Chapter 28
For the first time in her life, surrounded on all sides by books unread, Fern hadn’t the slightest inclination to pick one up. In the emptiness the abbess’s departure left behind, she turned Bluebriar’s parting words over in her mind like an unfamiliar stone.
“Boy, she sure put you in your place,” piped up a voice from her cloak pocket. “You must feel really petty.”
“I’d take you out of there so that you could see the expression I’m making, but you don’t have eyes, so I’m not sure how that works,” she replied crossly.
“Yeah, sure, don’t bother until you’ve got some letters to open.”
“Mm. I think I’d need something sharper.”
“You take that back,” cried Breadlee.
Fern didn’t reply, instead crossing the room to stand on tiptoe at one of the tall windows. She erased a circle of fogged glass with one paw, peering out across a snowy inner courtyard where a crowd of penitents hustled for the shelter of the cloisters along the edges.
The knife surprised her by timidly mumbling, “So . . . do you think the Oathmaiden is gonna be, you know . . . fine?”
Then she did remove him from her pocket, holding him up to the light. “She actually wanted to listen to Nigel, so that suggests hidden reserves,” she said with a wry grin.
“Bleah.”
“Don’t worry, there’s hope for you yet,” said Fern. “I’m sure somebody out there can’t wait to wield Bridgewrecker.”
She sensed him perk up—something about the glint of light along his edge.
“Bridgewrecker?” he asked with cautious interest.
“Why not? Sounds pretty Elder to me.”
“I dunno. I mean, do you think of a big bridge when you hear that? An important bridge? Or just one of those little wooden ones? There’s a lot of room for interpretation. You want these things to conjure, like, an indelible image.”
Fern snorted, then turned with a decisive twirl of her cloak hem and started for the door the abbess had disappeared through. “Hells if I’m waiting around here all day. She didn’t say anything about staying put. Let’s figure out where Zyll disappeared to, shall we?”
But Breadlee didn’t answer as she slipped him back into her pocket, instead muttering to himself.
Fern wasn’t positive, but it sounded a lot like “Bridgewrecker.”
The abbey was larger than Fern had imagined, a veritable warren of corridors, stairs, crooked passageways, vestibules, and cubbies.
Some stonework writhed with a profusion of Tarim’s many limbs in elaborate etchings or mosaics, while around the corner might be nothing but sturdy and featureless blocks of granite.
She passed clusters of Tarimites, and while she merited a few curious glances and the occasional flummoxed stare, nobody cut her explorations short.
At one point, she stumbled into the cathedral proper to find dozens of monks kneeling in a ranked half-moon, paws and foreheads touching the cold flagstones before a massive statue of Tarim.
Nested amidst an explosion of intricately carved tentacles, an alcove filled with burning pitch represented his blazing single eye.
After her conversation with the abbess, the cosmic god’s terrible majesty was dimmed somewhat. Fern had a fleeting vision of Tarim as a cranky toddler and had to stifle a laugh as she backed out of the room.
Eventually, it began to feel like an impossibility to locate the goblin. There were too many places to hide, too many dark recesses and half-hidden nooks. Instead, Fern went to find the one individual that she knew she would find exactly where she expected.
The stable lay on the opposite side of a cobbled square at the terminus of the road to the abbey. The only reason Fern could tell it was cobbled was because a pair of penitents were industriously sweeping a fresh dusting of snow into piles with straw-bristled brooms.
She gazed off between the two pillars that bracketed the roadway. A salmon blush rouged the harsh crags where snow striped the rock and curved down into a valley basin softened by drifts.
Fern wondered where Tullah was at that moment. Still seething on the other side of the bridge? Or forging another path to find them? She tried to imagine what Zyll could possibly have done to warrant that kind of enmity.
Shivering, she hurried to the stable and through a small access door beside the equine-sized pair that was closed and barred against the cold.
Her eyes slowly adjusted to the comparative gloom of the interior, thick with the scents of sweaty horse and straw. Donkeys lifted their noses curiously in her direction, but her gaze went immediately to the larger stall in the far corner.
Bucket and Zyll stared back at her. The goblin stood beside his stall door with a brilliantly pointy smile, both hands cupped full of oats beneath his muzzle. The horse snorted and tossed his mane in Fern’s direction, then snuffled another mouthful from Zyll’s palms.
Fern sighed. “Of course you’re here, in the last place I’d look for you.”
She approached and stood beside the goblin as Bucket’s velvety lips excavated the last oat from between her fingers.
“I think Astryx will live,” she said, because she wasn’t sure what else to say.
Conversations with Zyll tended to be like bottling smoke.
You mostly weren’t sure if you were going to end up with anything for the effort.
Zyll wiped off her hands and turned to regard her, the lines of her smile sobering a hair, but still gleaming in the half-light. “Monk-lings are, how do you say, hospi-tala-bly.” She nodded decisively, then held out her hand. “Where is shankling?”
“Shank—? Oh!” Fern slowly drew Breadlee and handed him over, hilt first, with a reluctance that surprised her.
“Ah, nuts,” said Breadlee. “Not back in the pockets!”
But Zyll held him aloft, the bracelet on her wrist flashing, and solemnly proclaimed, “Bridgemasher, flames-maker. Good job, shankling.”
Then she handed him back.
There was a long pause.
“Oh,” said Fern and Breadlee both.
“Yeah, I like Bridgewrecker better,” murmured the knife out the side of his nonexistent mouth.
Fern pursed her lips, then blurted the question that had been plaguing her off and on, in moments when she wasn’t so exhausted she couldn’t entertain it.
“Why are you still here?”
Zyll tilted her head.
Fern sighed. “I mean, I know why I wouldn’t flee alone into the snow, but I don’t get the impression that would bother you very much. Frankly, I think you could have left at any time if you wanted.”
Stretching out a paw, Fern tapped the wire bracelet.
“Even if this really does work, you’ve got enough table-knives in that coat.
You could have stabbed her when she was out cold.
That aside, I’m pretty sure you could disappear, and she’d never catch up to you once she finally recovers. So. Why are you here?”
Not dropping her gaze, the goblin patted a few pockets, stuffed a hand into one, and withdrew a knife that was very much not tableware. It was slim and wicked and designed for killing, not cookery.
Fern jumped at the sight of it, and Breadlee made a pained noise where she held him loosely in one paw.
With remarkable dexterity, Zyll used the tip of the dirk to excavate something between her teeth, which looked a bit like a feather. She blew it off the end of the blade, then tucked the knife away again.
“We goes when is time to be somewhere else,” said Zyll.
Like bottling smoke, Fern thought.
A rumble issued unexpectedly from her belly. She’d declined breakfast before visiting Astryx, and now Fern’s guts had apparently mounted a protest.
The goblin’s grin widened, and she seized Fern’s paw in both hands. “Come. We knows all about the kitch-lings.”
In the days that followed, Fern understood better why the Tarimites had such an extensive library.
As Astryx slowly recovered, the erstwhile bookseller found there was little else to do for those who didn’t need to spend a goodly portion of their day engaged in penitent acts to deflect Tarim’s not-so-benevolent regard.
Zyll’s appearances were erratic at best. Fern was mostly left to her own devices, and now that she’d borne the abbess’s keen interrogation, Bluebriar didn’t call on her again.
She ate amongst the monks in the rectory at mealtimes—which were signaled with a bell—but any attempts at striking up a conversation were met with polite, but unsatisfyingly brief replies.
She kept expecting a pointed question about when they’d be leaving, or at the very least a judgmental gaze when she was handed her meal, but none of that happened.
For worshippers of an evil deity beyond mortal conception, they were very hospitable.
So, she wandered, perused the library, and made excursions to keep Bucket company and sneak him handfuls of oats.
And she visited Astryx daily, where she read to her.
Fern wasn’t sure exactly what prompted the idea, but on the third day, she remembered the fancy volume of Ten Links in the Chain she’d hauled around in her satchel until she’d sold it in Bycross. The monastery had their own copy, although it was a cheap printing, much-battered and well-read.
She didn’t ask, but simply took it with her on her visit to Astryx in the infirmary. The elf was sleeping and, although Fern was hardly a physician, she thought her color was continuing to improve.
Burdock had finally succeeded in moving Nigel off the bed and had leaned him in a corner.
She drew up a stool, cracked the book to the first page, and nervously cleared her throat.
“I don’t know if you can hear this, but it seems like exactly the sort of thing you’d dream about.”
Flicking her gaze to the elf’s face, she detected no motion.
Then she read aloud, “‘Chapter One. In which I dismember a man.’”
Astryx’s chest rose and fell evenly as Fern continued.
“‘When I first tell you that I was wrongfully imprisoned, you may have some sympathy. But when I also relay even a few of the dire things I’ve done, your sympathy will, perhaps, become strained beyond its limit. I can only ask that you hear me out, dear reader.’”
She chanced a cautious glance to make sure she wasn’t disturbing the elf’s rest. “‘Indeed, because I cut the man’s head off and then his legs and his arms and stuffed them into three barrels of brine to survive the voyage, I may seem a monster. But by the end of my tale, I think you may again consider me worthy of your regard. Besides. He was a bastard.’”
She almost dropped the book at a sudden cough from Astryx, leaping to her feet in concern.
The curve of the Oathmaiden’s lip was unmistakable.
It hadn’t been a cough. It sounded like pebbles in a clay pot, but Astryx One-Ear was laughing.
As Fern relaxed and moved to settle back onto her stool, the elf’s hand reached out and squeezed her forearm, gently, just once.
“Good storyteller. Keep going. Please.”
Fern made it through four chapters before Burdock shooed her away.
On the fifth day, as Fern slipped into the stable to visit Astryx’s horse, she discovered a new resident. A sturdy dun pony nosed curiously over her stall at a skeptical Bucket.
Further investigation revealed a brightly colored wagon parked beside the stable. From the little round windows in the sides—with curtains—it looked like somebody lived in it, although a rap at the rear door received no response.
“Huh,” mused Fern aloud.
The mystery didn’t survive long.
By silent and mutual agreement, Fern and the monks had fallen into the habit of leaving space between each other at mealtimes so they didn’t have to endure her conversational gambits, and she wasn’t embarrassed when they failed.
So, it was a surprise when, just as she was about to dig into her meal, someone plunked their bowl and cup decisively beside her and dropped onto the bench.
“You don’t look much like a monk,” said the dwarf, with a brilliant smile and an extended hand. Her black hair was pinned back with a jeweled clip, she wore a burgundy doublet with intricate gold stitching, and she had an open, earnest face.
“Um. No,” replied Fern, and couldn’t help but smile back. She took the offered hand in her own paw and shook. It looked like her conversational horizons were about to widen. “Definitely not. Fern.”
“Staysha. Actually, Silver Sparrow is my traveling name. Maybe you’ve heard of me?”
“Well . . .” Fern hedged.
“Ah, never mind.” Staysha laughed. “It’s usually best for my sort not to ask questions like that.”
“Your sort?”
“Bards. Minstrels.” The dwarf mimed strumming a lute, then bumped her shoulder against Fern’s. “So, you ran afoul of the bridge, too, eh?”
Fern blinked. “You could definitely say that.”
“Whew, that monster of a horse in there can’t be yours, though. You didn’t walk here, did you?”
Laughing, Fern replied, “No. Absolutely not, I—”
But Staysha didn’t let her finish. “Gods, I’m glad you’re here.” She leaned in close and held a hand beside her mouth before whispering, “Now, there’s somebody to notice if I go missing. More tentacles around here than expected.”
Her grin didn’t seem overly worried, despite her words.
They chatted animatedly over their meal, although the dwarf held up her end, and then some.
It turned out she’d been traveling west toward Bycross for some sort of long-running gig at a tavern there before she’d stumbled upon a bunch of monks inspecting the ruins of the bridge.
One of them had escorted her to the abbey to resupply and reconsider her route.
When Staysha excused herself to retrieve her instrument from her wagon—“The cold’s a beast for it!”—Fern made sure to let her know where the library was so she could find her later.
It occurred to her as she left that she’d never once breathed a word about Astryx or Zyll.
Although Staysha struck her as eminently likable, Fern thought she’d keep it that way.