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[ Webers-Tappisserie, Town Square ] | [ Lark Weber @Wolfieh, Ehren Weber @Wolfieh, Lyra Weber @Wolfieh, Baudile Dubosque @YummyYummy ]
Kaspar pushed the door open, something racing through his veins though he looked as stoic as ever. Was it fear? Or was he beyond that?
A small bell above the door chimed as the boy stepped in. The sound was like ice sliding down his spine. He knew that quiet song. It was the same one from his childhood. It was a memory, and it was a lance through the chest.
Unable to help it, his mind wandered the space, thinking of the life that may have been his. Perhaps he’d be standing behind the counter now, trusted with managing the business and the coin. Or would he be crafting alongside one of his parents?
Thin, dexterous fingers weaving thread to and fro on a large loom, laughing with his father as the picture came together. Or muscled wrists and forearms crushing ingredients, mixing pigments and oils and stirring large stews of coloring fabric. His red eyes looked down, hands flexing. He’d always taken more after his father, but muscle for dyemaking could be built.
Could have been built.
There were footsteps from the back. Sharp and quick. A woman with disheveled, dark hair and gaunt features walked through a doorway, eyes cast down as she wiped dye-stained fingers onto an equally dye-stained apron. She looked up, something of a permanent scowl etched below auburn eyes.
Only for the scowl to deepen, and the eyes to burn.
A small bell above the door chimed as the boy stepped in. The sound was like ice sliding down his spine. He knew that quiet song. It was the same one from his childhood. It was a memory, and it was a lance through the chest.
Unable to help it, his mind wandered the space, thinking of the life that may have been his. Perhaps he’d be standing behind the counter now, trusted with managing the business and the coin. Or would he be crafting alongside one of his parents?
Thin, dexterous fingers weaving thread to and fro on a large loom, laughing with his father as the picture came together. Or muscled wrists and forearms crushing ingredients, mixing pigments and oils and stirring large stews of coloring fabric. His red eyes looked down, hands flexing. He’d always taken more after his father, but muscle for dyemaking could be built.
Could have been built.
There were footsteps from the back. Sharp and quick. A woman with disheveled, dark hair and gaunt features walked through a doorway, eyes cast down as she wiped dye-stained fingers onto an equally dye-stained apron. She looked up, something of a permanent scowl etched below auburn eyes.
Only for the scowl to deepen, and the eyes to burn.
Lark reached for the nearest object, an old piece of loom frame that stayed tucked behind the counter.
“Aussteigen.” (Get out.)
The words felt like they tore out of her throat as she held the wood out, hoping that its shaking came across more as a threat than as fear.
Red eyes flickered down toward it, then back to her. They seared into her. His face was so much like Ehren’s—if her husband had only hair dark as hers, and eyes of the devil. And none of the laughter or joy that softened those features. She knew who he was, was sure the whole village would if they didn’t think he was dead.
“Diesmal werde ich ihn nicht wehtun.” (I won’t hurt him this time.)
The way he spoke the words would seem boyish, if not for the utter emotionless of them. The words themselves comforting, if not for the way he glared at her. No happiness, no sorrow, no regret in his eyes. They looked empty. Devoid of everything but a cold Helbahn winter. He looked like a predator, like a wolf telling the lamb it meant her no harm.
“Diesmal wirst du niemanden verletzen,” (You won’t hurt anyone this time,) she retorted before swinging the stick at him. His arms came up just in time to block as it crashed into him, cracking loudly and sending one half of the stick spinning to the ground.
“Scheiße!” The boy backed away as she swung again, the broken weapon meaning it only whistled violently through the air before smacking loudly against the counter. He kept moving down the length of the surface, but not towards the door—and she chased him, swinging blows that only occasionally caught him.
Hurried footsteps announced that Ehren had overheard the commotion, and he burst into the room. Ever the mediator, he immediately pulled Lark back, grabbing for the stick she was still swinging. He pulled it from her hands, more because she willingly let it go than because he strong-armed her, and backed the two of them away from the target of her anger.
The boy looked up, wiping a trickle of blood from his chin. Lark was satisfied to see a scrape along his cheekbone and a split in his lip. Then his crimson eyes switched from her face to Ehren’s, and…
And the boy froze. He was so still Lark was sure he wasn’t even breathing, only the steady drip of blood there to assure he’d not turned to stone. Behind her, hands still tight on her biceps, she felt Ehren jolt and then start shaking. “Es tut mir Leid—“ (I’m sorry—)
“Alaric?”
The boy seemed to flinch at the name, but Ehren was already walking toward him, gathering the teenager into his arms. To Lark’s surprise, the boy seemed almost frightened of his father’s embrace, sliding his hands away from Ehren and casting wild-eyed looks between the two of them. It was strange, that he faced her pointed violence without shaking, but now—in the arms of his too-loving father—he seemed truly afraid.
“Du warst tot… Du—dachte ich…” (You were dead… You—I thought…) He glanced back towards his wife, nothing but anguish in his eyes. “Du sagtest, er sei tot.” (You said he was dead.)
Lark gaped, suddenly unsure how to answer. Ehren had never been meant to know. And now, he didn’t even seem accusing. He only seemed agonized. Her eyes met the boy’s, and she was sure there was something pleading on her face. But if she thought he had been cold before… She realized that was only a baseline. What she saw before was nothing compared to the frigidness she saw now in that horrible crimson gaze. He would offer no help. “Du musst büßen...” (You must atone…) she stammered, voice soft in her too-dry throat.
His mouth opened, a spark of anger in his eyes, but before the boy could speak, a new voice piped up from the doorway, and Lark shivered in horror.
“Mama?”
“Aussteigen.” (Get out.)
The words felt like they tore out of her throat as she held the wood out, hoping that its shaking came across more as a threat than as fear.
Red eyes flickered down toward it, then back to her. They seared into her. His face was so much like Ehren’s—if her husband had only hair dark as hers, and eyes of the devil. And none of the laughter or joy that softened those features. She knew who he was, was sure the whole village would if they didn’t think he was dead.
“Diesmal werde ich ihn nicht wehtun.” (I won’t hurt him this time.)
The way he spoke the words would seem boyish, if not for the utter emotionless of them. The words themselves comforting, if not for the way he glared at her. No happiness, no sorrow, no regret in his eyes. They looked empty. Devoid of everything but a cold Helbahn winter. He looked like a predator, like a wolf telling the lamb it meant her no harm.
“Diesmal wirst du niemanden verletzen,” (You won’t hurt anyone this time,) she retorted before swinging the stick at him. His arms came up just in time to block as it crashed into him, cracking loudly and sending one half of the stick spinning to the ground.
“Scheiße!” The boy backed away as she swung again, the broken weapon meaning it only whistled violently through the air before smacking loudly against the counter. He kept moving down the length of the surface, but not towards the door—and she chased him, swinging blows that only occasionally caught him.
Hurried footsteps announced that Ehren had overheard the commotion, and he burst into the room. Ever the mediator, he immediately pulled Lark back, grabbing for the stick she was still swinging. He pulled it from her hands, more because she willingly let it go than because he strong-armed her, and backed the two of them away from the target of her anger.
The boy looked up, wiping a trickle of blood from his chin. Lark was satisfied to see a scrape along his cheekbone and a split in his lip. Then his crimson eyes switched from her face to Ehren’s, and…
And the boy froze. He was so still Lark was sure he wasn’t even breathing, only the steady drip of blood there to assure he’d not turned to stone. Behind her, hands still tight on her biceps, she felt Ehren jolt and then start shaking. “Es tut mir Leid—“ (I’m sorry—)
“Alaric?”
The boy seemed to flinch at the name, but Ehren was already walking toward him, gathering the teenager into his arms. To Lark’s surprise, the boy seemed almost frightened of his father’s embrace, sliding his hands away from Ehren and casting wild-eyed looks between the two of them. It was strange, that he faced her pointed violence without shaking, but now—in the arms of his too-loving father—he seemed truly afraid.
“Du warst tot… Du—dachte ich…” (You were dead… You—I thought…) He glanced back towards his wife, nothing but anguish in his eyes. “Du sagtest, er sei tot.” (You said he was dead.)
Lark gaped, suddenly unsure how to answer. Ehren had never been meant to know. And now, he didn’t even seem accusing. He only seemed agonized. Her eyes met the boy’s, and she was sure there was something pleading on her face. But if she thought he had been cold before… She realized that was only a baseline. What she saw before was nothing compared to the frigidness she saw now in that horrible crimson gaze. He would offer no help. “Du musst büßen...” (You must atone…) she stammered, voice soft in her too-dry throat.
His mouth opened, a spark of anger in his eyes, but before the boy could speak, a new voice piped up from the doorway, and Lark shivered in horror.
“Mama?”
Kaspar trembled violently, still tucked into the arms of the man (Of his father), at the child-like word, a near-plea. At the same time Lark turned around, his eyes flitted to the face peeking out from the edge of the doorway. Young, no more than six or seven, with rounded child features and mousy brown hair. Eyes like Lark’s, though—
Is that a reddish tint? Or a trick of the light?
“Is she—?” he blurted out as Lark scooped the girl into her arms.
“No.” The word was harsh as Lark snapped at him. But after a few seconds, after a prolonged look to the child she held, she murmured, “We… don’t know yet.”
Kaspar let out a ragged breath. Shyly, the girl glanced at him, chewing on the edges of her fingernails and staring prolongedly at her father before, once again, turning her eyes to him.
It reminded him so much of his last visit to Helbahn, of meeting Jesper Arvid Elstrøm von Wentoft.
“If she ever—” He swallowed, trying not to stutter. “If she needs… Support, or tutelage… I can help. I will help.”
Lark didn’t respond, eyes searching his face. Finally, turning her back towards him and bouncing the little girl, she nodded, sharp and unsure.
Ehren finally pulled his arms from around his son, fingers pressing into Kaspar’s shoulders as he seemed to just look. Unable to meet the eyes of the man he almost killed, the biro lowered his gaze. Yet, unbidden, it flickered toward the wrist he had injured so long ago, searching for that silvery stretch of scar tissue—
But found only smooth, healthy skin.
Something settled in his chest, soothing against the agitation and pain this place had brought him. The buzzing in his ears—one he hadn’t even noticed until now—abated, and he caught the words Ehren was speaking softly to him.
“Alaric? Do you want to have a seat in the kitchen?”
“I…” He choked on the words, reality cascading over him in waves. He was in the home of his childhood, the one he’d spent so long wishing to return to. He had been taken, joyously, into the arms of the father he was so sure must fear him, if not hate him. He had a sister. Not a sibling by choice like Felix, or happenstance like Jesper—but of blood.
She would grow up in his childhood home, running through the same rooms and streets. As Jesper would grow up in the home of his adolescence—and like he and Felix shared the experience of pain. She was the last key to his life, being understood in pieces. The thought warmed him.
He realized Ehren was gently tugging his elbow, and they were crossing through a hallway to the rickety staircase up to the kitchen. Kaspar went willingly, knowing he had not even done what he meant to do here—it had been one shock after another.
First, his mother’s assault—That, he mused wryly, is not very surprising. Then, the realization that his father was not only happy to see him, but thought he was dead. He’d wondered, for years, what Ehren had said when Lark had admitted to sending their child away. But it seemed she never had.
And then, of course, his sister. He wasn’t foolish enough to think she’d become a permanent fixture in his life—it was all too likely he would leave here unwelcome to return, and not only because of his past—but, having been granted the chance to know her once… It was uplifting. If it came to pass that she was like him, perhaps Lark would entrust her to his guardianship. He could, at least, do right by her. By both of his younger siblings.
Ehren guided him into a seat, and Kaspar shook himself back to the moment at hand. He was here with a purpose—there were people who might desperately need the information he sought. He’d come to the Webers because they, of all people in Mandelein, might be willing to answer his questions—if only out of guilt.
”I need your help.”
The words cut off a hushed conversation between Ehren and his wife, who seemed displeased that Kaspar had been brought here—and who glared sharply at the interruption. ”Of course,” Ehren replied, ignoring the way his wife’s accusatory gaze turned his way.
”After the attack, some of my companions hoped to find a victim deeper in the woods. They haven’t come back.” His crimson eyes search them, and found they shifted uncomfortably. ”I remember the stories, from my childhood. Of the—“
He was hushed, softly. Like a parent soothing a frightened child. Ehren patted his hand and Kaspar tried not to blanch at the contact, at the violent memories it dredged. He opened his mouth to continue, but the shushing grew more firm and Ehren shook his head, eyes imploring.
Hoarsely, Kaspar whispered, ”What happened to the Lord of Mandelein?”
Lark winced like she’d been struck, attention suddenly turning to the child on her lap as she began bouncing her daughter, distanced from the conversation. Ehren’s eyes were the closest Kaspar had seen them to anger. ”The lord has been gone a long time. We talk to Father Dubosque.”
Kaspar tried to remember if the priest had been here in his childhood, but so many memories of that time were shrouded. He focused his eyes on Ehren’s face, forcing his own expression into one of pleading. ”Papa, please,” he murmured, seeing the words take root as Ehren’s eyes began to mist.
His head shook back and forth slowly, and Kaspar’s father looked pained. ”No. Do not ask this of me,” he whispered wretchedly. ”You are my son, but you… You are not one of us.” He choked on the words, swallowing thickly. Lark reached out a hand to press firmly on his shoulder, and leveled a harsh glare at Kaspar. He could feel it, but didn’t bother to glance her way.
Instead, frustrated, he cast his eyes about the room. There was little here that could offer answers. The fireplace where they cooked food, stacked assortments of pots, various ingredients hanging from the ceiling and giving the room a heady herbal smell. Boxes and baskets for vegetables, and what fruits they might be able to get—and a pair of crutches leaned in that corner, dusty with disuse.
“When did you hurt your leg?” he asked without thinking, glancing between Lark and Ehren to see who responded. Had this injury had something to do with the Beast?
“It’s better now,” Lark snapped, and his gaze settled on her.
“Is there any lingering pain or weakness?” He paused momentarily, wondering if mentioning his Gift was a good idea in front of her, but decided to continue, “I’m a Binder. I could look at it, if it’s not fully healed.”
It was Ehren who spoke. “No. No pain or weakness. It’s been healed for months.” Lark shot him a warning look, and Kaspar realized with amusement that she’d simply been trying to keep him from answering.
He glanced back and the crutches. Were they tiring of his conversation? These reminded him of Felix’s—they were clearly intended to be permanent. Had the crafter only known how to make one kind?
“Are you certain?”
“It’s my leg! I lived long enough with the pain, I think I’d know if I still felt it!” Ehren snapped. Lark looked shocked, and the child on her lap buried her face in her mother’s chest. Kaspar simply leveled his eyes on the man, expression unaffected.
“How long did it take to heal?” he asked, after a moment of tense silence.
“A few years.”
“Quickly.”
Ehren and Lark shot glares at each other, and Kaspar watched with interest sparking in his eyes. But neither one spoke, and eventually Lark’s angry gaze returned to him. He leaned back slightly, shrugging.
“I am only trying to help, Papa,” he murmured, letting something like hurt leak into his voice. His eyes fell to the floor, corners of his mouth falling as his eyebrows knitted together.
“It… It lingered, for years. But when it finally healed, it did so quickly,” Ehren admitted quietly.
Kaspar studied his face. He seemed uncomfortable, and clearly there was more to the story. “Did you see someone to heal it?” he asked, dropping the prior intensity to sound simply curious.
Lark opened her mouth—to object to Kaspar’s question or Ehren’s answer, he did not know—but could not speak before her husband. “No. I… I don’t think so.”
The curiosity took over as Kaspar replied, “You don’t know?”
“I was asleep!”
Silence hung heavy in the room. Kaspar was trying to parse these words, to figure out what they meant specifically, and his parents seemed to be uncomfortable that it had gotten this far. “It healed overnight?” he asked, trying not to sound too incredulous.
“You should leave,” was the murmured response. Lark handed the girl in her arms to her clearly frustrated husband, and stood to face Kaspar.
“Get out,” she ordered, waving her hands like she was shooing a dog.
Almost apologetically, Ehren piped up, “If you want to talk again, you will be welcome. Just… Not about this. Never about this.” But Lark was already herding him through the doorway, back to the staircase.
They descended in silence, until they’d made it back to the front room. “You should be ashamed,” she snapped.
With a sigh, Kaspar retorted, “Do not blame me for the lies you told. It seems a theme, with mothers. Pretending their unwanted sons are dead.” He turned, locking eyes with her, and smirked. “It did not work well for the Marchioness, either.”
This seemed to give Lark pause, as she tried to grasp his meaning. He simply continued to stare into her eyes, unwilling to offer any assistance. Finally, almost seeming guilty, his mother whispered, “At least they could take care of you. At least they wanted you.”
“Ehren wanted me. The Elstrøms wanted an heir,” he clarified, seeing the angry blush rise to her cheeks again. “And with the birth of my younger brother, Jesper, they finally have one.”
Kaspar opened the door, stepping into the street. It was growing dim, and night would fall on the town soon. He turned, facing Lark once more. “If she turns out like me, if you choose to abandon her too… Send for me. I can and will care for her.” He hesitated, but the open hostility in Lark’s eyes pushed him further. “Even if you don’t, I will find her. And I’ll make sure she knows exactly who threw her away.”
Lark tried to shut the door in his face, but Kaspar stuck the toe of his boot in, keeping it open just enough to see the burning eyes of his mother. Tilting his head, he asked softly, “What is her name?”
Lark glared harshly at him for what seemed to be a long time. The pressure on his foot increased, and it was clear she wanted the door shut. The square was still emptying—she could’ve called for help if she’d wanted—but both remained silent, staring fearlessly into the other’s eyes.
“Lyra.”
His foot pulled free, and the slam of the door echoed harshly into the falling night.
Is that a reddish tint? Or a trick of the light?
“Is she—?” he blurted out as Lark scooped the girl into her arms.
“No.” The word was harsh as Lark snapped at him. But after a few seconds, after a prolonged look to the child she held, she murmured, “We… don’t know yet.”
Kaspar let out a ragged breath. Shyly, the girl glanced at him, chewing on the edges of her fingernails and staring prolongedly at her father before, once again, turning her eyes to him.
It reminded him so much of his last visit to Helbahn, of meeting Jesper Arvid Elstrøm von Wentoft.
His crimson eyes did not leave the sleeping child as he gently rocked the crib to and fro. Kaspar dared not touch such a delicate being, but it was clear in the boy’s usually-stoic face that he felt adoration for this false brother of his.
Kaspar had never wanted lands or status or titles. At eight years old, he had only wanted to go home—back to Kerremand, to see the mother who had so willfully abandoned him and the father he had so grievously wounded.
When that impossibility became apparent, there had been but one thing left for the boy to seek: knowledge, and control. That had been his driving force for years, all he had desired and everything he worked toward.
Perhaps, then, he had fallen into the trap of self-illusionment. The boy had convinced himself he wanted nothing more than to understand, because he saw his other hope as a mere impossibility.
Just as he wanted to understand, the boy had wanted to be understood. To be enough for someone—and he wasn’t picky on who—to care about him. It was Willa who had picked up on this, who had tried to treat him like a child rather than a pawn.
He stepped softly out of the room, closing the door and turning to face the Marquis and his wife.
“You want me to abdicate all rights to inherit and join the Order of Shune,” he stated matter-of-factly. Neither of his caretakers responded, though both stiffened as if expecting an impending challenge.
“I have no interest in holding lands or titles tainted by you,” he continued, nothing but sincerity in the words, “But what I choose to do instead will suffer no interference from either of you. Know that the secret of my identity has been shared. There are those beyond this room—those with positions much greater than your own—who know what you have done, and who I am not. They will not share it.” He paused, tilting his head slightly. “Unless you force my hand.”
Katka glared at him, anger plain on her features. But after a tense silence, it was she who finally spoke, voice cutting. “Very well. Be sure you are out of the way.”
Kaspar’s crimson eyes settled on them weightily, as if truly examining the nobles for the first time. The Marquis swallowed thickly, eyes darting away for the barest of seconds under the piercing stare.
“I hope, for the sake of your newest heir, that you will find something resembling bare decency. I hold no hope for your ability to care, but would like to see this child receive something fairer than either Kaspar or I ever got.”
He began pulling his gloves off as he continued, seeming near absent-minded but nevertheless precisely calculated. “If you choose to throw this one away as well… I will find him, and I will be his keeper. I will make sure he is properly raised and educated in every aspect he might possibly need.”
His eyes darkened, face turning colder than the hellish winter. “I will protect him, and I will personally ensure that neither one of you are in the way when he comes of age to inherit. I do not hold such frail beliefs as good and evil. If you do not support him and I must… I will not care what other men may deign to call it. I will be exactly what he needs me to be, regardless of who must pay that price.”
Kaspar had never wanted lands or status or titles. At eight years old, he had only wanted to go home—back to Kerremand, to see the mother who had so willfully abandoned him and the father he had so grievously wounded.
When that impossibility became apparent, there had been but one thing left for the boy to seek: knowledge, and control. That had been his driving force for years, all he had desired and everything he worked toward.
Perhaps, then, he had fallen into the trap of self-illusionment. The boy had convinced himself he wanted nothing more than to understand, because he saw his other hope as a mere impossibility.
Just as he wanted to understand, the boy had wanted to be understood. To be enough for someone—and he wasn’t picky on who—to care about him. It was Willa who had picked up on this, who had tried to treat him like a child rather than a pawn.
He stepped softly out of the room, closing the door and turning to face the Marquis and his wife.
“You want me to abdicate all rights to inherit and join the Order of Shune,” he stated matter-of-factly. Neither of his caretakers responded, though both stiffened as if expecting an impending challenge.
“I have no interest in holding lands or titles tainted by you,” he continued, nothing but sincerity in the words, “But what I choose to do instead will suffer no interference from either of you. Know that the secret of my identity has been shared. There are those beyond this room—those with positions much greater than your own—who know what you have done, and who I am not. They will not share it.” He paused, tilting his head slightly. “Unless you force my hand.”
Katka glared at him, anger plain on her features. But after a tense silence, it was she who finally spoke, voice cutting. “Very well. Be sure you are out of the way.”
Kaspar’s crimson eyes settled on them weightily, as if truly examining the nobles for the first time. The Marquis swallowed thickly, eyes darting away for the barest of seconds under the piercing stare.
“I hope, for the sake of your newest heir, that you will find something resembling bare decency. I hold no hope for your ability to care, but would like to see this child receive something fairer than either Kaspar or I ever got.”
He began pulling his gloves off as he continued, seeming near absent-minded but nevertheless precisely calculated. “If you choose to throw this one away as well… I will find him, and I will be his keeper. I will make sure he is properly raised and educated in every aspect he might possibly need.”
His eyes darkened, face turning colder than the hellish winter. “I will protect him, and I will personally ensure that neither one of you are in the way when he comes of age to inherit. I do not hold such frail beliefs as good and evil. If you do not support him and I must… I will not care what other men may deign to call it. I will be exactly what he needs me to be, regardless of who must pay that price.”
“If she ever—” He swallowed, trying not to stutter. “If she needs… Support, or tutelage… I can help. I will help.”
Lark didn’t respond, eyes searching his face. Finally, turning her back towards him and bouncing the little girl, she nodded, sharp and unsure.
Ehren finally pulled his arms from around his son, fingers pressing into Kaspar’s shoulders as he seemed to just look. Unable to meet the eyes of the man he almost killed, the biro lowered his gaze. Yet, unbidden, it flickered toward the wrist he had injured so long ago, searching for that silvery stretch of scar tissue—
But found only smooth, healthy skin.
Something settled in his chest, soothing against the agitation and pain this place had brought him. The buzzing in his ears—one he hadn’t even noticed until now—abated, and he caught the words Ehren was speaking softly to him.
“Alaric? Do you want to have a seat in the kitchen?”
“I…” He choked on the words, reality cascading over him in waves. He was in the home of his childhood, the one he’d spent so long wishing to return to. He had been taken, joyously, into the arms of the father he was so sure must fear him, if not hate him. He had a sister. Not a sibling by choice like Felix, or happenstance like Jesper—but of blood.
She would grow up in his childhood home, running through the same rooms and streets. As Jesper would grow up in the home of his adolescence—and like he and Felix shared the experience of pain. She was the last key to his life, being understood in pieces. The thought warmed him.
He realized Ehren was gently tugging his elbow, and they were crossing through a hallway to the rickety staircase up to the kitchen. Kaspar went willingly, knowing he had not even done what he meant to do here—it had been one shock after another.
First, his mother’s assault—That, he mused wryly, is not very surprising. Then, the realization that his father was not only happy to see him, but thought he was dead. He’d wondered, for years, what Ehren had said when Lark had admitted to sending their child away. But it seemed she never had.
And then, of course, his sister. He wasn’t foolish enough to think she’d become a permanent fixture in his life—it was all too likely he would leave here unwelcome to return, and not only because of his past—but, having been granted the chance to know her once… It was uplifting. If it came to pass that she was like him, perhaps Lark would entrust her to his guardianship. He could, at least, do right by her. By both of his younger siblings.
Ehren guided him into a seat, and Kaspar shook himself back to the moment at hand. He was here with a purpose—there were people who might desperately need the information he sought. He’d come to the Webers because they, of all people in Mandelein, might be willing to answer his questions—if only out of guilt.
”I need your help.”
The words cut off a hushed conversation between Ehren and his wife, who seemed displeased that Kaspar had been brought here—and who glared sharply at the interruption. ”Of course,” Ehren replied, ignoring the way his wife’s accusatory gaze turned his way.
”After the attack, some of my companions hoped to find a victim deeper in the woods. They haven’t come back.” His crimson eyes search them, and found they shifted uncomfortably. ”I remember the stories, from my childhood. Of the—“
He was hushed, softly. Like a parent soothing a frightened child. Ehren patted his hand and Kaspar tried not to blanch at the contact, at the violent memories it dredged. He opened his mouth to continue, but the shushing grew more firm and Ehren shook his head, eyes imploring.
Hoarsely, Kaspar whispered, ”What happened to the Lord of Mandelein?”
Lark winced like she’d been struck, attention suddenly turning to the child on her lap as she began bouncing her daughter, distanced from the conversation. Ehren’s eyes were the closest Kaspar had seen them to anger. ”The lord has been gone a long time. We talk to Father Dubosque.”
Kaspar tried to remember if the priest had been here in his childhood, but so many memories of that time were shrouded. He focused his eyes on Ehren’s face, forcing his own expression into one of pleading. ”Papa, please,” he murmured, seeing the words take root as Ehren’s eyes began to mist.
His head shook back and forth slowly, and Kaspar’s father looked pained. ”No. Do not ask this of me,” he whispered wretchedly. ”You are my son, but you… You are not one of us.” He choked on the words, swallowing thickly. Lark reached out a hand to press firmly on his shoulder, and leveled a harsh glare at Kaspar. He could feel it, but didn’t bother to glance her way.
Instead, frustrated, he cast his eyes about the room. There was little here that could offer answers. The fireplace where they cooked food, stacked assortments of pots, various ingredients hanging from the ceiling and giving the room a heady herbal smell. Boxes and baskets for vegetables, and what fruits they might be able to get—and a pair of crutches leaned in that corner, dusty with disuse.
“When did you hurt your leg?” he asked without thinking, glancing between Lark and Ehren to see who responded. Had this injury had something to do with the Beast?
“It’s better now,” Lark snapped, and his gaze settled on her.
“Is there any lingering pain or weakness?” He paused momentarily, wondering if mentioning his Gift was a good idea in front of her, but decided to continue, “I’m a Binder. I could look at it, if it’s not fully healed.”
It was Ehren who spoke. “No. No pain or weakness. It’s been healed for months.” Lark shot him a warning look, and Kaspar realized with amusement that she’d simply been trying to keep him from answering.
He glanced back and the crutches. Were they tiring of his conversation? These reminded him of Felix’s—they were clearly intended to be permanent. Had the crafter only known how to make one kind?
“Are you certain?”
“It’s my leg! I lived long enough with the pain, I think I’d know if I still felt it!” Ehren snapped. Lark looked shocked, and the child on her lap buried her face in her mother’s chest. Kaspar simply leveled his eyes on the man, expression unaffected.
“How long did it take to heal?” he asked, after a moment of tense silence.
“A few years.”
“Quickly.”
Ehren and Lark shot glares at each other, and Kaspar watched with interest sparking in his eyes. But neither one spoke, and eventually Lark’s angry gaze returned to him. He leaned back slightly, shrugging.
“I am only trying to help, Papa,” he murmured, letting something like hurt leak into his voice. His eyes fell to the floor, corners of his mouth falling as his eyebrows knitted together.
“It… It lingered, for years. But when it finally healed, it did so quickly,” Ehren admitted quietly.
Kaspar studied his face. He seemed uncomfortable, and clearly there was more to the story. “Did you see someone to heal it?” he asked, dropping the prior intensity to sound simply curious.
Lark opened her mouth—to object to Kaspar’s question or Ehren’s answer, he did not know—but could not speak before her husband. “No. I… I don’t think so.”
The curiosity took over as Kaspar replied, “You don’t know?”
“I was asleep!”
Silence hung heavy in the room. Kaspar was trying to parse these words, to figure out what they meant specifically, and his parents seemed to be uncomfortable that it had gotten this far. “It healed overnight?” he asked, trying not to sound too incredulous.
“You should leave,” was the murmured response. Lark handed the girl in her arms to her clearly frustrated husband, and stood to face Kaspar.
“Get out,” she ordered, waving her hands like she was shooing a dog.
Almost apologetically, Ehren piped up, “If you want to talk again, you will be welcome. Just… Not about this. Never about this.” But Lark was already herding him through the doorway, back to the staircase.
They descended in silence, until they’d made it back to the front room. “You should be ashamed,” she snapped.
With a sigh, Kaspar retorted, “Do not blame me for the lies you told. It seems a theme, with mothers. Pretending their unwanted sons are dead.” He turned, locking eyes with her, and smirked. “It did not work well for the Marchioness, either.”
This seemed to give Lark pause, as she tried to grasp his meaning. He simply continued to stare into her eyes, unwilling to offer any assistance. Finally, almost seeming guilty, his mother whispered, “At least they could take care of you. At least they wanted you.”
“Ehren wanted me. The Elstrøms wanted an heir,” he clarified, seeing the angry blush rise to her cheeks again. “And with the birth of my younger brother, Jesper, they finally have one.”
Kaspar opened the door, stepping into the street. It was growing dim, and night would fall on the town soon. He turned, facing Lark once more. “If she turns out like me, if you choose to abandon her too… Send for me. I can and will care for her.” He hesitated, but the open hostility in Lark’s eyes pushed him further. “Even if you don’t, I will find her. And I’ll make sure she knows exactly who threw her away.”
Lark tried to shut the door in his face, but Kaspar stuck the toe of his boot in, keeping it open just enough to see the burning eyes of his mother. Tilting his head, he asked softly, “What is her name?”
Lark glared harshly at him for what seemed to be a long time. The pressure on his foot increased, and it was clear she wanted the door shut. The square was still emptying—she could’ve called for help if she’d wanted—but both remained silent, staring fearlessly into the other’s eyes.
“Lyra.”
His foot pulled free, and the slam of the door echoed harshly into the falling night.
“Tough love, eh? Almost reminds me of my mother.”
A thin man had been smoking by the large cannon put on display by the square, and just a few meters from the Webers’. From the look of things, he had been waiting for Kaspar and he had been eavesdropping at least a little bit. Something about his slightly accented, but definitely not local, voice sounded slimy. His Stresian monk attire hardly helped the shady approach he had opted for, “I thought you would all be scrambling in the woods looking for your friends. But I guess there’s always time for family.” he smiled, “I’m Brother Baudile Dubosque. It is a pleasure to meet you, Alaric!” he took a few steps forward and offered his hand for a shake. The sides of his index and major fingers were blackened by the smoke he had been inhaling all day.
The voice jolted Kaspar out of whatever thoughts he had been lost in. His eyes moved up and down, taking in the stranger who seemed to have been waiting for him. His mind flitted through comments he could make, denying the assumed parentage or driving a spike through what reputation Lark Weber might have here. But he swallowed them all, deciding they might provide too much information. Instead, he replied reservedly, “I thought they might be capable of helping. I have not lived here in a long time, Brother Dubosque.” He did not correct the name, wanting to get a feel for this man before offering more information. He stared at the offered hand for several seconds before taking it in his own, fingers trembling only slightly and not unusually at the touch. “Were you waiting to speak with me?”
“I was.” he confirmed as he proceeded to give a brief but firm shake. Then, he offered one of his recently rolled cigarettes, “I initially wanted to meet with a gorgeous senhorita called Dorothea. Alas, it did not come to pass.” Baudile took a puff from his cigarette and leaned to the side, eyes trained on the home Kaspar had just left, “Strange, isn’t it? A man that could hardly walk a couple of months ago is now at the top of his game.” with a brow raised, he shot an expectant look at Kaspar, “Ever notice how … Healthy everybody is here despite all their livestock disappearing and the weather being as inhospitable as it gets? I can’t be the only one finding that even a little odd.” he awkwardly chuckled, clearly hoping to prompt a discussion with Kaspar that would likely be taboo with any other native.
Kaspar took the offered cigarette as a polite gesture, but simply held it as Baudile began to speak. “Then it was a serious injury,” he said, half to himself, as he listened to the man go on. The boy cast his mind back, finding that he had no memories of sick or injured individuals. Save for—“Father Dubosque limps, does he not?” the boy asked, though his tone wasn’t accusatory so much as curious. “But he is the only one I have seen or heard of.” He sighed, eyes narrowing as they cast about the square in thought. “Do you suspect this is related to the recent attacks? Or is it something else entirely?”
Baudile then lit the tip of his thumb with a small, quivering flame, expecting Kaspar to actually smoke. “He does.” nodded the monk, “It’s an injury he’s had for … Vinte - Twenty years or so? It still hurts. But it never stopped him from doing his job. Both as a priest and protector.” he sighed a cloud of smoke, “I wouldn’t be able to tell you exactly, as I’m as stonewalled as you kids. But-” he looked over he shoulder, just as a precaution, “I can say for sure that the smuggling operation that recently came back after decades is very much involved with their supply needs being met, and probably this as well.”
Then, the monk gestured for Kaspar to follow him, “I will be frank with you, Alaric,” he kept his voice down, wary of any eyes that could be on them. Although, if one were to sense with the gift, they’d notice that most homes were vacant, and most were concentrating around the Inn - where they were headed, “I had been hoping to track a ghastly figure that’s been roaming the streets at dusk every few days. They’re due for a visit.” passing through the square, they could get a better view of the gathering of citizens prying gossip from Ines, “Oh. Your friends may have returned.” remarked brother Dubosque as they passed by the permanently inactive fountain in the town’s square.
Kaspar soaked in his information, holding up the cigarette to Dubosque’s thumb and taking a breath from it—trying not to cough at the acrid taste and slight burning in his lungs. “Then you are investigating as well?” the boy asked, listening as more information fell from the mouth of the monk, nodding as the man spoke of the smugglers. “Correct. I gave a quick summary to your crowned friend.” replied Baudile. He cast a glance toward the crowd when they neared, humming in acknowledgment as his interest piqued—but heard no one shouting for help. Instead, Kaspar’s attention returned to Baudile’s statement. “You expect this ghastly figure tonight, I presume. Is this a request for help, or a warning?”
“More like …” the monk reached his hand out to Kaspar’s abdomen to stop him in his tracks. They were behind a stand that hadn’t be closed up yet, but the owner had joined the gathering, “volunteering you. I’m not a good runner, even worse a fighter.” from behind the beam of wood, he shot a glance at the rest of the square, “And with everyone distracted …” the tense and dramatic moment dragged on for about a minute. There was nothing. And the monk was getting frustrated, “Porra! They were by the barracks just an hour ago too …” he clicked his tongue and turned to Kaspar, “I promise, this place hasn’t robbed me of my mind just yet.”
As Baudile was complaining and growing frustrated with his predicament, Kaspar could notice a figure over the lanky man’s shoulder. Inconspicuous and with a mundane gait, this hooded individual would be hard to discern from every other villager with a hood if one wasn’t actively looking for suspicious activity. They had just walked into view and stopped by the town’s well, a half-minute away from the fountain. They had their back turned on two snooping individuals, and what exactly they were doing would be impossible to discern from their point of view.
Kaspar pondered whether he could be considered a good runner. He had the advantage of youth, though that was it. Fighting, he was certainly capable of—though, perhaps not in a sense most would consider legally or morally correct. Certainly not a particular priestess among his companions. He listened to Baudile’s frustration, glancing out at the crowd himself, but spotted the distant movement. Crimson eyes watched in curiosity, and in a moment of silence between the monk’s rambling the student asked, “Is your ghastly figure the subtle type?” He nodded in the direction of the person he’d spotted, the question asked casually despite the situation at hand.
Baudile turned around, and so did the figure’s head turn sideways. Both acknowledged one-another and froze for a moment, “... Alaric?” he gestured to his left, “It’s them, go!” he shouted just as the concealed figure made a break for it. Baudile, with all his unathletic might, ran to the right to try and corral the figure into a straight line, where he predicted a deadend. The nimble suspect was fast, but ran straight so far as they definitely noticed both men.
Kaspar ran, darting in the direction Baudile had indicated. A burst of kinetic energy could’ve certainly helped, but the boy was still early into his classes. Their target seemed to easily outpace Baudile, keeping from being boxed in. Noticing that the figure seemed to be gaining ground despite a shorter stature, Kaspar relied on what was familiar. He drew, pulling at the stone beneath him, and produced his cherrywood wand. A barrier erupted from the street just in front of his quarry, stalling them to a near stop.
He came close enough to tell the figure appeared to be feminine, locking this information into his mind as he propelled forward. She vaulted over the barrier, skimming across the rough top of the stone. Something fell on the near side, glinting in the dim light, but Kaspar ignored it. She darted into an alley he hadn’t even noticed as the student dismantled the wall, sprinting through the gap he created. He skidded into the alleyway and came to a halt, panting. It looked like a dead end, but the figure was nowhere to be seen.
Casting his awareness out, Kaspar searched for her, but was stunned to find nothing. He seemed to be the only person here, Baudile the closest as he approached. It was like she had disappeared entirely. Swearing with frustration, he stalked out of the alley—and his mind focused on what he had seen. What had been left behind. He approached the barrier, eyes locking on the small object that rested just beyond it. Kneeling, his crimson gaze took in every detail he could.
An overexerted Baudile eventually caught up to Kaspar well after the disappearance of the target. “Oh Porra …!” hands on his knees and looking about ready to vomit, the man’s fitness levels were displayed in all their glory, “D-did you find something?” the monk shot a look at the metal object that had been dropped and approached. It looked to be a sort of vial of capsule of sorts with the lid gone. For the most part it was empty barring a few drops of a transparent liquid. The fluid itself smelled like iron, which Baudile would confirm after picking it up, “Ever seen anything like this, here or wherever?” the metal container did not look like anything one would usually find. The steel used for it looked to be of good quality, and the leylines carved onto it would lead one to think it was meant to be fit into a bigger container, potentially for transport, “Who uses good steel to carry such a small amount of … Whatever’s in there? Best I’ve seen were glass vials with preservation seals.” the puzzled Baudile passed the object to Kaspar.
Kaspar took it, observing the vial and its contents from several angles. Finally, with a sigh, he acquiesced, “I don’t know. Perhaps it’s something that could cause harm if dropped?” That might explain a metal vial instead of a glass one. Glancing back toward the direction they came, he hummed in thought. “Do you think she was putting it in the well?”
Baudile gulped, “Only one way to find out, I suppose.” he looked at the direction of the square.
Kaspar stood, slipping the vial into a pocket to be examined later. He began walking toward the well, one eye kept on the gathering of people, trying to reassure himself that no one had taken the water yet. He didn’t wait to see if Baudile followed, assuming the man would do something to solve the situation.
They still had the square for themselves, although the milling of townsfolk had since greatly reduced. When the water was examined through a sample gathered by a bucket, there was … A whole lot of nothing to notice. It smelled like any normal water that had been recently exposed to rain, but otherwise there wasn’t much else to remark on, “Then again …” began Baudile as he scratched his chin in muse, “Not a whole lot can be contained in that bottle. It may have since been diluted. But the water doesn’t seem to have changed whatsoever.”
Kaspar agreed. The water seemed fine to the eye and the nose. “There is, I suppose, a concrete method to make sure it’s safe to drink,” he finally offered, glancing up to Baudile with an eyebrow raised. Would it be worth risking? Baudile stared at Kaspar, lips pursed, but he did not protest.
Kaspar assumed, by Baudile’s expression, that the monk would certainly not be the one to test it. This wasn’t the boy’s favorite solution, but it was fast and would have the clearest results. Taking a deep breath, he cupped a small amount in his hand and sipped the water.
Nothing happened. It didn’t even taste good, or bad.
But it didn’t mean something wasn’t going to happen.
Kaspar waited a few seconds, trying to take note of anything unusual he felt. But there was nothing. Finally, he said, “I don’t feel differently. It tasted like well water. Perhaps the few drops in the vial are all there ever were?” He glanced to Baudile to see if he had another suggestion.
“Bit big for a few drops, don’t you think?” shrugged the man, looking rather relieved that nothing crazy had happened, for once. As dusk was slowly turning to night and the two were about ready to call it there, Baudile set his hand onto Kaspar’s shoulder, “Hey, Alaric.” he leaned in to whisper by the teen’s ear, “My brother will suggest your group leaves when the whole beast and smuggler deal is concluded. But-” he looked nervously to his side, “if these people mean anything to you, I strongly urge you to stay until Victendes morning.” and with that, the monk took a couple of steps back and began to walk his own way.
A thin man had been smoking by the large cannon put on display by the square, and just a few meters from the Webers’. From the look of things, he had been waiting for Kaspar and he had been eavesdropping at least a little bit. Something about his slightly accented, but definitely not local, voice sounded slimy. His Stresian monk attire hardly helped the shady approach he had opted for, “I thought you would all be scrambling in the woods looking for your friends. But I guess there’s always time for family.” he smiled, “I’m Brother Baudile Dubosque. It is a pleasure to meet you, Alaric!” he took a few steps forward and offered his hand for a shake. The sides of his index and major fingers were blackened by the smoke he had been inhaling all day.
The voice jolted Kaspar out of whatever thoughts he had been lost in. His eyes moved up and down, taking in the stranger who seemed to have been waiting for him. His mind flitted through comments he could make, denying the assumed parentage or driving a spike through what reputation Lark Weber might have here. But he swallowed them all, deciding they might provide too much information. Instead, he replied reservedly, “I thought they might be capable of helping. I have not lived here in a long time, Brother Dubosque.” He did not correct the name, wanting to get a feel for this man before offering more information. He stared at the offered hand for several seconds before taking it in his own, fingers trembling only slightly and not unusually at the touch. “Were you waiting to speak with me?”
“I was.” he confirmed as he proceeded to give a brief but firm shake. Then, he offered one of his recently rolled cigarettes, “I initially wanted to meet with a gorgeous senhorita called Dorothea. Alas, it did not come to pass.” Baudile took a puff from his cigarette and leaned to the side, eyes trained on the home Kaspar had just left, “Strange, isn’t it? A man that could hardly walk a couple of months ago is now at the top of his game.” with a brow raised, he shot an expectant look at Kaspar, “Ever notice how … Healthy everybody is here despite all their livestock disappearing and the weather being as inhospitable as it gets? I can’t be the only one finding that even a little odd.” he awkwardly chuckled, clearly hoping to prompt a discussion with Kaspar that would likely be taboo with any other native.
Kaspar took the offered cigarette as a polite gesture, but simply held it as Baudile began to speak. “Then it was a serious injury,” he said, half to himself, as he listened to the man go on. The boy cast his mind back, finding that he had no memories of sick or injured individuals. Save for—“Father Dubosque limps, does he not?” the boy asked, though his tone wasn’t accusatory so much as curious. “But he is the only one I have seen or heard of.” He sighed, eyes narrowing as they cast about the square in thought. “Do you suspect this is related to the recent attacks? Or is it something else entirely?”
Baudile then lit the tip of his thumb with a small, quivering flame, expecting Kaspar to actually smoke. “He does.” nodded the monk, “It’s an injury he’s had for … Vinte - Twenty years or so? It still hurts. But it never stopped him from doing his job. Both as a priest and protector.” he sighed a cloud of smoke, “I wouldn’t be able to tell you exactly, as I’m as stonewalled as you kids. But-” he looked over he shoulder, just as a precaution, “I can say for sure that the smuggling operation that recently came back after decades is very much involved with their supply needs being met, and probably this as well.”
Then, the monk gestured for Kaspar to follow him, “I will be frank with you, Alaric,” he kept his voice down, wary of any eyes that could be on them. Although, if one were to sense with the gift, they’d notice that most homes were vacant, and most were concentrating around the Inn - where they were headed, “I had been hoping to track a ghastly figure that’s been roaming the streets at dusk every few days. They’re due for a visit.” passing through the square, they could get a better view of the gathering of citizens prying gossip from Ines, “Oh. Your friends may have returned.” remarked brother Dubosque as they passed by the permanently inactive fountain in the town’s square.
Kaspar soaked in his information, holding up the cigarette to Dubosque’s thumb and taking a breath from it—trying not to cough at the acrid taste and slight burning in his lungs. “Then you are investigating as well?” the boy asked, listening as more information fell from the mouth of the monk, nodding as the man spoke of the smugglers. “Correct. I gave a quick summary to your crowned friend.” replied Baudile. He cast a glance toward the crowd when they neared, humming in acknowledgment as his interest piqued—but heard no one shouting for help. Instead, Kaspar’s attention returned to Baudile’s statement. “You expect this ghastly figure tonight, I presume. Is this a request for help, or a warning?”
“More like …” the monk reached his hand out to Kaspar’s abdomen to stop him in his tracks. They were behind a stand that hadn’t be closed up yet, but the owner had joined the gathering, “volunteering you. I’m not a good runner, even worse a fighter.” from behind the beam of wood, he shot a glance at the rest of the square, “And with everyone distracted …” the tense and dramatic moment dragged on for about a minute. There was nothing. And the monk was getting frustrated, “Porra! They were by the barracks just an hour ago too …” he clicked his tongue and turned to Kaspar, “I promise, this place hasn’t robbed me of my mind just yet.”
As Baudile was complaining and growing frustrated with his predicament, Kaspar could notice a figure over the lanky man’s shoulder. Inconspicuous and with a mundane gait, this hooded individual would be hard to discern from every other villager with a hood if one wasn’t actively looking for suspicious activity. They had just walked into view and stopped by the town’s well, a half-minute away from the fountain. They had their back turned on two snooping individuals, and what exactly they were doing would be impossible to discern from their point of view.
Kaspar pondered whether he could be considered a good runner. He had the advantage of youth, though that was it. Fighting, he was certainly capable of—though, perhaps not in a sense most would consider legally or morally correct. Certainly not a particular priestess among his companions. He listened to Baudile’s frustration, glancing out at the crowd himself, but spotted the distant movement. Crimson eyes watched in curiosity, and in a moment of silence between the monk’s rambling the student asked, “Is your ghastly figure the subtle type?” He nodded in the direction of the person he’d spotted, the question asked casually despite the situation at hand.
Baudile turned around, and so did the figure’s head turn sideways. Both acknowledged one-another and froze for a moment, “... Alaric?” he gestured to his left, “It’s them, go!” he shouted just as the concealed figure made a break for it. Baudile, with all his unathletic might, ran to the right to try and corral the figure into a straight line, where he predicted a deadend. The nimble suspect was fast, but ran straight so far as they definitely noticed both men.
Kaspar ran, darting in the direction Baudile had indicated. A burst of kinetic energy could’ve certainly helped, but the boy was still early into his classes. Their target seemed to easily outpace Baudile, keeping from being boxed in. Noticing that the figure seemed to be gaining ground despite a shorter stature, Kaspar relied on what was familiar. He drew, pulling at the stone beneath him, and produced his cherrywood wand. A barrier erupted from the street just in front of his quarry, stalling them to a near stop.
He came close enough to tell the figure appeared to be feminine, locking this information into his mind as he propelled forward. She vaulted over the barrier, skimming across the rough top of the stone. Something fell on the near side, glinting in the dim light, but Kaspar ignored it. She darted into an alley he hadn’t even noticed as the student dismantled the wall, sprinting through the gap he created. He skidded into the alleyway and came to a halt, panting. It looked like a dead end, but the figure was nowhere to be seen.
Casting his awareness out, Kaspar searched for her, but was stunned to find nothing. He seemed to be the only person here, Baudile the closest as he approached. It was like she had disappeared entirely. Swearing with frustration, he stalked out of the alley—and his mind focused on what he had seen. What had been left behind. He approached the barrier, eyes locking on the small object that rested just beyond it. Kneeling, his crimson gaze took in every detail he could.
An overexerted Baudile eventually caught up to Kaspar well after the disappearance of the target. “Oh Porra …!” hands on his knees and looking about ready to vomit, the man’s fitness levels were displayed in all their glory, “D-did you find something?” the monk shot a look at the metal object that had been dropped and approached. It looked to be a sort of vial of capsule of sorts with the lid gone. For the most part it was empty barring a few drops of a transparent liquid. The fluid itself smelled like iron, which Baudile would confirm after picking it up, “Ever seen anything like this, here or wherever?” the metal container did not look like anything one would usually find. The steel used for it looked to be of good quality, and the leylines carved onto it would lead one to think it was meant to be fit into a bigger container, potentially for transport, “Who uses good steel to carry such a small amount of … Whatever’s in there? Best I’ve seen were glass vials with preservation seals.” the puzzled Baudile passed the object to Kaspar.
Kaspar took it, observing the vial and its contents from several angles. Finally, with a sigh, he acquiesced, “I don’t know. Perhaps it’s something that could cause harm if dropped?” That might explain a metal vial instead of a glass one. Glancing back toward the direction they came, he hummed in thought. “Do you think she was putting it in the well?”
Baudile gulped, “Only one way to find out, I suppose.” he looked at the direction of the square.
Kaspar stood, slipping the vial into a pocket to be examined later. He began walking toward the well, one eye kept on the gathering of people, trying to reassure himself that no one had taken the water yet. He didn’t wait to see if Baudile followed, assuming the man would do something to solve the situation.
They still had the square for themselves, although the milling of townsfolk had since greatly reduced. When the water was examined through a sample gathered by a bucket, there was … A whole lot of nothing to notice. It smelled like any normal water that had been recently exposed to rain, but otherwise there wasn’t much else to remark on, “Then again …” began Baudile as he scratched his chin in muse, “Not a whole lot can be contained in that bottle. It may have since been diluted. But the water doesn’t seem to have changed whatsoever.”
Kaspar agreed. The water seemed fine to the eye and the nose. “There is, I suppose, a concrete method to make sure it’s safe to drink,” he finally offered, glancing up to Baudile with an eyebrow raised. Would it be worth risking? Baudile stared at Kaspar, lips pursed, but he did not protest.
Kaspar assumed, by Baudile’s expression, that the monk would certainly not be the one to test it. This wasn’t the boy’s favorite solution, but it was fast and would have the clearest results. Taking a deep breath, he cupped a small amount in his hand and sipped the water.
Nothing happened. It didn’t even taste good, or bad.
But it didn’t mean something wasn’t going to happen.
Kaspar waited a few seconds, trying to take note of anything unusual he felt. But there was nothing. Finally, he said, “I don’t feel differently. It tasted like well water. Perhaps the few drops in the vial are all there ever were?” He glanced to Baudile to see if he had another suggestion.
“Bit big for a few drops, don’t you think?” shrugged the man, looking rather relieved that nothing crazy had happened, for once. As dusk was slowly turning to night and the two were about ready to call it there, Baudile set his hand onto Kaspar’s shoulder, “Hey, Alaric.” he leaned in to whisper by the teen’s ear, “My brother will suggest your group leaves when the whole beast and smuggler deal is concluded. But-” he looked nervously to his side, “if these people mean anything to you, I strongly urge you to stay until Victendes morning.” and with that, the monk took a couple of steps back and began to walk his own way.
