* * *
The following day Martha brought him his food, gasping in shock at the sight of him.
“Look what that monster did to you,” she said, quickly placing a bowl of porridge on the nightstand and sitting on the bedside. “He should be whipped for this.”
Lem smiled through the pain. He did not want her involved, and Martha was sure to insist upon it. “I’ll be fine. It was just a misunderstanding. Nothing to be worried about.”
“Misunderstanding, my foot. He had no right to do this. I’ll have him before the magistrate by morning. You can count on that.”
“Please,” said Lem. “Leave it alone. I have it handled.”
Martha was fearless. But being fearless would not protect her from Zara if she caused trouble. The magistrate was little more than an office above a clothing shop with a lone old man behind a desk. He had no real power, certainly not over someone like Zara. Martha would more than likely end up being beaten herself. Or worse.
“Promise me you won’t do anything,” he pressed.
She hesitated for a moment before nodding her compliance. “Have it your way,” she said, anger bleeding into her voice. “But if he does it again, he’ll answer to me.”
Lem reached out and clasped her hand. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. You need medicine. You can thank me when that swelling has gone down.” She stood and slid the bowl on the nightstand closer. “Eat. I’ll be back in a flash.”
Sitting up as far as the soreness would allow, Lem ate his porridge. Not his favorite, but then chewing anything more substantial would have proven to be too much. Martha returned just as he finished, this time bearing a bottle of sweet-smelling salve that she applied liberally to each of his wounds. On contact it tingled warmly, drawing out much of the sting. She then retrieved a small red mushroom from the folds of her apron.
“Eat this,” she said. “It will help you sleep.”
Not taking no for an answer, she held it to his mouth until he allowed her to pop it in. The taste was bitter and earthy, with a gritty texture uncharacteristic of any mushroom he’d had before.
Martha laughed. “Tastes bad, heals good.” She crossed over to the door. “I’ll check in on you in a few hours.”
Within minutes, Lem felt his eyelids getting heavy and was soon in a deep dreamless sleep.
True to her word, Martha returned just as he was waking up. She had more food, and once again, after applying a second coating of salve, forced him to eat another foul-tasting mushroom. He was awake just long enough to see that it was evening and to realize that the salve had been quite effective in reducing the swelling on his face. Barely had he thanked her when he felt himself drifting back to sleep.
The next time he woke, it was Zara standing in the doorway. The sight of her smile renewed his anger.
“Looks like Martha is quite the nurse,” she remarked. Her hair was up and she was wearing one of the blue cotton dresses she often wore when the bar was crowded. “The place isn’t the same without you. People have been asking nonstop when you’ll be back. It’s good to know you’re wanted, isn’t it?”
Lem sniffed and rolled over on his side, refusing to look at her.
“I’ll tell them you’ll be back tomorrow.”
Lem waited until hearing the door close before rolling onto his back and then shifting to a fully seated position. The hours of rest, along with the salve, had by now reduced his pain to a tolerable level. Cautiously, he placed his feet on the floor and pushed himself up.
No sooner had he risen than a wave of dizziness struck him, forcing him to grip the bedpost. Mercifully, the sensation quickly passed. Taking a few deep breaths, even though his legs felt weak and his back throbbed from where Durst had punched him, he found himself able to walk to the other side of the room. As a test, it proved two things. He would probably be well enough to play tomorrow night; and if he had to run, he would need a little more time.
He returned to the bed, letting out a groan as he leaned back on his pillow. He could still see Durst’s face as he let fly his punches. If he could find a way, Lem swore that he would make the vicious bully pay. The trouble was, as things stood, he knew that any attempt at revenge would more likely than not result in further injury. Durst was too strong, too big, too cruel. Lem had fought before on a few occasions, but that was when he was a young lad, and the consequences were never more severe than a few bruises and scrapes. What Durst was capable of doling out could certainly kill him. In all probability, the next time, if there was a next time, he would.
Lem closed his eyes for a bit, but without the aid of another mushroom, sleep was elusive. Minutes felt like hours as he stared up at the ceiling. He tried running over in his mind different scenarios for escape. A few of these involved hurting Durst quite severely, though these were more fantasies than actual plans. Whatever he did, with or without vengeance, he could not afford to get caught. Zara would not hesitate to kill him rather than allow him to leave. Of that he was certain.
You should have never left home, he thought. Look at you. How can you protect all of Vylari when you can’t even protect yourself? If he was this vulnerable in a small nothing of a town, what would happen to him once he reached a city? When he found the Thaumas? If he met an enemy with more power than a lowly barman? From the conversations he’d had with Martha about life outside Harver’s Grove, it seemed that danger lurked in every shadow. One misstep could leave you dead in the streets, victim of the countless predators hunting an easy mark. And that’s what he was—an easy mark.
As depression and self-pity set in, a tiny voice in the back of his mind pierced the gloom—a faint flicker of light guiding him to his courage. He imagined his mother sitting at his bedside when he was a boy, when the summer storms came at night. The thunder would rattle the windows, sending him hiding beneath his blanket. She wouldn’t say a word; her reassuring smile was enough to allay his fears. It was as if she passed her strength to him through the special bond only they shared. More than ever he needed her courage to bolster his own.
Finally, he managed to still his mind and close his eyes. Tomorrow he would start looking for a way out. Though Farley was probably long gone by now, it didn’t matter. His time here would come to an end, one way or another.
* * *
He woke several times during the night, a result of too much rest, he assumed. He thought to search the kitchen to see if Martha had left a mushroom. Foul tasting or not, at least they allowed him to sleep soundly.
The door to his room creaked open just as he was about to rise. He fully expected to see Zara, but to his surprise it was Martha standing in the doorway. She was never at the tavern so late.
Her expression was an unreadable stone mask. “Gather your things,” she said. “You’re leaving.”
Ignoring the pain in his back, Lem sprang up. “What … what are you doing here?”
“We haven’t long,” she responded, casting a glance over her shoulder down the hall. “If you want to go with Farley, now is the time.”
Lem’s belongings, Zara having neglected to unpack them, were still in the corner. He yanked out pants and a shirt, then pulled on his boots. “Zara took my balisari,” he told her. “I have nothing to play.”
“I have your instrument,” she said, the urgency becoming more pronounced.
Pulling on his pack was especially painful, the weight pressing in where Durst had punched him, but he gritted his teeth and fought through the discomfort. “Where are Zara and Durst?” he asked.
Martha flashed a mischievous grin. “You’ll see soon enough. But we need to hurry.”
As fast as he could manage, Lem followed her into the common room. Dozens of empty mugs covered the tables and bar. No one had cleaned up yet, which was most strange. Zara always made sure the tavern was ready for the next day before allowing the staff to go home, sometimes even forcing a patron who had found himself short on coin for his bill to help Durst and the servers.
&nbs
p; Just as they reached the front door, Lem spotted a body on the floor in the far corner. It was Zara. She was lying facedown in a puddle of spilled ale, hair splayed over her head and dress torn at the shoulder.
“Is she … dead?” Lem asked.
Martha laughed. “Dead drunk, that’s all. She’ll be fine in the morning, I promise. I added a bit of something special to her wine to make sure that we could leave without a problem.”
Lem felt oddly relieved. Much as he despised the woman, he didn’t want her killed. Not even after all that she had done to him.
The streets were empty aside from a pair of horses tied to the post in front. On one was lashed his precious balisari. Lem stifled a joyous cry. “Thank you,” he whispered.
“Why are you whispering?” asked Martha. “No one is about. Now come on. We need to go before it’s too late.”
“Too late for what?”
Martha held out the reins for Lem. “A bit of justice, of course.”
Lem stared at the beast with intense trepidation. “I … I don’t know how to ride.”
“Well, you had better learn fast.”
Though Lem had seen it done many times since arriving in Harver’s Grove, he’d never had the slightest desire to try riding on one of these strange-looking creatures himself. Now, however, the pressing look on Martha’s face said that there could be no argument.
Steeling his nerves, he prepared to place one foot in the stirrup, as he had seen others do. But before he could, the door to the tavern flew open and Zara staggered out, a dagger in one hand, the other reaching for the frame for support.
“Where do you think you’re going, you ungrateful son of a hound?” she demanded, her voice heavily slurred from the drug Martha had given her, drool dripping from one corner of her mouth.
In two rapid steps Martha moved in front of Lem. “Go back inside, Zara.”
Zara squinted one eye, then sneered disdainfully. “Go home, old woman. I’ll deal with you later.” Taking a moment to gain her footing, she took a step onto the promenade.
“Don’t make me hurt you,” warned Martha.
Lem looked from Martha to Zara, who was still brandishing the dagger. He thought he could possibly disarm her. Possibly. He had heard Zara was deadly with a blade, but perhaps her inebriated state would give him the advantage. He grabbed at Martha’s shoulder to pull her aside, but found that she was set firm and easily shrugged his hand away.
“Last chance,” said Martha. Her arms shot out, extended to her sides, her fingers splayed apart.
Zara snarled. “I’ve had enough of you, old woman. Time you learned your place.”
Fearing for Martha’s life, Lem was about to lunge at Zara. But a dim glow surrounded Martha’s hands. Startled, he moved a few paces back. Zara noticed as well and stopped at once.
“Thaumas,” hissed Zara, pointing the tip of the dagger like an accusing finger.
“Not exactly,” replied Martha.
A Thaumas? The shock and excitement of finding a Thaumas was almost enough to overcome the fear of the moment.
“I’ll see you in front of the Hedran, you cow,” said Zara.
Martha’s head tilted slightly forward. “Is that right?”
In a flurry of motion, Zara charged in, blade held high to strike. With the speed of a much younger woman, Martha’s arms flew forward, and thin blue strands of light leapt from each of her fingertips. They struck Zara in the chest and face, and she cried out, the dagger falling to the ground as she was thrown back into the wall beside the tavern door.
Without pause, Martha turned to Lem, who was staring in disbelief and horror at what he had witnessed. Magic. Real magic. Not like the barrier, unseen and abstract. This was blatant, unfettered power. The very evil he had been taught to fear and revile. And it had come from the only person to have shown him genuine kindness since arriving in Harver’s Grove.
“Lem,” said Martha. When he didn’t respond, she snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Lem.”
Lem blinked. “How … What did you do?”
“No time for questions. Drag her inside. Quickly, now, before someone sees us.”
Lem hesitated, unable to move until Martha repeated the order. To his relief, as he drew near he could see that Zara was still breathing. Lifting her under her arms, he pulled the woman inside and laid her near the front wall, taking care not to let her head hit the floor too hard. By the time he was back outside, Martha was already astride her mount.
“Blast that damned woman,” she said, angrily. “I swore I was done with all that.”
Lem approached his horse, but did not mount it. “You’re a Thaumas?”
“No,” she replied, eyes fixed on the bar door. “I never made it past the third ascension. But I know enough to handle the likes of Zara. Now hurry. That Farley fellow is waiting.”
The horse jerked its head and stomped, skittish from the turmoil. It took several tries before Lem was able to mount. Hands clasped tightly on the reins, he felt sure the beast was ready to bolt at any moment.
“Ease off,” said Martha. “Just relax. Belle’s a good mare. She won’t throw you so long as you’re gentle.”
Lem loosened his hold, and a few seconds later Belle calmed considerably. He then watched closely as Martha pulled on the reins and urged her horse forward with a slight bump of the heels. Lem’s stomach fluttered when, mimicking this, his own mount reacted in exactly the same way. After a few yards he was riding up alongside Martha, though the jostling of the beast’s gait had caused the pain in his back to return in force.
* * *
They rode east out of town in silence for a time, Lem’s eyes never leaving Martha for a moment. Finally he built up the courage to speak.
“You use magic?”
Martha, now riding a few feet ahead, looked back and smiled. “Surprised?”
“But magic … it’s…” He didn’t want to speak the word. It felt wrong to use when associated with the kind old woman.
“If you call me a heretic, I’ll thump your head,” she warned, though not in a way that made him think her displeasure was sincere. “You’re from Lytonia. You know better.”
“I wasn’t going to say that.” He had almost forgotten that she thought him from Lamoria. Now he was stuck in the lie. Part of him wanted to tell her everything. She had, after all, just rescued him from Zara. But he held back. She had also concealed that she was a wielder of magic. But then, why would she tell him this? He had no reason to know. There was no expectation of her to pass on intimate details about herself.
This debate continued in his mind until he heard her conspicuously clearing her throat. Belle had slowed to a walk, and was seemingly content to follow Martha with little guidance from Lem.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“How is it you never learned to ride?”
Lem searched for a believable reply. “I just don’t like horses.”
Martha shook her head. “What’s not to like about horses?” She waved a dismissive hand. “It doesn’t matter. You know you can never come back here, right?”
“I don’t intend to,” he said. “But what about you? Surely you aren’t going back? Not after what happened?”
Martha cocked her head and raised an eyebrow. “Me? Leave Harver’s Grove? Young man, I was born there, and I’ll die there.”
“But what about Zara?” Zara had threatened to bring her before the Hedran. Though he wasn’t exactly certain how that worked, he had learned it to be a court controlled by the Archbishop.
“I can handle my niece,” she said.
Lem’s eyes widened. “Your niece?”
Martha gave him a guilty, rather apologetic smile. “I’m sorry to say it’s true. I should have told you. But it’s not something I’m particularly proud of.”
“But she tried to kill you.”
Martha sniffed. “She was out of her mind from the drug. It’s doubtful she’ll even remember tonight. And if she does, it won’t be dif
ficult to convince her to keep my secret. In a right state of mind, she’ll remember that I’m still blood.”
The mention of Martha’s “secret” chilled him to the core. “How did you learn magic?”
“The same way anyone does,” she replied, as if it were a common subject. “When I was younger, I left home to join the Order of the Thaumas. A silly thing to do. And I wasn’t very good. What you saw back there was about as much as I know, other than a bit of glamor.”
Lem nodded, pretending to understand. “I need to find them. Can you help me?”
Martha gave him a curious look. “Why would you need my help?”
Lem was afraid to respond.
Seeing his distress, Martha held up her hand and said, “It’s fine. Keep your secrets.”
“I’m … I’m not from Lytonia,” he confessed, reluctantly.
She halted her mount, regarding Lem for a long moment. “Let me guess: You’re a heretic. Do you worship the spirits of your ancestors or something like that?” Then in a flash of perception, her eyes widened, as a broad smile slowly stretched across her face. “Kylor’s grace! Are you from the western tribes?” When he didn’t correct her, she began to laugh, holding her side with one hand. “I should have known. Why else would you seem so out of place?” Her laughter continued as she spurred her horse forward. “Well, aren’t we just a fine pair of liars. Here I am, pretending to be a good and righteous woman of the faith. You, a simple foreigner. When both of us are one slip of the tongue away from our heads being removed from our shoulders.”
Not knowing who the western tribes were, he let the lie stand. “Please. I need to find the Thaumas. How do I do it?”
“I knew there was something different about you,” she said, her amusement causing her to ignore his question. When she noticed Lem’s serious expression, she quelled her laughter, though could not subdue her smile. “I’m sorry. But I can’t help you. When I left the Order, I was bound. A spell prevents me from divulging their location. But if you leave Ralmarstad, you should be able to find them if you’re determined enough.”
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