Chapter Six. My One and True Friend.
Six
My One and True Friend.
“Sorrel, your desire to cheat Death of its due is going to be the death of you.”
It’s the following morning, and I ignore that haughty proclamation for the pretense of stocking a small hearth with more hardwood.
The kettle is almost ready, and I have the last of my dried unslee leaves in the base of a tin mug.
As I measure the dwindling stash of oak logs, I know I need to gather more when I go harvesting outside the wall.
“Did you hear what I said,” the former Lady Marehomen of Prosperitus demands.
“Stop deflecting.” From under the hood of my cloak, I glare across my shoulder. “You’re going to drink all of this, and you’re not going to care if it’s bitter.”
“I will drink some of it and I will complain the entire time.”
Over on the pallet, my elderly friend, Mare, lies swaddled in mismatched blankets that I’ve collected from the lodging house’s stock and snuck out to this abandoned shoe shop.
Lying there, so frail, so drawn, she’s as an infant newly born into the world, incapable of caring for her most basic needs, relying on me to come when I can.
Every time I show up here, I run the risk that we’ll both be discovered, but she’s a burden I can’t put down.
No one else in the village will care for her, and my conscience carries enough already.
I also happen to like her tart company.
“I am not here upon Anathos’s soil for much longer,” she says. “Why must you prolong my agony.”
My friend’s words slice through me. She was not my first stop on this glum and cold daybreak.
I went to check on Elly and didn’t get farther than the back alley behind the farrier’s quarters.
He was loading her body onto a cart, his daughters and niece hovering in the doorway as if they all wished they could follow her into her grave.
Assuming he even bothers to dig her one.
“You are quiet today,” Mare observes.
“I am not, and you know this brew is just for pain relief.” I glance back in her direction again. “Although I suspect your griping about the taste gives you a vital hobby. If you stop, you’ll expire on the spot.”
Her dismissive hand betrays the high station she once enjoyed, and I imagine jeweled rings on her fingers and her nails painted. “You will miss me when I am gone.”
Leaning into the crackling flames, I wrap up my hand in my cloak’s long woolen sleeve and still feel the heat as I take the brewing kettle off its iron arm. As I pour, the dried leaves swirl about in the tin mug and I imagine her ashes scattering in the wind.
I have to clear my throat.
“You’re still drinking this,” I repeat roughly, knowing that as I’m unable to treat my own pain, I soothe hers with a vengeance whether she likes it or not.
And she doesn’t.
During the steeping, I pass a glance over the shabby interior.
My only friend lives in what used to be the cobbler’s shop before he moved closer to the village square.
The shelves that once held the maker’s inventory are the rib cage of the structure, lining all the walls.
Here and there, pairs of shoes that were left behind are covered in dust, the fine layers buffering their contours just as the pilled blankets I pile on Mare bury her own aged body.
“So whatever have you overheard at that ratty establishment of yours?” she says.
“The Gauntlet is not mine.” I stir with a dented spoon. “And there is no news.”
“You lie, girl. Have there been any more slaughtered cows?”
Swallowing a curse, I shake my head and wonder why I told her anything. Then again, fear is like water. It will find any gap to penetrate for its expression.
Mare sniffs. “Well, that is a yes if ever I have heard one.”
“I’ve said nothing—”
“So another demon has struck.”
Between one blink and the next, I see Mr. Cavenish standing in the pub’s doorway, bloody intestines in one hand, that mournful cowbell in the other. “We don’t know that’s what—”
“Is there something else out in the forest that is both brutal and intelligent—or do you think wolves of the wood are smart enough to know the compass? Which point did they hit this time.”
I imagine her in the court of Prosperitus, dressed in silks and attended by servants, and I ponder the kinds of lives where a lack of memories is a gift.
Her mind’s still sharp, so she’s spared nothing of her fall from such heights, this rickety, leaky palm that’s caught and held her a shelter below the ranks and standards of even her groundskeepers.
Yet she’s never complained. She’s never talked about what happened, either. Maybe that’s how she copes.
As the chatter from the fire grows loud between us, I lie. “We’re safe here within the village wall.”
“And you are the one who brings me wood for my fire and that foul medicine of yours, all of which is found outside of those crumbling rocks.” In a softer tone, she adds, “I worry over you.”
“I’m the last person you need to be concerned about.”
Now that the leaf flakes have sunk to the bottom of the tin, I wrap the mug in a cloth and bring the brew over to her. When I hold out the cup, she takes it in her skeletal hands, even as she shakes her head.
“Tell me the news and I will choke this back. Otherwise, it is going to go cold.”
As I meet her scowl with a glare of my own, I am careful to not look into her eyes. “Only you, Mare, could try and force a hand with your own well-being.”
“Is it working?”
I sit at the foot of the pallet. Even though she can’t see my face, I lower my head to hide a blush. “A man came into the pub last night.”
I have immediate regret over the admission. This is precisely how I got into trouble with the demons, dead cows, and compass points. Then again, I have nobody else to talk to.
“There are a lot of men in that den of iniquity,” she remarks dryly.
“Time to drink. Or that’s all the news I’m sharing.”
Mare grumbles, but takes a draw against the lip of the cup. “Oh, this is awful. You are no cook, for certain. Now tell me more of this man.”
The details of the mercenary seep into my mind, his raven hair, his war togs, and his muscled body blinding me, even as my eyes remain open.
“After he showed up, it was the quietest night Mr. Lewis’s pub ever had.”
Mare snorts. “The only way to find anything resembling silence in that ale trap is to wrap one’s head in a blanket.”
“You’ve never been inside.”
“One can hear it from the street.” When I nod at the cup, she shakes her head. “You have not told me anything. We have an agreement. What of this man.”
Blowing out my breath, I choose my words with care. “He was dressed for fighting … there were weapons all over him, but I didn’t see any insignia. Are you aware of any kind of secret guard of the King? Maybe some soldiers who protect Him from positions in the shadows?”
Somehow I want that stranger to be moral. Or at the very least not an outlaw.
“How did you know he was from Prosperitus?” she asks.
“I … don’t, I guess. I just assumed.”
I can bring little to mind about the other three Kingdoms of Anathos, only spots of gossip I’ve overheard that don’t make me want to ever visit any of them: Dangerous places with dangerous people. Why couldn’t the demons target better victims than us?
Then again, if the Fulcrum is failing, maybe they are.
Mare takes a sip of her own volition, and as she scrunches her nose, it’s as if she brought the warm mug to her lips out of habit and expected tea.
“Any soldier of the King’s court must wear the royal coat and arms,” she says briskly. “That has always been the regulation, whether on or off duty. So either your man is from another court with a different tradition or…”
“Or what?” Then I shake my head. “And he’s not mine.”
“Or he is a rogue for hire. In which case, he would be wise to leave even this lowly settlement on the fringes of Prosperitus. Our King does not care for the ugly business of mercenaries. The stranger will be hanged if caught.”
“I haven’t seen a royal guard or representative here, ever.”
“That you are aware of.”
Though I studiously avoid my friend’s eyes, her mouth thins with resolve, and I wonder about all the things she hasn’t told me about her past.
“But you have?” I prompt. “Mare, have you seen—”
“Now enough about armed men. What about the demons?” She looks at me sharply. “And do not insulate me, girl. I have a right to know anything you do.”
Remembering my run through the darkness and the cold rain, I relive the shiver of warning that went through me.
“Tell me,” Mare orders grimly.
“I fear something got inside last night. I was on my way here, and I sensed … something behind me.” And because I’m not going to talk about the farrier, I tack on, “That’s why I didn’t come. I had to turn back.”
“Demons.” She makes the sign of the crescent moon over her chest, her forefinger and thumb a knobby C over her heart. “They are among us, for certain.”
“But there was nothing out of order on my way here just now. No one hurt, no disturbances. Maybe my mind was playing tricks on me.”
“You should never come at night.” She exhales with exhaustion. “I have told you this before.”
“I have to work in the kitchen preparing the breads and cheeses during the day—”
“And if you are killed by a demon while trying to help a dying old lady, how is that better than being slightly late for a shift you are not being paid for.”
“Mr. Lewis provides me with shelter and food—”
“For which you work yourself to the bone. From now on, you will come only during the day—”
“Mare. It’s better if no one sees me anywhere near here, you know this. In the eyes of the mayor, there’s no difference between magic and medicinal herbs.”
“He is an aspinhaul.” As I gasp at the curse, she smiles as if she’s enjoyed being sassy. “Besides, the villagers will not stand for anyone prosecuting you, not after all those bairns you’ve saved.”
“They despise me.”