Cryden reached into his pocket and pulled out an octogonal yet, it likely being more money than the girl would see in a month. He spun it across his fingers deftly, and it disappeared in his hands before he pulled it from behind the bar maiden’s ear. She squealed in delight—whether from the coin trick or the size of the coin, Meri wasn’t sure. She reached for the coin and Cryden whispered something in her ear. The girl paled and shook her head. Cryden said something more fiercely, and the girl bit her lip before turning sharply and walking toward the kitchen. She left the big yet behind.
“Now what?” Meri asked.
“Now?” He poured each of them a bit of wine, swirling his around and taking a sip. “Now, we wait.”
***
They didn’t have to wait long.
Merigold had finished two cups of that fantastic Rafónese wine and was feeling a bit light-headed, particularly as her stomach was empty; that bar maiden had never come back with food. In fact, Meri didn’t see her anywhere in the Lonely Mast. Merigold ran her fingers along the end of her tightly-bound braid, the alcohol exacerbating her anxiety.
Cryden didn’t speak with her while they waited. They’d spoken little, truth be told, on their trip to Enowl. Once she’d recovered enough to ride, he had gotten her a pony and they’d ridden single file throughout most days, skirting around any major settlements and resting often. He had seemed distracted, lost in thought or lost in the magic. He was a cautaton, after all, a person who could sense miernes. He’d once explained to her that perceiving such miernes was a constant experience, something that he could not dampen. People with this ability often went insane before being discovered by one of the orders of pasnes alna.
Perhaps now he was lost in magic again, so quiet he was. By appearances, though, he simply enjoyed his wine and absentmindedly watching the dancers, one of which had completely given up the pantomime of dancing and just leaned against the wall, zoning out or high on kerena.
Merigold had just begun zoning out herself when a man, his face wrapped in a carmine-colored scarf, emerged behind Cryden and roughly grabbed his arm. Merigold almost jumped to her feet, but Cryden didn’t react. He only lazily turned his head.
“Shall we speak in private?” he asked, unperturbed. The man grunted from behind his bright scarf, releasing Cryden’s arm and gesturing him to stand, his hand resting on the hilt of a hapler at his belt. As Cryden rose, Merigold followed his example, and both were herded to a small door in the back of the bar.
The storage room was exactly what Merigold would have expected—a small, cramped room with shelves full of dried goods and cooking necessities. What she wouldn’t have expected was the false floor beneath the table. The man pointed into the hole, still apparently unwilling to speak. Merigold wasn’t surprised with the rudeness. What could one expect from criminals?
Without hesitation, Cryden grabbed the ledge and descended via rungs affixed to the side of the vertical tunnel. Meri, on the other hand, faltered for a moment. More than faltered, in fact. Dear fucking Yetra, this hole the ground… the darkness was terrifyingly familiar. Dripping water echoed in her brain and she felt a rising panic, building up juxtaposed urges to both flee this place and fling herself into the blackness.
Someone touched her arm and she whipped around, seeing Saren. Wait, was it Saren? Maybe Paul? She started to quest, to sense his maenen. She prepared to draw, to fight, to do whatever it took to stay out of that hole, that prison, and took a deep breath and met the eyes of her assailant.
But the man just stood there, pointing impatiently at the hole in the ground. He scratched at his scarf, likely over-warm. Merigold was in the the Lonely Mast.
She was in control. She had to be.
With a deep breath, she swung her feet over the edge and climbed down into tunnel, noticing almost immediately that it was not so dark as it had appeared in her head. In fact, it was downright cheery, so much light filtered into the chute.
“Took your time. Making kisses with our guide?” Cryden asked, sardonically raising an eyebrow.
Merigold didn’t respond, but shot him a dark look. They were in, as she would have expected, a cellar. But, it was the most extravagant cellar that Meri had ever seen. Perhaps it was the most extravagant cellar in all of Ardia. All of the world, even.
The room felt as spacious as the tavern above, and on one end, spanning the entire wall, stood a latticed wine rack, containing bottles from what must have been every country in the world. On the other end, paintings covered the wall—works of art depicting famous battles, heroes of Ardia, and scapes from lands Merigold could only guess at. A great wooden table—a single piece that Meri could not imagine fitting down that hole they’d entered by—was covered in the finest foods, as well, including roasted pheasant, fruits from over the sea, and so on.
There were five people sitting around the table, too—four men and one woman, all staring at Meri, Cryden, and their silent, scarf-covered guide who’d entered behind them. The room remained completely silent as they were scrutinized. Somehow, their scrutiny was more frightening than the hapler at the belt of the man who’d guided them down the hole.
“Well, what do we have here? Few have the appropriate codes to find our lowly cellar,” commented the woman sitting at the head of the table. She was not lovely; rather, Merigold would have categorized her as beefy. She had wide arms, but not the sort that carried much muscle. Her hair was cropped short in the style of many Enowlers; many worked with fish and sought to keep their various guts and slimes out of their hair. Surprisingly, the woman was not as richly dressed as Meri would have expected given the surroundings, although rich clothes would not have suited her.
“Are you the executor of Enowl, then? Resia the Blade?” asked Cryden, arms folded and his stance slightly askew.
“My reputation is confined to a relatively small circle. Perhaps you should enlighten us before Burnt Ernie there has reason to draw his blade.”
Burnt Ernie? That would explain the low-fashioned scarf.
“I need a ship to take us to Rafón. Immediately,” Cryden returned, his tone imperious.
The people at the table shifted uncomfortably and one of the men rose, reaching for a sword draped over his chair, suspended by a belt.
“You are evading the executor’s question. And, no one makes demands of The House!” The speaker—a lithe, muscular man—drew his sword smoothly and stepped forward with confidence. Merigold stepped back, bumping into Burnt Ernie, who laid a rough hand on her shoulder.
Cryden, however, was unmoved. He slowly strolled forward to the end of the great table, making no threatening gesture. There, he reached into a pocket and the swordsman stepped forward warily, leveling his weapon at Cryden’s throat. Cryden glared at the swordsman for a long moment, and the confident man seemed to waiver, his sword arm slowly sinking until his arm hung limply.
Cryden reached into his pocket and tossed a bit of metal onto the table with a clang. Meri strained forward to see what it was—was that a seven-pointed star? Crafted from white gold?
There was silence in the room.
“Where did you get that?” Resia asked, seemingly perturbed. “I know all bearers of the gold heptagram in Ardia, and you are not one of them.”
“Perhaps, I do not hail from Ardia. Or, perhaps I killed one of the previous bearers.” The room darkened, and Cryden seemed to tower over all in the room. A sick feeling of apprehension, of just-restrained violence, filled the cellar. The air seemed to have been sucked out of the space, and the people around the table shrank into their chairs.
“A wild one? Your tricks will not work here.” Resia snapped her fingers, and the feeling lessened, though it did not vanish. The men at the table seemed to regain their composure and all began to rise, reaching for weapons. The swordsman began to raise his sword, though he moved as if underwater.
Merigold felt Burnt Ernie tense behind her, and she began to quest. She could sense the maenen of all of the people in the room save Cryden. Even Ern
ie, though she could not physically see him. She began to snake her hand toward where his rested on her shoulder. She had to touch him to draw his lifeforce.
And then Cryden threw back his head and laughed. “You think me a wild one? A metsikas like you? And I thought the executor of The House would be more knowledgeable about the world. And be more reluctant to show her own powers to a pasnes alna of Agricorinor.” He held out one hand and a blue flame formed above it, throwing heat all around the room. Merigold shivered through her sudden sweat. How was he drawing without touching anyone? And, that power!
Resia beckoned her men to sit down, and they did so with alacrity. A pasnes alna in Ardia was enough to turn their legs to jelly, even though they had their own metsikas. Cryden cupped his other hand over the blue flame and it disappeared, the temperature in the cellar returning immediately to its base. It still felt too warm to Merigold, though. Stifling, in fact.
“Perhaps we should start over from the beginning?” asked Cryden, spreading his arms.
Resia took a deep breath, reaching under her shirt and revealing her own steel heptagram, dangling from a chain.
“Greetings, sir. What can The House do for you?” Resia’s voice had dripped with sarcasm.
“Much better,” Cryden said, speaking as a parent chastising a child. “Meri, shall we have a seat?”
Merigold pulled away from Burnt Ernie and sat in the proffered chair.
“And who is this one? Too young to be a pasnes alna,” Resia remarked, eying Merigold with something like distaste.
“You are likely in the know regarding all things criminal in Hunesa, correct? Recall Ferl’s Company, the mercenary band? She was the reason they left so quickly.”
Resia did not appear impressed. “Are you telling me that this little blonde stabbed two men to death, and then splattered another all over the walls?”
“You have such little faith in my word, Resia the Blade. Merigold, perhaps you would like to show us your power? Perhaps Burnt Ernie wouldn’t mind?” Cryden suggested with his typical half-smile. Merigold turned and reached toward the man, flashing her own imitation of Cryden’s smile. Burnt Ernie made a throaty grunting sound and hopped back in a hurry.
The executor of The House in Enowl sighed. “Alright, enough posturing. You obviously have the better of me in this situation. So, you need a boat?”
“A ship, my dear lady,” Cryden corrected her. Merigold barely restrained rolling her eyes.
“A ship.” Resia’s voice was flat. “You know, there are no ships leaving the harbor right now. A war is on.”
“Certainly, I must believe that The House is not limited by the laws of men, nor their petty wars.” Cryden poured himself some wine, the currant liquid flowing into his glass. He offered some to Meri, but she waved it away. The Sestrian red she’d had before was gurgling in her stomach, and adding to it might have disastrous results.
“Indeed, the reach of The House is limitless. But such arrangements will take some time.” Resia glanced at the swordsman who had earlier threatened Cryden. The lithe fighter was the best dressed in the room, wearing a black and silver silk coat, its material so lightweight that it must have cost a fortune. His jet-black hair was oiled back in the most modern style, and he had the easy confidence of a lord.
He shook his head firmly, meeting Resia’s eyes.
“No time. We need to leave immedia—” Cryden dropped his wine glass, spilling wine on one of the men and speckling Meri with the red liquid. His eyes grew vacant and distracted, and his face fell as slack as that of a corpse.
“What is wrong with him? It’s isn’t a pox, is it?” asked the wine-splattered man as he twisted away from Cryden in a hurry.
“Nothing. Magic is nearby,” Meri answered with dry lips, needing to fill the silence. Dear fucking Yetra, what could she do without Cryden? He must be perceiving powerful miernes nearby to have lost himself like this! She’d seen this before, on their journey. But why now?
She saw Resia glance at the man closest to her—a skinny, reptilian man. He reached into an inner pocket and pushed back his chair. Cryden was still non-responsive, even as the feeling of danger cut through the room. These people were criminals and killers, and with their main threat seemingly incapacitated, they would be quick to move.
Merigold began to quest, seeking the maenen of those occupying this lavish cellar. But, if she were to manage to kill these people—adding them to her list of victims—how would they reach Rafón?
So few problems can be solved with violence.
Swallowing her earlier impulse, Merigold waved a hand arrogantly as if nothing was amiss. “As my associate was saying, we need to leave immediately. Agricorinor awaits our return, and, as you know, they will not be denied.” Merigold hoped her voice sounded confident. Her stomach was a hot stone, and her heart fluttered like a hummingbird. She also hoped that Agricorninor—the order of pasnes alna to which Cryden belonged—had some weight in this circle. Her companion had said so precious little about their final destination, and Merigold had been so distracted anyhow.
The reptilian man hesitated, looking to his leader. Resia herself seemed unsure. Merigold needed to capitalize on this uncertainty.
“Furthermore, we require a protection detail from The House, of six of your more skilled men who will escort us to the gates of Agricorinor. Trusted men, of course, who will be well-rewarded upon arrival, as will you.”
Everyone in the room—save for Cryden, who remained lost to the world—had their eyes locked on Merigold. The short hairs on the back of her neck were soaked in perspiration and sticking to her collar. But, she tried not to look away from Resia. Absently, she wondered how the bulky woman had received her nickname, the Blade.
Still, no one said anything.
Merigold had never liked speaking to groups. She always preferred to listen. And, she had learned from her father Ragen that filling a silence was a poor negotiation technique. He’d traded with people from all over the four duchies, and been recognized as a shrewd dealer. He’d typically ended up better off in any trade, and would have been quite wealthy, indeed, had he not been so generous. Meri had often wished that he would instead be a little more greedy and retire, taking care of his own health instead of others. She’d never fully agreed with his generosity… but she had understood his lessons.
So, Meri said nothing and only waited, resisting the urge to reach under her blouse and grip her small knife, her charm. She stared at a spot between Resia’s eyebrows so she wouldn’t have to look into the woman’s eyes.
After what seemed like an eternity, Resia cleared her throat.
“We will need tomorrow to plan, but it will be done. Captain Jakys, it looks like your route for tomorrow night has changed. Prepare your ship and gather your crew. Quietly, of course.”
Captain Jakys, the man in silver and black, gave Resia an incredulous look, his mouth hanging open as if he wanted to argue. Resia glared, and the man gulped.
“It will be as you request, Resia. Assuming this man… recovers… in time.” Jakys spoke like a noble, but evidently he was a ship captain. To Meri’s untrained eyes, he looked Sestrian—dark hair, tan complexion, and with a hooked nose.
“Oh, I am quite well. Thank you for your concern,” Cryden said, speaking as if he hadn’t just missed five very dangerous minutes. “Shall we mark our alliance with a drink?” Cryden picked up the bottle of wine and offered some to Meri. This time, she did not wave the bottle away.
He gave Merigold a small, secret smile as he filled her glass with the crimson wine.
Chapter 5
Morning came rapidly, as it often does when one lays down one’s head only a couple of hours before sunrise.
Nonetheless, Merigold was brimming with energy. Having successfully survived the ordeal with the executor and her various lackeys beneath the Lonely Mast on her own, she felt prepared to do anything. She could overcome the ghosts that had been haunting her. She could survive the long trip through rough seas and fo
reign lands to Agricorinor. She could learn about her powers, her ability to draw maenen. And, perhaps she could find a way to fulfill her desperate promise to herself.
For the first time in a long time, she prayed an ardent prayer of thanks to Yetra, who she suspected might be giving her strength after all.
Meri dressed in an ash-gray blouse with a cobalt scarf to highlight her sapphire studs. She held her tiny knife—a long, bent nail with its cloth-wrapped handle stained brown with blood—for a moment before stuffing it under her blouse. Having the weapon touching her skin made her feel safe. Even with her powers, it brought her a sense of security she couldn’t truly give voice to.
She finished packing her clothes and went to meet Cryden in the common room of the tiny Enowler inn. The place was on the better side of town, but that wasn’t saying much when Enowl was a stinking, sinking marsh populated by folks who had the fortitude or poor taste to ignore their own living conditions. This nameless inn was nothing like her Duckling. There was no pride in ownership. No extra polish on the bar, but dust and grime in the corners, and the fireplace was heaped with the ash of nights past. The proprietor—a greasy, balding man with the frightening smile of a predator—was aloof and inattentive, and the food was sub-par, if Meri was being generous.
Truly, she would never find another Duckling.
“My dear lady, you seem almost cheerful this morning,” Cryden greeted her, already sitting at a small table in the common space. The long evening seemed to have worn him down to the nubs. His eyes were heavy, and his usually pristine clothing was wrinkled as if he had gone back to bed after getting dressed. His face lacked his signature sardonic smile.
“You, my dear man, look the opposite,” said Meri, her eyes twinkling and a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
Cryden sighed, exhaustion practically leaking from him. “There are strong forces at work nearby. Even had we had enough night to sleep, I would have been unable.”
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