Daerth blinked, slowly and groggily. He stared at the wooden ceiling in confusion, his dreams and waking experiences all muddled inside his foggy head.
I dreamed... I was a woman? The singers were real... the Stitchdoctor attacked me. Did he? But he was a girl, too...
He rolled over on his side, then winced as a dull ache cut through the haze, originating from his left thigh. He vaguely remembering breaking something the previous day, but this felt far less agonizing then he had expected, and more surface-level. He reached down under the thick blankets and ran his fingers along the irritated area.
And then bolted upright in bed, a sudden horror driving the remnants of sleep and fuzziness from his body with adrenaline. He threw off the covers, twisted, and stared down at the long, red line that ran from his waist to nearly the knee.
A horrible cut, stitched closed with perfect, tight precision. Blood covered his sheets, but the wound itself was already partially healed. And, for better or worse, the awful pain that had plagued him the previous day since Raceel hit him was gone completely.
Fixing problems.
Daerth felt sick. He'd heard enough from the others to wonder just how the Stitchdoctor had 'fixed this problem', and he was almost certain he wouldn't like the answer. And yet... he could stand again.
The corridor was empty when he checked outside. He considered going to someone's door, knocking, finding someone to check in with, but in the end he simply walked softly down towards the main stairs. He needed air. Fresh, forest air.
He stopped at the top of the stairs, before they opened up to the entry hall for all to see, because he heard voices. A woman's voice, trying and failing to hide her impatience, talking to someone at the door. He flipped up his hood and slunk down the stairs just far enough to peek out from between railings, still close enough to the wall to disappear again if someone looked towards him.
It wasn't Kedalimen or Nelz, but it was definitely a Northerner. Northerners had that distinct lightly golden hair, usually wavy, and definitely different from the duller, whiter color of pale-haired cityborn. Her tone was sharp and agitated, and therefore much easier to hear then whoever stood outside the door.
“... not available right now. Pack up your people and keep moving. There is a village a few hours further along the path, so go try to find help there.”
The person on the other side of the door said something in reply, but all Daerth could hear was a mumbling and meek voice in a tone of petition.
“I am not letting you in the manor. Camp behind the house until your people are rested if you must, but keep out of sight. If the master sees you, you can answer to him yourselves. I'm done dealing with you.”
She shut, almost slammed, the door and Daerth ducked quickly back out of sight, but he kept his ear to the ground. Quick, firm footfalls approached the stairs, so he retreated around the next corner. She didn't turn down his hall, though, and her footsteps began to fade after she turned left at the top of the stairs.
Cautiously, Daerth followed. The manor was a maze of curved halls and entire rooms serving as hubs for still more curved hallways, so Daerth kept careful note of the route as he crept along behind the woman. He did not want to get lost in this extravagantly-built nobleman nest.
He heard music.
Of course there was music. He'd never before given it much thought, but now he was starting to get annoyed by the mere sound of a musical instrument. Between Metcenzerin and the eerie singing in the forest and now the arrogant fiddler, he was quickly losing patience with just musicians in general.
The chipper fiddle grew louder and louder until it became obvious that the woman was heading straight for it. Daerth began scouting for alternative paths and hiding places, fully expecting someone to backtrack along this hall eventually. Better have the plan and not need it...
“Nelz!”
Daerth was close enough. He carefully opened a nearby door and slipped into the unoccupied sitting room beyond, closing the door to a mere slit so he could keep an eye on the hall.
The fiddling did not stop, and the woman's voice rose to be heard over it.
“I can't find Kedal.”
If there was a response, it wasn't audible from Daerth's position. The music did not pause.
“Just some peasant caravan. They looked half dead already, so I turned them away. How is that your main concern right now? Didn't you hear me? I can't find my brother. Did you send him on some errand without telling me, or am I about to get very angry at someone?”
The fiddle screeched, then fell silent. Daerth's eyes widened in realization as he put two and two together. Whatever Teru did to us yesterday went beyond the six of us. That woman must be Arini-whatever, which means Nelz...
“Do NOT touch the fiddle, you--” His voice was somewhat lower then it had been the previous night, but was still recognizable from tone alone. Arrogant, dismissive, and (right now) angry. Nelz cut himself short, and Daerth could almost hear him taking a deep breath before continuing, tense but more calmly, “Your brother missed breakfast with you for the first time in months. You let six blatantly Hero-styled strangers into the manor last night. Try thinking before coming to me next time.”
The fiddling resumed, but not uninterrupted. Arinimen's voice rose again in frustration, almost yelling over the music.
“What do you expect that to answer? You're saying that they, what, kidnapped him? Killed him? Why? There is no reason at all why they should have anything to do with his failure to appear this morning.”
The music slowed momentarily, and over the lingering notes Nelz suggested, “Unless he tried to practice last night while they were sleeping.”
He resumed his regular playing, and Daerth almost missed Arinimen's footsteps as she stormed out of the room. He heard them at the same time he saw movement further down the hall, and quickly moved away from the door to duck down below one of the room's many couches. The fiddling carried on as before.
Once he was sure it was safe, Daerth snuck back out into the hall and made his way back to the entry hall, and the one path he was knew would lead back to their guest rooms. He knew that if Arinimen wanted to go straight there, she'd get there long before him, but there was nothing to be done about that.
And yet, he didn't see her. He grabbed the rest of his gear from his room, strung his bow, and then knocked on Eany's door until she groaned a loud, “What is it? I'm still sleeping...”
“We should go,” he replied tersely. “Get your armor on and grab your stuff.”
“Explain.” At least she sounded alert. Daerth had half-expected more grumbling and drowsiness from a city person.
“Our hosts are sounding hostile. I don't like it.”
“Fine. But you'd better wake the others, Bowboy. If I get out there and everyone else is snoring, I will hurt something.”
He heard her moving around beyond the door, so he assumed she was properly awake and went across the hall to Metcenzerin's room.
The musician must already have been awake; he opened the door at Daerth's second knock. Before Daerth could get a word out, Metcenzerin raised an eyebrow at him and asked, “That shattered leg not causing you any trouble this morning, then?”
“Later,” snapped Daerth, in no mood for Metcenzerin's sarcasm. “There is something going on and I think our hosts are going to turn mean. Get ready to get out of here fast.”
“What did you do?”
“I spied on what sounded a whole lot like a plot against us, that's what. Come on, hurry up. We need to wake the others.”
Metcenzerin caught the seriousness in his tone, finally. “I'll help. I'm already packed.”
“Get the Stitchdoctor,” Daerth suggested, trying to hide his unease at the name. His leg was barely even twinging now, but the lack of pain did little to ease his peace of mind. “I'll get Raceel and Kwanai.”
Raceel didn't reply to the knocking, though considering he had done the night shift alone, Daerth wasn't too surprised. He tried the doorknob and found it unlocked, so with one last “I'm coming in” warning, he swung open the door.
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
Raceel wasn't there, neither him nor his armor and sword. His mundane gear sat beside a neatly-made bed that looked like no one had slept in it for weeks. At least.
Great.
Metcenzerin was backing out of the Stitchdoctor's room just as Daerth left Racee's. The musician gave him a concerned look across the hall.
“He's not there, either?” Daerth guessed, and Metcenzerin silently nodded. “Neither is Raceel. Kwanai?”
The door of the southerner's room opened before they even touched it, and Kwanai stood in the doorway, staff in hand, pack on shoulder. Though his tattooed face always looked dour, today he had much the same look of silent-but-furious indignation he had worn on that first morning after they all left the Dungeon. Daerth named it in his head the “I've had enough of Teru's nonsense, and I'm going to take it out on you,” Look.
“Good morning,” Metcenzerin greeted with obviously fake cheeriness. “We seem to be missing two people this morning; did you happen to kill anyone for the glory of Ku'eb last night?”
Kwanai glowered and did not reply. He pushed past them without even a glance at Daerth and began walking firmly down the hall.
“Eany?” called Daerth, moving to follow Kwanai.
“I'd like to see one of you lot try to put on metal plate armor in a hurry,” she called back. “Either give me a hand or wait patiently.”
“Kwanai, we have to wait for Eany.”
The southerner snorted in derision and otherwise ignored them completely. Daerth wished, for once, that there was a god of the Circle for dealing with difficult people to whom he could pray.
“You wait for Eany,” he suggested under his breath, “and I'll stick with Kwanai. I don't like the idea of any more of us going off on our own.”
“Far enough,” replied Metcenzerin. “But you'd better hurry. Kwanai looks like he is on a mission.”
Kwanai seemed to know exactly where he wanted to go. He led the way confidently to the front stairs, down into the empty entry hall, and then over into the adjacent dining hall.
Which was not empty.
The Stitchdoctor sat at one end of the table, bent over several pieces of cloth spread out neatly. Arinimen was further down, laying out plates and forks on an otherwise nearly-set tablecloth. To Daerth's surprise, she smiled brightly when she looked up and spotted them in the doorway.
“Ah, and here are two more. Fantastic. Breakfast is cooking now, so go ahead and have a seat. The early birds are fed first.”
Kwanai eyed her, but made no move to act on her suggestion. Daerth didn't, either.
She bounced right along as if she hadn't noticed the judgmental stare. “I notice that the peculiarities yesterday must have been affecting you, too. I shouldn't be surprised, really; it would answer a lot of questions. Five women out on the road in the middle of nowhere... that was odd. Where's Metcenzerin'n?”
“Sleeping, I think,” Daerth lied, solely because he didn't want to give this woman any accurate information until he was more sure what she was up to. “Why do you juggle the N like that? It's not how he says it. Is it a regional thing?”
“Something like that,” she replied vaguely. “Tradition.” She ran out of plates and began straightening all the silverware. “So did you all have a restful night? I see you seem better at least, Daerth. The leg must not have been as badly injured as it seemed.”
Daerth glanced quickly at the Stitchdoctor, but the small cityman didn't even look up. “I guess that must be it,” he replied, carefully, but the Stitchdoctor still didn't react.
“Well, I am glad.” Arinimen finished with the silverware and looked around the table, trying to spot any imperfection. A drippy candlestick gave her a target. “Have any of you, perchance, seen my brother today? Or anyone else, actually? I need some help in the kitchen, but my usual help is not forthcoming.”
“Who else lives here?” asked Daerth, trying to sound more curious then suspicious. It was becoming awkward to stand in the doorway and converse, but Kwanai wasn't budging. “I thought it was just you two and Nelz here.”
Candlestick cleaned, Arinimen was running out of excuses to stick around and talk. She fiddled with a napkin, unfolding it only to refold it again, slowly, immediately. “Usually it is,” she said absent-mindedly. “But sometimes it isn't. Sometimes we have guests. Like now, for example.”
What is she stalling for?
Footsteps behind them made Daerth jump slightly, but before even turning he recognized the familiar clink clink of Eany's silver armor.
“Good morning, all,” declared Metcenzerin from Eany's side as they came up to the door beside Daerth. He saw Arinimen and smiled cheerfully at her. “Preparing for breakfast?”
She returned the smile immediately. “Indeed. Nelz won't be joining us, but I've prepared sausages and eggs with mushrooms.”
“Sounds absolutely splendid, but alas, we cannot stay.” Metcenzerin sounded so confident, tone light, that Daerth didn't dare say say anything. Whatever the musician was up to, Daerth didn't want to mess it up. “One of our party,” Metcenzerin continued, “appears to have gone scouting on ahead without us, and we should probably go catch up with him before he gets too far.”
Arinimen looked surprised, and slightly suspicious. “But no one has left the manor grounds this morning; the gates were locked until just recently, and I have heard no one on the stairs since then. Your black paladin might have slipped out a side door to take a walk about the grounds before breakfast?”
Metcenzerin shrugged. “Unfortunately, Raceel is not one for lingering in comfort when there is a mission ahead,” he lied easily. “Come, Doctor, we should be on our way. Thank you very kindly for all of your hospitality, Arinimen, and tell your master that I would have liked to play music with him again.”
Where are you going with this? Daerth wondered.
The Stitchdoctor looked up from his... project, and began gathering up his needles and thread. Arinimen glanced at him, then went to help fold up the squares of cloth.
“A shame you won't stay,” he said, and there was a touch of annoyance that Daerth thought went beyond wasted place-settings in her voice. “One last question, though, before you leave. Have any of you seen Kedalimen since last night?”
“Nope,” replied Metcenzerin lightly. “We've been sleeping. Perhaps he, too, is taking a walk around the grounds before breakfast?”
Arinimen laughed, then threw the cloth she'd been holding into the Stitchdoctor's face and whipped a very thin sword from beneath the table. She swung it, humming, to the Stitchdoctor's throat. Daerth quickly sidestepped out of the doorway so Eany could pass into the room, drawing an arrow from his quiver to set to string as he did.
“Don't move a step,” Arinimen ordered, glancing between the group at the door to the Stitchdoctor. The latter was already standing stock still, hands partially raised, still holding a bundle of thread. The edge of the sword hovered inches from his skin. “My brother,” Arinimen continued fiercely, “does not go missing. One of you knows something, and you're not going to just waltz out of here as if you don't.”
“Can you tell us where Raceel is?” retorted Metcenzerin. “We will tell you all we know of your brother if you do.” After a tense moment of silence, he continued, “No? Then consider the odds, Arin. My friend here has an arrow aimed at your heart, and he is the person you should fear the least among us.”
Hey!
“Do you really think throwing away your life to perhaps kill one of us will somehow end in you getting the answers you are looking for? How is killing our doctor going to help you find your brother?”
Arinimen pressed the sword closer, and the Stitchdoctor tried to back away. She grabbed him and yanked him around in front of her, holding her sword to his throat as if it was a knife. “What. Did. You. Do. To. My. Brother?” she spat, her voice trembling slightly in fury. Metcenzerin held up his hands, stepped backwards.
“I am trying to be reasonable. We don't know anything about Kedalimen, and I would tell you if I knew anything because I do not want to watch a mountain-woman die, but you do whatever it is you think you must. Just know we will respond in kind.”
“You're not talking your way out of this, Metcenzerin'n,” she replied sharply. “Spit it out, and you may walk out of here.”
The Stitchdoctor's hand moved quicker then thought. Daerth saw the flash of movement and heard Arinimen cry out, but he had no idea what had happened until the woman dropped her sword and yanked a bloody needle out of her own left hand. The moment she screamed, the Stitchdoctor had ducked and wrenched himself free of her distracted grasp, using his own free hand to shove away the sword. As he scrambled beneath the table between the chairs, Daerth drew back his arrow.
“Wait!” called Metcenzerin urgently. “We don't have to escalate any f--”
A discordant thrum echoed through the entry hall and into the dining room, so loud and off-putting that Daerth physically twitched from wincing. Without thinking, he turned to look for the source.
Nelz stood near the bottom of the main stairs, his fiddle in hand, dressed this time all in striking crimson and gold. Behind him, a step higher on the stairs and looming, stood Raceel with arms crossed. His black armor and cloak created a sharp contrast to the bright colors of the much smaller musician in front of him.
“Now, now, friends,” began Nelz, projecting his voice to reach them in the dining room and not at all as friendly-sounding as the words implied, “let's reconsider. I just found the mutilated corpse of a long-time friend in my back garden while dealing with filthy peasants, and I think that calls for a little serious escalation.”
Arinimen turned very white. Daerth raised his bow to aim at her again to keep her from charging while Metcenzerin continued trying to reason with their hosts.
“That wasn't us. We didn't come to make trouble, and we will gladly leave you to deal with whatever other interlopers you have here, now that we've found Raceel. We were only worried about our friend, as I'm sure you understand.”
Nelz smiled, a nasty, smug smile that promised he had something big up his narrow sleeves. “Sir Shatterblade,” he said mockingly, “if you would kindly repeat now what you told me earlier about our friend the Stitchdoctor?”
A very sudden knot clutched Daerth's gut. “Raceel...?” he began, but too quietly; the black paladin couldn't hear him.
“The Stitchdoctor takes from one living being to repair the damage of another,” Raceel recited, sounding oddly detached from what he was saying. “The corpse in the well had been torn apart for the muscles and bones from the left leg. Daerth's injured leg is miraculously healed.”
“You killed him and stole his leg?!” screeched Arinimen, and that was it. She lunged under the table at the Stitchdoctor. Daerth loosed his arrow the moment she moved – she swung her blade to deflect it – the arrow struck her raised forearm.
“Kill them all, Shatterblade!” demanded Nelz, and to Daerth's dismay, Raceel obediently drew his sword and charged past the fiddler towards the group at the dining room door.