The Way of Pain

by Gregory Mattix

  “Won’t you let me take you to a healer at least?”

  She shook her head. “I can tell it’s almost time. No staving off the inevitable. This illness is wasting me away inside.” She touched one temple gingerly. “I have this constant damn headache and often get dizzy and nauseous. Sometimes it’s so bad I can’t even stand up. I get by with your old painkilling potion with poppy milk, but it makes me sleepy all the damned time. I’d rather remember my last days.”

  He leaned over to kiss her cheek, but she turned her head so that their lips met. She gripped the back of his head with her free hand and held him so that he couldn’t pull away, not that he would’ve. Even with her waning health, she was still beautiful to him.

  She released his head only to run a fingertip down the scar on his face. “This is new. How?” Surprise was evident in her voice.

  “Accursed blade. I tangled with a servant of Veharis.” He grimaced at the memory, for the wound hadn’t healed cleanly, even with his regenerative ability.

  “It makes you look even more dangerous.” She captured his hand and kissed his fingers.

  Creel ran a hand through her hair, noticing that not only had it lost its deep coppery sheen, it felt almost brittle. “What brought this on? Do you have any idea?”

  Rada shrugged. “Could be from using my talent, I suspect. I always got a wicked headache if I overexerted myself. Mayhap something finally burst in my skull.” At his anguished look, she smiled and ran a hand along his stubbled cheek. “No regrets, Dak. That’s what happens when you burn the candle from both ends, I reckon. A life lived fiercely.”

  “And well,” he agreed.

  “Put your arms around me,” she whispered. “Enough about me and my misery. Tell me what you’ve been up to.”

  “I’m here with some friends I’ve met along the way. And this tale will be one that lasts long into the night.”

  “What else have we got to do?” An old wicked gleam slipped into her eyes, and she kissed him again, with urgency this time. “Well, I’ve an idea, but first, let’s hear your story. And I’ll expect you to introduce me first thing in the morning.”

  “We’re gonna need some drinks for that.”

  “Well, what are you waiting for? Gods know I could use something that tastes better than that damnable potion of yours.”

  He grinned and ruffled her hair then went to oblige her.

  ***

  With Creel gone, the others turned in soon after their meal and drinks were finished. Selda showed them to their rooms and also the baths. Ferret declined a room, saying they were best off with saving it for paying customers. Brom had already vowed he’d accept not one copper from the group, not only since they were Creel’s friends, but also because hosting Sianna was an honor.

  “If I need a room, I’ll borrow Dak’s,” Ferret said when Selda looked at her questioningly.

  “Aye, suit yerself, lass,” the matronly dwarf said with a friendly smile.

  Ferret roamed around the Giantslayers Inn after the others had retired. She paused to study the pieces of decor along the walls, finding them fascinating clues to the founders’ pasts. An old warhammer and battered shield were proudly displayed on the wall behind the bar, along with a fine dagger. She slipped behind the bar to more closely examine a piece of parchment tacked up beside the dagger. A fierce-looking, beautiful young woman’s portrait had been sketched. One side of her head was shorn short, while her remaining hair was combed down straight to the other side. The artist had really captured the woman’s personality. Her eyes seemed to twinkle with mischief, and that smile, Ferret imagined, was one that men would easily have come to blows over. “Rada the Knife,” a scrawling script read beneath the portrait.

  “So she’s Dak’s woman,” Ferret said to herself, intrigued by the woman who could capture Creel’s heart.

  Beside the sketch was a painting, obviously crafted by another hand. Although it was skillfully rendered with bright oil paints, it somehow lacked the liveliness and intimacy of Rada’s sketch, as though painted by a simple observer and not someone who truly knew the subjects. It portrayed Dakarai Creel, looking the same as he did now, a younger, yellow-haired Brom Stormbrew, and Rada the Knife, all standing beside a tall, blond-haired man who was holding aloft the massive severed head of a giant. Another sketch, by the first artist, had been pinned onto the painting—a young man, ruggedly handsome and dressed in furs in the manner of the northern barbarians. “Ebbo, son of Ulfar, of the White Bear Tribe,” the lettering read. That sketch was positioned as though this barbarian was meant to be with the group.

  Fallen companion, I wonder?

  “Ain’t that a motley group o’ arseholes?” Brom chuckled to himself as he limped over to stand beside Ferret. “Those were better days… afore we all got old. Well, all of us ’cept Creel, at any rate.”

  Ferret smiled to herself, wondering what Creel had been like back then other than looking the same in appearance. “He truly doesn’t age?” She recalled Creel mentioning that during their late-night talks while keeping watch, but the fact hadn’t really struck home until now.

  “Nay, not a day, and I’ve known him four decades or so now.”

  “Is this… She’s the same Rada Dak asked about, right?” she asked, feeling stupid for the question as she pointed at the woman’s sketch.

  “Aye, that’s Pincushion as a young lass. Ye’d never think that one there”—he nodded at Creel’s likeness—“would have any artistic skill other than findin’ ways o’ killing things, eh?”

  “Dak sketched these?”

  “Aye, he sure did. ’Tis a sad story. Those two were always meant for each other, methinks, though they never listened to their hearts. Too damn stubborn—they were always pushin’ each other away then comin’ back together then pushin’. Reckon it be almost too late now till he realized what he really wanted. Same for her.”

  “I’d like to meet her… Anyone that can rein him in must be someone special.”

  Brom chuckled. “Aye, right ye are.”

  They both looked over to see Creel emerge from the back hallway where the owners’ rooms were. He looked somewhat dazed, his clothing rumpled and hair mussed. He walked past them, filled a cup with spirits, drained it in one go, then refilled it. He glanced over at the two of them then saluted with his tumbler and filled a second. He joined them, handing Brom the second tumbler. A smile worked its way onto Creel’s face with some difficulty, and Ferret caught a glimpse of a great underlying sadness.

  “Ye two get all caught up?” Brom asked.

  “Aye. As well as expected. She’s resting now.” Creel’s strained smile became more relaxed as he focused on the sketches and painting. “Ah, that was a quest for the ages. ’Tis a pity the bards aren’t filling ale houses from here to Coldshore with the tales of heroism and derring-do!” He and Brom clinked their mugs together and drank.

  “I’ll tell the tale someday,” Ferret vowed quietly.

  “Eh? What’s that, lass?” Brom asked.

  “I’d like to tell that tale.”

  Creel nodded sagely and, at Brom’s questioning look, explained, “She means to try her hand as a bard someday. Right, lass?”

  “Aye. As soon as I’m cured of this.” Ferret made a vague wave at herself. She missed the broken lute she’d scavenged from the country cottage they’d stayed at. The others had seemed to enjoy her talentless attempts at entertaining with it, but the instrument was too badly damaged to bring along, so she’d left it at the home.

  “She’s but an apprenticeship away from being a skilled bard, I reckon. Not only can Ferret play the lute, but this young lass has the courage of ten men!” Creel boasted, clearly drunk or nearly so. He put his arm around her shoulders companionably. “Brom, you should’ve seen her during the invasion of Ammon Nor. She braved the magical fog and thousands of murderous Nebaran dogs in the streets to sound the alarm bell that saved countless lives. Had the alarm not been raised, the town and the army would’ve been massacred th
at night. Much worse than they were, I mean.”

  Ferret felt a rush of pride somewhere deep inside the small reservoir that remained of herself. She only wished she could feel Creel’s arm around her. He might have been well into his cups, but she craved the praise and affection, though she’d never admit that to anyone.

  “I reckon there’s a bloody good tale that needs tellin’.” Brom stroked his beard, eyeing Ferret appraisingly.

  Having a reputation to uphold, however, she shrugged out from under Creel’s arm. “Dak exaggerates. I’d have been dead had I not freed him from his cage. The only reason I even made it to the alarm bell was because he was holding off those bastards, his sword already running red with their blood.”

  “Lass, Creel is about as straight an arrow as ye’ll find. If he says it, then I don’t doubt ye’ve got the courage o’ Reiktir himself.” Brom grinned at her through his beard.

  Ferret beamed, at least on the inside, from the compliment, deciding she liked the old dwarf.

  They made their way around the bar, where she was amused to find Creel had a reserved seat that was never to be used by anyone else, at least according to a placard on it. She left the two old friends there to drink and recount their adventures and begged off for the night.

  Creel’s room was locked, although that had never posed her much of a problem before. It still didn’t—not too much, at least. Her fingers were clumsy compared to how nimble they had been, lacking any sense of feel, but even a novice could’ve picked the simple lock on the door. His room was stark and barren. Clearly, the chamber was barely ever used although it was clean and free of dust. Ferret couldn’t help but poke around, finding a huge trunk full of adventuring gear and a wardrobe filled with spare clothes. But save that, there was no heart to the room, no decorations or personal items to show who, if anyone, lived there. It could have simply been another unused room like the guest rooms upstairs.

  She sat on his bed, knowing Creel would likely find his way back to Rada’s room. Even though she didn’t need to sleep, she was able to enter a restful state similar to what she imagined Mira found while meditating.

  As the night passed, she thought of the events that had led her to that moment. She’d seen her city torn apart by war, her friend Enna butchered by a horrifying fiend, and of course, her own agonizing transformation into a clockwork machine. Her dreams of adventure had never featured such awful occurrences, but had war never come to Ammon Nor, neither would she have met Creel while looting corpses.

  All in all, she had a good group of loyal friends, which as a waif beaten and bullied by Mudge back in Ammon Nor, was something she’d never had. Loyalty and compassion had been in short supply even among those she had loosely considered friends. She’d probably still be picking pockets and avoiding Mudge’s fists had she survived the ghouls on the battlefield. Certainly, she’d never have imagined she would be considered a hero for sounding an alarm bell or helping to rescue a queen from assassins. Creel and Brom’s praise and respect had filled her with a feeling of pride and self-respect she’d never known before, and that felt good.

  She wondered if she would trade this new life for her old one and in that moment decided she wouldn’t. She finally had a chance to make something of herself, whether it be a bard or whatever else, and meant to take advantage of that opportunity and find her way in the world.

  Provided she could find a cure for her condition.

  Chapter 28

  Sianna was readying herself for bed when a soft knock sounded at the door. She exchanged glances with Iris, who was brushing her own thick blond tresses as she had done for Sianna moments before. She looked down at the filmy nightgown she was wearing and frowned. The dwarven woman Selda had sent one of her maids to procure them, along with changes of clothes and the hairbrush. At such a late hour, the fact that she’d been able to fetch such items for the two women was a blessing, although enough coin could remedy almost any inconvenience. The nightgown wasn’t of the quality she would have worn to her own bed in the castle, but it still wouldn’t be suitable to wear out in the hallway.

  The hot bath had felt like a blessing from Sol himself. She and Iris, and later Mira, had lain in the copper bathtubs in the inn’s bathing room for a long time, first scrubbing the dirt and grime of the road off, then simply enjoying the warm heat on sore muscles.

  “Who is it?” she asked at the door.

  “It’s Taren, Sianna,” came the reply.

  Sianna unlatched and cracked the door a few inches. “Lana,” she corrected.

  Taren smiled. “Right, sorry.” He must have glimpsed her state of dress and flushed, quickly looking away.

  She studied his face a moment, thinking he looked quite handsome, freshly bathed and clean-shaven, with his hair combed out. His clothing could use an upgrade, she thought with a discerning eye. Although clean, his tunic and breeches were rough spun and showed signs of the road, threadbare in places and the fit a bit baggy.

  “…wanted to give you this, Your uh, Lana, I mean,” Taren was saying.

  Sianna blushed then, for she hadn’t been paying attention to his words. “I beg your pardon?”

  Still averting his face from the door, Taren put his hand to the gap. In his palm was a smooth, flat stone. “If it’s not improper, I’d ask that you carry this. Until we meet again.”

  She stared at the stone, bewildered, thinking him an odd young man. It had no distinguishing features that she could see, other than a smooth round hole through it at the center. Why is he offering me a plain gray stone?

  Taren looked embarrassed by her scrutiny. “It’s no matter… I’m a fool—I shouldn’t have imposed on you. My apologies.” He pulled his hand away.

  Before she knew what she was doing, she had opened the door a few inches wider, enough to reach through and grasp his hand. “Wait.”

  He flinched at her touch, clearly surprised. “It doesn’t look like much, but it’s a locator stone.” He paused a moment as if that should mean something. When it didn’t, he continued. “So it will be easier to find you… when I return from Nexus. As you said earlier, you’ll likely need all the help you can get. The stone is magical.”

  “Oh, of course.” She’d nearly forgotten about her invitation earlier during their ordeal in the woods. It felt as if that had been a week prior, not just the past night at the campfire. She took the smooth stone from his hand—it was warm from his touch but seemed unremarkable.

  Taren held up another stone, this one of similar size and shape, but it was solid in the center and had a glyph carved in it resembling an arrowhead. He tapped that stone to the one she held. When they touched, Taren’s stone glowed with a warm amber lambency. He pulled it away, and the arrowhead lit up, swiveling until it was pointed at her.

  “Oh,” she said, surprised and momentarily fascinated.

  Taren grinned then glanced down the hallway at the sound of footsteps. “I just wanted to give that to you. Good night, Lana.” He slipped his stone back into his pocket and departed.

  Through the gap in the door, Sianna watched him walk away. He turned to look over his shoulder, and embarrassed, she quickly shut the door again, hoping he hadn’t seen her. She latched it once more.

  Iris clearly had seen her and had a broad smile on her face. “Really, Sianna? You like the boy, don’t you?”

  Sianna fought to keep from blushing once more, but her effort was fruitless. “No, of course not. I mean, he’s a courageous and decent man, but he’s a commoner.”

  “Not hard on the eyes though,” Iris said, still staring at her.

  Sianna shrugged, knowing her friend was readying a lecture. She climbed into her bed, clutching the stone tightly in her hand.

  Iris came over and sat on the bed, taking one of her hands in both of hers. “Sianna, once we get to Carran, all will return to how it should be. Lord Lanthas will aid us putting you on the throne, and all can return to normal, those filthy Nebarans driven off. You’ll marry a proper lord, someone who will gi
ve you gold and jewels…” She pried Sianna’s hand open and grimaced at the sight of the stone. “Instead of plain river stones.” She sighed as if Sianna was a slow pupil who disappointed her immensely.

  She’s been taking lessons from Master Aered in that regard. Sianna pulled her hand away, suddenly irritated. Must my handmaiden lecture me in the absence of Mother and Master Aered and the others?

  “That’s not how it is, Iris. He saved our lives, along with his friends. The least I can do is accept his humble gift. And this stone is magical, not an ordinary river stone. Perhaps it will prove of worth during our journey. And we should be so fortunate if Sol truly does favor us and makes it so easy to return Ketania to normal, as you say.”

  “You should keep Sir Edwin in your thoughts. I’m sure he will make a fine husband when he returns and helps you retake your kingdom.”

  “Perhaps, if I ever see him again. He could very well be dead by now, just like my family.” Come to think of it, she’d barely spared a second thought for the handsome knight since they’d been forced to flee the castle. The beautiful rose he’d given her upon departing for war was probably still sitting in a vase beside her bed, shriveled and dead, like the corpses of her parents and brothers.

  Iris looked as though she might argue further but gave her a sad smile instead. She leaned over and kissed her forehead. “I didn’t mean to upset you, dear. I’m sure Taren means well. You should get your sleep.” She blew out the lamp a moment later.

  Sianna lay there in bed for a while clutching the stone, which was something solid and somehow comforting amidst the shifting maelstrom that was her life. When sleep finally took her, it was blessedly deep and dreamless, for a change.

  When she awoke in the morning, she was surprised to see Iris had found a leather thong and strung it through Taren’s stone so that she might wear it around her neck. Her friend still slept, but Sianna was touched by the small gesture. She slipped it around her neck with a smile and readied herself for the day ahead.