Chapter 5:

Chapter Five

A Whisper in Scarlet


Ven stared at the sight in front of her, mouth agape. She opened and shut it several times as she tried to formulate something to say. Finally, after a long moment of silence, Eujin pulled the blade free of the floor and gave it another snap, sending the two halves of the metal cup flying into the darkness with a soft clink. With a second fluid motion, he noiselessly returned the blade to its scabbard.

“U-uh… what…? How…?” Ven started.

“I suppose I should take that as a yes.” He said, resting it back on his lap.

You just got saved by the greatest hero to have ever lived, and that’s the best you can come up with? Come on, Ven. Pull yourself together!

She cleared her throat, and winced at the jolts of pain even this small movement made in her gut.

“...I’m still not sure I believe you.” She managed finally.

The man laughed, which stood in stark contrast to his grim appearance.

“I would say that’s a first as well.” He said. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Ven. Well, Syrvena, but I don’t really like that.” She said.

“Ven.” He said, seeming to make a mental note of something.“Family name?”

“Kunning. My father’s father was from Rathkara.”

“Syrvena… That’s Old Getherian, if I’m not mistaken.” Eujin said, shifting in his seat. ”Not a common thing to hear these days.” He said, studying her. “And Kunning… Your father’s father was a brewer, I’d wager.”

Ven furrowed her brows at him.

“How do you know that?” She asked.

“The Rathkari take family names based on occupation. The word Kunning has several meanings in Rathkarian, but the most common one is ‘brewer’. Consider it an educated guess.” He said.

He leaned back and folded his arms, appraising her.

“Well, Syrvena Kunning, you are very lucky to be alive. Or, I suppose, very unlucky.” He said. “Not many people can say they stared down what you have tonight and walked away from it.”

His words served the effect of dragging her back down into reality. For a brief moment in her shock and his questions, she’d let herself drift away from the looming numbness and pain. Now she could feel the coldness and despair creeping its way back, and her chest tightened reflexively as she fought to maintain some semblance of composure. Despite her best efforts to keep herself together, she could feel tears prickling at the corners of her eyes.

“What were those things? Why did they do this?” She asked.

Eujin crossed his arms.

“Those things are called Blightwraiths. They are what happens when someone uses more thaumaturgy than their vitae can diffuse.”

Seeing the blank look on Ven’s face, he explained further.

“A man uses too much magic, and it turns him into a misshapen beast. Those beasts that attacked this place? Those were Blightwraiths.”

“But I thought magic wasn’t real.” Ven said. “At least, that’s what everyone in the village seemed to think.”

“I am not one to put much stock in what other people think. You can see why.” The swordsman said, gesturing around him.

“But why would they attack here? What could a bunch of magical monsters want with Renning?” Ven asked, wiping tear trails from her face.

“They attacked here because they were instructed to by someone who can control them. As to why, however, I’m afraid I don’t yet have an answer.” Eujin said.

“That guy with the golden eyes did this, didn’t he?”

The man nodded.

“You’re more perceptive than you look.”

“Thanks.” Ven said flatly.

“The man you saw is named Sevastian LeCrae. He is what is called a Sa’Qari, or a Namebinder. Sa’Qari are born with the ability to see the True Names of certain things. If you know something’s True Name, you can make that thing do anything you tell it to. Some Sa’Qari can command the spirits of the wind, or beasts, or the plants of the forest they live in. But they can only command things for which they know the True Names of, and can only see the True Names of very specific things. Sevastian can see the True Names of Blightwraiths, and, as a result, make them do just about anything he wishes.”

“Doesn’t that mean he will end up just like them? Like a wraith?” Ven asked.

Eujin shook his head.

“No, he won’t. Sa’Qari don’t suffer spellblight because they know the Names of what they command. Thaumaturgy is the kind of magic used by everyone else. If you don’t know the Name of what you want to command, you use Words of Power to force it to do your bidding instead. This, in turn, afflicts the one commanding it with spellblight brands.” He said.

“And getting enough blight brands makes you turn into one of those monsters.” Ven said.

“Correct.”

“Are you a Sa’Qari?” Ven asked.

Eujin snorted.

“If only.”

He looked her over.

“How are you feeling?” He asked.

“Miserable. Everything hurts.” Ven admitted. Hurt was an understatement. It was near agony. The only thing keeping her from falling into a sobbing pile was her simple refusal to do so.

“Unfortunately, what was in that cup was the only thing to numb the pain I had.” Eujin said. “Do you have an apothecary in this village?”

“On the other side of the village square, assuming it didn’t burn down.” Ven said.

“Then, if you permit me, I will see if it still stands. If it does, I will plunder their stock and return.” He said. “That should help you sleep tonight, at the very least.”

He rose to his feet, and tied the scabbard to his waist.

“I shall return shortly. If anything should happen while I’m gone, scream and I will return.” He said.

“Okay.” Ven said, choosing not to say the “assuming you hear me before I’m dead” that she was thinking.

Without another word, the swordsman turned and ran from the shelter, his footfalls not making a sound on the floor beneath him or the loose ground outside. Within seconds he turned out of sight, leaving Ven alone with her thoughts.

Having nothing better to do, she decided to try her luck at shifting around so she could see more than the small corner of the ceiling and wall behind Eujin. With several attempts and multiple gasps of pain, she finally managed to get herself into a sitting position so she could look around. That’s when she realized where she was.

The common room of the Feast and Flagon was largely destroyed. The front two thirds of the ceiling and the second floor above it had burned away, leaving nothing but charred stone walls and open air. The rest that remained was fire-blackened wood, with a few burned out skylights above where she sat. The bar and almost all of the tables were gone, as were most of the stairs to the second floor. It seemed as though it had rained like she thought, because several large puddles had accumulated in sunken parts of the earth that had very recently been covered by floor. It was strange seeing the space she had scrambled through so many times before from above like this. Seeing her home and the life she’d always known like this was too much to handle, and she broke down sobbing, ignoring the burning and throbbing from her wounds as her body folded in grief.

Mother was dead. Home was gone. Everyone she had known was either dead or scattered to the winds, probably never to be seen again. She had nowhere to go. Mother had no siblings, and her father had been without family for years before he passed. What was she going to do?

Then she thought of the attack, and Sevastian and the monsters, and felt sick and furious and helpless all at once. How could someone be so arbitrarily cruel? And for what? He said he had what he needed now. What was he talking about? And what did that Harkam guy have to do with it?

Then she had another realization. Eujin Vast, the greatest swordsman on the continent, the legend that was spoken of only in whispers and stories, was in the town when it was attacked. Why was he in Renning, of all places, the exact moment that something like this happened? Had he known an attack was coming? He’d saved her, yes, but if he was in the town when the wraiths were attacking, why didn’t he step in to help? Why didn’t he try to stop them? To save the town? He could have. Not a single one of those things would have a chance against him if that were true. But he didn’t. Why?

All of these questions burned in her head, and she had no answers for any of them.

When Eujin finally returned, he found her still in a tear-stained heap, her body shaking as she wept uncontrollably. He sat down across from her and set something beside him, but said nothing until she finally managed to pull herself together enough to look up at him. He was watching her, and there was a look in his eyes that Ven couldn’t read, as if he was deliberately masking his emotions. She sniffed and winced as she wiped her nose on the sleeve of her costume.

Eujin turned his head to the side, reaching into the leather satchel next to him that she recognized as Doctor Rathbert’s home visit kit. He pulled out a small brown bottle, which he handed to her.

“Drink this. It will help with the pain.” He said.

Ven looked at him, ignoring the bottle in his hand.

“You… you were in the town when the attack was happening. Why… why didn’t you try to stop it?

Eujin held her gaze for a long moment, then sighed.

“Because by the time I made it here, the village was already burning and most of its people dead and gone.” He said. His voice was soft, almost sad.

“But, why were you here, if you didn’t know an attack was coming? It makes no sense.” She said, before folding over as another roar of pain surged from the wound in her stomach.

“I don’t expect you to understand. I can tell you that I was here because I am hunting Sevastian. There are some very important people who want him dead. But I can’t tell you more than that. I had no idea he would do something like this until it was already too late. But if I could havedone something to stop this, to prevent it from happening, I would have done it. I don’t leave people to just die if I can help it.” He said, his eyes unyielding.

After a moment, Ven looked down at the floor, unable to keep looking into them.

Then why do I find it so hard to believe you?

Eujin looked her over, and noted the several rapidly expanding dark splotches on the front of her costume. He reached the bottle towards her again.

“Some of your stitches have torn open. If the wounds are not properly sealed again soon, they will become infected. In a place like this, with wounds like that, you won’t make it a week.” He said.

Ven looked up at him again, her face twisted with pain and emotion.

“Please don’t touch me. I can’t bear it right now.” She said.

“I don’t intend to. Your wounds need more than stitches now, and if I don’t treat them very soon, you will bleed to death. Drink the poppymilk and let me get to work, or stay stubborn and die. Your choice.” He said.

“How are you going to treat me without touching me? That makes no sense.” She said.

“I am a Thaumaturge.” He said. “I intend to heal your wounds with magic. But if you are awake and can feel, the experience will break you, if not from pain then from the psychic strain of the magic altering your body. Now, take the bottle, Ven. You’re running out of time.”

Ven wanted to say no. She wanted to take the bottle and throw it against the wall and scream at him until she passed out, but as she had these thoughts, she could already feel her arms and legs beginning to grow cold and numb, and her head dizzy. She hated this. She didn’t want this. She had no idea what she was going to do once tomorrow came. But she knew in her heart she didn’t want to die. Not here. Not now. Not after all of that.

She knew what she had to do right now.

She reached out and took the bottle from his hand, pulled the stopper, and downed the entire thing in one large mouthful.

She would deal with the rest of her life later.