Enough Rope, Chapter 7

Fleta had a dozen questions to ask the village elder, none of which she could ask without betraying her lie about being a Luthfen sworn woman. Or did the old woman's last question imply that the old woman was already skeptical of Fleta? Was it meant to get a reaction out of her? Dark shadows, forerunners of night, settled in the intricate creases of the old woman's face, making her difficult to read. Fleta's lie was still warm on her lips, and she already felt bound by the threads of its implications. Her face flushed, and she could only hope that the thickening strands of twilight also veiled her discomfort.

The lengthening shadows connected the cottages and faded into gloaming as Fleta followed the elder. The sun disappeared in melting, buttery, warm colors despite the autumn chill. The earthy smell of fresh thatch for the winter reminded Fleta at home, but the vanilla scent of sweet grass smoke warding against mosquitoes made a beautiful, exotic counterpoint to the familiarity of the scene. If the young Thorgarick weren't worried about pretending to be someone else, she would have happily let her mind follow the last rays of light into inspections of quaint wattle and daub cottages. Instead, she drew her cloak around her and tried to distract the elder from her awkwardness.

"I apologize for so many Luthfen visits of late," Fleta said. "The past few months… it feels like we're not seeing the whole picture. Though I'm sure it's a hassle for you to have Seagate butting in and complicating things."

"Ha!" Aedwen barked. "Don't apologize. Where would Dunmere be without complications? With a tale of secrets and mysteries, we have summoned a few strangers for the kids to gawk at, the women to gossip about, and the men to take coin from. A little extra gossip and coin never hurts as we stock up and settle in for the winter."

"Perhaps I've seen too much of Seagate," Flea said. "But if I settled in Dunmere, I'd be happy to never hear from the throne city again. Simplicity is harder to find than gold these days."

"Spoken like a true noble." Aedwen's words stung Fleta like a willow switch. "I gather you're from a small town from your… courteous introduction. You may not have a title, but you have temple colors, whether you wear them or not. And you've been in the Seagate too long if you think simplicity is a virtue. Simplicity is the daydream of men with too many choices. Stare at the simplicity of an empty table long enough, and there's little you wouldn't do for a piece of all that intolerable complexity at Seagate."

"I-" Fleta opened her mouth to protest, but no words came to defend her.

"Struck home with that, didn't I?" The old woman smiled, her face a lattice of deep wrinkles, her sharp eyes glinting in sunset rays between cottages. "Didn't mean to offend. Most country folk would happily be called a noble. Nobles aren't bad folk. They're people with money, doing what people do. Everybody tells tales and wears masks. The folks hovering around the throne are only different in that they have more time for the games since they don't have to till the fields."

"You make it sound like anyone with means or ease must be corrupt," Fleta said.

"You misunderstand me," Aedwen's voice was sweet, but her eyes were hard. "I mean quite the opposite. A man is not corrupted by doing what he always wanted to do. No, nobles aren't corrupt, just people in their natural state. It's hard work that masks the nature of men. Takes a silly beast that would rather tell tales, play games, and invent falsehoods and forces it to be of use for a while. A man wields a ho and fancies themselves to be of fine character. It's the money and power that shows you who a man, or woman, really is." Aedwen paused and turned to the young woman at her side. "You valorize the work of the common folk. And yet, with the means of a temple behind you, you show up without your colors, looking for tales? If you were satisfied with working the fields, why come to Dunmere? Or swear yourself to the service of a temple in the first place? I'm sure there's a fallow field that wants tilling somewhere in Welland."

Reddening until she thought her cheeks would catch fire, Fleta said, "Perhaps I'm trying my best to shed light in the darkness." The words felt like what a Luthfen would say, but they tripped out of her mouth awkwardly. They hung in the air in mockery. Perhaps the old lady was right: no one enjoyed the simple life. People who had nothing else might convince themselves they did because they could not have more. People who had the means pretended that they would like it, only gazing at it from afar. Between nightmares and desperate flights, Fleta longed for a day spent with no other worry than goats. But if she had to return to goat herding, day in and day out, would she feel the same?

Worse still, as Aedwen pointed out, nothing was physically stopping her from returning to the pastoral life of her family. Nothing but her own choices. She desperately clung to things that kept her from the quiet life. If she gave up the sword and hired herself out as a messenger, she could make enough coin to move her family to someplace far away from the machinations of Seagate.

That felt wrong, like a betrayal of Alexei, Daralis, and Lyntre. A betrayal of the ideals of the Thorgarick, of a sermon the former High Skald Terrell had given before the Feast of the Paragon's Triumph.  Terrell's booming voice filled the hall, the echoes muted by the skulls of great beasts slain in ritual hunts. "The gift of Thorgarick, the strength of the body, is not the source of a disciple's glory. The seeds of a disciple's glory are a ready mind, a heart quick to help others, and a soul unyielding. The glory of Thorgarick is the ability to act upon those virtues."

Fleta was fast, but what was she ready for? Who was she helping? The Thorgarick champion had been unyielding in following Daralis' orders and hunting the sorcerers. But what was the point of being unyielding if she wasn't helping? She could try to keep her word to Alexei. Most, if not all, of him was gone, however, and she had no way to recover the man from the sword. Was she giving up a life of peace with her family to honor a debt to a friend who could never return?

In the infuriating manner of a consummate teacher, Aedwen never responded. She let Fleta's own words correct her as she struggled through the tangle of her thoughts. Tiring of the struggle, Fleta changed the subject.

"You mentioned there was someone twenty years back who came to Dunmere with questions," Fleta said. "Who was it?"

"About twenty years. A young Lunavaran from Seagate. Not a Luthfen, nor a sworn man, but he might have mentioned working for them. He was handsome in an exotic sort of way, with that wavy dark hair, light brown skin, hooked nose. It's those dark eyes, I remember. He was… intense. An idealist, quick to defend the honor of his employer."

"Did he ask about the Dunmere tale from 'Popular Stories of Gates Across Welland?'"

"Hmmm," Aedwen nodded. "Curious about the Gate, the keys, the tawdry story of murder. Your friends mentioned that the man disappeared before his investigation was through. They were puzzling over a trail long cold. What brings you to Dunmere, if not that? Popular Stories and a second-rate, local mill are Dunmere's only claims to fame."

"Well, that and the Gate, right?" Fleta asked.

"A Gate with no key is not a Gate at all," Aedwen said. "Just a fancy decoration and lodestone for superstition. There are plenty of old Gates hidden in Welland. I'm sure you know the only working one is in Lyntre."

Fleta nodded, taking a moment to assemble her explanation. "I am looking into the Gate story and Alistair, just from a different angle. I was told little, so I can look at the situation with fresh eyes."

"As you will," Aedwen shrugged. "More coin for the village."

The village elder approached a large stone house at the edge of town, closest to the mill on the stream that ran to the north. Aedwen rapped on the door, which swiveled inward on a long post set into a hole in the flagstone flooring. Clearly, the home of a man more wealthy than his neighbors. Likely, he was the miller. The man who answered was lit dimly by candlelight and the last rays of the sun. He was middle-aged and plump, with gray hair thinning on the top of his head but thick in his beard and plentiful elsewhere. He regarded Aedwen a moment in silence from deep-set eyes.

"Carrig, we have a visitor," Aedwen said. "May we set her up with blankets and straw in the shed, like the others?"

Carrig nodded. "Welcome, lass." His voice rumbled like shifting rocks in a mine.

"Will a glim for the night be acceptable?" Fleta pulled out a small silver coin. The man waved it away. "For the night and more. We can talk in the morning. I'll send the missus with some blankets."

"Rosemary, we have a guest, get the blankets!" The man called.

A younger, round woman with blond hair tied back in a red handkerchief appeared with an armful of thick wool blankets. Aedwen patted Fleta's wrist. "I'll take my leave. We can talk in the morning. Good night." The miller's wife nodded to Fleta, asking her where she was from and remarking on all the visitors they had. Finally, she showed Fleta to a small shed. A young boy of ten or so came with some straw. The two arrange a cozy-enough, impromptu mattress. The shed was chilly, although Fleta saw that various cracks had been spackled recently to stop the drafts. It was simple but quite a bit better than sleeping on the ground with only a torn cloak. Only after Carrig's wife left did Fleta feel the exhaustion of running the whole day and collapse into the thick blankets.