Cold Skin and a Warm Bath

I have tarried here too long, my body has lost the ache of travel, replaced by the restless energy of stillness. I fear what roots may grow with the calm, for if I am bound to one place my heart may wither. For the first time, I think I understand how my father felt. 

-Excerpt from “Travels of the Rune-Bard”

Elma clung to the heavy iron key with one hand, using the other to keep the cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders. The stairs creaked under her weight as she climbed to the second story, and the smell of alcohol thinned, replaced by the comforting scent of old wood.

The living quarters were starkly different from the common room. A narrow hallway ran perpendicular to the stairs, with three doors set into each wall at regular intervals. It had the aura of a space well-kept and oft-used, a homey and inviting feeling.

Elma glanced down at the key, then back up, scanning the doors. “Which one is it?” She asked aloud, not expecting an answer.

“It’s that one, on the left,” a woman said behind her. Elma jumped, spinning to face the newcomer. A barmaid climbed up the last step carrying a wash basin full of hot water, a bundle of cloth tucked under one armpit.

“Oh, thank you,” Elma said.

“If you’d like, I can carry this inside for you,” the maid smiled, and gestured with her elbow toward the door. Her arms shook slightly with the weight, but her face showed no strain.

“I’m sorry, that must be heavy,” Elma said, fumbling the key into the lock. It turned with a weighty thunk, and she pushed the thick oak door inward.

“It is no bother,” the maid said, and slipped past Elma to place the basin on a low table.

The cramped room was surprisingly clean, and barren save for the table, a single low mattress, and a dead hearth. The ceiling slanted downward, nearly meeting the floor at the far end, and an open set of shutters let pale moonlight wash over the otherwise dim interior.

“Master Bard has asked that I make sure no one bothers you,” the maid said. “If you need anything further, I will be down the hall by the stairs. You can find a lantern hanging on the wall, and a box of matches in the drawer there.” She pointed at the drawer in the table, then curtsied as she withdrew from the room, closing the door behind her.

Elma fumbled with the lantern, struggling to open the tiny glass door. She pried it open, then channeled a thin stream of fire magic, lighting the wick in an instant. She hung it back on the wall, then laid the cloak out on the bed, studying it.

The black felt was supple and well cared for, a remarkable garment for a bard. Two small pockets were sown into the lining, though there was nothing currently inside them, and the hood bore a third empty pocket.

She ran her fingers along the bottom hem, tracing the crimson lettering. It was rune work, and though her Ancient Language was rusty, she recognized the story it told.

“The Skald-Knight?” She whispered, frowning. It was an old story about a mighty Spellsword who used the power of myths and legends to fuel his magic—a fanciful tale with no basis in reality. “Perhaps he simply identifies with the character?”

She meandered through the room, prodding at various things. A stack of letters sat atop the table, bundled tightly with twine. A silver necklace rested next to the paper, a crescent shaped bauble that reflected the shimmering lamplight onto the wall. There were other trinkets—a ball of string, three rings of differing metals, a single book titled something in a language she did not recognize.

The more she explored the austere room, the more uneasy she became. It felt like she was intruding on something painfully intimate, a hundred shrouded stories secreted from prying eyes. Deryth had collected these things in his travels, each had a story she couldn’t hope to guess at.

Her mind wandered back to the cloak. He has to be blue-blooded, she thought. Who else could commission such a fanciful piece?

Elma sucked in a breath, realizing that she had dallied for too long. She hustled to the door, key in hand, and locked it once more. Just in case, she thought, and began to peel her soggy clothes off. Her skin had become clammy, and she shivered against the frigid autumn air.

With shivering hands, she picked up the assorted items the maid had brought with her. A thick brown towel woven from soft cotton was wrapped tightly around a clean rag, a comb, and a bar of lavender scented soap. Elma lifted the soap to her nose, inhaling the aroma, then set it beside the washbasin.

Her thighs were sticky with half-dried ale, and when she ran her thin fingers through her hair, they caught in several unkempt knots. With a sigh, she folded her soiled clothing and set them beside the washbasin, then set about wetting her hair, using the comb to gingerly work through the tangled mess. The warm water staved off the chill in the room momentarily, but it rushed back to greet her as the dampness cooled, leaving her quivering.

Rag in hand, she began washing her body, paying careful attention to the areas she could not have while living on the streets. A week’s worth of sweat and grime sloughed away, and before long the water was tinged a cloudy brown.

“Dammit,” she said through clattering teeth. “I should have washed my clothes first, I suppose.”

She took up the towel, marveling at the plush material. It soaked up the water like a sponge, leaving her only moderately damp. To ward off the cold, she wrapped herself in the cloak once more, and settled on the bed to wait for the murky water to settle enough that she could scrub her clothing.

Safe and warm for the first time in days, Elma felt her eyelids grow leaden. She hadn’t slept through the night in a week, constantly on guard against the rougher element found in the shadier parts of the capital. When she had fled, a steadfast certainty rested in her heart—the Royal Capital was a safe place, and she was nobility. No one would lay a hand on her. But as the days dragged on, the men who frequented the alleys and dank bars of the capital noticed her presence, and more than one made a forceful advance. It wasn’t enough to drive her back into the arms of Count Cannáed, but it put her on edge nonetheless.

A knock at the door dragged her from the precipice of sleep. Her heart hammered in her chest, and her breath caught in her throat. A second passed, then two, and another knock rattled the door.

“Madam, I have come with another basin of water for you,” the barmaid said, her voice muffled by the barrier between them. Elma let out her pent up breath, and clutched her chest in relief. Then she stood, and turned the key in the lock.

“Apologies, I was distracted,” she said as the maid shuffled inside, switching the basins.

“No need for all that,” the young woman said, hefting the heavy wooden tub. “Is there anything else you require?”

“No, thank you,” Elma said. “And, thanks for this. I was worried I’d not get the chance to scrub my clothing.”

The maid smiled, a warm and genuine expression. “Y’know, I was once in your shoes. The barkeep here takes in girls like us, gives us a warm place to sleep, and hot food to eat. I can speak with him, if you’d like.”

Elma frowned, considering the offer, but shook her head in the end. “I appreciate it, but I would be more trouble than I am worth.”

With a nod, the maid left, but before Elma could close the door she turned back. “The offer still stands. He doesn’t ask anything uncouth of us, if that is your concern.”

“That thought never crossed my mind, I assure you,” Elma said. “But thank you. I’ll mull it over.”

Once she was done washing, she looked around for a place to hang her clothes. The hearth was dead, but there was a long wooden rod affixed across the mantle, so she placed her clothing there, along with the damp towel. It wasn’t until she was finished that she had a disturbing realization. I don’t have anything else to wear.

With nowhere else to sit, she slumped onto the bed, running her hand absently across the cloak. She shivered once, frowned, then sighed and wrapped herself in the thick cloth once more. “I wonder if I can ask the barmaid for something to wear,” she asked aloud. Another shiver racked her body, and she huddled under the cloak, bringing her knees to her chest. “Maybe I should just stay like this. If I seduced him, perhaps he’d let me flee with him…” Her face flushed hot at her own words, and she shook her head to clear it. Then another knock came at the door.

“Are you finished bathing?”