[prose-only version here]

XXXII.

Thawmere 12, Wyrdsday, Year 732

“Running was a dumb move, lass,” Maelen muttered grumpily. The warrior peered out of the smoked glass of the chandlery, the window speckled with old wax and soot. The smell of tallow and beeswax hung heavily in the air.

“You’ve only said it half a dozen times,” Vessa replied sourly, crossing her arms. “And okay… I panicked.”

“Not like you,” Maelen squinted. “You’ve had a warrant on your head before.”

“It wasn’t the warrant,” she whispered fiercely. Vessa’s eyes darted to the chandlery’s proprietor, a balding, middle-aged man with a long neck like a turtle. He saw her looking and swallowed hard, turning to needlessly busy himself with shelves crowded with candles, blocks of wax, and little jars of resin. They’d paid him a handful of silver to let the two of them stand in his store and watch the Heart & Dagger’s front door, but she still worried what he might say to a City Watch official if questioned.

An older woman in flowing red robes entered the chandlery with the tinkle of a bell. Maelen and Vessa pretended to be looking at candles as she passed them. She paused and regarded them.

“Ah, Sister Hestara!” the chandler said in greeting, his voice nasal. “A little early for your monthly visit, isn’t it?”

Vessa’s back was to the woman as she did her best to look innocuous. The customer said nothing for a long while, then exhaled audibly. When she spoke, her voice was rich and full. “Yes, Mister Fenn, it is. I was… well, you might say I felt inspired as I passed by this evening. Do you mind if I browse?”

The conversation went on behind them and Vessa leaned close to Maelen. “It wasn’t the warrant,” she repeated in a low whisper. “It was the man! This Brannic, he was there that night, in the alley, don’t you remember?”

Maelen scowled and turned away from the window. “What? Part of the merchant boy’s crew?”

Vessa waved a no and shook her head. “No, just in the alley. I think maybe he was their mark.”

The warrior thought about it, frowning. She leaned over and peered again out of the smudged window, to watch those entering the tavern next door. Eventually, she muttered. “Why would a book merchant’s son try to beat up an Iron Thorn agent? It makes no sense. Anyway, running was still dumb. Who cares if he was in the alley?”

Vessa sighed and took a step to where she could see out between two thick white candles upon a shelf. With the evening twilight and the smudgy glass, it wasn’t the easiest view, but she figured either Alric or Brannic would be easy enough to spot. Her eyes flicked left. Near the Lakeshore Walk, a narrow stone-and-plank promenade that curved around the perimeter of Lake Miran, sat a worn stone bench. Reclining against the bench, arms folded in the chill air, was Rusk. Vessa thought that, if they were going to quickly intercept Alric, it would be best if the hired thug wasn’t with them. Besides, an extra pair of eyes outside always helped.

“Excuse me? Ma’am?” that full, rich voice said from a stride away. Both Maelen and Vessa turned to see the woman in red robes. She was an attractive older woman, perhaps of fifty years, with a defined jaw and intense, pale blue eyes framed by brown hair pulled back in a braid. The clothes were exceptionally well-made, heavy wool with a faint sheen, with black silk cuffs and hood, and cut asymmetrically to cover the left side of her body while leaving her pale right arm and lower leg tastefully exposed. A small brass pendant in the shape of a flame hung at her throat. Ah, Vessa realized. A priestess of the Flame, then, a small religious order who worshipped the Ash Queen. Vessa had never met one who didn’t unsettle her with their zealotry.

The woman’s gaze fell fully on Maelen. The warrior frowned and took her in from head to toe, same as Vessa.

“Yeah?” she grunted.

“That… weapon on your belt,” the woman nodded her head towards the black mace. “Do you mind if I ask how it came into your possession?”

“Listen, lady,” Maelen said dismissively, doing her best to look every bit the street tough. “I do mind. Go away.” And with that, the warrior turned her back on the priestess and crouched to peer again through the window. Somewhere out of sight, the chandler gasped.

The woman looked startled, then a line formed between her eyes and she pressed her lips together, clearly irritated. She cleared her throat. “I am afraid I cannot do that,” she said curtly. “That weapon is demon-born. Give it to me now, in the name of the gods.”

Silence fell in the chandlery. Maelen stood upright, slowly, and turned to regard the priestess. “Excuse me?” she growled, low and mean.

“Mae…” Vessa whispered urgently, reaching to place a calming hand upon her shoulder. Ever since the Starless Rift, her friend had been… angry. Maelen had always been a bruiser by nature, but one of the things that impressed Vessa early on was the warrior’s ability to reason her way out of a situation. Recently, it was as if she were a beaten dog tied to a post, snapping at anyone who came near. Which, she realized uncomfortably, was very much like the description the seer Wink had given her.

Maelen shrugged off Vessa’s touch and stepped towards the priestess. “You want it?” she sneered, slowly pulling the black mace from her belt loop. “Come take it from me, then.”

Vessa gave the robed woman credit; if the priestess was intimidated, she masked it well. Her eyes momentarily widened at Maelen’s advance and then her face set in determination. “I see,” she said simply. She raised her voice without taking eyes off Maelen. “Mister Fenn? I will not bring trouble to your shop. I might suggest you close up for the evening, however, and call the City Watch if these two trouble you.”

The woman’s posture straightened imperiously as she addressed Maelen. Her friend stopped her advance but tensed, growling low in her throat. “I tell you this now plainly: That weapon is an instrument of destruction. Shadows and darkness follow it, and has likely,” she looked Maelen up and down. “darkened your soul. Bring it to the Temple of the Flame and you can be rid of this burden. I give you two days.”

“Or what?” Maelen snarled, muscles flexing.

The woman’s eyes swung to Vessa. “Two days,” she intoned, and the words struck her like a weight. Then, in a swirl of red fabric, turned and swept out of the chandlery.

The little bell tinkled, and the sound of the door shutting echoed in the small shop. Vessa was stunned, while Maelen panted, mace gripped tightly in her hand. Silence reigned for several heartbeats, and then the shop owner cleared his throat nervously.

“I– I think I will close up now,” he squeaked. “It’s about time.”

“Of course,” Vessa said immediately, before Maelen could yell at the man. “We’re sorry for any trouble.” She moved towards the door. “Come on, Mae.”

Outside, the evening gloom had swallowed the lakeside, and all around them lanterns were being lit upon the street and in windows. Across the street, Rusk hunched his shoulders and pushed off from the bench, sauntering slowly towards them.

“What in blazes was that?” Vessa snapped.

Her friend barked back. “What? She wanted to take it!”

“She wanted to talk,” she corrected. “Then you picked a fight. With a priestess! And what if what she said is true?”

“It’s a weapon,” Maelen grunted. “Of course it’s made for destruction.”

“Not that,” Vessa said. “The part about darkness, and demons. And your soul.”

Rusk was within earshot now and Maelen flicked her gaze towards him. “Enough of that. Leave it. Where’s the bloody lad?”

“There,” Rusk whispered as he joined them, jerking his chin towards the road. Maelen and Vessa turned to see a figure robed in black, hood up and shrouding his face, hobbling towards the Heart & Dagger’s entrance with the help of a wooden staff. The robe, staff, and limp all matched Alric, but the figure was too thin and stooped.

“Not him,” Maelen shook her head. “That’s an old man.”

“Wait,” Vessa cautioned. Her eyes were the keenest of them, and she saw the lamplight play off the runes upon the staff. “I think… I think it may be.” Without waiting for the others to respond, she strode towards the frail, bent figure with purpose. Instinctively, she moved quietly, on guard.

“Alric?” she called out when she was within lunging distance. The figure stopped and turned its hood. She could now clearly see the hands gripping the staff, pale and bony.

“Vessa,” he sighed, relieved. Incongruously, it was Alric’s voice, completely unchanged. “I was going to tell you that we should move our meeting to somewhere more private. Brannic is coming, and wants to speak with you.”

A hand went to her mouth in shock. “What happened to you?”

“Ah, yes, well,” Alric chuckled. She could only see vague details beneath the hood, but what she saw looked skeletal. “I may have tried a new spell, to mixed results.”

“Let’s get out of here,” she gasped, reaching to take one of his arms. It felt shockingly thin. “Let me help you.”

“Much obliged,” he nodded once, with relief.

She helped the unsettlingly frail Alric to Vessa’s inn near the docks. She did not speak with him on the trek, and neither did Maelen. Her friend did shoot her a look when she thought Alric wasn’t looking, though, of pressed lips and concern. Rusk, thankfully, said nothing and followed behind, strolling as if alone and without a care in the world.

It was well after dark when they arrived, but thankfully they never saw the Iron Thorn investigator from earlier that day. The inn was a two-story wedge of weathered timber, sitting slightly askew upon on the dock and between shops that were dark and closed up for the night. A row of iron lantern-hooks ran along the eaves, each lit behind smoky and salt-flecked glass. The signboard outside couldn’t be bothered with iconography, and said, simply enough, “The Swaying Lantern” upon it in plain script.

Inside, the common room was dimly lit by the glow of the large iron stove in the back, sitting squatly behind a long, scarred counter. The tables were narrow and communal—not ideal for them talking, but Vessa had chosen this place precisely because the clientele were usually sailors from other cities, other nations, often speaking only a few words of Calvenori. Few people here cared who they were, and more importantly cared not at all for the warrant attached to her.

She led them across sanded planks, Alric’s limp making a scraping sound across them along with the steady thump thump of his staff, and hailed the innkeeper.

“Voss,” she nodded with a crooked smile. He was a neat, polite, and soft-spoken man with close-cropped hair and no beard, a true surprise in this rough-and-tumble place. Indeed, the innkeeper of the Swaying Lantern reminded her somewhat of Alric, and would have fit better in the Inkbinders Lodge than the Oakton docks. He wiped his hands fastidiously on a white apron and nodded to her.

“How many?” he asked without preamble.

“Four of us,” she said. “But just water for one and two ales for another. And do you still have that crab stew from last night?”

He smiled. “I do indeed.”

“Four bowls of that, then. And bread?”

“I’ll bring them over to you,” he confirmed, and then he bowed slightly. Vessa smiled and hurried back over to the table, where Maelen was already grilling Alric in low, urgent tones.

“About Vessa?” Alric was saying, keeping his hood up and shrouding his face in shadows. “He asked about both of you, how I knew you, that sort of thing.”

“Nothing about her warrant, though?” Maelen asked, scowling.

Alric paused, as if thinking. Vessa couldn’t keep her eyes from his wrist and hands, almost skeletal. What had happened to him? Eventually, his rich baritone voice said. “No, nothing about Vessa specifically at all. It felt like he was just making conversation, honestly. What he really wanted to discuss was a woman named Sera Vellorin.”

“Dammit all to the Rootmother’s teats!” Maelen swore. Vessa winced.

“You know her?” he asked.

“Not directly, no,” Maelen frowned, and her eyes tracked over to Rusk. She clearly still wasn’t sure what she could and couldn’t say in the man’s presence. Vessa cleared her throat when it was clear she wasn’t going to offer more.

“She’s a book merchant,” Vessa offered. Maelen shot her a look that she ignored. “And mother of the kid I stabbed.”

“Oh,” Alric said, cocking his hooded head, as if again thinking. “Interesting. Well, the investigator said she’s bribing Lodge members to gain access to hidden archives. The… uh,” and now his head swept over to Rusk as well. “The forbidden ones.”

Silence fell on the table, and in that silence, Voss brought their food and drink upon a wide tray. He carefully placed each mug and bowl in front of each of them, then doled out four iron spoons and slices of bread upon small wooden plates. With another slight bow, he took his leave. Steam rose from the stew, and the inviting smell of crab and vegetables made Vessa’s mouth water. Rusk dove into his meal with abandon, slurping ale and stew with equal enthusiasm. Alric sipped his water and blew on the stew before trying it.

Maelen hadn’t moved, her mind working over what she’d heard. Eventually, she took a long drink from a mug and said, “Too many damned connections. Lad, what happened to your body? Are you two weak to make some coin?”

“As I told Vessa,” he said after a spoonful. “A spell got away from me, a spell I used to escape the investigator when he began asking about the Lodge. I should recover… I’ll just need to eat. Speaking of which, good stew, Vessa.” Much to her surprise, she felt her cheeks warming in a blush, as if she’d been the one to cook the meal and deserved praise for it.

Flustered, she ran a hand through her hair and said, “Yeah. Voss is a gem. You do think you’ll recover, then?”

He shrugged a thin shoulder. “I suppose. Or, rather, there’s no reason to think that I won’t.” The hood turned again to Maelen. “What did you have in mind, Maelen? For the coin, I mean.”

“I met a guy,” she said, chewing on a piece of bread. “Said he’d found a secret ruin in the city, untouched. Thinks there’s valuables there and promised a cut.”

“Oh, I’m relieved,” Alric chuckled. “That it’s in the city, I mean. I don’t feel up for another trek in the wilds, and I’d like to continue my research.”

“So, that’s a yes, then?” she said, her mouth full. “Vess?”

“I… sure, I guess. But shouldn’t we deal with this Vellorin business?”

Maelen grunted. “It’s too tangled. I can’t see the angle for us. Better we get out of sight for a few days, let it sort itself out. But a secret ruin sounds better to me than running from the Iron Thorn and some shady book dealer.”

And, Vessa thought unkindly, it lets you duck the priestess of the Flame’s attention. Worry knotted in her stomach, then. Could Maelen’s anger issues have to do with the mace? Maelen had said they weren’t related, but maybe her friend’s judgment couldn’t be trusted these days? Her instincts told her that allowing the two-day deadline to pass would lead to trouble, something they already had in vast amounts. Then there was Alric, who—despite his brave words—looked like he should be spending time resting, not tromping through dangerous ruins. Could he even use his magic, now?

She wasn’t sure how long she’d been quiet as these thoughts tumbled through her head. All eyes at the table were fixed on her, waiting. Maelen wouldn’t like her answer, but Vessa thought they should visit the temple of the Flame before making any decisions. She could loan Alric money to continue his research, since she hadn’t managed to spend her spoils from the Starless Rift yet. It might buy him time to recover.

Just then Rusk wiped his mouth and belched. “We’re in,” he said in his low whisper of a voice, thumping his fist on the table for emphasis. “When do we leave?”

Vessa blinked in surprise. Had he just… answered for the both of them? Alric stiffened in his seat, noting the same.

Maelen grinned and nodded at the man. “Tomorrow morning,” she said to them all. “I’ll go now and find Neddy.”

With that, her friend pushed herself from the table, slapped a couple of silver coins onto the table, and stalked out of the inn.

Next …?