Chapter Seventy-Three
Gentle Favours
The company ambled for about an hour before they came across a wandering trader, named Holda. She was an elderly Crekaen woman with a rather tired mule, mounted high with crates of goods and bundles of clothing and other oddities.
Carter, against his wishes, traded one of his knives for a couple days’ worth of food, leaving him with only four after stiffly taking back the one’s he’d handed out in Kavoe Farnea. They managed to procure some stitching thread, bandages, and a bone hook needle too, and not a moment soon enough. By the time they got a hold of the medical supplies Oliver’s body had begun to tremble from blood loss.
The Legacies continued toward Bawdion but steered out past a line of fenced-off crops. They picked a spot to camp out in the far-spanning plot of barley, eating an entire day’s worth of food as they walked. The wind had abated for the time being and a warm blanket of autumn air seemed to sit with them as they flattened down a patch of barley and made camp for the night.
Nichole began stitching up Oliver’s mangled shoulder but she found the delicate needle hard to angle into the messy tears.
James politely took over and Oliver leaned into broad boy’s chest and arms as he nimbly sewed his wound together, mumbling the song the others had been singing on the road in a deep, melodic hum to himself.
Oliver watched as James hooked the needle and stitching through his skin. It was so numb by that point, he scarcely felt a pinch. It was good work. Which made him wonder why.
Oliver glanced at James with the question in his mind and James all but read it. They shared a sad smile.
“Interesting childhoods, aye,” James mused.
Oliver chuckled lightly and patted him on the leg.
Carter, Nichole, and Aroha began turning some’ borrowed’ fenceposts into kindling as Michael and James dug a small fire-pit. Magnus sheared away the surrounding grass so they wouldn’t start a country-wide blaze and Sarah bandaged Oliver’s shoulder again.
They idly discussed the plan for the next day and Oliver volunteered to take the first watch. This was met with a long, unamused stare from Sarah, at which point he promptly changed his mind and sat down.
She sat down next to him and watched for a moment as Oliver tried to get comfortable, but any flat lying pulled at his stitches. Oliver made no attempt to complain and was prepared to deal with the discomfort. Sarah shuffled behind him and gently ushered him down, so he was lying at an incline with the back of his head rested on her lap.
Oliver prayed she couldn’t feel how hard his heart was beating and Sarah fought to keep her hands from his hair. They both hid wide smiles behind polite ones.
Nichole placed the wood shavings in the bottom of the pit and drew out her flint from her sock and began sparking the kindling. After much breathing it to life, smoke began to curl away from the wood and slowly they layered more thin strips on top and eventually added the thick logs to the low flames.
The fire crackled into the night. Rose sat staring at it and realised it was making her skin crawl. She glanced at Sarah, hoping she didn’t feel the same, only to find Sarah staring at Oliver with his head rolled over. Rose smiled to herself and threw a pebble at the flames.
Michael watched Carter doze away in James’ lap and the James slowly leant back into a thicket of barley. Aroha and Nichole curled up in each other’s arms and fell quickly to sleep, nuzzling heads. Soon Oliver drifted off in Sarah’s lap breathing quietly in amongst the idle music of crickets and cicadas.
Soon only Sarah, Michael, Mangus, and Rose were left awake.
Magnus sat on the edge of the camp, but unlike the many nights before he now faced inward. The flames gently painted his pale face, and his eyes were simmering like mulled wine.
Rose sat on the other side of the fire from Michael, looking at him as he stared deep into the flames. On her right were the huddled sword-dancers and further around that side was Magnus, sitting with the wild grass cloaking his shoulders and his hood draped over the top of his head.
Thunder echoed in the distance and Sarah laid herself back into the upright grass, careful not to wake Oliver. “That was Raeken’s farewell. He’s going back to the Aegan mountains for a time.”
Michael nodded, prodding the fire with a thin strip of wood. “Remind me to thank him, when all this is over.”
Sarah nodded, staring up at the clouds and their shifting shapes.
Michael glanced at Rose, still hugging her knees. “What happened to you two today?”
Rose described the cultist village, the patriarch, and the many twists and turns. She threw in a few dramatic details, but for the most part, she told it true and watched Michael age several cycles from worry and dismay.
“You guys are out here generating folk tales…” Magnus mumbled.
Sarah mumbled, “I hope so.”
Rose smiled slightly before asking slowly, “Magnus, who do you think the spy is?”
Magnus pulled his hood off quietly and tussled his hair. “I thought it was him.” He nodded to Michael with an unconcerned shrug, which made Michael smile in spite of himself. “I realised today it couldn’t be.”
Michael frowned and plucked a piece of long grass from the ground. It had a small bend in the middle. “Why not?”
Magnus gave a soft chuckle, which made everyone still awake widen their eyes in surprise. “Because if I threw ten rocks, I’d hit nine things you care too much about.”
Michael tried to straighten out the blade of grass but couldn’t get it upright. “And?”
Magnus watched him idly, empty of the viciousness they’d come to expect and said, “And it wouldn’t be in keeping with the characteristics of a traitor. Unless you’re just really committed.”
Michael glanced at Rose, frowning. “That almost sounds like a compliment.”
Rose gave a wry smile. “Take it an’ run.”
Magnus rolled his eyes.
Eventually, Michael and Magnus both dozed off, leaving Rose to watch over the low-lying fire and the collection of Legacies. She cast her gaze far across the tall grass and watched it rustle in the occasional gust of wind, each time praying it was nothing more. She glanced back at Oliver, lying on Sarah’s lap as they both slept, and saw his tightly bound wound bound twitching every now and again.
Once several hours had passed, she woke James slowly and the young man told her to get some sleep before the sun came up. He shuffled carefully, not wanting to wake Carter, and sat up straight as Rose settled in.
Upon twisting his upper body and clicking his back like a stiff knuckle, Rose noticed a long scar running behind his ear and disappearing into his hair.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“How’d you get that?” she asked quietly, stifling a yawn as she gestured to the spot on her own head.
James smiled politely and tossed the last log onto the fire. “It’s just a birthmark.”
Rose knew scars. Her brother had every possible kind. She simply nodded, asking no more as James rubbed his eyes, doing all he could not to linger on it, and instead idly stroking Carter’s hair as he turned in his sleep.
The night was silent for a few hours.
James whistled quietly to himself and his friends fell below the deep dark of their dreams. He knew he could’ve started singing and they would’ve stayed under. He rolled the borrowed Merhoii spear in his hands when a rustling sound shifted behind him.
James turned to see four tall men in thick leather armour stepping into the firelight. One wore a thick beard and held an imperial short sword at his side. It glinted in the flame.
“Evening, lad.” His voice was rough like sandpaper.
James gripped his spear but didn’t stand. “Evening.” James kept his voice low. By the time anyone roused, someone would be dead.
The speaker stepped forward from the others and he knelt down beside James, looking over his sleeping companions. He smelt of sour beer and tooth rot. “Nice little set up you’ve got here.” His voice was full of amusement and a hunger that made James’ skin crawl. His smile was wide and wolfish.
James’ face was flat and unamused but his heart raced. He said nothing.
The highwayman waited but when James didn’t reply he sighed he looked to his three accomplices and they stepped quietly into the firelight, looking slowly about, trying not to wake anyone as they picked through various bags.
“Got any coin, for some struggling travellers, boy?” His eyes fell on Carter and Sarah, who even after many days of travel and wear, looked like the gentry. “How ‘bout them?”
James stared at him and finally said, “We’ve got nothing you want.”
The highwayman raised the point of his sword and placed it on James’ chest. “Sure about that?”
James’ brown eyes were black in the shade of night. But in a flash they were poison green. The veins in his neck swelled and flushed into his jaw, face, and the roots of his hair. He shirt glowed emerald and his hands blazed. All this happened and still he didn’t move buy the robber stumbled back, looking at him in horror. The other three highwaymen looked over and their silence was absolute.
James sighed and stood up slowly, clenching the spear as he rose to his full height. His Arcancy bleed into the stone of the spear and his aura cast a jade shadow across the encampment.
“Would you like to see dawn, gentlemen?” James asked, in perfect earnest.
No one replied but the answer was clear.
James’ gaze swept across each of them, and he settled on the leader. “Then perhaps you ought to find another place to rest your heads.”
The man raised his hands and he nodded to the others. They quickly slunk back into the tall grass and disappeared.
James stood for a long while and finally let his Arcancy die. The jade light fell away, and his shoulders sunk with the weight of memory.
*****
The next morning arose quickly and everyone’s tired bodies complained. James didn’t mention the night’s momentary excitement, as it wouldn’t excitedly inspire a feeling of safety.
Once they’d risen and eaten, Carter managed to persuade a rather pompous, wig-wearing gentleman to give them a ride to Istol in the back of his empty hay-bale cart. With only a bit of luck and some gentle aristocratic rhetoric, the man came to the quick realisation of what saying ‘no’ to lord’s son could entail.
It was a long, wood-panelled cart towed by four horses, only open at the back, otherwise covered in white, weatherworn canvas to keep the sun from setting fire to the hay on long trips in Talisatian summer.
The white-haired man gave them many odd looks as the Legacies piled into the back, frowning heavily at the bare-chested, bandaged Oliver, near-topless Nichole, and the pale, scythe-wielding Magnus. However, after Carter showed him his Coin of Writ, they were on their way.
Carter looked over the gold pendant for a moment as the cart began rumbling along the Imperial Highway again.
Oliver frowned and asked, “I thought only broke folk had their own currency?”
Carter shook his head and said, “This is what the gentry are given to prove their identity. Losing them is a big deal because it means anyone can pretend to be you if they’re a good enough actor. Mostly rich folk just use them to call in favours before they can actually pay people back.”
“Like a loan agreement?” Oliver asked, gritting his teeth as they bumped over several rough patches in the road.
“Somewhat. For example, if I flash this coin, then anyone “below” my station,” he said like it pained him, “is obligated to help me out if they can. There’s then the understanding that they may call on my family to return the favour someday. Though, I’m pretty sure that ‘understanding’ gets forgotten when it suits the gentry. Here.”
Carter tossed Oliver his piece of gold.
On its face was a sigil pressed into the metal, a crowing rooster before a rising sun. On the other side was an extremely delicate letter of authenticity, stamped with a date of production.
“My first birthday present. A constant reminder that the world is run by gold...” Carter took the coin back and looked at it disdainfully before tucking it in his sock.
Oliver quietly realised that besides his sword, it was probably the most expensive thing he’d ever touched. He glanced at Sarah, gently holding his arm as they carriage rocked, wondering if she had one.
As the carriage moved at a better pace, Michael looked out the open back to the slowly disappearing countryside.
After an hour or so of uncomfortable jostling and loud, creaking wood, Michael asked, “Ari, is there a reason you didn’t just say “Fort Guardian” back at the Travelling Forest?”
Sitting in the deep end of the cart, sweating in the heat of the toasted canvas, Aroha called, “Well, Fort Guardian has magical protections which keeps lesser Creations from manifesting there. I was worried the same might protections might keep us from arriving. And I couldn’t remember what the grounds outside of the Fort are called. Also I was kind of panicking.”
Carter stuck his hand up and frowned, “I’d like it on the record that I had planned for time to discuss what we were going to do, but you know, we got distracted by all the nearly-dying.”
Everyone smiled somewhat and Michael gave a small chuckle, muttering, “That’ll happen,” leaning his head lightly back on Carter’s shoulder.
Oliver still held his stolen shirt in his hands and felt his drowsiness grow heavier as they carried on into the evening. It was only when Oliver began flexing his left hand that he began to feel numbness and cold in his fingers, seeping all the way from his injured and bound shoulder. Every so often he found himself drifting off.
Magnus glanced at Oliver from further down the carriage as he began to tilt forward, only barely catching himself. “Jacobs, you look paler than me.”
The Legacies roused in confusion and noticed the swordsman was taking shallow breaths. “I think its infected,” he breathed, leaning back against the wall.
Sarah gently peeled back one of the bandages and the company watched as her eyes widened at the sight of the mangled wound.
It was red around every torn edge of flesh, puffy and now hued with a very light yellow tinge.
Aroha saw her expression and wasted no time, pounding on their shared wall and yelling, “How long until Istol?”
“About two hours,” the man replied gruffly.
Carter shook his head. “No time. Stop the carriage!” he barked in his best nobleman’s voice.
The heavy cart rolled to a stop on the crinkling road as Carter leapt out and gently guided Oliver to the ground whilst everyone talked over themselves in confusion.
Michael yelled above them all, “What are you doing?”
The driver wandered around the back before he could answer, stiffly muttering, “I have a pick-up time I must be on-schedule for. What is happening here?”
Carter slung Oliver’s good arm over his shoulder and supported the hazy young warrior as the others piled out from the cart. He ignored the driver and said, “You all are staying with the kind sir and I’m going ahead with Oliver to see a surgeon I know. Meet us at the estate of Sir Nigel Beaumont. He’s the best surgeon outside I know.”
Sarah rushed forward, saying, “Carter, I’ll take him. I’m the better rider.”
“Istol is my town. They’ll recognise me and let me right through. You’ll need to authenticate your identity every ten feet. He’s safe with me, I promise.”
Oliver blinked slowly, his eyes unfocused as he gently reached out and touched a loose strand of Sarah’s hair, unaware he was even doing so.
Michael stepped forward and tightly said, “Beaumont’s palace is in Bright-Side, isn’t it?”
Carter nodded sorrowfully. “It’ll be okay. We’ll get to the surgeon before Mid-Felling and be done by Felling’s End, I’m sure. We’ll meet you at James’ house.”
After only half-listening to the conversation, the driver stepped to Carter’s side employing a tightly concerned face, somewhat irritated about losing the only passenger he knew he cared about. “How do you intend on getting to the city, might I ask, sir?”
Carter looked the man plain in his face and smiled, still ensuring Oliver wasn’t toppling over. “Oh, we’re taking one of your horses. I’m sure you don’t mind.”
Oliver snorted aloud like a child who’d gotten into his father’s ale.