by Aaron Bunce
Tanea felt the man standing behind her move, his weight shifting the floorboards. She couldn’t bring herself to turn, and instead took a deep breath, preparing to argue. The man standing behind her spoke first however.
“Oh, come on, Felder. That ain’t the truth, and you know it!”
“He’s none of yer business, Nirnan, so just keep clear o’ mine! Now if you’ll excuse me, there is work to be done. Both of ya, out! Leave a man in peace,” the smith groused, slumping back against the wall.
Nirnan, the man behind her, chuckled, his voice deep but not gravely with age. He stepped next to Tanea, his bulk throwing her in shadow. “Some would argue that point, Felder. Both yer work and yer bastard boy. I’m guessing this lass here needs to speak with him for a reason. And I’m guessing that reason is my friend, Julian Ama’lik. I think it’d be best if ye fetched him, right now!”
Tanea’s head snapped about, meeting the large man’s gaze, a shiver running through her body. Felder slapped his pipe down on the counter, scattering smoldering pipe weed everywhere. Splotchy, red patches popped up on his cheeks and forehead as he exhaled angrily.
Nirnan let his hands come to rest on the counter and leaned forward, meeting the smith’s angry glower with one of his own. Tanea watched the two men for a tense moment, fearful they would lash out at each other.
“Now, Felder!” Nirnan growled.
The smith’s angry glare broke, and he slapped the counter, before slumping off into the shop.
Chapter 27
Point of no return
Henri stared at Herja. “I’m sorry, there are what?” he asked.
“Deliriums,” Herja repeated, “souls trapped on the phantom road. They lose what they once were, and become fiendish. They are starved, wretched beings that will devour anything near them.”
“That sounds…horrible,” Henri muttered, eyeing Herja and her gleaming sword.
“Defend yourself. They are not accustomed to having to fight for their meal. Chances are, they will flee in search of easier prey,” Herja said, pulling a small bundle from around her shoulder and unwrapping a small, but radiant blade.
“Wait?! You’re not coming with me?” Henri asked.
“I’m sorry, Henri, but I cannot. My duty is to the chosen.”
“Then why did you help me when the death fisher attacked?” he asked.
“My duty is to find his chosen and collect them before death does, and only then deliver them to the wayhall. I intervened with the death fisher because that was not destined to be your moment. It was my failure. I allowed you to see me. That distraction caused you to become stuck in the creature’s web,” Herja said, turning away.
Henri nodded, trying desperately to understand the rules at play. If he was to be a pawn, he at least wanted to play his part well.
“I understand. It needs to be me. I need to be strong for my children, and help them any way I can,” Henri said, taking the gleaming dagger and strapping it around his waist.
Henri turned to leave, but Herja grasped him by the shoulder and held him up.
“One last thing,” she said quietly. “Help your son, but do not linger too long on the phantom road. Fight the urge to use this place as a means to stay close to your family. Souls that remain here too long lose what they are, and eventually become the…”
Henri nodded. He understood how the temptation to see his family again, but also remaine close, would lure even the strongest of will to linger. “Will I know when?” he asked.
“You are a father,” Herja said, “you will know.”
“Thank you for this opportunity, Herja,” Henri said, and turned, making his way down the dark passageway.
He looked back once, uncertainty gnawing at his innards. Herja stood on the cusp of darkness, watching him, her form aglow in the eerie fairy fire.
Henri turned and set off down the dark road, both eager and terrified about what lay ahead.
* * * *
Luca took his time returning from the market. It wasn’t just the fatigue that plagued him, but his doubts. He pulled the piece of parchment out of his pocket in the lift, letting his eyes play across the flowing lines of ink and color.
He couldn’t read, but then again, he didn’t have to. Cassida drew the item and told him where it was. It sounded simple, so horribly simple. Just go get it and give it to her…except, simple tasks were rarely easy, especially for him.
Luca folded the parchment back up and stuffed it in his pocket when the lift reached the top. He propped the crutch under his arm and limped out as the door opened.
“Well, hello again, little sir! And how was your trip to lakeside today?” the lift operator asked.
“Good! I watched them unload a fish this big,” Luca said, holding his arms as far apart as possible.
“Sounds like a mighty catch!” the old man replied, gumming his pipe.
“Say…” Luca started, patting his pocket. “Have you ever seen the stone egg?” He didn’t know what else to call it. Cassida called it the yörspring, but he didn’t know what that meant. It looked like an egg in the drawing, so that was what he would call it.
“The stone egg?” the man mumbled, and scratched his chin. “Ah, you mean the trinket up in the Pine Hall?”
Luca nodded.
“Tis the pride of Pine Hall, that is. The elder keeps it on display. You can walk right up and look at it. Strange thing…” the old man trailed off, puffing on his pipe.
Luca shifted his weight. His bad leg throbbed if he stood in one spot too long. If the elder keeps it on display, maybe it won’t be as hard as I thought.
“You can’t touch it, mind you. You get too close, and those guards’ll run you outta there right quick. You thinking ‘bout making your way up the hill to give it a look?”
Luca’s insides dropped out. Guards, he thought dejectedly. Suddenly the idea of simply retrieving an item for Cassida sounded like an opportunity to get in real trouble.
“Maybe…I don’t know,” he said, limping forward, his spirits plummeting.
“Well, if you go, little sir, make sure it’s in the morning. Bound to be no crowds then,” the lift operator called after him.
Luca waved his thanks and set to the arduous task of limping up the hill. He was distracted, his thoughts doing cartwheels around a picture of a stone egg and the half-crazed old lady from the market. A noise pulled him out of his stupor. A group of boys frolicked on the next level down.
Luca rested on the wall and watched them for a moment. They were playing a local game called pine ball. They lined up in two groups, and one at a time a boy would grab a pinecone out of the basket and try to run through the others to drop it in their basket. They played rough, knocking each other down and calling names.
Just watching the boys roughhouse made Luca’s legs hurt. He pushed off and slumped up the lane, his crutch tapping a slow, sad cadence against the ground. The game looked like fun, but ultimately he just wanted to walk, maybe run, and climb a few trees.
He passed several shops, but his eyes were drawn to the racks outside the weaver’s door. The colorful shawl caught his eye, as it always did. One day he would limp by and it would be gone. At least it wouldn’t tease me then, he thought, his hands brushing over his empty pockets.
Luca limped up, and leaning on his crutch, caught the end of the blowing fabric. It was tightly woven and intricately dyed. Something stirred in his mind, he closed his eyes and focus on it. The shawl reminded him of something, or someone. Was it a mother, or maybe a sister? But the memory hung just out of reach, like a word dancing on the tip of his tongue.
He eyed the shawl once more, imagining the look on Emma’s face if he were to gift it to her, but opened his fingers and let it flap in the breeze once again.
“For a friend?” a woman said, appearing suddenly from between the racks.
Luca startled, the crutch slipping, and he staggered.
"Goodness me!” the woman cried and jumped forward.
Luca�
��s legs danced a cumbersome jig, his arms pin wheeling at his sides. The woman grasped him by the arms and held him up. Her grip was strong, but gentle.
“Apologies, little dear. I didn’t mean to startle you so,” she said, holding him up while she bent low and scooped his crutch off the ground with her free hand.
“It’s alright,” Luca said, wincing and rubbing his arm. “I was just looking at that shawl.”
In his panic he had pushed his body further than ever before, and it let him know. Everything hurt.
“Yes, I know the one,” the old lady said, and pulled it off of the rack. “It is for someone special? Perhaps a friend?”
Luca felt his face flush and he knew that he was blushing. He would have turned had his legs not hurt so badly. So instead, he nodded.
“What’s her name?” the merchant asked.
Luca swallowed, more than a little uncomfortable having this conversation with a complete stranger. He barely knew Emma, just like he barely knew most of the people in Pine Hall. She was just a girl who was nice to him. Most people were, but she was the only one who didn’t seem to do it out of obligation, or sympathy.
“Emma. She’s a serving maid in the Chapterhouse,” Luca said, meeting the old woman’s eyes.
“Yes. She’s a lovely girl. Are you thinking about gifting this to her?”
Luca looked to the ground. He wanted to pat his pant pockets, but what good would that do? It was just another sad reminder that he was a lost little crippled boy, with nothing.
“I haven’t the money,” he said, shaking his head.
“Now, little dear. That’s not what I asked. I asked if you were thinking of giving it to her,” the woman said, a stern look creasing her face.
Luca nodded, “Yes, I think she would like it.”
“Then, that is that!” she said, and stuffed the shawl into his hand.
“Wait, I can’t…” he started to argue, but the old woman reached down and closed his fingers around the garment.
“There is no debt in kindness, little dear. You’ve been through enough. Now run along, and give your friend her gift.”
“How do you know?’ Luca asked, the woman’s hand warm and reassuring.
“The markets have been abuzz with stories of a little boy they fished out of the river. The little boy who’d lost his memories, and whose body was bent and badly broken,” she said, the stern look melting away. “I’ve watched you walk by my shop for some days now, always looking at that shawl. I see you struggle, but I’ve never seen you quit. Sometimes a friend is all we need to heal. Here’s what I want you to do. Take these tickets to the winter festival. You take your friend Emma with you, and give her that shawl as a token. I won’t hear one word in argument!”
Luca looked into the woman’s eyes, and blinked away a glassy tear. She reached up and dabbed at her eyes too.
“Thank you,” he said accepting the tickets, a chill settling over his neck. He shivered and pulled his collar up a little further.
“You’re welcome, little dear. Now you run along, before you catch too much of a chill in this lake wind,” the merchant said.
Luca thanked the old woman one last time before turning and making his way back up the lane. He stopped outside the Chapterhouse to fold up the colorful shawl and tucked it into his coat, and then held the two shiny tickets up so they could catch the light. His chest filled with warmth, and for the first time in a great while, he didn’t feel the overbearing pain of his body weighing him down.
Luca tucked the tickets into his pocket and climbed the stairs, a surprising bounce in his rigid step.
* * * *
Henri walked down the dark passage for a long way. Shades of black melted into swirling clouds of gray. Dark shapes materialized out of the gloom, but they evaporated into the darkness if he got too close.
How do I know? How can I know that the road is taking me to where I need to go? He thought, only doubts and questions plaguing him. Henri reached for the dagger resting on his hip, and pulled. The blade broke loose and slid free, the metal gleaming like bright moonlight against the phantom road’s encroaching shadow. Herja was right. It did make him feel bolder, if just a bit.
He had never been a fighter. But that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t. Henri would fight for his children, to his last breath, just to make sure they were safe. After that, he would move on. Maybe he would see his wife again. He hoped her anger for him and his foolishness hadn’t ruined her. Henri would ask her for forgiveness.
Sliding the dagger back into its scabbard, Henri paced forward quickly. He walked for a great while, until the black and gray shadows stopped swirling. Shapes loomed, gaining substance and form.
The sky above him lightened, until it glowed like a starless dusk. Henri gazed about tentatively, buildings and jagged bluffs appearing where before there were only shadow and swirling gray clouds.
The ground became firm. He looked down and noticed cobblestones, covered in a pale dust. The phantom road pitched up before him. More of the city materialized with every step forward, spanning both above and below him. He walked to a rock wall and looked down, taking in the sight. Far below, where the structures ended loomed a massive, dark lake.
A small voice echoed in the lane above him. Henri didn’t hear it as much as feel it. It pulled on him, tugging at something deep inside.
“Luca!?” he gasped and took off at a run.
Henri didn’t tire, or lose his breath. He covered the distance in only a few heartbeats, and skidded to a stop in the powder covering the ground. It was amazing. He didn’t feel the ache in his joints, or the age anymore. He felt young, and lithe.
A small boy, bundled in a heavy coat and hat, stood before a shop. An old woman appeared before him, her hands clutching to both of his arms.
“Luca!” Henri yelled and ran up to them. It was Luca, his baby boy!
Luca said something to the woman and she responded, but their voices were like whispers caught in a strong breeze. A shawl like his wife used to wear was wadded up in his small hand.
A pain stabbed in Henri’s chest and his throat clenched up. He had convinced himself that he would never see Luca again. That he was lost or dead somewhere, but here he was standing before him, alive and well.
Henri moved forward and tried to lay his hands on his son’s shoulders, to pull him close and hold him, but they passed clear through as if he was made of smoke.
Luca shivered and reached up, pulling his collar up to cover his neck. The woman said something else, smiled, and then Luca turned. Henri moved to follow, but froze as his youngest child limped and staggered forward.
There’s something wrong with him! Henri thought in horror. Oh, sixth arm, what happened to my boy!
He watched Luca drag his left foot and then hobbled forward, a small crutch stuffed under his right arm. He didn’t appear to be able to bend his right leg at all. Henri followed slowly as Luca ambled up the lane, his heart breaking with every pained movement.
“What happened…who did this to you?” Henri asked bitterly, but Luca made no indication that he could hear him.
Luca limped up the stairs to a large, wooden structure and struggled through the heavy door. Henri followed him, reaching out and catching the door. He felt the door’s substantial weight, but when he pushed back to pass through, it barely moved.
Henri pushed and strained, and finally with a massive effort, was able to slide through. Luca stood directly before him when he turned around. The boy stared at the door, a confused look on his face.
“It’s just me, Luca. I’m here now,” he said, wanting only to scoop the boy up into his arms and squeeze him. But he couldn’t touch him.
He followed his son through the hall and into a dining hall. Luca stopped at a bench, unwound the scarf from around his neck, and removed his coat.
Henri sat down on the seat next to him. It didn’t feel like wood, just as the air outside wasn’t cold, nor the fire hot. He walked in the world, followed other’s fo
otsteps, but he was not a part of it.
“How do I help you, boy? How am I to lend you aid?” he asked Luca, but he showed no sign that he could hear.
A maid swept through the hall, a tray of cups perched upon her shoulder. Luca changed as soon as she drew near. His head snapped up and his back straightened. Henri watched him fiddle with his coat before pulling a shiny ticket free from his pocket. It reminded Henri of the tickets he used to buy when he was first courting his wife.
The young woman deposited a cup on the table before him. She set the tray down and wiped her forehead on the sleeve of her dress. Her bright eyes shone in the light, a genuine smile playing at her lips.
Luca asked her a question, his cheeks and neck darkening. Henri leaned in closer. He could hear her respond, but she sounded far off and couldn’t quite make out the words. Luca’s face fell a bit.
“Just ask her, son!” Henri said loudly, reading the interaction between them as best he could.
The young maid picked up the tray and set it onto her shoulder. Henri read her lips, and could tell that she was getting ready to leave. He looked to his boy, who still clutched the ticket under the table.
“Luca, just give it to her and ask,” Henri said again, remembering how the butterflies fluttered in his stomach when he asked his wife to festival all those winter thaws ago.
“Well, I’ll see you,” the young maid said, throwing Luca one final smile.
Henri didn’t think, instead, he reacted. His hand wrapped around Luca’s arm and he lifted it out from beneath the table. The boy looked at his arm, an alarmed look pulling his eyes open wide. The maid stopped and looked at his proffered hand, her own hand extending forward tentatively.
“Ask her, Luca,” Henri whispered, leaning over to speak directly into the boy’s ear.
Luca shook, and half-turned, but cleared his throat. “Would you like to go to the festival with me?” he asked.
