The Stranger

Midday sun peered through a frosted windowpane. Distant blacksmith clinking and townsfolk chatter seeped through the walls.

Taliesin found himself in suffocating sheets. He shoved them off himself, then searched for a bearing.

A cup of water waited near the bed, and Taliesin sucked it down, easing his dry throat.

Bryndall cracked the door open. “You’ve slept most of the day,” he said, “not sure if you were still with us.”

Taliesin stayed quiet.

“I moved you last night,” Bryndall continued.

“Where are my things?”

“By the door. Ready, for once you decide to leave.”

“How far are you willing to take me?”

“Depends on which way.”

Taliesin thought for a moment. “Tavean,” he said.

Bryndall nodded. “Quiet country. Good choice. We’ll head off soon. Let Seren know while I prepare Borus for the trip. She’s at the apothecary.”

Once Bryndall left the room, Taliesin pulled on his boots and readied himself. His bag and clothes were folded neatly against the front door. The two blades he carried from the night before were also wrapped in a soft canvas, then tied with leather bands.

He pulled out Leiren’s blade. It glimmered with signs of a hasty wash. Streaks of dried blood still remained in the handle’s grooves. Then he left, placing the blade in his right leg sleeve.

The apothecary’s shack stood where it was a few days prior, next to Elias’ workshop. Dried laelic bulbs, aetherleaf, and graygin flowers hung along the edge of the roof.

Whispers of Leiren’s sarcasm flowed in his ears, asking Varith to see if he could figure out which herb was poisonous or not.

Taliesin shook off the memory, and pushed in the door. Wisps of dust escaped the building as he did. Each wall had a counter of more dried foragry except the one farthest from the door.

“Welcome.” It was the inn stranger from the night before.

“I’m looking for a woman,” Taliesin said, looking around.

“I’ve had troubles myself too,” the man replied. “I haven’t had the fortune of seeing one today, that is.”

Taliesin disregarded the comment and looked around. Light specks of dust settled on some of the counters as well as a rack of herbs. “Where’s the original owner?”

The stranger rocked on his heels. “He sent out a letter for me, something about the blight and the family.”

“Does he keep records?” Taliesin asked. “He promised payment for aetherleaf foragings.”

“He did not inform me.”

A broken bracelet chain glimmered in contrast to the wooden floorboards. The bulbous silver piece hid underneath the legs of a counter.

“What’re these over here? I might have seen some outside the town.” Taliesin picked up a fallen javin root in the same motion with the bracelet. He unsheathed his blade silently, ensuring his body obstructed the stranger’s view.

“Ah.” The stranger thought for a moment. “Graygin root. Do you need some?”

Taliesin walked over to the counter with a handful of the root. “No.”

He threw the javin root at the stranger’s eyes. As the man covered his face, Taliesin grabbed his collar and pulled his neck against his blade.

“Where is she?”

The stranger clenched his eyes and sucked in his teeth. “I—I don’t—”

Taliesin pushed his blade. “I don’t have time for lies.”

The man opened his eyes as if he weren’t in pain, yet pained tears leaked out of them. He smiled. Then his body convulsed. The blade cut into his neck as he did.

“Poor man.” His voice deepened and gurgled with each word, blood spilled from his neck, and Taliesin stepped back. However, the man still kept upright. “Your turn is next, vessel,” the corpse said. Then as if the strings that held up the stranger were cut—he buckled to the floor. Blood pooled around the corpse and seeped into the floorboards.

Taliesin jumped over the counter, and his boots splashed in the blood. While over the corpse, he rummaged through blood-soaked pockets, finding A soaked letter; barely readable, only three words could be made out. Dunmouth … or children.

The corpse grabbed Taliesin’s face, painting blood across his cheeks and neck. Its eyes locked into Taliesin’s, almost begging, and its mouth dropped into a whimper. Without thinking, Taliesin plunged his blade into his chest.

The door whipped open, and Taliesin quickly hid behind the counter.

“Everything is packed up—” Bryndall looked over the counter.

“It’s not what you think,” Taliesin said, “he kidnapped Seren, I don’t know where she went, he—”

Bryndall pointed to scraps of rope beside Taliesin, and then to the corpse’s boots. Dirt tracks led to a backroom. The two walked in.

Inside were brown robes, and a small arsenal of swords, bows, shields, and arrows. A stack of uniforms was tucked into the corner.

“Damnit!” Bryndall punched the far wall, smashing in a few inches of wood.

Taliesin picked up one of the uniforms, tracing his fingers across Shone’s emblem.

“What’re the robes?” asked Taliesin. “Mara’s children?”

“No,” Bryndall sighed, “she’d already be dead if they were.” He picked up a robe. “Likely just harvesters. Can you fight?”

“I can try.”

Bryndall grabbed a bow and a casing of arrows. “Tell me they taught you how to use this.”

“I’ve been trained,” said Taliesin, grabbing the set.

When they reached the outside, a dark cloud hazed over Dunmouth. It drifted between quiet homes and workshops. In the distance, where the sun drifted into the forest, smoke rose to meet it.