Chapter 5: First Fear

Trigger warning in place for this chapter: attempted sexual assault, attempted murder, blood.

Chapter 5: First Fear

Orwa, Day 21 of Rhexia

Blinking Moons, Shooting Star

Year 602

Bloodbloom: see figure. Attractive and fragrant flowering bush

whose blooms may be used in cooking, crafting, and brewing potions.

Petals make a delicious and distinctive jam., but beware of the stems,

as they are coated in a viscous, poisonous sap. Harvest with sturdy gloves only!

—Arcane Herbs and Their Uses, Vol. 1

Craix was hungry. The wildlands of Tief were becoming monotonous after five days, and she longed for the busyness of Gradl—not for the company, no. For the food!

The ease with which she could simply buy provisions was heady, and Gradl was famous for its local cuisine and strong, flavorful spices. But the longer she had stayed there, the more she had risked being found or recognized. It was better, perhaps, that she’d taken herself off and away from any established settlements. That, and it was much easier to breathe in the wild.

She remembered as a young thing ascribing to the beauty of the forests outside her village, only to be warned by her father that this idyllic pulchritude often hid very serious dangers. True, she thought grimly. Danger. All is danger, every place holds danger.

She stopped for a moment to check the position of the sun. She wouldn’t reach any settled areas before dark, so she decided she might as well make camp. Still moving, Craix started to search for likely areas. There, she thought. That clearing seems adequate.

The ground was packed tightly, as though someone had camped here before. The clearing was perhaps six gerds all around, big enough to sleep her comfortably for a night but not so wide as to draw unwanted attention.

Now. Time to find some dinner.

Craix left the clearing, stepping gingerly on the layers of dead leaves and moss. She didn’t expect to encounter any other travellers this night, but one could never tell, so she went quietly, eyes keenly scanning for repast.

She didn’t have to look for long. A trove of wax-cap sprouted plentifully from the side of a damp, rotted log, and she took most of them. She liked mushrooms.

Only a furlong away or so, she stumbled on a pair of currant bushes, and settled in for a good picking. Craix used part of her tunic to hold the shock-red, slightly transparent berries, not caring when some of them were inadvertently crushed and stained the eborel.

Unable to resist, she popped a few of the sweet berries into her mouth—where they burst, perfectly tart and holding remains of chewy seeds left in their centers for her to suck on.

On her way back to the clearing, Craix happened to spy a bird’s nest in one of the pines nearby. She dumped her findings out onto a warm, flat rock, then took herself swiftly back to the inhabited fir tree, clambering up to see if she could pinch some eggs. There were two—little brownish speckled things. Careful not to break the shells, she climbed down a few gerds and jumped the rest of the way, landing with a soft exhalation of breath.

Back at her makeshift camp, Craix laid the eggs down near her other spoils and set out to gather some firewood. She chose a melange; twigs, leaves, green branches, hollow chunks, thick sticks, and eventually the meaty logs that would keep her warm throughout the night. All the parts, she told herself, recalling her father’s words. Just like the types of people in the world, or different parts of an apparatus. A thing needed all parts to work. That’s what makes Craix so special, he would say. There is more to her than meets the eye.

Pleasantly sticky with sap, Craix took her time building the fire, finally lighting it using her flint. By this time, the shadows had lengthened and that first chilly harbinger of nightfall was creeping in around her ears and collarbone in the form of a light breeze. The spark caught flame immediately, and she sighed.

Then she sat up suddenly in alarm.

Something wasn’t right.

Far, far away, she could sense someone—someone walking, tromping through the woods.

Not good, she thought.

If the stranger had any tracking talent at all and wanted to find her, they certainly could. She had already lit her fire. And if she doused it, they would only be able to find her more easily by following the smoke to its source.

She quickly gathered her scavenged dinner into her arms and climbed up into an obliging tree as silently as she could, the bark rough on her harried fingers. There, she would wait. She would will the stranger to pass by, or better, to not even take notice of her cookfire.

Still a way off, Craix heard the person whistling cheerfully to themselves.

It was a man, she guessed. Middle-aged, probably, from the sound of his footfalls. The whistling suddenly ceased, and the stranger held still for a moment. He must have either scented or seen her campfire. Ostensibly making a choice, he changed his trajectory and moved toward Craix.

She waited, holding her breath.

Then he came into view and stepped quietly into the clearing.

He’d come from the north. She couldn’t imagine what he might be doing in the Tief Wilds, especially this far east. Over his shoulder, he carried a brace of rabbits already skinned naked, bloody and ready to cook, and his pack bulged with other burdens as well. Craix’s eyes took him in appraisingly.

He stopped just outside of the clearing.

“I knew it,” he said breathlessly to the merrily crackling fire.

Then he looked straight up into Craix’s face.

She pretended to be surprised by him, but couldn’t tell if he bought into the ruse. “Who are you?” she asked, her own voice sounding strange to her ears.

It was fine if an edge of panic made its way into her tone; it would be best if he thought her clumsy and unprepared. But the huskiness of her own voice astonished her. This latest trip had been a long one, and she’d been without company for longer than she’d thought. Still, that was fine. She appeared to most people as a man. Hoarseness due to unuse in this case served her well.

“Just coming back from a hunting trip,” the stranger said gruffly. “I’d be obliged if you’d share your fire with me, friend.”

There was something shifty that she did not like in his eyes, but Craix gave him a slow nod and clambered down.

“What were you doing up there, boy?” he asked curiously, taking in her appearance with startling alacrity.

She feigned confusion. “I’m lost,” she said helplessly. “Need to get home to Da. Thought I could see my way from higher off the ground.”

The man nodded at her, saying, “Where you headed?”

“Hargrove,” she said instantly. That would work.

He showed her a set of ugly, crooked teeth in the semblance of a smile. “Well, you’re nearly there,” he offered, “But I understand why you’d want to stop for the night. I’m Krup,” added to this by way of introduction.

“Jak,” she told him. “You’re welcome to my fire—but I’d like a bite or two of coney.”

He agreed.

A few moments later, Craix sat warily by the fire with her new ‘friend’ as he prepared their dinner.

She had reasoned that hot, cooked meat would serve her well in addition to the meager fare she had managed to scrounge up, and would keep her moving faster and farther for much longer. Also, she never shared her campires for free.

He kept calling her ‘boy,’ but that was all right. Most people thought she was one.

“I’ve got a packet of salt in my bag, boy,” Krup said now. “Hand it over?”

She felt around in the thick eborel bag, noting his other amenities and trying not to appear as though she was taking careful stock of Krup’s belongings. A slimy game hen, butchered and wrapped in cloth. A wizened apple. A sheathed hunting knife. Some thick string, a generous handful of nuts, some crushed herbs. All useful. Craix found the crinkled paper packet of salt and handed it to him.

Krup nodded his thanks, then looked up at her in surprise. She caught him glance at her hands. Long fingers. She had long, slender, graceful fingers. And while they weren’t lily soft as those of a lady of fortune’s, neither were they as rough and calloused as a woodsman’s ought to be.

Without a word, she got up and slunk away over to pick up a few pieces of greenwood.

As Krup took hold of the rabbits and salted them all over, she silently used her own knife to whittle the ends of the sticks into sharp points, and to emphasize the forked ends of two of the branches. Krup continued to work beside her, and when she pushed the sharp ends of two sticks into the packed earth on either side of her campfire, he grinned at her.

“Fancy the bastards roasted, eh?”

“How else?” she said with a laugh.

She regretted it immediately as she saw the man’s ears prick up. Too much talking. And don’t laugh. If she kept using her voice, he’d catch on. She knew her own sound didn’t match her appearance.

Craix was thirty-odd summers old, but appeared much younger. She had a long nose, wide, honest eyes, and large, ill-defined brows. Her ears protruded slightly, and the acute lines of her cheekbones tapered down to an almost painfully sharp jaw. She had a long neck, and a goodly-sized male nodule at her throat.

All this, and if she wasn’t careful to disguise it, her voice was silky and rich, intensely feminine.

But it appeared that Krup had moved on and was absorbed with dinner preparations.

They ate shortly after that, supplementing their meal with the wax-cap, fried eggs and juicy redcurrant berries that Craix had contributed.

The rabbits were delicious.

The sun had finally set, and the dancing flames cast reflective shadows on the tree trunks set around the clearing.

Craix sat against one of them, picking her teeth.

Krup regarded her curiously. “What are you doing out here anyway, boy?” he asked.

Craix shrugged. “Traveling.”

“Where?”

She shrugged again. “To Hargrove,” she repeated. “Where my Da is.”

He shook his head slightly at her, observing, “Don’t talk much, do you?”

She watched him.

“All right, all right,” he said with a chuckle. “I’ll leave you alone.”

Good, she thought.

As the evening drew on, the temperature fell. The coals simmered down, the infused air shimmering above them like a pond troubled by an errant breeze.

Craix waited for Krup to fall asleep, then crept away to relieve herself.

She’d considered leaving in the night, slipping away from her nosy companion and leaving the whole situation behind. But she was safer by the fire, and it were better to discover any theoretical animal dens or hunting parties by the light of the sun than in the shadowy night.

She pulled down her trousers and sighed.

A dirty hand covered her mouth, and she cried out into it.

“I knew there was something strange about you,” Krup whispered nastily in her ear. His body was pressed up against hers, her nakedness strange and alien against the roughness of his clothing.

“Look at you,” he continued. “Out here all alone, hiding from all decent company. It’s sad, is what it is.”

Craix fought the impulse to struggle, saving her strength. She would need it. She tried to continue breathing through her nose while she listened. His hand smelled of piss and woodsmoke.

“What, not even going to fight me?” Krup said, and she heard the grin rather than saw it. “Anybody would think you wanted me too.”

He moved against her suggestively a few times, breathing hot against her neck. Gritting her teeth, she waited. She could feel him. Not yet. Almost...
When she felt him reach carefully down to unbuckle his own belt, she saw her chance.

As fast as lightning, Craix backed up, pushing her body even further into Krup’s. This surprised him, and he loosened his grip for a moment, stumbling on her feet.

Craix mobilized. She drove her sharp elbow up into his gut with as much force as she could muster.

Krup made a breathy sort of noise and doubled over slightly.

She took advantage of his new position, reaching up and behind herself to grasp him firmly about the neck. Craix took a breath, then dropped to the ground like she’d been compelled by a magnetic force, pulling the man’s body up and over her’s by his head. Krup’s back met the forest floor with a sickening thud. She rolled away as he fell, recalling a squirrel skittering out of the perilous path of a mighty toppling oak.

Unable to recover from his fall, Krup writhed helplessly, his face contorted with pain. When he lifted his head to try and search the clearing for her, the flat edge of Craix’s strong hand met his throat. Hard.

He gagged, unable to draw breath, and lay there incapacitated.

Craix quietly walked back to the clearing, pulled the hunting knife from Krup’s pack, and returned to the writhing, gasping man.

She knelt next to him and looked into his eyes.

“I don’t want you,” she said.

And then she slit his throat.

* * *

Evin said goodbye to Alon and Stacia and left the Wheel and Well. It was early evening in Liminey, and she wanted to visit the temple before she went home for the night.

In her hands, she clutched several large sprays of lady’s grace, their silvery, sweet-smelling stems permeating the air around her as she waved them absently back and forth.

Sometimes Evin bought ingredients from the shop wholesale for her own personal use, and sometimes Stacia gave her items as gifts or allowed her to take unwanted goods so the Wheel and Well didn’t have to throw them out.

She couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that she’d felt since that nightmare. She’d had another like it the very next night. Then with that South-Urdan stranger insinuating she was underutilized in Liminey—Evin felt uncomfortable.

So Evin decided to do what she usually did when she felt uncomfortable. She would go and talk to the gods about it.

The Temple of the Divine Pantheon rose up in the exact center of town. The eaves were sharply pointed and seemed bent inward as they flowed up into an impressive steeple, and the sides of the building were sheared off and perfectly square, the huge boulders that anchored it reinforced with cob.  Evin loved the temple. It was all gigantic hewn beams and mighty stones. And it was so peaceful inside. She took the two steps and pushed at one of the carved double doors.

Because the soft light of twilight was fading, the lit candles inside cast a brightness that drew her in. There was an attendant toward the back of the building, she noticed, fiddling with some offering or another. The smell of herbs and incense cradled her, and she drew a deep sigh of relief.

Evin’s boots clicked quietly on the polished wooden floor as she walked slowly down the center of the room. She stopped before the stone statue of Orwa.

Orwa, the Goddess of Mourning, and sometimes, Orwa the Baleful,  appeared in all interpretations as a lamenting maiden, her face upturned and covered with tears. She had a day of the week named after her—today, Evin realized. She knelt before the statue and bowed her head.

“Calumn, I honor you,” she said, then, “Orwa, I honor you. Be blessed this day.”

The white quiet that seemed to rise up and claim her words filled her ears as she continued to sit before the goddess. Evin sometimes experienced visions during communion with the gods, but nothing happened today. After a few moments, she rose slowly and placed a spray of lady’s grace at the base of the statue, then moved on.

Eena, the Goddess of Mysteries, wore a thick veil over her face, so no one knew what she looked like. Evin prayed to her as well, and left another piece of lady’s grace at her altar. She did the same with Ydos, the God of Protection, who held a formidable shield fiercely out in front of himself and seemed to scream intimidatingly at the beholder.

Toward the back of the temple, a huge icon of Calumn carved carefully of stone stood about ten gerds high, his powerful hands at his sides, palms upturned.

Evin approached the statue and knelt once more, placing her last and largest piece of lady’s grace at his feet. The temple intendent had disappeared somewhere. They liked to give visitors their privacy, which Evin appreciated.

“Calumn, God of the Cosmos, I honor you,” she said quietly. Then, more informally, “I’ve been having nightmares.”

The generous stone face of Calumn smiled benevolently down on her.

“They frighten me,” Evin continued. “I have this feeling that something’s going to happen, and I don’t want it to.”

To her horror, she felt tears welling up in her eyes, and wiped them furiously away. Her hands were shaking, and she thought to herself suddenly how very much she wanted a drink. Then she shook her head and placed her focus back on the icon before her.

“I don’t want anything to change,” she insisted. “I like my life very well just as it is. Please. Please don’t let anything change.”

She took a deep breath and looked up at Calumn.

He listened.

* * *

Beynon ate slowly. He’d trained most of the day, and had enjoyed it immensely.

Most people were surprised to learn that the emperor welcomed physical labor and martial training. They supposed that’s what he had guards and palace staff for—so he didn’t have to undergo that kind of rigorous physical work. But nothing could be further from the truth.

Bryn had started training in this way during puberty as a way to release trapped stress. Working his muscles nearly to their breaking point and then recovering made him feel good—and along the way he’d realized that the leader of the free world shouldn’t rely only on his keepers to protect him. When it came down to it, he wanted badly to be prepared for anything. Prepared and equipped.

Beynon could ride, fight two-handed, fight one-handed, use rapier and dagger, and was skilled with the staff and the bow. He was respectfully proficient, he thought. But no one was perfect, and there was always room to grow.

Across from him, Alisia picked at her food and studied the room around them. They’d been served in his own quarters tonight upon his request. This way, he was able to forgo traditional clothing in favor of a loose shirt and breeches, which were much more comfortable after the day he’d had.

The thin eborel shirt brushed up against the back of his neck and shoulders, and he realized he had sustained the hint of a sunburn.

The way Alisia was staring at his things annoyed him. Anyone watching them would think she’d never been in his room before. And there wasn’t anything to see. The large bed had been made up. His wardrobe doors were closed. The table in the center of the room was empty, and nothing was happening outside on the balcony.

He caught her eye and she looked away. Then Beynon realized she might be looking anywhere in the room but at him, and resolved to be a bit more giving. He gave her a quick smile.

“It seems like you had a productive day,” she offered tentatively.

He nodded. “I did. And you?”

“I did as well. I visited Daitak proper with some friends.” Her accented words spilled into each other and gave her voice an unmistakable lilt. “It was very pleasant.”

He nodded again.

“And I received a dismissive from my parents in Eral,” she added.

He smirked, asking, “You mean a missive? A letter?”

“Yes, yes,” she said, correcting herself. “A missive.”

Beynon looked up at her. “And are they well?” he inquired politely.

“Yes,” she said. “They are well.”

There was a short silence.

“Bryn,” Alisia said suddenly. “We must talk about this thing the you are asking the council to do.”

He sat back in surprise. “You mean my request to defund the universities?”

She nodded, answered, “Yes, precisely. Why do you want to do this?”

He took a moment to think. Alisia generally didn’t care about politics or the movements of the council, but she seemed genuinely interested in this. He decided to answer her honestly. “I think it’s a waste of the capital’s money. I think those types of educations aren’t necessary to live a peaceful and prosperous life, and that if part of the populace insists on perpetuating that lifestyle, they should do it on their own.”

Alisia was curious. “That lifestyle,” she repeated. “You mean, alchemy? The use of potions?”

“Yes,” he said. “The use of potions.”

“But Bryn,” she said. “Our military uses these brews to defend us. Our combatants dip their weapons and drink enhancers, and our bombardiers use solutions to attack from afar.”

He cut her off by saying, “But they shouldn’t have to.”

“What do you mean?”

“The world has evolved, Alisia,” he explained, as if to a child. “The use of potions for war has become barbaric. Good rulers use diplomacy always, and force only when needed. We simply don’t need these methods any more.”

She watched him.

“I’m tired of it,” he snapped, growing frustration. He shouldn’t have to defend himself to her. She was both a woman and a foreigner. “I’m sick of hearing about poisonings and ingestion-related deaths. It needs to stop.”

“I think more people use them than you think,” Alisia said softly. “What about the potential for healing? Focus and energy? Speed? I visited a shop today in Daitak. Everyone goes there, from every background and every class. I was watching very closely. It’s an important economic tool.”

“I’m tired of it,” Beynon repeated, even more sharply.

Alisia studied him. “Why won’t you tell me, Bryn?” she asked gently. “What is this really about?”

He got to his feet, pretending that she hadn’t spoken. “I’m finished. I thought the beef was tough. Hopefully yours was a bit better.”

Then he left for his library, where he would stay until it was time to retire. Or at least until she got out of his room.

Later that evening, Beynon performed his nighttime ablutions and prepared for sleep. It seemed as though Alisia was in for the night; the doors between their rooms were blessedly closed, he noticed grimly. Good.

He was just climbing into bed when there came a knock from the hall door.

He frowned in confusion.

The knock came again, and he took a few hesitant steps toward the door. “Yes?”

Whoever it was seemed to have trouble with the catch. But the door cracked just slightly, and one of the hall guards peeked his head in. “Oh, good,” the man said, relieved. “You’re still awake.” Then he took a step or two into the room. “Your Imperial Majesty,” he said, bowing, “I bring an urgent message from Boradîn.”

Beynon regarded the man dubiously. “It’s eleven bells at least, man,” he said.

“Yes, your Imperial Majesty, and I do apologize, but Robard thought it meet that you should read this as soon as possible. It appears we are in some danger, Imperial Highness.” He held a folded paper message in both hands.

Now Bryn was worried. “I see.” He approached the liveried guard. “When did this arrive?”

“Just now, Imperial Majesty.”

Beynon stretched out a hand to receive the missive, but the guard caught it.

“Wha—?” he began to ask.

Unexpectedly, the man jerked hard on Beynon’s arm and pulled him forward. “We will not be silenced,” he hissed quietly, then gouged the emperor hard in the groin with his knee.

Bryn choked and stumbled.

Everything became a blur. The man had a boot knife. Its  hide jacket was affixed to the side of one shoe. He drew it instantly and spun, giving himself access to Beynon’s back and shoulders.

While Bryn was working his mouth desperately and trying to find his air, the man wasted no time and stabbed down viciously with his weapon. Beynon felt the pressure of the attack up around his shoulders. Once, twice. Three times. Four, five.

The force of the punctures pushed him off balance, and Beynon slumped forward, catching himself on his arms. He felt two more stabs and a gush of warm damp spreading throughout his middle back. Then the pain hit.

It was like he’d been burned.

He knew he wouldn’t survive if he couldn’t call out, and he wouldn’t be able to make a sound if he couldn’t fill his lungs. Though it hurt like damnation to breathe through the wounds and his manhood throbbed like damnation, he sucked in a breath and finally bellowed, “Guard!”

The intruder, sensing he’d been compromised, stabbed hurriedly at Beynon’s shoulders four times more. Eleven. This was butchery. Drops of blood sprayed quietly on the floor, and all was torture and heat and gasping breaths.

Were murders always this quiet?

Something primal responded to that thought, and Beynon screamed.

Then, something terrible happened. He couldn’t move. Not from pain, and definitely not from fear. He was searingly angry. But all of a sudden, his limbs would not respond to any of his impulses. His arms collapsed, leaving him lying helplessly on his stomach. And his pain faded, which was an unexpected and alarming sensation. He felt nothing. Something was terribly wrong.

Alisia arrived first. She had ostensibly heard Beynon and burst through the doors in a panic—to discover the intruder and his quarry.

The man stood and dropped the knife, allowing it to clatter to the floor in a puddle of bloody gore. He cast about frantically for a moment before making a split decision to head for the balcony.

“Treacherous snake,” she muttered fiercely, following him. “Guard!” she screamed. “The emperor is under attack! Guard!”

The rumble of booted feet could be heard in a matter of seconds but stopped just outside the door. The latch rattled a few times, then a muffled curse sounded from one of the men. “He’s jammed it!” someone yelled amid the pandemonium. “Break it down!”

The man had reached the balcony doors and thrown them open.

Alisia had mobilized. She sprinted toward Beynon, and he expected her to stop short when she reached him, but she didn’t.

Instead she leapt, landing on the fallen knife and using her momentum and puddle on the floor to ride it. She slid across the floor, knees bent to lower her center of gravity. Then she dove, tackling the would-be assassin by his ankles. It was an oddly graceful sight; the empress with her long robe animated by movement and her long, silken blonde hair streaming out behind her. Yet she made it look natural and practiced. Easy. As if she did this all the time.

Beynon made a strangled groaning noise, one side of his face still pressed into the floor. Alisia—Divines! He thought incoherently. Where had she learned to do that?

By that time, the door had finally splintered and soldiers were pouring into the room.

When the attacker had fallen, he’d hit his mouth against the unyielding floor and bloodied it. He gritted pink teeth against the roughness of his handlers.

Alisia stood, breathing hard, then moved away so the guards could detain the man.

Beynon still couldn’t move. Couldn’t feel anything. Couldn’t speak. He watched the proceedings out of one frantic eye. It was maddening, being fully conscious and aware but unable to contribute anything significant to the situation. And on his stomach to boot.

“Can you hear me?” Alisia was calling frantically—at him, rather than to him. “Does he breathe?” he heard her ask. She slipped in some of the blood. His blood.

One of the more senior guards was examining the knife and some of the wounds in Beynon’s back. “He’s alive,” the man said breathlessly. “But I think he’s been paralyzed. This dagger’s been dipped.”