I deserve this, he thought, watching his legs being dragged across the tavern floor. A lump formed in his throat, and he fought back tears. No, I deserve far more than this. Only the lowest of scum ever raised a hand against a whore, for there were few crimes worse than hurting someone so vulnerable.
Such as murdering a drunkard on the streets of Cruachan….
The next thing he felt was the barrage of freezing raindrops cutting against his naked body. He flew through the air for a moment, collapsing in a heap on the soaking market street. Farris looked up to see the bouncer shut the tavern door.
She didn’t need to tell me his name, he realised, lying back on the cobblestones. He looked up to the sky, dark clouds blocking out the moon and the stars. No light illuminated the drenched streets of Penance.
“Chester,” Farris rasped. “His name was Chester, and I killed him. I killed him because I’m….”
His voice broke off, the words unable to leave his lips. His face was soaked now, but from rain or tears, he could no longer tell.
Because I’m a coward, he thought, wiping his eyes with even wetter hands. Because I’ve always been a coward.
Right as he lay there, ready and willing to never get up again, something heavy, dry, and warm, fell over his shoulders.
No. Just let me freeze. Just let me die.
“Come on friend,” said a voice. Slurred and familiar. “You’ll catch the death of a cold out here.”
Farris looked up to see the blurred Human standing against the rain, but all he could make out was a rough shape of a pendant against his chest: three crooked, interlocking circles.
“Come on,” said Ruairí. “I’ll take you home.”
Chapter 14:
The Seeds Thrive
We are the eyes that have seen too much,
The knees that bend, the souls you touch,
Our hands, we raise,
To Seletoth.
***
After the final scratch of chalk, Fionn took a step back to admire his work. Wild markings covered the blackboard, filling every square inch with the material he had memorised over the previous three moons.
Three moons to the day, said Sir Bearach. Gods, let there not be one more.
Fionn ignored the dead knight’s words, just as he had during all those hours of revising and reciting. The task that Conleth had set for the young Pyromancer had been near impossible, and it had taken every ounce of Fionn’s determination to see it through to the end.
And every minute of my time, whispered Sir Bearach.
Fionn scanned the blackboard once more. Rionach’s Theorems came first, all twelve scrawled with the smallest writing Fionn could manage. Next came the Three Laws of Thermal Equilibrium, expressed from first principles just as the Firemaster had demanded. Those had been more challenging, and Fionn still wasn’t sure if he had gotten it completely right.
Maybe I’ll start it again, he thought, reaching for the stick of chalk once more. This final clause seems a bit off—
Gods above and below, swore Sir Bearach. Just call him out to start the exam already. Being trapped in you is far worse when you’re trapped in this room!
It was true: Fionn had rarely stepped outside the grimy old kitchen since his studying began. With food and drink delivered to the tenement house daily by Earthmaster Seán, Fionn had little reason to leave.
Perhaps you’re right¸ he replied. I’ve always been one to overthink exams before sitting them….
“Conleth!” he called over his shoulder toward the hallways. “I’m ready to start whenever you are!”
Fionn waited in silence, anticipating the familiar rustle from Conleth’s bedroom that came whenever the old Firemaster awoke. Experience had taught Fionn that it was best to simply wait for Conleth to arrive, no matter how long it took.
But the faint sounds of movement did not come as Fionn expected. A loud thud answered the call instead, followed by a slow, repeated noise, like clothes being dragged across carpet.
“Conleth?” asked Fionn, taking a step forward. “Is everything all right?”
No voice answered, just the same sounds as before: one muffled movement following another, and another. Gradually, they grew louder, until Fionn was sure Conleth was just beyond the kitchen door.
“Are you there?” called Fionn. “Is something the matter with—”
The door swung open, revealing the old Firemaster. Fionn immediately averted his eyes, for Conleth’s grey robes were discarded on the ground, caught amongst his feet. Pale, leathery skin hung from every crooked bone of his body, with blotchy dark spots spread across a swollen stomach. Thin, frail arms held up his frame. He leaned against the opened door.
“Chaos!” shrieked Conleth, his already shrill voice an octave higher than usual. “Disorder has been sewn once more by those who… who….”
“Conleth?” whimpered Fionn, still not quite sure where to look. “What’s wrong?”
The Firemaster’s bulging eyes locked onto Fionn, then his head lolled to the side, and his bottom lip quivered.
“Animals!” he cried. “No different than animals! For I have seen the Truth as He has intended it to be!”
He’s gone mad, whispered Sir Bearach. He needs a healer, or a Druid. Or both.
