Setting off on her own seemed like a good idea at the time. The book made persuasive and sound arguments. The luring promise of more knowledge and power intrigued her, considering her unsuccessful tutelage under Judas. With the block removed from her essence and the emotional damage temporarily sealed away, a future without the warlock seemed bright.
The suns blazed above and rivulets of sweat poured in fat droplets from her brow. Her hair hugged the sides of her face, her legs cramped, and her lungs burned from exertion. Leaving resembled less and less like a promising ephiphany.
If only I had a horse. Or if I could just teleport there!
The journey provided plenty of time to look back on her fight with the saricrocian; she’d been lucky not to kill herself with her haphazard winks and decided not to chance injury to herself until she had a better grasp.
She quarreled with her rationale for leaving Judas, but justification came through her anger and misgivings.
Is it possible to mistrust someone, and even hate what they’ve done, but still like that person?
Her gullibility and optimistic outlook got the better of her. Now, she wondered if the book did the same, preying upon her weaknesses. The thought tumbled through her head like a never-ending echo as the leagues dwindled.
She had a vague sense of direction. The book gave her a point to march towards and then retreated within itself, returning to its silent state. Even her mental screams failed to rouse it. The thought crossed her mind that it was nothing more than a messenger, its only function to find her, reveal itself, and specify the proper path. Would it speak again if she changed course, or strayed too far from the objective? Though an intriguing consideration, she didn’t relish the ill-conceived notion of walking in the opposite direction. Besides, she ached too much to try.
Another puzzle troubling her was that Judas hadn’t caught up with her.
Is he even looking for me? For someone as powerful as him, it should be a simple task of tracking me down through magic.
When she last laid eyes on the sleeping warlock, he seemed more feeble than she remembered, a thought she contributed to her newfound prowess.
The book did many things for me—most of all, opened my eyes.
A new path to discover Ermaeyth lay ahead of her, and she wanted to approach it, like the rest of her life, with eyes open.
Julie trekked many leagues through rolling prairie the first day. With her feet sore from the moderate pace, she slowed to relieve the throbbing pain. By sheer luck, the fortune of the bold, or grand design, she crossed paths with a caravan. When they pulled within hailing range, greetings and a few words were exchanged, a bargain struck, and Julie hitched a ride. Far Point, the nearest town, was still many leagues off. The journey would take days on horseback. She’d die of dehydration long before she reached her destination.
The master of the caravan voiced his exorbitant fee of a silver chip for a ride and food. While outrageous, she graciously accepted the theft for a reprieve from certain death. Days trickled by in the tedium of a swaying wagon, constantly interrupted by the giggles and crying of children. One mother, in particular, had only one volume with her children: too loud. She shouted at them from the time the suns came up until they went down, making Julie reevaluate her decision to join them.
If I ever have kids, she pleaded with the deities above, please let me be a better mother than that!
Early one evening, they ground to a halt near a river bend. Unable to take the stench of her clothing or body anymore, she decided to bathe. Though she had no soap, she went without, forgoing the gouging prices of the master, who wanted five copper bits. While the families set up pots and children either helped or played, Julie slipped away with her possessions, hoping her departure went unnoticed.
The water ran low, more of a weaving stream through a gully than the prominent river it once had been. The shore, once part of the riverbed, was littered with large, flat stones, smooth from erosion, and hedged in shrubs and tall, wild grass. Julie wove her way down the trail, grateful that a hill separated her from the expedition, though it offered little in the way of privacy. The shore, she noted, boasted several large depressions filled with shallow water, perhaps coming to her knee in the center. The suns ensured warm shallows. A few paces away, the flushing stream gurgled, cool to the touch. With the unforgiving heat, Julie decided on the latter.
Pack discarded, she shed her robes, debating on trying to wash the filth and stink out of them. Without any soap, it would be a near useless gesture and waded them up to discard later. They were too ruined to keep. With a cursory glance behind her, she confirmed her solitude. With deft fingers, she pulled the sash of her bosom wrap, letting her undergarments fall to the stony shore.
In haste, she entered the cool water. The gentle surges rippled around her, smooth and fresh. She dipped below the surface, holding her breath. She ran her fingers through her hair, hoping to get out whatever the swamp managed to embed. Underwater, her hair felt smooth and silky. The itch in her lungs implored her to return to the surface. The water breached, she gasped sweet air. The wind flickered, snaking through the gully, kissing her flesh. Goosebumps honeycombed her body, her nipples hardening. She splashed her face, rubbing the sweat and grime away. Dipping below again, her hands dragged the bed, scooping up silt and rubbed between her toes, under her arms, and anywhere she could reach. She methodically scoured her flesh as best as she could, requiring many returns topside; each time the sharp and cold wind licked her skin, her teeth chattered.
Before long, the water was too cold to continue, and remembering the shallows, she clambered out of the river. The pack obscuring her body, she half-huddled, half-shuffled, to the shallow, sinking in a rush. Because of the lack of depth, to cover her entire body, she laid on her stomach. The warm water chased the gooseflesh away from her icy limbs.
She basked in the warmth but for a few minutes, worried that someone would discover her. The river’s depth could obscure her body, but the shallows failed to have an advantage other than warmth.
From her bag, she pulled out a pair of garments. Though she wore them before, they were heavenly to her discarded outfit. As she pulled her undergarment up her legs, a twig snapped behind her. She spun around, catching a young boy of ten or eleven watching her. Her face went red with embarrassment.
“Get out of here, you little shit!” she screamed. He turned white, fleeing in terror, stumbling his way up the trail. With darting glances, she dressed in haste. Pack on her back and her swamp robes tucked deep in the brambles, she retreated up the hill, her wet hair hanging in clumps.
When she reached the camp, she spied the boy and thought about scolding him when she saw his mother, the loud woman. The last thing Julie fancied was to listen to more of her. Catching the boy’s eye, she narrowed hers before giving him a smirk. The boy was young and curious; she didn’t fault him for that, and relatively no harm was done save her embarrassment. Sporadically, while they traveled, she’d catch the boy glancing her way at various times, a grin on his face, which would bring a fresh surge of warmth to hers.
After what felt like an eternity of torture—though only six days—the caravan reached Far Point. With the small city in sight, Julie slipped away and sought the inhabitants of a more civilized and quiet nature. To call it a city was an overstatement. Regardless, she was happy to be there and away from the screaming woman.
An hour before dusk, she walked through the gate where guards surrounded her, but they didn’t raise their weapons. With a clattering of chain mail, they settled about her.
“Name,” barked the leader.
“Julie,” she replied, trying to avoid letting her agitation take control. She debated using the fake name from Dlad City, Cynthia Fossard, but she didn’t want to chance someone catching her in a lie without Judas there to aid her.
“What kind of name is Julie?” one sentry blurted.
The leader shot him a glance before returning to the traveler. “Well, Julie,” the leader spoke to her as if she were ignorant, “who are your parents? In these parts, when you introduce yourself, it’s Julie, daughter of so-and-so or Julie of House Piss-pot or whatever name your house has.” The others cackled, and she blushed from being chided.
The agitation flared within her, and she decided to fib her way through the gate. “Julie of the Fossard House, and you had best refrain from calling my house a piss pot.” She glared at him. “What’s your name, soldier? My father will be very interested to hear what you think of his house.”
“Forgive my loose tongue, Lady Fossard. It’s been a long day. Please, don’t let us keep you.” He gave her a bow of his head and stepped aside. Without wasting any more time, she strolled past them, suppressing her smirk. After a dozen paces or so, she listened to the guards conversing animatedly.
“Nice one, jackass.”
“How was I supposed to know she was a minor noble?”
“Fucking nobles, the lot of them—”
The voices trailed off as the sounds of the town drowned them out. A wagon rumbled by, headed for the gate she entered. Children raced through the streets playing and beggars in stained and ripped clothing sat on the porches of closed shops.
At least they don’t yell.
Other shopkeepers swept their porches, dirt and mire plumed around her as she passed. Her head swiveled as she walked down the cobblestone road, the town’s main street. A thin layer of dirt covered the street; the grit crunched with each of her steps. All other roads were still dirt and rutted from wagons.
If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
In front of her, in the distance, she saw a steeple of red clay shingles of the local cathedral towering far above the other buildings. Most, she noted, were made of a combination of wood and stone but spied hovels of wood and mud near the perimeter of town.
As she searched for a place to stay the night, a woman went whizzing by, pulling a boy and a little girl by the ear down the road towards the steeple. Her dark brown hair flashed by.
“…you better pray long and hard to the Father, Mother, and Child for what you’ve done! You’d best beg for forgiveness and mercy,” she was saying to the both of them.
At least, she isn’t yelling.
Perplexed, Julie made to follow them when a magnificent noise drew her attention: the sounds of laughter and of pewter tankards slamming down on wooden tables. A musical instrument played, sustaining the backdrop. The jingle of gold, silver, and bronze scrapping on tabletops was music to her ears.
She adjusted course and followed the sounds and, eventually, the smells to a three-story building made of wood and stone with a sign out in front that stretched the width of the establishment.
“Traveler’s Haven,” she murmured.
She pushed open one of the two front doors made of oak and glass and entered the establishment. All eyes drifted to her and settled for half a moment before turning their gazes back to what they were doing. With cautious eyes, she swept the place, noting the filled tables, but they paid her no further heed, attention turning back to the musician. Relaxing, she headed for the bar. The aroma of pork simmering in a sauce wafted through the air; wheat bread, warm and inviting, followed on its heels. She took a deep breath, and her stomach rumbled.
“Can I help ya?” the bartender asked while rubbing down the counter top.
“Something to drink, if you please.”
“Well, what do ya want?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been to a pub before, so I couldn’t tell you what I like.” She paused for a moment, eyes lingering on the shelf behind him. “Got a menu?”
“What’s a menu?” he echoed, baffled. Then, he pointed to a big plywood board off to the side of the countertop which listed the drinks and the contents of them. “Will ’at help?” he commented sarcastically. He went back to wiping down his tankards and bar top again as Julie rolled her eyes and glanced over the board making her choice.
“Vampire Dust, if you please.”
The bartender set to task and filled her order. Once done, he placed it before her. “Silver chip,” he advised.
“Chip, my ass! You’re robbing me blind!”
“That’s the price here, if you don’t pay, I can always call the city watch.”
“Gek!” someone yelled. “Get th’ fuck out from behind ma’ bar.” The man who was obviously the bartender, walked around the counter and smacked him on the back of the head. “Fucking thief, I shou’ call th’ guards and have ya’ flogged for taking advantage of a stranger.” He hit him again and the younger man scampered off. The new man gave a sheepish smile. “At least, he made ya’ drink right.” When Julie tried to pay him, he held his hands up. “On th’ house.” He jerked his head towards the boy who tried to rob her. “For Gek’s scheming.”
“Thank you.” She smiled and took a slow, cautious pull of her nip, finding the flavor enjoyable. Her initial sip reminded her of chocolate but subtly changed to coconut. The gray and murky liquid alluded to a cross between milk and the stagnant waters of the swamp.
She turned around and faced the room again, glimpsing the musical instrument that caught her ear earlier. It was stringed and stood on the floor with the musician sitting behind, much like a cello player. Twelve thick strings splayed out like a hand and in between each, another six strings—a total of seventy-two—stretch tautly along the length. Each twelve strings had an individual neck behind the strings so the operator could position their hands to play different sounds and chords. Each string was attached at the top by a cylindrical, metal tube that gave a xylophone-like sound when the instrument vibrated, but instead of the abrupt noise of a xylophone, the bow pulled a slow and drawing sound when strummed.
It was beautiful and pleased her ears. Turning back to the innkeeper, she found him already looking at her.
“Not to ya liking?” he asked.
She could tell that his breath was bated. “No, no. The drink is fine … I think. I don’t really know, but I like it. No, I was curious about that instrument over there. I’ve never seen one. It’s breathtaking. What’s the name?”
“Ah,” the man cooed, a smile creeping over his face, “ya’, a lovely thing, isn’t it? It’s called a Lylo. Very few people can master it, but th’ ones that can … well, ya can see th’ turn out tonight huh? The man playing it is a traveling musician, and he’ll be making his final stop in Ralloc where he hopes—with th’ bigger population—that he can establish a shop there. The word is that he’s from south of the Melodic Mountains.”
“The Melodic Mountains?” Julie echoed, interest piqued.
“Ya, but I don’t know if it’s true. Ya never really overhear anyone coming over th’ mountain to get here. Ship maybe. But there are a few who claim to know th’ way through th’ caverns and caves of th’ mountains and get over here.”
“Interesting,” Julie murmured, her mind racing. Her eyes slid out of focus and back in as she thought about her destination. “Tell me, what is the Father, Mother, and Child?”
“Ya joking, right?” he scoffed.
“No, I’m not. Tell me about them.”
“It’s a religion, and a strong one at that, especially in these parts. Th’ Father, Mother, and Child represent a Trinity. Th’ Father is for all that’s good in th’ world, whatever good there may be, and he’s the Father of War, as well as Father of the Ermaeyth, which provides us food. Th’ Father also represents the Present. Th’ Mother exemplifies all th’ evil in the world and is th’ Mother of Death, Famine, and Sickness. She also embodies th’ Past. Th’ Child is th’ Child of Innocence. Th’ Child also equates to Life, Love, Joy, and th’ Future. But th’ great thing about th’ Trinity is that we all came from th’ Father and Mother, we’re th’ Child, and therefore we’re created out of equal proportions of them.”
Funny how the woman is the evil one, she mused bitterly.
“I don’t understand how the Father who represents good also is the Father of War?”
“Well, war’s good, depending on how ya look at it,” he explained. “If ya go to war with a thirst for blood; well, then ya would be doing th’ Mother’s bidding. But if ya go to war because ya King asks ya to, or to protect ya family and the ones ya love and ya land, then ya doing it for th’ Father.”
“Interesting,” she mused. “And the Child? Is the Child a boy or a girl?”
“Does it matter? That’s th’ beauty of th’ Trinity, gives no sex a greater advantage over th’ other. Ya have th’ male and th’ female, but th’ child is just a child. All are created equal under the religion.”
“Are you a follower?”
“Somewhat. I’m not a pious man, but when something good or bad happens to me, I renew my standing with th’ Trinity.”
“Are there other religions like this one?”
“Ya,” he said pointedly. “I don’t like to think or talk about them.” Julie noted he was upset by her inquiring of other religions, his mood brooding, and his shoulders squared with mild indignation.
That quickly killed their conversation. Julie finished her concoction quietly and set the tankard on the counter as softly as she could, hoping she wouldn’t upset him too much. “Do you have a room free that I could get for the evening?” she queried, holding her breath, afraid he might explode on her.
“I got a room, ya, but it ain’t free. Ya gotta pay. Four bits and ya can have it. And no, ya can’t barter me down.” He pointed behind her to the entrance which she came through.
“Four bits! That’s twice as much as Ralloc!” She knew this from the Essence Transference Judas performed on her. One of the books covered the economics of Ralloc, printed in the last year.
“Yeah? Well, this isn’t Ralloc. There are dozens of inns within spitting distance in Ralloc; there’s only one here. Mine. I’ll throw in a dinner and breakfast if it makes you feel better. Take it or do without.”
“I’ll take it,” she declared and pulled a silver from her pouch. She exchanged the chip for a key and twenty-six bits in return, and he gave her directions to her room. The common room behind her, she headed upstairs to her room, the last door on the left on the second floor. The tub full of water lured her eye first. Giddy, she bolted the door and tossed her pack on the floor by her bed. Without preamble, she stripped and stepped into the clear, steaming water. Heat suffused her body. The room only came with a lump of soap carrying the vague scent of rose petals, a definite step up from bathing in the creek.
She scrubbed her body until pink and washed her hair twice. Upon exiting, she dressed in short order. Back in the common room, she arranged laundering for her clothes on the following day. Since this was the first time on her own, the excitement of something new slithered through her, and she wanted to explore the town before it got too late.
She left through the front doors and walked down the road under a twilight sky. As she ambled past rows of buildings and small homes, she noted some were one story and others two, rarely did she see a three-story building. Most one-story buildings housed two businesses, which seemed to split the renting and the right to own the place.
As her watchful eye drifted from one building to the other, she observed the names on the signs. Every once in a while, she’d see a general goods store, a bookshop, blacksmith, barber, or a clothing store, but the predominant focus of this town was the magic shops. She saw sign after sign advertising more and more of the same, though they looked more like joke shops, full of tricks and mirrors and smoke rather than the genuine article.
By the time the sun went down and the street lamps had been lit by the sentries, she’d toured the whole village and chosen three stores she’d return to: the Sleight of Hand Society, the Conjurer’s Accord, and the Enchanted Allure Guild. Each caught her eye for various reasons.
By looks, the Sleight of Hand Society seemed more than just magic. The windows had heavy curtains and appeared permanently drawn, as if they didn’t want the outside world to know what they taught their students or to steal their tricks. She had the impression it was more tricks than actual art, but it couldn’t hurt to learn a few; she might need them to stay alive.
The Conjurer’s Accord, a well-placed establishment near the center of town, maintained a prestigious look. Whoever owned the place invested a lot of money into the building. The doors were high and thick, crafted out of the darkest brown wood Julie had ever seen. Curtains tied open with gold lace graced the windows which were tall and wide, forming an arch at the top. The interior burned brightly from the candles in the gold chandeliers. From the road, Julie could see winding staircases on either side of the greeting room.
The Enchanted Allure Guild also enticed her eye, but for different reasons. This building was worn and run down but not dilapidated. This establishment boasted three stories. Perhaps in the past it rivaled all others as the most beautiful building in the entire town, but not anymore. In the short time Julie watched the building, the people of the town moved in their nightly routines and skirted the building by a wide margin. They blatantly avoided it, but the why intrigued her most.
Something must’ve happened here for all the people to avoid it so much. Something in the building or to the person who owns it.
Whatever paint graced the building wore away years prior; now, it was gray and splintered from age.
Her mind made up, she advanced to the building and went up its small flight of stairs to the porch. She placed her hand on the doorknob. From the glass in the door, she could see the interior faintly lit by a few glowing candles. A deep breath steadied her nerves, giving herself a pause, an opportunity to back down and leave.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, a conscious thought brushed the edge of her mind. It was malevolent and directed at her. Her head swiveled around, scrutinizing the buildings around her, the guards and people bustling about, all completely oblivious to her or the building. Nothing out of the ordinary snared her attention.
Her nerve resolved, she twisted the knob and stepped inside.