Chapter 20
They slipped out onto the Avenue of Penitence like shadows, footfalls light, ghosting along the cyclopean cathedral wall, to then dart into the arcade that lined the avenue and run quickly away from friends, acquaintances, people who cared for Harald, who might try to stop him.
Nessa was a svelte shadow ahead of him, her long black tresses glinting blue when they caught an errant moonbeam, one hand pushing down on the pommel of her longsword so that its tip rose up behind her, preventing it from banging against her legs.
Harald was breathing heavily when he reached the avenue’s end, his forehead bathed in sweat, his chest tight.
It made him want to laugh. He’d run perhaps two blocks and already felt a stab in his side and thick phlegm in the back of his throat.
It was darkly hilarious, and almost he expected to feel his gut sagging over his belt like in the olden days.
But no. His form remained trim and lean. It was just his Constitution that was mindbreakingly low now. How had he lived this way? How had this felt normal for so long?
Nessa glanced back, a pale flash of her face, and noted how he was struggling to keep up. As they turned the corner onto a side street, she mercifully slowed to a walk.
“It’s… bizarre to see you puffing like an old lady,” she said, eyeing him sidelong like a wary cat.
“It’s… equally bizarre… to be puffing like an old lady,” agreed Harald, hands on his hips as he forced deep inhales. “Constitution is back to 5. I feel… nauseous. But I’ll get over it.”
Nessa stopped. “You’re sure this is a good idea? You don’t look like you could swing a blade for more than ten seconds.”
Harald forced a grin. “I don’t plan to wallow at Level 1 for long.”
She shook her head, marveling. “The strangest thing. I’ve never heard of the like. But five Thrones.” She forced a smile. “You are a never-ending source of wonders, Harald Darrowdelve.”
His heart was still pounding, and again he fought the urge to laugh at how surreal it felt. “Thank you. For offering to get me to… to the plaza.”
Her smile grew wider still, and her tone brittle, bright, and animated. “Well then! Let’s get going. No sense in dallying when your levels and glorious future await.”
And avoiding his gaze, she resumed striding down the street.
Harald frowned. What was he missing?
Oh.
“Nessa.” The decision came to him simply, easily, and without conflict. “Wait.”
“Hmm?” She stopped, clearly unwilling, and looked back. “What now?”
“We need to do a quick detour.”
Her frown betrayed real annoyance. “I’m not a tour guide.”
“It won’t take long, I don’t think. Well, it’ll take as long as it needs to.” He took a deep breath. “If you don’t mind, can we make a stop at the Ermarine estate? I hear it’s just outside of town.”
Her eyes widened slowly as her frown faded away, and for a moment that felt endless while it lasted, she simply stared at him, defenses falling away, expression gradating from surprise to confusion to finally something akin to shock.
“Sorry,” said Harald, walking up to her. “I forgot what our true priority was in all the craziness. Let’s get it done. If you’re still up for it.”
Tears filled her eyes, and her mouth worked as she sought words that didn’t come. Then she spun away, head lowering, knuckles moving to her eyes as she hunched, her whole body tense like a clenched fist.
Harald waited in silence, and a gentle melancholy filled him, an awareness that he’d almost missed this moment, almost lost sight of what his friend was needing most.
Nessa gasped, straightened, wiped at her eyes, then laughed bitterly, turning back, long curling strands of hair falling before her hauntingly beautiful face. “There’s no need for you to go. I can figure it out later, maybe, when—”
“Nessa.” He stepped forward and took hold of her hand. It was cold and trembled in his own.
Her eyes widened, and he saw the urge arise within her to laugh, to deflect, to say something cutting, something witty.
But he stared through the storm of ghosts that tried to consume her, held her in place with his own lucid gaze, and even as he felt her trying to pull away, that connection, that bond, held them locked.
Finally, the tension left her, and abruptly she looked exhausted. “I… I don’t want to go.”
He waited.
“But…” She looked down to where he held her hand. “If you can…” She shrugged one shoulder, the expression helpless. “If you can lose all your levels, barter your soul to who knows how many demons, and risk… well. How can I not…?”
It felt daring, but Harald released her hand and stepped in to embrace her. Daring because Nessa was and never had been one for warm gestures, hugs, vulnerability. For her and Vic it had always been acidic raillery, self-mockery, caustic deadpan.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d hugged Nessa. Had he ever? He wrapped his arms around her and felt her tense, caught off guard, hesitant. Did anybody ever get this close to her without wanting to take something she was unwilling to give?
But then she closed her arms around him, all the grace and finesse gone, and clumsily, stiffly, she hugged him back. Lowered her brow to his shoulder, and he felt her strive to master her breathing as deep emotions arose within.
He held her lightly and waited.
“Ah!” She drew back, the sound one of impatience and anger, and again wiped at her eyes. “Let’s just get this over with! I can’t stand this maudlin, this pathetic…” She turned away.
Again Harald waited.
Finally she looked back, and again she looked… tired. But this time there was a warmth in her gaze, a gratitude, that he realized meant more to him than Eclavistra’s fifth pseudo-Throne and all the promise of power.
“Thanks, Harry.”
“Don’t mention it.” He took a deep breath. “Shall we.”
“Yes.” She considered, smiled a broken smile, then straightened. “I suppose we’d best.”
* * *
Three bells later they were outside Flutic proper, having skulked their way through countless streets and around the perimeter of empty squares to escape through the untended Marheim Gate and onto the Great Western Road.
There was no traffic at this midnight hour, and they walked together in comfortable silence along the shoulder of the road.
Fields stretched out in all directions. Walled estates were mounted atop the closest hills.
They passed the side road that led a half-mile to the infamous monastery of the Monks of Holy Suffering, almost a small town unto itself, and then the great Montfalcon Gibbet at the main crossroads.
This was a huge hollow cube made of black stone, three stories high, with each side boasting fifteen arches in three rows of five.
Within each arch hung a corpse, and it was a testament to the times that every arch was occupied.
Nessa took the road east, and they followed it another mile as it dipped and rose with the gentle undulations of the land before a dark copse appeared on the right side of the road behind a brick wall.
“My father’s estate begins here,” said Nessa softly. “That the forest still stands was always a huge source of pride for him. It’s old, and the trees valuable. He would receive almost annual offers to cut it all down and sell the timber.”
The wall was in disrepair, and they found several obvious gaps where people could slip through with ease into the forest beyond.
“Poachers?” asked Harald.
Nessa’s smile was almost fond. “No. The forest’s too small for deer. Mostly just people foraging and taking firewood. My father would turn a blind eye as long as they didn’t damage the trees themselves.”
Harald bit back a reflexive urge to compliment Lord Ermarine’s generosity. Nessa saw the impulse, however, and looked away.
They reached the front gate. The Ermarines were minor nobility, and the manor house visible at the end of the long, narrow drive was surprisingly small. And dark. And clearly dilapidated.
Nessa stopped and curled her fingers around one of the gate’s rusted bars. Her chest rose and fell as she stared down the drive.
One window burned yellow on the ground floor.
There were signs in the moonlight of the garden once having been tended, but that must have been years ago.
Now it was overgrown to the point of appearing a forest in the making, saplings rising amongst the undergrowth, with a luxurious nightlover bush covering much of the far wall, a great dark expanse dotted with large bone-white blooms whose pistils followed the passage of the moon.
“Home sweet home,” said Nessa, voice tight, and shoved the gate open savagely.
Harald followed her down the drive. Gravel crunched underfoot, though much of it was covered in weeds. “Any servants?”
“Mr. Grieves still served as butler when I left. But he was already in his seventies, then. I don’t know if he’s still around.
” She slowed as they drew closer to the portico.
“There were maids that would come from Flutic once a week. But… from how much Father has let things go, I doubt that’s still the case. ”
Her fingers flared on the pommel of her sword as she gazed up the three broad steps at the ancient wooden door.
It had once been grand, its face carved with a pleasing geometric pattern like a coffer ceiling, and looking stout enough to resist a battering ram.
Old patio furniture sagged to each side, faded and splotched with mildew, though a clean mug had been left on a dirty glass table set beside a particularly large armchair that had weathered the indignities of outdoor weather with aplomb.
Harald waited, giving Nessa time. Her gaze wandered over the covered porch, a band of muscle appearing and disappearing over the joint of her jaw.
“Oh, let’s get this over with,” she suddenly snapped, and strode to the door, raising her fist to knock violently, only to stop. The door stood ajar.
Harald looked around the gardens once more. No movement. No sense of being watched.
Nessa shook her head as she laughed under her breath in disdain, and pushed the door open.
Harald followed her inside.