It was on a coarse paper, written in a precise hand. The words read:
Your life ended the day you touched that sword. By nightfall, every gossip and snitch will know your name. By sunrise, every guard and soldier will know your face. When night comes again, you will find no safety among your own people. Use your last few hours of anonymity to get as far from society as possible.
She shivered, but this time it was not the cold that shook her. She was a part of something that she did not understand. The sword was gone, but she still was not safe. What possible reason could they want her for? Why would touching a sword make such a criminal of her? And why would the killer give her this advice? The questions came in droves, the answers not at all.
She tried to focus on the positive, if any could be found. Her first thought was that she had been lucky enough to escape with her life. The soldiers had not had that good fortune. Also, she now had a horse. It was the very thing that she'd hoped to gain by selling the sword. In a way, she had gotten from the vile weapon what she had intended. Now she was freed from the burden of walking--not that she could enjoy it. It gave her more time to think at the one point in her life when it was the last thing she wanted to do.
In all that had happened so far, there was only one thing that was certain. It was not over. The words on the note were true. In days the stories of her deeds, whatever they might be, would reach the ends of the continent. She did not even know what she had done wrong, but in just a few hours everyone else would, and they would have already marked her guilty for it. It did not matter that the only people who knew the truth were dead or outlaws themselves--a tale such as this had a mind of its own. It could move unaided across the land, whispering itself into people's ears, all the while gaining speed at the expense of accuracy. Gossip had a way of defying the laws of nature sometimes. People would know.
The more she thought about the day that had passed, the more troubled she became. Try as she might, she couldn't shake the images of death and the chilling sense of fear from her mind. Her distraction from the trip, unpleasant though it may have been, coupled with the speed of traveling on horseback, brought her to her destination in what seemed like no time at all.
Chapter 7
Afternoon was approaching as Myranda entered the village. Unlike the other places she'd been to, this town was alive with activity. Cloaked people busily cleared mounds of snow from the streets. Smoke rose from chimney after chimney. A well cared-for sign heralded the bustling hamlet as Nidel. The eyes of the people hard at work stayed, for the most part, on the task at hand. This gave Myranda some comfort. They did not know yet. Indeed, how could they? Even if they had been told every detail of what had happened, there were only two people who knew what she had done and what she looked like. As long as she didn't behave strangely, she would be just another visitor . . . for now.
Even with the rock-hard proof she had offered herself of her current safety, she could not help but feel stares, as though she had been changed by what she had been through, and every man, woman, and child could look upon her and know. As though the smear of blood staining her cloak spelled out the tale of its creation. Her rumbling stomach broke through the thoughts swirling in her head. Down the street, a gaily-painted sign with a picture of a roast turkey beckoned her to its door. After seeing that her horse had been attended to, she stepped inside. It was a far cry from the establishments she'd been to recently. For one, the windows and lamps kept the place quite well-lit. Also, it was spotless. Nowhere were the flies and vermin that had called the Lizard's Goblet home. Finally, there was barely a soul in the place. Only the lone waitress, a plump and energetic young woman who sprung eagerly to her feet to greet and serve the new arrival, and a single patron, accompanied by a pile of bags and packs, could be seen.
"Good morning, miss!" she said, overjoyed to have a customer to serve. "Just have a seat anywhere you like and tell me what I can get you."
The entire left wall had a long wooden bench attached to it, with tables dispersed regularly along its length. It was there that she took a seat, sliding behind a table. She glanced at the other customer, a young man with white hair, who sat at the other end of the bench. He was intent on reading a thick, leather-bound book and took no notice of her. The smell from the kitchen was heavenly, a mix of baking bread and roasting meat. Myranda pulled back her worn hood and took in the tantalizing aroma. The waitress interrupted her quiet appreciation with the simple phrase.
"Miss?" she said.
Myranda shifted her gaze to the young lady.
"What would you like to start with?" the eager server asked.
Myranda's stomach rumbled a plea for haste.
"What do you have that is fast?" she asked.
"Well, the roast beef has just finished, and we have some biscuits still from breakfast," she recalled.
"Gravy?" Myranda asked hopefully.
"What sort of a place would we be if we served biscuits without gravy?" the waitress said with a smile.
"Biscuits and gravy, then. And a glass of something besides wine," she said, remembering the throbbing head after her last indulgence.
"Cider?" the waitress asked.
"Perfect," Myranda said.
"Won't be a minute," came her cheerful reply.
The waitress scurried off with the order. Myranda leaned her aching back against the seat. She noticed movement to her left and saw the young man gathering up his things. He hoisted what looked to be a very heavy pack to his shoulders effortlessly in a well-practiced motion. When he had collected all of his goods, he headed off toward the door--but rather than leaving, he dropped the packs on the floor beside Myranda and sat at the table adjacent to hers. He opened his book and took to reading again.
"It is very good here," he said without looking.
"What is?" she asked. Ordinarily she would be pleased to have company, but in light of recent events, the attention made her nervous.
"The gravy. I'm not one for sauces, but this place is an exception. I make sure to eat here each time I come through town just to get it," he said. "You just wait, you'll agree."
Myranda nodded. She looked at him. He was a shade taller than she, white hair out of place, framing a young face. His clothes were a refreshing--and practically unique--departure from the ubiquitous gray cloak. It was a lighter, almost white coat, with a bit of fur peeking out of the sleeve and attached hood. Had he been outside, it would have been simple to pick him out from a crowd. As she looked at him, she realized that he was likely the last person she would be able to talk to, possibly for the rest of her days, without pleading for her freedom or her life. It would be best to take advantage.
"What do you do?" she asked.
"This and that. Yourself?" he replied.
"I seem to be limited to ‘that,'" she said.
"It's just as well. 'This' can get boring after a while," he said.
The stranger turned a page.
"What is your name?" she asked.
"Desmeres Lumineblade," he said.
"That is a unique name," she said.
"Not particularly. My grandfather had it, as did his. My guess is that they liked the name Desmeres and hated the name junior," he said.
A moment passed.
"Don't you want to know my name?" she asked.
"No need. There is only the two of us here. After lunch we go our separate ways, probably never to meet again. Until then, you talk to me, I talk to you. No cause for confusion, no need for names. That's why people always do introductions when they meet up with a third person," he said.
"Well, it is Myranda," she said. "Just in case we meet a third person."
"Myranda. Lyrical," he said, his eyes still trained on the book.
The food was set before Myranda and she eagerly partook. He was right, it was delicious. When the edge had been taken from her hunger, she decided to give the thought swirling in her head a voice.
"What is that you've got there?" she asked, indicating the boo
k.
"One of the unfortunate consequences of ‘this.' Notes on dealers," he said.
"Dealers?" she inquired.
"Weapons dealers," he said.
Myranda frowned.
"You sell weapons," she said flatly.
Desmeres tipped his head and squinted an eye. "Not sell--design . . . and collect."
"Really?" she asked.
"I detest people who lie to strangers," he said.
"It was only a few days ago that I had even heard that such a thing as a weapon collector existed, and now I have met one," she explained.
"There happens to be another one just two doors over. Waste of time though. The only thing of note in this town is the gravy," he said.
"Why collect?" she asked.
"Why?" he repeated, closing his book. "Why not? A good weapon is a tool. A great one is a masterpiece. Art, plain and simple. Crafted with care, every detail lovingly shaped, balanced, polished. If sculptures were crafted with such care, the sculpture and the model who posed would be indistinguishable. Have you got a knife?"
"No . . . well, yes, right here," she said, remembering the stiletto that had been returned to her.
"There, you see. Straight, sturdy, sharp. A tool. Here, have a look at this one," he said.
Desmeres pulled a sleek, curving blade from his belt.
"Now, this? This is a blade! Look at the curve. Look at the edge. Simple. Elegant. Organic. This could have come from an animal. Based on the shape of a dragon's claw. And watch this," he said.
He closed his fingers around the handle, then opened all but the index finger. The weapon balanced on one finger.
"The creator worked for months on this. It would be at home in a gallery or in a foe's back. I challenge you to find another work of art with that flexibility. Of course, this particular blade has more than good breeding--it has a history," he said. "They say it was used by none other than the Red Shadow."
Myranda respected his passion for the subject, even though she didn't share it. It was rare to see such interest in anything, save the news of the most recent battle. The weapons he collected were the heart of the war, and so she despised them, but here was a man who admired the form above the purpose. It was a refreshing step aside from the prevailing obsession of her country folk. She could see his point, as well. What he held was truly a thing of beauty. As she looked at the piece, her thoughts turned to the sword. It was every bit as lovely as the dagger, and likely as well-crafted. She wondered how much this patron of the arts would have paid for such a piece.
His mention of the Red Shadow bothered her, though. Everyone had heard of the notorious killer, but Myranda had always tried to convince herself that the tales of his assassinations were fiction. The reality that the blade brought to the subject chilled her. Stories told of a man who killed a wolf with his bare hands and wore the bloodied skull as a helmet. Whenever a man of high breeding was found dead, rumors of the Red Shadow would flow anew. A tiny, nagging thought that there might be a connection to her own life was quickly silenced in the back of her mind. That thought was too much for her to consider right now.
"A realization dawns. You know what brought me here. I am now at a disadvantage," he said, interrupting her thoughts.
"Pardon?" Myranda said, confused by the odd phrasing.
"What are you up to on this fine day?" he asked.
"Trying to decide what is next," she said.
"Fair enough. Try not to strain yourself, though. It will happen just the same," he said, putting his book away and gathering his various bags together. "I've got to get to Fort Wick by sundown."
"I've . . . never mind," she said, choosing against mentioning her meeting with the old man who may or may not have sent the soldiers her way.
"Right . . . well, until next time," he said.
The young man pulled his shallow hood up and stepped out the door. His form through the window in the unique garb was comically different from the otherwise uniform clothing of the others. A wave of sadness swept over her at the sight of a dozen or so people outside in the ever-present gray cloaks. She had always felt bothered by the fact that she could travel for days, see a hundred or more people, and not be able to tell one from the other. She suddenly felt pride in the tattered, bloodstained cloak she wore. It may not be glamorous, but it was different. She, at least, would be remembered for more than a moment.
The sadness turned to fear, though, at a single thought. The murderer wore the very same cloak as everyone else. Any one of the people on the street could be the man who had captured her. She turned from the window. Worse! She was a fugitive. The unique cloak she had prided herself on would be more than enough of a description to seal her fate and assure her capture. Best not to think about it. She would buy a new cloak, but there was very little she could do. If the Alliance Army wanted her, she would be found.
With great effort, she finished her meal without succumbing to the anxiety eating at her mind. No sooner had the last crumb been finished than the waitress reappeared, eager to sell more.
"Anything else for you today?" she asked.
"No, thank you very much," Myranda said.
"Five coppers," she said.
Myranda dug into the satchel she had found on the horse's reins and gave the waitress five of the coins. The waitress lingered, jingling the coins in her apron. Myranda took the less than subtle hint and fished out two more coppers and dropped them on the table. The waitress widened her smile.
"Thank you, miss, and you have a perfectly lovely day," she said.
"And to you," Myranda said.
Myranda remained in her seat for a time. What was next? She was unsure who knew who she was, or what they thought she did. Did they still think that she had the sword? If it had belonged to a high-ranking military official, the penalty for its theft would be equal to that of treason. The sentence was worse than simple execution. An example would be made of her. Torture, humiliation, and shame would fill her days until she was finally put to death in as gruesome and public a manner as could be managed.
She swallowed hard and looked to the darkening scar on her left palm. That blasted sword had marked her in more ways than one. Her life had been far from pleasant, but it had gotten worse with each passing moment since the instant she had touched the cursed blade. Perhaps the spell that had branded her hand carried with it a hex that would plague her with such misfortune for the rest of her days. Her heart sunk further. Magic had always intrigued her, but she'd seen it at work only a handful of times. Now it seemed that magic was at work, making her wretched life into a positively abysmal one. She closed her hand.
"Pardon me?" she asked the waitress.
"Yes?" came her chipper reply.
"Do you have rooms to rent?" she asked.
"Not here. Look for Milin's Inn. Right across the way." She pointed.
"Thank you," Myranda said.
She left the restaurant in search of a better place to wash up and keep her horse until she had bought the supplies she would need. She found the inn quite easily, and found facilities for the horse alongside of it. She gave a few coppers to the stable hand and directed him to see to it the horse was taken care of. Inside the building, she found a well-lit, tidy lobby. A man with an eye patch stood behind the counter, with a young boy slouching in front of the door. Her entry provided the same degree of excitement that it had in the restaurant earlier.
"Welcome to Milin's Inn. What can I do for you today?" the owner asked.
"I need a room for the next few hours," she said.
"I am very sorry, but we require that our customers pay for at least one night. I assure you that once you've seen our room, you will not want to leave," he said.
"That will be fine. Any room. Cheap, if possible," she said.
"Our rooms start at twenty coppers a night," he said.
"That is a bit steep," she said.
"The best price in town for the best rooms in town. You pay for quality," he said, in a well-rehear
sed manner.
Myranda reluctantly parted with one of the silvers. The keeper gave her back a half silver and five coppers. Two of the coppers found their way into the boy's pocket for showing her to the room and giving her the key. The room was cozy and clean, far more so than the one at the Lizard's Goblet.
Myranda locked the door behind her. As the day had progressed, the afflicted shoulder had begun to throb and stiffen.
She threw the stained cloak on the bed. Rolling back her sleeve, which proved to be a particularly painful experience, she found the bandage utterly saturated with blood. Myranda clenched her teeth and winced in pain as she pulled it away. The simple gash was swollen and red, crusted with the crimson remains of the blood. It was not improving. She knew from experience that wounds that took on this appearance seldom healed on their own and never healed completely.
A testament to the quality of the inn, there was a pitcher of clean water provided for her, along with a basin and a stack of clean towels. She filled the basin and cleansed the wound. Each time she wrung out the cloth the red tint of the water deepened. When she was through, the water in the bowl had the look of some terrible wine. The cloth was pink, stained for good. Since she knew that the cloth would never come clean, she used it to replace the bandage. The cool, moist cloth soothed the pain slightly, but if she ever wanted full use of her right arm again, she would need a healer.
After doing her best to clean the bloody stain from the cloak, she left the room, locking the door behind her.
The innkeeper gave her a smile, as did the porter, as she left the inn. It was refreshing to be looked upon so graciously, though she knew that the silver in her pocket was the only thing that had earned her such treatment. In a way, she preferred the disdainful stares she received when people found she was a sympathizer. Those reactions, even though they were rooted in ignorance, were at least rooted in honesty. These people would treat her like a queen so long as she could pay her bill.
The cold air hit the moistened shoulder and stung, stirring her to get through her errands quickly. She moved from business to business, being served by elderly men and women, children, the disabled, and anyone else unfit for the role of soldier. These were the people who had populated the towns for as long as she could remember. It wasn't long after childhood that she herself had begun to feel the questioning stares of the townsfolk, wondering why this healthy young lady was not on the front, putting her life on the line for the war effort.
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 9
