Holes in the Veil

by Beth Overmyer

  After they had dined on their simple fare, Aidan got to his feet and climbed down from the rocks, holding out a hand to help Slaíne down.

  She smirked and flew off the rubble like it was nothing. “Are we safe walkin’ on the banks now?”

  Aidan nodded. “Just try to walk on rocks when you are able. Or you could always—” He made a gesture that indicated flight. They moved toward the woods. “I’m not overly concerned about being pursued this far. We’re outside of Breckstone here. Anyone chasing us has either given up or gone back for reinforcements.” He wasn’t sure that was true, and there were possibly hunting dogs to contend with. Still, there was nothing he could do about it and, therefore, there was no reason to worry Slaíne.

  The look on her face told him she didn’t trust all of his words, but she said nothing more on that score.

  At this time, the sun had reached its highest point in the sky and begun its descent. And though the air held the promise of summer, Aidan knew from the clear sky that the night would be cold. “There is a small town a few miles east of here. Grensworth. We should reach it before nightfall.”

  Slaíne was already shaking her head. “But folks is knowin’ that you’re in the area. Won’t they be lookin’ in towns nearby?” She was right, but they needed a place to rest their heads and study the maps that he had taken from Dewhurst’s manor, and he told her as much.

  “I thought you was done with the Goblets.”

  “So did I,” he admitted as they crashed into the woods, steering the path farther east. He had been through with them, having discovered his parents murdered, and apparently by Meraude’s hand. That Meraude would enlist his help in finding the Goblets Immortal made no sense to Aidan, but her involvement could not be denied, not after Dewhurst’s alliance to her had come to light. “But if we’re going to kill Meraude, having possession of the Goblets Immortal is the best chance of gaining an advantage.”

  “Do ya think she might have a few?”

  Aidan shrugged. “I doubt that she does. Why would she send me after the Questing Goblet if she already had the other Goblets?” He paused for a moment to look for familiar landmarks in the form of large rocks and certain trees. Satisfied that they were on the right course, he started walking again. “She seems to want the Questing Goblet most. That would give her success in finding the others.”

  Slaíne made a scoffing sound. “If that’s how the Goblets’ magic works, even.”

  He let that remark go. Arguing would get them nowhere quickly. “Let’s worry about that bridge when it’s time to cross to it, yes?”

  “If you say so, sir.”

  Birds chirruped overhead. Mist cloaked the travelers’ steps as they walked, making the way more treacherous. Slaíne Drifted a few times, pushing off the ground to avoid anything the mist might be hiding from them. Aidan used his ability to sense Pulls in order to avoid bracken, roots, and rock, though it took more concentration than he would have liked to use, the Pulls not being as substantial as others and thus requiring more skill to detect.

  Eventually he became drenched from the mist and sweat. What might have been a sunny day out in the open had turned into a cold and damp one below the tree cover, and its effects were more pronounced every time they took a rest. If only he could Dismiss the water from their clothes. That would solve his problem. They stopped for only short periods of time, just long enough to eat a handful of berries each, and to slake their thirst. The red fruit the Romas had procured for them the other night was bitter and hard. “Must have been picked too early,” Aidan murmured. He’d thought it early for starberries, so he guessed they had been grown in a hothouse.

  “How much farther?” Slaíne gasped after they’d gone two hours without resting. “Is there anythin’ else to eat?” As if to punctuate her point, her stomach roared at them both.

  He had felt human Pulls on and off for the last two miles – faint Pulls traveling parallel to them on either side. Now he and Slaíne stumbled onto a well-traveled dirt road, worn with hoof prints and wheel tracks. “Grensworth isn’t far,” he said, looking around before Summoning a hunk of bread and handing it to the girl. “I can feel hundreds of human Pulls now, so I’m assuming we’re within five miles.”

  Slaíne tore into the bread with vigor and, after a time, handed him the other half. Through a mouthful of crust she said, “We’ll use dif’rent names again, yes?”

  Aidan did not remind her that it had not worked so well the last time they had tried, but nodded. “Keep your name, if you like. Remember—”

  “The less made up, the easier to remember?”

  He smirked. “Yes, or something like that.”

  With the town nearing, their steps quickened, and the more uncomfortable Aidan became. Living life as a nomad on the outskirts of society for nigh twenty years had made him antisocial. If this town was like any other he had experienced, there would be customs to contend with and maybe even small talk. He shuddered at the thought.

  After a quarter of an hour, the human Pulls became more pronounced. The pair passed a few travelers on the road who were headed in the opposite direction to them. None made direct eye contact, much to Aidan’s relief. Looking – and perhaps smelling – like peasants had its advantages: people might regard them with suspicion, but only if they deigned to regard them at all.

  The road broadened as they walked, and soon a gate came into view, though it was rusted and dangled from its hinges. Slaíne walked a little closer to him than was perhaps necessary. “What happened here?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know,” Aidan replied. “Poor towns can hardly afford to keep up their entryways, I suppose.”

  Slaíne snorted. “Seems stupid and unsafe.”

  Aidan shrugged and quickened his pace. He hadn’t heard anything bad about Grensworth, other than it was small and cheap…as if those were truly bad things. For a moment he paused at the gate, taking in several wanted posters pinned to a community notice board. Thankfully, there were no notices for either him or Slaíne – at least, not yet. He wondered if rumors were flying back in Breckstone. For their sakes, he hoped something new soon would occupy idle thoughts, something more exciting than sightings of a wanted man. “If anyone asks,” he said after a moment, “we’re from the north. Do not mention my hometown.”

  “Wasn’t plannin’ on it,” she countered, though not crossly. She grabbed at her side. “Gotta pang.”

  “We’ll find lodging soon. Then you can rest your pang.”

  The crowds weren’t much to speak of as they made their way onto a cobbled inner road. Men and women peddled their wares between worn-down and empty buildings, catcalling Slaíne, who stood out from the others with her flaming red hair. Fortunately, she did not rise to take the bait, but balled her fists at her side and quickened her steps with a tight expression on her face.

  It took them ten minutes of walking to find the first inn, and it would have been hard to miss. The purple-painted building stood three stories tall and boasted a wraparound porch and two balconies. Several men sat in rocking chairs out front, smoking and watching passersby. None seemed overly concerned with the two strangers approaching.

  “‘The Spinning Cup’?” Slaíne muttered. “What sort of name is that?”

  Aidan did not care, just as long as they served hot food and had locks on their doors. Two of the men removed their hats when Slaíne walked past, and it seemed to surprise her so much that she stopped watching where she was going and ran right into Aidan.

  The two men laughed, and then went back to smoking their pipes as the travelers stepped inside.

  “We would like a room with two beds,” Aidan said to the innkeeper, a plump woman who looked to be in her seventies.

  She stared at him with shrewd blue eyes as if determining whether or not she could trust him, and leaned in to say, “There be a two-night stay fee. Pay up front.”

 
When else he would pay was beyond Aidan, but he pulled his money pouch out of the sack still hanging from his belt, and began counting out what he thought was a decent amount of coins. When she held out her hand and took the money, she then proceeded to hold out her other palm, as if expecting more. “How much?” Aidan asked, unmoved.

  The woman licked her papery lips and murmured something about hot meals and baths. Then she gave him a price – another seven of the coins he had already given her – and pocketed what she had already.

  Aidan shook his head. “Hot food tomorrow, no baths.”

  The woman wrinkled up her nose and murmured something about smelling them both from where she stood. Finally, she brought the price down to four more coins, which Aidan handed over. “Welcome to the Spinning Cup. Top floor, first room on the left.” She gave them a tile to hang next to their door. “Dinner is served before sunset.” After a moment of fumbling in her apron pocket, she produced a small square of soap and slapped it into Aidan’s palm. “Here, it’s free.”

  He pocketed the heavily perfumed soap, mustered his manners to thank the woman, and then he and Slaíne tramped up the stairs behind her to the left. They passed two people who were on the way down, and judging by the scarcity of tiles hanging next to doors, those two were the only others who had rooms at the moment.

  “I s’pose there’s bedbugs,” Slaíne said darkly. “Expensive bedbugs.”

  Aidan made no comment. The rate had been outrageous, but they were in no position to complain; they needed rest and respite from the events of the day. He hesitated outside the first door on the left, slipped the tile into its hanger, and walked inside the room. It was perfectly ordinary. And, thank any powers that might be above, there were two beds.

  “Right,” Aidan said, throwing the bolt into place after Slaíne had made it in behind him. He walked over to the bed nearest the door and Summoned all the papers and oilskins that he kept in Nothingness, and swore. The maps had become confused in the great pile, which threatened to fall over onto the floor, so he hastened to divide it into four smaller ones.

  Slaíne’s Pull moved toward the fireplace that sat next to the window. “I’ll start a fire.”

  “Wait a moment,” Aidan said, not looking up from his work. He Summoned the flint and magnesium stick and tossed them over to her. “Here. Send no sparks in this direction, mind. The whole stack is just waiting to go up in flames.”

  She grunted in response and began breaking sticks. Soon the smell of burned leaves filled the air, followed at once by cursing.

  “Don’t cut your fingers off.” Aidan did not turn from the task at hand, never mind how colorful the vocabulary behind him was becoming.

  Most of the first stack of documents contained business information from Dewhurst’s dishonest dealings in Breckstone. Those were of little interest to Aidan now, so he Dismissed them and moved on to the next stack. The top handful of papers here were varied: some were lists of debts and debtors in the area, others receipts from businesses that had long since ceased to exist, but the last few papers were covered in handwritten children’s rhymes. “Why would Dewhurst hold on to these?” Aidan puzzled over one page and realized these so-called rhymes were none that he had ever heard as a child.

  Cervain the Cunning

  Took off fast running,

  For of his blood folk wanted to drink.

  Killed him plus four,

  The likes seen no more.

  Cervain, not so Cunning, you’d think.

  Aidan read it once more with a shudder. Were all children’s rhymes so unpalatable? He recalled one about a drowning bat, but it did not produce the strong feelings that this one did. “Slaíne,” he said after some time, once the fire was crackling in the grate. “Do you know any children’s rhymes?”

  She laughed. “What? Me?”

  Aidan waited.

  “’Course not. Never was no child – least, not after Treevain and her lot took me.” Treevain had been the eldest – and perhaps meanest – of the four elves that used to be Slaíne’s mistresses. Slaíne would have escaped them, had a curse not been placed upon her, preventing her from being more than several yards away from whomever she called master. Now Aidan had taken on that role, though he wished he could set her free, which is perhaps why Slaíne continued to insist on calling him sir.

  “So the elves never told you any rhymes?”

  The look she gave him could have withered a grape on its vine. “They told me rhymes, all right. Rhymes about what might ’appen to me if I did nay put a hurry in my step. Why ask me?”

  “Because,” Aidan said with a sigh, “you are – well, you used to always be singing.”

  Slaíne only shrugged in response and went back to poking the flames with the iron poker, though she seemed to be using the hem of her skirt so her fingers would not touch the metal directly.

  “Why would Dewhurst have a collection of children’s rhymes in his house?” Aidan flipped to the next paper, which contained another rhyme about Cervain.

  One was let to slip away

  Five others died before their day

  Cervain, the last

  No one’s surpassed

  His might to charge unto the fray.

  This made no sense. Granted, Dewhurst had had a child once upon a time – a child that he had murdered. Would she have enjoyed these songs? Did little girls like to hear stories about vampires and wars? He opened his mouth to ask Slaíne, but thought the better of it; she already seemed to be in a mood.

  Sorting through the rest of the second, taller pile produced a mixture of receipts and more morbid poetry that spoke of Cervain, and others of ‘the Slippery Fiend’, who was always getting in and out of difficult situations. The latter Aidan only glanced through, as they were partially written in a language that he recognized as belonging to the Northern Isles. He’d never bothered studying those foreign tongues, and had had no dealings with anyone from outside of the country’s mainland. Other names and titles came to his attention as he read: Melnine, Edell, and ‘the Tight Fist’, who was reputed to be at odds with ‘the Slippery One’.

  Aidan scratched the back of his neck. He was missing something, something vital…unless the words were all ramblings of a madman. “Highly likely,” he muttered.

  “Huh?” Slaíne’s Pull moved nearer. “What’re you lookin’ at?” She was so close he could feel the warmth of her breath seeping through his collar.

  He closed his eyes and thought very cold thoughts. “I can’t make any sense of these children’s riddles,” he ground out after a moment, deciding that raging would be a better course of action than what he had been thinking about a moment before. Keep your mind on what matters, Aidan.

  The girl reached around him to grab one of the papers, her hand brushing his ribs. She seemed oblivious to his turmoil, as she did not jump back at once in order to put a proper distance between them. “These are in Abrish.”

  Aidan sighed, and only then did she move back. His insides hurt at the sudden distance, but he shook himself and said, “I thought as much.”

  “Wait a minute,” she said after a moment of study.

  He turned to her. “You recognize some words?”

  Slaíne hushed him and squinted at the paper. “These aren’t no children’s songs, Mr. Aidan.” The maddening girl was quiet then, studying the rest of the paper and then reaching to pick up more.

  “You can read Abrish?” he asked.

  “’Course. The elves made me learn.” The fire spat out sparks at the hem of her dress, which smoked as she cursed and stomped out the glow. Still she did not take her eyes off the papers. “My reading’s poor,” she said after some time, her dress charred in places. “But these riddles are clues.”

  “Clues?”

  She snorted. “That’s what I said, innit? Not all of them, mind. Some are a history of sorts. Others have g
ot to be make-believe. Fairy stories.”

  “What makes you say so?” Aidan asked, starting in on the third and tallest stack of papers and oilskins.

  “Because some of these things are nay possible.”

  Aidan raised an eyebrow at her, a challenge. “Come now, Slaíne. I can Summon and you can fly. Many things are possible.”

  Slaíne let out a laugh that came off as more of a snort. “I don’t remember hearing about no seven wizards ruling the land with an iron hand.” She scoffed. “The elves always said wizards left these shores an age and a day ago – did nay want nothin’ to do with humans and other magic-kind.”

  “Wait,” Aidan said, putting down the papers he had lifted and approaching her for the ones she had taken from him. “So they’re talking about wizards?”

  “I dunno,” she admitted, holding the papers away from him. “Very well could be. Or could be about dragons.”

  He glared at her and dove for the documents. “Now who’s being fanciful?”

  She stuck out her tongue and handed back the papers. “Here. Lemme know if you find anythin’ useful.” Now she was just provoking him. He saw that familiar fire in her eyes, recognized the hunger that must be mirroring his own.

  Aidan shuddered. Two rooms would have been a better idea…. He refused to take the bait; he needed to keep a clear, focused mind. “Care to open the window?” he said, keeping his tone casual.

  “I just lit a fire,” she snapped.

  Aidan shrugged and turned his back to her. “Suit yourself.” He busied himself. “I might need you to translate some more later. First I’m going to look for the map.”

  “You lost it again?”

  He bristled but ignored the implication of carelessness on his part. As if he could keep everything in order in Nothingness. What was he? A maid? Muttering to himself, Aidan closed his eyes and tried to recall what the map’s Pull had felt like to him. Then, satisfied that he had a good impression of it, he located a similar Pull and Called it out of the pile, making certain that the papers left behind on the bed did not scatter. “Got you,” he said, grasping the map. Aidan frowned as he spied a riddle where there should have been a legend. “More rhymes?” He read it once aloud, his heart thudding hard in his chest: