Chapter 24: Running to Places

Chapter 24: Running to Places

Ber, Day 16 of Melia

Winking Moons

Year 602

A human will control everything in their power.

The more is taken away from them, the more inane their grasping will become.

—From the Private Journals of Farax Lucean, Master Alchemist

Repht felt a little thrill run through her as she took Hodric’s hand and let him help her from the carriage.

The last time she’d been to Daitak Keep, it was for The Hunt—and she’d met him there.

This time, he’d sent his carriage for her. The attendant had picked her up from her modest little cottage on the outskirts of town and brought her here—to the very center of Heladrith.

The cobbles she stepped down onto were worn from years of use, and once Repht was steady on her feet, she looked up and gave her love a winning smile.

He looked wonderful tonight. His hair had been recently cut and a few strands fell rakishly down over his forehead. The sides and back were tightly clipped, emphasising his large, masculine form and powerful shoulders. Master of the Horse in Daitak, she thought proudly to herself. How had she ever managed to capture the attention of this important man?

Gripping his forearm, Repht made her way up the steps to the landing. Her constant pain was only a dull throb tonight, tightening her shoulders and the turn of her neck. To ease the ache a bit, she rocked her head from side to side a few times, then shrugged her shoulders. The muscles would not release. They would never release.

The capital was imposing. She’d only ever been in museums or libraries that suggested this sort of pomp, and they were dwarfed by Daitak Keep.

When he’d invited her to dinner, Hodric had told her that since he was in the employ of the empire, he was permitted to use the facilities at the keep whenever he wished. This included the stables, kitchens, and anything she could imagine. They would dine in the hall tonight surrounded by other diplomats, and then the plan was to stroll the gardens outside behind the keep.

There was no telling who they might run into, and he’d teased her and told her to wear her best, for Bryn Beynon himself might be about while they were there.

Repht now owned many fine gowns and a few jewels as well—Hodric was extremely generous and liked to see her well-dressed.

“Hungry?” he asked her casually.

She nodded.

Choosing one of the many double-doors that led into the front hall, they came in out of the soft night air.

It all looked so different from the first time she’d visited Daitak Capital. Before, there had been throngs of people, and the place had fairly buzzed with activity. Now, their footsteps echoed on the polished floor and only a few courtiers moved slowly about inside, reminding Repht of so many ants going steadily about their business.

Far above her, the soaring buttresses hung quietly in the still air.

The delectable smells of food reached the two of them before they’d even gotten to the dining section, and her mouth began to water.

This hall was a bit more active. It was supper time, and a completely random assortment of royals, nobles, courtiers, and keep staff had gathered to dine from the capital’s unparalleled kitchens. The ridiculously long tables were only sparsely occupied, and people chose to sit closest to the kitchen, leaving the ends abandoned.

Platters of food had been brought and laid out sumptuously on these tables, and Repht looked questioningly up at Hodric and asked, “Where do we sit?”

He shrugged. “Wherever you like. Pick a dish or two you like the look of, and we’ll sit there. The kitchens are certain to bring more of the same to that spot in the room.”

There was so much food, it was staggering. She didn’t know for sure, but Repht guessed it would be impossible for those present to consume it all. “Does Daitak serve this much food every night?” she asked in awe.

“It’s usually more,” he replied. “But as you can see, the keep is quiet tonight.”

She nodded respectfully and thought to herself that many citizens outside the Capital would kill to help themselves even to some of the leavings from a quiet supper like this. Did the staff throw away what the courtiers didn’t eat?

There was a particularly succulent-looking tray of sea scallops on one of the tables. Nestled in between this and a plate of salted, roasted ammeave nuts was a round loaf of farm bread. Then she saw a serving of glistening pork with fennel nearby, and it was decided. They sat.

Repht selected a few tight cherries and chewed delicately around the pits and stems. They were cold and sweet and perfect.

Hodric served them quietly while she waited, then he set down the utensils and sought her hand.

She blushed prettily, thinking he meant to kiss her knuckles, but then he took her other hand too and turned to face her from his seated position on the bench.

Between them, the haunch of pork gleamed wetly.

“My lady,” he said gently.

Still chewing, Repht felt her eyes widen.

“Will you do me the honor...” continued Hodric.

Suddenly, everything within her rebelled. The cherries were too tart. The temperature in the drafty hall was too chilly. The substantial piece of pork seemed to be watching her, and she had no one around her she loved—or even knew at all. Repht was entirely alone.

“...are you alright?” he asked suddenly. “You just blanched.”

She nodded, swallowing the hard lump of masticated fruit. “I think so,” she said, just in time to see the massive ring he’d pulled from a hidden pocket somewhere. The cut stone glittered blood-red—a ruby. She gasped and then began to cough, choking on spittle and fragments of cherry skin until her face felt hot and her eyes watered.

“Repht!” Hodric cried, and clapped her gently on the back.

Here he was trying to propose to her, and she’d utterly ruined the moment. She concentrated on trying to take deep, calming breaths while he pulled her close into a gentle embrace. His shoulder was warm and firm and he smelled of cedar and rushes and the outdoors.

She felt a slight rumble deep in the pit of her belly and finally identified it as Hodric’s own laughter. “My darling,” he said finally. “Please. Will you be my wife?”

The tears began. Just like the wrongness of the space, the wrongness of the timing hit her hard, and she felt an inconsistency that unsettled her. Was this how she was supposed to feel? Shouldn’t she feel triumphant? Or relieved? Whatever it was she was currently feeling, it wasn’t positive. Frustrated tears continued to leak from her eyes and she breathed against Hodric’s chest—difficult, as he was holding onto her tightly.

“Love?” he prodded her.

Oh. That’s right. She had to answer.

“Of course,” she breathed, trying to keep her voice light. She pulled away from Hodric to give him a tremulous smile. “Of course,” she said again. “I’d be honored.”

It was over. She would be all right. For the rest of her life, she would have clothing, food, and the medicine she so desperately needed.

Repht chose not to listen to the tiny voice inside her that taunted, Of course you’ve accepted his proposal. You have to.

She’d begun to shake her head in denial before realizing it and consciously stilled the motion. “I love you,” she told him defiantly.

Hodric seemed pleased. “Good,” he said. “I love you, too.”

* * *

“So, how many times were you stung by the shade wasps altogether?”

Diarmad pulled a pitiful-looking face and leaned forward to answer the gathered school board and specifically the asker. “Twice. And I fell, so I now have an injured leg as well.”

A middle-aged woman with long, silvery-grey hair blinked a few times before clarifying, “But you were the one who disturbed the nest, correct?”

“Allegedly,” he said, “disturbed the nest.”

Bricot glanced toward the ceiling. He’d gone into the hearing expecting it to proceed quickly—and had turned out to be immensely mistaken. So far, the same questions had been asked over and over again, and the same information had been repeated for all involved.

“Thank you,” said the woman.

Bricot caught Colin’s eye and the chancellor gave him a stiff smile as if to encourage him.

“Madam Chairman, permission to call student witnesses?” asked a very thin man with dark hair. This was Lon Cadir—Bricot knew him to be the treasurer of the board at Craestor.

“Permission granted,” she assented.

There was a subtle shift in the energy of the room, and the onlookers began to stir as though waking up. The meeting room was modest compared to the grandeur of the whole library, but there were enough chairs for fifty people or more to sit comfortably. They’d all been arranged in layers of half circles, with a small wooden table at the center for speakers to utilize.

Diarmad was just leaving this space to go and join his family, who sat in a row nearby.

A student volunteer led someone—Ger, Bricot realized in vague surprise— into the chamber. He sat up a little straighter, trying to get the boy to notice him.

But Ger only stared ahead of himself, an intense look fixed on his pale face.

“Welcome,” said the chairman to the boy over the din of murmuring voices in the room.

He only nodded by way of reply.

“Just there, please,” she added, pointing significantly to the wooden table, and Ger obeyed.

In addition to the odd array of faces and body shapes doing the scribing, there were copious books and papers open with quills working fast to record proceedings.

Bricot’s heart began to beat faster.

There was a row of windows along one side of the room, and the slanted, golden rays of late afternoon had begun to radiate down into the chamber. They’d been here all day, he realized, considering those few shaky moments in the cold morning of his private room. It seemed so long ago now.

Surely, things were coming to an end soon.

Everyone began to still, and there were a few scattered coughs as the gathering of people focused on the subject at hand once more.

“Findar, Ger?” called the Chancellor.

“Here,” he said calmly from his vantage point at the center of the room.

The chairman was a small, pale woman with colourless blond hair and watery blue eyes. She was nevertheless very quick and keen—and efficient. “Please explain what happened to you on the fifth day of Melia here at Craestor University.”

Ger gave her a curt nod, then began. “A large group of students had gone into Craestor proper for recreational purposes.”

The chairman quirked an eyebrow at him. “Could you clarify, please?”

He coloured a little in response. “We—we went to a pub.”

“Ah. Very good,” she said, sketching something on a piece of paper. “Please continue.”

Ger nodded again. “Uh—we had finished in town and were coming back for the day. There were sixteen of us altogether. Diarmad happened upon a wasp’s nest and thought it would be great fun to kick it—”

Diarmad snorted derisively and Ger glared at him.

“...To—kick it, and the nest was crushed and a bunch of shade wasps came out and stung everyone.”

“Everyone?” the chairman asked.

“Oh,” said Ger. “Well, no. Eleven students were stung in total.”

The scratch of quills in the room was a palpable thing.

“I see. And how many times were you stung?”

The young student shook his head slowly. “I… it’s difficult to say. I did count at least thirty-one welts, but it’s possible that I missed some. I was extremely ill.”

The room was conscientiously quiet.

This time, the question came from Lon, his lanky, veined hand pausing with the quill hanging from it. “And after all of you were stung, what happened?”

Ger wet his lips, then spoke. “I collapsed. I’m allergic to wasps, sir. I can’t speak to the other students’ experiences, but it’s well-known that shade wasp stings are some of the most painful injuries one can incur. My tongue and throat began to swell, and I began to… to strangle.” There were a couple of horrified gasps, but he continued doggedly on. “Bela, my classmate, had been stung as well but still managed to run to the university. She found Bricot.”

“Bricot?” prodded Lon.

“Master Bricot,” Ger clarified, still carefully avoiding Bricot’s gaze.  “Master alchemist and teacher here at Craestor. I understand he was in the library at the time. He left everything and ran halfway into town to come and help us.”

Now that he was well into his story, Ger’s words began to tumble out of him, gathering momentum. “He’d brought his healing kit—he tried everything, but couldn’t seem to bring my swelling down. I couldn’t breathe. I think he thought I was unconscious the whole time.”

Here, Ger finally looked up and met Bricot’s eyes. It was startling.

“I wasn’t unconscious,” the student said, his voice sounding strange and far away. “I recall everything that happened with perfect clarity.”

Bricot couldn’t look away.

“He picked me up,” Ger told the board members, “And carried me, bodily, back to the school.”

Farax’s head whipped around to regard Bricot in surprise. She was still here—he’d forgotten.

“Master Combatant Ishka met us as we were approaching the university,” continued Ger, “And helped get me the rest of the way there.”

There was a quiet moment of response, and then the chairman asked, “What happened next?”

“Master Bricot found some greater trillium in a garden bed close to us,” Ger replied. “He chewed it, made a paste, and spread it on my throat. I heard him praying to Calumn for me...”

The chairman’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and she spared a glance for Bricot—he couldn’t tell if she was frustrated, incredulous, or impressed.

“At that moment, I was able to draw breath once more,” Ger finished, tears standing in his eyes. “Madam Chairman, I absolutely owe this man my life. I would have died without his quick action and careful attention. I cannot speak highly enough of his character.”

The woman was nodding as if to hurry him along. “Noted. Thank you, Findar. You may sit.”

With that, Ger was dismissed.

They let Diarmad go too, and the adults continued doggedly on with the investigation. The rest of the afternoon was a blur of careful diplomacy and euphemism.

At one point, Bricot looked over to catch Colin blissfully asleep.

They made him tell the story from his point of view, asking him over and over again to detail how he’d hit Diarmad—with which hand, how hard, how many times, who else saw it—until he was near exhausted tears. They’d questioned the boy earlier that day and collected stories from witnesses. He knew the board was probably checking for consistency, but it seemed unusually cruel.

At last, the chairman, board, faculty, and attendees seemed satisfied and announced the day’s adjournment, promising a definitive pronouncement the next day.

Bricot floated out of the chamber in a daze, hardly noticing when Farax offered to take supper with him. He declined in favor of his bed and fell asleep as soon as he laid down on the pillow.

The next morning, Bricot was a mess. He had two days’ growth on his face and wore the same clothing he had the day before. His eyes in the dressing mirror were large and haunted.

Slowly but determinedly, everyone reconvened in the library meeting space to hear what the school board had decided.

Colin walked slowly up to him and placed firm hands on Bricot’s shoulders in wordless support. He nodded at the Grandmaster, feeling defeated already.

None of the students were allowed to be present for the verdict.

When the room had stilled and everyone looked expectantly to the chairman, Bricot steeled himself.

He wondered how it might feel, being dismissed. Would it be like falling? Or perhaps more like a locked door separating him from the rest of his life as he’d intended it?

“Master Alchemist Bricot,” the chairman began.

He’d learned in the interim that her name was Cora Ver’ifin. He wouldn’t even need that bit of information now, not if he was leaving the university.

“You are found guilty of assaulting a student—a punishable crime.”

He bowed his head, his eyes beginning to swim with hot, helpless tears. Bricot gritted his teeth and shut his eyes against the sentence.

The chairman continued, saying sonorously, “The board has decided to suspend you temporarily.”

His head shot up.

“You will not be permitted to teach or to remain on the university grounds for a period of four months,” continued Ver’ifin. “You will go without pay during this time. Upon your presumed return, you will fulfill service hours in the library for a total of four weeks.”

Was it real? He would be allowed to teach again?

The chairman gave him a grim smile. “In the light of your character references and students’ testimonies, the board has deemed you too valuable to dismiss. Your service to young Findar was crucial and highly appreciated by both the boy’s family and the university.”

Someone pounded him hard in the shoulder. It was Farax, who’d come over to plop down in the seat next to him.

“Congratulations,” finished the chairman, before she adjourned the meeting and a chorus of voices began to speak all at once.

Bricot, dizzy with it all, tried his best to focus on Farax’s pretty face.

“Told you I wasn’t worried,” she said.

* * *

Evin was angry.

She was angrier than she could ever remember being in her young life.

It did occur to her to fall into a weeping, defeated heap, but she was just so tired of crying. It seemed appropriate to allow the passion of her despair grow until a positive hatred for the incredible course of events blossomed deep in her chest.

After everything she’d been through.

After traveling all the way to Craestor—and after that ridiculous aptitude test!

Was this truly how the gods repaid her? She’d listened to her friends, believing them to possess wisdom and experience incalculably valuable to one such as she. Against her judgement and inclination, she’d hoped. She’d tried. And this was what she’d reaped for her trust.

That trust had cost her pieces of her very soul.

After all of that, she thought to herself bitterly, I turned out to be nobody.

If she were at home in Liminey and dealing with a difficult situation, she’d seek solace in the north woods, where she often foraged for potion ingredients. But Evin was a stranger in Craestor, and she fully expected to lose her way instantly the moment she left the village.

Instead, she lay down on the bed in her rented room upstairs at the Red Dove Inn and closed her eyes.

If she concentrated and turned herself about in her own mind, she could almost pretend she was back in her own room back at the boarding house in Liminey.

The headboard would be against the south wall, not the west one as it was here.

She allowed her breathing to deepen and tried to conjure the smell of the place.

At the Red Dove, everything smelled of new lumber and construction, but her room in Liminey was very old. She recalled a hint of dust and aging paint—not unpleasant—and the inscrutable scent memories of other boarders who had come before her. Of course, there were her potions and brewing ingredients too. Herby and tangy and sharp underneath it all; that’s how her room had used to smell.

In her mind, Evin rose and strode dreamily to her own window in her own room and gazed down into the street.

It would be late afternoon in Liminey now, just as it was in Craestor.

It was strange to think how such distance emotionally almost automatically equated to distance physically in her mind. Why would she expect the times to be different? The places were in the same continent after all, under the same moons. She felt so foreign here.

In Liminey, Wynn would have baked something delicious by this time and wouldn’t turn her younger sister away if she stopped in for tea and conversation.

A surge of fear overtook her and she thrust the thought from her mind like an angry animal that might turn and wound her at any moment.

She let herself breathe, and consider.

No, it was alright.

She could almost make it alright.

In her mind, Wynn and Cotter were still there, she just… she wouldn’t visit them on that particular day. She’d try another day.

This time, she’d go and amuse herself.

She’d turn away from the dusty window in the Liminey boarding house, all lit through with glowing sunshine, and she’d open her bedroom door.

Easily, she recalled the creak of the floorboards in the open hallway, and the feel of the smooth wooden bannister under her fingers, polished to softness after years of constant use. The downstairs common area would be as deserted as it always was, though pleasantly cluttered with parcels, pieces of parchment, and the odd vase of the landlady’s dried bouquets of flowers.

Before she knew it, Evin had left her old boarding house and—in her mind—was headed out of town and toward the woods, where she planned to pick mushrooms and look for other odd ingredients.

She stayed in the dappled forested area outside of Liminey for hours. She sat on a fallen log over the brook, shedding her shoes to allow her bare feet to dandle in the water. She saw a water snake glide silently through the reeds close to the bank. She even found a whole clump of fresh ecchice plants growing suspended in the water, and she carefully picked some, laying them gently in her satchel.

Whenever Evin gathered in the forest, she obsessively followed the rule of the forager—which was never to overharvest a given item or group of items, leaving the plant or fungus enough material to replenish and reproduce. It also ensured there would be enough to sustain the next traveller to happen upon the item, if applicable.

When she came back to her body and opened her eyes once more, her room in Craestor was dim. The afternoon had grown late, the shadows long. Her fragmented consciousness returned reluctantly and she longed to lose herself to memory again, but found she couldn’t.

Someone was knocking at her door.

“What?” she called wearily.

A man entered cautiously, and it was Himes, and he looked like he’d come to tell her he’d just stepped on and killed her pet rabbit.

She stared at the man while he told her awkwardly that he knew a friend—someone in the Outlands—who owned a potions shop and might be willing to apprentice her.

Evin only blinked at him.

He’d already sent an inquiry, he told her; hopefully, that was alright with her.

She nodded at him numbly. It didn’t matter. She had no home and no family. Any place she could earn a living was as good as another. She wondered suddenly if the tavern downstairs sold ubbeave wine and if the servers would give her some.

Seven, she thought blindly. That seemed to be roughly the correct number of drinks for something like this. She’d find oblivion. Evin was considering how best to procure recreational beverages and consume them with abandon in her room when she realized Himes had gone. When had he left? Had she said anything to him?

It didn’t matter, really—and she closed her eyes once more and sought sleep. She couldn’t afford to drink right now anyway.

Sleep she found, but peace eluded her.

Suddenly, her dream grew vivid and horrifyingly dark.

This time, she wasn’t in Liminey, but in Craestor, at the outdoor market where she’d been earlier that day. It took her a moment to understand her surroundings—the sky had darkened almost to signify night, but with a strange, orange cast to the light that left her confused and frightened. None of the vendors were in their designated areas, and the village was terribly quiet.

She thought she recognized the temple where she’d met her new friend and moved closer to inspect it, finding in dismay that it was in utter ruins.

Evin took a long moment simply to stare at the building. The stones that made up the foundation had been licked by flame and blackened, and most of the roof and upper walls had crumbled away to dust and debris. Inside, even the statues of the deities had been damaged.

Notably Bipel, who was the Goddess of Spring, was missing her hands, and her head had been blown away by some sort of blast. With the familiarity of her pretty carved face utterly gone, it was difficult to tell who she even was—but Evin knew from the garb and the set of the goddess’ build who the stone image was meant to be.

A few scant raindrops began to patter down onto the paved areas around her, and she could feel the prick of their coolness against the skin of her neck.

Evin raised a hand to shield her eyes and peer up into the sky and was instantly struck by how strangely her own body was moving. Slowly—as though underwater, she brought her open palm to rest in front of her and was watching the drops of rain fall into it when she gasped and sat up.

Morning had dawned, and she’d been dozing in the Red Dove tavern in Craestor.

Her eyes felt swollen with sleep and shed tears and she remembered suddenly that her life had been interrupted. Her family was dead, and she wouldn’t be attending Craestor University. At the periphery of her vision, strands of her own hair stood out limply, having been pressed hard against her pillow all night.

All night? Still disconcerted from her unpleasant dream, Evin checked outside, leaning to give herself a better vantage point.

The first chilly light of morning was insisting against her window. It looked like it might rain.

She dreaded today. What would she do with herself? If she wasn’t to be admitted to Craestor, what was she still doing here? Groggily, she remembered that Himes had offered to find her a position in a shop that his friend owned, which sounded nice, but which also sounded suspiciously like charity. It annoyed her. She was horribly embarrassed at her failure in the face of her newfound friends—colouring even at the thought of addressing the situation with Tadyath. Shame overcame her. How would she face him now that she’d failed?

It occured to Evin that she might leave.

She had no idea where she might go, but she certainly did not have to stay here. She possessed few survival skills, but she was a quick learner. If she traveled first back to Liminey, she might be able to scrape together enough supplies to start her own fledgling business once more. It would be tricky, but she had done it before.

Even before Wynn had died, Evin had never considered herself capable of leading a self-sustaining life—but now, in the cold light of morning at an inn in Craestor, she took a serious look at what it might take.

She could do it.

And then she’d be away—to her great relief—from all of it. These strangers she’d found herself associated with were kind and well-meaning, but weren’t they trying to fit her into a mold that simply was not the right shape for her? Of course she was disappointed! And surely Tadyath, Himes, and Craix were too—but what did any of them expect? Evin wasn’t a scholar. She was a tradeswoman.

Feeling more confident, she peeled herself up off the sheets and pressed her face into her hands for a moment. One breath. Two.

She would leave now, before anyone else knew to look for her.

Quickly, she began to cast about for clean clothing and gather her things.