“I’m truly sorry about the misunderstanding,” Mathias, the Priest, said.
His voice had softened, the aggressiveness from a few minutes ago gone completely. He stood before Knowledge’s altar, hands folded into the wide sleeves of his robe, acting as if nothing had happened. As if the blood of his flock wasn’t splattered across the floor of the temple he was in charge of.
“Now that I think about it,” he continued cautiously, “there is only one class I know of that can heal, fight, channel blessings, and that’s protected from divination.”
Stephan glanced at the gagged and bound cultists, their backs against the cold wall as they sat in the corner. Then his gaze drifted towards the armed townsfolk standing watch over them, knuckles white on their cudgels and knives.
He had healed everyone, fiend-worshipers included. He didn’t get any warmth out of it, or the trickle was so tiny he couldn’t even feel it, but he had expected that.
“What do we do with them?” he asked.
“Hang them, then burn the remains.” Mathias shrugged without an ounce of emotion. “Worshiping fiends and their gods is a capital crime, and we don’t have room in our graveyard for their ilk.”
There was no hesitation in the old man. Not a shred.
Stephan on the other hand, was nowhere near as confident. They look like ordinary people, and their affiliation shocked everyone. They were model citizens, in all things just worshipping the wrong side.
He didn’t voice his thoughts, focusing on the practical problems. “Well, now that my secret is out. Please keep it safe, and if you don’t mind, could you give me some money and provisions for a month-long trip?”
“Yes, certainly, Sir. I think coin will serve you better than supplies. You can just sleep and eat at inns without drawing unwanted attention.”
Stephan agreed. Thus far, his attempts at traveling unnoticed had turned out abysmal.
A handful of minutes later, he left Herbsvale with a hefty pouch of coins at his hip and the knowledge that seven seemingly ordinary townsfolk would be executed before nightfall.
Perhaps I could infiltrate their cult? The smoke of civilization thinned, then disappeared behind him as he jogged along the road. I doubt they are good people, but even if I don’t get any useful information, I’ll at least know for certain it’s fine to execute them.
Stephan didn’t bother to ask about the name of the next town. He’d barely made it through the gate and to the inn’s door before sunset.
That was one hundred and twenty miles. Stephan reconsidered the possibility of racing to stop Queen Eleanor from approaching Highglen, but even if he ran like that every day, he would still take a week to avert the disaster.
Eleanor said she arrived at Highglen in six days, I’m not fast enough. Not yet. But in a few more levels, ten perhaps, I might be able to do it.
The thought helped lift his spirits, and Stephan opened the door with his head held high.
The inn stank of smoke, questionable ale, and unwashed bodies. It was crowded and loud, and every single person turned towards him to see who it was that entered the common room.
“Evening,” Stephan said as if nothing was amiss, and strode to the emptiest table.
He had never been to an inn. He had preferred spending his evenings out and about, stealing tender moments with Lacy or doing mischief with his friends, Jon, Simon, and Roger. On the scant few nights Tom tried to smuggle him in, his father sent him packing home to sleep and get ready to help with work the next day.
There was always something better to do. Stephan sat after a heavyset merchant shifted to the right to make room for him.
“What can I get you?” A pretty woman, three or four years older than him, leaned too close to his face, drinking up his visage with her eyes without blinking and completely void of shame.
“A meal and a room,” Stephan tried not to look dismayed by the intense gaze.
“Sure thing, handsome.” She winked and turned around, her hips swaying.
Stephan didn’t even glance at her act while several other patrons did. The inn had a performer of some sort, not a real Bard, but someone who had picked up a lute and tormented the poor instrument, strings protesting beneath his unskilled fingers with each note. Still, his music was much to the half-drunk crowd’s liking.
Stephan banished the noise from his senses, letting it fade. He confined himself to his thoughts. What he could do in the south, what dangers lay ahead? Before he could hazard an answer, the serving maid reappeared.
“Here we go,” she lowered a trencher laden with thick stew in front of Stephan, then a chunk of day-old gray bread and a wedge of cheese, leaning way too much, the top button of her shirt now unbuttoned.
Stephan could see everything, but he wasn’t one bit interested. The memory of Lacy hung heavily on him. He just wanted to eat, sleep, and get his lives over with.
“Will you be taking a room, or sharing one?” She placed a spoon and a pitcher of beer on the table..
“A private room, please.”
“That’ll be six pence, m’lord.” Her voice beamed with joy for some reason.
Stephan didn’t wonder why, nor did he bother asking. He opened his pouch of silver and gave her a coin. The woman curtsied poorly and returned four coppers before leaving with a wide grin.
Stephan turned to the food.
The stew was heavy and greasy. The meat was stringy and stubborn, hard to split with his spoon. He forced a mouthful apart and chewed.
It’s like eating salty boiled leather.
The next thought came unbidden as he broke the tough bread.
Mark lied. Was it intentional? For people to realize later that he wasn’t a boy raised in an inn?
If so, did he do it to seem of higher birth? Stephan didn’t want to and couldn’t be bothered reading Marshal Harrington’s schemes. It probably had five or ten layers of how Mark’s behavior was perfect for the role while at the same time revealing intentional flaws and weaknesses, hinting at a completely different mentality.
For all his plotting, Harrington still died a miserable death. And his loved ones followed him.
Stephan nudged an ill-cut piece of meat with his wooden spoon, bits of fat sticking to it. He fished it out and chewed hard, the slime disgusting against his tongue. While he was hungry enough to swallow, he regretted not enjoying the Cliffort keep’s cooking more back when he had the chance.
I need to get over it and stop thinking about cornbread.
Stephan ate the gray maslin bread and cheese and stew, but left the sour beer and the soggy trencher to those less fortunate than he was.
“Mind if I have some if you’re not gonna finish that?” The pudgy merchant motioned toward the pitcher.
“Enjoy.” Stephan got up, and the maid was right next to him in a moment.
“My room?”
“Please follow me, m’lord.”
Stephan went up the stairs, not even wondering why the server was addressing him like a noble. Lacy had already said his speech had drifted from that of a Brighthollower, and Stephan’s bearing was that of a general, not a small town’s youth.
“Here you are, m’lord.” The woman opened a door, bowing deeply, her full breasts once more visible beneath the loose shirt.
“Thank you. Good night.” Stephan stepped into his room and closed the door as he spoke, not wanting to give the serving maid false hope.
The room was cramped and bare. It had a bed of rough-cut wood and a small shuttered window void of glass or anything else, just a shut yawning hole in the wall with a draft pushing its way in between the planks.
Stephan sat on the bed, the smelly straw mattress sagging. Families of fleas started jumping in panic, and Stephan joined them, getting away from the bugs.
“Not a chance.”
He looked around
I can sleep on the floor. He kicked the boards in the corner, and when he saw nothing jump up, he lay down. Tomorrow, I’ll eat at the inn and seek shelter at the temple. Priests let me and Old Tod stay without raising a fuss. Maybe that was because we told them I was the Paladin?
As Stephan contemplated the issue of where to sleep without getting infested, his consciousness slipped, fatigue catching up.
He didn’t know how long he had slept when the door opened with a creak. He forced his eye open a sliver, barely awake. Bathed in light, the serving maid entered the room, carrying a tallow candle.
She wouldn’t? Stephan firmly pretended he was asleep, his breathing even, his eye cracked open a hair’s width.
Sure enough, after looking around the room, the maid snuck towards him. Long shadows danced on the wall in the flickering light as she approached. He was certain she would start undressing. She didn’t. Instead, she crouched next to him, her hand reaching for his groin. Just as she grabbed his money pouch, he realized what was happening and how wrong he was about her intentions.
She’s robbing me?
Stephan snatched her wrist, and she yelped in surprise.
“What are you doing?” he asked, eyes wide open.
Shadows danced across the woman’s face in the wavering flame. She was looking for something, anything to say, then her tongue ran ahead of her.
“I wasn’t gonna take it all. I swear. Just couple silver. My mum is sick, and we need the moneys. If you want, I can work for it.”
Stephan looked at her with disgust, then fished out three silvers from his pouch. “Here, get out.”
He pressed the coins into her palm and released her.
The woman stumbled backwards, off balance, then stood straight and headed to the door. “Am I really that ugly, m’lord?”
“This has nothing to do with your appearance,” Stephan said. “Get out.”
Once she closed the door, he listened to the retreating footsteps, then pushed the bed to block it and went back to sleep on the floor.
I should’ve brought Old Tod with me.