by Wade Ebeling
Snapping out of his bemusement, Marcus left his new comforts behind and moved on to confront the unfamiliar. By using a spell learned during a woodland survival course, his bare feet instantly warmed the freezing stone floor, leaving small wafts of steam wherever he had tread. The pervasive cold of the underground cavern greedily swallowed up these dollops of magical warmth, quickly erasing all trace of his passing. The eternal flame was not able to spread the full brunt of its heat this far back into the complex, so Marcus stopped briefly to press his hands against the sides of an archway, warming them in the same fashion.
The melodious sound of Catherine singing an Irish folk song stopped Marcus short of the common room. He smiled and closed his eyes to bask in the familiar sound. Every student found their own way of passing the innumerable hours spent doing all the menial chores expected of them. It would be safe to say that few of these respites were as beautiful as Catherine’s. One verse was all it took for Marcus to accept that, despite having tried numerous times to convince himself otherwise, he was still in love with her.
Catherine had made baked eggs with onions and sausage for breaking fast, sided by toasted and buttered slices of the three-grain bread prepared the day before. After sitting, Marcus drank some cider and thanked her for preparing the meal. They ate in virtual silence. Occasionally, their eyes would meet, forcing them to sheepishly grin at one another. She wore her long hair up in a loose bun, revealing how sheer her shift was with a few lights behind her. He wore the same dingy shirt and a stooped posture, head down, trying to hide his memorization of her facial features.
As the sound of clattering silverware slowed, the end of the meal now inevitable, Catherine tried to break the tension. “I saw your workbench …” she said, mindlessly moving the remnants of her eggs around.
“Oh, I meant to clean that up. I mean … last night … I was just worn thin…” Marcus managed to reply, forcing the beginnings of a chuckle.
“That’s not what I meant. I don’t think anyone here cares about that trifle anymore. It just … well, it looked like a lot of work.” Catherine locked her gaze, obviously trying to pay him a compliment.
Standing and beginning to clear the table, Marcus laughed, the noise sounding hollow and fake to his ears. “It seems that you have been keeping yourself quite busy as well,” he chided good-naturedly.
She squinted her eyes and smiled knowingly in reply.
Continuing with some difficulty, Marcus blurted, “I just wanted to thank you for the clothing … As well as for … I guess, just for everything. I slept really well …”
Dismissing his sentiment with an aloof wave, Catherine changed subjects. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about … why I never … You see, what Master Thressor tasked me with was horribly … I never wanted to …” Her eyebrows furrowed in a pained expression. The totality of her power and charm over him slipped away momentarily, leaving Marcus to gaze at the mental agony he was causing her by being generally obtuse these days past.
“How about I just assume that it was something of importance? I do not want you to betray Master Grenaldt’s trust … You do not owe me any explanations as to why you did what you did. I’m sure you had your reasons.” While Marcus’ tone was full of forgiveness, but he was really begging her to accept his atonement for having ever doubted her.
“He told me it was important. I tried very hard to … I rather lost myself there for a while. But, seeing Master again … this place …” Looking up, she spoke her true feelings with just one more word, “You.”
Silence descended again. Each wanted to say so much more to clarify their position. Sadly, neither knew how or where to begin. The air was obviously on the way to clearing between them, time and raw nerves keeping the interaction awkward. Marcus took a chance and gently squeezed her shoulder. Catherine turned her head, grabbed his fingers gently and kissed his scratched knuckles, no longer trusting herself to look at him directly for fear of freeing the welling tears. He understood her angst and her meaning, despite it not having been vocalized.
Attempting to be chivalrous, and to give them a moment to compose, Marcus took the soiled dishes to the kitchen and gave them a half-hearted washing. He took it upon himself to organize two parcels stuffed with rations, placing a third portion in the larder for Grenaldt to find later. Wiping down the counters and sweeping the worn stone floor gave him ample time to realize that these might well be the last hours he spent in the Stone Sanctuary. Forcibly shaking away the growing sense of melancholy and with no further reasons to stall, Marcus made his way back out to the common room.
Catherine had not moved since his parting. When she saw Marcus emerge, whatever internal debate she was having got shelved. Smiling at him, she stood as dignifiedly as possible. They stared at each another in mute understanding of what was about to happen. The giggling started when neither could find the right words to articulate how strange of a situation they found themselves in.
“Well, shall we?” Marcus eventually sighed, swinging his arm behind in a half-curtsy, offering her to take the lead toward the baths.
Composing herself by straightening imaginary creases in her shift, Catherine asked, “Any chance we could use some of that new salve that I saw on your bench? I dare say, I do not relish using that moldy jar in the baths. I’m certain it is still in use, is it not?”
“It, most sadly, is. I believe that it has become just another part of the ‘trials’.”
They started giggling again.
“I will gather the … necessary fixin’s, if you would be so kind as to stoke the furnace for us,” Catherine drawled coyly.
“Sure, sure,” Marcus replied smartly, completely taken aback by the way she had emphasized ‘us’.
Marcus bowed deeply, eyes to the floor. When he looked up, Catherine had begun to turn away. He took the opportunity to marvel at the outline of her ample bosom, then at her bottom as it jiggled ever so gently with each step.
Catherine felt his gaze, condescendingly calling out, “Go on,” while waving her hand sideways.
Caught dead-to-rights, Marcus spun away, shooting down the twisting stairs to the boiler room beneath the baths and kitchen. Throwing a few pieces of reinforced coal into the furnace before topping off the water level by using a series of cantilevers and heated stone basins. After trying and failing to completely expunge the wolfish grin from his face, Marcus headed back up.
The bath house had changing rooms and a large sauna near the entrance. Beyond these amenities was the cold plunge pool, where Marcus dropped his soiled shirt before gingerly stepping into the brisk water. A meter and a half deep, the frosty liquid tore the breath from his lungs while he slowly splashed across its length, completely submerging several times. Just beyond the steps on the other side was the first of the heated rooms, the shallower water here was partially warmed from the hypocaust system below. This pool was semi-circular and funneled bathers back toward the front of the complex. Where these first two rooms were sparse by comparison, the great bath looked most grand with its fluted columns and fountains ringing the outer walkway of the vaulted room. The sweltering water here held submerged benches in niches near numerous egresses. Ornate murals dotted the walls and ceiling, each depicting a different moment of the Builder’s veiled past.
Nearly three meters deep in the middle, Marcus swam past the diving stone to one of side alcoves, which allowed him to keep an eye on the back archway. He positioned himself this was in hopes of catching a glimpse of Catherine as she entered. Beads of sweat formed on his brow, while the aches in his muscles subsided and the anguish in his heart grew. What was about to take place seemed surreal. So much of his life had been devoted to the betterment of the school and the implementation of its teachings that Marcus had zero experience with the fairer sex. The one exception being a drunken smooching session with a portly bar maid. Despite the heated water up to his ears, Marcus shivered in anticipation.
Catherine came into the room from the sauna side. Unbeknown
st to Marcus, the sound masked by the fountains spray, she quietly slid her naked frame into the hot water. Making her way around the inner edge of the giant bath without so much as a ripple, she concentrated on Marcus’ handsome face bobbing just above the water. As she crept up behind the lean man, all her long-standing concerns resolved instantaneously. She had missed him as much as he had her. It was sheer relief to learn that he had not been spoken for; something that had plagued her dreams. Both of their imaginings about the other were about to become reality. She gently laid her hand on his shoulder, giving him quite the start.
“God’s bones, Katie!” Marcus squeaked, spinning to find himself eye level with her breasts, nipples taut from the lapping water.
Without a word, Catherine straddled across his lap. Their eyes yelled about past fights, agreed to always cherish one another, cried with sympathy over pain endured and laughed at the absurdity of lost time. They kissed deeply, sealing what had silently been agreed to.
They made love in the truest sense.
Afterward, Catherine pushed Marcus ahead of her into the sauna where clean towels and an iron brand awaited. Glowing red hot amongst the enchanted river stones used to create steam, the particular brand that she had chosen for the occasion was an early-Samarian cuneiform character, its meaning translated as ‘with others’ or ‘together’. Keeping Marcus in front of her, Catherine quickly grabbed two towels, cloaking herself with one before gently dabbing his skin dry with the other.
She gave a thorough inspection to his dermis, rubbing salve upon his cuts and bruises whenever they were encountered. While most of these wounds had been gained during his battle with the Camaraderie’s Deacons down in Boston, she gave special attention to the seeping, self-inflicted burn on his left forearm, tightly wrapping it with mineral-steeped gauze. Conjuring a rough plinth for him to sit down on, she filed his finger and toe nails before shaving his scruff with a Novacila razor and giving a tidy trim to his flowing black hair.
Marcus had become aroused again while she brushed up against him. Catherine smiled lovingly, dragging her fingers across his chest as she stepped away. From behind him, the river rocks hissed as water was poured over them. A thick, obscuring steam billowed forth and filled the room. Looking over his shoulder, Marcus saw a floating orange orb approaching. He closed his eyes and tried desperately to cherish the momentary absence of pain, a particularly rare treat. This proved to be unmeasurably hard because his heart had been racing ever since the woman of his dreams joined him in the bath, causing him to suffer from, or perhaps relish in, a crazy jumble of emotions that refused to subside.
“It is time, my dearest Marcus. Please, try not to move,” Catherine dared, starting to massage his left deltoid muscle with her thumb.
Adhering to the travel ritual ensured that the participants were in good enough health to endure long distances and time, as it was created with sea travel in mind, and that they could call upon their power whenever needed. The pain accrued from a brand could sustain a Builders powers for weeks. Wanting desperately to impress, Marcus did not move as Catherine held the molten metal to his skin.
The river stones hissed again, the sound it made being eerily similar to that of his own flesh melting. A moment later, Catherine stood Marcus up and the two of them combined powers to morph the pedestal into the form of a low inclined chaise. She pulled him down on top of her, being very careful to not brush up against his fresh welt. They coupled more vigorously this time.
Laying intertwined in the afterglow, Marcus began his probing search of her flesh. She was in far better state than he. Marcus gave attention to some strange bruising on her wrists and to the abrasions across her hips and stomach where a cilice was worn, which replaced some of the cruder pain producing methods. Catherine’s girdle of choice was made of tightly-bound, rough sackcloth with thin wires protruding from the inside to irritate the skin a further degree. Mortification of the flesh in this manner produced, for some, a more consistent means of altering consciousness.
Curiously, Catherine’s fingers no longer showed the usual scars left by the trial brands. When Marcus asked about this, she made an off-hand remark about having drank some potent healing potion given to her by a friend of Master Grenaldt. Apparently, it had been so strong that every blemish on her skin had disappeared. Ever curious about the subject of potions, he tried to get more details from her. She refused to elaborate any further on the subject, despite his probing questions about whether or not she understood the difficulty involved in such alchemy.
As a rebuffed Marcus rubbed a second coat of salve around her abraded navel, savoring her ticklish flinches, he asked, “Would you kindly roll over?”
Catherine paused, then grabbed his hand, holding it firmly to stop further advance. “I think you have had enough fun, for now,” she sighed playfully, the overemphasis sounding somewhat reflexive.
“You wouldn’t want me to tell Master that you were being difficult, would you? I’m sure that he would want me to complete my duties. Besides, there is some more chafing around your sides that I cannot reach,” Marcus implored.
“Marcus …,” she breathed.
“Don’t worry yourself none. I’ll be good. Promise,” he stated, pulling her hand up to his heart.
“I just … I just don’t want you to be upset … It’s …,” Catherine sniffled.
“What?! What could possibly upset me right now? There’s nothing …,” Marcus said incredulously.
She put her finger over his lips, begging for his silence. “I’m ready for the mark now. Could we just get that part over with? I promise I will tell you afterward …”
Even with his curiosity piqued, Marcus did what was asked. He made his way over to the branding iron, twisting it slowly in and around the unnaturally hot stones. When he returned, Catherine was sitting, towel secured around her torso.
“Do you want it in the same spot as mine?” Marcus asked quietly.
Catherine gave him an amazing look, her teary eyes and joyful smile confirming more than just the question posed. She had already begun to brace herself, preventing Marcus from saying more. He gave his own welt a quick glance, so he could position the brand on her arm with perfect symmetry. She did not move, either.
Marcus returned the blistering iron to the pile of supplies that Catherine assembled earlier, its end still smoking with the flesh of his love. He spun to face her, ready to demand answers to questions he did not yet know. She understood his confusion and tried to allay his growing fear. Standing tall, Catherine faced away from Marcus and let the towel drop to the floor.
Across her milky back were the scars of past whippings. These were not the short-lived marks left by a wide leather popper, like those of the punishments doled out by Master Thressor. She had been scourged. Long, jagged scars stood out where her flesh had been brutally torn away.
CHAPTER 4
~ The Journey Begins ~
Catherine explained very little about the scars, citing Master Thressor as the only reason why she would not elaborate further. Marcus could tell by the trembles in her voice that he should not push the issue. She had already revealed more than intended, that much was obvious. All the questions that he now possessed could obviously wait for a more suitable time. There was still so much that she refused to share about her life and previous mission that, he hoped, the long road ahead might provide ample time to cautiously broach the subject again. With the ritual now complete and their feelings for one another properly expressed with sophomoric smiles and sensual kisses, Marcus and Catherine parted ways in the dormitory hallway.
As each new article of clothing was donned, Marcus gained further appreciation for Catherine. He was dazzled by her intelligence, her strength of will, her talent as a seamstress, her being the most beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes upon and, most importantly, her ability to circumvent all pretense by giving herself to him. There still lie some panic-inducing thoughts swimming below the surface of his consciousness, like he was playing a bi
t part in a con that ended with him as the patsy. Only serving to amplify this unsettling feeling was being dressed like the lord of an imaginary manor. Standing before a hammered-silver shaving mirror, tugging at tufted sleeves and wishing that tights were not quite so uncomfortable, Marcus thought he looked like a pretentious hanktelo, someone he and his mates might laugh at on the street.
Pulling a large flask from the worn leather pouch comforting his hip, Marcus attempted to steady his slowly fraying nerves with a long pull of blackberry brandy. After putting the great coat on, which stretched down to mid-calf, and donning the stiff hat, he walked out into the dormitory hallway. Finding himself alone and knowing better than to try and hurry Catherine along by calling out, he lit a pipe full and went to tidy up the work station.
A portable alchemy kit was assembled and added to his canvas backpack. The parts of this set included a brass calcinator, used to heighten the positive effects of a potion or oil, a three-chambered, pewter alembic for minimizing any negative effects and a thin-walled mortar and pestle for mixing multiple ingredients. After ensuring that the implements made no noise when jostled, a few of the restorative hydration and consumption tonics were stuffed into the great coats interior pockets. If a meal needed to be skipped, sipping on these would tide one over most adequately.
Marcus was far more careful when handling the unstable decoctions, all of which went into the appropriate sections of the leather pouch. If one of the trenching potions, made of ancient chemical stone-softening compounds, happened to drop on the solid floors of the school, a deep pit would instantly open wherever the viscus fluid splashed. However, when this same potion was flung along sand or soil, a long depression would appear that could be used as a hiding spot or defilade. Combining a saltpeter distillation with some enhanced charcoal of juniper root created the highly effective smoke potions. These could be used to obscure an entire battlefield, if need be.
