Chapter Thirteen. Revelations.
Thirteen
Revelations.
I drift over to Mr. Lewis as if I’m in a dream and lower myself onto the bench across from him.
There’s a dust-covered satchel and a sizable box next to the lantern as well as an untouched tankard of ale.
My employer’s flushed, sweat-run face becomes pensive, and he stares off somewhere over my shoulder, seeming not to notice me or the mercenary.
“What about my mother,” I breathe when he doesn’t speak.
“I didn’t believe him.” Mr. Lewis shakes his bald head and swipes his face with his meaty palm.
“When I was told … I didn’t believe any of it.
But here we are, and it’s exactly what my father said.
A night when the villagers take to the square and bring their flames, on the hunt, for the one who saves. ”
He abruptly looks at the mercenary, who’s stayed by the door. “You’re even in the prophecy. I should have connected it all when you walked in last night, but who is ever ready for destiny to unfold.”
“What of my mother—”
Ignoring me, Mr. Lewis shoos off the mercenary. “You must leave us now for a moment—no argument, wait outside. She and I will be done here directly, and I’ll call you back in. And no, they won’t return here. They’ve already looked for her twice. Leave us.”
There’s a pause, and I brace for a set-to. Instead, my escort just turns and walks out.
The man only argues with me, I think bitterly.
When Mr. Lewis and I are alone, my employer shakes his head.
“Now I know why you wear the Pox cloak,” he says in a soft voice. “But like so much else, I did not believe…”
“Mr. Lewis, I don’t understand any of this—”
“Every firstborn son in my line has been called to the deathbed of his father and given these.” He places his palms on the satchel and the box.
“We are told of the promised one who lives under this roof, the one we must shelter beneath the stairs … the daughter of the Savior, creator of the Fulcrum, subduer of the Dark King.”
As I gasp, he pushes the objects toward me.
“These are yours. One is a compass that will guide you on your quest, the other is the point of it all. You must leave tonight with the knight of swords, and seek out the warrior queen who sees no one to give her her due. Only then will she unite the Kingdoms of the North, South, East, and West, and defend Anathos such that the Dark King shall never rise again.”
His words are spoken from what feels like a vast distance away, and they make no sense. I am but a barmaid, who dabbles in herbs and is frightened of her own shadow—
“I have no mother,” I hear myself say. “I was orphaned on the birthing bed, and left in the village square—”
“You were entrusted to the care of my bloodline by your mother, the Savior. After she consolidated the last quantum of magic that remained, before she lured the Dark King into the fissure and created the Fulcrum, she gave you over to us.” He does not look at me, and seems to be reciting a practiced speech.
“This is your duty unto Anathos. You must finish what your mother began.”
“No.” I shove the bag and the box back at him and jump to my feet. “I am not anyone. I was orphaned on the birthing bed and left in the village square where…”
“Go on,” he says in a tired tone as my voice drifts. “What then. Tell me.”
“I was orphaned,” I parrot weakly as I sit down once again. “… on the birthing bed. And left in the village square…”
When I can go no further, he motions impatiently with his hand. “What next.”
Except there’s nothing after that combination of lines that I’ve repeated to those few who have asked about my origins. My mind is … utterly blank.
“I was but an infant. How would I know what’s next?”
“The question is why you know anything at all.” He puts a hand to his chest. “I certainly never told you your story. Who did you hear it from then?”
I open my mouth to reply. And find there’s nothing to say.
“The Savior lived … hundreds of years ago,” I protest. “I can’t be her daughter—”
“Fourteen generations to be precise.” Mr. Lewis laughs in a harsh rush. “Do you know that I was relieved when my wife couldn’t give me children? I didn’t want any sons to carry on this burden—and here you are, ending it anyway.”
“I am not hundreds of years old—”
“I don’t care what you do from here on out.
” Mr. Lewis talks over me as he shoves the satchel and the box in my direction.
“But my family’s due to you is done this night.
I’ve upheld our responsibility all my life, and I’ve finished this finally.
Now you’re going to take those things and leave before my livelihood is what that mob burns down. ”
Mr. Lewis whistles toward the front door, and as the mercenary steps back in, he gets to his feet with a grunt. “Follow me. I’ll take you both to the tunnel.”
“Tunnel?” I say as I get to my feet.
As Mr. Lewis walks over to his private quarters and the mercenary follows, I pick up the satchel. It’s heavier than it looks—and so too is the box.
Glancing to the pub’s door, I want to run, but what’s out there is deadly—and the mercenary is right.
Those villagers who’ve used me and then ignored me in public won’t sacrifice their own children.
Self-interest will keep their eyes closed to their own transgressions and complicity while they seek to sacrifice me—which will do nothing to stop the Fulcrum from degrading, and the demons from coming, and the Dark King from …
My mother is the Savior?
Surely Mr. Lewis is mistaken. Hundreds of years have passed—
Hide.
In the chaos of my mind, that old, familiar voice gets me going even though every logical instinct tells me to stay where I am and wait for reality to make more sense. I scramble after the men, tripping on something—a chair?—and having to catch my balance on one of the overturned trestle tables.
As I join my employer and the mercenary inside the owner’s quarters, I’m not surprised that a framed drawing of Mr. Lewis’s wife has pride of place over his messy bed’s headboard.
After he shuts us all in, he goes across to a drape-covered arch and groans as he bends down and pulls an ancient trunk out of his closet.
A cloud of dust wafts up as he lifts the lid, and the pack inside has cobwebs all over it.
“This is what I’m supposed to give you.” He tosses the bag to my feet and it lands with a rustle. “Along with some provisions.”
Over at his galley, he takes two loaves of fresh bread, and a bladder of what could be water, milk, or mead, and stuffs it all into a woven sack. Back with us, he pushes the comestibles at me and I struggle to keep ahold of them and what he’s already insisted I take.
“This way,” Mr. Lewis tells us.
The blank wall he goes over to makes no sense—until he lowers his shoulder, and pushes a narrow, hidden aperture open. As lantern light pours inside, I see … absolutely nothing. It’s a black hole, as if what’s been revealed is a tear in the fabric of time and Anathos itself.
“There’s a torch on the left.” Mr. Lewis pulls his sagging pants up over his belly, but as he has no waist, they slip right back into place under his girth. “You can light it with this.”
He presses some matches into the mercenary’s hand, then looks back and forth between us. “Well, go on then. Get out of here—”
“Where does the tunnel end up,” the mercenary demands.
“Not here. That’s all that matters—”
The man of war steps in to him, and I notice the dagger is back in his grip. Mr. Lewis sees the weapon as well—just as outside the private quarters, voices announce that a contingent has entered the pub proper.
The mercenary deepens his tone to an order. “Where.”
“It goes under the village wall and then the moat.” Mr. Lewis puts both his hands up, as if the knife is pointed at his chest even though the weapon remains at the mercenary’s side.
“I don’t know because I’ve never been down it.
But my father told me that it is the way out for her.
When you’re inside and I close the panel, you throw the switch by the lantern and it’s done. No one can get in there. Ever.”
The voices get louder and there’s some thumping, like fists are beating on the bar counter.
Turning away from the men, I square off at the black void. Then before I can think too much, I extend my foot—
A powerful arm bars my way. “I go first.”
There’s the threatening sound of metal on metal as the mercenary draws his broadsword from its sheath.
Leaning into the darkness, he reaches to the left, and his opposite hand comes out with the torch.
Instead of using the matches, he goes to the hearth, and lights it from the embers that are glowing there.
The flames crackle in their seat as he reapproaches the darkness and steps inside without hesitation.
I envy his confidence.
Pausing on the threshold, I look back at Mr. Lewis, though not into his eyes. “That’s why you never wanted me to go out, especially if it was night. You were protecting me.”
“Don’t get sentimental.” His stare shifts to the portrait of his wife. “I was just doing a job. Now will you leave. Finally.”
Pain as familiar as that voice in my head lances through my chest. Did I honestly expect anything else from him, though? From anybody here?
As I enter the tunnel and Mr. Lewis closes the panel on my hooded face, I know deep in my soul that I will never, ever see him again.
And I’m the only one who cares.