The drip-drip of water occupied a brief moment of silence in the dimly lit room of a bathhouse in the port city of Honeydew. Tendrils of steam whirled and waltzed lazily from the surface of the hot water as Ben sat motionless, body submerged in the large bath. The muffled sounds of a light scuffle were heard from outside before a nearby door was kicked open. A shrill scream echoed in the hallway, and Ben jolted to turn to his bathing companion.
“Ainsle,” Ben said to the old woman who reclined comfortably, body submerged and eye closed. Ainsle hummed a question in reply and raised the brow above her eye patch. “Did you hear that? That’s the same guy who came to the store two months ago,” he said in a hushed whisper.
The muffled sounds of chaos and rushed apologies from the hallway caused the Berserker to open her eye and sigh. “A whole bloody mark,” she muttered under her breath.
Ben winced. He didn’t know the value of the ‘mark’ denomination, but by the old woman’s reaction, he surmised that it wasn’t cheap for an hour in the bathhouse. “I’ll pay you back, but for now, shouldn’t we do something about the guys outside?” he whispered and frowned at the tickling sensation at the back of his throat. “I think they’re using some kind of magic…”
The words seemed to get Ainsle’s attention as she casually turned her head to regard him with a questioning eye. “And how do you figure that?” she asked in a rasp that was, contrary to Ben’s hushed voice, not a whisper.
“I don’t know. I can feel something when there’s magic being used nearby. It’s like I get goosebumps and-”
“You sure you’re a Null? ‘Cause I don’t feel shit.” Ainsle interrupted.
The sounds of shouting and arguments grew distant, and a soft knock on the door prevented a response from the young man. The pair turned to see the same blonde attendant enter the room. The petite young woman dipped her head toward the bath's occupants and made to pick up the wicker baskets that held their gear.
“Is everything okay out there?” Ben called out to the girl, frowning at the fact that she hadn’t said anything about the ruckus outside.
The young woman continued her tasking without facing him and spoke nonchalantly. “Just some snobs from the Capital. Miss Jilly doesn’t tolerate the handsy types,” she said as she continued her task of hefting up the heavy baskets.
“Where are they now?” Ben asked, unsatisfied with the answer.
The petite young woman turned her head and regarded him intently before narrowing her eyes. “They’re… gone,” she said after a moment of hesitation.
Ainsle cleared her throat. “Sweety, why don’t you leave our stuff there. I think we can handle our own laundry.” Her tone was even, almost annoyed, and Ben glanced at the old woman to see a cold eye staring at the bath attendant.
“…Yes, of course. Please call if you need anything,” the woman said in a rush as she promptly dropped the baskets and left the steamy room. Hurried footsteps echoed down the passageway at her departure.
Ainsle let out a hum of what sounded like an affirmation as she shook her head. Ben turned to watch the Berserker grunt in frustration and stand to exit the bath.
“What is it?” he asked.
Ainsle splashed with a slap of her feet onto the wooden floor before exhaling and rolling her eye. “The bitch is on her way to sell us out.”
Ben sighed and felt frustration build up in his stomach as he exited the bath and ran a hand through his growing black hair. Ainsle dried herself with a rough towel she retrieved from a shelf, and Ben did the same. The pair rinsed off their muddy armor and boots, wrung out their clothing with the hot bathwater, and began getting dressed. Ben thought he’d be used to the damp clothes after their morning stroll in the torrential rain; however, he found them to be annoyingly uncomfortable, which only added to his sour mood.
The Berserker clasped her great mace to her back, and Ben retrieved his sleek halberd from its resting place against the set of shelves. He rolled his shoulders to try and shake the feeling of irritation and general unease, to no success.
“Think we’ll have trouble?” he asked the Berserker as he fastened the belts of her basilisk plate from behind.
“Fucked if I know,” she said as she turned her head and grinned. “But you don’t get as old as me by not taking the bastards seriously.”
Ben nodded and inspected the crescent blade of his wet halberd. Its edge was still deathly-sharp despite the thunderously ringing parries and deflections he’d managed during their spar earlier. Ainsle checked her pouches and retied her high bun as she noticed the young man inspecting his weapon.
“I’ll show you how to care for the beauty later,” she said as she tilted her head toward the door. “Let’s go give those cunts a warm greeting.”
Ben grunted in acknowledgment; though his mood had improved somewhat by the Berserker’s promise to teach him proper maintenance of his exquisite halberd, he was still soggy, uncomfortable and felt a headache slowly creeping in his periphery. He sneezed.
Great. Perfect time to catch a cold.
He opened the door and allowed his mentor to leave first, if only because they’d be walking in single file down the narrow hallway, and their sheer height discrepancy would block the woman’s view if he were to lead. They approached the small receiving room, and Ben noticed the door to the street had been left slightly ajar. Ainsle held up a fist, the same signal Jor had taught him before they raided the goblin village in the Shattered Tooth Mountains.
Ainsle unclasped her great mace and rested the haft against her shoulder as she whispered. “Feel anything?”
Ben frowned, unsure of what the woman meant. He shook his head as he only felt the slight discomfort of his wet clothing and the beginning of a cold settling into his bruised, lanky body. Ainsle shrugged and stomped over to the entrance before lifting a boot and kicking the door, causing the rigid construction to explode in shards of wood.
Ben grinned and shook his head at the excessive force, and Ainsle’s intimidating presence began to waft off her small frame in thick waves. She stepped out onto the highest of three stone steps leading into the building.
“Good morning, gentlecunts. To what do we owe the pleasure?” she drawled in a mocking husky voice.
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Over the shoulder of the short, terrifying woman, Ben saw several men arrayed in a semi-circle around the entrance to the bathhouse. Most of them were soldiers, as he deduced by their black-grey armor similar to those worn by the City Guards, yet subtly different in that they were polished and gleamed in the pale morning sun. Two Casters carrying staves with incandescent orbs attached to their tips, in plain, hooded purple robes, flanked the man who stepped forward with an unfurled scroll and spoke.
“Ainsle O’Seighin, also known as the Bandit Queen of Crook’s Rock, Red Maiden, and Champion of Illephrre. You are hereby summoned to the Capital of Caemire to attend the assembly of the Council of Blades to discuss matters relating to the defense of the Empire against the looming threat of the expanding Tears.”
Ainsle shoulders slumped as she sighed. The short man, Edas Crell, wore the same polished steel armor. The golden rapier was missing from his hip, and his neatly combed hair and impeccable beard were ragged due to what the young man thought to be neglect. Ben’s eyes were drawn to a prosthetic hand made of steel, carved to resemble fingers clenched in a fist.
Inquisitor Edas, ever the professional, cleared his throat and continued with the practiced haughty ease of delivering numerous unwanted notices of summons and arrests. “And you,” he said, tone dipping into resentment, “Benjamin, also known as Ben or Benny, are similarly summoned to attend the assembly of the Council of Blades on the merit of your reported status as an unaffiliated Champion.”
Ben frowned at the Inquisitor’s words. He expected another attempt at an arrest, yet he was being summoned to attend a meeting with people he had never met and, as far as he knew, shouldn’t know that he had survived his encounter with Councilor Eric Vasylius, assuming the noble bastard had reported the engagement to his peers. Ainsle grunted and interrupted his train of thought.
“Ah, for fucks-sakes,” the Berserker groaned. “How many times do I have to tell you shits that I’m not interested in joining your little club of pompous brats who do nothing but sit on their arses all day,” Ainsle harangued.
The Inquisitor huffed, undisturbed by the intimidating, billowing aura radiating from the old woman. “I’d like to remind you that you’re still under oath and contracted in service to the Empire!” the short man exclaimed loudly with a pointed finger.
“Not so fast, you little twig,” Ainsle fixed her gaze on Edas. “My Willy made sure I didn’t renew-”
“Miss O’Seighin,” interrupted the taller of the two Casters beside Edas, hand raised imploringly. “My name is Gian Mwalenu, and this,” he gestured with his free hand to the other Caster beside the Inquisitor, “is my sister June. We’re apprenticed to Magus Ezra Mwalenu, Champion of Lilitia and, as you know, member of the Council of Blades.”
Ainsle seemed to calm at the man’s words, and she descended the steps and approached the Caster. Ben followed shortly behind with his halberd in a loose two-handed grip and stood two paces away from the woman, eyes scanning the men arrayed before them.
“Ezra better have a bloody good reason for bothering me in my retirement.” Ainsle stopped and leaned forward, head tilted upward to inspect the man before turning to his sister, June. “Wait, aren’t you two the little ones that the old Crow found in that Lich’s lair a few years back?”
Does she know everybody in this country? And a Lich’s lair?
Gian smiled softly, and June seemed to beam, vibrating at the old woman’s attention.
“Miss O’Seighin,” said the female twin, voice betraying her giddiness. “I’ve wanted to meet you ever since I was a little girl, and I read your letters to Father- I mean Magus Ezra and I-”
“June,” Gian winced as he placed a hand on his sister’s shoulder to stop her rambling before addressing Ainsle. “Yes, we were rescued from Naeshrae’s Lair, thanks in big part to you.”
Ainsle pouted. “Damn that old Crow,” she said before muttering under her breath, “Bastard always knew my weak spot…”
The Inquisitor stood silently, eyes staring holes into Ben. The Soldiers seemed to be quite unsure of how to react to the development, as only moments prior, an oppressive aura was buffeting them. They shuffled on their feet as the intimidating old woman grimaced bashfully.
Gian cleared his throat and pretended not to hear the Berserker’s mumbling. “Miss O’Seighin-”
“That’s Aunt Ain to you, young man,” Ainsle scolded playfully as she clasped the great mace to her back and put her hands on her hips before scrutinizing the twins from head to toe. “Little June is a pretty one, don’t you think, Benny-boy?”
Ben felt an awkward tingle run down his spine at the sudden attention the old woman had drawn to him. He couldn’t make out the features of the twins from his position, as their faces were hidden mainly by their hooded robes; however, he saw pale, almost albino skin and smooth locks of snow-white hair flow down over the shorter twin’s breasts. June blushed and suddenly found the cobblestones of the street extremely fascinating.
Gian chuckled. “Aunty, then. We’d just like an hour of your time, June and I. Somewhere private, perhaps? Please hear us out. That’s all that we ask.”
Ainsle huffed. “Fine. But I’m not going to the bloody embassy. We can meet up at Dock Rat’s Balls later for a drink.”
The hooded Caster’s mouth hung open, and he seemed to be at a loss for words. “Dock Rat’s Balls?” he asked after a beat.
Ainsle waved a dismissive hand and glanced up at the midday sky. “It’s a drinking hole near the docks. Ask around. You’ll find your way there easily enough.”
The taller twin nodded and forced a smile. “Excellent. Would late afternoon suit you?” he asked.
“Sure. See you brats later,” Ainsle teased with her familiar grin as she tilted her head for Ben to leave.
“A drinking hole! Gian, do you think she’ll let me…”
Ben heard June squeal excitedly as he and Ainsle strolled past soldiers who stood aside to let them pass. The young man swore he had heard the Inquisitor's teeth grinding at their departure, yet the short man didn’t offer any protest.
“It’s just about noon. Sunshine is probably waiting,” Ainsle said with a distant gaze in her eye.
“So… Bandit Queen?” Ben asked after a beat as they walked the distance to Red Maiden’s Trinkets and Baubles.
Ainsle grimaced and shrugged. “Simpler times, Benny-boy. Simpler times.”
“To be honest, I hadn’t figured you for a Leader. With what you said at the beach about following the Squad Leader’s orders and all.”
The old woman appeared thoughtful for two heartbeats before dismissively flicking her wrist. “If you’ve led a bunch of lads before, you learn how important the chain of command is. You can’t have some dumbshit setting fire to a warehouse full of fancy paintings when you explicitly told the bastard not to take his pipe with him.”
“I see,” Ben said, wondering who exactly the coarse, witty old woman had been in her early days.
After a short walk, the pair arrived at the eclectic store. Ben felt a bit off as he sneezed and rolled his shoulders to try and shake the muscle ache from what he assumed to be the early stages of a nasty cold. He and Ainsle entered the store to find an uncomfortable Kieran sitting behind the counter in the chaotic shop.
“Aunty, you’re back. And Ben… Gods, what happened to you?” The bronze-skinned Caster exclaimed as his black eyes met Ben’s.
“What?” Ben asked, confused.
“Just a little bump on the head. Don’t worry about it,” Ainsle interjected as she walked past the handsome man and patted him on the shoulder before climbing the stairs to the second floor.
Ben recalled a particularly lethal cross he had barely managed to evade during the sparring session earlier that morning and grimaced. He had the passing thought that the head wound should have bled much more profusely than it had, especially since they had trained in heavy rain; the blood would have difficulty coagulating.
Wait. How do I even know this?
A memory of feminine hands, wearing blue skin-tight gloves, using a needle and thread to sew a wound closed, brushed his mind. The hands were too dainty to have belonged to him.
Another memory that isn’t mine?
The young man was torn from his introspection by Kieran.
“Are you okay?” he asked Ben.
“I’m… fine. Thanks. I’ll head up and get changed. We can go to the temple together?” he said as he made for the creaking stairway behind the counter.
The Caster exhaled in relief, no doubt eager to leave the chaotic, disorderly store behind. “Yeah, I’ll close up while you two get ready.” He paused as if recalling something. “I suppose I should warn you.”
Ben stopped and turned to face the red-haired man with a raised brow.
“About Master Durrene and his dealings with the Council of Blades,” Kieran said after chewing his lip.
The young man frowned. “Yeah, I know Eric Vasylius was a patron of his.”
“No. Well, yes. That’s true. But It’s about the corpses the Councilor had provided him with.”
“What do you mean, corpses? Of Old Worlders like me?”
“Yes. The thing is… They were fresh. Too fresh,” Kieran frowned. “And Archmage Jared Durrene is a Necromancer.”