by J. S. Morin
A knock at the door startled Kyrus into dropping several leaves from a history text Davin had written before Kyrus had even been born, sending yellowed pages fluttering to the floor. Normally the door to the shop was kept unlocked during business hours, but Kyrus had been too preoccupied to remember to do so that morning. Quickly gathering the fallen sheets in a pile and putting them back more or less where they had come from, he made his way across the room to see who was calling.
“Sorry, Ash,” he said to the cat as he stumbled over Davin’s old chair, where the plump feline lay curled in the morning sunlight that washed in through the window. Ash gave him an imperious look, but only briefly, before squeezing his eyes shut again and resuming his repose.
Kyrus slid back the bolt from the door and took a deep breath, trying to compose himself and present a professional demeanor. Smartly, he pulled the door open.
“Good morning. Sorry about the door—” And Kyrus stumbled over his words as he saw that it was Abbiley at the door, come to see him. “Um …”
“Good morning to you as well, and it is no bother. How is your head?”
“Um … much better, thanks. Lots better. Um …you would hardly know it was a pole I had walked into; would not think I had hit it on anything more than a bedpost.” He smiled at his own self-deprecation.
“Well, your wits do not seem too addled.” Abbiley grinned back at him. “Let us get you something to eat, shall we? They say you should not try to mend a wound on an empty stomach.”
Kyrus had never heard that before, but he was certainly willing to let the idiom pass unchallenged. He had not been prepared for her visit and was surprised to have made it this far without making a fool of himself. He saw she was carrying a cloth-covered basket in her hands. The basket was fairly large, the kind one might carry a day’s shopping in from the market, and had a delicious smell wafting from it, though he could not quite place it.
He held the door aside and allowed her in. She smiled as she walked past him, surveying the room as she entered.
“Oh my,” she said, idly stopping to pet the shop’s elder resident. “Ash, how did you let this place get in such a state?”—the latter spoken in the tone of voice many people use when addressing animals or small children.
“Oh, I was not aware you two had met.”
“You see that painting up on the wall?” Abbiley asked.
Kyrus glanced over at the wall and nodded. There was a painting of Ash, curled up in repose on a window sill.
“I painted that.”
“Really? That is remarkable. It is the very image of him. I had always known it was a portrait of Ash—it is too exact a likeness to have been a painting of another cat that Davin had found—but I had not realized you were the artist. Do you paint much?”
“Indeed. It is what keeps a roof over myself and my brother. I had been having some hard times when Mr. Chartler asked if he could commission that portrait of Ash. A kind old man, your Mr. Chartler was. He had been a friend of my pa before he passed, and did me the kindness. Bragged to his friends about it for months after, to boot. Got a lot of work after that … and have ever since.”
“That is wonderful,” Kyrus said. “I hope I am not too forward in proclaiming your artistic prowess on another front as well: that basket gives off the most sumptuous aroma.”
“Well, I had hoped to make sure you got a good meal in you at midday. Seems like there is not a fit place to set it down in here, though. I know Mr. Chartler had always kept the place in a bit of a state of an old bachelor, but it has seemed to have given up under the care of two of them,” she said.
“Hmm, then perhaps we can find a more suitable place for a picnic. Shall we have a walk down to the sea-wall and watch the ships come in?”
Kyrus was not sure where this was all coming from, having never spoken more than a brief exchange of greetings or a professional conversation with a pretty girl. He certainly hoped he could stop dwelling on it long enough, though, that he would not ruin a good thing that he had gotten started on.
Abbiley smiled. “What a wonderful idea. Let us do that … if you are feeling up to it, of course.”
Thoughts of work and head injuries stepped gracefully aside, knowing their services would not be required for a while.
“I think I ought to be able to manage.”
He extended his arm, and she took it. Kyrus had never felt more pride than he did escorting Abbiley down to the waterfront, grinning like a fool the whole way. The door to the shop was not locked and possibly was not even properly closed all the way. Those thoughts were less graceful and got themselves shoved rudely into a closet, as Kyrus was well and determined to have a singular focus at that moment.
The lunch was delicious. It consisted of sandwiches of a sort, a nice cheese made by someone just outside Golis who was the father of one of her brother’s friends, and a nice ale that Kyrus did not recognize as one of the ones he normally drank. It was almost a shame really, the wonderful food, since all Kyrus remembered afterward was the prettiest pair of blue eyes and the sound of her voice.
Chapter 9 - A Walk in the Woods
He felt stiff all over but was more refreshed by far than he had been the previous night. Brannis rolled over onto his stomach and pushed himself up to his hands and knees, stretching out his limbs and working out the tightness that had set in after resting from the long day of fighting and hiking. Climbing to his feet, he looked around the impromptu camp that he and his men had set up the night before. He was the first of the group to awaken—not so uncommon an occurrence, as rising before dawn was far more to his habit than his recent oversleeping—though a few men had begun to stir at the noise Brannis had made in getting up. Brannis made a quick count of his men and found none missing—no small blessing considering the losses they had suffered yesterday. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he walked as quietly as he could to the cottage to see how Iridan was faring.
The door to Rashan’s cottage opened outward and had a ratty bit of rope for a handle. Grasping the rope, Brannis slowly pulled the door open and peeked inside. Within, he saw Rashan bent over Iridan’s resting form, his back to the door; he showed no reaction to Brannis entering. Brannis stepped inside and closed the door behind him, taking care not to shut it too loudly and disturb Iridan. He leaned over the hermit’s shoulder to see what he was doing.
“Brannis … who … is this?” Iridan’s voice called out weakly, little more than a dry-sounding whisper.
Brannis smiled down at his friend, whose eyes were open just a crack, but who was awake and aware enough to have recognized him. Rashan brushed a few strands of Iridan’s longish blond hair out of his face, then turned to Brannis. He allowed his patient’s friend to introduce him as he saw fit.
“He is a hermit who lives in Kelvie Forest, north of where we were camping. We carried you from the site of the battle after you fell, and happened upon him. He offered to help take care of you, and we accepted, since none of us really knew how to treat aether burn,” Brannis told him. “By the by, that was quite the light-and-fire show you put on back there. Please do not do it again.”
“I felt like I was floating. I know it was probably just a dream, but I feel like I was just drifting along. It was nice … My head did not feel like someone was stabbing me in the temple every time I blink.” Iridan winced as if even talking was causing his headache to bother him.
“Well, we carried you for the better part of yesterday on a litter we made from one of the tents you did not incinerate. That probably explains the floating. I feel like I have been trampled by a horse, though. I have scant practice at carrying sorcerers around, and my muscles have decided to rebel in protest.”
“Probably. Hey, Brannis …”
“Yes?”
“Remember just before the fighting started, I told you I would get you back for that comment about me looking like a zombie? Consider it payback.” Iridan smiled weakly and closed his eyes for a moment. “Can I get a little more water, please?
”
“Of course,” Rashan answered softly.
Brannis noticed the half-empty bowl next to the hermit. Rashan lifted Iridan’s head and brought the bowl up to his lips. The sorcerer seemed to drink very little, for there was nearly as much in the bowl after his drink as before. He licked his lips afterward, as if to moisten them. They were cracked and dry, and looked as if they might split and bleed just from the dehydration. It was understandable, of course; Iridan had baked much of the moisture from his body during the episode yesterday when he had been overcome by drawing in more aether than he could safely control. He was lucky he had not burned away more than just water. It would not have been the first time an overreaching sorcerer was charred to ash by his own power.
Iridan laid his head back down and sighed. As he drifted into sleep or meditation—Brannis could not tell which—Rashan told him that he had forbidden Iridan the use of aether until he recovered fully. Brannis nodded at the wise precaution and left to see about getting his men ready.
“Do you still plan to leave today?” Rashan asked in a low voice, catching Brannis by the arm as he exited the cottage.
“Of course, all the more so now that Iridan has awakened. There should be no doubt now that he will recover. He just needs to build his strength back up. We can still carry him,” Brannis replied, sounding optimistic.
Rashan looked back at him, nodding to himself and looking pensive, as if the response had been expected. The hermit followed Brannis outside.
“Very well,” Rashan replied, “I will accompany you, then. I do not approve of your decision, but I will come along to see that he is properly tended.”
“What? Why? No, we will be fine on our own, though I thank you for taking care of him. Iridan is a dear friend of mine, and I am grateful for all you have done, but we cannot ask you to come along.”
“Fine, then it is settled,” Rashan replied, smirking, and turned to walk away.
“Huh? What? Did I just miss something?” Brannis asked, confused.
“Oh, I am going to see about finding you something for dawn feast besides those hideous field rations you have brought along,” Rashan told Brannis, ignoring the intent of the question.
“That is not what I meant, and you know it,” Brannis called after him.
Rashan turned back to look at him, frowning, and brought a finger up to his lips. Brannis had not realized how loudly he had just spoken.
Brannis asked again in a lower voice, “What do you mean, ‘it is settled’?”
“Well, you said you could not ask me to come. I had already decided to come before then, and I had not sought your permission, nor had you said I was not welcome, so it sounded like a closed deal. Do not worry, I am very little bother, and I can find my way quite well. I am sure that before you reach the safety of your home, you shall be glad I was along.”
With that, he once again turned his back to Brannis and headed off deeper into the woods. Brannis frowned at Rashan’s back but did not say anything, watching as the hermit receded from view. There was something that bothered him about Rashan, but he could not quite say what it was. His demeanor was light and casual, and he seemed to ignore anything he found inconvenient—things like not being asked to accompany Brannis’s men, but deciding to anyway. Brannis could not help but wonder at the quick mind the hermit had displayed, subtly manipulating him into a situation where he would feel silly objecting to Rashan’s offer to stay with Iridan until he had time to recover. Rashan was certainly right about one thing: he was little bother. Since they had arrived at the hermit’s cottage, Rashan had probably not said a handful of words to anyone besides Brannis and perhaps Iridan. The hermit did not partake in meals with them, kept out of sight for the most part, and seemed to prefer wandering the woods to their company. He wondered what in the hermit’s past might have engendered such an aversion to human companionship.
* * * * * * * *
They broke camp near noontime, which was later than Brannis would have liked, but all of them seemed to have needed the extra time to recover from the aftereffects of their long day of fighting and carrying heavy packs through the woods. Iridan was conscious and able to sit up on his own by then, but his legs wobbled under him when he tried to walk, so it was resolved that they would still have to carry him for the time being. The young sorcerer was feeling well enough to crack a few jokes at his own expense, promising to return the favor and carry each of them in turn once he had recovered. The very idea of Iridan carrying anyone was rather comical. The sorcerer had long been the object of jests regarding women having thicker arms than his, most often at times when he seemed a bit too full of himself or started showing off with his magic. Given Iridan’s weakened state, though, the survivors let his boasts pass unchallenged.
Brannis led them east from the hermit’s cottage. The trees of Kelvie Forest were sparse enough in that region that no blazed path was needed for them to make good progress. True to his word, Rashan was little trouble to the soldiers. He hung back a ways, staying rather near to the pair of men who carried Iridan at any given time, never letting the sorcerer out of his sight. Still, there were whisperings among the men as the day wore on. Some had begun to take note of the unnatural silence that surrounded the hermit’s footsteps despite the din every other pair of feet made among the twigs and small plants that were in abundance on the forest floor. He also had a strange look in his eyes whenever one of the soldiers happened to meet his gaze. All who noticed this seemed to find an unusual intensity there, staring more into them than at them, though his expression showed no such emotion to match. Brannis, at the head of the group, did not see any of it, though.
The forest was easy terrain for trekking long distances on foot, gently rolling hills graced with trees spaced far enough apart that one could walk a straight line at most times. There was a refreshing breeze that cooled the early afternoon air as they searched for a spot to rest and take a meal. All of them seemed grateful for the pause, when finally they came to a low hilltop shaded by tall oaks and deemed that the time for an afternoon meal had arrived. The soldiers were tired from bearing the weight of their armor and, at turns, carrying the recovering Iridan, and Brannis was carrying the swords of the fallen knights in addition to taking his turn in bearing his injured friend.
From the hilltop, they could hear the murmuring of a stream not far off, and throughout the afternoon, men drank deeply from the few canteens that had remained after the battle against the goblins.
“Denair, Kun, come with me,” Brannis ordered, selecting two of the remaining conscripts from his battalion. “Gather up the water skins and let us go find that stream.” Brannis loosened Massacre in its sheath in case they encountered any trouble while isolated from the main group. “Sir Lugren, you are in charge in my absence. I hope not to be long about this.”
“Mmm,” Lugren grunted in reply, nodding brusquely in acknowledgment.
The older knight watched as Brannis and the two soldiers left camp laden with all the water skins they had salvaged from the battlefield. The hermit, who seemed no worse for the day’s journey, moved to check on Iridan.
The sorcerer was feeling much improved since he had first awakened earlier that morning. His headache had subsided and his thoughts felt clearer than they had since before his accident. Sitting up, he took one of the pieces of hard tack that the soldiers were eating and nibbled at it, trying both to placate his grumbling stomach and not to upset it by putting too much in after having eaten nothing for over a day.
“Well, it is good to see you feel like eating. Your body is recovering,” the hermit commented, crouching down beside Iridan.
“Mmm, I know I must be truly hungry. This awful stuff is actually tasting good,” the sorcerer replied between bites.
“Not to destroy your illusions, but you are just imagining—those rocks you call rations do not taste like anything at all. Hmm, maybe it is time we saw whether your mind is recovering as well as your body seems to be.”
The her
mit grabbed a twig from the ground nearby and broke off all the little forked branches that split from it, making it into a crude implement for writing in the dirt. He drew a square on the ground in front of Iridan, large enough to stand both feet in, and then divided it into smaller squares—a grid eight squares by eight. Iridan watched curiously, his eyes widening in understanding as the hermit began drawing symbols in the two rows of squares closest to each of them.
“Your move,” he told Iridan, and handed him the stick. The hermit had drawn a chessboard on the ground. “Let us see what is left in there.”
He pointed a finger at Iridan’s forehead. The sorcerer smiled, amused.
“Oh my, how does one play this game?” Iridan replied, his too-innocent voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Oh, I think you shall pick up a rough idea within a few moves,” the hermit said with a chuckle. “It is common knowledge that they teach young sorcerers to play this game to sharpen their wits. Let us see if this ‘crazy woodsman’ can best one of the Academy’s finest.”
Iridan said nothing in reply but scuffed out one of his pawns and then redrew it in another square. He handed the stick back to the hermit with a smug look on his face. Iridan fancied himself a rather expert player of the game, even if Brannis had begun to trounce him regularly in recent summers. It was something of a mark of honor at the Academy to be a good player. There were few opportunities to test magical skills in direct opposition—dueling and anything of that sort was strictly regulated—so the game became a sort of proxy duel that allowed students, and occasionally masters, to engage each other in battles of wits.
