Michael Sullivan: Avempartha

Thrace nodded silently, and with one last glance upwards, shuffled over to the packs. “What kind of meal would you like?”

“Something edible would be a pleasant surprise,” Royce said, adding more wood.

Hadrian threw a stick at him. The thief caught it and placed it on the fire.

She dug into the packs, going so far as to stick her head inside, and emerged moments later with an armload of items. She borrowed Hadrian’s knife and began cutting vegetables on the bottom of a turned-up pan.

It grew dark quickly, the fire becoming the only source of light in the clearing. The flickering yellow radiance illuminated the canopy of leaves around them, creating the feel of a woodland cave. Hadrian picked out a grassy area upwind from the smoke and laid out sheets of canvas coated in pitch. It blocked the wetness that would otherwise soak in. The treated fabric was something they had come up with after years on the road. But they did not have time to make one for Thrace. He sighed, threw Thrace’s blankets on his canvas and went in search of pine boughs for his own bed.

When dinner was ready, Royce called for Hadrian. He returned to the fire where Thrace was dishing out a thick broth of carrots, potatoes, onions and salted pork. Royce was sitting with a bowl on his lap and a smile on his face.

“You don’t have to be that happy,” he told him.

“Look, Hadrian-food,” Royce taunted.

They ate mostly in silence. Royce made a few comments about things they should pick up when they passed through Alburn such as another length of rope and a new spoon to replace the cracked one. Hadrian mostly watched Thrace who refused to sit near the fire; she ate alone on a rock in the shadows near the horses. When they finished, she stole away to the river to wash the pot and wooden bowls.

“Are you alright?” Hadrian asked, finding her along the stony bank.

Thrace was crouched on a large moss capped rock, her gown tucked tight around her ankles as she washed the pots by scooping up what sand she could find and scrubbing them with her fingers.

“I’m fine, thank you. I’m just not used to being out at night.”

Hadrian settled down beside her and began cleaning his bowl.

“I can do that,” she said.

“So can I. Besides, you’re the customer so you should get your money’s worth.”

She smirked at him. “I’m not a fool, you know. Ten silver won’t even cover the feed for the horses, will it?”

“Well, what you have to understand is Mouse and Millie are very spoiled. They only eat the best grain.” He winked. She could not help but smile back.

Thrace finished the pot and the other bowls and they walked back to camp.

“How much farther is it?” she asked replacing the pots in the sack.

“I’m not sure. I’ve never been to Dahlgren, but we made good time today so maybe only another four days.”

“I hope my father is alright. Mister Haddon said he would try to convince him to wait until I returned before hunting the beast. I hope he did. As I said my father is a very stubborn man and I can’t imagine anyone changing his mind.”

“Well, if anyone can, I suspect that Mister Haddon could,” Royce remarked prodding the coals of the fire with a long stick. “How did you meet him?”

Thrace found the bed Hadrian had laid out for her near the fire and sat down on her blanket. “It was right after my family’s funeral. It was very beautiful. The whole village turned out. Maria and Jessie Caswell hung wreaths of wild salifan on the markers. Mae Drundel and Rose and Verna McDern sang the Fields of Lilies, and Deacon Tomas said a few prayers. Lena and Russell Bothwick held a reception at their house. Lena and my mother were very close.”

“I don’t remember you mentioning your mother, was she-”

“My mother died two years ago.”

“I’m sorry. Sickness?”

Thrace shook her head.

No one spoke for awhile then Hadrian said, “You were telling us how you met Mister Haddon-”

“Oh yeah, well I don’t know how many funerals you’ve been to, but it starts to feel…smothering. All the weeping and old stories. I snuck out. I was just wandering really. I ended up at the village well and there he was-a stranger. We don’t get many of those, but that wasn’t all. He had on this robe that shimmered and kinda seemed to change colors from time to time, but the big thing was he had no hands. The poor man was trying to get himself a drink of water struggling with the bucket and rope.

“I asked his name and then, oh I don’t know, I did something stupid like starting to cry and he asked me what was wrong. The thing was, at that moment, I wasn’t crying because my brother and his wife just died. I was crying because I was terrified my father would be next. I don’t know why I told him. Maybe because he was a stranger. It was easy to talk to him. It all just spilled out. I felt stupid afterwards, but he was very patient. That’s when he told me about the weapon in the tower and about you two.”

“How did he know where we were?”

Thrace shrugged. “Don’t you live there?”

“No…we were visiting an old friend. Did he talk oddly? Did he use thee and thou a lot?”

“No, but he spoke a bit more educated than most. He said his name was Mister Esra Haddon. Is he a friend of yours?”

“We only met him briefly,” Hadrian explained. “Like you, we helped him with a little problem he was having.”

“The question is why is he keeping tabs on us?” Royce asked. “And how since I don’t recall dropping our names and he couldn’t have known we would be going to Colnora.”

“All he told me is that you were needed to open the tower and if I left right away I could find you there. Then he arranged for me to ride with the peddler. He’s been very helpful.”

“Rather amazing isn’t it, for a man who can’t even get himself a cup of water,” Royce muttered.

Arista stood at the tower window looking down at the world below. She could see the roofs of shops and houses. They appeared as squares and triangles of gray, brown, and red pierced by chimneys left dormant on the warm spring day. The rain had washed through, leaving the world below fresh and vibrant. She watched the people walking along the streets, gathering in squares, moving in and out of doorways. Occasionally a shout reached her ears, soft and faint. Most of the noise came from directly below in the courtyard where a train of seven coaches had just arrived and servants were loading trunks.

“No. No. No. Not the red dress!” Bernice shouted at Melissa. “Novron protect us. Look at that neckline. Her highness has a reputation to protect. Put that in storage, or better yet-burn it. Why, you might as well salt her, put a garnish behind her ear, and hand her over to a pack of starving wolves. No, not the dark one either; it’s nearly black-it’s spring for Maribor’s sake. Where’s your head?-the sky blue gown-yes, that one can stay. Honestly, it’s a good thing I’m here.”

Bernice was an old plump woman with a dough-like face that sagged at the cheeks and doubled at the chin. The color of her hair was unknown as she always wrapped it in a barbette veil that looped her head from crown to neck. To this she added a tall cloth filet that made it seem like the top of her head was flat. She stood in the center of Arista’s bedroom, flailing her arms and shouting amidst the chaotic maelstrom that she had created.

Piles of clothes lay everywhere except in Arista’s wardrobes. Those stood empty, waiting with doors wide, as Bernice sorted each gown, boxing the winter dresses for storage. In addition to Melissa, Bernice had drafted two other girls from downstairs to assist in the packing. Bernice had filled one chest but still her bedroom remained carpeted in gowns and Arista already had a headache from all the shouting.