Chapter 9 #2
“Look at you,” she says. “I thought you’d forgotten how.”
“So did I,” I answer, and mean it.
The town itself is prettier than I remember, or perhaps I am simply seeing it with kinder eyes.
There are many stone houses here—solid, confident things, their walls thick and pale, a quiet declaration of wealth.
Merchants live well in this place. But most of the town is timber-framed, beams dark against whitewashed walls, shutters painted in careful blues and reds and greens.
The streets are cobbled, uneven underfoot, the stones worn smooth by centuries of trade. Everywhere I turn, there is water.
A shallow river runs alongside the market road, slow and wide, its surface broken by flat-bottomed boats laden with crates and barrels.
Men shout greetings as they pass, pushing goods downstream with long poles.
A narrower stream cuts directly through the town itself, threading between houses splashing cheerfully beneath small wooden bridges.
And then there are the springs.
Steam rises from them in lazy curls, even in the warmth of the day. People kneel along their edges, sleeves rolled high, scrubbing linens against stone. The smell reaches me before Aileen can warn me—sulfurous.
I wrinkle my nose. “Devil’s mercy!—”
Aileen laughs far too quickly. “It smells awful, but it’s said to be good for you.”
“It smells like rot.”
“Good rot,” she insists. “Restorative rot.”
Rowan hums thoughtfully. “It smells worse than it tastes.”
I narrow my eyes at him. There is something entirely untrustworthy in his expression.
A woman nearby, broad-shouldered and red-cheeked, leans over with a wooden scoop. “First time?” she asks.
Before I can object, Aileen accepts it eagerly.
“For your health,” the woman says solemnly.
Aileen lifts the scoop and drinks. Rowan watches with barely contained anticipation.
I hesitate. Rowan meets my gaze and, to my surprise, reaches for the scoop once it’s free.
He drinks. Casually, without flinching.
“See?” he says, wiping his mouth. “Perfectly safe.”
That does it. I lift the scoop and swallow.
This must be the worst thing I have ever tasted in my entire life; it’s so utterly wrong. I choke, coughing and laughing all at once, eyes watering. Aileen dissolves into giggles beside me.
“I would rather die young,” I manage, handing the scoop back, “than drink that every day.”
Rowan nods gravely. “A sensible choice.”
The woman bursts into cackles. “That’s what we all say.”
Rowan finally grins. “Truth is, most of us only drink it when we’re already sick.” He pauses, then adds, “Or very drunk.”
Aileen laughs outright now, completely unrepentant.
I wipe my mouth and glare at them both. “You set me up.”
Rowan spreads his hands. “Welcome to Acheron.”
We wander deeper into the town, unhurried. I stop at a fabric stall, fingers trailing over linen dyed the color of moss, wool soft as cloud. Aileen bargains shamelessly. I buy yarn I do not need and ribbon I certainly do not need, simply because it is spring and the colors make me happy.
I feel light, as though I have stepped back into myself after a long absence.
I had not even noticed how much I had changed, how careful I had become.
How shaped I am by expectation and watching eyes.
Here, in the noise and the press of bodies and the scent of flowers and bread, I feel like the old me again—the girl who spoke before thinking and loved to laugh.
We pass musicians playing pipes and drums, their rhythm quick and bright. Petals are being tossed into the air, caught in hair and sleeves.
Eventually, the street curves, and the light changes.
The chapel rises before us.
It is nothing like the houses around it.
Stone piled high until it almost touches the sky.
Its walls are thick, its windows narrow and dark, set deep into the structure like watchful eyes.
Even in daylight, it casts a long shadow, cutting the street in two.
People skirt it instinctively, as though stepping into that shadow might invite something unwelcome.
I slow my steps.
It’s magnificent.
I tilt my head back, taking in the sheer height of it. I try to imagine the hands that built it, the effort, the knowledge it must have taken to raise something so enormous.
“How does anyone build something like this?” I murmur.
Aileen studies me, then the chapel.
“You don’t care for it?”
“On the contrary,” I answer. “I only question what price was paid to make it stand.” I pause. “In time and labor and in…determination.”
We pass beneath its shadow, and the air changes—cooler, a soft wind blowing over warm skin. I look up at the stonework again, at the way the structure feels almost…tense.
“Did anyone ever tell you the story of how it was built?” Rowan asks, falling into step beside us.
I glance sideways. “What story?”
He grins, eyes twinkling. “The one about the chapel. The impossible chapel of Acheron.”
Aileen’s face lights up instantly. “Oh! Tell us!”
Rowan nods, lowering his voice slightly, drawing us in.
“They say it was built in an impossible time. Charles summoned the finest craftsmen from every corner of the world. Men who spoke languages no one here had ever heard before. They came with their tools, their secrets…and the King set them to raise a chapel worthy of God—and of himself.”
We walk slowly now, the chapel’s shadow stretching at our heels.
“They hauled stone from the far south,” Rowan continues, waving a hand at the looming walls.
“Pillars shipped across land and sea—marble, granite, things so heavy people swore the wagons would sink into the road. Charles wanted it to last forever. His devotion carved into the earth. Proof of his crown, his favor, his…righteousness.”
I glance back at the chapel. I can almost see the chaos—the men shouting, the wagons struggling under their heavy loads, the idea that will alone might force stone to obey.
“But progress was slow,” Rowan says. “And just as the first walls rose…the earth rebelled.” He spreads his hands theatrically. “It shook so violently it split the ground and the stonework of the chapel in two. People said it was God’s judgment. Or a test of the King’s resolve.”
We stop just beyond the reach of the shadow. The chapel looms behind us, silent and immovable.
“And the King was desperate,” Rowan’s voice drops, low and conspiratorial. “Afraid to lose God’s favor. Afraid to look weak. So…” He pauses, a sly smile tugging at his mouth. “…he made a bargain.”
“With whom?” Aileen asks eagerly, leaning forward.
“The devil, of course,” Rowan says cheerfully, shrugging as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “He appears in every tale here. Some say he’s a villain, some say a trickster. Some say…a hero. Depends on who you ask.”
Both Aileen and I are captivated, leaning in closer.
“They say the earth opened willingly that time,” Rowan continues.
“The stones rose straight from the ground, whole and unbroken. Set into place before dawn.” He grins at me.
“Of course, no one really knows what the devil received in return. Some say a soul. Some say a promise. The devil is patient—and clever.”
I laugh, though it’s more shrill than I expected. “People will say anything.”
“Of course,” Rowan agrees easily. “But the stories stick. The devil’s part? That’s why everyone remembers.”
I shake my head, amused despite the unease curling in my chest. “Charles never mentioned that story to me. Entirely made up, of course.”
Rowan shrugs, still smiling. “Naturally. But even made-up stories have a way of telling truths.”
I nod.
A building split by the earth, a bargain struck in desperation.
I shake the thought away and reach for Aileen’s arm. “Come on. If we stay here any longer, I’ll start believing.” She laughs, and the sound pulls me forward, back into the light, back into the noise and color of Greenwake. But even as the music swells again, I feel it.
Not fear. Just something quiet, and waiting.
* * *
As day turns to night, the merchants slowly close their market stalls, shutters pulled down one by one, until the open square belongs entirely to celebration.
Music spills into the streets, beer flows freely, and acrobats and jugglers draw delighted laughter from the children darting between the benches.
Lanterns are lit overhead, casting the streets in a golden glow.
Aileen and I take a seat on one of the benches ringing the square. Rowan and the other guard have gone to fetch drinks for us, their broad shoulders weaving through the crowd with ease. Even so, they are never far away, eyes flicking over the throngs without drawing attention to themselves.
Here, no one questions who I am. I am just another visitor enjoying the festivities, anonymous for once.
Aileen watches me as I take it all in, her eyes bright with delight.
“I’m glad to see you in such good spirits,” she says.