by L. L. MacRae
It gave her the space to think, plan, and get herself recovered and ready to travel.
Luckily, she had the majority of their supplies, and though she’d have preferred a hot meal cooked by the tavern, Calidra stuck with the food Bellandri had packed to keep her spending as low as possible. She tried to make sense of things; Ashothka hadn’t met them. Had something happened to him? It meant her way forward was less sure. A shadow creature of some sort had attacked the town—perhaps a corrupted spirit. Jisyel and Fenn had fallen in the water, possibly drowned or washed away. Lost souls like Fenn were cropping up everywhere, and Queen Surayo had sent her Inquisitors—including one of the Master Inquisitors—as far south as Bragalia to get control of the situation. Not to mention her father had died and she needed to return home in the next few days to not only see the funeral, but face her mother again.
Could she even go back to the Isle of Salt if the worst had happened to Jisyel? The island had been her home, Bellandri her new family.
She didn’t think she could ever face Bellandri again.
Deep down, she knew that Jisyel and Fenn weren’t coming back to town, but something prevented her from leaving straightaway. It might’ve been guilt more than any real expectation they’d stroll back into the inn, but waiting gave her some element of control, even if it was futile. Her constant worry gave way to exhaustion, which made her her second sleep marginally better than her first.
She was disturbed awake in the middle of the night when Varlot returned from his business in town—which became apparent as he fell into a deep sleep on the floor under the window, stinking of wine, a deep cut across the knuckles on his right hand.
Calidra said nothing the next morning. Everyone had their issues, and she needed his help more than she needed to criticise his life choices. Honestly, as long as he helped her, she didn’t really care. But to appease his desire to steer clear of the Inquisitors, they left at first light.
Varlot strongly believed Jisyel and Fenn were on the south side of the bay, already making their way onwards, and sitting around waiting frustrated him.
Despite there being no sign of Jisyel or Fenn, and more Inquisitors arriving, Calidra left Ballowtown with a heavy heart.
It would be simple enough to get to Meadowhill—they just needed to follow the river up through the hills. The town sat comfortably on the far side of a small forest, about a day’s walk away, if they didn’t take too many breaks and kept a brisk pace. Calidra was unsure what Varlot’s mood would be the morning after his drinking session, but aside from being bleary-eyed, was as spritely as before.
‘Thank you again for your patronage! It’s always an honour to have you here, General! Even if you’re passing through at the last minute, we’re happy to help you!’
Varlot nodded and gave the innkeeper a smile.
The man beamed at the attention. ‘You take care of yourselves, you hear? Wild cats and bears are everywhere these days.’ The innkeeper waved them away, parroting Inquisitor Torsten’s warning. ‘Get yourself a decent weapon at the smith’s, won’t you? You can’t be too careful!’
Calidra didn’t bother to respond—she didn’t know what had attacked Ballowtown, but she’d put money on it not being a bear or cat. Even if they were to encounter one such animal, her dagger and Varlot’s axe would be more than enough to keep them away.
She and Varlot made their way to the north-eastern edge of town, avoiding any streets that even gave them a glimpse of the bay, before following the water upriver.
Calidra forced herself not to look back.
‘Jisyel and Fenn will be waiting in Meadowhill,’ Varlot said with certainty. ‘You’ll see I’m right when we get there.’
She wasn’t convinced and gave him a tight smile in response. She had no choice but to keep going.
Most of the morning passed in silence, which suited Calidra just fine. She’d have preferred a distraction to missing Jisyel so keenly, but by following the river and thinking about getting to Meadowhill as quickly as possible, she had something to focus her attention on.
The path north was wide and well-maintained, and much of it was paved with the flat, grey stones she remembered from her childhood home. Her leather boots felt heavy on the stones, and she longed to swap to more comfortable Bragalian sandals, but she didn’t have any. As the sun rose, they passed several people—merchants, bards, and other travellers like themselves. Thankfully, Varlot seemed as averse to attention as she did, and they skirted around most people without much more than the expected, ‘good mornings,’ and, ‘safe travels.’
Curious as she was about Varlot’s reasons for being here, she didn’t ask. It wasn’t her business, and she didn’t want to upset him and lose his aid. His reputation in the Porsenthian army was well-known, and she’d need him if they encountered any more trouble. The man was supposedly impossible to kill.
And as much as she claimed otherwise, she wasn’t entirely sure she could cope being back in Bragalia alone.
Shortly before midday, they took a break in the shade of a willow tree where the path widened beside the river. Ahead, the trees thickened into a forest that loomed at the base of the hills surrounding Meadowhill. Far below them and to the south, the bay glistened in the sunlight. She hoped that on the other side, Jisyel and Fenn were safe and well. She’d never forgive herself otherwise.
The spot they’d picked to rest in was clearly popular among travellers, because a handful of carriages, wooden stalls, and tents had been set up—a makeshift marketplace that was able to move at a moment’s notice—and the place was bustling with a small crowd. Almost everyone present was Bragalian, with a handful of Olmese dotted in between, standing out in their fine, coloured silks.
Several had taken an interest in them, with one man challenging Varlot to a friendly spar so he could show off in front of his children. Varlot had politely declined, even turning red when the man’s wife had given him a kiss on the cheek for humouring her husband.
The pair of them found a shady spot to sit down away from the bustle. Calidra was impressed with how he handled the attention. She’d probably have chased them away with her dagger by now, but Varlot took it all in his stride. Even though several people were throwing glances in their direction, none of it was menacing. In fact, two young women—who had to be young enough to be Varlot’s daughters—kept giggling and looking over at him, as if he was their first crush.
She rolled her eyes and kept her attention on the other people—listening for signs of Jisyel, Fenn, or any Inquisitors. News travelled quickly in a place like this.
Conversations drifted over to them, mostly about the attack in Ballowtown and the Inquisitors taking away the “lost souls” who had appeared throughout the country over the past few days. Yet, for all the amnesiacs, no-one was talking about relatives or friends who’d disappeared.
She found that peculiar.
Calidra shared a look with Varlot, who shrugged and turned away. ‘It’s not for us to deal with. We need to get to Fellwood, that’s all we have to worry about.’
Although she agreed, the sight of seeing her home country in such turmoil ate at her. She was the daughter of a Laird. These people were her responsibility, in a way. It didn’t matter that she didn’t wield the power of her parents. Their discomfort and fear bothered her.
Having been gone so long, there was no chance of being recognised, especially in this canton, and she wondered what things were like at home. She watched an Olmese family, three young children laughing and chasing one another in and out of the river’s shallows while a young woman with a long skirt that draped on the ground leaned over a piece of coloured fabric, and was mending it with a needle and thread. Beside them, a group of five adults sat around a makeshift table playing dice and eating sticks of meat.
Varlot leaned forward, watching the dice with interest.
Emotions warred within her at the sight. Her mother was Olmese, but Calidra had never spent much time in the desert country bar a handful of c
hildhood visits.
Seeing the happy family only brought her situation into stark realisation. Everything she’d run from.
Her mother’s sentiment about preferring some Porsenthian woman over her own people floated to the top of her mind, and she angrily shoved it away, locking it up along with other memories of her family.
One of the Bragalians selling fish from a stall threw up his arms in despair, and the sudden movement caught Calidra’s attention.
‘No money, no fish!’ bellowed the stallholder, trying to snatch back the wrapped parcel he’d given a woman with dirty blonde hair.
‘But I have…I thought I had…’
‘You have empty pockets!’
More people were turning to watch, pausing in their conversations.
‘Give it back, you thief!’ He rushed around the side of his stall, upending a bucket of fish in his haste to grab the woman by her arm. ‘Stop where you are!’
The woman sank to the ground, one hand held defensively across her face, the other clutching the parcel as if her life depended on it. ‘Please! I’m starving! I haven’t eaten in three days!’ She trembled in his grasp.
‘Then go to Ballowtown or Ulbridge and find an officer, or beg the Laird for help! Don’t steal from me!’ He wrenched the parcel from her as a crowd gathered around them. Some called out to the pair, defending the fisherman’s rights. Others pleaded mercy, stating how thin and frail the woman was, and didn’t everyone deserve food if it saved their life?
Calidra balled her hands. The woman had the same panicked expression as Fenn.
‘Stop that!’ one man yelled, barging forward to restrain the stallholder. ‘There’s no need to be so aggressive!’
‘I’ll pay for her!’ Another man stepped forward, fist clenched around a handful of coins.
‘She should be taught a lesson!’ The stallholder yanked the woman to her feet. ‘You’re one of those wandering idiots, aren’t you? Lost all thought and memory? I heard Torsten himself was in Ballowtown. Perhaps I’ll take you there and get a nice fat reward for helping the Iron Crown’s Inquisitors!’
At mention of the Porsenthian queen, an explosion of activity filled the clearing. Calidra immediately got to her feet, her dagger drawn without thinking.
Varlot put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Careful. Not our fight.’
Calidra hesitated, caught between wanting to help one of her own people, and not getting involved. Eventually, reluctantly, she sat down again, but kept her dagger drawn, carefully watching.
In a matter of moments, it was over. Three people had restrained the amnesiac woman, and the fisherman had returned to his stall, angrily picking up the scattered fish and broken crates. Although the crowd began to disperse, several people loitered, speaking in low voices that Calidra couldn’t catch.
‘If the Inquisitors are paying people for these lost souls…’ Varlot trailed off, his gaze steely.
‘Fenn…’
‘You would’ve let Torsten take the lad.’ He had a silver coin in his hand, rolling it back and forth across his knuckles absently as he watched what was left of the commotion. One knuckle had a deep cut that was scabbing over.
Calidra turned away from Varlot. She had wanted to dump Fenn off with the Inquisitors, but things had quickly gone south, and now she wasn’t so sure. Fenn hadn’t been her problem, and she hadn’t wanted him to be. But he was clearly part of a bigger puzzle.
She wondered if Varlot knew that, and whether his claim that he’d helped Fenn simply because he reminded him of his son—and he enjoyed riling Torsten—was a poor cover up. Calidra couldn’t help but notice how driven he was by money. And, if she was being honest with herself, she wasn’t sure someone like Varlot would help a stranger simply on the basis of looking like a relative. His rivalry with Torsten bothered her, and she wondered whether the hatchet they needed to bury was far bigger than he’d let on.
As the woman was led away by the trio towards Ballowtown and the tension amongst the gathered group eased, Calidra finally sheathed her dagger and frowned. She didn’t know who to trust.
And she didn’t know what any of it meant.
The Priestess
Fenn
Never in his life did Fenn want to set foot in water again.
No fishing. No more boats. And absolutely no swimming.
Admittedly, the excursion hadn’t been by choice, but a dip in freezing cold water with a terrifying shadow-creature had been traumatic enough that he started to tremble every time he looked out at the bay.
Jisyel was far better off than himself, aside from a nasty gash across her cheek, which she didn’t seem aware of. He’d coughed up water while she’d managed to get a fire going. She’d wanted to get back to Calidra as soon as possible, but had said that wasn’t going to happen if they died of the cold. Although he’d sat beside the crackling flames all night—mostly in wonder at her resourcefulness even in a crisis—he’d felt frozen to his bones. He’d assumed Calidra would be better at that sort of thing. Swimming. Survival. Practical things.
He looked at Jisyel with more respect, even as his teeth chattered.
They’d dragged themselves out of the water and onto land, stumbling along blindly in the dark until Jisyel had told them they could stop and rest. It wasn’t much shelter from the rain that continued to pour—overhanging boulders and large trees kept the worst of it off, but it was still very cold, and very wet.
Shivering, disorientated, and having swallowed too much water, Fenn had collapsed, not even caring if the shadow creature found and consumed him. Jisyel had insisted they change out of their sodden clothes and hung them over some tree branches to dry beside the fire. Fenn had barely enough energy for that, but thankfully any embarrassment he might have felt by stripping down in front of her was overtaken by their situation and the fact it was pitch dark.
‘She better not do anything stupid,’ Jisyel muttered, more to herself than Fenn.
‘What?’ He mumbled through chattering teeth.
‘Woman is terrified of water, you know? Almost threw up on the boat over here. She can swim but…when she panics, she’s worse than me!’ Jisyel’s constant stream of talk seemed more to self-soothe than to actually engage in conversation with him. ‘She better be okay. She better be thinking properly. Like she always tells me!’
Fenn remembered Calidra’s obvious discomfort on the boat—it had bordered on fear. It made sense she’d be equally uncomfortable in the bay, and if she’d been thrown in along with them or deliberately jumped in, it wasn’t going to end well. He’d thought of Calidra as logical, focussed. Surely she wouldn’t have put herself in danger?
‘Aren’t you cold?’ Fenn stared up in astonishment at the woman, who paced impatiently along the edge of their shelter, staring out into the rain and the bay beyond, evidently worried Calidra had jumped in. She didn’t seem to notice the cold water that she’d been drenched in, absently picking her sodden clothes off, her attention never wavering from the bay. She didn’t even shiver.
‘Oh. I don’t much feel the cold,’ Jisyel muttered by way of explanation when she caught him staring. ‘Have to remember to do things, sometimes. Or Calidra reminds me. It’s fine.’ She gave him a smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. Despite her words, goosebumps had risen along her arms, and her fingers had started to turn blue.
‘Just stay near the fire. Your fingers!’
She glanced at her hands and backed up to the fire, facing the water all the while.
He wondered at her disconnect, but there were bigger things on his mind—like whether the creature would wash up with them and start attacking again. Everything had happened so quickly, been so hectic, that he hadn’t been able to keep track of what had happened. He hadn’t even realised Jisyel had been with him until he’d pulled himself onto land.
In two days, he’d nearly died twice. Both by drowning.
He wrapped his arms tightly around himself and tried not to fall asleep. He needed to stay awake in case Calidr
a and Varlot made it across—if they’d jumped in, of course. It would certainly even their odds if the shadow creature appeared again and they had to fight. He didn’t have a weapon, and neither did Jisyel. Their chances wouldn’t be great if the worst should happen, and even if…
Fenn blinked awake as the warmth of the morning sun lit up his surroundings, taking the edge off the chill. He hadn’t realised he’d fallen asleep, but he’d dozed off while huddled around his own knees, and all his joints were stiff and sore. Thankfully the rain had blown away in the night, leaving numerous puddles sparkling in the sun. Jisyel stood a short way off, staring over the water, her back to him.
‘Any sign of them?’ Fenn ventured. His throat was raw from all the water he’d swallowed and coughed back up.
Jisyel shook her head. She’d been worried the night before, uncertain and talking herself through her emotions. But now he was confident she was scared, really scared, for the first time since they’d met. She only wore her underclothing and her auburn hair was a mess of tangled knots. It didn’t look like Jisyel had slept at all. ‘She can swim. She can.’
‘Maybe she washed up further down the bay? It’s been hours since we were thrown in.’
‘Maybe…’ Jisyel sighed. ‘Maybe…’
Fenn poked at their extinguished fire with a stick, ashes blowing in the wind, and stifled a yawn, glad there had been no sign of the shadow creature. Torsten’s flaming sword had certainly done some damage, and Varlot and Calidra had fought well.
Their clothes had dried somewhat, and although there were a few damp patches here and there, it was a far cry from the cold, wet mess they’d been the night before. Quickly dressing, he fumbled with the laces across his trousers and looked around. Now the sun had come up, he could see a narrow dirt path that ran behind the boulders they’d sheltered beside. ‘I’ll…take a wander down the path. See if I can spot her? Try not to worry, Jisyel.’
Jisyel nodded, barely moving, and Fenn headed away from their makeshift camp, eager to get the blood flowing in his stiff limbs and some warmth into his body.
