Mac scratched at a bug bite on his jaw under his tangled beard and raised his tankard to his lips only to find it empty.
Swell.
Nothing like not having enough ale to drown out the off-tune warbling of an ancient soprano singing a ballad of Mac’s adventures.
The woman stopped singing, played three out of tune chords on her lap-harp, took a deep breath, and began the lengthy sixth verse.
“Stop, woman! Theselon would have had enough by the second verse.”
The dozen patrons still awake this late in the night turned hard stares in Mac’s direction. The woman’s mouth snapped shut and her bottom lip quivered.
Great. He’d committed the greatest sin a man could in Meriduin. He’d insulted their national hero by interrupting a ballad. Not that he cared.
The tavern keeper rushed to the woman’s side and showered her with kisses. In mere moments the woman was consoled. She re-played the three chords and began the verse again.
Mac groaned and eyed the tavern keeper as he stormed across the room to Mac’s table.
“There are others in this tavern who want to hear my wife sing this song. How dare you assume what the legendary Mac Theselon of Quinlay, the Hero of the Great Clan War, would want?”
“I am Theselon,” said Mac.
The tavern keeper snorted. “In your drunken fantasies. Get out of my bar.”
Mac heaved his girth from the bench and struggled to pull his sword from his scabbard. It wouldn’t budge. Shit. Should have taken better care of it.
Two of the tavern keeper’s men grabbed Mac’s arms, yanked him off his feet and dragged him to the door. They tossed him into the street and went back into the tavern.
“Don’t come back, you old drunk,” said the tavern keeper before he, too, went into the building, slamming the door behind him.
“Don’t come back, you old–” Mac ran a hand through his matted hair. “I am old.”
He’d always known it. He’d just never said it before. Not out loud at least. He was old and he drank to forget that. He’d done feats and had adventures that bards wrote songs about. He was the greatest swordsman of all time and now look where he was.
“On the street, too drunk to stand.”
Who was he kidding? He drank to forget her.
He let his head sag to his chest, too tired to raise his hands to meet it. A cart swerved around him and the driver yelled profanities as he rode away. Mac paid him no attention. He had no place to go, no one to see. He could sit in the street and no one would miss him. Besides, everyone thought Mac Theselon was dead.
Mac Theselon was dead.
A breeze swept through the streets, bringing with it the scent of salt and fish and apples. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten that day. Instead, he had drunk away the last of his pay from the caravan guard job. Tomorrow, he’d troll the docks to find a deckhand position that could take him home to Demika. He didn’t know what he’d do when he got there, probably lay down and die, but it seemed fitting that he’d finish life in the same obscurity that he’d started in.
His stomach rumbled again. Food first. He lurched to his feet. Yes, another quest for the great Mac Theselon. To find food and end his hunger. He shot his fist into the air, sending him stumbling and coughing uncontrollably. Wheezing, he staggered back to the tavern and leaned against the wall to catch his breath. The soprano was on the eighth and final verse and doing just as excellent a job on this verse as all the previous ones.
There would be no service for him here, even if he had the money to pay for it. Perhaps there was a temple kitchen open at this hour feeding the street urchins, but the thought of the watery broth with shriveled tubers and the small pieces of fatty meat didn’t appeal to him. Again the wind brought the smell of over-ripe apples. His stomach gurgled.
Apples it was. The scent led two blocks away from the docks to some rich man’s garden, or more likely his wife’s garden. He jumped and grabbed the top of the wall, his feet skittering against the stone. Flailing and cursing, he heaved his chest onto the wide ledge and balanced for a moment to catch his breath. Air sawed in and out of his lungs and bright specks flashed across his vision.
When his sight cleared, he swung his legs over and dropped onto the even cobblestones at the base of the tree. Dinner at last.
The garden was small, but well kept, the ground free of fruit. On one side of the little plot, a cobbled path led around the building, presumably to the front courtyard and the way out. Across from that sat a wrought iron gate, unlatched and swinging in the wind. Something about how the gate swung caught his attention. It never reached the wall where it should have been latched. Something lay in its way.
Mac twisted an apple free and took a bite. He let the sweet juice run over his beard and contemplated what might be blocking the gate. Likely not something left there on purpose; the garden was too well kept. Whatever it was, it must have been left recently, while the grounds keeper slept. But it had nothing to do with him. And yet, he couldn’t deny his curiosity. He finished his apple, tossed the core into the corner under the tree, and walked to the gate. There, in the moonlight, lay a girl, unconscious in a pool of blood.
Her chest rose and fell with a steady breath and the gash didn’t appear that deep–he’d seen worse during the war–although if not attended to, she could bleed to death by morning. But head wounds were always bloody messes. He nudged her.
She didn’t rouse.
He shook her harder. Still no response. Not good. It was still a while until dawn and the surrounding buildings were dark. If he took a chance and woke someone would they recognize her? Or had she been in the garden for the same reason as himself? There was nothing about her to suggest her class or where she might have come from. And besides, even if he did wake someone, and they recognized her, they’d still have to find a physician.
That settled it. If he took her to a hospice she’d get help and he’d get a full stomach and a place to sleep for the remainder of the night. When she woke, she could tell the monks where she belonged.
He picked her up, cradling her against his chest. For such a little girl–correction, young woman from the hint of feminine shape beneath her ill-fitting clothes–she certainly weighed more than he’d expected. Guess there was some solid muscle hidden under all that fabric. Either that, or he’d lost his strength. The latter was the more likely of the two.
Around a corner, he found a gate out of the garden and carried her to the only hospice he remembered. The Temple of His Highest Graces sat in a poorer section of Norwell, although thirty years ago it hadn’t been in quite so disrepair. The painted wooden structures crowded against each other, gray and peeling. The temple had always been a hospice for the homeless and weary travelers for at least as long as Mac had known about it. He’d noted, two days ago when he’d arrived, that it was still the case, although he hadn’t thought he’d humble himself enough to visit.
The young monk on duty at the door roused as Mac approached and ushered them through the courtyard into the Beggars’ Barn. He mumbled something about a physician and left. Mac found two empty pallets among the rows of sleeping beggars and set the girl down. He had frequented the Ancient Father’s fine establishments too often as of late, just proving how useless he really was.
Of course, if things hadn’t been the way they were, he’d never have found the girl and she’d have bled to death on the cobblestones. Once a hero, always a hero, he supposed.
A monk laden with a bulging satchel and lantern rushed into the barn. Mac waved him over and leaned back, out of the way.
“Hmmmm. Blow on the head.” The monk adjusted the lantern, shinning it on her face. She looked pale, delicate. Part of her hair was plastered to her skull with blood, but it didn’t detract from her quiet beauty. A thought whispered in his mind but he shoved it away before it could be fully realized.
“Are there any other injuries?”
“Didn’t really check,” said Mac.
The monk glanced at him. His gaze flashed over Mac as if with one quick look he could size up a man. He probably could. “Burges,” he said. “And you are?”
Mac grunted. His name wasn’t important since he wasn’t going to stick around. Just until breakfast.
Burges rummaged in his satchel, seemingly unaffected by Mac’s lack of response, and pulled out a length of bandage and a linen square. He folded the square and pressed it against the girl’s head but jerked back as if bitten.
“Where did you find her?” His voice was edged with something . . . fear? . . . anger?
Mac sat forward. He didn’t want to be curious, but Burges’s reaction was surprising. “In a garden. Why?”
“There’s something–” Burges’s gaze turned inward, something Mac hadn’t seen in years. Not since being at court near the few magicians permitted in Meriduin.
“What is it?”
Burges blinked. “Nothing.” He smiled, but the expression didn’t reach his eyes. “Nothing.”
“Don’t lie, magician,” said Mac. He had wanted to say something subtle. He should have said something subtle. But he had run out of patience for social games a long time ago.
“What is she to you?” asked Burges.
“Nothing. I’m just curious. That, and magic is only permitted by court magicians. Everyone else comes to an unfortunate end.”
Even in the uneven lantern light Burges noticeably paled. “It’s a gift from the Ancient Father.”
“That’s what you’re calling it?”
Burges opened his mouth to argue, but Mac waved him silent. “I don’t really care. Like I said, I’m just curious.”
“Well, there’s something enspelling her. It’s like nothing I’ve ever encountered before.”
Mac stifled a snort, doubting the monk had any kind of experience with most magic. But he remained quiet. It didn’t help to insult the person satisfying his curiosity.
“It’s dark, hidden deep, and twisted. And I have no idea what it means.”
“Can you help her?” Mac wasn’t sure why he asked. Probably a throw-back from his hero days. Damsel in distress and all that.
“Not until she wakes,” said Burges, bandaging her head. “If she wakes.”
