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by Patricia Reding

  The Oathtaker bit her lip.

  “I swear it.”

  Nodding slowly, Basha looked at her charge. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

  Therese squeezed her arm. “You should. I expect you to.” She released her hold. “So, now are we all right?”

  Basha nodded. “I’m sorry, as well. I hadn’t even realized that I’d been holding resentments and . . . Well, I guess I’ve discovered that it’s hard to let go of long-held anger.” She smiled. “But I must because, as you know, I am committed to you and to your safety. I hope you never doubt that—it has never changed. So, yes, we’re all right.”

  “Good.” Therese took one last glance out to sea. The fishing boat reached the shore. “Let’s be on our way before we have visitors.”

  They turned back the way they’d been headed, then rode into the forest.

  Other than the occasional chattering squirrel or chirping bird, silence surrounded them. The smell of rotting leaves rose up from the forest floor. Sometime later, the wind dropped off, and the sky suddenly cleared. Late afternoon sunrays peeked through the forest in bands of gold, lighting up the moss and lichen, turning them from a dark, almost black-green color, to a shimmering emerald.

  Near sunset, coming upon a hamlet, they rode toward two people headed in the opposite direction. One, an old man, wore a gray bedraggled coat. A woolen knit shirt, and what might once have been a white undergarment, now gray and dirt speckled, peeked through at his neckline. Holes peppered the knit skullcap he wore, as well as his aged leather boots, allowing his toes to peek out. The young woman at his side looked, if possible, even more destitute, dressed in a patched skirt and wearing dilapidated, oversized boots.

  Basha brought Nightingale to a halt. Her charge stopped at her side. “Pray tell,” she asked, “do you know if there are any Oathtakers in these parts?”

  The man placed his hand to his ear and shook his head, then turned to the young woman.

  “Papa’s deaf,” she said, gazing first at Basha, then Therese. “There are no Oathtakers here, but there are some in the next village.”

  “How far is that?”

  “About a half day’s walk.”

  Therese looked skyward. Though the dense forest surrounded them, it was clear that dusk would settle soon. “How far if we ride, do you think?”

  “Probably no more than an hour or so. The trail is commonly used, and the rains have held back this fall, so it’s in pretty good condition.”

  “What of wildlife?”

  The young woman shrugged. “Now and again there are tales of wolves and bears, but I’ve heard none for some time.”

  “Thank you.”

  The Oathtaker turned to her charge. “What do you think? Do we camp here or continue on?”

  “Is there is an inn near here, child?” Therese asked the young woman.

  “No. But we just got a fresh delivery of hay. You could stay in our barn, if you like.”

  “How much?”

  The girl shrugged.

  Basha handed her a coin.

  “Oh, ma’am! A silver? This is far, far too much.”

  The Oathtaker chuckled. “Tell you what. If the hay is clean and the barn is warm, and if you can assure us of a safe night, there’ll be another of those for you in the morning.”

  “Right this way!” the young woman exclaimed, setting out with a new spring to her step.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The following day, Basha and Therese made their way to the next village. Riding through, they nodded at the locals as they passed by. A young man sauntered toward the town center, a dead wild boar draped over his shoulders. He grinned at his neighbors’ hoots and calls as they congratulated him on his latest hunting prowess. He made his way to a cozy cabin marked with a sign that read Harold’s Meat Market. In smaller print, the sign notified passers-by that there, they could purchase the best fresh cut meats and butchering services. Several local business proprietors stood nearby, just outside the doors of their respective establishments, welcoming traders.

  The village was alive with activity. An old man with a beard hanging nearly to his waist, stepped out of a building to hang a sign proclaiming a sale on this wares, namely, books. Meanwhile, wrapped in multicolored shawls with a turban about her head, a young woman urged onlookers to stop in at her wagon for a reading. Another man, readily identifiable as the local smithy, as he wore leather clothing covered with soot and a motley assortment of burns, bent over to examine the shoes of a horse to which a young, tow-headed boy, with clothing too large for his frame, tended.

  A cold drizzle had been falling all morning. It seemed to capture and to hold down the smoke from the villagers’ home and business chimneys. It tickled the travelers’ eyes as they made their way to sanctuary.

  Quaint and unpretentious, the building sat upon a foundation of grey stone flecked with black and silver. Fresh heavy red clay filled the spaces between the rough, hand-hewn pine timbers of its exterior walls. A group of men tended to newly thatching the roof, from which a single chimney rose, and from it climbed a thin ribbon of smoke that lost itself in the hoary sky. Next to it, a rising spire erupted, identifying the place as a sanctuary dedicated to Ehyeh.

  Upon arriving, the travelers dismounted. They tethered their mares as a half dozen people stepped out from the building and then stood on the wide patio that ran its length, and upon which two rocking chairs sat.

  When the way cleared, Basha and Therese climbed the few steps to the front door. On it hung a wreath of autumn leaves, acorns and pinecones.

  Therese shivered, crossed her arms, and stomped her feet.

  “Cold?” Basha asked.

  “Yes . . . and wet. Let’s go.”

  The Oathtaker opened the door and then stepped inside. The warm air within held a clean, piney scent that brought on a rush of childhood memories from years back when she and her family hunted frequently in the deepest forests outside of her hometown. A series of recollections of large family dinners and of late nights talking, laughing, and of game playing, flitted through her mind. They left behind, a bittersweet feeling.

  Breathing in deeply, she glanced about, taking in the simple and clean furnishings, the newly swept wooden floors, and the wrought iron ceiling fixture that sported a half dozen lit candles.

  “May I help you?” came a deep voice from someone not visible. A moment later, the voice became a man who appeared from behind a stack of books piled upon a desk just to the right of the entrance.

  “Yes, thank you,” Basha said. “We’re here to check in with the Oathtaker in charge of this sanctuary.”

  “That would be me.” The man stepped out. Dressed in standard Oathtakers’ garb, he displayed a firm musculature on a frame just under six feet. He wore his dark hair swept back from his face, and his beard clipped short. Naturally arched brows framed his riveting deep brown eyes, which were accented by early laugh lines.

  “And you are?” His voice, smooth, pure, bass, gave his speech a nearly musical quality, mellow and soothing.

  Basha stepped toward him, suddenly struck silent by the beauty of that voice. Its timbre carried smoothly through the air.

  “You’re most welcome here,” he said, his eyes moving slowly from her, to Therese, then back. “I’m Trumble. Alexander Trumble. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

  “Oh, I’m . . . sorry.” Basha laughed nervously. “Thank you, Mr. Trumble.”

  “Just call me Trumble. All my friends do.” He smiled, and his eyes sparkled.

  “Thank you . . . Trumble.” Basha couldn’t shake the feeling the man gave her, as though she was just a schoolgirl. He was handsome to be sure, but her reaction to him surprised her.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Alexander. I mean . . . Trumble. Thank you. I—that is—we,” she nodded toward her charge, “have come from sanctuary in the City of Light. This is Therese,” she said, gesturing her way.

  “And you are?”

  “Oh yes, of course
, I’m Basha. Basha Constant.”

  He smiled at that. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both.” His words tripped off his tongue, then seemed to hang momentarily in the air before dissipating.

  Feeling a fool, a young maiden when she looked at him, Basha scolded herself when he shook her hand in greeting, his eyes meeting hers.

  He held her gaze for several long seconds before releasing her hand.

  “What brings you to the Little Creek sanctuary?”

  Before she could respond, the door opened, admitting two men and a young woman.

  “Oh, there you are!” Trumble exclaimed. “Excuse me, ladies,” he said, before going to the door. “Hey, all, we’ve visitors.”

  The newest arrivals turned toward Basha and Therese. “Welcome!” they greeted in unison.

  “Thank you,” Therese said. She turned her attention to Trumble. “We don’t mean to intrude. Would there be a good time for us to return?”

  “Oh, no. You needn’t go anywhere.” He turned to the man nearest him. “Gunter, meet Basha and Therese,” he said.

  A ring of carrot red hair encircled the crown of Gunter’s otherwise bald pate. Firm, but compact, he wore a heavy tan linen shirt and dark brown wool pants. His knee-length black boots of soft, supple leather, left pools of water on the floor behind his every step. A short olive green woolen cape, clasped with a decorative silver lacer, hung over his shoulders. Beads of moisture on its surface dripped to the floor as he moved it back, exposing a long sword at his side. He held a bow of exquisite maple, polished to a high sheen, that fairly glistened in the candlelight. He leaned it against the wall.

  “And this is Raiden, and Felicity,” Trumble completed the introductions.

  Like Trumble, Raiden was clad in standard Oathtakers’ garb. Of moderate height, his cool blue eyes shone out from under a thick mop of unruly hair the color of winter wheat. He waved a greeting.

  “Welcome!” Felicity exclaimed. She removed her woolen knit shawl, hung it on a hook near the door, and then sidled up to Trumble. She stood with her arm around his waist and her head resting on his chest. Petite of build, her dark brown hair hung in a single braid reaching to the middle of her back. She looked childish, fanciful, in an unusual way, like an intriguing combination of an infant and a fairy. Her deep brown eyes sparkled under long black lashes.

  “Warm me up,” she said, looking at Trumble with a mischievous expression. Then she turned back toward Basha and Therese. Suddenly, her smile froze, then fell. She stared at Therese. “Do I know you?” An air of accusation laced her voice.

  Surprised, Therese pulled back, pointing at herself. “Me? No.” She shook her head. “No, you don’t know me.”

  Felicity nodded slowly, then turned her attention back to Trumble, embracing him if possible, even more tightly.

  Basha watched closely as the young woman’s exquisitely beautiful hand patted his chest.

  “Hey, little sister,” he said as he leaned down to kiss the top of her head, “go warm yourself up.” He pointed to a stove in the opposite corner of the room.

  “Pooh!” she scolded. Then, moving with the grace of a gazelle, she released her hold on him before twirling, skipping—or perhaps it was dancing—away. She stood near the stove, hands outstretched, soaking in its warmth.

  “Excuse me. I’ll be just another minute,” Trumble said to his visitors. “Any luck?” he then asked, turning his attention to Gunter and Raiden.

  “A good sized boar!” Raiden exclaimed with a smile. “And Chance got a small one. Together, they’ll be enough for the feed.”

  “Excellent. Best get them all gutted and prepared quickly. Dalton and Joel are already firing up the pit. We’ve no time to spare.”

  “Right. Robert and Nadira brought the boars straight to Harold’s. Chance was already there.” Gunter chuckled. “Seems he couldn’t wait to show off his latest kill. Though truth to tell, it was as I said, a small one.”

  Trumble laughed. “He’s turning into quite the bowman though, isn’t he?”

  “That he is.”

  “Well, good for him. How did she do?” Trumble asked, tipping his head toward where Felicity stood, now humming a tune.

  “She did well,” Raiden said.

  “She wasn’t in the way?”

  “Not at all.”

  “No spells?”

  “No,” Gunter replied.

  Basha’s eyes were drawn to Felicity. There was something unusual, ageless, about the girl. Though clearly not a child, her dancing in place near the stove, suggested as much.

  Trumble’s eyes followed her gaze. “Ahhh,” he said, his voice lowered, “my sister is a bit . . . simple, I guess you’d say.”

  “She’s lovely,” Basha said, smiling. “She has a beautiful, free spirit.”

  “That she does.” Trumble turned back to his friends. “Best get going. I’ve business to attend to here and Harold will need your help to get those boars ready.”

  “I’ll be back for my bow later. It was nice to meet you,” Raidon then said to Basha and Therese. “Will you be joining us for the feed this evening?”

  “The feed?” Basha asked.

  “I’ll fill them in. Off with you now!” Trumble exclaimed with a grin and a nod toward the door, clear evidence he was the man in charge.

  “Right you are. Well, see you later then,” Raidon said.

  “Later!” Gunter shouted as he opened the door, allowing a gust of cold air to rush inside.

  “I apologize for the interruption,” Trumble said. “I had to see to that business. You see, Little Creek is a very poor town. We’ve been working for years now to improve the lives of the locals. We host a feed once a week. Everyone is welcome. For many, it’s the most complete meal they get all week. You’re certainly welcome to join us.”

  “Thank you,” Basha said, “but we don’t want to intrude. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer we return at another time?”

  “No, that’s not necessary.”

  “Ahhhhh!” Felicity suddenly cried.

  Trumble rushed to where she now was, on the floor, near the stove. She held her head in her hands, moaning, her body jerking.

  Basha rushed to his side. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  He held his hand out. It was crippled, the last three fingers missing. “It’ll pass. It’ll pass,” he said. He dropped to his knees, then gently lifted Felicity. Holding her firmly, he cradled her head in his arms and rocked her. “It’s all right. It’s all right,” he repeated, over and over again. He stroked her hair. “You’re all right.”

  The women watched on as he gently ministered to the girl.

  Some minutes later, her gasping faltered. Then, slowly, her breathing resumed a normal pace. Her eyes flickered open as Trumble gently put her down.

  “I did it again, didn’t I?”

  He nodded, smiling weakly. He brushed the hair from her brow, leaned forward, then kissed her forehead. “Yes, you did it again. Did you hurt yourself at all?”

  With his assistance, she sat up. She rubbed the side of her head. “Just here, a little.”

  “Trumble,” Basha said, “this seems a bad time.”

  “No, don’t go,” Felicity said, still rubbing her head, “I’m fine now.”

  “Any visions?” Trumble asked, as he put his hand beneath her chin.

  She shook her head. “Nothing new.” She touched her cheek, then closed her eyes. “We have to pray for them,” she whispered.

  “We will. We’ll pray for them.”

  “I think I’ll rest now. I don’t want to miss the feed.”

  “That’s a good idea. You’ve had a busy day already.”

  A tear ran down her cheek. She looked at him, her eyes pleading. “Everyone needs to pray.”

  “We will. We’ll pray . . . tonight.” He stood, then offered her his hand and helped her to her feet. “Come on, now.” With his arm around her, he led her away to a room in the back corner.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said over
his shoulder before disappearing from view.

  “Poor child,” Therese said.

  Basha bit her lip. “I wonder what that was all about.”

  “I’ve no idea. I just wish we could have helped, somehow.”

  The door to the back room opened, and Trumble stepped out. He approached. “I apologize for all that.”

  “Don’t even think about it,” Therese said. “I was just saying that I wished we could have been of some help.”

  He gestured toward a nearby table. “Here, please, have a seat,” he said. “I want to know what brought you to Little Creek—what I can do to help you. It’s likely Felicity will sleep for hours now.”

  As they all sat, the front door opened and a woman entered. Dressed in a skirt made from various scraps of fabric in a multitude of colors, and covered with a thick woolen shawl, she carried a tray. She placed it atop a stack of books on the desk, then pulled off her cap, exposing her long, thin gray hair. She wiped her feet on the rug. When through, she picked up the tray again, and made her way to the table where Trumble sat with his visitors.

  “It’s a day for interruptions, I see,” he said, smiling. He turned to his latest visitor. “Thank you, Hazel. What kind did you bring today?

  “Rathpberry leaf, bee balm and licorith,” she replied, exposing the missing teeth that explained her lisp. “Thmooth and hot.”

  “Thank you, Hazel.”

  She put her hat back on. “Will I thee you at the feed?”

  “You certainly will. I wouldn’t miss it. I’m glad you’ll be there.”

  “Yeth. Udell’th coming too.”

  “Udell! Why, that’s wonderful!”

  “Yeth. The feed ith good. The feed ith alwayth good.” She turned away, then exited sanctuary.

  “Ha ha ha ha,” Trumble laughed. Like his voice, the sound of his laughter rumbled through the room. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think there was some grand design to keep me from visiting with the two of you.” He smiled at his visitors. “So, again I ask: what can I do for you?”

  “Allow me,” Therese said, when he reached for the teapot, once again exposing the missing fingers on his left hand. Grasping an aged white porcelain cup, chipped and stained along its edges, she poured tea for him, then filled a cup for Basha. An anise scented steam filled the air. She picked up the last cup. It had a small crack, discolored from age, running down its side and to its center bottom. She filled it, then wrapped her hands around it, savoring its warmth.