Into the Raging Mountains Page 18

  In typical, ordered fashion, Alizarin set out the plates, forks, and napkins with large pitchers of cooled milk from the basement. She had skimmed the tops of the milk from last nightfall and collected all of the heaviest cream. She set two of the strongest men to whipping the froth into fluffy peaks while she drizzled a generous amount of golden-brown, boiled glisten-tree syrup within the moving folds.

  Finally, after what seemed like mooncycles had passed in the waiting, Alizarin announced the treats were ready.

  Immediately, a line was formed snaking back around the corner of the main farmhouse. Order often appeared out of chaos when men’s stomachs ruled their actions, although just as often the opposite was true. With the precision of her trade, Alizarin began dishing up the succulent offerings, with a large dollop of sweetened cream perched precariously on top of each piece. Immediately the cream began to melt and ooze downward.

  She paused only to drink several cups of parsimint tea, her mother’s favorite drink. The antidote to a good many plants as well. It was bracing in its first bitter notes of flavor. The taste filled her mouth and reinforced her sense of calm in the midst of turbulence.

  Each plate was cleaned to a sparkle within a few breaths of receipt, and the line stayed the same length as men queued again for second helpings. As Londer’s turn in line occurred, he asked, “What? Not savin’ any pie for yourself are ya? With dessert this good, you won’t be seein’ any leftovers. Grab a slice of pie for Gretsel and I will make sure she gets a piece, too.” He winked as he turned away, taking two slices.

  Alizarin wondered to herself if Gretsel would truly receive the dessert or if she would end up being the dessert. She set aside another pie slice for Gretsel and one for herself to keep the correct appearance. The results of Alizarin’s cooking took less time to disappear than a three-legged rabbit in a lion’s den. Fed but not satiated, the men stood around in clumps, happy and still insistent that she might begin baking another few batches.

  Some offered her money, barter items, or a night out on the town with themselves. A few offers became quite ribald, and Alizarin’s ears turned red from embarrassment. Her heart burned with secret pleasure at the praise. A compliment went far with her, even though she knew she was well skilled, and even though she knew the creatures under their skins were preparing an unspeakable wrong against her. A true artist always values appreciation, apparently even from monsters.

  Finished with her kitchen work, and oddly well-rested for her efforts in the heat-filled room, the satisfied cook took her slice of pie and her large mug of parsimint tea and walked outside. Under the eaves of the farmhouse, she found a quiet bench alone and sat contemplating her next move. Quietly, she sipped her tea and nibbled on the outer crust of the pie. She sipped some more of the fragrant tea. It was a delicious combination.

  Alizarin studied the clouds that rolled across the skies. It would rain heavily and soon. She was set to leave in the morning with the sunrise and Rethendrel’s full cart. She was set to depart, unless she were already dead.

  One of the shyest hands approached her. The younger-looking man, holding his sun hat in his hands, asked abashedly, “Uh, ma’am, if you aren’t gonna eat that last slice, do you think I could have it? I was late in returning from the fields and got back just as you had given out the last pieces. I understand if you don’t want to share …”

  Alizarin smiled. “No, no. It’s not a problem for me. Just happy you can enjoy a good piece of pie for all your help around the farm. It’s the simple things in life that really bring joy, right?” And with that, she handed over to the eager hands of the straggler the still-warm wedge of pie. She said with a light laugh and a small shrug of her shoulders, “Why should I be stingy? I can always make more.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, in between gargantuan bites. “This really hits the spot!” He cleared the plate and licked his fingers. “I am gonna go find some milk to wash it down. Thanks again! Excuse me.” Awkwardly, he walked away towards the kitchen and the creamery.

  Alizarin sat with her back to the rough wooden wall and watched the clouds, waiting. She pretended she could be floating away on the skies instead of stuck in the middle of this mess. But she resolved to carry through with her plan now that her enemies had enjoyed their last meal. She filled her lungs with pure country air. Standing up, she looked around the back of the kitchen area, noting the remaining stragglers.

  Draining the last of her tea from her mug, she stood in the shadows and watched the men fall.

  At first, they had gathered in groups, pleased with the dessert treats. Then they began to disperse. Wethor and two of his friends tripped as they left the area, intent on returning to their field work. They fell down on their knees and then after balancing precariously for a moment, completed their descent, unceremoniously landing on their surprised faces.

  A sound escaped from one of their paralyzed mouths; by the time it reached Alizarin’s ears it sounded distinctly like the word witch.

  With no hurry at all in her gestures and completely cool in her composure, she slipped on her mother’s cloak. Now as the others visible to her immediate vision fell to the ground she could see the monsters collapse from within, dying.

  She walked over to the grassy area just beyond the fence where Wethor and his two companions had headed and found three neatly laid out piles of clothes, empty of all life. Not even ash remained.

  Alizarin the Poisoner was born that day.

  Appalling as it was, it was a comfort to see from the vantage point of the cloak’s power that those who had befriended her and whom she had lived amongst for several mooncycles, all that she saw, all were predator birds. So the great and dire monsters died pitiful, tiny, human deaths. Captured and bound within the dying bodies, Alizarin watched those in the kitchen yard collapse and wink out of existence.

  As she reentered the farmhouse to gather her dear friend, the baby, and her pack, she found several more piles of discarded clothes. No bodies littered the yard, the farmhouse, or the barn.

  The barn! She dared not go there.

  She had not thought about the monster in the barn, the monster that dwelt beneath Samton’s image. She still could not defeat that terrible beast. She was not sufficient as a fighter. Perhaps its ignorance of the decimation outside the barn and in the main house is my best defense?

  One problem at a time. Right now, she had to explain to her dear friend Gretsel a truth so horrible she would only see insanity in the explanation. She braced herself for a confrontation far worse than poisoning more than fifty hands as well as Londer. Steeling her heart for the pain she was about to inflict on the young mother and close friend, she walked with purpose directly to Gretsel’s door.

  Knocking gently, she leaned her ear towards the door waiting to hear the sounds within. A few soft noises escaped. She heard the repetitive cry of a burdened floor: squeak, squeak, squeak. She could also make out Gretsel singing a made-up lullaby softly.

  Alizarin’s heart dropped. How could she tell her friend the painful truth? Gretsel would have no reason to believe that all those men she knew and the one she loved and trusted were monsters.

  It was then that Alizarin realized that Gretsel would see only murder and the rantings of a crazed poisoner in the piles of death all around the farm. Only by wearing the cloak would she see the truth. Only by wearing the cloak would she see the monsters. But, if the poison had done its work completely, how would Gretsel see any monsters at all?

  Too late, Alizarin realized her mistake.

  It made little difference. If Gretsel wore the cloak and looked into the barn, would she faint? Would she shriek? If even one of the monsters realized its presence was known, they would die as surely as if they had remained ignorant. Alizarin had braved the monsters for Gretsel and Baby’s sake. With fewer foes, perhaps flight was now the best option. She had to convince Gretsel to go.

  As she opened the door and peeked slowly into the nursery room, she knew what she had to say. “Oh, Gret
sel. Oh, dear …” Starting again, Alizarin whispered, “I am sorry to bring you some awful news.” She looked down at the dimples of the sleeping child’s arm. Her heart was almost overcome with tenderness at the sight of Baby. “Oh, Gretsel.”

  “What? What is it, Alizarin? What has happened?” Concern filled the young mother’s voice. “Is everything alright?”

  “Something terrible has happened: it must have! I just awoke from a midday sleep and I can’t find anyone. Do you know where they went?”

  “Went? No one said anything to me!” A worried pucker cracked Gretsel’s brow, marring her youthful face.

  “Maybe they haven’t gone, I truly don’t know. Yet, I haven’t seen your Londer since early sunrise.”

  Having gone this far in twisting the truth of their imminent danger, Alizarin continued to improvise. “It’s as if some horrible news sent them running for the road. Or something truly odd has happened? Like they have just vanished.

  In the yard and in the kitchen, I keep finding piles of the workers’ clothes, but no men. So, if they have fled from something, they fled naked as the day they were born. It doesn’t make any sense.” She was desperately trying to figure out a way to get the mother and baby away from the still very present, very real danger without appearing to be a raving madwoman.

  “Calm down. Calm down.” The lines in Gretsel’s face lifted. Throwing on her shawl and wrapping the baby tightly in the bundling blankets, she continued, “I will come with you. Together we can figure out the simple, silly mystery of all this. Men are just men. It’s most likely no true trouble has happened, just farmboys playing hijinks.”

  Immensely relieved at the thought of Gretsel easily coming with her, Alizarin replied, “Well, gladly I’ll come with you, Gretsel, of course. Let’s walk around a bit and see if we can find them.” A bit of guilt over the omission of events crept into Alizarin’s thoughts. “I feel really odd about all this.” She started making up possible reasons in her head and her tongue just blurted out, “What if a plague of disease has hit the farmhouse? How do we protect ourselves from it?”

  It was too much. At Alizarin’s mention of the word plague, the younger girl actually laughed at the sheer impossibility of their situation. Gretsel replied to the baker’s alarm in a soothing voice, “Alizarin, I know you are worried. And, I see that whatever happened today has alarmed you. But let’s not jump to the worst outcome. They like to play pranks, these men. Let’s just go look around the farm and then we will figure out for ourselves if this is a joke or an emergency.” Putting the baby on her shoulders supported by a sling of gathered cloth, Gretsel was about to set out to solve the mystery, not unlike a curious mouser on the hunt.

  She could do nothing but nod at Gretsel’s endearing comfort and her friend’s keenly rational thinking. “Yes, yes. Let’s go look around the farm and get to the bottom of this midday mystery.” She paused to catch Gretsel’s eyes.

  Alizarin pushed a little more, “But, just in case this is a bad situation for us, can we pack the little carry bag for baby’s supplies? And then, when this turns out to be my overactive imagination, you and I and Baby can take my packed lunch and have a picnic in the far orchards.” Far away from here, Alizarin thought. “Agreed, Gretsel?” she finished.

  With a big smile, Gretsel confirmed. “Agreed, Alizarin.” Shaking her head a tiny amount, “I sure am going to miss you, sister of my heart. Even when you get a bit too worried, we still manage to have a grand time.”

  *

  Ilion stood completely still, watching and waiting. He observed the running to and fro of men and servants, the inching of shadows’ lengths, time moving forward, life’s mysteries unfolding. He held the Staff of Thenta with a profound sense of gratitude and wonder. Three times the staff had saved him, maybe more.

  And now, something within him, within his conscious mind, had been triggered and the dream blossom had borne seed. Ilion had gained mental control over the power to become invisible. Apparently, it was one of the staff’s mysterious attributes. What else can it do?

  With great self-control and mental acuity, Ilion waited for the Green Lady to act first. After his initial disappearance, she became so enraged that he considered calling her the Flaming Red Lady instead. She engaged in one tirade after another, split into sections by sullen silences. She sought to examine every single foot of land around the inn for marks of his passing, not even considering the obvious.

  Ilion chose wisely. Never one to act in haste even in pressure situations, his early training in gathering ensured that no position his body was required to hold would be too onerous to endure. He simply outwaited her ability to pursue him. Leaning against the same section of wall that had been a few moments earlier his third captor, Ilion witnessed the whole search endeavor.

  As to his pursuers, the innkeep Helt had ferried the incapacitated thug inside and Ilion could hear the man plying his patient with drink to dull the pain. The man would be here for mooncycles, well past the hard cold season, providing the inn with a steady income.

  The Green Lady and Thug Number Two studied the possible escape routes, and argued again and again. In the end, the light of the sun faded before either one would accept blame or could figure the correct path to re-ensnare their prey. Nightfall settled on the inn’s grounds and buildings, hiding the marks of passage not already smothered in the current crowd’s daily activities.

  Ilion still stood.

  He would have avoided his previous sleeping quarters to avoid his pursuers, but he was doubly unlikely to return to the grain storage area above the barn out of a very real, rational fear of the shadow beasts that inhabited the animal stalls. Leaning against the wall that had become his closest companion, he outwaited all mortal eyes at the travelers’ rest stop across the road as well as on the premises of the inn.

  Then, with an easy grace, he stretched his tired muscles and simply walked back into the inn, to the corner booth that he had used for his breaking-day meal. He secured his pack, still waiting for him under the far edge of the table, and partially reclined behind the swag of the thin fabric curtain into the last visible seat. There he dozed, secure in his defenses but lacking a way to leave the immediate area without being eventually detected by the avidity of his pursuers.

  As he slept, his mind turned the problem over, but not so much as to make a restless sleep. Although the treatment he would no doubt receive at the hands of Green and Two would be sufficient to make most men shake, his mind was rather focused on finding the best path to continue his bestowed search for the Fire Maid. He waited for the dream world to miraculously solve his problem, neatly and timely as before.

  Ilion was somewhat abashed to discover that his eyes opened to the breaking of the sun over the rolling foothills east of the road, no closer to the answer.

  The inn awoke slowly and with many creakings and grumblings. The innkeep and his wife were in full motion within a heartbeat of awaking, organizing, cleaning, and bossing. Well-rested customers trickled down to their first meal of the new day, pleased to remember that this particular inn now had spiced harvest jelly of the finest quality to offer as garnish on their sunrise breads. Everyone in the room ate with much relish, everyone except invisible Ilion.

  Though his stomach’s growl and mouth’s water hit him with a full and demanding force, he dared not move. He sat still, waiting, knowing his chance would come. The clearest, best path would open in front of him. He was sure that he would recognize the opportunity when it presented itself.

  There! Ilion started.

  Rethendrel had just entered the room. The trader ordered a full plate of food and with the experience born of much travel, headed directly back to the most secluded booth in the establishment. Throwing his day purse on the vacant middle seat, Rethendrel relaxed and waited for his meal.

  Ilion immediately went into a deep gathering position that had no given name. Maybe he should call it Hibernating Bear? Or Stuck in a Booth? Whatever the name of the position, Ilion allowed
himself to breathe only shallowly and only once every count of forty.

  By the best of all circumstances, Rethendrel had sat at his booth, practically sitting on him. If only Rethendrel had ever had the opportunity to meet Alizarin’s friend Ilion, it might have been the best cover for Ilion’s escape, and he would have gained a surreptitious meal at the same time. He was close enough that Ilion could smell the trader’s hearty burps, and see every blackhead on the end of the man’s nose. He watched the lovely, ripe food drop back onto the plate when it missed Rethendrel’s mouth. Yet there was still no option available to speak to the man without causing a very public scene, one that would most likely end with Ilion’s recapture and imprisonment.

  The waiting was really not all that different than the competitive bidding at the Dressarna Thieves Auction, and with his freedom at stake, that was exactly how Ilion considered it. Finally, Rethendrel pushed the rolling table away from his belly and burped low and proud. The man rose, finished totaling his cost of travel and confirmed delivery with the currently very agreeable innkeep for next harvest’s purchase of whatever spiced jelly he could manage to procure. Then, he headed for the stables.

  Ilion snagged two bread crusts and a half-eaten sausage and followed, unobserved. He stood at a distance outside the barn door, waiting for a moment to speak with Rethendrel; he refused to enter the barn again after overhearing the nightmarish conversation between the two very determined fell beasts. The competent merchant emerged leading his small beast of burden with his traveling cart fully loaded, moving on.

  As Alizarin’s friend emerged from the barn, guiding on his lead rope his loaded cart, completely calm and whistling, Ilion was amazed to see what was possibly the most sinister, oozing-nightfall creature he had ever imagined.