Broken Promises

“My word,” Old Calvin gasped. “And here I thought perhaps this town would never see the sun again. Is that your companion there, Deme? Coming down the slope?”

“Lavenza!” Deme called. The child noticed that Lavenza was using her staff to help her walk. “Is something wrong? Are you hurt?”

“Just a headache,” Lavenza smiled. “Speaking with old men is tiresome.”

“Nonsense!” Old Calvin smiled. “Deme and I have been chatting away while you were gone.”

Lavenza offered Old Calvin a quizzical bow.

“We’ve had so much to talk about!” Deme said. “Lavenza, this is Old Calvin, the blacksmith. He’s been keeping me company since you left.”

“A pleasure,” Lavenza said. “Deme. It’s time that we left.”

Deme’s eyes widened.

“So soon? I thought we could stay a little longer.”

“I thought you said there was nothing for you here.”

“That was then. This is now.”

“Deme, we don’t have time—“

“Might I interrupt for just a moment?” Old Calvin said. “Mage Lavenza. May I call you that? At the risk of sounding like an arrogant fool, I believe Deme wishes to stay because of our… productive conversation earlier. If that is the case, then perhaps I could join you for a short time?”

“Of course!” Deme beamed. “Lavenza?”

“A short time?” Lavenza asked.

“Winter has ended,” Old Calvin smiled. “The path south lies clear now. Something has changed around here. I think it is time that I make my way to Centa Muis this spring.”

“To The Opposing Shore,” Lavenza shook her head. “You have a fragile body, blacksmith. You’d slow us down, and we have little time to waste.”

“Venz!” Deme cried.

“True,” the old man chuckled. “Hardly anyone has time left beneath the waning Endire. But my horse is strong. She has survived the winter, as so has my cart wagon. They won’t slow you down, I can promise you that much.”

“Venza,” Deme pleaded. “I’d really like Old Calvin to join us. He’s incredible! I know I can learn so much from him. He’s the first smith we’ve met who—”

“Deme, get your things,” Lavenza snapped. “Prepare to leave.”

“I don’t understand,” she cried. “I’m telling you what I want! Why don’t you even listen to me?”

“It’s alright child,” Old Calvin consoled her. “That your companion is cautious is a point in their favor, not against. Perhaps we should speak in private, Mage Lavenza?”

“Get your things, Deme,” Lavenza repeated.

“Do as she says, child,” Old Calvin smiled. “We shall leave soon enough. Together.”

Deme tossed her gaze between the apostate and the blacksmith as if they were her feuding parents. She blinked and nodded at Old Calvin and returned to the steps of the patio, where she tapped the innkeeper Meredus to ask for her things. The innkeeper put on an irritated expression and yelled loudly about having already moved Deme’s belongings upstairs.

Once the child disappeared into the tavern, Lavenza tilted her staff forward.

“You’ve been touched by The Withering Flower,” she glowered. “What have you told the child?”

Old Calvin shrugged.

“Only what I know,” he replied. “Which is to say very little, Mage Lavenza. I’ve worked with Rafta before. That particular flower granted me long life. The rest I’ve shared are mere urban legends. Are they even true? I do not know.”

“Long life,” Lavenza muttered. “Is that all you told her?”

“That is all.”

Lavenza sighed and stowed away her staff.

“You may travel with us on one condition, blacksmith,” Lavenza said. “You will submit yourself to a truth incantation.”

“A truth what?”

“A magical vow,” she explained. “You will swear to not repeat our conversation with the child.”

Old Calvin opened his mouth, then promptly shut it. The old man, it seemed, understood the value of discretion. Lavenza could appreciate that, if nothing else. Old Calvin ran a hand down his beard and pinched the edge of his bottom lip.

“…And what if I break the vow?” he asked.

“You’ll see very soon,” Lavenza said. “I take it you’ve agreed?”

“Since I intend to promise not to speak of this conversation anyway, may I ask a question first?”

“Ask.”

“What are you hoping to keep from the child?”

“Everything has its proper time and place,” Lavenza answered. “I keep nothing from her that she needs to know. If you are concerned of speaking freely to her, then know you’re allowed to speak of Rafta however you wish. What you know is of no interest to me. Now, promise?”

“Right,” Old Calvin murmured. “I won’t tell her about this talk we had, I promise.”

“Ist Endire finis asta poket,” Lavenza recited.

Deme returned from the tavern moments later.

“He can come,” Lavenza said. The lights behind Deme’s eyes flashed on. “However, I have terms.”

“Fine,” the child groaned. “What are they?”

“We’ll accompany the blacksmith to Centa Muis,” Lavenza explained. “We can stop for supplies there, and it just so happens I intend to see someone off.”

“You?” Deme raised an eyebrow. “Seeing someone leave for The Opposing Shore?”

“Is that unheard of?” Lavenza asked.

“And here I thought I was your only friend in this world,” Deme crossed her arms. “But fine. I agree.”

“Unfortunately,” Lavenza’s shuddered. “These new terms violates the vow I made at the border. Enteken.”

“W-wait!” Deme gasped. “No, that’s not what I meant!”

Lavenza collapsed and doubled over. Her body shivered. Her arms clutched her torso as if freezing. Blood seeped out from her nose, her eyes, even the tips of her hair. They formed thin tributaries, flowed down her face and dripped, dripped, dripped off her cheeks onto thawing snow until a lake pooled at the center of cold white shores.

Old Calvin rushed forward with what speed remained in his bones to help her.

“Stop!” Deme cried. “Don’t touch her.”

“What is happening?” Old Calvin breathed.

“Mana feedback,” Lavenza grimaced. “From a Menuan truth incantation.”

“…Oh,” Old Calvin’s new expression looked more pallid than death.

“I’ll live,” she rasped. “Blacksmith. Perhaps you should pack your things. I wish to leave before nightfall.”

“I’ll…go pack my things.”

Old Calvin excused himself. With strained, laborious breaths, Lavenza pushed herself up with blood stained arms. She lay sprawled on her back. Deme approached. The child unfolded her knapsack and produced from within a warm wet towel that Lavenza used to dab the blood off her face.

“You didn’t have to break your promise like that,” Deme muttered. “I hate seeing you do this.”

“I did not intend to go back on my word.”

“If this is some punishment for my asking Old Calvin—”

“It is no punishment,” Lavenza coughed. “My… conversation with the mages reminded me. I need to return to Centa Muis. I have unfinished business there. It will take some time away from delving for Rafta. I apologize. Endire finis—”

“That’s enough,” Deme snapped. “I get it. I get it. We’ll get there when we get there.”

“People will take advantage of you this way, Deme,” Lavenza shrugged. “They’ll find ways to disappoint you.”

“Drop it. I don’t want to argue with you anymore,” Deme grumbled and snatched the bloody towel from Lavenza’s hands. “Are you feeling better?”

“I’ll be ready to leave by the time the blacksmith returns.”

“That’s not what—fine,” Deme threw her hands up. “Just rest a little longer.”

Deme left Lavenza at the tavern veranda. She returned inside to ask the innkeeper where she could wash her blood soaked rags. Meredus answered her with both scowl and fright and demanded she help him clean up after a few of the guests as repayment.

“Enteken. Enteken. Enteken,” Lavenza murmured to herself. Each utterance of the word lifted a little bit of pain. The tavern guests steered clear of her. With the blood still caked on her tattoos, one wondered if her repetitions were some kind of curse.

Old Calvin returned before long. He brought behind him a sturdy horse and a carriage much more accommodating than Lavenza anticipated, one that could easily house a modest family. As if to prove that he was not scared, despite having the most reason to fear, the blacksmith slid across from Lavenza and listened while she chanted.

“What does it mean?” Old Calvin asked. “Enteken.”

“It’s Menuan,” Lavenza answered. “It means ease. It… eases the pain.”

“Does it have any other uses?”

“I’m sorry?” she blinked.

“Let’s say my arms were a little tired,” Old Calvin said. “I wanted to lift up a hammer but my hands feel a little frail. Enteken. What would happen?”

“I suppose it depends on the intention of the mage,” Lavenza pondered. “But Enteken is a warm word in the Menuan tongue. The headmasters of our monasteries soothe the new apprentices with it when they have trouble sleeping, especially during the first few nights.”

“So it’ll be like crying in my mother’s chest again for the first time again.”

“I wouldn’t go that far…”

“Old Calvin!” Deme called. She rushed outside, her knapsack bouncing against her back. “That was quick. You already packed everything you need?”

“Didn’t need to take many things, fortunately,” the blacksmith replied. “I’m ready now. Did you want to load your weight onto the back, Deme? Mage Lavenza? Got anything you prefer Bessa to carry?”

“No," Lavenza said. "I would prefer we get going now.”