Chapter 11 - Persistent Presence
Penrith, Vanstead Dukedom of Augustein Year 995
The watchman strode quickly down the streets, and Amara followed close behind, keeping her eyes on her surroundings as she moved. The sky continued to darken, and as they drew closer to their destination, she was easily able to identify the tavern in question.
It stood two stories tall, and the building appeared to be built out of sturdy, thick wood. It was too far to make out what the letters carved in its sign said, but she could see glowing lights filling the cloudy windows, giving the building a warm, homely feel.
“Here we are,” the watchman remarked as they came to a stop. He nodded at Amara. “It’s not the largest, but you should have no trouble getting a room.”
“Not a lot of travelers right now, I’m guessing,” Amara joked, temporarily tearing her eyes away from the building. The watchman coughed, shifting his weight.
“Not now, no.” He shook his head and stepped forward, pushing open the heavy door, and Amara stepped through the doorway after him.
The wooden space glowed with torchlight, the owners seemingly having worked to fit as many flames into a confined space as was reasonably safe. The light dyed the pale wooden tables and floor into orange and gold hues, and even the plates of food laid out across the tables looked many times more appetizing as a result.
The tavern felt distinctly warmer than the outside, both because of the torches and because of the amount of patrons inside. Compared to the oddly empty streets, nearly every table was crowded with people. Extra chairs had been pulled out at some point to accommodate the larger groups, and quite a few tables were pushed together to make more room. Despite the amount of patrons, it wasn’t as rowdy as Amara would’ve expected from a tavern. There was still the clinking of plates and mugs, and the hum of voices was a constant that was occasionally punctuated by bursts of laughter. But overall, the aura of the place was dampened, the volume not quite loud enough, the enthusiasm laced with other concerns and lacking the carefree quality of the drunkards in Winrow’s tavern.
Several pairs of eyes landed on Amara as the door creaked open, and she could recognize the instinctive tensing of muscles, the tightening grips on glasses that preceded any actual appearance or threat. It was an all too familiar paranoia.
Amara smiled brightly and waved, and some of the tension dispersed. The watchman’s shoulders slumped, and she noted his eyes drifting over to a table where she could see a few others in grey uniforms sitting together sharing drinks.
“You can head over there, you know,” Amara remarked. The watchman jumped, spinning around and coughing to regain his composure.
“Apologies. I just wanted to make sure you were settled down first.”
Amara waved dismissively, eyes sparkling with some amusement, though she didn’t fully relax, still busy taking in all the different faces in the tavern. “I’m fine. Thanks for giving me directions.” She nodded her head over at the counter. “I’m gonna go book that room now.”
The watchman hesitated, but finally nodded and turned away, wading his way through the crowd to make his way over to the table in question. Amara waited until he was gone from view before she turned and made her own way over to the counter at the very back of the tavern, located just beside a set of stairs leading into what she assumed was the inn portion of the building.
Behind the counter, a built middle aged man with broad shoulders and a faint scattering of scars was casually observing the rest of the tavern while he dusted. He was currently carefully working around an old portrait whose glass had blurred naturally with age, but otherwise looked well cared for. Wallace, Amara assumed he was. She waved cheerily at him as she approached, and he simply nodded at her, only casting her scars a brief glance before his eyes darted away. Amara assumed that, given his job, he was used to seeing all sorts.
He nodded as Amara approached. Now that she was closer, Amara noted that the portrait seemed to be of three blurred silhouettes. Wallace set the duster down, and it obscured the rest of the portrait. “What do you need?” His voice was blunt and gruff, but not unkind.
Tearing her eyes away from the portrait, Amara held up a finger. “A room for one,” she said. She paused consideringly, then added, “for one night for now. I might add to that, though.”
The man snorted. “You can stay as long as you need. Not much business in the inn right now anyway.” He reached behind the counter and pulled out a small key from a drawer with the number three engraved into it. Amara reached into her bag to pull out her coins, but the man held up a hand to stop her.
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“I’m not charging you. Won’t matter in a week anyhow.”
That made Amara pause. She took a second to study the man as she processed the words, taking in the lines of weariness around his expression, the inherent hardness in his eyes contrasting with his relaxed demeanor as his eyes looked around the tavern fondly. There was no tension or fear in his body. Amara slowly closed her bag again.
“I see,” she said. She’d heard of people who chose to stay behind when the Warped Forest came. Nearly every town had a couple of them, memorialized in tragic stories spread by the survivors. People’s voices always took on somber tones when they told them, and they’d shake their heads and speculate on the motives.
Personally, Amara had always thought it was rather simple. People lived life choosing the things they valued most, and that inevitably came at the cost of other things. Those who chose to die with their towns when the forest came simply did not value their lives as much as something else. It might seem strange to an outsider, but Amara was certain every person had at least one oddity on their hierarchy of values that would turn heads.
An image of crooked, withered limbs, a wave of cold, and burning flames flashed in her head. She swallowed and shoved it down before the weight of smoke could begin to fill her lungs, pushing it into that comfortable, numb space in her mind where everything drifted and nothing was solid.
Amara took the key and slipped it into her bag. She smiled brightly and leaned forward a little over the counter, physically moving away from the memories.
“Hey, do you happen to know how to get to the Warped Forest?”
Wallace raised an eyebrow. “Are you sightseeing or something?”
“Yeah, kind of.”
The tavern owner snorted and shook his head. “Strange tastes you’ve got, but I’m not one to judge.” He nodded his head at the open windows, where the darkening streets were just barely visible through the glass. “If you head northwest, that’ll get you to the mines. Warped Forest’s probably north of that, they say. Might be a bit of a walk. It’s still pretty far right now, about a week out from hitting us.”
Amara nodded. She’d assumed the path was northwest, but it was good to get confirmation. “Hm, so the mines’re on the way. I might stop by there,” she muttered thoughtfully. That made Wallace chuckle.
“There’s nothing there but dirt and rock. Take it from me, I used to work there myself. I’m not sorry to see it go.” He shook his head, chuckling a little. “You know, you’re the second person to ask me for directions today,” he remarked. “Strange how that works.”
Amara raised an eyebrow. “Oh really? Who was the first?”
Wallace shrugged. “Some other traveler, arrived just yesterday. Don’t know much else.”
Amara hummed, absorbing the information. Her eyes darted to the side, towards the stairs, and then back. Finally, she stepped away. “Thanks for the help!” she said. Wallace simply nodded at her and picked up the duster again.
Amara turned and walked away with a final nod, leaving the man alone behind the counter. When she glanced back from the top of the stairs, she saw that he was staring at the portrait.
—
The steps creaked beneath her feet as Amara walked. When she reached the second floor, she raised an eyebrow when she found quite a few patrons lingering around the hallways, drinks in hand and talking with slurred words. Considering the general lack of travelers, it seemed the second floor had turned into an extension of the tavern below. Amara waved at the patrons as she passed by, and more than a few were so drunk that they barely noticed her.
Amara wove around the surprisingly large space, turning down hallways and keeping note of the room numbers. The floorboards creaked below her feet, and the torchlights made the shadows flicker along the ground, long and easily visible. One shadow, in particular, moved more smoothly than the others. She kept her eyes fixed on it, watching its movements closely.
Finally, when Amara reached room twelve at the end of the hallway, she stopped walking. In one swift motion, she spun around, eyes sharp.
The space behind her was empty. Along the ground, the moving shadow vanished, having long slipped away behind the corner to blend into the other patrons. Amara took note of the surroundings with narrowed eyes, remaining in place as she waited. When she heard no additional sounds or saw any extra movement, she finally turned around and stepped over to her actual room, room three, and swiftly unlocked the door and slipped inside.
The interior of the room was small, but well kept. A single bed sat in the corner beside a small table, and a large chest of drawers was pushed against the opposite wall. A larger table stood in the center of the room with two chairs, and Amara noted the washbasin of fresh water that had been set carefully on top.
One small window overlooked the room. It was open, and the thin, pale white curtains fluttered and drifted in the breeze in long, slow waves. By then, the sun had set fully, and blue moonlight fell in soft rays across the furniture, lighting up silver dust particles and outlining the furniture in a cool glow.
Amara set her bag down on one of the chairs and took a second to walk around the room, half expecting to once again feel the sensation of those watching eyes, but there was only the slight chill of the night air.
Nodding to herself, satisfied, Amara finally allowed her shoulders to relax. She sighed and slumped down on the second chair, her eyes drifting over to the open window.
From within that small view, she could make out the distant, dark outline of the forest, an inky mass that swallowed the bottom of the sky. She closed her eyes, focusing her hearing away from the sounds of the taverns to the rustling of leaves and the distant flapping of wings, absorbing herself in the sounds of the night as her eyelids grew heavy.