through the alley? You mock the fates, Meara. Someday, he will catch you full-handed, and then—”

  “Shay Lann par Dimion, where’s the soup?” Baylon demanded from the doorway. “Move, woman! People starve while you chatter.”

  Shay Lann rolled her eyes and shook her spoon at him.

  “Out of my kitchen, Baylon. Betra par Avonne, fetch soup for Meara,” she ordered.

  The cook’s assistant glared sullenly at Meara and slowly moved to carry out her employer’s order. Betra’s pinched expression showed how much she resented being forced to wait on Meara.

  Shay Lann dampened a rag and scrubbed the mud from Meara’s face. Her lips pursed as she continued her scolding. “Can you not try to conform, pretend a proper humility? You are quick to risk banishment! If Zarnache catches you . . .” Shay Lann stopped, unable to go on.

  “Shay Lann, you worry too much,” Meara cut in. “I can take care of myself. Zarnache is too fat and slow to catch me.” She threw a cocky grin at Shay Lann and turned away. Her run in with Zarnache had shaken her more than she wanted to admit. The last thing she needed was a scolding from Shay Lann.

  “Thank you, Betra,” Meara said, leaving off the formal title as she accepted the bowl of steaming soup from the kitchen girl. The maid’s lip curled in a scowl.

  Meara shrugged. She was used to the girl’s rudeness. Usually Betra covered her dislike better. How sad—the pureblooded Betra forced to serve an outcast. Meara smiled and Betra’s scowl deepened. She flounced from the kitchen.

  “Meara,” Shay Lann said sharply. Her shrewd eyes had seen the whole thing. “You must stop baiting Betra. She is a fool who sees the world only from her place in it. You on the other hand, I expect better from.”

  Meara shrugged. “She sees what she wants to, so why not give it to her?”

  “Enough, Meara. You are not a child.” Shay Lann paused and raked a hand through her hair, driving back the recalcitrant bang. “I have spoken with Bay
lon and he agrees. No.” She held up a warning hand. “I will be heard. It is time for you to find a husband.”

  “A husband!” At Meara’s laugh, heads swung in her direction. “Shay Lann, be serious, who would take an outcast to wife? What man would pollute the bloodlines of his house with a black-haired, pale-skinned streeter with ties to nothing? Even if I were your adopted daughter, my lack of a history would make me untouchable.” Meara scowled and shrugged her thin shoulders. “Besides, who would want one of your pale cold townsmen for a husband? As your Baylon always says, blood to blood. None would have me anymore than I’d have them.”

  “Meara, listen,” Shay Lann argued. “Your behavior makes you stand out. If you were to marry Apangar par Eisen, you would—”

  “Apangar,” Meara hissed, withdrawing as if a particularly nasty viper faced her. “I’d rather Zarnache caught me and banished me.”

  It was Shay Lann’s turn to be horrified. “Watch your tongue.” She made a quick sign against the dark one.

  “Shay Lann! The soup, woman!” Baylon’s deep voice broke their impasse.

  Shay Lann looked as if she wanted to say more, but instead, she turned reluctantly to the door. “Of course, Baylon. We will speak more of this later,” she said grimly to Meara.

  Baylon looked from one woman to the other and sighed. “Leave Shay Lann to her kitchen and eat your soup. The babe is near and her temper is short. Don’t trouble her with your drama.” He jabbed a finger in the direction of the door.

  Meara seized his words as permission to escape. She took her soup and breathing in the pungent scent of onion and garlic, slipped through the room to a corner away from the crowd. She would rather be alone than marry any of the townsmen she’d seen. The globe hummed softly in agreement. She smiled. Her discussion with Shay Lann had made her forget her newfound treasure.

  She ate the soup hungrily, not caring that Betra had filled the bowl with more broth than meat. The broth brought a welcome fullness to her stomach. Shay Lann would feed her every day if Meara let her, but the disapproving scowls of the townspeople curdled her stomach.

  No longer hungry, Meara leaned back in her chair and watched the fiddler. His tune was ragged and full of mistakes, but enthusiasm made up for the lack of talent. The townspeople stomped in accompaniment to the music, their heavy leather boots rattling the scarred wooden flooring.

  Gradually, the heat of the room soaked through Meara’s cloak, bringing her a cozy warmth. Safe from the touch of prying eyes she let herself relax, humming softly under her breath, as she tapped her toes in time with the beat. A skinny barmaid dragged Emo par Eddle the baker into an impromptu dance. Meara smiled as she watched Emo move through the steps. For a big man, Emo moved well.

  The arrival of the caravan was well-timed. It broke the gloom gripping the town and let Meara take the risk of seeing Shay Lann without the curses her presence usually brought.

  As she settled deeper into the chair, she cuddled the globe closer. Shay Lann was the only person Meara called friend. If it weren’t for her, Meara would have been an unwanted street rat drowned in a well.

  That was what the good people of Vendonne had planned for the skinny five-year-old they’d caught wandering the bleak streets of the old quarter. Demon spawn, blight—sometimes at night, Meara stilled dreamed of that day.

  The weather had been much like this—cold rain falling endlessly from the sky, filling her eyes and choking her lungs. Meara couldn’t remember how she’d come to be alone, but she remembered the bruising grasp of the elder who’d chased her down the street and caught her. While one graybeard struck her with his cane, another raved that she was cursed, that the darkness she brought was as black as her hair.

  Meara shivered and looked back at the dancers.

  Shay Lann had saved her. She had been standing at the front of the crowd, bundled so deep in her heavy woolen cloak that only her eyes were visible beneath the heavy cowl. Mazzimo par Ozwali, the head of the elders, was as cold and joyless a man as you could find. Shay Lann called him father. Meara called him evil. It was he who suggested that drowning her in the well would bring back the sun. Shay Lann saved Meara, protecting her from the well-aimed stones and savage kicks of the crowd.

  Meara blinked and stared blindly down at the globe in her lap. Yes, Shay Lann had saved Meara’s life at the cost of banishment from her own. Shay Lann said that rescuing Meara had rescued her from living the empty life of her father. Banishment freed her, letting her meet and marry Baylon.

  Yes, Shay Lann rescued her, but she couldn’t tell Meara how she’d ended up on the streets, or what her life had been before that moment.

  “The answer is in the bag hanging on this string.” She remembered Shay Lann gently lifting the tiny bag on the leather string around Meara’s neck. “You must always wear it, for it carries the key to who you are. This talisman shows that someone else loved you before I found you.” Shay Lann had let go of the bag. “Now come, let’s gather eggs and make a cake.”

  Yes, Meara had Shay Lann to thank for her life. She’d kept her safe from the price of being different in Vendonne. That was why Meara stayed away. She loved Shay Lann too much to expose her to the insults that came from being her friend.

  Enough, she told herself. You are becoming as maudlin as an old man buried in his ale. She glanced around the crowded room. The fevered celebration made her restless. It made her remember too clearly the old quarter and the grim, forbidding inhabitants that peopled its streets. Shay Lann had trained her to stay far from both it and the reach of its elders. Meara shivered and felt an answering vibration hum against her side.

  “You feel it too, don’t you?” she muttered.

  The vibration deepened. The companionship of the globe warmed her more than the soup. Whatever this thing was, it was special. She ran her fingers over its surface and the warmth increased.

  A faint smile tugged at her full lips. She leaned back in her chair. Her stomach was full and her eyes heavy. She floated on the brink of sleep.

  “Ya clumsy fool. What are ya doing standing in ma way? Be gone,” a loud voice shouted.

  Meara opened her eyes. The blacksmith Murton par Abo had found a target for one of his drunken rants.

  A tall figure shrouded in a gray cloak, straightened from the place on the wall where Murton’s shove had landed him. Meara sat up and leaned forward watching.

  The cloaked man bowed stiffly. At his sides, his hands knotted into fists as if to keep himself from reaching for whatever weapon he carried.

  Who was he? A farlander obviously. Intrigued, Meara moved her chair slightly for a better view.

  “My apologies,” the cloaked man muttered.

  “Baa, like a sheep. You farlanders are alike. You have no proper names cuz you ain’t worth ’em. Git out of my way!” Murton punctuated his words with another shove.

  Once again, the farlander bumped the wall. This time he straightened more slowly. He lifted his head and his eyes met hers.

  Meara’s limbs turned to ice. Her breath escaped in a quiet gasp. Gray eyes—he had gray eyes. She sank into the shadows, cursing the interest that had made her leave them. Too late, another had taken note of her presence.

  An old man stood silently next to her, staring down at her. His amber eyes glowed like twin flames. Around him, his rain-speckled cloak wrapped him in a swathe of blackness. Meara stared into the twin fires of his gaze. The room grew distant, the noise a blur at the edge of her hearing. Her thoughts melted in a confused muddle.

  “You are not of these people, or of this place. Will you tell me your name?” His words fell gently on her ears.

  A rapid reply formed on her tongue. She would tell him anything. All he had to do was ask the question.

  “Meara,” she said breathlessly, as eager to please as a puppy with a new trick.

  “Meara . . .” he repeated. The fire in his eyes flared. “You will permit an old man to share your table?”

  His eyes . . . she couldn’t look away. A f
lutter of panic started in her belly, but he spoke again and her heartbeat slowed and settled. There was nothing to be afraid of. He wouldn’t let anything happen to her.

  He smiled and sat, his cloak forming a puddle of darkness around him.

  “Stay, child. I wish to know more of you,” he soothed.

  Meara sank back down into the chair. How had she come to be on her feet? A surge of panic reared up, and then quieted under the glowing warmth of his gaze.

  “What is it that you carry in your cloak?” he asked.

  Meara’s hands fluttered to the neck of her cloak, wanting to show him the globe.

  “Watch out!”

  A tray of mugs crashed to the table. Ale and broken crockery exploded in a beery rain. Meara leapt up and staggered under a wave of dizziness. Her thoughts tumbled in her head like dice.

  Baylon and the barmaid were at the old man’s elbow, peppering him with apologies. Behind them, Meara caught sight of the gray-shrouded farlander slipping into the crowd.

  “Betra par Avonne! This will come out of your pay. My Lord, I don’t know what came over the girl. I offer you the apologies of my house. Quickly—some towels for the gentleman. Clean up this mess!” The innkeeper divided his words between the old man and the tearful barmaid.

  “But, sir, I be doing my job. A push made me spill. I don’t drop trays,” Betra’s protests wailed above the din of confusion.

  Meara judged the time as right to slip away. She slid through the crowd in the direction of the kitchen. She’d had enough of people for the night.

  Chapter 7

  Worry not,

  I am here.

  The bond is built,

  it will not break.

  Translated from the Chronicles of the Egg

  Kieran shoved through the crowd, trying to put maximum distance between himself and the wailing barmaid.

  “That was stupid,” he muttered. He wanted to avoid attention and stay out of sight, instead for the sake of a skinny girl with big eyes, he acted like a corbin loose in a women’s sewing circle. He stopped and on impulse looked back, hoping for another glimpse of the girl, but she had disappeared as if conjured by magic.