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alydiarackham · 5 years ago

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Scales: A Fresh Telling of Beauty and the Beast by Alydia Rackham

Chapter One

“Once Upon A Time”

“Snakes!”

The shriek ripped down a wide stone corridor near the kitchens of Tirincashel, followed by the battering of fleeing footsteps. Eleanora threw herself back against the wall as Hattie, a plump kitchen maid, barreled past her, skirts hiked up in her thick hands.

“Run, Princess Ele!” Hattie puffed, her face red, her eyes wide, her bonnet askew. “There are snakes in the larder!”

“What?” Eleanora called after her. “What kind of snakes?”

“Blue asps!” Hattie shouted back, her voice pitching to a screech. “Dozens and dozens of them!” Her words dissolved into a trailing howl as she rounded the corner to sound the castle-wide alarm. Eleanora frowned, watching her, then gathered up her long green skirt and trotted down the hall in the exact direction Hattie had come from.

A winsome, slender fourteen, Princess Ele made little sound as she darted across the worn gray stones, through the alternate light and shadow

created by the line of tall windows to her left. The scent of lavender washed past her face. Her long black hair flagged out behind her as she hurried faster, listening. She swung around the corner to her right and hopped down a short staircase, then darted onward, past the rustling torches.

Up ahead, light shone from a doorway—and clanging, crashing and shouting rang out to meet her.

“Get back, get back, Ailse! You’re in the way!” a rough voice ordered—Ele recognized it as Pather’s, one of her father’s huntsmen.

“Sorry!” Ailse stammered, and stumbled backward into the hallway, almost tripping on her long skirt. The young, thin woman wore the plain white-and-tan cotton clothes and cap of a kitchen maid, and her eyes had widened with panic.

Ele’s feet pounded now, and Ailse jerked around and caught sight of her.

“Princess, you mustn’t come any closer!” she cried, throwing out her hands to stop her.

“I want to see!” Ele insisted, grabbing the doorframe of the larder and swinging around it—

Pather, a short, thick, dark-bearded man in softened leather, stood with his back to her, facing the hung baskets of onions, apples and herbs, his attention bent toward the feet of the wine casks that neatly lined the dirt floor. In his left hand he held a short club, and in the other, a gleaming hatchet.

Hssssssss…!

Ele’s blood ran cold as the sound shivered through the air. And at last, her attention caught on the writhing tangle near Pather’s feet.

Four asps, flowing like ink, wound and wended around each other, their scales twinkling in the lamplight, seeming to change hue even as they moved—from deepest midnight, to the ripple of the ocean at noon, to a shimmering silver.

But their eyes glowed red, like low embers, and their flickering tongues looked like needles of obsidian.

“You women need to get back,” Pather warned, adjusting his grip on his hatchet. “I don’t want—”

One of the snakes reared up.

It suddenly lifted half its body to waist height, and its neck flared with

silver spines. Its eyes blazed like fire, and its jaw spat open, revealing long, black fangs.

Pather swung his hatchet.

He struck the snake down and his blade connected with the ground—the snake’s head lopped off.

Ele slapped her hands over her mouth as her heart gave a painful pang—

“Don’t kill them!”

The other snakes exploded with snapping, hissing with the fury of bees. Pather ignored her—

And cut them all to pieces.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

Their blood splattered across the casks.

The room fell silent. Pather, panting, righted himself, and hefted his weapon. He turned around, and glanced at Ele, then at Ailse. Sweat ran down his pale face.

“Are the two of you all right?”

Ele didn’t answer. She stared at the shreds of dead animal lying strewn behind him.

“I’m…I’m all right,” Ailse replied faintly. “Thank you, Pather…”

Pather’s heavy brow frowned, and his attention sharpened.

“Ailse, you look white.”

Ele turned to look at her…

Just as the young woman’s skin turned ash-gray, and she collapsed.

“No, no, no!” Pather cried, throwing down his club and hatchet and leaping forward. He clumsily caught her, and the two of them fell to the ground. Ele leaped back and hit the doorframe.

“She’s been stung!” Pather cursed as he hastily laid Ailse down and frantically began feeling all over her arms. Finding nothing, he then tossed the hem of her skirt aside…

To reveal a silver spine stuck through the skin of her ankle. A spine that oozed dark purple liquid.

Pather went still, staring at it.

Then, slowly, he covered his face with his hand.

A day later, Ailse died. She never regained consciousness after she collapsed in the hall. And as her family, friends, and the royal household watched, her skin turned from ash to gray, to the tone of stone, and at last her heart stopped. She was given a kindly burial by the king, for she had been a cheerful and helpful maid for five years.

Ele’s heart ached. And in the span of that day, she had ceased to feel any sympathy at all for those wicked blue asps, or any other creatures of like kind.

��Chapter Two

“There Lived A Minstrel”

Seven Years Later

“No, you can’t wear that dress,” Oralia snapped, tossing her long, golden curls as she snatched the scarlet-and-silver gown out of Ele’s hands. She lifted her chin and her sky-blue eyes flashed before she spun around and marched back to her four-poster bed, which was covered in fluffy white pillows and comforters. “You have black eyes and black hair and not a pinch of color in your face,” Oralia went on in her swift, bird-like tone. “You would look like death. Even worse than you look right now, in that sack.”

Ele glanced down at her long-sleeved, loose-fitted beige dress and cream apron.

“Do you expect me to garden in a ball gown?” she asked as she folded her arms, sure to use her low, smooth voice to make her sound even older than her sister—though she only exceeded her by one year.

“You shouldn’t be gardening at all,” Oralia declared. “You’ll be dirty and smelly and brown and your hands will get rough—no one will want to marry you.”

“You really oughtn’t order me around,” Ele answered, a hint of warning in her tone. “It’s my dress and my birthday—I should to be able to wear what I want.”

“No,” Oralia shot back, ignoring the warning. “I’ve told you—I am planning everything. Including what you’re wearing.”

Ele considered an answer, then bit her tongue and sank down in a short chair near Oralia’s wardrobe, watching the shorter, blonde girl rush and fuss through her lavishly-decorated chambers, tossing dresses, undergarments and jewelry onto her bed.

Oralia was beautiful. She had a charming, glowing face, a lovely figure, and cascading golden hair that was the envy of every woman in the realm. And her eyes constantly sparkled, she had long, black lashes, dark eyebrows, and an elegant, effortless way of moving that almost looked like dancing. She also used a bright, endearing tone of speech with the servants, subjects, and their parents—a tone that Ele never heard when the two of them were alone together.

“I think the tapestries are a bit much,” Ele remarked, resting her elbow on the armrest and her chin on her hand. “I can’t see the walls.”

“The tapestries are gorgeous,” Oralia answered.

“Yes, but you have all of them, now,” Ele said. “Did you leave any in Mother’s room?”

“Mother doesn’t need them,” Oralia retorted. “She said so herself.”

“You have six lamps in here, too,” Ele observed. “And the gold mantel lions from Papa’s old chambers…”

“Listen,” Oralia huffed, straightening and facing her. “I like pretty things. I like pretty things all around me. And I especially like pretty things that other people aren’t properly appreciating!”

Ele watched her for a moment, a low pain traveling down through her chest.

“Is that what you thought of Roderick?” she asked quietly. “That I wasn’t properly appreciating him?”

“Tosh,” Oralia waved her off and straightened a bright pink frock. “He and I are not even close to betrothed. You can certainly have him back if you like.”

“Perhaps I would,” Ele murmured, not taking her eyes from her sister. “If he would even look at me.”

“Ha! Well, perhaps he will tonight,” Oralia said lightly. “I’m going to be paying my attentions to the new bard we hired—you remember, the one I heard at the fair and made Papa call to court?”

Ele’s brow furrowed.

“No…”

“Amberian, Master of Lute and Song!” Oralia sang the name, scooped up a dress and pressed it to her heart. “Though—everyone calls him Amber. Not sure why. They say he looks like it, but I have no idea what that means.” She sighed and gave Ele a dreamy look. “Wait until you hear him sing, Ele. You’ve never heard anything like it in your life. And people say he can compose songs right upon the instant, if you give him a line and a subject.” She twirled around, and the frilly skirt flared out around her. “I fell quite in love with him at the fair. Tonight, I’m going to have him write a song about me.”

“Oh, good,” Ele sat back in her chair. “Just what I wanted for my birthday.”

Oralia giggled and stopped spinning.

“Your birthday present is your new dress!” she said.

“My new dress?” Ele asked, surprised. “It’s finished?”

Oralia gave her a sly look.

“It’s just been delivered to your room.”

Ele sat up straight, then looked at Oralia sideways. But Oralia just grinned and twirled again. Ele hesitated, then got to her feet and hurried out of the room, hearing her sister laugh behind her.

“Oralia hates me.”

“What?! What makes you think that?”

“Look at what she’s given me to wear to the feast.” Ele held up the dress she had found waiting for her on her own bed: a bright orange gown with large ruffles all down the front of the skirt. It had not been wrapped, hung or folded.

“It…doesn’t have sleeves,” Ele’s mother—a tall, chestnut-haired, beautiful

woman with striking green eyes—raised an eyebrow and put her hands on her hips. “She said she was finished making it...”

“She did not make it,” Ele countered, tossing the dress down on her emerald bedclothes. “She got it from the trolls.”

“I might believe that,” her mother replied, sighing and fingering the skirt of the orange dress. “If trolls wore clothes.”

Ele sighed as well and ran her hand absently down through her own long hair, studying her mother’s winsome, brown-clad figure. Ele frowned.

“How do you braid your hair like that?”

“Four strands,” her mother answered absently, pushing her own long, thick plait out of the way—the end of it brushed the rug.

“Can you do that with mine? For this evening?”

“Mhm,” her mother nodded. Then, she glanced up at her daughter. “What are you going to wear?”

“I will not wear this,” Ele pointed at the hideous orange dress. Mother paused, and watched her, a weight seeming to settle around her.

“Today is your birthday, Eleanora. Today, you’re of age, and have as much authority as I do.”

Ele’s head came up, her attention caught by her mother’s tone. She watched Mother’s eyes as she solemnly gazed back at her.

“Your commands to those beneath you cannot be overruled,” Mother went on. “And your father and I will uphold all of your decisions. The kingdom now expects you to behave with the mind of a queen.” Mother reached out and took Ele by the shoulders, speaking low and warm. “You know the law. Papa and I will now step back from you, so that you may be ruled by your own heart and mind. And we are eager to see what you will do.”

“So…what does that mean?” Ele asked. “Regarding the dress?”

Mother winked at her.

“You may wear whatever you like.”

Ele smiled back, relieved deep down within her as she watched Mother leave. She listened to her footsteps fade away down the corridor. Then, she sighed, sank down and laid on her back on her wide, canopied bed. Her headboard rested against the stone wall, and just to the left of it stood a wide window, through which the afternoon sun poured. The light washed over Ele as she lay there, gazing at her empty ceiling, breathing in the scent of the cinnamon and cloves that she always enjoyed keeping in a small bowl on her vanity. She diddled her fingers, her gut slowly tightening, until an aching knot formed.

Roderick would be at the feast tonight. As Father’s bravest and finest knight, it was out of the question to exclude him from royal festivities. And he would be following Oralia around all evening, even if she was chasing the minstrel…

“Hmhmm…Hmmm…Hmhm”

Ele’s brow furrowed, her attention sharpening.

A low, melodic tone drifted through the slight crack in her window.

A voice.

Slowly, she sat up.

She climbed off the bed and circled it, then approached her window. Carefully, she pressed her fingertips against the lowest pane, and the window swung open. She rested her arms on the cool stone sill, and glanced down into the bright courtyard just one story below.

Other than the guards at the gate, the broad courtyard was deserted—except for a single person. He sat on the steps of the well, in the shade of its little canopy, with a butter-colored lute resting across his lap. He carelessly plucked the strings—they jingled pleasantly within the stone enclosure. Ele’s gaze fixed on him, and she couldn’t look away.

He wore fine, tanned leather, much of which had been dyed playful colors. He also had on walking shoes, but no hat. She noticed this peripherally, though, to the rest of his soft and unusual aspect.

His skin was a warm, southern tone—black eyebrows and lashes. He had a handsome face, tilted to the side as he attended to his lute. His short, curly hair bore a mix of colors: some strands of deep russet, others charcoal, others like the embers of a low fire, others like burnished gold. He struck a chord, then took a deep breath…

And began to sing, all for himself.

And Ele’s heart rose to the clouds.

“If a gold coin lies down

In the shaft of a well

And deep water hides it

Its worth can you tell?

If the shadows conceal it and moss makes its bed

Is this gold valued less

Than upon a king’s head?”

Even dressed in childish lyrics and a lilting tune, she had never heard a voice like it. Like the sunshine on a summer’s day after a wash of delightful rain. Like a river laughing downhill through shimmering stones. Like a lit hearth in the evening after a long day of hiking through the snow. Like cider and honey, like candles at twilight, like wind off the ocean, like bells resounding through a valley…

Like nothing in the world. The more she searched her heart for comparisons, the fewer she found that even came close. She held her breath as she listened, chastising even her heartbeat for distracting from the song.

His fingers moved deftly across the strings, and he lifted that voice once more, with an ease that made Ele beam with delight.

“So mark well my words now

Remember this tune

Lest the world tries a falsehood

To lead you untrue

No matter the depths of the black water cold

The coin is still worth all its true weight in gold.”

His fingers lifted off the strings. The last notes echoed and settled into the courtyard, as if coming home to roost within the walls. The young man sighed, and moved to stand up.

“Will you be playing that tonight?” Ele’s voice startled the echoes—but she smiled even more broadly as the surprised young man hopped to his feet, and his eyes found hers. Eyes of the brightest brown—almost coppery.

She knew who he was. This had to be Amberian of the Lute. But Ele suddenly realized why the name “Amber” was the only one that suited him.

“Hullo!” he answered her, a reflexive smile lighting his features. Then he laughed. “I didn’t know anyone was up there.”

“I was hiding,” Ele confessed. “I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

“Oh, I was just practicing.” He swung his lute strap over his shoulder.

“It was beautiful,” Ele told him, a sudden lump in her throat. His smile brightened, and he briefly ducked his head.

“Thank you.”

Ele blinked. Modesty? With that voice?

“Has…Has someone come to invite you in?” she asked.

He looked up at her again, and shook his head.

“Not yet. I think they’ve forgotten me.”

“No, no, no,” Ele chuckled. “I have it on good authority that Princess Oralia is dying to see you.” She straightened and held up a finger. “Stay put—I’ll go see to it that someone opens the doors for you.”

“What should I do then?”

Ele stopped.

“Hm?”

His coppery eyes searched hers—earnest and open.

“Once I come in,” he clarified. “I’ve never sung for a king before. And…I’ve always found it’s a good idea to ask other servants what to expect before I enter a new house.”

Ele’s face flushed, and she opened her mouth—

Then stopped herself. Smiled slowly.

“That’s probably wise,” she answered. She lifted her chin. “Well…If I were you, I’d get settled into my quarters first, and be careful to memorize the way, since all the passages twist in that corner of the castle. And, at dinner tonight, I would stay in sight of the king and queen—I know they’ll want to hear you. After that, when the dancing begins, get clear of the knights. They don’t have any patience for minstrels, especially if they’ve been enjoying the mead.”

Amber’s brow furrowed—worry crossed his gaze.

“Or,” Ele suddenly added. “If….you need to escape entirely, there is a library just off the dining hall. I’ve hidden there myself.” She gazed at him again, unable to keep the warmth from her tone. “But I’m sure it won’t come to that. You’ll do very well.”

Amber drew himself up, and the tension eased from his shoulders.

“Best of luck,” Ele said, straightening to withdraw into her room—though her heart gave an odd pang. “I need to be going.”

“Will you be there this evening?” Amber called. Ele stopped.

“Yes,” she said. “I will.”

“I’ll see you soon, then!” he waved at her. Her grin widened, she waved back, pulled in and shut the window. After standing for just a moment, staring across her room, she drew her head up in decision, and made for the door.

Chapter Three

“Who Danced With A Princess”

Ele walked quietly down the cool, torch-lit corridors, her floor-length, homespun green gown rustling with her steps. It had long, fitted sleeves, simple gold embroidery around the scooped collar, a slender waist and a flared skirt. It was comfortable, and nothing more formal than a day dress. She also wore no jewelry at all, and her mother had braided her hair without ornament.

Ele’s cold fingers closed as she heard the sounds of the party—voices, clanging dishes, shuffling feet—roll toward her down the stone hall. Rich scents drifted around her, too: breads, pheasant, boar, venison, ciders, wines, and roasted nuts. Her stomach clenched even harder. She slowed and bit her cheek. Halted. Slid her right foot backward.

“Eleanora!”

She jerked, her hand flying to her heart. It hammered against her ribs as a tall figure blundered out of the shadows to her right and came to a panting halt. She could halfway see him in the torchlight—slender and handsome, with dark hair and vibrant blue eyes. Eyes she had often compared to the spring sky. He wore the leather and dress jerkin of the knighthood of the royal house. And the sight of him sent pain shooting from her chest out to her fingers and all the way down her back.

“Roderick,” she gasped, lowering her hand and giving him a look. “Are you trying to frighten me?”

“No,” he quickly gave a half smile. “No, I was looking for you.”

She watched him.

“Why?”

“Well, your father is looking for you, for one,” he said, finally catching his breath. “And I also hoped I’d have the honor of sitting next to you this evening, and dancing with you at least twice.”

Ele stared at him, but he only gazed back at her, and smiled.

“The seating is arranged,” Ele carefully reminded him. “You’ve been assigned to Oralia’s right hand—she did that herself—”

“Never mind her,” he waved it off. “You and I are still good friends, are we not? And I’ve neglected you lately. Besides, Oralia is otherwise occupied. With party business.”

Ele frowned—

“A prince of realms did hold a ball,

Forced to marry, against his will

But to the ball, a lady came

All else forgot but this lady fair

And he must dance with her, oh—

And he must dance with her

Throw over all the kingdom’s worth,

But he must dance with her.”

A voice—as pure as refined gold and as rich as aged wine resounded through the feasting hall ahead of her, silencing the chatter and hushing all the guests to listening. She glanced at Roderick. His smile faltered. Ele drew in a deep breath. It hurt badly.

“You don’t want to spend time with me,” she realized. “And you wouldn’t. Except that Oralia is sitting with the minstrel. Isn’t she?”

Roderick blinked.

“No,” he shook his head. “I mean—She is? I hadn’t noticed. I…How did you…?”

Ele’s gut twisted and her fists clenched.

“You want to make her jealous,” she said. “Pretending to pay court to me so she’ll come to you.”

“No, Ele—” Roderick held up his hand.

“I am a princess of this kingdom,” Ele snapped, her eyes stinging. “You will address me as ‘your royal highness,’ ‘princess’ or ‘my lady.’” Suddenly, her whole body broke out in shivers, and she had to fight to form her next words. “But not now,” she managed. “I do not wish to see you or anyone for the rest of the evening.” And she charged past him, away from the feasting hall and down a dark, narrow corridor where no one but the servants ever walked.

“She was so fair, she was so sweet

He was stricken with true love

But when he asked, she would not tell

The name her mother gave.

He fell in love with her, oh—

He fell in love with her

Throw over all the kingdom’s worth

But he fell in love with her.”

Amber delicately pressed the thin strings of his lute with his fingertips, watching their progress as he plucked with the other hand. The notes reverberated through the wooden chest of the instrument, shimmering through the large, towering banquet hall. He sat on a low, comfortable stool with the wide granite fireplace to his back. The crackling flames behind him warmed his jerkin, almost humming along with the tune. He smiled to himself, took a deep breath, and kept singing.

“At midnight’s strike, she fled from him

And left behind her shoe,

The prince despairs of finding her

But he vows that’s what he’ll do.”

As he sang, he lifted his head, and glanced around the room. Torches lit it, as did tall, white-wax candles atop gold and silver sticks. The three long food-and-wine-laden tables had been arranged in a U, with its open end toward him. The king and queen sat directly across from him in tall, wooden chairs. Queen Lilian was beautiful and stately, with dark hair and emerald eyes that sparkled as she watched him, her fingers lightly entwined. King Herrard sat back, a small, pleasant smile on his bearded face. He reminded Amber every inch of a lionesque monarch—with a blond mane of hair, weather-beaten features and warm brown eyes. Both royals wore splendid comfort—scarlets and golds unrivaled anywhere else, with glimmering jewelry on their hands and throats. At the other tables sat courtiers and knights also dressed in glittering garb—many of the women wore elaborate hats and headdresses. They all listened to Amber, eating quietly if their appetites demanded it, as the flamelight played across their finery, the cutlery, and their attentive gazes. Amber’s attention once more caught on the royal table. The chair to the right of the queen stood empty. As did the two chairs to the king’s left. He could only account for one of those vacancies.

For on a fur rug right next to his feet sat princess Oralia, dressed in scarlet embroidered with white, and diamonds dancing at her ears and upon her fair throat. Her gold hair, in endless ringlets, spilled down her shoulders all the way to the floor. She watched him fixedly with radiant blue eyes, her perfect, blushing face tilted toward him. Amber kept singing.

“And he must find her soon, oh—

Yes, he must find her soon

Throw over all the kingdom’s worth

But he must find her soon.”

With a gentle flourish, he finished the song and lifted his right hand off the strings, smiling down at the gleaming face of his lute.

“Ah!” the courtiers exclaimed—a half-sigh of pleasure—and burst into applause. Amber raised his head and met several of their happy glances as cheering rang through the rafters. The king and queen rose to their feet, and the king struck his hands together mightily, grinning from ear to ear. Amber got up, and bowed to them at the waist. When he straightened, he found the king still beaming, and shaking his head.

“Though I spent my boyhood and youth in the north with my father, living amongst the fellowship of Caldic Curse-Breakers,” he boomed. “And night after night, around their enchanted fires, I listened to their music—music spun from the weavings of the wind, and the tones of the very morning light itself…” He held out a hand to Amber. “I have never heard such a song as that. How proud I am that I, of all fortunate men, am blessed to have the finest voice in all the land grace my humble halls.”

The court burst into another round of clapping, nodding firmly to Amber and to each other. Amber inclined his head to him, his heart swelling.

“And how proud I am,” the king shouted over the noise. “To have a daughter with such impeccable taste—and cheerful stubbornness—that she insisted I bring him here, to delight us this evening and forevermore!” He gestured broadly to Oralia, fondness glowing in his features. She hopped to her feet, and gave them all cute curtsey, at which the courtiers laughed.

“And now,” the king went on. “As we have all eaten our fill, I pray that the other musicians come forth to play for the dancing!”

A wilder cheer went up as the four-piece ensemble shuffled out with their pipes and drums, and began arranging their chairs and stools. The roar of the hall billowed over Amber, as well as the thousand delicious scents from the feast, and warmth bloomed through his chest. Maybe now he could go to the kitchen and get some food—he hadn’t eaten all day—and come back out to watch some of the dancing—

Fingers grabbed his wrist. He swung around.

Oralia had hold of him with both her hands, and she tilted her head coyly at him.

“Come, Amber!” she cried, pulling close to his face. Lavender perfume washed over him.

“Come dance,” she enticed, smiling beautifully. She slid her hand down and interlaced their fingers. “I’ve been waiting all evening to dance! Please?”

“With me?” he cried.

“Of course! Why not?” she insisted.

“Ha,” Amber laughed. “All right—if you say so.”

“I do,” she answered resolutely. “Come!”

Amber managed to set his lute down on his chair before she pulled him toward the group of courtiers who had lined up in the center of the room. Amber filed in next to the men and faced the iridescent princess, who gave him a saucy look as she took her place. The musicians tuned, paused—then burst into song.

With a grin, Amber sprang into the dance—Oralia followed immediately. They swung and swirled together, weaving expertly between the other colorful dancers as the music soared to the ceiling. They met in the middle, he wrapped his arm around her waist and they spun wildly—both let out ringing laughs. Oralia’s golden hair flung out behind her like a glorious flag, her skirt flaring like flower petals. The dance blurred around them, and they easily kept pace with the quick rhythm, out-dancing everyone else on the floor.

The music built to a frenzied beat—Amber’s heart pounded in his ears—and finally, the players finished with a sweep of gusto. The seated courtiers began to clap first, then the panting dancers. Amber applauded, nodding at the fevered musicians, then sent a happy look to Oralia—

Who promptly stepped to him and pressed her lips to his cheek in a quick kiss. His face went hot.

“I’m off to get a drink,” she told him as she skipped back. “I will find you for the next dance!”

Amber could only get out a laugh before she darted off through the crowd. Shaking his head, Amber made his way to a long side table where sat a large bowl of cold, red punch, along with several empty silver goblets. He picked up a goblet, hefting its weight in his hand, and reached for the ladle—

A hand slapped down on his left shoulder. An arm draped across his back. Amber instantly went still. His head came around to the right—

A knight. Back-haired, lean and wolf-like, with piercing blue eyes. Right next to him. With his arm around him.

And he stared straight back at Amber, his gaze like ice.

Amber’s heart thudded once.

The knight’s mouth twisted into a semblance of a smile, but it didn’t look real.

“What are you doing over here, bard?” the knight asked, his voice deep and calm.

“I’m…getting a drink,” Amber answered, his brow slowly furrowing as he watched those wintry eyes.

“Oh, you are,” the knight’s eyebrows raised. “Why?”

“I’m thirsty,” Amber replied. The knight’s hand tightened on Amber’s shoulder.

“And why is that?” the knight pressed.

“I have been dancing.”

“Ah. I see. That’s interesting,” the knight said casually. “Because I thought I was hallucinating earlier, when I saw the princess dancing with a servant.”

Amber’s jaw clenched. The knight’s crooked smile grew.

“And I was convinced my vision was continuing to blind me when I saw a servant approach a table meant for courtiers and royalty. I’m so glad you’ve confirmed the truth. I thought I was going quite mad.”

Amber said nothing. But his free hand closed into a tight fist. The knight’s grip tensed further.

“I’m not exactly certain what corner of the woods you’re from, lad—but in civilized places, there are such things as codes of conduct, and expectations for folk of various stations. And in this kingdom,” He leaned close, and hissed in Amber’s face. “Servants do not touch princesses. Neither do they pollute the food or drink of their betters. Now, I know you are a newcomer, so I will release you this one time.” The knight withdrew just slightly. “Just remember this, Fiddler: keep your station, and you’ll get to keep your fingers. Understood?”

A needle-like chill traveled down through Amber’s gut. He didn’t pull his eyes from the knight. Neither did he nod.

He stepped back. The knight let him go—and any semblance of smile vanished. Amber turned, strode across the room, picked up his lute from off his chair, and hurried around the standing mantel toward a short corridor, praying there would be a door at the end of it that led to something besides a broom cupboard.

Ele sat on the rug in the corner of the library to one side of a desk, knees hugged to her chest, staring absently at the flames in the broad fireplace across the room. All around her, the tall shadows of the tome-packed library stretched to a darkened ceiling. The crackle of the embers filled the silence. She counted her breaths, drawing in the scent of burning cedar and book-dust, absently running her thumb back and forth against her opposite forearm. She sighed. Her whole ribcage ached.

The door latch off to her left clacked. She sat up.

A quick, heavy sigh rushed through the quiet—hard footsteps intruded, the door squeaked and then clanked shut. Low panting followed, and then…

The person stepped in so that Ele could glimpse him around the desk. He entered the soft light from the hearth…

Tall, dark and warm—hair of twilight and autumn, clothes of a traveler, a lute in his hand. His brow twisted, and his gaze seemed faraway. He heaved another sigh, and raked his hand through his curls.

“So you did have to escape,” she noted.

He jumped, whirling around, his hand slipping on the lute so it gave a disconcerted “twang.” Ele felt herself smiling—though it hurt—and climbed tiredly to her feet.

“I’m sorry,” she laughed. “It’s just me.”

His startled eyes found her, and he blew out his breath as his frame relaxed.

“You keep scaring me,” he said, recovering a faint grin. “It’s starting to get embarrassing.”

Ele ducked her head and chuckled, slipping around the desk and wrapping her arms around herself.

“I’m not trying to,” she promised. “I suppose I’m just too quiet.”

“I’m probably too loud,” he said. “Or…not paying attention.”

“Maybe,” Ele shrugged amiably. She canted her head. “What are you running from?”

“Oh,” he gestured toward the door, and that furrow returned to his forehead. “There’s a knight out there who wants to kill me.”

Ele’s eyebrows went up.

“Kill you? Why?”

“I danced with the princess. And then I tried to get a drink of punch.” He sighed, setting his lute gently on the floor and leaning it against the mantel. “Apparently, I’m not allowed.”

Ele pulled her arms in tighter, then took a quick breath.

“That’s Sir Roderick.”

“Hm. Nice fellow,” Amber muttered.

“You’re afraid of him?” Ele wondered.

“Ha. Well,” Amber shot her a glance and sat down on the rug. “I can’t really count someone who threatens to cut off my fingers as a friend, can I?”

“What?” Ele yelped. “Roderick…Roderick said that?”

“I don’t know if it was Roderick,” Amber said. “I only just got here. I

barely remember the way to my rooms, I don’t know anyone—and I would rather not make any mortal enemies just yet.”

“You know me,” Ele corrected quietly. He looked up at her.

“Just a little,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“I’m…I’m Ele,” she said.

“Oh, well—” Amber sat up and held out his right hand to her. “My name’s Amberian, son of Caspell of Nerrinton. I’m called Amber.”

Ele hesitated, then stepped fully into the firelight and stretched out her right hand. He caught her fingers. His were warm, and soft. Again, he gave her that smile—a smile that had faded in the wake of his mood, but now shone back bright as day.

He held onto her a moment, gazing up at her. She watched the firelight play across all the colors in his eyes.

He let go.

“Nerrinton?” Ele repeated. “That’s very far south, isn’t it? Close to the ocean?”

“Mhm,” he nodded, settling back against the stone of the mantel. “It’s always hot there—it’s wonderful. Big city, busy all the time. My parents are merchants. Well…My father started the business, but then he died and his brother married my mother.”

“Oh,” Ele nodded, cautiously settling down onto her knees a few feet from him. “Have you moved in here all right? To your rooms? How are they?”

“They’re fine,” he assured her, folding his arms and stretching his legs out in front of him. “Much better than any I’ve had before. Someone named…Roger showed me the way. I tried to take your advice and memorize the halls,” he shot her a twinkling glance. “But I know I’ll get lost at least once, especially in the dark.” He shifted toward her. “So, what do you do here? You’re too well-dressed to be a kitchen maid or anything like that. Are you a lady’s maid? You help the queen?”

“When she needs me,” Ele hid a smile.

“No wonder you know everything,” he remarked.

Just outside, a sprightly whistle-and-pipe tune began to play, and the whole hall thudded with a hundred sets of footsteps, in time with the music. Amber groaned.

“I wanted to at least watch the dancing,” he complained. “But now if I show my face that knight will pound it in.”

Ele giggled, and covered her mouth with her hand.

“It isn’t funny at all,” he muttered. She choked on her laughter.

“You’re missing the party too,” Amber noted. “Why?”

“I just…” Ele lowered her hand and swallowed hard. “I wasn’t in the mood. To be around a lot of people.”

“But you like dancing,” he lifted his eyebrows.

“Yes—”

“Then let’s dance.”

Ele mentally staggered.

“What—?”

“Yes, come on,” he said, hopping to his feet. He clapped his hands once, then held them out to her. She stared at him.

“Come on,” he beckoned with his fingers.

“I only know line dances—” Ele protested.

“I’ll show you a dance we did all the time in Nerrinton,” he cut in. “You’ll pick it up right away—promise.”

“I’m…” Ele started, her heart hammering. He just waited, then looked slyly at her sideways and wiggled his fingers. She heaved a sigh, rolled her eyes, and tried not to smile as she got up and grasped his hands.

“All right, this is a quick tune, but we can do it,” he said, setting his stance. “First, it’s three fast steps this way…” He led her thus. “And then three fast steps back. Then we do that again.”

Ele battled to keep up, biting the side of her cheek.

“Then we twirl under,” he went on, and whirled her into a bridge-like spin, and they faced each other again. “Then this way three steps, that way three steps—”

Ele stumbled.

“I’m actually rubbish at dancing.” She caught her balance and blushed. “I can never pick it up—”

“Nonsense, you’re fine,” he said. “All right, the three steps is the pattern, remember that. We do that one way, then the other way, and then something in the middle, repeating. First the under twirl, then the spin, and then we come in and do the three steps a different way.”

“What different way—?”

“Three steps first. Go.” They hopped three steps one way, then three

steps back, and then he spun her around by her hands so the whole room

whirled. She accidentally giggled. He beamed.

“All right, three steps—go!”

They danced one way, then the other—

And he stepped in, slid his right arm around her waist and pulled her

against his chest. Their faces were suddenly inches apart. She looked up at him—she saw flecks of gold in his eyes. Her heart caught—

The next moment, he tugged her into a dizzying spin, and then they danced their six steps that way. Ele couldn’t breathe.

“All right, and then we start over!” Amber said, leaping back and gripping her hands again. “Three steps this way!”

They did this again and again, faster each time, it seemed—and yet, before Ele knew it, here feet were flying. And she was laughing. Laughing so hard she thought she might break a rib. Around and around they spun, across that library rug, rushing by the mantel fire, sending mad shadows flashing upon the faces of the book-covered walls.

Finally, the music burst to its end, like a firecracker, and Ele and Amber collapsed to the floor, panting through their laughter.

“Well…” Amber managed. “I might need a while to recover from that one.”

“A year at least,” Ele answered. Amber fell backward, laughing full-out, pressing both hands to his heart. Ele managed to stay sitting up, her skirt thrown haphazardly across her legs.

“Yes. At least,” Amber said, swiping at his eyes. “Especially with no food in me.”

“What?” Ele asked, brushing her own tears away. “You haven’t eaten?”

“No,” he said. “Not all day.”

“Oh, no,” Ele clambered to her feet, clearing her throat. “That isn’t good—you’ll be ill.”

“Ha, don’t worry about me. This would not be the first time I went a whole day without food.”

“Well, you shouldn’t!” Ele insisted, smoothing her hair. “Not while you live here.” She started toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Amber wondered, propping himself up on his arms.

“I haven’t eaten, either,” she told him. “We’ll have a picnic.”

“Inside?”

“Why not?” she grinned at him. He grinned back. She found the door

in the far corner—far opposite the one Amber had entered��pulled it open

and stuck her head out into the cool, dark corridor.

“Hattie,” she called in a sharp whisper. “Hattie!”

Clattering issued from the end of the hall, a door opened—light spilled out. Then, the plump maid came bustling down the hall toward her, her face pinched with alarm.

“Your Highness?” she hissed back. “What are you doing in the library?”

“Is there any food left?” Ele asked. Hattie came to a stop, and squeezed her fingers together.

“Erm—there is one little roast hen, erm…some little potatoes, some carrots, bread sauce, sweet onions—”

“Oh, good!” Ele cried. “Bring all of that, prepared for two. Along with some water. And some tea as well.”

“Two, miss?” Hattie jumped.

“Yes, the minstrel and I will be eating together in the library.”

Hattie’s mouth pursed so tightly it almost vanished.

“He hasn’t eaten the entirety of the day, and he is near collapse. I thought I would keep him company, seeing that he is a complete stranger here, and lonely for his home. Would you like to join us, Hattie?” Elle invited. “I’m certain you’d like to sit down for a while—you’ve been working so hard. Betsy too, she can come—”

The tension vanished from Hattie’s face.

“No, thank you, ma’am—maybe in a little while…But yes, I’ll get that for you, straightaway!”

“Thank you, Hattie,” Ele said sincerely, and the maid turned and bustled away. Ele shut the door again, swung around and strode back to the fireplace where Amber sat cross-legged. He watched her with narrowed eyes, and a small smile.

“What?” she asked lightly, coming to sit just in front of him, parallel to the fireplace, in the same fashion.

“You’re more important than I thought,” Amber noted, studying her. “Giving orders to other servants? What are you, the…Mistress of the Robes?”

Ele sighed, smiled a little, then rolled her eyes at the ceiling.

“No,” she admitted. “I’m Oralia’s sister.”

She pulled her gaze down to meet his. The mirth faded from Amber’s features. He stared at her.

“Her…elder sister,” Ele added.

“Oh…” Amber’s eyebrows came together. “I…”

Ele waited, not moving.

“I’ve really put my foot in it, haven’t I?” he said.

“What?” Ele said. “What do you mean?”

“I’m…” he shook his head, baffled.

A knock came at the door. He twitched.

“Stay there,” Ele told him. She got up, hurried to the door, and opened it.

“Here you are, miss,” Hattie entered, smiling, carrying a wide tray of steaming food. Betsy, a much younger kitchen maid with frayed blonde hair, entered after her, bearing a tray with the tea and the water.

“Where would you like them?” Hattie asked.

“Just on the floor, there,” Ele pointed. “Like mother and I do when it’s cold out.”

“Yes, miss,” Hattie said, lowering the platter down to the rug with a clatter. Betsy bent and carefully did the same.

“Hattie, Betsy, may I present Amberian, the new court musician,” Ele said, gesturing to him. “Amber, this is Hattie and Betsy. They work in the kitchens. And Hattie is the greatest cook in the realm.”

“Oh, tut, tut,” Hattie waved her off, clearly pleased. “We certainly already know who this young man is.”

“Yes, we heard him singing,” Betsy murmured, her face going red.

“And a lovely voice it is, too,” Hattie declared, tipping toward him. “We are so happy to have you with us, Amberian.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Amber answered brightly. “The pleasure is mine, truly. And thank you for the food.”

“My princess’ command is my delight,” Hattie declared. “Eat quickly! Don’t let it get cold!”

“Thank you, Hattie; Betsy,” Ele dipped her head to them as they scurried out. As soon as the door had shut, Ele sat down with a huff, facing Amber, and took a deep breath of the delicious, rich, steaming scent of the roasted hen and vegetables.

“So, you were saying,” she prompted Amber, snatching up a long fork and a carving knife.

“I was saying,” Amber said. “That…I’ve only been here a day and I’ve danced with two princesses.”

“You’re liked by the royal family,” Ele said, stabbing into the hen and

deftly sawing it in half. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“That knight will kill me,” Amber muttered. “Sir Rodback.”

“Roderick,” Ele shot him a glance.

“Yes, him.”

“Ha,” Ele snorted. “Roderick doesn’t care what I do.”

“He doesn’t? Why not?” Amber asked. She lifted her eyes to his for a moment—he gazed at her softly.

“Here,” she said, pushing half of the hen toward him. “Eat.”

“Is there…another fork?”

“No,” she set the utensils down. “No need.” And she took hold of a greasy piece of meat with her fingers, tore it off, and put it in her mouth.

“Ha. All right,” Amber chuckled, and followed suit.

Together, they ate with their fingers, not bothering to divide the food into separate portions. The hen, as usual with Hattie’s cooking, melted in Ele’s mouth, and the potatoes, carrots and onions had been glazed in honey, and roasted to utter perfection. In between ravenous bites, Ele and Amber talked about dancing, and about his mother’s cooking, which he said nearly rivaled this.

After they had cleaned the plate, Ele poured some water into a bowl and they washed their fingers, and dried them on a towel Hattie had put on the tray. Then, they drank their tea while leaning back against the warm mantel, each of them on one side of it. At last, in a moment of silence, Ele glanced up, and sighed.

“The hall has gone quiet,” she observed.

“Mm,” Amber acknowledged drowsily.

“Are you tired?”

“Mm,” he said again, stretching his legs.

“Come, then,” Ele said, setting her tea down. “I’ll walk you back to your quarters.”

Amber glanced over at her.

“Are you supposed to do that?”

She looked at him.

“Would you rather get lost?”

“No.”

“Thought not,” she said, and got to her feet, her skirts rustling. “Come on. I’ll clean this later.”

Amber groaned and stood up, then gestured to the door.

“Lead the way.”

Together they left the library and wound through the dark, hushed stone hallways, flickering in and out of the moonlight that sneaked in through the occasional window. They turned a corner—

“Watch out for the—”

“Oof!” Amber tripped down the single stair. He lashed out and grabbed her—she grabbed him back.

“—stair,” she finished, gripping his jerkin as he regained his balance.

“Why in the—” he started loudly.

“Ssh!” she giggled. “People are trying to sleep.”

“You need to tell me sooner about the stairs,” he hissed, dusting himself off.

“I tried!” she insisted. “Shh! Come on.” She reached down and grasped his hand. In spite of his loss of footing, his fingers wrapped around hers in instant trust. Her heart warmed. She tugged on him, and together they pattered down the final stretch of corridor.

“All right—this is your room, isn’t it?” Ele gestured to a low door.

“Yes,” he answered breathlessly. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Get some sleep!”

Amber passed around her and opened the door.

“Thank you for the evening,” he said. “I enjoyed myself.”

“Yes,” she answered. “I’m…I’m glad you’ve come to Tirincashel.”

“So am I!” he agreed. He reached out, his hand blundered into her arm, and he squeezed her fingers. “Goodnight!”

“Goodnight!” she replied. And with that, he ducked inside, and shut the door behind him.

Read this book: https://www.amazon.com/Scales-Fresh-Telling-Beauty-Beast-ebook/dp/B072JTPP3C/ref=pd_sim_351_2/146-6363556-3395043?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_i=B072JTPP3C&pd_rd_r=ab0c3f28-93dd-409c-b443-b38d0d56a0f0&pd_rd_w=VQqvj&pd_rd_wg=BOYjn&pf_rd_p=5abf8658-0b5f-405c-b880-a6d1b558d4ea&pf_rd_r=BW8S2ZGZQ4AV8K2H1GGE&psc=1&refRID=BW8S2ZGZQ4AV8K2H1GGE

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patrickcharlton-oshea-author · 6 years ago

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Death Becomes Him: An Age of Steam and Sorcery novel.

Chapter Five:

“Chirp, chirp!” Peter woke right where he'd drifted off last time, the sweet song of a distant bird greeting him. The perfect calm that enveloped the Garden of Tranquillity wrapped around him too. He lazily pulled on his socks and shoes as he let the other world drift away. He wouldn't be going back there for a while if he could help it. Standing up, he wandered through the arch at the end of the garden, marvelling at the ease with which this body moved. He was really getting the hang of being taller. Through the arch was a small wooden building, somewhat resembling a barn. Ambling through the open doorway, Peter was surprised to find another priestess waiting for him there. Scattered around the room were various crafting tools like a leatherworking bench and an anvil. Some were more obscure, things he had no name for. Continuing the barn theme, the entire far wall was open to the elements – benign though they were. “Welcome, Traveller. Before you are some of the many tools you'll encounter in our world. There are primary resource gathering tools like this pick here.” The small lady gestured to the item in question. Peter picked it up and hefted it once or twice. Whilst primary resource gathering could be a way of making some cash in the beginning, he remembered the ballad of John Henry his grandfather had sung him once. Henry had raced a steam jackhammer to dig through a mountain, and though he'd won, he'd died as soon as he'd finished. He placed the pick back where he'd found it. Anyone who thought that banging stones with sharpened bits of metal was fun had rocks in their head. “Perhaps I can interest you in woodworking then, Traveller?” She passed him a hatchet to try. After a few test swings Peter handed it back too. Chopping wood wasn't as unappealing as breaking rocks in the hot sun, but still wasn't his cup of tea. Now that's an idea... “How about herbs?” he asked. “Are there any specialist tools I'd need to make teas and such like?” “Here you are Traveller.” The priestess handed him a small copper sickle and directed him to a workbench covered in dried leaves. “You aren't locked into a profession, though. These are just an introduction and a gift to get you started. You may keep one tool when you move on. There are also secondary production tools, like this portable forge. It takes up several spaces in your inventory, but can be quite useful.” Swinging the sickle to feel its balance, Peter still browsed the rest of the items even though he'd pretty much made up his mind. He would often have a cup of tea of an evening while reading a book. This world seemed so realistic that being able to make his own here was an attractive prospect. He held out the tool in his hand. “I'd like this one, please.” “Then it is yours. Your next destination is the docks, just down the path.” She pointed out through the wide open side of the building. The path wended down a gentle slope towards a glittering ocean. A stone pier jutted out into the water and a small dinghy bobbed gently at dock. A final priestess stood where the pier met the land. Peter traipsed down to the edge of the water still swinging the sickle absentmindedly. He was still waving it around when he approached the priestess. “Sir! Would you please place that in your inventory?” she exclaimed. “Tools may not be weapons, but they can still hurt.” Peter coloured in embarrassment. “Uh. I'm not actually sure how to.” “Oh. You should have been told at the last station. It's on your left wrist. Your Traveller's Mark has a nexus point that will open an interdimensional pocket, colloquially known as your inventory. You can wear a sword belt, holster or bandoleer for easy access to items, but you have to bear their entire weight. Items in your inventory weigh only a fraction of what they normally do. They're also protected from any damage you may sustain.” Peter rolled up his left sleeve and looked at his Traveller's Mark. Other than the “nexus point”, which seemed to be the in game name for a button, there was little to see. Just his name and some meaningless three letter designators with the number one beside them. He guessed that they indicated his characteristics. More things to look up that he should have checked already. He tapped the inventory mark and it opened with a quiet tearing sound. Inside was a dark space with a faintly glowing grid, five squares on a side. He dropped the sickle into the space and it aligned itself with the grid, taking up two spaces. Tapping the mark again, it closed with a soft pop. “Now that you are prepared, Traveller, it is time for you to begin your true journey. Remember: every action in this world has a consequence. You effect not only your environment, but yourself as well. Safe journey, Traveller. May you find that which you seek.” With her last word she faded gently from view, leaving Peter with nothing but the lapping waves for company. Looking back over his shoulder, he found that the barn and it's occupant had similarly vanished, in their place was a golden wheat field swaying in the slight breeze. The calm scene didn't worry him; it was obviously just a way of indicating that his time in the garden was over. He clambered into the boat and waited. Sure enough, the sail unfurled itself and though the breeze clearly wasn't enough to propel the boat, it began to drift forward. Almost imperceptibly it accelerated, and soon the land behind was out of sight. The bright sun was directly overhead in an entirely blue sky. The lack of landmarks left Peter a little disoriented, but it was too peaceful to concern him greatly. He leaned back against the mast and enjoyed the feeling of speed, not worrying about when or where he'd arrive. However, arrive he did. A line off to his left thickened into a shoreline, yellowing into a beach with a green patch of woodlands behind it. A speck of darkness rapidly resolved itself into a dock like the one he'd just left and the boat curved around to meet it. It slowed itself until it scraped against the rock with a slight bump. Peter climbed out onto the pier, slightly disappointed that the trip was over so quickly. A grey brick path led from the foot of the dock over the grasslands to the left towards a village just visible on the horizon. A thin plume of white smoke indicated that it was probably inhabited. Off to his right, the fields ended sharply at the edge of a dark wood. It was the first time since he'd arrived in this world that he'd seen anything that didn't feel warm and inviting. In fact, the trees filled him with a sense of foreboding. That decided it for him, weaponless and fresh from the Garden of Tranquillity, he chose the village. At least for now. Looking around the fields as he walked along the path, he saw that they were dotted with bushes bearing berries, the occasional copse of trees and many small animals, some of the domesticated variety, some wild. Here and there other Travellers did epic battle with the dark and cunning Foxes, or vanquished the evil Weasels, and a few were collecting their mighty trophies of fleece from a Sheep. Well, maybe not. Peter wasn't certain how killing these creatures, or shearing a sheep, was justified but heroic adventures they were not. Peter chose to avoid them; he had no interest in interacting with random bunny murderers. Approaching the village, Peter was awed by the level of detail put into the world once more. A wooden palisade protected the villagers from attack, though what would be attacking them he could only guess. A large wooden gate that allowed entry and egress was guarded by two people in chainmail, and wielding halberds. From under the helmet of one peeked a pair of wolf-like ears. Peter struggled not to stare as he passed by. From their side, they barely gave him a glance. He obviously wouldn't be conquering the village by force of arms. Inside the walls, the path widened to a proper street, still of the same brick. A couple of side streets led off from the main thoroughfare before it widened even further into a town square. Tall lamp posts of brass lined the periphery, shining in the sunlight. The square was bounded by four large buildings, a mayor's house with a hall attached, a smithy, an inn and a tiny chapel with a small graveyard beside it. Peter did a double-take at the last, it was unusual to see a cemetery inside a town, let alone bordering the town square. He figured there must be some reason for it, but for now the ring of metal on metal drew him to the smithy. Crossing the square to where the wide open doors of the workshop welcomed everyone inside, Peter stood in amazement at the vast array of metallurgy on display. There were a few racks of copper, bronze and iron bladed weapons as you would expect from a smith in an adventuring area, but there was so much more than that. There were horseshoes and scythes, axes and hammers, even metal plates and cutlery. Along one wall stood several small brass and mahogany humanoids, their clockwork innards visible through the gaps in their shells. It really made him appreciate that a village smith was more than just a weapons maker. The smith himself was seated in the back of the building, in a corner lit only by the glow of the forge, passing a small bottle around a circle of older men. He looked up as Peter began to approach. “Ho, Traveller! We're having a meeting back here. Anything you need can be sorted by my apprentice, John.” Peter must have been completely wrapped up in his own world as he ogled the ironmongery on display, as he'd missed this “John” entirely. Which, as it happens, is a feat in and of itself as John was a very large young man. In fact, you could be forgiven for thinking someone had simply shaven a bear and given it a leather apron and a very large hammer. John was using said hammer to pound something either into or out of shape over an anvil. Peter wasn't sure which. In the interest of safety, Peter gave John a wide berth as he worked his way around until he was directly in front of the apprentice smith and essayed a small wave. John laid his hammer on the anvil and turned his attention to Peter. “What can Ah do fer yer?” the question came in a bassy rumble. Working with metal was a noisy business and it appeared that John no longer possessed an inside voice. “I'd like a weapon, please, something good for a beginner?” The man thought for a bit. “What are ye good wit? We got swords, knives and clubs. We alsa make stuff if'n yes c'n pay.” Peter blinked. Pay. He hadn't thought of that. “I haven't got any money yet, I've only just arrived. Could I borrow something and pay for it when I've earned some?” “Sorry little man. We gots to pay da bills too. Da' only lends to folks he trusts. Y'all could try da inn across da way. Dey's allus got jobs needin' doin'.” John picked up the hammer and gestured to the far side of the square. Peter marvelled at how effortlessly the massive weight was waved around. “Thank you, I'll do that.” Crossing the square back to the side he entered on he found himself on a wooden veranda with a few tables arranged on it. Passing around them he pulled open the door and was assaulted by heat, smell and music. As he entered the common room his nostrils filled with the scent of stale, spilled ale and sweaty bodies and for the first time since arriving found himself wishing for a slightly lesser amount of accuracy. Or at least that someone would crack a window. It must have shown on his face, because as he approached the bar the barmaid apologised immediately. “Sorry young sir, it's the Northmen, see? Those barbarians in their stinky furs, I'm surprised they've not chased my regulars away permanent like. They come in here every so often, drink every drop of our worst ale... well, I say drink, but really it's quaffing. It's kinda like drinking but only a third of the cup goes in your mouth. The rest ends up on your clothes and the floor.” She pulled a face that mirrored Peter's. “But Dave, who owns this place, says that we can't kick 'em out, cos their money is as good as anyone else's and they are the only ones who'll drink the apprentice brewer's product. We gets it super cheap, but these lot ask for it specifically. They drink it until they pass out, throw up or get tossed for being too rowdy. Sometimes all three at once.” The beleaguered maid shook her head. “Sorry to unload on you, sir. It's been a long day and looks to be a longer night. What can I get for you?” Peter's head was spinning from the heat and noise and was having trouble keeping up. He caught the question at the end, and thought for a moment. “I'm actually looking for work, miss. I need to make some coin or I'll be sleeping in the street tonight.” The barmaid pointed to the far wall where a noticeboard hung. Pieces of paper, cloth and, for some reason, a leaf were variously attached to the board with pins, small knives and in a particularly unusual case, a set of teeth. It was right next to the barbarians, so Peter didn't want to linger long so he quickly scanned the job offers before pulling down two, the leaf and one sheet of paper, and stepping outside to sit at one of the tables. He's just laid them on the table when the barmaid came out with a glass of liquid and placed it on the table too. “I needed a moment of peace, and you were the nicest person I've met this week. Have this, on the house. Just don't let Dave find out. My name's Rosie, by the way.” Rosie bobbed a curtsy and strode off to wipe down the other tables, despite their being already clean. Peter took a sip of the drink and found it to be an excellent lemonade. It fizzled on his tongue and was just the right amount of sweet and tang. He raised the glass to Rosie in salute, wondering if she could be a real player working for coin here. Her reactions were almost too lifelike to be a program. He tried to sneak a peek at her left arm, but couldn't get a good enough view to see if she had a Traveller's Mark. Rosie saw him looking at her and gave him a smile that was almost a grimace and went back inside with a sigh. “Better see what we have here,” he said to himself, picking up the leaf first. It had browned since being written on and the words were hard to make out. “Bovrn the Herbalist needs your help Traveller. Bring this leaflet and twenty raspberries to his shop for your reward. Leaflet. Heh.” Peter appreciated the pun. There was a basic map of the village with the shop's location marked with an X. Easy enough; he just had to find out where raspberries grew and what they looked like. The second notice was in a much more juvenile hand. “Please help. My puppy has run away and I can't find him. Mummy says she'll give a Traveller a whole gold coin to anyone who brings him home!” Again, there was a basic map to the owner's home. A gold piece didn't sound like much, but as his sum total so far was zero, it was infinitely more than what he had. Peter was still examining the notices and sipping the lemonade when Rosie came back out. “Well, are you going to accept the quests? They've been up for a while now; new Travellers aren't as common as they once were.” “Accept the quest? Isn't that what I did when I took the notice?” “No, young sir. To accept a quest issued by a citizen you press your thumb to this mark in the bottom corner here.” Rosie indicated a faint marking, a blank oval with filigree around it. “Thank you Rosie. Say, are you a Traveller yourself?” Rosie blanched. “My goodness, you are greener than a new twig. Tis a good thing you asked me and not someone more touchy about that. This town is a haven for retired Travellers. They’ve tired of the rough life and now wait for the final death living amongst the Citizens as equals. From what I've seen of some Travellers, it may be a kindness, that.” “Thanks Rosie, sorry if I offended you.” Peter apologised. “Wait, what do you mean, a kindness?” Now Rosie looked furtive. “I don't mean to speak out of turn, sir. It's just that some Travellers die many deaths. You see them walk out of the graveyard several times in a day, and they start to get this look in their eyes. Like maybe they should have stayed in the ground.” A light dawned on Peter. That's why the graveyard was in the centre of town! It was the local respawn point! Even he as a non-gamer had heard of these. Obviously in a game like this you couldn't face a Game Over screen every time you died, so you were reincarnated at a home location. Loss of items and progress were often mentioned as well, but he wasn't sure what the local rules were on that. He made up his mind to visit the chapel and enquire before setting off on his quests. “Thank you Rosie, I have nothing to offer but my appreciation, but you have that in spades.” Peter stood up and handed the glass to her. Pausing only to press his thumb to the indicated mark, which glowed briefly and made his left arm itch for some reason, he crossed the square again. The chapel itself wasn't exceptional, barely two stories tall. An open door up a short flight of stairs reminded him of his last experience with a staircase. He shook it off and ascended, passing into the cool darkness inside. The interior was reminiscent of the place he'd come into this world too, but on a much reduced scale. There were a few rows of pews, a small glowing fountain and tapestries between the stained glass windows. The tapestries depicted heroes completing somewhat lesser acts of heroism this time. Peter suspected they were local achievements; the slayer of a pony sized bunny may be a feat, but not a world-class one. Waiting for him by the font was a familiar habit-clothed figure. She turned her head to him as he strode up. “Greetings Traveller. How may I be of assistance today?” “Good day Sister. May I ask you a few questions?” Peter felt unnerved again; it was like being addressed by an empty set of clothes. “Certainly. We live to serve. What is it you would like to know?” “What happens when a Traveller dies? Rosie at the inn said they come out of the graveyard?” “Indeed they do. The rebirth process is not kind to a Traveller. It is best conducted underground in the crypts. When a Traveller's rebirth is complete they simply ring the bell in their coffin and one of our order assists with the disinterment. The newly reborn are weak and often fragile of disposition, so we offer a quiet place to sit or lie down and gather one's thoughts. Tea and biscuits are commonly served too. It has become rare to see the same Traveller twice in the same month, but we do have a fairly regular flow through the gates. Or, at least, we used to. Travellers have moved on to greener, or redder, pastures of late seeking greater adventure. There are but a few wandering our fields and assisting the citizens with their needs. Is there anything more?” Pondering all he'd just heard, Peter sat in a nearby pew. It was a lot to take in. Especially the part about respawning being 'unkind'. “Do I need to do anything? If I go to another town will I still be reborn here?” “Yes, Traveller. In order to bind your soul to this place, you must place your hands in the font beside me and speak the words.” She gestured to her left. Frowning in consternation, Peter wondered what words she could be referring to when a glint from the rim of the fountain caught his eye. Gold wording inlaid into the marble edge shined in a sunbeam from above. He slowly lowered his hands into the liquid up to his elbows and intoned, “With this sacrament I bind my soul to these waters, that I may return when the light of my life extinguishes.” The surface of the water flashed an incandescent pink for a moment, the radiance like staring at the sun. Peter tore his hands out of the water to cover his eyes until the glow faded. Blinking the afterimages away he rounded on the priestess. “Is that normal? Will that happen every time?” he shouted. Somehow the expressionless veil managed to look surprised. “Nay Traveller, that is the first time I've seen such a response from the font in a very long time. The goddess must have a plan for you. I will pray for you, for the last time she took an interest in a Traveller their life became... interesting?” “Interesting,” thought Peter, “does not bode well for me. There's an old saying about living in interesting times.” He offered a rather distracted farewell and left the chapel. Outside he took a moment to get his bearings and scratch the itch on his left arm. When it didn't subside he rolled up his sleeve to see what could be causing the sensation. Where he'd been scratching, his Traveller's Mark was fading in and out. He quickly ran his finger over the area, scrolling through the menu. It still felt weird having a tattoo that responded to touch, like a smartwatch under his skin that ran the length of his forearm. Below his name but above the numerical representation of his abilities was a new entry, Bind point: Averton. Peter hadn't seen any signs that announced the name of the village, but he assumed that was where he was. An arrow near his wrist blinked, pointing downward. Peter swiped his finger on his arm, pulling the sheet 'up'. Another new section had added itself to the sheet, titled Quests. The two jobs he'd accepted earlier were listed there, each with a mark labelled Guiding Light. Peter tapped the one for the herbalist's job and a line of little dots sprang up in his vision, leading from his feet out through the street he'd entered town via. They flickered in sequence, indicating he should follow them. Follow them he did, out through the gate and over the fields to a bush, where they formed a circle. “Well,” Peter said to the bush, “I'll bet you're a raspberry bush.” He declined to think about what talking to bushes said about his sanity. Instead, he got to work stripping it of every ripe berry, dropping them into his inventory. About every third one would squish in his fingers, wasting them. The seven berries he'd removed intact took up only a single grid square, and as he placed the last one in and closed it, the guiding lights lit up again headed to another bush not far away. Another thing Peter studiously avoided thinking about as he stripped the second bush was the irony that he'd only an hour or so before been dismissive of people performing this very sort of task. The second bush completely clean of ripe fruits and his fingers which were coated in raspberry juice starting to sting, Peter wandered over to the third bush. As he was walking, a thought came to him. He opened his inventory and pulled out the sickle. Holding the berry gently he sliced the stem with the tool. The berry separated neatly and he dropped it into the waiting inventory. Repeating the process with the next one, he found that he no longer had to fight the stems and didn't crush a single berry. With no wastage he collected the twentieth raspberry from this bush and much faster than the first two. He was just about to drop the sickle back into the waiting inventory when his arm began to itch again. Wondering what it could mean this time, he wasted no time in staining his shirt. Cursing, wiped his hands on the grass, then his pants, and then tried rolling up his sleeve again. Scrolling down past the initial character scores which still sat at one, a new entry titled Skills had popped up, with a skill named Herbalism and a value of 0.1%. “Ok,” Peter said, still talking to the bushes, and still not thinking about what that could mean, “Using the tool appropriate to the job earned me some skill points? Or was it just collecting the berries? I wonder what happens if I just collect them by hand?” For the next fifteen minutes, Peter ignored the blinking guides and stripped four more bushes and thoroughly coated his hands in raspberry juice. However, he earned himself another fifteen berries and another stain on his sleeve. And raised the skill to 0.2%. So, it will go up without the tool. Having stripped all the bushes nearby, he was forced to range a bit further. Wandering the fields until he found another raspberry bush he pulled out the sickle and got to work. No longer crushing every third berry, this bush was quickly denuded of its bounty, providing Peter with eleven berries in the bag but no skill raise yet. Meandering across the field trying to find a bush that still had something to offer. He finally found one at the far end of the field, near the woods. Whipping out the tool he got to work. A few moments later he was the proud owner of fifty two raspberries, two spilling over into a second inventory slot, and a shiny new 0.1% in Herbalism. Dropping the tool into its slot and closing the inventory with a satisfied smile, Peter turned to head back into town when he felt an excruciating pain in his calf. Trying to turn back around he found his leg didn't work the way it should and found himself on his knees staring into the face of a.. rabbit? Sort of? This rabbit was the size of a large dog and its fur was mottled with a putrescent green. Its muzzle was covered in red. Fuzzily Peter realised that it was blood. His blood. “No!” he cried out. “Why?” The pain in his leg tore through his mind. “This can’t be happening!” Then the monster leapt forward and with a crunch and a stabbing pain above his eye, he knew nothing more.

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