Gods of Shadow and Flame

by M. H. Johnson

  "I am sorry, my lord." The flustered woman's voice was a barely intelligible murmur. "I know nothing about no children. I must be off, cry your pardon." And with that, she turned around and beat as hasty a retreat as she could without actually running.

  It had not been the first time he had garnered such a reaction that fruitless afternoon, for all that he had hoped it would be his last. Most folk just politely grimaced, assured him all was fine, and cried his pardon. The poorest citizens, shivering in their too thin woolen cloaks as they did their best to scrape by, would meet his gaze for only a moment before darting off without saying a word, which broke Malek's heart. Here he was doing all he could to help, doing his best to fit in, to be friendly, forcing himself to smile when he wanted to scream with frustration, keeping all his darkness at bay. And not only did everyone refuse to open themselves up to him, the people most likely to be victimized were the ones too terrified to even meet his gaze.

  Only the market stall owners who had seen it all and were well used to adventurers took the time to speak with him, one handsome middle-aged woman telling him right out what he already knew after he did her the courtesy of buying some of her more expensive pastries. They were, to be fair, quite tasty.

  "You will have far more luck plying ladies with your questions if you weren't looking quite so grim and deadly, young lord," the lady offered with a tolerant smile as she handed him a plate filled with delectable creampuff pastries and a pitcher of cold milk. Worth every copper penny, Malek had thought, devouring the fare in a few delicious moments. "I'd also recommend carrying a sword not quite so large, if you'll forgive my saying so."

  Malek flashed a sheepish smile. "But I'm wearing my cheerful sock today. You see it right on the hilt? Not something a dark avatar of death would be caught dead with, all those bright patchwork colors, speaking of good humor and a gentle heart. And look at this cloak hood. Hardly what a grim-faced assassin would wear, am I right?" He fondly patted the hood covering his helmet even as he grimaced, knowing instantly that he had just earmarked himself as a typical eccentric adventurer, if not outright mad.

  Malek felt his cheeks flush crimson. “I’m sorry. That came off a little crazy, didn’t it? No logical reason for a person to wear a hood over a helmet. I just don't want to scare people off, what with it being a relic of darkest Shadow, covered in scales glowing the color blood and all. Yesterday it was a much saner shade of blue, I assure you.”

  Eyes twinkling with bemusement, the pleasant woman said nothing, merely giving him an extra puff pastry. “On the house, lad. Sweet treats for a sweet soul, I say. And I have no doubt you are a kind sort, inquiring after lost children.” Her own gaze turned thoughtful for a moment. “I will tell you this much. I don’t normally cater to those of limited means, pastries being something of a luxury best appreciated when one has the coin to spare, but I do know several of my regular ladies each commented that their servingwomen were pleased as peaches to have found sponsors for their little ones. A trade can be a rare ticket to a better life for so many children born to limited means, as I myself know. It took years under a patient master before I learned the secrets of the pastry chef, a gift of knowledge for which I will ever be grateful, and that I have passed on to my daughters as well.”

  Malek gave an appreciative nod. “My compliments to your own master, for you are indeed an excellent baker!” The woman grinned. “So, you have heard nothing… untoward about these apprenticeships? Any rumor or cause for concern?”

  The woman held up her finger for a moment as she chatted with another customer like an old friend, sharing news and jest even as she wrapped the well-to-do woman's order in fine wax paper, seeing her customer happily on her way before casually returning to Malek's stool. "And I would love to purchase another pair of those creampuffs, if I may," he offered with a teasing smile.

  She laughed goodnaturedly but happily accepted his coin and brought him two pastries. “I am happy to say that my ladies have not reported any regrets from their servingwomen, and the silver garnered shall come in quite handy for their daughter’s dowries as well, I would imagine.”

  She favored Malek with thoughtful gaze, looking him over from top to bottom. He felt himself start to blush for some reason. "You would be quite the charmer, young sir, were you out and about in the attire of a nobleman at leisure, and not that of a Delver, or knight preparing for war. In fact, I just might know a young woman or two who would not be opposed to making the acquaintance of one such as yourself."

  Malek blushed, both oddly touched and embarrassed by the warm words. Hair carefully wound behind her shawl, her beauty was still apparent despite her middling years. He had no doubt she had plenty of friends and customers both, her ability to get along with people of all classes readily apparent, even to him. “I thank you for the kind words, my lady. It means a lot to me.”

  Her dark-eyed smile sent a shiver down his spine. He blinked, slightly surprised and oddly pleased with the warmth and vitality of their conversation. For some reason he felt comfortable with this friendly baker who showed him kindness where others only stank of fear.

  She handed him a small packet of peanut brittle, giving his hand a warm squeeze. “I know good people when I meet them, and I do hope you will visit my stall again.”

  Malek flashed his most cheerful smile. “Definitely!”

  It had been, he wryly thought, the highlight of his day. Everyone else he had spoken to had oscillated between fear or fawning obsequiousness, telling him nothing of worth. Certain men, of course, were naturally inclined to pugnacious hostility, lashing out at what they feared, even if it destroyed them.

  Malek was reminded of this truth after being splashed in the face by a drunken fool who somehow thought he was seeking to steal their children, the man only blinking his surprise after he already let loose the foamy liquid, gazing at Malek's ale-drenched cloak and his own empty mug with growing horror.

  The whole rowdy bar had gone quiet. Every gaze was upon Malek, even the barkeeper himself, hands wiping a mug with a dirty rag in an endless squeak, the only sound in the suddenly breathless room. Malek could smell the acrid tang of fear emanating from everyone present. From the culprit himself, trembling hands still holding his mug, he sensed outright terror. “My lord…” the man pleaded with desperate eyes.

  Abruptly Malek laughed as if it were all a great jest. “I believe my friend here has had a bit too much to drink! What’s say we double down? A round to all on me!” And as one everyone banged their cups, their nervous smiles barely more than grimaces, the poor man who had splashed him so relieved he was about to collapse.

  “I have a family,” the man whispered even as Malek offhandedly flipped the grinning barkeep a fat silver.

  “Drinks on me till that runs out!” Malek declared aloud, ignoring the trembling man, pumping his fist to the cheerful din behind him as he made his way out the door.

  Malek pinched the bridge of his nose with a mailed glove and sighed as the cold winter air hit him once more, his cloak now stinking of ale. “What the hell was I thinking? I’m wearing a great big bloody Shadowblade that wreaks of darkest magic. How desperate would anyone have to be to ask for my help?” He looked about the market area, noting more than a few covert stares sent his way, hastily redirected when he gazed back in return, his own polite smile fixed firmly in place.

  And then he felt it. A fork in the road of fate.

  Though he had heard the expression bandied about in jest, never had he expected to feel it so literally, an icy shiver of awareness upon his very soul.

  He became so preoccupied he hardly noticed the soft voice at his back.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  The voice was that of a child. Malek blinked, turning slowly around, carefully composing as friendly and inviting an expression as he could manage. He bent down to his knees, or tried to, having to pivot awkwardly as his massive sheath scraped against the cobblestone road.

  “Yes, little one? My name is Malek. How may I he
lp you?”

  Beautiful blue eyes belonging to a dark haired girl of about six looked up at him. Malek couldn't help but notice that the child was waif thin, wearing an oft-mended wool cloak that looked far too thin to keep out the biting winter chill. "The ladies at the market said you were looking for lost children?"

  Malek blinked. “It would be more accurate to say I was inquiring after children who were apprenticed, doing my best to make sure all was well.” He favored the girl with a gentle smile. “Was your sister or brother apprenticed, perhaps? Have they written to you?”

  The little girl solemnly shook her head, her voice little more than a soft whisper. Malek bent closer to hear her. “Jacey can’t read. But she’s gone. No one knows where she went. Mother has looked everywhere. Do you think maybe she was apprenticed?”

  Malek felt a sudden lurch in the pit of his stomach. "I think it would be best if you told me exactly what happened. And where is your mother now?"

  "Lucile. Lucile! Stop bothering that man and come to mommy this instant!" Malek directed his gaze to the woman dressed in woolens little better than the girl's, quickly gathering the child up in her arms. "We are so terribly sorry to have bothered you, good sir. Cry your pardon! We shall be on our way now."

  Malek could smell the overwhelming anxiety consuming the women. An anxiety that grew to panicked fear when her gaze dared to meet his own.

  “Pray hold but a moment, mam. My name is Malek. Don’t be alarmed by my blade. I am Guild. And if I can, I would like to help.”

  She turned around then, tight-lipped, eyes bitter with hurts and disappointments Malek could only guess at. "Why would the Guild care two coppers for what happens to the likes of us? We have nothing. We are worth nothing. I have barely a coin to my name. Now if you will forgive me, my lord, I must be off."

  “Please!” Perhaps there was something in the tone of his voice, he knew not what, but she turned back to gaze at him. He thought he caught a flicker of desperate hope from tired, cynical eyes. “I know Delvers have something of a dangerous reputation, but I promise you, I want only to help you find your child, if you will but let me.” Malek tried to break through the hesitation he still sensed from the woman, staring so fixedly at him, holding her daughter close, both of them shivering with the cold. “I would ask nothing of you, save that you let me treat you to something to eat at the market, while you tell me your tale.”

  Lucile raised big hungry eyes to her mother who gently stroked her child’s hair in a gesture of love as old as time. “Please mommy? My belly hurts.” The child’s voice was whisper soft, her gaze pleading.

  "Very well. The market is on our way home, in any case." The mother, young still, for all that care and hardship had taken their toll, gave a nod, and Malek wasted no time heading back to the market, and as soon as he found an open stall his sensitive nose assured was free of spoiled meat, mother and child alike eating were meat pies in short order.

  The child, Malek was both sad and gladdened to see, devoured her pie like a ravenous pup, even as the mother, obviously sick with worry for her daughter, ate automatically, barely seeming to taste her food, girding her tired gaze to at last meet Malek’s own as she spoke. “Jacey sometimes helps at the Silverbrook Tavern just past the market, as do I. Innkeeper Felt only has need for her on busy days. Other days, she tries to earn us some pennies or food helping out at whichever stalls are busiest.” She offered a trembling smile. “People like Jacey. She is a beautiful girl with a warm and friendly temperament. Market stalls know that taking on my girl will earn them extra coin. She never gives them any reason to complain, either. She’s a hard worker with a kind word for everyone, and I don’t know what we’d do without her.”

  The young woman was clearly exhausted, enduring the cold world she found herself trapped within, unable to resist the warmth of Malek's kindness. Tears began to flow freely down her cheeks as she held her daughter close. "It happened last night. My Jacey never came home!" Somehow, Malek found himself holding the sobbing woman, careful and tender, as he would a fallen chick, so rail thin did she feel in his arms. He was only glad that the plush wool cloak he wore protected her from the hard scales of his armor.

  "I was in a panic. I went to Enressa, who normally employs Jacey at her dress stand when Felt has no need of her. My Jacey loves to work there, as Enressa lets her put on her nicest dresses, since my girl's features and figure complements her garments so well. It boosts her sales, she claims. But yesterday was a slow day, and so Enressa said she couldn't take my girl on." Her lips pressed bitterly together. "With all that my girl does for her, and she's that stingy with her coin." The young mother took a deep breath. "At least she had a kind word for me when I told her my Jacey was missing, and she promised to let me know straight away if she heard any word about my girl. And of course I went to all the other places she normally works; Gronig's grain stand, and Taliff's meat pie stand. Yet neither had even seen her yesterday." She closed her eyes tightly, choking back a sob.

  “It will be okay,” Malek soothed, feeling suddenly protective of this careworn woman, desperately frightened for her child. “We will find her, don’t you worry. My name is Del Malek. May I have the pleasure of yours?”

  She ventured a relieved smile. “Mine is Anja. A pleasure to meet you, Lord Malek.”

  Malek smiled, forbearing to lecture her on the differences between Delvers and lords. The point was moot in any case, Malek being lord and Delver both. "Come. Let us order another meat pie, since your daughter appears to have made hers vanish in the blink of eye, and then we shall ask our friends at the market stalls once more." Lucile's hopeful smile at the news she was to be given a second pie was one Malek found strangely moving, tousling her hair before handing her a flaky stuffed pastry which the cook assured was filled with only the choicest cuts of meat, paling only slightly when Malek's piercing gaze met his own.

  “It is good meat, I assure you, my lord.”

  Malek gave the slightest of nods. “I know. Had I smelled bad meat, I would not be here.” With change given by shaking hands for Malek’s coin, the three made their way to the heart of the market, doing their best to retrace Jacey's movements from the day before.

  “No luck. No luck at all.” Anja’s voice was deadened with despair. Malek grimaced with frustration.

  “Same story with all three, and I don’t think any of them are lying,” Malek confided. They had stopped by all three stands that Jacey normally worked at, and save for frightened glances sent Malek's way, the story was the same. All three were happy for Jacey’s offer of assistance, all three went out of their way to say what a fine worker she was, and only Enressa had seen her that day, the others had not. And though Malek could sense their anxiety with his presence, the sharp acrid tang of nervous deception was absent from the air, and their eyes did not waver with a liar’s weakness.

  “Are there any other stands she might have worked at, Anja?”

  Anja slowly shook her head, holding her sleepy youngest tenderly. “No, Lord Malek. My daughter knows that if none of her regulars have work, she is to come back to me. I want a chance to see firsthand any new stall she thinks to work for, for obvious reasons.”

  Malek gave an understanding nod even as poor Anja fought to hold back her sobs, her worst fears being realized. All her attempts to safeguard her daughter had come to naught, caught as she was between poverty and the desperate need for her child to work, one more vulnerable girl trying to earn coin for her family in a market full of strangers.

  Malek could only imagine what Anja was going through. For all that he held such bitter fury towards his father, he had never known hunger or deprivation save at Highrock, as a deliberate element of Eloquin's training. He had never had to suffer life's possibilities slipping away to nothing, for simple lack of training or opportunity.

  Imagining the terrified gaze of this girl who by all that was right should be safe at home, snug in the bosom of her family, filled Malek with a sudden fury. A protective wolf howling for
a lost cub. His voice, when he spoke, was far harsher than he intended. Anja, when she heard it, shivered uncontrollably but did not pull away, even as her youngest, half asleep, whimpered against her.

  “I will find your daughter, Anja. And if I find that anyone has hurt her, I will make them regret it with every last fiber of their being!” Fierce and bitter, he could feel his rage, mad beast that it was, gnashing at the bit. He fought hard for control even as he felt his senses heighten to a fever pitch.

  Possessed of a sudden mad certainty of what he must do, he breathed deep, catching their scents. He blinked, almost imagining he could see their scent trails wafting so strongly around him, fading slightly with the passage of distance and time.

  Carefully holding on to his odd fancy, he asked Anja to lead him back to their home so that he could search for clues. Her haunted gaze cut into his heart even as she gave a hopeless nod, and Malek was suddenly painfully aware she wondered at the chance that he might be the source of their sorrow, so intimidating had he become, for all he was their only hope, if the indifferent answers of the Barlton guard had been anything to go by. Indifferent, that was, until they had caught sight of Malek's icy gaze, paling and crying pardon, their answers the same. They had seen nothing, street children doing odd jobs or begging for coin being an all too common sight, the guards happy to say that at least a few children had been gifted the boons of apprenticeships in far off Riskord, and perhaps Jacey had been among their number? Anja's haunted gaze, however, made it clear that the guard's hopeful patter was of no use to them at all. Numbly, she led Malek past alleys and wardens to the humble building they called home, little more than a single room attached to rickety stairs, its only virtue being that it was out of the wind, heated somewhat by the rooms below.

  When Malek asked to hold Jacey’s garments, she grimaced but did not hesitate, her defeated gaze making her thoughts as clear as day.