by J. McSpadden
The story sounded familiar to Camille, but it was like a dream or a half-buried memory. There was the sensation of recognition, but no concrete details Camille could cling to.
Huffing in frustration, Camille angled away from her friends. She had to be careful. It was one thing to show curiosity and intrigue, but it was another to show rage at their words. She couldn't be sure, but something boiling in her gut told her the Praetorians had never been an enemy of Aspera.
It took everything she had not to lash out in frustration over her amnesia about the past. Each new story of Aspera or the High King or the mistreatment of the villages reminded her of how little she really knew. How many memories and stories had been ripped from her mind? Who had she lost, or forgotten? It was unfair.
"What's so different about these Praetorians?" Camille asked, now fully invested in uncovering the truth.
Jacob narrowed his eyes, seeming to debate whether to respond. "They are superior. They have special abilities. But like Brian said, we really shouldn't be talking about them. It's forbidden."
Camille nodded slowly, trying to appear unaffected as her head spun with the new information.
Jacob gathered his pack in the sudden lull of conversation, and together they agreed to head back to town. "I bet you can understand now why our village is wary about outsiders and those who seem a bit unusual."
Camille ducked her head, immediately self-conscious. Her rapid healing abilities, magnified senses of smell, direction, and sound as much as Peter kept waving them away as "special talents," Camille had begun to realize how much deeper they went than that.
"You okay there?" Brian said as he quickly shoved a handful of berries into his pack. Juice seeped from between his fingers, running red down his bare arm. She stared at it, transfixed by sight. It looked like blood, a small trickle sliding along the surface of his skin before plopping onto a dried leaf with a loud plunk.
"Yep," Camille replied, snapping out of her trance. "Let's head a bit north. The hill will give us an advance on scouting those turkeys Marcus was talking about."
Brian eyed her as they headed out, leaving their earlier conversation behind.
The morning faded quickly into the afternoon, and, within five hours, heavy clouds had moved in overhead to shower them in cold, fat drops.
"I think we have enough," Jacob said, his pack now brimming with three short and chubby turkeys.
"I agree," Camille said, pulling an arrow from a small rabbit. After stuffing the fluffy brown animal into her hunting bag, she stood up and turned her face to the cloudy sky. A spray of mist chilled her heated cheeks and a shiver of uncertainty settled into her bones. Tonight's festival wasn't going to be enjoyable for her, not with all she'd just learned.
Camille never stopped examining the shady underbrush on the trek home, looking for a pair of red eyes as they exited the forest line.
"Hey Cammy, I set aside some arrow tips at my parent's shop. Care to join?" Jacob asked, motioning toward her right hand full of lifeless rabbits. "I need to drop off a few things before we head into town for lunch."
"Yeah, I could use some new ones. I need to stop by the bakery too, so I might as well head into town with you guys. Are you working today?" Camille asked Brian, who helped with the day-to-day errands at his mother's bakery.
"Naw, we're helping to set up for the festival tonight. Count Jenkins said he needed some strapping young men," Brian joked, pounding on his chest with a free hand.
"Looks like you might be left out of this one then, Jacob," Camille said, unable to control the laughter that followed. It felt good to laugh, to put their earlier conversation behind them.
They carried on with their lighthearted wisecracks until reaching the blacksmith shop, when Camille's jubilance promptly melted away. Jacob's parents gave Brian and their son a warm welcome, their tone turning frosty with bitter contempt when they asked Camille what it was that she needed.
"A bit of the usual, girl?" Mr. Welsh bellowed, eying Camille with beady brown eyes down a slightly bulbous nose. His thick mop of curling black hair sprang up in wild tufts over his head, a stark contrast to Mrs. Welsh. Her grey hair and waif appearance gave her the weakened look of most in the village: malnourished. Both of Jacob's parents were thin and hollowed in the cheeks. Despite their obvious distaste of her, Camille still felt terrible that they had so little to spare in the way of goods. Camille had gotten quite used to the blatant dislike of her presence and felt bringing attention to it was the worst possible idea imaginable.
"Yes, please," Camille replied as politely as she could manage, handing over five pounds of game as usual. She received ten bodkin iron arrow tips in exchange. They were the cheapest kind of iron but the easiest to acquire, and there was little point in trading for better quality. She only needed a sharp point and a flat piece to fly true; the quality of the metal was of little consequence. "Thank you kindly," Camille chirped as she shoved the linen-wrapped purchase into her pack, but the Welsh couple didn't feel the need to reply.
"See ya tonight!" Jacob said with a quick wave over his shoulder to his parents as they embarked, walking to the bakery next. Brian's mother was a sweet, good-natured woman who looked as gentle as a daisy. Her name was Jyllel, but everyone in town called her Mama J.
"What would you like today, my dear?" Mama J asked as Camille walked up to the rough-hewn wooden counter. The entire right side of the store leaned heavily against an old pine tree, the curved walls sagging into the massive trunk as though exhausted from the weight of time. Dull straw roofing and creaking pine floors gave the whole structure a homey and comfortable appearance. A black stone oven kept the front of the store warm during the winter and was often used to make hearty loaves of bread, cookies, and buns, while a crumbling brick fireplace in the back heated warm beverages and kept the back rooms livable for the Bowers' family of three.
"Just one loaf of bread and a small cookie for Lunci please," Camille said, opening the pack to give Mama J her pick of the loot.
"I think a rabbit this round, dear. I'm afraid the festival tonight has me baking up a frenzy. I won't have time to skin anything beyond one ruddy rabbit." Mama J smiled gently, and Camille appreciated the friendliness even if it was forced.
Waving their goodbyes after collecting a few baked goods, they made for the northwest section of the village where Camille did her daily trading. The market didn't look like much at first, but a closer glance behind the shabby structures revealed baubles, clothes, food products, and finery that nobody there would've been able to get ahold of without the underbelly of the trade network.
The whole of Sierra Village was laid out like a large cross, with the inner cross-section holding the great hall, Count Jenkins' home, an everyday church, and the town jail—one usually full of drunkards. The rest of the local market stores spread out from the square center including the blacksmith, the baker, the linen and leather ward, and the primary food market. The outer "arms" of the large cross were comprised of small, mostly shabby homes.
The best part of Sierra Village was the many items available in the slinky narrow walkways of the market. It was kept furthest away from prying eyes in a dodgy bit of town populated by those less fortunate. But the joke was on the outsiders and the High King's guards, for it was those beggars and gypsies who ran the black-market trade in and out of Sierra Village.
With a bag still full of game and Brian and Jacob in tow, Camille weaved casually in and out of the narrow streets, ducking behind a worn-down door before slipping into the side alley of her second-favorite place in town. The tiny shop windows all held small fortunes, and many more boasted large amounts of unique products easily affordable to the everyday trader. Camille passed by a cart filled with freshwater fish smuggled back from Black Bottom Lake. Fresh fish was hard to come by in Sierra Village, and only those willing to leave the safety of the village would travel in search of such fare.
Camille moved on toward a well-lit window showing off a massive case of high-end net
ting, a common trade in Whiskey Wharf, which bordered the Roseus Sea. Sauntering by a few darker displays of fine silk, linen, and heavy furs, Camille ran her fingertips along the soft materials, promising to purchase a fur wrap in the future when she had the means to do so.
Camille's eyes flitted over a large display of silver gems and beautifully constructed weapons—a trade found predominantly in Alpha Quarter. Those items were always the costliest, and few in the town could afford them. Occasionally, there was a tempting item amongst the glittering jewels and baubles, but Camille never indulged in frivolous purchases. She had very little money and mostly meat to barter. An ornament wasn't something she needed, or could afford, but a substantial meal would always be welcome.
Brian's stomach rumbled as they squeezed through the crowded streets. "I'm so hungry my innards are eating me from inside out. Let's go eat."
Camille nodded as they passed under a tattered white banner featuring the prominent pine tree and brown owl marker of Sierra Villages crest. She could smell the delightful scent of cooking meat and the heaviness of old ale as they slipped through the narrow wooden doorway into the Broken Goat to catch a bit of trade and some decent grub.
Betty Anne, the owner of the Broken Goat, always had a taste for fresh game, and in turn, offered food and drink as payment. Camille rarely gave in to the desire to drink the hearty mead or sour ale Betty Anne served, but she never turned down the meal of the day. Jacob, however, overcompensated, usually throwing back two glasses of mead and asking for Camille's.
"Will it be the usual you three?" Betty Anne asked as they approached the dingy countertop.
Camille lifted three large rabbits and a fox from her pack and handed them over to an enthusiastic Betty Anne.
"Oh, the delicious concoctions I can make with this lot!" she said, beginning to mutter to herself as she set out cutlery for Camille and the guys. "...Cook until they reek with deliciousness...truffle oil, no, maybe a wine reduction, demi-glaze? Or braised? That would be fitting, or maybe stuffed..."
"What masterpieces are you bringing to the Fόmhair celebration? I look forward to your recipes every year!" Brian said with large, hopeful eyes. Brian had a soft spot for cooking, but his father was a village guard and would sooner disown his son than allow him to bake a pie.
Betty Anne smiled at Brian's ploy to have her reveal her secrets. "You know I like you three, but nobody will know a single thing until the amazing concoction touches their taste buds tonight! I do have a special treat for you, though, thanks to your fine hunting skills the other day."
She disappeared behind the flapping wooden doors that led into her kitchen, her waist-long, raven black hair swinging as she moved. She returned a few minutes later with a heap of steaming food, and Camille's stomach growled.
"You out-do yourself every day," Jacob said as he dove into his pile of mashed potatoes and cut a bite from his turkey slab.
"You're ever the charmer, Mr. Welsh," Betty Anne said sweetly, before moving down the bar to a group of surly-looking men who'd apparently had a few too many ales so far.
"Is your dad going to make it tonight?" Jacob asked Brian, shoving another forkful of food into his mouth.
Camille moved at a much slower pace, ensuring to savor each bite. She usually had one large meal at the Broken Goat every other week and tried to bring home half her meals to Lunci and Peter. But that day was different—since they had the Fόmhair celebration, she felt absolutely no guilt in eating every bite Betty Anne had to offer.
"No, he's out on patrol tonight. I think he might show up later, after his shift change," Brian said in an overtly neutral tone. Camille could tell that Brian missed his father, but never complained about it aloud—not wanting to be scolded for being a "sissy."
"Al'ri, gentlemen," Betty Anne barked at the group of men nearby. "I think yeh've had plenty of my finest mead for the moment. Sober up before I toss yeh on your arses out the door!" She was never serious about tossing anyone out—unless they criticized her cooking, and then they were shamed by the whole of Sierra Village and never allowed back.
"You gonna sic a Praetorian on us, Betty Anne?" one of the men cajoled, his lips splitting into a lopsided grin.
"Aye! Watch yeh backs, or I'll fetch my Praetorian," Betty Anne teased, before ambling back to Camille's side of the bar. The group of rowdy men clapped and yelled, but it quickly subsided into murmurs and slurred repartee. They were completely harmless, but Camille still had no doubt she'd see them leaving the prison the following morning. For those on the rundown side of town, it was easier to drink themselves into a stupor and hunker down in the jail than to freeze out in the open air.
Camille's ears had perked up at the mention of a Praetorian, and she squinted as Betty Anne wiped down the counter.
"Looks like somethin' cookin' away in that there lil' head of yours, dearie. Care to share?" Betty Anne prodded, sidling closer to Camille. Her raven hair shifted attractively over her shoulder, and despite the spider web of lines edging her eyes, Betty Anne was quite the attractive woman. Camille placed her somewhere in her mid-forties but couldn't be sure. Her sharp hazel eyes retained the most youth. Through a shroud of sprouting grey hair and blooming wrinkles, Betty Anne was a very young and vivacious woman at heart.
Camille swallowed an unusually large bite of food before her tongue was able to form the words on her mind. "How many Praetorians lived here in Sierra Village?"
Betty Anne stopped her circular rhythmic cleaning, her brow quirking into a sharp arch. "That's a hard one to answer."
"Why?"
Betty Anne inspected a tiny stain on her polished wood countertop, rubbing the spot repeatedly with quick circular motions. "To be honest, it's all speculation. They weren't the easiest to pick out o' a crowd. They were once Asperians, yeh know—looked just like yeh and me. There were a few signs, though—a few ways to see through their shield."
"How?" Jacob asked.
Betty Anne winked at him conspiratorially. "They never age. It's one way to tell."
"They don't age?" Camille repeated, a little shocked.
"From the day they turn, their bodies are frozen in time. They can neither age, nor be killed 'less someone really tries. I'd like to see someone come back from the dead once their head has been chopped off!" Betty Anne said, a rumbling boisterous laugh bubbling from between her cracked pink lips.
"Have you ever seen one before?" Brian continued.
"Oh yes," Betty Anne replied, clearly enjoying their rapt attention. "Once yeh recognize their patterns, they're hard to miss. There's speculation that some are still around, a few at least. Hungry eaters they are, wouldn't mind them stoppin' in for a heavy plate or three of food!"
"I can't believe it. Praetorians were here in Sierra Village," Brian said, face alight with awe.
"Absolutely. The High King needed to ensure a strong army against the intruders. I'm surprised your parents haven't told yeh. Not long ago, they were everywhere." Betty Anne shook her head wistfully and wove her long raven hair into a loose braid.
Red eyes and black, matted fur swam to the forefront of Camille's mind at the mention of intruders. She knew very well that Betty Anne spoke of the shadow beasts, and the question remained: why would the High King exile an entire army of unbeatable soldiers if those creatures were still roaming Aspera?
One of the villagers down the bar hailed Betty Anne away, but Camille's brain continued to speculate.
"I see the thoughts rolling around in your head," Jacob said with a frown. "Out with it."
"Would you turn away an elite group of protectors if there were threats of an intruder?" Camille asked, her focus on both the boys sitting on either side of her. Jacob shoved a hefty chunk of meat into his mouth followed by a thick pile of potatoes. His cheeks bulged out like a chipmunk hoarding his winter storage of nuts. He shrugged noncommittally and lifted his glass of mead to wash down the mash of food in his mouth.
"Well," Brian chirped up. "It depends on how dangerous the protec
tors were, no? Perhaps the Praetorians are the threat."
"Listening to Betty Anne talk about them that doesn't seem likely. I mean, to the everyday observer they would have looked like you and me. Why remove them? Doesn't it sound strange?" Camille huffed as her mind whirled with questions. "It doesn't seem like the Praetorians were the problem," Camille mused, stabbing a chunk of potato with her fork.
"It wasn't all of them that caused the exile; it was just one. That one Praetorian started the rift, and it rippled throughout the entirety of Aspera. Like a bad apple, you know?" Jacob said, licking the grease and butter from his fingers.
Camille scrunched her nose in distaste at the visual image of a crumpled rotting apple in a barrel of freshly picked red ones. Betty Anne's potatoes usually tasted delicious, but Camille's edginess began to make all her food taste like a thick paste. She choked the current bite down, then went to work on the fatty meat, hating the idea of wasting food. Jacob shifted in his seat as he peered at her from his peripherals. She could feel the heat of his glare, and it made her feel uncomfortable—asking too many questions must've been against their Asperian rules.
"Rules are rules," Brian chimed in. "We follow the law of our Holy King, Faeder. The High King was appointed by our Lord and carries out his teachings. It doesn't matter if just one person broke the law—they all had to be exiled. It's just how it's done."
"I hope you realize how ludicrous that sounds," Camille said with an unladylike snort.
Jacob shrugged, one shoulder lifting slightly higher than the other as he grabbed his half-empty mead glass and drained it effectively in two loud gulps. "Yes, perhaps. I'm not one to follow the teaching of this oh so holy lord," Jacob said with a twitch as though his words didn't quite fit with the teachings of his youth. "In my opinion, The High King had to prepare for the backlash of his actions, no? You make the martyr of one, the rest will follow."
