by L. L. MacRae
Seeing the Master Inquisitor behaving so erratically had been terrifying. Fenn couldn’t help but worry if Miroth really was the cause of strange Torsten’s behaviour, what was to stop it happening to himself or Selys as well?
It also begged the question of how much of his own actions were a direct result of the Myrish curse. He couldn’t remember who he was. How was he supposed to know which thoughts were his own and which were driven by the Myr?
Not being in control of one’s own desires was a kind of madness that frightened him beyond words.
Selys, as usual, was a voice of reason even through her injury. She had dedicated years of her life to Neros, working in the shrine and helping those who needed aid or sought the dragon’s wisdom. Neros behaved very differently towards her followers than Alnothen, or Toriaken, or any other dragon spirit to their followers.
As people’s personalities differed, so too did the dragons’.
It was one reason Selys gave for Torsten’s behaviour being so different to another person blessed by a spirit. Miroth’s desires were different.
Fenn wondered what Neros desired, how she would influence Selys, and whether the priestess would be receptive to it. Torsten had appeared to be fighting something within. What if it was Miroth’s influence. Or actual control?
Fenn shuddered at the thought of losing control of his body. If it were possible, then he was opening himself up to be a pawn, used as if he were an unwitting piece in a game of Rehkaro.
Had Torsten been at Miroth’s mercy, too? Had Miroth been acting through him? Perhaps Torsten could be forgiven for trying to kill him.
Fenn could imagine Calidra scowling at him for being so naive and forgiving.
He almost felt sorry for the Inquisitor. So many people were chosen at random by dragons, and blessed or cursed without their consent—sometimes without their knowledge. Even he’d been unaware of a spirit’s presence within him until the Myrish curse had been lifted. He shook his head at his foolishness. Alnothen herself had asked why her brother had touched him, and Fenn hadn’t understood it at the time. He’d been too busy coming to terms with her accusation of Varlot.
Now, it made sense.
Now the fire in his chest wasn’t being repressed by the Myrish curse, Fenn had more knowledge than before—chief among which was the spirit’s name: Hassen. It shouldn’t have been surprising. The dragon spirit had flown through him during their first encounter on the Isle of Salt, and everything had turned to flame. He’d had the knowledge of the forest for a split second, as if the world had suddenly opened up and magic had spilled into him like a fountain.
Even if Fenn hated the idea of being under the control of something else, Hassen had kept him alive when the Myrish magic should have killed him. Without Hassen, he would have ended up lost in the spirit world, just like all the other echoes. He frowned, unsure about the power imbalance between himself and Hassen, and the guilt it caused.
Selys had no such trepidation. Not that she showed outwardly, at any rate. She was as excited and joyful as he’d ever seen her before. And why shouldn’t she be? Selys was the first to be truly acknowledged by Neros. The first to be blessed by the sea.
One thing drove him now—figuring out the answer to Vermecio’s riddle, finding the item, and returning it to the bastion. It was by far the most important thing.
If he was honest with himself, it was the only important thing.
Fenn found himself thinking about Calidra, Jisyel, and Varlot. What would they make of him now he had Hassen with him?
He wanted to forgive Varlot, wanted to take that rage and burn it away with his spirit’s fire. The man had been his friend. ‘Why shouldn’t I forgive Varlot?’ He hadn’t meant to blurt it out, but his emotions were high after everything that had happened since getting off that ship.
Selys didn’t ask for clarification. ‘Varlot, again?’ She let out a sigh, but didn’t slow her pace. ‘A better question is why should you?’
Fenn rolled it around his mind, wondering whether Hassen would jump up to throw in an opinion, but the dragon spirit remained quiet, his fire burning low but steady.
He hadn’t reached a decision, even by the time they reached the edge of Westbrook.
‘Everything’s in chaos,’ Selys said.
Unlike most of the towns Fenn had passed through since leaving the Isle of Salt, the market town of Westbrook had no gates or wall surrounding it. It was built in between two rivers, just north of where they joined into one. Vineyards fanned out from the town to the south.
The cobblestone streets of Westbrook were wide, built for plenty of carriages and people. Neat buildings with low, thatched roofs lined the streets, each happily sitting in its own plot. Most of the doors and windows were barricaded shut, weeds poked up through the stone cracks, and no smoke rose from chimneys. It was as if half the town’s buildings had been abandoned.
People hurriedly made their way along the streets, many of whom were carrying bags of supplies, and none paid Fenn and Selys any attention. One man, perhaps in his fifties, held up a parchment, showing it to the people who were going about their business. ‘Please. My son! Have you seen him?’ He drifted from person to person, holding up the parchment and begging for news.
‘What’s going on? Why isn’t anyone helping him?’ Fenn frowned. None of the people the man spoke to gave him more than a curious glance, evidently too busy going about their own tasks.
‘Can you smell the smoke on the wind?’ Selys asked, halting in place, her chin upturned. She clutched her chest. ‘The Myr.’
‘What? Here?’ Fenn whirled around, half-expecting the shadowy creatures to be strolling down the street behind him. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Neros is.’
Fenn took a good look at his surroundings, but there was no shadowy haze or amber eyes watching. Finding the town to be Myr-free, he said, ‘I think we’re safe for now. We need to find a doctor for your shoulder, or you won’t be able to lift that glaive anymore.’
Selys grimaced, gently peeling back the linen bandage wrapped around her shoulder. She wrinkled her nose at the sight, and quickly returned the bandage. ‘Definitely.’
‘Excuse me. Where is the town’s doctor?’ Fenn asked the man looking for his son.
‘My son? Have you seen him?’ the man replied, ignoring Fenn’s question and shoving the parchment in his face. It was a crude drawing in charcoal of a man’s face. ‘He’s twenty-six. Will be twenty-seven this summer. Dark hair. Brown eyes. Skin paler than mine. Please? He’s been missing three weeks now!’
Fenn shook his head. ‘I…I’m sorry. I haven’t seen him.’
‘Please help! My boy…’ The man abandoned Fenn and approached Selys, sinking to his knees when he reached her.
Selys gave him a sad smile. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know either…’
‘Why not? You’re a priestess, aren’t you? What’s the point if you can’t help people in need? My son has been missing for weeks! His wife is pregnant! What are we supposed to do?’
Fenn was taken aback by the man’s sudden anger, even if it was understandable. He didn’t see how it was Selys’s responsibility—she wasn’t at her shrine, where people came for aid, and she had her own problems to deal with.
Before Selys could reply, the man continued, ‘Eastbrook was attacked! Foxmouth was attacked! What use is the bloody Iron Crown if it can’t even keep us safe from the damned Myr?’
‘Foxmouth?’ Fenn repeated, staring down at the man. ‘Foxmouth was attacked…by the Myr?’
‘Open your bloody eyes boy and look around! Peace is over! Damned fool queen lied to us about the armistice! And my boy isn’t here!’
‘Sir. I won’t lie to you. I don’t know where your son is. He might very well have crossed into the spirit world if he’s been gone for so long,’ Selsys said, grabbing the man’s attention.
‘You…you can’t mean that!’
‘It’s a possibility. What have you done to search for him? Have you spoken t
o the Inquisitors? Sent messages to other towns where he might have friends or relatives?’
The man gulped. ‘No! He doesn’t have that! He lives here in Westbrook with me!’
Selys looked at Fenn.
He knew what she was thinking. Perhaps this man’s son was another lost soul. Although he and the others had been cursed by the Myr, there was no explanation as to why, how, or where it had happened. There was every chance this man’s son had been as unfortunate as Fenn.
If that was the case, there was a good chance he was now dead. ‘I’m sorry. About your son.’
‘No! No, he isn’t dead! He must’ve got lost somewhere on the road. Or sidetracked, you know how young lads are! Time passes them by when they blink!’ The man clutched Selys’s boots. ‘Please!’
‘I hope so. But if not, you’ll need to take steps to help your…daughter-in-law? Visit Toriaken’s Shrine, ask the priests there for aid.’ Selys gestured to her wounded shoulder. ‘I need a doctor. Is there one in town?’
The man covered his face, shaking his head. ‘We don’t have a doctor. Town hall is a hospital, now.’
‘Thank you. May Neros bless you and your family, and Toriaken, too.’ Selys left the man kneeling in the middle of the street and headed deeper into Westbrook.
Fenn watched the man for a long moment, wondering if there was anything he should do or say, before he hurried after Selys. ‘Did you hear what he said? The Myr attacking Foxmouth?’
‘I heard.’
‘But…Calidra? Her sister? What if…’ Fenn didn’t want to give words to that dark thought. Even if it had already happened, voicing his fear would make it more real.
‘This must be why Neros reacted,’ Selys said, her gaze on the path in front of her. ‘Something’s happened that has allowed the Myr to rise again. A chink in Queen Surayo’s armour, perhaps? Or something more insidious? Neros must need help to face them. It must be why I was chosen.’
‘Why you, though?’ Fenn asked, thinking back to Neros’s Shrine. ‘There are lots of priests and priestesses at your shrine?’
‘Perhaps I was the closest when the Myr attacked.’ It was a simple answer, one that Selys said with no emotion. ‘If that’s true…was it just a coincidence that our paths crossed, Fenn? That you were Myr-touched? Or something more? It all had to happen for me to be where I was, for Neros to bless me.’
Fenn didn’t like where she was going with that thought. ‘You’re saying I had to suffer so you could be blessed?’ If it were up to him, none of this would have happened in the first place. He’d still be living his life, happily unaware of what the dragon spirits or the Myr were planning.
‘Fenn, I didn’t mean it like that.’
He scowled but didn’t argue further. After Varlot had tried to sell him to Inquisitors for gold, and Selys now saying his suffering had been required so she could gain a blessing, he was sick of people using him for their own gain. Of being caught in the middle of who knew how many different factions. Was it so bad that he just wanted to look after himself for once? Do what he wanted? He tried to keep his mood from darkening. His leg was twinging again after their forced pace, which didn’t help.
From the way Selys spoke of spirits, he should be grateful that one had decided to aid him. But when he concentrated on the ball of fire in his chest, he felt frustration more than anything else.
The village green in the centre of Westbrook was large, dominating a wide area. Trees had been planted in its centre, and neat rows of flowers lined the edges of the lush grass, although like the streets, many weeds had started to grow. It seemed the people of Westbrook no longer had the time to tend to their plants.
Under the shade of one of the trees, an enormous war griffin lay curled up, asleep. It had rich, black feathers that shifted into dark fur, its head resting atop massive talons.
‘Isn’t that…Hail…Hail…uh,’ Fenn struggled to remember the griffin’s name.
‘Hailathlyl,’ Selys finished for him. ‘What’s the griffin doing up here? I thought she was part of Fellwood’s defences?’
‘If she’s here, then Amsel would be, too?’
‘Maybe we should find him? He might know more about the Myr?’
‘Let’s get your wound looked at first. Then we can figure out more.’
They approached the largest building on the eastern side of the green—the town hall. Its steepled roof was made of layers of blue and grey slate tiles, and the spire’s peak held a brass bell. Supply crates of food were lined up against the wall, and one man stood beside the stack, portioning out fruit, vegetables, meat, and cheese into smaller boxes. He looked up as they approached and frowned at their appearance. ‘Need medicine and food?’
‘Just medicine.’ Selys gestured to her shoulder and pulled the bandage down.
He inspected it, then leaned back sharply. ‘Oooh, that looks bad. You’re a priestess, aren’t you? How did that happen?’
Selys covered up the wound. ‘Sometimes my work is dangerous.’
‘Are you in charge of the injured?’ Fenn asked, looking past them through the open doorway, where movement had caught his attention.
‘Yes, I’m Motzha, and I’m running this place with my husband. He should be back any minute now with more supplies, actually. Can’t believe we cleared through our stock of glinoc paste in six hours! Took another day for the shrine to send us more materials. We’re used to making wine, not medicine.’
‘I don’t suppose you have a bottle going spare?’ Selys asked, a small smile on her lips.
He laughed. ‘Always have a bottle or two somewhere. Didn’t know you priestesses drank?’
‘I worship Neros, but I am human. There’s nothing wrong with a drop of good wine every so often. Considering our situation, I’d say it was more than appropriate right now!’
‘Aye. It’s a dark time.’ Motzha shook his head. ‘Can’t believe we’re seeing the day the Myr are back.’
Fenn pushed away the guilt that immediately appeared at the mention of the Myr, and even the fire in his chest sputtered briefly, as if showing its distaste.
Motzha pulled a small sack of herbs from behind the crates of food and handed it to Selys. ‘Sorry, we don’t have the manpower to make it for you. But there’s plenty of supplies inside. Find somewhere you can sit down and help yourself.’
‘Is there anything we can do?’ Fenn asked.
‘Sure. I’m portioning food for the people inside. You can give them out. Glad to see a couple of friendly faces! You start handing out food, and I’ll see if I can find you some wine to thank you for your help.’
Fenn took the armload of boxes and followed Selys inside. Two rooms led off on either side of the corridor. People in the first room were already eating, so Fenn made his way into the second. There were twelve beds inside, and all but one were occupied. Thankfully, no-one here was too badly wounded, and probably needed rest to get over the shock of what had happened more than anything else.
As Motzha had said, there were plenty of tools and equipment laid out on a long table against the wall. Selys grabbed a pestle and mortar and crossed to the room’s far side. She perched on top of a barrel in the corner and began to create the paste. Despite the awkward position, she didn’t appear the least bit uncomfortable.
Leaving her to it, Fenn moved from bed to bed, handing each occupant their small box of food. They were all grateful, and it made him wonder about the work the shrines did during times of war. As Selys had warned, there would need to be a lot more of it in the coming weeks.
The man in the final bed was sitting up and staring at the wall, his gaze distant and unfocused. Cuts and bruises adorned his face and upper body, though most of them were hidden under layers of bandages, and his nose looked broken. He ignored the offered box of food.
Fenn placed it down on the bed beside him. ‘Hey, you okay?’ Was this man one of the lost souls?
The man didn’t reply.
‘Excuse me? There’s food here for you.’
‘Give it to someone else.’ His voice was flat.
‘Why? You need to eat.’
The man turned to look at Fenn. His eyes were bloodshot, as if he’d been crying recently and was on the verge of starting again.
‘What happened?’
‘It doesn’t matter anymore. They’re gone. They’re gone and I wasn’t there to help.’
Fenn had heard similar stories from so many people that he was getting numbed by their intense sadness. It was a time of war. People were going to die or go missing. There was so much hurt and loss and death that you couldn’t be upset for everyone. ‘I’m so sorry.’
The man leaned back, resting his head against the wall. ‘Maybe it’s my punishment.’
‘Punishment?’ Fenn echoed.
The man raised his arms, gesturing to the room. ‘All this. My fault.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ll hear about it soon enough.’ He was despondent.
Fenn sat at the end of his bed, which creaked under his weight. ‘I don’t know what you’ve done, but it can’t be that bad, can it?’ They were going to be here a while, and he considered how he could cheer him up. ‘I’m Fenn.’
‘Apollo,’ the man replied, after a pause.
Fenn clutched Apollo’s hand in greeting—and the room disappeared around him. He was on a mountainside in deep snow, while a blizzard raged overhead. He watched three figures trudging along, huddled in thick cloaks of fur, and snow up to their knees. The wind battered them, impeding their progress.
‘Another Myrish vision.’ It was the fire’s voice again. Hassen’s voice.
The scene flashed, changing to another time. Apollo sat beside a large fire, no doubt having made camp, and stared at a smoking box by its base. The wind had ceased, and a gentle snow fell all around him. Apollo reached for the box with gloved hands, upturning it. Beside him, a dark-skinned woman leaned forward, her mouth open as she stared at the box, enraptured.
Fenn couldn’t help but think of Calidra when he looked at the woman.
