I wasn’t sure if he was speaking to Bloodsounder, himself, or us, but then his lids snapped open, red-rimmed eyes narrow, but alert and looking at us. “He gritted his teeth as broken bones shifted, and blood flowed fresh down his limbs, pooling in his boots. He stumbled to his feet to charge me one final time, because in me, he saw the sellsword bandit captain. The one who ordered the death of innocents and children and the underpriest he had sworn his life to protect. The captain he’d murdered in a different temple so many miles and years distant that had somehow come back to haunt him. He would rather die fighting that captain than live knowing he had lacked the will again.” He dropped the flail heads and I did jump this time.
Braylar fixed his stare at me, and it seemed somehow filled with equal parts rage, sadness, and a haunted desperation I couldn’t name or understand. “So, the question of a good death or bad is not so easy to answer as it might appear.”
With that, he rose unsteadily and made his way to his chamber.
There was little to say after that, but that didn’t stop Vendurro. He looked at me. “You heard him go on like that before. I could tell you must have heard him recounting something similar like. You didn’t seem a lick surprised. Had to have been in the grass. That right?”
I nodded. “One of the Hornmen he killed. Though the soldier didn’t die right away. The wound the captain gave him, it took a while to kill him. Then the memories came on him all at once. This priestguard captain, he died right away, so Braylar has had more time to be… poisoned by the memories. That’s how Lloi described it.”
Vendurro shook his head, then looked at Hewspear. “And you, Lieutenant, you didn’t seem surprised at all to hear the telling. You seen this before too, I reckon.”
The older man’s posture was rigid, as he moved only when he had to-his ribs were clearly still paining him. But it was hard to imagine a man sitting more upright with a more slumped demeanor about him. “I’ve seen this before. While no one in our company is unaware that he is afflicted with something, we do try to keep the worst details shrouded. It’s gotten worse the last few years. Lloi helped him for a time, but now…” Hewspear let the thought trail off.
Vendurro bore the same expression he had when we were all standing before the Godveil at the ruined temple, torn between wonder and fear, contemplating something beyond our scope of understanding. He shook his head. “Ain’t natural at all, what’s happening to Cap. And it ain’t natural that someone’s got to fix him. Like you said, I always knew he was battling something queer, something unnatural, but seeing it, or hearing it rather…” He asked the next question to both of us. “We came by Lloi by luck alone. What happens if Mulldoos can’t find another Lloi? I know we can’t get no Memoridon, but seems like the choices are growing mighty thin.”
Hewspear slowly rose to his feet. He took a shallow breath and said, “Perhaps this won’t be a bad spell. Some are worse than others. He seems to be managing well enough for now. Perhaps that will continue.”
It was difficult to tell if he believed that or was merely reciting it for our benefit-I doubted he was as skilled a liar as Braylar, but then I didn’t think Braylar was as skilled at deception as he actually was.
Hewspear walked out of the common quarters, maybe before Vendurro had a chance to ask any more questions, though he seemed to have exhausted them, as he simply stared down at the table, took a small drink of ale, shook his head, and continued staring at the moisture ring there.
Part of me was tempted to stay, to talk to him about it, perhaps to listen as he worked through what he’d heard from his captain. But I also sensed that he was uncomfortable, and so I stood up as well, considered saying something else, and then realized I didn’t know what to say, and that even if I had, I wasn’t particularly in the mood to say it.
I headed to my room, staying there the remainder of the day. With evening coming on, and my stomach grumbling, having only eaten some wrinkled fruit and stale cheese in my room, I decided it was time to stretch my legs. Maybe leaving the Grieving Dog wasn’t the smartest idea, but that didn’t mean I had to stay holed up like a trembling bird. I could at least head to the ground floor and take a proper meal. Hopefully there would be somewhere I could sit without having to force conversation with anyone else, but either way, it would be good to be among people who didn’t have a surplus of secrets, grief, or shadowy curses.
The Grieving Dog filled up quickly enough, and even with all the vaulted nooks and small shadowy alcoves, there was still a real shortage of secluded places available, so I took my plate of fried meatballs and grape leaves stuffed with rice and boiled egg, and made my way out back to the garden.
The tall oaks provided such a dense canopy above, and the wall around the perimeter of the garden was so high, it was easy to forget we were in one of the busiest cities in Anjuria. Even the noise of Fairgoers passing by the street seemed like something distant. While most of the benches were occupied, I found a small table against a tree and leaned back into the trunk. Even with the buzz of dozens of drunken conversations all around, punctuated by the odd boisterous shout, it was still probably the most peaceful spot in Alespell, and should have been easy enough to block out everything that had happened in the last few days. But even after several glasses of heady wine, and the lantern light blurring and shimmering slightly, it was still a challenge to forget the present circumstances. The departed, the schemes, the suspicious and brutal baron, the haunting with slim chance of reprieve, the Hornman I rescued who might just doom us all.
I got up to find a beer maid, laughing drunkenly to myself when I thought they were never referred to as wine maids. I was reluctant to lose my spot, but finding more wine was an absolute necessity, so I started winding my way around benches and pockets of people toward the doorway to the interior.
As I got closer, stumbling over my inebriated feet, I saw Mulldoos walking through the crowd toward the stairwell. He hadn’t seen me yet, so I considered turning right back around and disappearing. But the figure immediately behind him stopped me short.
He was leading a small girl through the inn, and her hands were tied together. She had hair so fair it was nearly white, but in complete disarray,
and her face and arms were covered with bruises and more ominous welts. She had a cracked lip, and was wearing a tunic that had several bloodspots on the chest. Her shoes-or what passed for shoes, at least-were torn and tattered, and one seemed tied together with twine.
In short, she was a complete mess. But that didn’t stand out so much as her demeanor. Where most beaten children would have kept their heads fixed on their feet, or worked hard not to make eye contact with the dozens of strangers in the room, this bruised, bloodied, and bound girl held her chin up, and gave anyone glancing her way a challenging look back, as if daring them to say something or lay a hand on her.
My chance to disappear was gone-Mulldoos saw me. The crowd parted around the strange pair, largely due to his usual liberal use of elbows and angry glares, but also as people stepped aside to get a better look at the strange prisoner.
Mulldoos jerked a thumb toward the stairs as he got close to me, and I followed them up. The lieutenant called out and knocked on the door, and a moment later Vendurro unlocked it and opened it. Mulldoos pushed his tiny charge through first, and while I couldn’t see Vendurro’s expression, I heard him exclaim, “Plague me! Where’d you get this drowned cat?”
Again, instead of being cowed, the girl looked in his direction and hissed.
“And feral on top of it,” he added.
Mulldoos looked at Vendurro as he entered and showed his arms, which were covered in scratches and what looked to be teeth marks. “Vicious little hellcat, more like.”