Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards: Ch. 12 Pt. 1

Notes: Sorry for the delay, yesterday was SO CRAZY BUSY! Let's go on a road trip, baby!

Title: Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards: Ch. 12 Pt. 1

 

***

 

Chapter Twelve, Part One

 

Photo by Felicia Varzari

Road Trip!

 

Phlox’s poor moods could last for weeks without something to jar him out of them. Unfortunately, in Lollop there was little of great enough import to knock a captive elemental being out of his pout, so Hiram went out of his way to do novel things instead that would hopefully interest his companion enough to improve his outlook. It was the least Hiram could do.

Yes, Phlox-as-Pyrax and Hiram-as-Xerome had once fought nearly to the death, and no doubt Pyrax wouldn’t have thought twice about burning him to a crisp and going on to kill his apprentices too. But Pyrax would never have done what Xerome did, imprisoning his enemy’s essence and letting him continue to live a basically neutered existence in three separate containers. It was an incredible comedown in both power and pride for an elemental revered by his people as a god, and there were times when Hiram wondered whether he shouldn’t have meddled in the first place.

There was no changing the past, though—and Hiram would know, he’d tried more than once. All he could do now was ameliorate his friend’s condition as best he could. To that end, Hiram planned his first out-of-town trip since he first got to Lollop over two months ago. There was a somewhat larger city an easy two day’s ride to the east, and Hiram could stand to stock up on some things he’d only be able to find with a larger community of traders on hand. Not to mention, it would give him a chance to scope out whether or not imperial messengers were still distributing posters of him this far from Galenish.

He arranged for Letty to come by and take care of Knight and the chickens and pigs he’d somehow become saddled with—pigs, for every heaven’s sake. Hiram didn’t even like the taste of pork, what was he going to do with pigs other than feed them delicious scraps and watch them grow large enough to square off with their wild boar cousins? Perhaps he could make a gift of them to someone someday…

“Feel free to make use of anything you find in the house,” he told Letty as he tied his rucksack shut. “Just make a note if you use something up. If you care to weed the garden a bit with Rickie, that would be welcome too. Just stay out of the upstairs rooms, if you please.” Not that she’d get up there even if she tried, between the aversion glyphs and the relocation spell he’d reluctantly powered up that would transport an intruder onto the road out front with a blinding headache if they tried to go up there uninvited.

Letty huffed. “I’m not rude, you know. I wouldn’t invade your privacy in such a way.”

“I’m sure of it,” Hiram said. “I just wanted to mention it.”

“What about the cellar?” she asked. “I could move some of your jars down there for you. You’re starting to run out of space on your shelves.”

The cellar. Ah. Right. “I’d avoid the cellar for now,” Hiram said, a bit uncomfortable at the thought of her going down there before he’d cleared it himself. “Just the animals and the weeding, if you please. Perhaps harvest some of the chamomile and lay it on the screen by the window to dry, well out of Knight’s reach, if you please. And some of the anise. And yarrow,…do you need me to write this down?”

“I think I’ll manage,” Letty said. “Have a nice trip! I’ve never been as far as Garrison before; you have to tell me all about it when you get back.”

“I will,” he promised her with a smile before heading outside to saddle Mule and get on the road.

Mule was pleased by the prospect of a trip, too. It was a bit of a boring life for her, Hiram reflected, after several decades of intense battle at the front of the greatest army the continent had ever seen. Mule was a peaceful animal by nature and had adapted well to her new habitat, but that chase they’d gone on a few weeks back…clearly she was missing fulfilling her nature, which was to hunt down and destroy creatures touched by evil.

Maybe they’d get lucky and run into a beastie or two on the road.

Hiram waved to various people he recognized on the way through town, only stopping once for Master Spindlestep, who was crossing the road with the single-mindedness of a man who wasn’t going to be deterred by either traffic or his blindness. “Good morning, Master Spindlestep,” he called out as the elderly elf passed by.

“Master Emblic.” He stopped—out of the line of any carts or horses who might go by, thankfully—and tilted his head as though he were listening to something specific. “Leaving us, are you?”

“Only for a short time,” Hiram assured him. “I’m off to Garrison for a few days, but I’ll be back before the next market day.”

“A good thing, otherwise there may be a revolt,” Master Spindlestep said genially. “Your products get excellent reviews, sir.”

“Always welcome to hear.”

“Indeed it is.” The elf came a bit closer and lifted his hand, laying it gently on Mule’s neck. To Hiram’s surprise, Mule not only accepted the touch with grace—she could be a bit finicky about non-virgins—she whickered, turning her head to nudge Master Spindlestep’s shoulder.

“Mule, you rude thing,” Hiram chided her, but the old elf just laughed.

“She recognizes a friend when she sees one,” he said. “I’ve always loved horses of this sort, and they tend to be smart enough to know when they’re with a friend.” He said “like this” with a bit of import. Hiram wondered whether the tailor, for all his blindness, was able to see right through the glamour on Mule.

Well, and what of it if he did? The glamour was unbreakable; no one would believe him if he tried to spread such a tale about, and he had no reason to do anything other than enjoy the company of a light creature like a unicorn. “She’s been a good friend to me for many years,” Hiram settled on saying.

“I can sense that.”

Perhaps he could. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I must continue.”

“Of course.” Master Spindlestep gave Mule one last stroke along her velvety nose, then moved back. “If you’ve the means to buy a bolt of black Lancre silk while you’re there, I’d happily repay you.”

Lancre silk…and in black…that seemed very fine for use in Lollop. Lancre silk was mildly color-shifting, the result of blending worm and spider threads together, and shockingly strong for a fabric. Hiram knew this ask was a test of some kind, but what was the tailor hoping to glean about him from it? His level of disposable income? His ability to discern Lancre silk from regular silk? His willingness to do a favor for someone he had no strong connection to?

“I’ll see what I can do,” he settled on. Master Spindlestep nodded, and then Hiram was on his way once more, riding until even the disreputable Highwayman Inn was out of sight.

It was a quiet road for the first half of the day, and he reveled in the solitude and the sound of the wind. Around noon, the route expanded significantly as several more roads joined it, and he ended up jostling for position amongst carts and wagons, solitary riders and groups, and a fair number of walkers as well.

It wasn’t that Hiram couldn’t tolerate the company, but by mid-afternoon a rain had set in that quickly churned the road to mud beneath so many hooves and wheels. What I wouldn’t give for a good, Imperial highway of stone…

Of course, stone roads were reserved for much more important parts of the empire than this, especially with no quarries native to the area. The amount of work it would take to build and maintain stone roads everywhere…Hiram had argued for it, actually, citing the good it would do to local economies as well as the skills transfer from imperial civil engineers to rural ones, but that was one more place where Andy had shot him down.

It left him determined to get as far as he could tonight, perhaps even as far as Garrison itself. The city was only forty miles from Lollop, after all. Mule could do it easily; Hiram was the one who was going to be sore from the saddle tomorrow, but if it meant making better time once others retreated to the inn they got to at sundown, he’d manage.

“You won’t want to camp, sir!” the inn’s crier called out after him when he saw Hiram wasn’t turning off with the rest of the traffic. “It’s terrible dangerous in those woods at night! There’s gnolls and trolls and even bandits out there in the woods, sir, mark my words!”

“I won’t be camping,” Hiram called over his shoulder.

“Sir! Come on now, sir!”

But Hiram was determined to get to Garrison by midnight. And once he was alone… “A bit of light perhaps, Phlox?” he murmured, and to his delight, Phlox responded with a thin beam that lit the road just enough for Mule to see by. It was a good thing, too; the moon was invisible tonight, utterly drowned out by the wet cloud cover, and the drizzle got that much colder as the evening wore on.

A more impatient person would have spurred Mule to a faster pace, but Hiram was neither impatient nor a fool. He kept them moving at a steady trot, which meant he had plenty of time, even in the gloom, to pick out the array of slender metal threads stretched taut across the road.

At speed, they could have done terrible damage to Mule’s legs. As it was, the unicorn came to an easy halt a few meters away from them.

“Hmm.”

Phlox unexpectedly spoke up. “I do believe we’re about to be accosted by bandits, Hiram.”

Hiram eased himself out of the saddle with a groan. “You’re probably right, my dear,” he murmured.

“How would you care to handle the occasion?”

That was an excellent question, and one Hiram was still considering when an eerie, baying cackle started up in the woods to the right. Hiram turned with interest to watch as a pair of enormous, spot-eared gnolls emerged from the trees. He’d never seen the spotted version before; the ones who lived up north tended toward stripes. Other than that, they were identical to most of the gnolls he’d encountered over the years: they had broad, squat bodies that were heavy with muscle and blunt canid mouths full of fangs. These ones wore dark, lustrous pelts for clothes that probably came from lowland panthers, and each of them carried both a club and a dagger.

Decidedly dark creatures, by nurture if not nature. Hiram tightened his grip on Mule’s reins.

“Clever human,” one of them slavered at him, a wild glint in his eyes. “Spying our little net before it could catch you.”

“Not clever enough to stay at the inn, though,” the other said with rather less drool falling out of his mouth. “Shouldn’t have pressed on, old man. Too bad now you’re going to be late for your appointments.” He grinned. “’Cept the ones you’ve got with your gods.”

Hiram nodded slowly. “That is certainly one possibility.” Mule was quivering now, every inch of her ready to fulfil her ultimate purpose.

“It’s the only possibility, old man. No one escapes from Cletus and Clarus.”

“Ah, but you see,” Hiram replied. “That’s where you’re wrong.” He patted Mule on the neck. “Alive if you can, darling,” he told her.

The gnolls stared at each other for a moment, as if they were wondering just how mad this strange human was. That was when Hiram let Mule go. She reared onto her back hooves with a ferocious battle cry, then lowered her head and charged.

“Now.” Hiram turned back to the wires as the gnolls howled with matching bloodlust. “Let’s see about clearing this before she comes back, hmm?” Luckily they were rather haphazardly placed, and cheap besides. A quick snip with the second-best shears he’d brought along in his rucksack was enough to bite through the thinner ones. The thicker might require a bit more work…

“You let Mule have all the fun.”

“You can have the next bandits, my dear,” Hiram promised. The howls were already becoming whimpers of pain and fear. “Just don’t tell Esme we had a good time without her, or she’ll never let us hear the end of it.”

Phlox considered that for a moment, then said, “Deal.”

 

Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards Ch. 11 Pt. 2

 Notes: Let's have a little more backstory, hmm? Hiram's curious, and who can blame him?

Title: Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards: Ch. 11 Pt. 2

***

 

Chapter Eleven, Part Two

 

Legend Has It…

 

 

 

To tell Letty, or not to tell her? On the one hand, it would be considerate to give her time to prepare for a meeting with The Thread, of all people. It could be life-changing, after all. On the other hand, it seemed like Letty had already convinced herself that Hiram was going to be of no use to her, and that he shouldn’t even try. What were the odds that she would just ignore him if he tried to convince her it was the thing to do? No, better that it happened naturally in some way. As if it was happenstance that she was able to meet with them, rather then preplanned. The only hitch was creating those circumstances.

Ah, well. He still had a few weeks to think about it. Now that the aftermath of his temple visit had faded a bit, and people had proven to be more circumspect than he’d counted on, Hiram’s sense of sociality had come back full swing. He had a place to live, a burgeoning business, and enough money to spare after every week’s Market Day that he could afford to live it up in town a bit when the mood struck him. And in Lollop, there were really only two places to spend your money on a regular basis: The Yew Brew, if you were in the mood for clean surroundings and hearty meals, or The Highwayman, a tavern on the eastern edge of town that catered more to travelers than locals.

Hiram visited the Yew Brew several times throughout the week, once to treat Tilda to dinner closer to her own house, and once to simply sit and absorb the conversation that flowed from patron to patron like a lazy river. It didn’t even take any magic of his own to hear what people had to say, because Phlox was happy to repeat it for him sotto-voce.

“The older gentlemen at the table by the fireplace say they’re surprised to see you without your lady friend.”

Hiram hummed thoughtfully as he took a sip of ale.

“They say their wives expect you to propose to her by midwinter.”

“Ha!”

“Something I can get for you, Hiram?” Jonn called from where he was pulling drinks a bit farther down the bar.

“I’m well for now, thank you,” he replied.

“Right, then.”

“Have you entirely forgotten how to be circumspect, Xerome?”

He tapped twice with one of his fingernails on the counter.

“Oh, lovely, we’re communicating in the Undertone now.” Phlox huffed. “Just admit you’re bored. Maybe you should propose to Tilda, she seems to be one of the only people around who can liven you up a bit.”

Tap-tap.

“Obviously I’m not serious. I know you’re more interested in males. Speaking of, there have been several conversations since you sat down speculating on whether or not people should come over and ask you about Master Surrus. Apparently, his penchant for solitude is legendary.”

“Hmm.” Hiram contemplated that as he finished off the half-chicken that had come with his supper.

“Isn’t it, though? What makes you so special that he was willing to take you home?” Hiram grinned. “Besides all the things he’s not supposed to know about you, obviously. Ugh, you’re so childish.”

“Oy!” The arrival of Robard interrupted Hiram’s private conversation, but he didn’t mind it, just reached out and steadied the stool beside him as the dwarf heaved himself up onto it. He seemed sober for once, and eager not to be if the false joviality he projected was any indicator. “Well met, Master Emblic, well met.”

“And a good evening to you, Robard,” he said politely.

“Mm. What’re you havin’ there, eh?”

“The dinner special.”

“Ah, ah. And, eh, what to drink?”

“Oh, this?” Hiram glanced down at the mug. “It’s a pint of Jonn’s pumpkin ale. The top-shelf stuff. He said it would go well with the dinner.” He shrugged. “He was right, of course. It’s very good.”

“Is it, now?” Robard affected a wide-eyed demeanor. “Y’know, I’ve been meaning to try that pumpkin ale.”

“Then you should.”

“Aye, aye. Only…it’s a bit dear, you know. A bit…pricier than a simple dwarf like myself can afford.”

Hiram wasn’t sure how Robard made a living when most of what he spent his time on seemed to be getting drunk, so this was probably a true statement. Jonn was clearly his closest friend—rumor had it that Robard even slept in the barn—but that didn’t mean Jonn was willing to waste his expensive microbrews on the dwarf when the cheaper ale got him drunk just as fast.

Actually…hmm. “I was wondering,” Hiram said, “about that tower in the distance.”

Robard blinked. “Gemmel’s tower?”

“That’s the one! It seems like a mightily impressive sort of place. I hear it was built by a dwarf, too.”

“Aye, that it was.” Robard thumped his chest. “My own clan, in fact.”

“Truly!”

“Indeed, indeed. Clan Blackstone, on account of we used to live in a mountain of the stuff.”

Interesting. Perhaps Gemmel had been attempting to reinvent the past when he decided to manufacture his tower in the stuff. “Fascinating. I’d love to learn more about it, if you have any tales to tell. Nothing that would bring disgrace,” Hiram added quickly. He knew how touchy dwarves could be about their private histories. “Just what’s allowable. I love a good story.”

It was hard to tell underneath the beard, but Hiram thought Robard was trying to affect a crafty expression. “The stories would be better heard over a pint of pumpkin ale, I daresay.”

“Agreed.” Hiram waved Jonn over. “I’d like the same again for Robard, including dinner, please.”

“Oh.” Robard looked at him with surprise in his rheumy eyes. “You don’t need to do all that.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Hiram replied lightly. Jonn seemed to approve, if the speed with which he brought the meal of chicken and roasted potatoes out was any indicator. The ale he pulled much more slowly, making sure Robard was already tucking in to his dinner before setting it down.

The next hour was spent gleaning bits of gold from Robard’s ramblings. The broad strokes followed what Avery had said—they were driven out of Blackstone Mountain in the north by an unholy alliance between serpentkin and a group of fire elementals, and after a lot of diversions the majority of them ended up settling here. There might have been an element of coercion in there as well, something about an internal dispute that split their party in two, but that part wasn’t clear.

“Great idea, that tower,” Robard said in the middle of his second pint. “Could have revolutionized magic in the area, not to mention given our clan a revenue stream that supported us in our traditional crafts instead of turning weaponsmiths into blacksmiths and mangonel-makers into carpenters.”

“You were a warrior clan, then?”

“Aye, that we were. S’why it burned all the more to be forced out of our home, y’ken. If it were just one or the other, we’d have managed, but serpentkin plus the elementals?” He shook his head morosely. “It was too much. Can’t say that I care for the emperor all that much, meself, but every dwarf driven out of the northern range cheered the day he and his people subdued those scaly bastards.”

Subdued. That was a very tame description for annihilation. It occurred to Hiram that letting Robard wax rhapsodic about the devastation of Phlox’s people wasn’t the nicest thing for his elemental assistant right now.

He got a few more general stories about the tower, a smidgeon of the Blackstone clan’s epic poem, which sounded like it must be fantastic sung, and ended the night with Robard on his fourth mug of ale and staggering off to the outhouse. Hiram paid the final bill, then got to his feet and wrapped himself up in his cloak as he headed outside to walk home. He could have come with Mule, but the walk was nice to help clear his head after he’d been drinking. Usually it was a quiet, contemplative time.

Tonight, he was treated to a stream of hissed imprecations from Phlox. “They stole our caverns first! Our holy places, defiled by the deep-digging dwarves, where no piece of us was considered sacred!”

“I know,” Hiram said tiredly.

“The serpentkin were merely a means to an end! We never intended for them to feed on the clans we conquered.”

“I understand that.”

“There was no good reason for the violence your emperor leveled at us. We as a people are no more now, right down to the smallest flames.”

Hiram could argue that point, but he chose not to under the circumstances. “It’s in the past now, Phlox.”

There was a moment of silence before Phlox said, “Sometimes I wish more than anything that I had managed to kill you. Or that you had chosen to kill me.”

Hiram only nodded; his throat was too tight to do otherwise. He could offer up excuses, he could say that nothing was simple and war least of all, he could remind Phlox that he’d quite literally brought the invasion upon himself by burning through town after town, but that wouldn’t do anything except exacerbate the bad feelings. They walked in silence the rest of the way home, and Hiram was resigned to a night full of memories keeping him awake as he walked through the front door.

“Finally.”

“Esme!” Hiram looked at her, then did a doubletake. “Are you…snuggling with Knight?”

“Only because you weren’t here,” she defended herself before licking a stripe between the rabbit’s ears. She had adjusted herself to be about the same size as the enormous bunny, who seemed surprisingly sanguine about having a dangerous, carnivorous sphinx cuddling him like a baby. “I got cold.”

Hiram smiled at the thin excuse. “I see.”

“And it’s been days since you visited me.”

“That’s true.”

“So here I am.” She rolled onto her back, pulling Knight with her. The rabbit went with the air of a creature who had abandoned every thought of fighting back. “You have my permission to pet me.”

It beat focusing on the silent treatment from Phlox all night. “Your wish is my command.”

 

Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards Ch. 11 Pt. 1

 Notes: Let's move things right along, shall we? Gossip=plot in my world.

 Title: Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards Ch. 11 Pt. 1

 ***

Chapter Eleven, Part One

Photo by Kelly Sikkema
 

The Thread

 

Hiram had worried that his reputation in Lollop would be irretrievable after what happened in the Temple of Melemor. Making the head priest cry and sending the rest of town into a tizzy over a little old memory—the ideal way to ingratiate himself to his new home. He was sure he’d have Uriel the Pustulant banging on his door in no time, insisting that not only were his fees lacking, he was also a heretic in the eyes of the local gods and they were sending for an exorcist. Which—thank you, but no. He’d been exorcised a time or two in his childhood by people his well-meaning but ignorant parents found, and that had been painful enough.

Fortunately, none of his worse fears came to pass. In fact, he seemed caught in a state of more respectability than he’d had before, which…

“Why?” Hiram demanded of Tilda a few evenings down the line. He’d fielded plenty of visitors in the days since Lares, and while curiosity seemed to be peaking, they’d all had good reasons to visit an herbalist as well. He dispensed medicinal teas for indigestion, sleep aids, soothing ointments for skin issues, and several internal aids meant to either increase or decrease fertility depending on what the person wanted. He was questioned, very gently and mostly by older woman, about how he was settling in to town, and after being assured that he liked it very much, he was patted on the shoulder and… “Why aren’t I being run out of town for what I put everyone through?”

Tilda smiled over a cup of tea—rosehip and yarrow, with a hint of licorice because she liked the flavor as she said, “Honestly, Hiram, you’d think you wanted to get run out of town. Have you considered that sharing your private pain to the rest of us has made you more relatable rather than less? And I have to say, as bad as that was, it was far from a unique experience. Just stronger than we’re used to.” She tilted her head, silver strands amongst the brown catching the light from his fireplace. “And I think few of us minded seeing High Priest Melemor in a state of true understanding, for once. He’s always been a very…formidable man, but not a very compassionate one.”

Hiram stared at her. “So people like that I made him cry?”

“From what I’ve heard, they feel it’s only just, given that he insisted you undergo the ritual in the first place.” She shrugged. “Be wary of testing one’s spirit, it might just test you back.”

“Huh.” Well, that was a bit of a relief. “What about—”

A blunt head pressed against his shin, and Hiram smiled down at Knight, who was doing much better with his hopping these days. “There you are, my dear,” he said indulgently. “Did you have a nice nap?” The rabbit nosed at him again. “Feeling hungry? Or would you prefer a bit of a cuddle?” Hiram set his cup aside, reached down, and heaved the rabbit into his lap. “Oof,” he grunted. “You certainly haven’t gotten any lighter since you’ve been with me, have you? Let me have a look now, there’s a good lad…”

He inspected the wound on Knight’s leg. “Much better!” he praised. “And your fur is growing back in and everything. You’ll be healed up beautifully by midwinter, love.” He stroked over the rabbit’s back, and Knight stretched out to give him more room to work, eyes closing in bunny bliss.

“Goodness,” Tilda said archly. “Such politesse, and to a rabbit no less! No wonder Master Surrus thinks so highly of you.”

Hiram blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Master Surrus, the school teacher. Handsome gentleman, a bit retiring, and oh, yes—he swept you off your feet onto his horse and carried you away into the sunset the other day, from what I hear—”

“There was no sweeping,” Hiram insisted. “And no sunset, it was barely past ten in the morning.”

Her eyes twinkled as she said, “But you did go somewhere with him.”

“Well…yes.” Hiram felt oddly reluctant to talk about it. He wouldn’t have said anything prurient, even if there was something of that nature to say, and yet…something about Avery made him want to keep their time together private. It wasn’t so unusual—Avery was a private person and Hiram was lucky to have been invited into his home.

“Don’t worry,” Tilda said. “I won’t pry. It’s not my place and I get the sense you wouldn’t tell me anything anyhow. I just think it’s nice, that’s all.” Her smile dimmed a bit. “His social circle is even smaller than yours, and he’s been here for years. Before you, the only person I ever heard of visiting his cottage was Master Spindlestep.”

That correlated well to Hiram’s impressions of the younger man. Still. “He should have more friends. He’s young, well known to the people here, talented, a good conversationalist…”

“And I’m sure, with all these charms, that if he wanted more friends he would have them,” Tilda said. “That he doesn’t speaks to a quirk of his character, not a fault of the people of Lollop. Most would welcome him into their social circle, if only to gossip about their children, but Master Surrus defies that sort of convention. As is his right,” she added. “We’re all wildly curious about him, of course, but Lollop knows how to respect the privacy of the individual.”

“Most of the time,” Hiram agreed.

“Yes.” Tilda sounded a bit tired. “Most of the time. More lately, in fact—everyone is preparing for the Thread to come through in a few weeks.”

“The Thread…” Hiram had encountered the Thread numerous times in distant villages, but only in his former persona. They were a search party, in a way, a group of individuals who represented the interests of gods and temples who might benefit from fresh blood.

For children who tested positive in their local temples for magical ability but lacked the means to get to a capital and go into training on their own, the Thread was their last hope. If a member of a Thread party could vouch for your ability, they would take you along with them to the practice that you fit best with no cost to your family. It wasn’t a foolproof system, but it was a bit of hope for the gifted children of poor villages who had no other means of promoting their sparks and talents.

Every Thread party contained a wizard or sorcerer of some kind, a cleric or paladin of some god, and either a bard or a druid—both if you were lucky. Between those specialties, almost all the basic spark manifestations were covered.

Sparks were almost always inherited. Hiram was one of the very rare cases where neither of his parents showed any signs of magical ability, and neither did any family members going back three generations, which was as far as anyone he was related to could remember. His parents had thought he was cursed, hence the exorcisms gone awry, but here…

“Is there any spark to speak of in Letty’s family?” he asked.

Tilda sighed heavily. “Did Letty talk to you about having a spark?”

“No. Not directly,” he said. “Not quite. She said something about being tested and not showing enough of an aptitude for Lollop to invest in her education there.”

“It’s true. I don’t know much about Letty’s situation personally, but her mother…” Tilda shook her head. “That was a woman with a spark. For healing, believe it or not. Celiane was actually apprenticed as a Cleric of Melemor for several years before she met her husband Granth.”

Wait a second. “Clerics of Melemor are required to take vows of chastity.” The healing arts in particular could be a little finicky depending on the god, and Melemor didn’t like to come second to anyone else when it came to his priests and clerics.

“Exactly. They met at a harvest festival. Granth was very charming, and she got very drunk, and the next morning, well.” Tilda shook her head. “They were found naked together in the back of the Brew’s stables. Celiane tried to plead for forgiveness, but the head cleric at the time refused to take her back. Then she turned up pregnant, and it was a quick wedding to Granth at that point. It’s not been a happy marriage, we all know that,” she said. “I can’t speak to the state of her spark, but I daresay it’s atrophied at this point. None of their children have tested highly, so far—Letty is the only one who came close.”

Well. That was abhorrent. The blank-faced woman Hiram had seen on the porch, surrounded by children and shouted at by her awful husband—she might not have a spark anymore, but she surely remembered a time when she did. Remembered how it felt to be so close to a god that you could borrow their power and do good in the world. To be tied to such a man, gods, she must have felt so awful that morning.

All the more reason to get Letty out of there if he could. He only had three more weeks of her time. He needed to coach her spark up as bright as it would go and get her in reach of the Thread, and then hopefully she would escape the fate that seemed laid out for her.

“I think there’s more to Letty than meets the eye,” Hiram said, careful to keep his voice light. “I’m no spark myself—” more like a conflagration “—but I’ve seen enough of them over the years to have a good feeling about her. And everyone deserves a chance to change their situation, especially when it’s one like hers.”

“I don’t control the Thread’s choices,” Tilda said, “but I’m sure we could get her a meeting with them if you think it’s worthwhile.”

Hiram smiled brightly. “I think it just might be.”