Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards: Ch. 18 Pt. 1

 Notes: Time to wake up and smell the consequences!

Title: Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards: Ch. 18 Pt. 1

***

 

Chapter Eighteen, Part One

 

Photo by Joshua Bayliss

Unsettling

 

“…blic! Master Emblic!”

Hiram’s sense of hearing came back to him ungently and all at once. Right after that, he was treated to the return of his other senses, none of which were registering anything very pleasant.

Especially his sense of touch.

He groaned at the rising intensity of the pain in his back, made worse for the fact that he’d apparently been lying on the floor all night. His mouth tasted of bile, his head ached fiercely, and as he tentatively rolled out his neck, his hair made a crinkling, crackling sound against the wood, like it had been frozen and never thawed.

Blood. You’re covered in your own dried blood, fool.

The last events Hiram remembered flooded into his mind, and he forced his eyes open with a wince at the brightness of the morning sunshine pouring in through the window next to his bed. He stared up at the tearful face right above his for a moment, then forced out, “L’tty? What’re yuh doin’ here?”

“What am I doing here?” his protégé demanded in a high-pitched voice. “You said you’d come to see me off! We waited for more than half an hour! I had to beg Mistress Michelson to let me double back and make sure you were all right before—”

Hiram blanked the rest of her complaint out as the first half registered. Oh damn. She was supposed to be leaving today, of course. And now she’d seen him, was worried for him, might delay things for him. Hiram couldn’t be the reason Letty was held back. He tried to press up onto one arm, but fell back with a grimace. “Go on,” he said roughly. “I’m all right, I swear. Just…” He smiled weakly. “Had a bit of a fall.”

Letty stared at him, the tears in her eyes contrasting to the furious expression on her face. “Do you think I’m an idiot?” she exclaimed, and Hiram’s head reverberated with pain at the sheer volume of her accusation. “These wounds aren’t from a fall, you were beaten. I would know! And Mistress Michelson isn’t going to let the Thread go anywhere without me. She’s—she came, she’s downstairs, hang on—”

“No, wait—” Hiram tried to stop her, but Letty had already vanished down the stairs, calling out for her new mistress in a panic.

Well. Shit. All right. He glanced at the faint glyph he’d carved at the top of the banister and grimaced. It was completely dead; there was nothing to prevent anyone from coming up here and rummaging around except his own presence. He glanced toward the chest at the foot of his bed and sighed. There were too many valuable—and dangerous—things up here to allow anyone who might stop by to rummage through if he let himself be chivvied elsewhere.

Admit it, Xerome. You need help. But given that he felt like the rough side of a sphinx’s tongue right now, Hiram figured his best bet was to stay and quietly ask for help in-house. If Granth tried to come back…well, hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.

Hiram breathed deep for a moment, then reached out with his good arm, grabbed the edge of the end post of the banister, and pulled himself into a sitting position. The change left him feeling uncomfortably nauseous, and he waited for it to quell for a moment before continuing to try and get to his feet.

Ha, no. Nope. Not happening. His head spun too severely the moment he tried to stand. You’re concussed, old man, he chided himself. A broken old fool. Gods, he should have laid in more precautions, should have charged more items ahead of time to give him an edge in case of an attack. He wasn’t in his twenties anymore, damn it; he didn’t move like a young man.

Hiram, intensely grateful that no one was there to see him, dragged himself across the shining wooden floor to the edge of the bed, which felt like a major accomplishment. He leaned his good side against it and contemplated the next step—getting up onto it.

“Master Emblic!”

Ah, hells. Too late.

“You shouldn’t be moving around,” Letty scolded as she rejoined him, her hands fluttering like birds as she tried to determine the safest place to touch him. Stumping up the stairs after her was Mistress Michelson, the slight irritation on her face giving way to alarm as she caught sight of him.

“Hells hounds,” the Guide said as she crouched down, her keen eyes roving over his body. “I thought the girl was exaggerating, but if anything she undersold the damage done. We need to get you to a healer, Master Emblic.”

“No, no,” he managed through gritted teeth. Gods, his head was pounding. “It’s not that bad.”

“It looks terrible, from where I’m sitting. Your head alone…and what’s wrong with your back?”

Hiram smiled weakly. “Took a poker at a bad angle.”

“A poker?” Letty’s hands flew to cover her mouth as her face drained of color. “Did Pa come here?”

Oh, shit. “I couldn’t see who it was,” Hiram tried to dissemble, but Letty wasn’t having it.

“He did, didn’t he? He always—the poker, it was his favorite, he called it better than a switch and more memorable than a hand, he—when he didn’t show up this morning at the square I thought he was still sleeping off a drunk, not that he’d come and—Hiram!” She burst into tears.

“None of that!” Mistress Michelson said before Letty could truly lose the dregs of her composure. “Time to keep a straight head about you, girl. Ride my horse back to town and get a healer out here, now.”

“Truly, there’s no need,” Hiram tried. He had a rare tincture in his bag that would handle the worst of the wounds, if he could only have a moment’s privacy. “I just need some rest.”

Mistress Michelson scoffed. “You need a damn miracle, man. Letty, go.” Letty responded to the command, clomping back down the stairs with a quickness. When the door slammed shut again, Hiram sighed.

So much for keeping this whole mess a secret.

Mistress Michelson seemed to follow his mental meanderings. “Not much of a chance that this wasn’t going to get out anyway,” she said briskly. “Not with everyone in the entirety of Lollop on tenterhooks waiting to see how the patriarch of that family was going to react to the loss of them all. I heard everything from apoplexy to a suicide charge to trying to burn the mayor’s house down.” She shook her head. “Not the sanest of men, I take it.”

“Not even close,” Hiram whispered.

“Mm. Good that they left him, then.” She glanced over at the banister. “Good he’s not here.” She got to her feet, and every nerve in Hiram’s body stood on end for a moment as he waited for her to make her next move. Would she reenergize the glyph and accidentally send herself out into the road? Do some sort of analysis on it that informed her of more than she ought to know about his magic? Take advantage of his incapacity to interrogate him further?

In the end, all she did was wipe her hand over the wood, then brush a few shavings off her palm onto the floor. The banister itself was perfectly blank when she moved away from it. “No one’s business,” she muttered, then turned back to Hiram. “Right, let’s get you more comfortable then if you’re not going to be sensible about leaving.” Since you’ve already taken care of the problem, Hiram heard, and grinned weakly at the stocky woman.

By the time they heard the racket of people—multiple people, unfortunately—arriving outside, Hiram had been helped out of his boots and bloody outerclothes, and Mistress Michelson “just say Wynne, damn it” had used up every rag he had taking care of the mess on his face and in his hair and, embarrassingly, helping him use the chamber pot.

Tilda was the first one up the stairs, and the sound she made when she saw him was wrenching. She came over to the bed, sat down beside him, and put a careful arm around his shoulders as she leaned into him. “Oh Hiram, my dear, oh no,” she said, her voice thick with tears. “What did that bastard do to you?”

“Nothing I couldn’t take,” he replied. He was happy to see her, but unable to relax. “Who else…”

“Ah.” Tilda dabbed at the corners of her eyes with the hem of her sleeve. “Letty, of course, she wouldn’t be left back in town. Filian, the Healer of Bayd. And…Uriel is here too.”

The mayor? Why the hell had he bothered to come? And where was…

Hiram cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose Master Surrus was around this morning?” he asked quietly.

She shook her head. “I’m afraid not,” she said. “But I’m sure he’d come in an instant if he knew what you’re going through.” Their courtship was a rather open secret, at this point. “Do you want me to bring him here?”

Hiram did, actually. More than anything right now, he wanted the comfort of Avery’s presence. For once, he wasn’t afraid of being too much, of showing a part of himself that a lover wouldn’t want to see. Avery had already shepherded him through an illness that could have killed him; he’d seen Hiram weak, and he hadn’t taken advantage of him or turned away from him.

But Avery had more important things to think about right now. He was probably worried sick over the geis that had been laid on him. Maybe he was being compelled to go to the Tower right now, even. The thought gave Hiram a chill.

I’ve got to heal up, fast. “No, that’s all right,” Hiram said. “Let’s see about healing me some first, hmm?”

Tilda pressed her lips into a thin, hard line as she cast a gimlet gaze toward the stairs. “Let us indeed.”

Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards: Ch: 17 Pt. 2

 Notes: Let's have some just desserts, shall we?

Title: Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards: Ch: 17 Pt. 2 

***

Chapter Seventeen, Part Two

 

Photo by Jony Melikov

Spill the Cup

 

There were so many things to think about, Hiram scarcely knew where to start as he hooked up Mule and began to head for home. He’d said his goodbyes, joyous and tender and slightly fearful on Letty’s part, and promised he’d be there the next morning to see her off with the Thread. He’d made sure to let Tilda know to come to him if she needed help caring for Celiane and her children, then slipped out of the still-bustling crowd and onto the darkened road with Knight sitting calmly at the front of the wagon with him.

He took a breath and closed his eyes, doing his best to think of nothing at all for a moment. Inevitably, his mind would sort the problems from most into least dire, and he could tackle them accordingly. Soon enough, now that his hopes for Letty had come to pass, the next great barrier presented itself: Avery’s connection with and binding to the bard, Robb—or Marlon, whatever his name was.

The thought of him trying to penetrate the dark morass that was Gemmel’s Tower gave Hiram chills. It was more than unsafe, more than reckless—such a thing was suicidal. Hiram had never tried to penetrate Gemmel’s Tower himself, but he’d come up against plenty of wizard holes in his day. Some of it had been purposeful, a piece of adventuring that he was uniquely suited to, and some of it had been because there was no other option. Never, in any of those instances, had he walked away from the experience unscathed. Such reservoirs of power, imbued through will and blood and death, took a piece out of you no matter how strong you were.

Hiram huffed as he remembered the first time he’d come up against a wizard hole, back when he was first adventuring on his own. He’d been so full of himself, young and strong and determined to investigate tales of the Wizard of the Wood in eastern Dortheon. Supposedly the man had been able to make the trees talk, the birds share their secrets, and the flowers themselves dance when he walked by.

It had sounded quaint, idyllic, and if the man was gone then it was worthwhile investigating what he’d left behind—Hiram had never been much of an earth-oriented practitioner. He’d found the wizard’s home, an enormous tangle of a treehouse in the middle of a glen, disarmed the obvious traps with aplomb, and headed inside.

That was when the man’s death-curse found him. Hiram had ended up fighting for his life against the roots of the tree house, which had done their damndest to clamp onto him and drag him down into the depths of the wet, worm-dark earth with them. He’d ended up having to set the whole thing on fire to escape, which once he was clear-headed enough to think about it had been an awful outcome. All that knowledge, all that potency, destroyed just because he’d been careless instead of cautious.

And Avery had lived through Gemmel’s Tower twice. How had it hurt him? What was he carrying, even now, that left him in lingering pain and made him wary of letting others in? And what would the Tower do to him if he dared to try it a third time? Often such magics were cumulative, after all; a slap on the wrist with the first infraction, and knock to the head the second, a knife to the heart the third.

Not for Avery. There had to be something Hiram could do for him, a way to break the geis, a way to hide him from Marlon’s sight until the chance was past. Hiram couldn’t do magic himself right now, but he had a veritable repository of magical items tucked away in his private rooms. He hadn’t looked through them for a long time, preferring to leave as much of his past as out of sight as possible, but he’d brought the spoils of a lifetime along with him. Hmm, what did he have in his bags that might help? Hiram racked his memory as he arrived at home and began to put Mule away.

The Vanishing Cloak of Melekanthos… Ah, but that one was purely physical and wouldn’t stop music from reaching Avery’s ears. If he heard Marlon’s music, he could still be compelled by it, especially in light of the geis.

The Glittering Glass of Heliador… That was a full-on aura blocker; nothing that traveled the ethosphere was getting through that sucker. A start, but still not in and of itself sufficient. Perhaps if he combined it with the Cloak—no. No, that was too dangerous without prior testing. The last thing he needed was to combine two reagents and end up making an explosion with Avery in the middle. No.

Hiram idly patted Mule’s nose as he refilled her food bucket, adding a dollop of a sticky mixture that the local harness maker had assured him would do her joints good. He checked her water—plentiful—and patted her one last time before taking Knight’s makeshift leash and heading for the back of the house. He could go in the front, but the last thing he’d seen on his porch was the faces of the Devane children, all grouped together with his former assistant, and he wasn’t ready to replace that image in his mind yet.

A Wayfarer’s charm, perhaps…or one of the Reflectors to confuse the geis… Hiram ambled up the stairs and opened the unlocked door, stepping into the darkened interior of his home. He made it two steps before he realized that something was wrong.

The sound of his entrance was different, not breaking an emptiness but stepping into a silently occupied space. And the smell…sweat and salt and the stench of sour beer…

Hiram barely had time to drop Knight’s leash before a fist like a blacksmith’s hammer struck the center of his chest. He staggered back, arms raising protectively, but he couldn’t avoid the heavy kick to his side that sent him falling—straight into the side of Mistress Shore’s heavy, ancient iron stove. His head struck the corner, and then all Hiram could see was light flickering across his vision as he gasped in pain.

“You think you can fuck with my family, you piece of filth?”

Oh damn. Granth. He wasn’t still locked in an oblivious, drunken stupor at home or making a nuisance of himself in town. He’d come straight to the architect of his problems, in his mind—Hiram himself.

“Give my oldest girl delusions of grandeur, eh?” He leaned over and hit Hiram hard in the face, twice, three times. Hiram felt the fragile skin over his cheek split, and he readied himself to blast this bastard through the ceiling—

Then stopped. No magic. I can’t touch him with magic. He tried to use his own fists instead, striking at the man above him, but Granth was longer and stronger than Hiram, and avoided his blows with ease.

“I will stop him!”

“No,” Hiram croaked. Phlox’s magic was just as trackable as his, he couldn’t—

“Oh, you don’t think it’s your fault Letty’s gone from heeding my words to being as much of a bitch as her mam used to be?” Granth dragged Hiram up by the front of his tunic and threw him further into the living room. There was a bit of light in here through the windows, enough that when Hiram turned he could make out the man’s hulking form. One of his hands was empty, but the other held a long piece of iron—a poker, perhaps.

This was meant to be more than a beating. He would kill Hiram if he could.

Better me than the children. But neither would be best.

“Hiram…”

“No,” Hiram said again. It hadn’t gotten that far yet. He could still figure a way out of this without using his magic.

“You can’t run from me now, old man,” Granth sneered. “Caught you out like a fish in a barrel, I did.” He slapped the length of the poker down against his palm. “And I’ll gut you like one, too.”

“You’ll be found and tried,” Hiram said, casting about for a weapon even as his mind worked desperately for another way out of this. “They’ll hang you in the town square if you murder me in cold blood.”

“You’re nothin’ but an outsider,” Granth said, spitting to the side. “You think Uriel cares about outsiders? You think the priests do? They’ll call it a random attack an’ leave it alone as long as I don’t leave evidence behind, same as always.”

Same as always…was Hiram not the first person Granth had done this to? Was he more than a slovenly rabbit breeder and patriarchal tyrant?

Hiram didn’t have time for more thinking, not with the poker coming his way. He ducked, and it hit the wall hard enough to leave a gouge in the wood.

Come on, solve this! Before Phlox solves it for you and puts an end to your time in Lollop! He couldn’t use new magic, he hadn’t had time to go through his things but if he could make it up the stairs perhaps he could—

The stairs. The stairs, the charm! Hiram twisted past Granth and ran for the stairs.

He caught the very tip of the next swing across his upper back, and Hiram gasped as his shoulder blade made a hideous cracking sound that reverberated through his upper body. Breathing became difficult as the pain made itself known, and he fell onto the first few steps with a gasp.

“Hiram!”

“No,” he ground out, pressing onto his knees with his good hand. Behind him, Granth chuckled.

“Oh, yes.” Hiram heard the swoop of the poker swinging through the air from side to side. “I’ll beat your damn head in, old man, and the last thing you feel will be me ripping your fingers from your hands. I’ll joint you like a plucked chicken.”

Somehow, Hiram got his feet under him in time to start up the stairs again. Granth could have stopped him, could have reached out and grabbed his ankle and tugged him back into range with ease, but he let Hiram scramble, still laughing low and dark.

Just a little further…a little further… Hiram finally crossed the threshold of his bedroom at the top of the stairs and turned, breathless, to watch Granth follow him up. His head spun with pain, agony radiating from the broken scapula, and for a moment as his pursuer stepped up in front of him Hiram wondered if the charm had failed.

He was going to have to strike, and ruin everything.

Granth’s mouth twisted in a smile, and he took a step forward.

Then he vanished, poker and all.

Hiram exhaled a relieved breath that turned into a moan of pain. The pain spread like a fire across his tormented muscles, and his intention to make a new plan came to nothing as the pain in his back joined that in his head and finally, inexorably, overwhelmed him. He collapsed onto the floor, unconscious, as the power in the translocation charm sputtered and ran out.

Phlox pulsed with indecision and worry, but didn’t act.

Hiram was still alive. As long as he lived and could recover, Phlox wouldn’t take the step of ending things here for him. But if Granth returned…

Phlox would protect his master with Granth’s life.

***

Granth barely kept his feet as he stared around at the…trees? What the fuck?

He turned, gripping his weapon tighter as he spun in a slow circle. He was…he was in the road. In the light of the moon, he could just barely make out the point of that bastard’s house in the distance. What in the…how had he…

He growled in annoyance. So that filth had hired someone to give him a few little tricks. No matter. If he couldn’t afford a spell that was strong enough to kill, he deserved what was coming to him.

For so many reasons. Granth was going to enjoy this.

He started back toward the house, swinging the poker and muttering about the ways he was going to take Emblic apart under his breath. The front door was less than fifty feet away when a sudden wash of hot air poured over Granth’s body, startling him so badly he stopped mid-step.

“What the hells?” he grunted, spinning once more. It was nighttime in early autumn; there was no good reason for heat like that to strike with no reason. “Who’s there?” he demanded, raising the poker. “Come out and face me, you worthless trash!”

A pair of glowing green eyes appeared in the darkness at the edge of the woods. Out stepped a dainty little cat-like figure with a human face, and Granth shook his head at the incongruous sight. “What kind of crazy little thing are you, then?”

“I sit with eyes of stone in the morning and eyes as clear as the moon at night,” the creature said. “I run with children in the woods and stalk the prey of my master. I am she who guards the forward path and steps unseen in the mist. I. Am. Death.”

Granth laughed. “Here to take a bite of him too, puss?” he asked.

“Mm, not him,” the sphinx replied. “I am here to fulfill a vow. Several, in fact.”

What the— That was all Granth had time to think when the creature leapt forward, somehow crossing twenty feet in a single bound and growing at the same time, growing large enough that he could see its claws glisten like silver in the moonlight. An atavistic fear gripped him, and he got out the very first note of a scream.

A second later, the poker hit the ground. If the metal had been sentient, it might have winced at the sounds of chomping and chewing, but it was just a poker. It didn’t know what had just happened.

Neither would anyone else, Esme decided once she was done. She burped delicately, sniffed to ensure there was no scent of death that didn’t belong to her dinner, then turned and made her way back into the forest, purring with satisfaction.

 

Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards: Ch. 17 Pt. 1

 Notes: Triggers for references to abuse in this one, but it's leading up to a really fun chapter next time ;)

Title: Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards: Ch. 17 Pt. 1

***

Chapter Seventeen, Part One

 

Photo by Hu Chen

Fill the Cup

 

Hiram walked back to the town square in a daze, barely conscious of what was happening around him. It was good that he had a baby in his arms to excuse his lack of attention, because someone could have called his name out or even stepped right up to him and he wouldn’t have noticed it, not with his mind spinning so quickly. It wasn’t until Baby Davey was plucked right out of his arms that Hiram realized he was not only back, but the square itself had filled with people while he was gone. There was the smell of fresh food from street stalls, cries of joy and laughter from children watching the Druid’s stag or pulling the Wizard’s sparkles out of the sky, and even the Healer had set up a tent and was doing some proper work on little hurts.

“You two were gone for so long!” Letty commented as she hoisted her littlest brother up into the air, making him laugh. “Did you have a nice walk?”

“We did,” Hiram said, pulling himself together enough to hopefully seem natural. “We walked all the way to the edge of town to pay a short visit to the Vilnias.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You didn’t let them give him anything to eat or drink, did you? They gave Clyde a skewer of some kind once and he ended up having the shits for three days.”

“No food or drink of any kind,” Hiram promised. “In fact, he’s probably thirsty.”

“Oh, he’s an empty pit, this one,” Letty said, smiling at Davey. “An empty pit!” She leaned in a bit closer and sniffed. “I take it back, he’s a stinky sinkhole! Stinkhole baby!” She blew air on his tummy, and Davey laughed and laughed. “Yes, let’s change your messiness, yes! There’s got to be a free table around here somewhere.”

“By the troughs, perhaps,” Hiram suggested, pointing to where the boys who tied up people’s mounts usually kept time.

“Good thinking.” Letty headed over there with her brother, and Hiram moved into the shadow of the Yew Brew and leaned against the wall. As good a company as Letty and her siblings were, he was grateful for some time to himself, so to speak.

Not totally by himself. “Phlox,” he murmured. “Tell me what you make of what we just heard.”

“I make that you should stay the hells out of it.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You have no choice, Hiram. You can’t have anything to do with magic, and especially not with Gemmel’s Tower. Not after what happened in Garrison.”

Hiram huffed a breath. “Gemmel’s Tower is supposed to be impregnable. How did Avery and that bastard manage to get into it not once, but twice?”

Phlox was silent for a moment. “Perhaps you’re thinking about ‘impregnable’ the wrong way. The dwarves who attacked my land of fire determined it to be impregnable for many years, but that protection came at a steep cost to my people. I lost many children to their cold, quenching blades, and was only able to hold out as long as we did by virtue of superior numbers.”

“Gemmel’s Tower is empty, though.”

“That doesn’t mean that nothing remains of those who once lived there.”

Hiram opened his mouth to keep arguing, but just then a tone cut across the square, pure and ringing, that drew every eye to the man striding into the middle of the crowd with a lute in his hands and a smile across his handsome face. He had long, coppery hair that caught the light like a flame, a narrow nose and a wide, beaming mouth framed by a darker red goatee. He drew every eye as he stepped up next to the Wizard, who banished the rest of her glimmering sprites so that he could have the audience’s full attention.

“Good people of Lollop,” the Bard called out. His voice was as smooth as a river rock, and his fingers danced as he played a series of lilting chords on his lute. “We of the Thread are here in service to your town and people, looking for the overlooked and aiding the unaided. All we ask is a little of your time, attention, and perhaps—” he grinned “—a pint or two.” That got some laughs, and he forged on. “As for my part in this, I am here to be the eyes and ears of the God of Music, of merriment, of good cheer and fine times. Come and listen, and see if my God speaks in your heart.”

He launched into the standard searching song for the Thread, one that was meant to be infused with power that would tug at the hearts of children with a lyrical spark. There was a bit of power in this one—a tiny bit, though, just enough to qualify without being strong enough to actually do much. Given that Hiram knew for a fact this Bard was not only capable, he was downright masterful, the lack of effort felt almost offensive. Given the grimace on the Wizard’s face, he imagined he wasn’t the only one who thought so.

Well. If the Bard was here, at least that meant he wasn’t tormenting Avery anymore. Hiram cast his gaze around for the teacher, but he didn’t hold out hope for seeing him here. Who would want to come to watch their tormentor play the role of a good man for others, all the while knowing the darkness that lurked in his heart?

There must be something I can do. Hiram knew magic inside and out, backwards and forwards. He was the greatest wizard to grace the empire for three generations; in his heyday, he’d ended entire battles by doing nothing more than showing up on the field and letting the other side get a look at him.

He wasn’t going to be bested by not being able to do magic, not when it could mean the difference between Avery living and dying.

I’ll save you.

First things first, though—he had to make sure Letty got her due.

The afternoon wore into evening, and Hiram took his turn helping various children navigate getting to the outhouse, buying them all lunch (and several fresh carrots and a cupful of strawberries for Knight as well), helping Rickie climb a tree without falling and breaking his head, and finally taking Davey back once he was full, clean, and tired and holding him as he fell asleep.

There was something terribly calming about holding a sleeping baby. Hiram stared down at the child’s sweet little face, watched how his pudgy fingers naturally curled together like the petals of a night-blooming flower at dawn’s first light, and even though his heart ached for Avery, in that moment it ached more with the sweetness of remembering how it felt to hold Misha.

She’d been a colicky thing as an infant, almost impossible to settle for long, and with Andy consumed with the work of running the empire and her mother disinterested, it had fallen on Hiram to handle most of her care. Oh, he could have turned her over to a dozen different nursemaids, but from the moment he’d first cradled her against his chest, the love that welled up had blotted out every second thought. She became his world, and for the first time ever, the ferocity of his love was reciprocated with equal intensity.

Hiram closed his eyes and rocked Baby Davey. “Let her be well,” he whispered into the noise, not a hint of power in his voice apart from the love any parent bore for their child. “Please, please, let her be well. Let every ill that might hurt her fall on me instead; let her know joy and love and dear companionship. Let her be well.”

As the sun began to set, the festivities of the Thread came to a close. The Wizard conjured up a platform and stepped up onto it with a slightly impatient air as she waited for her companions to come and stand with her. “We appreciate the welcome given to us by your fine town,” she said with a nod. “The Thread is dedicated to doing its utmost to help the children of the Empire reach their fullest potential. This, however, is not Lollop’s year for a wizard.”

“Nor for a healer.”

“Nor, regrettably, for a bard.”

The Druid paused. “Not quite time yet for a druid,” he said, his eyes piercing the crowd. “But I’ll come back next year, and if the one I’m thinking of has worked hard on her spark, she might very well belong with the Thread.”

He was talking about Millie. Hiram craned his neck until he could see the girl, standing next to her big sister. There was excitement on Millie’s face, and a slightly strained smile on Letty’s even as she hugged her sister tight.

The Wizard straightened her monocle and smiled.

No, no, you’re not all done. That can’t be it!

“Well, then! I think we can still call this a success, and—”

“Not so fast.” The Guide stumped over from where she’d been standing by the wagons and up onto the platform. She glared at her fellows before squinting out into the crowd. “Few remember that I’m a full member of the Thread,” she said. “A priestess of Mertha, I am; the Wayfinder, the Bargainer, the One who Makes the Path. There’s few in this world who’re attuned to my goddess, and fewer still who make good use of her powers. In ten years, I’ve never found an initiate.” She turned her gaze onto Letty. “Until now.”

Letty’s gasp was audible even in the crowd.

“A girl of rare talent,” the Guide went on gently, “who saw a dismal scene and turned it into a joyful one, who brought people together for good and let no one, not even me, talk her out of it. Letty Devane.” She held out a weathered but strong hand. “I am Priestess Wynne Michelson, born of Galenish but raised on the road. I want to welcome you to the Thread, and bring you onto the Path of Blessed Mertha. What do you say?”

“I…”

Say yes! Threads were uniquely imbued with the power to accept a child of their own free will, rather than relying on their family to hand them over like local temples were. It was one of the ways that they endeavored to keep countries from hoarding talent they could use against the emperor. If Letty said yes, then it didn’t matter that she was only fifteen. Her father couldn’t legally stop her.

“I…” Letty began to tremble. “I want to, more than anything, but…

No!

“But I can’t leave my family. I…”

“We’ll be all right!” Millie insisted. “I’ll help Mama, and Clyde is old enough to help work the market with Pa. You have to go!”

“I want to, but…”

“You have to go.”

That was a new voice, one Hiram had never heard before. He turned with the rest of the crowd to look at the woman who’d just stepped into the square.

It was Letty’s mother, Celiane, and Hiram’s breath caught in his throat as he saw how swollen and bruised her face was. Murmurs erupted in the crowd, mutterings about her “brute of a husband” and “haven’t seen her in an age.”

“Ma!” Letty’s voice was agonized. “Ma, when did he—why—” She cut herself off with effort, undoubtedly raised not to speak about the wrongs that went on in her home. Her mother, far from chiding her daughter, made an effort to smile instead.

“It’s all right.” This close, Hiram could see the thick streaks of gray in her thin hair, and make out the too-sharp lines of her shoulders. Her voice, however, was as clear as a fresh drop of dew. “It’s going to be all right. I won’t let you walk my path.” She moved closer, and the people of Lollop parted for her. “You deserve better, sweetheart. More.”

“Ma?”

Celiane reached her oldest daughter and smoothed the hair back from Letty’s face. “My spark is gone,” she said, no pity in her voice, just fact. “But once, it was everything to me. Then I had you, and I knew why things had turned out the way they had. And once you’re gone things will change yet again, but we’ll be all right.

“That is.” She raised her chin and stared out defiantly. “If anyone is willing to help house my children and I for the night.” Or more went unsaid, but everyone heard it. It was plain that she was running from her husband’s abuse. Her bruises were too fresh, the marks too distinctive to have come from anything but a fist.

Granth’s poor treatment of his family was far from secret in town, but as long as no one outwardly complained, nothing was done. That was simply the way it was, and even Hiram had fallen into the trap of thinking he could only help from a distance instead of confronting Granth directly. For a woman who, as far as he knew, hadn’t been seen in town in years, that had left her isolated in a way only her children could relieve.

No one had gone to her, but something this time had moved Celiane to take the first step—to seize back control of her own destiny. It must have been so hard to gather her tattered courage together after years under an awful man’s thumb and step out into the world again. Her bravery was both inspiring and humbling, but would it be rewarded?

“I have a place for you.” Hiram was relieved to see Mistress Tate step up and take Celiane’s hand. “A safe place, I promise.”

Hiram half expected someone to try and shout her down, but there was nothing. Celiane nodded, and it was like a spell broke. Sound came back, laughter slowly infusing back into the crowd as people thronged up to congratulate Letty and chat at the family. Watching it all, Hiram felt both a sharp surge of relief and an impending wave of exhaustion.

One problem down, many more to go.

He wove through the crowd until he was close enough to Celiane for her to see her youngest in his arms. She reached for Davey and Hiram handed him over, a gentle passage that the baby didn’t even stir for. “Thank you,” Celiane said as she cradled her child close.

Hiram shook his head. “Don’t thank me. We should have acted sooner.”

“I think no one would have acted at all without your presence in Letty’s life, Master Emblic.” She smiled crookedly. “Not even me.”

It was kind of her to absolve him, but Hiram couldn’t be so sanguine himself. Now wasn’t the time for investigating that thought, though—especially not when the Bard was so close, playing a merry tune that adroitly covered up the blackness in his soul.

You’re next. Somehow, you’re next. But first things first: Hiram needed to get home.

Well, absolutely first thing first—he needed to retrieve Knight from Millie, then get home.