"That was amazing," she said.
"Oh, yes. Folks come from all over the kingdom to watch me make tea," he said lightly.
"I only mean that I had thought that losing one's sight would leave one helpless," Myranda said.
"I've still four senses left. A hand without a thumb is still a hand," he said.
"But you cannot count to ten," she said.
"You can if you remember how," he answered swiftly. "My goodness, why are we talking about me? I have been here for years. You are the newcomer, what about you?"
"What would you have me say?" Myranda asked.
"I would not mind a description. My ears can only tell me so much. I know your height from where your voice comes from, and your build by the creak of your chair, but try as I might, I still have not found a way to hear hair color," he said.
"Oh, well, I have got red hair, long, and brown eyes. My clothes are gray," Myranda said, embarrassed.
"And I am sure you are every bit as lovely as your voice," he said.
"Oh . . ." Myranda blushed.
"And your name?" he asked.
"Myranda Celeste," she answered. "And yours?"
"You may call me Father," he said. "So, from where are you headed?"
"North," Myranda said.
"North West or North East?" he asked.
"Just North," came her reply, worried about the line of questions that were sure to follow.
"There is nothing north of here but miles and miles of tundra," he said.
"I know," she said gruffly.
"The only things that would send a person through that waste are very good confidence or very bad directions. Not to offend, but I am inclined to believe that the latter is the case," he said.
"No, no. I just . . . misunderstood; I asked for the shortest way to Renack, and he sent me this way," she explained, hoping that the priest would not pry further. Her story was suspect enough as it was. The truth would reveal the reason she had been shunned, and she would at least like a chance to let her feet stop throbbing before she was thrown out in the cold again.
"Oh, well, that certainly would explain it. It could have used more conflict, though. The best fairytales always have plenty of conflict. The essence of drama, you know," said the priest, clearly aware that Myranda was hiding something.
"What? How did you know I was lying?" she asked, realizing the purpose of the comment.
"Listen hard enough and you begin to hear more of what people say than they had intended. Care to tell the truth--or, at least, a more compelling tale?" he asked.
"I wanted to know the easiest way to get to the next town. That was true, but I was purposely misled," she said.
"Why would someone do that? You could have died out there," he wondered.
"I had made myself . . . unwelcome," she said, carefully dancing about the key bit of information sure to cost her the respect of her host.
"Do I need to ask, or will you save me the trouble?" he asked, clearly in search of the missing piece.
Myranda sighed heavily. There were no two ways about it. She simply could not lie to a holy man.
"I . . . showed sympathy for the soldiers killed in a battle . . . both sides. From that moment on, no one there would help me. When I finally found someone who would speak to me, I asked for directions and he sent me through the field, assuring me it was the surest way," she confessed.
"A sympathizer," he said coldly. "It stands to reason why you would have been sent down such a disadvantageous path."
"I will leave, I don't want to--" Myranda began, rising from her seat.
"No, you may remain. I am a man of heaven and it is my place to show compassion. I will hear your confession and oversee your penance," he said with poorly-suppressed disgust.
"I will take my leave, I have caused you enough trouble," she said, gathering the pack that she had only just let slip to the floor, and turning to the door.
"Young lady, for your wrong to be forgiven, you must repent," he demanded.
Myranda froze. She turned back to the priest.
"Forgiven? Wrong?" she said, anger mounting.
When the priest asked her to redeem herself, it stirred thoughts she'd long ago pushed aside. So long as she'd cost herself the comfort of the shelter already, she may as well at least free her mind of its burden.
"I will not apologize for what I know in my heart is right," she cried out.
"You have sympathized with the Tressons. These are men who seek only to kill your countrymen. Every soft thought for them is a knife in the back of a brother," he said.
"Don't you understand? Somewhere on the other side of the line that splits our world, another priest is giving this same speech to a person who had shed a tear for the Alliance Army. Any life cut short is a tragedy. I do not care how or why!" she proclaimed, giving voice to feelings long suppressed.
"If we allow our resolve to weaken, we will be overrun! Today you waste thoughts on an enemy. Tomorrow you poison the mind of another. Before long, there will be no one left with the will to fight!" the priest said, spouting the same tired ideas that Myranda had heard all of her life.
"At least then the war will be over," she said. "I will take an end to this war regardless of the cost. Enough lives have been lost already."
"Even if it costs you your freedom and the freedom of all of the people of the Northern Kingdoms?" he asked.
"Freedom? What freedom do we have? In the world we live in, there are but two choices to be made: join the army or run from it. If you join, you will pray each day that you will live long enough to pray again on the next. Pray that the impossible happens, that you live to see your children march off to the same fate as you try for the rest of your life to wash the blood from your hands. And if you cannot bear to throw your body into the flames of war, then you can live as I have. A fugitive, a nomad. Known by no one and hated by everyone. What worse fate could the Tressons have in store? What worse fate exists?" she proclaimed.
"It is talk such as that which will cost us victory," the priest said.
"Victory!? There is no victory in war! War takes everything and gives nothing! I only wish my words were as destructive as you would have me believe! If that were true, I would shout myself hoarse, I would not sleep until my words had poisoned the thoughts of everyone who had ears--but the cold truth is that nothing I say or do will have even the slightest effect on this wretched war. I am nothing! A shadow! A whisper! Dismissed and forgotten!" she ranted.
Her heart pounded and tears clouded her eyes. She shakily lowered the tea cup to the table. In the heat of her impassioned speech, she had managed to douse herself and a good deal of the room with the piping hot contents. The bandage on her left hand was dripping with it, rekindling the faded pain of its last scalding.
"I am very sorry for how I have acted, and I am sorry for the trouble I may have caused you, but I am not sorry for the thoughts and feelings that you insist are wrong. I will leave you now, before I say or do something deserving of regret," Myranda continued, in control of her emotions again.
"Were I you I would turn left at the sign post that you will find outside of my door," the priest said. "The people of Renack are decent, patriotic citizens. Should they discover your sadly misguided beliefs, I doubt they would trust an icy field to do you in. Bydell is to the east. Nothing but scoundrels and deserters. You just may find someone there who shares your blasphemous views."
These last words were heard through the slammed door of his quarters. Myranda moved with swift, motivated strides. She would have no more of this place if she could help it. The cold wind of the outside staggered her like a blow to the face. It had grown even colder than when she had sought shelter just minutes before. The patches of scalding hot tea turned icy at the first exposure to the stinging cold. The fuming girl gritted her teeth and leaned into the wind. It never ceased to amaze her how, seemingly regardless of which way she turned, the wind blew in her face. It was as though someone up above was toying with
her, seeing how much torment it would take to break her. She turned her eyes skyward.
"You will have to do better than that!" she assured her unseen tormentor.
Not long after storming out of the church, she found the signpost of which the priest had spoken. Renack to the west and Bydell to the east. Both were ten miles away. A few hours by foot. It was a long hike by any means, but along a road, she could make it to either town well before nightfall. She might even make it to a pub before the tables had filled for supper. But which town to go to? Reluctantly, she headed off to the east.
Chapter 3
As Myranda walked eastward, trying to put the anger of her confrontation out of her mind, she questioned her choice. The advice of a person who knew how she felt about the war had nearly cost Myranda her life the previous day, and here she was making the same mistake.
Her father would have frowned on this. Her thoughts turned to him. It had been even longer since she'd seen his face than her mother's. She had to struggle to remember his features. He had been a soldier, never home more than a few weeks before he was off to another tour of duty. He still found time to teach her some of the most valued lessons she had ever learned, though. Even though she had not been more than six when she last spoke to him, he had made sure she knew something of the real world. He would tell stories of adventures he'd had, always with a piece of advice at the end. Above all, he'd taught her to pay attention and to learn from her mistakes.
She shook the memories away. Those days were gone now, too painful to remember.
With her reminiscing over, the infuriating words of the priest quickly returned. Again, she physically shook. What she needed now was distraction, anything to distance her mind from the pain and anger.
"So, Bydell and Renack. Each the same distance from the church. What other towns have I been to that shared a church between them? Lucast and Murtock . . . Skell and Marna . . ." she thought aloud.
She grimaced as the distraction proved inadequate to force the words of the priest from her mind.
"Bydell!" she forced herself to consider. "Where did that name come from? I wonder if it is by a dell."
Myranda continued to force her mind onto this and other suitably pointless subjects for the remainder of the cold and lonely trek. She had exhausted nearly every last meaningless avenue of consideration by the time she sloshed into the smoky, dark interior of the Bydell tavern. The sign over the door labeled this place The Lizard's Goblet, a name she wished she'd had to toss about in her mind on the trip. The reasoning behind such a name could have filled at least a few minutes. The smell of roasting meat and the tantalizing sound of wine being poured set her mind firmly on her empty stomach.
The tables of the noisy room were all at least partially filled. As she scanned the establishment for a place to sit, she could feel eyes staring back. Myranda's eyes passed the faces of at least a dozen men far too young and healthy to be anywhere but the front line. They each had found some way, likely underhanded, to avoid their obligation to serve. Now they sat, drinking and laughing in this place, criminals for choosing life. Among the rogue's gallery of faces was a particularly suspicious-looking person in the dark far corner, still shrouded in his gray cloak. Nearly every man in the whole of the room wore a similar cloak, as the King had made them available for free as a favor to the downtrodden masses.
When she finally located a seat she would be comfortable in, she moved quickly to claim it.
The seat she chose was at the counter where the drinks were served. The odd plate and knife scattered about the bar assured her that she would be allowed to take her meal there as well. It was not the most luxurious of chairs, but with a handful of empty seats between herself and the nearest denizen of the bar to ease her nerves in such a rowdy place, it would do well enough. She sat and awaited the tavern keeper's service.
Several minutes passed, punctuated by stomach rumblings reminding her of the fact she had yet to be served. A glance down the bar revealed the keeper to be in a very spirited conversation with a gruff customer he shared more than a casual resemblance to. She decided that they must be brothers, and chose not to interrupt their conversation. Surely he would take her order soon. As this thought passed through her mind, a particularly thick cloud of pipe smoke wafted past her face. It was all she could do to keep from gagging. She turned a watering eye to the source of the offending fumes.
Behind her, an old man with a patch over his right eye let out a long, raking sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh. The outburst lasted for a disturbingly long time, shaking his body as it progressed. The long, thin pipe he gnawed on was lodged securely between two of the only teeth left in his mouth. The half-rotten things had been used to clutch the stalk of the pipe so often they had parted to make room for it. She winced as a second, far more powerful outburst spread his lips far enough to confirm the solitary standing of the pipe-holding teeth. Another man sat at the table with him, staring intently at her. He looked as though he had not slept in days. On his shoulder was a scraggly bird of some kind. He whispered to it dementedly, prompting another long, raking laugh from his companion.
Sneaking another scan of the patrons of the tavern, she realized that most of the other men were staring at her as well, a fact that made her more than a bit uncomfortable. Myranda turned back to the bar. A trio of flies were enjoying the remains of the meal left by the seat's previous occupant. It was seldom warm enough outside for flies to survive, so it was more than likely that these creatures had lived for generations due to the lackluster housekeeping skills of the Lizard's Goblet's staff.
The flies drifted lazily off to their next meal when a particularly tipsy couple bumped into the bar on their way to the stairs that were at Myranda's right side. The collision nearly knocked her from her seat, but the couple merely stumbled up the stairs without so much as an acknowledgment of their rudeness. There were half a dozen similar bumps and jostles before the innkeeper reluctantly headed in her direction.
"Make it fast, missy, I am in the middle of something," said the less-than-hospitable man.
"What have you got over the fire?" she asked.
He sighed heavily as he turned to the kitchen.
"Goat," was his rather unappetizing description of the meal when he turned back.
"I will have some of that and some wine," she said.
"No wine," he said.
"Why not?" Myranda asked.
"Haven't had a drop in weeks. Very expensive stuff, you know," he said.
Myranda turned to a nearby table where a man was pouring himself a tall glass of the very beverage she sought.
"Are you certain?" she asked.
"Wine is very expensive," he repeated. "People who cannot afford wine usually order ale."
Now it was clear. The wine was reserved for the better-off of his customers. He did not think she could afford any. Judging by how this man did business, the price was surely prohibitive.
"Ale will be fine," she said.
He pulled a heavy tankard out from underneath the bar and held it below the tap of one of the numerous kegs that lined the wall between himself and the kitchen. He dropped it down in front of her, sloshing a good deal of it onto the sticky surface of the bar. Myranda wiped the rim and sampled the beverage as she watched the keeper shuffle into the kitchen in no particular hurry. His back was to the girl when the intensely bitter flavor of the ale struck her, sparing him the rather contorted face it brought about.
In truth, it was not particularly a bad brew, as ales went, but she not been fond of the best of them, and this was not nearly as good as that. She briefly entertained the notion of skipping the drink and simply awaiting the meal, but the barrel clearly indicated that this was a home brew, and the owners of taverns tended to take great pride in their creations. It was best not to turn her nose up at it. For the sake of harmony, she took another swallow. At any rate, it was a darn sight better than the leathery rain water she had been living off of from her flask day in and day
out, and she did not look forward to the flavor of the contents of the soldier's flask either.
The plate of food was set before her: a slice of rather overcooked goat meat accompanied by a mound of boiled cabbage. A knife clattered to rest beside her plate. She carved a piece of the charred meat, speared it with the knife tip, and tasted it. The morsel required more than its share of chewing to render it fit to swallow. She followed the meat with a mouthful of the typically bland cabbage. Cabbage seemed to be the only vegetable that existed these days, and the flavor was always the same. Absent.
Myranda's jaw ached by the time she had done away with the shoe leather of a main course. It was barely the equal of the disturbingly old provisions that were even now growing older in her pack, but it was thankfully enough to satisfy her appetite. When she pushed the pitted metal plate aside, she was greeted quite swiftly by the innkeeper.
"Will that be all?" he asked insincerely, more interested in her money than her satisfaction.
"Oh, yes. Thank you," she said.
"Five coppers for the food, two for the ale," he said, holding out his hand.
Seven copper coins. That was a bit more than she'd expected. If she recalled correctly, there had been twenty or so coppers in the soldier's bag. Her first thought as Myranda reached for the bag was whether she would have enough for a room that night. That worry was pushed aside by the chilling realization that the bag of coins was not hanging from her belt, where she had left it. She patted desperately about, hoping to hear the jingle of coins somewhere, but the only sound she heard was the impatient drumming of the fingers of the man waiting to be paid. Anxiety burned at the back of her mind as she rustled first one side then the other of her tattered cloak, shaking any pockets she had on her person. She knew she'd had it when she had come in. There had been the distinct clink of coins when she sat down. Her mind raced. Where could they be? As her panic grew, the bartender's patience wore thin.
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 3
