Michael Manning - Mageborn - The Blacksmith’s Son

Penny had gone down to fetch her things, so it was up to me to answer it. Life is hard sometimes. Dorian and Marc stood outside, “You really are alive!” shouted Marc. I stood back to let them in.

“To what do I owe the great honor of your visit?” I said mockingly.

“Does a man need a reason to visit his cousin?” Marc answered.

“Your father told you then?”

“Indeed! And he gave me something for you,” he tossed a large pouch to me. I almost dropped it. It was very heavy.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Two hundred gold marks, Father got most of it off his lordship this morning and he made up the difference from his own purse. The two of them had the most amazing conversation I hear.” He spent a few minutes catching me up on what he had heard.

“Hah!” I laughed when he finished. “That’s a fine start, but the devil still has much to answer for.” We all agreed on that point, and we spent a while discussing what sorts of unpleasant things might befall Lord Devon before his return home.

Since that conversation wasn’t really leading anywhere productive I decided to switch topics, “Oh by the way! Have I mentioned I’m getting engaged?” That drew some stares. We talked for a long while after, and I wondered how I would resolve the question of who would be the best man. I decided to put the problem off for another day.

Penny was gathering her things, from the maid’s quarters. It wasn’t a large task, since she really didn’t have much. The two uniforms she left, her replacement might need them and they didn’t belong to her anyway. A few nightgowns, a homespun dress and a few sundries, putting them in a pile they seemed pitifully few. Up until now her life had been a long hard road. Perhaps now things would work out better. She sat down on the bed one last time and looked around the room, letting her mind drift back to the day she had first come to work there.

The vision took her without warning. A man was walking down a hallway, wearing a brown robe and something about him seemed familiar. In his hands he carried a large clay jar, and by the way he moved it must have been heavy, filled with something. She saw him enter the kitchen, a place so well known to her that she recognized it instantly. The cook looked up and him and went back to work without a word. The man was well known there. The kitchen scullions were out setting up the tables so the two were alone.

The hooded figure stepped up to the cook and said something but she couldn’t make it out. With a nod the cook stepped out, taking the back door to fetch something from the small garden outside. Once he had gone the man drew back his hood and opened his jar. She recognized him then, and wondered why she was seeing him there. Lifting the jar he poured the contents into a large pot where the soup was simmering, and something told her it was nothing wholesome in that jar.

The vision shifted then, and she felt somehow that it was several hours later. It was the ball and people were dancing, but something was wrong. She saw herself in a long gown, dancing with Lord Devon and he was laughing, as if at some joke she had just told. Around them people began to double over, retching. Blood was on the floor and people were crying in pain. Devon leaned over to kiss her… and she screamed.

She woke then, still screaming, her face damp with sweat. Not again! she thought. This can’t be happening. Then she remembered Father Tonnsdale’s story. The night everyone had died at Cameron Castle, and she knew what she had to do. Goddess forgive me!

She left her things on the bed. She knew the events of her vision were still some time in the future, but she didn’t think they were too far off. Slipping into the hallway she headed for where the villain lived.

It took her only a few minutes to get there. Such a short time when you know that your life is about to change forever. Just a bit ago she had been happy, looking forward to a life she could not have imagined. She should have known it was too good to be true. She took a moment to consider, she could try to warn everyone, but no one would believe her. That would only leave the killer to find some other time to work his evil. The world was not just, she knew that. Those people learned that lesson sixteen years ago, and still their murderer goes unpunished, she thought. But no longer, she would see to that.

She was almost to the door when she realized she needed a weapon. The man she meant to kill was too large to attack unarmed. She went back to the great hall and found one of the hard iron pokers used to manage the logs in the fireplace. The long black iron was heavy in her hand. She figured it would do nicely, so long as she could surprise him. She returned to the large double doors that led into the chapel. She opened them, and as she entered she put the hand holding the iron behind her back.

The chapel itself was empty, but she knew he was likely in the chambers behind the back of the altar. Her heart was beating wildly, but she kept her attention on her task. She found him in his study, leaning over his desk. A small form lay on top of it, quivering. The horror of it almost unmade her, but she held her resolve in an iron grip, a grip as hard as the iron in her hand.

“Shhh Timothy, just relax, it will be over soon. The goddess needs everything you can give.” Father Tonnsdale kept his hand on the boy’s forehead, holding him down, while the force within him drew upon the boy’s spirit. Timothy was dying, but it was necessary if he was to become the tool Father Tonnsdale needed. A small noise behind drew his attention and he was startled when he saw her enter the room.

“Penny!” he said, trying to keep his calm. “Timothy has suffered a fall, would you help me hold him? I think he’s having a seizure!” It was a poor lie, but he was sure she would believe it, at least long enough for him to salvage the situation. Two bodies would be almost as easy to hide as one after all.

He looked away from her, back to Timothy, hoping to draw her attention to the boy, while his eyes found the dagger that lay on the desk.

“Certainly Father, I’ll be glad to help you,” she stepped up behind him, and even as his hand reached for the dagger she brought the iron poker down across the back of his head. He dropped like a felled steer, sagging limply to the floor. The back of his head was crushed. She took another swing to make sure the job was done properly. Then she dropped the iron and checked to see if Timothy was alright.

He wasn’t. The boy was dead, though there were no visible marks upon him. His skin was slack, drawn, as though something had been drawn from within him, leaving him empty. The sight of the boy ate at her conscience. If only I had gotten here sooner, perhaps I could have prevented this as well, she thought. She was still in shock, numb and unfeeling, but her mind was clear.

I will hang for this, and she knew it was true. There was no evidence that the good Father was anything more than he had always appeared. Timothy’s body would prove nothing. There were no marks to show anything had been done to him. Even had there been, she was the one alive, she was the one who had just bludgeoned a priest to death. She double checked to make sure the priest was dead. No sense hanging for a crime unfinished.