Fine Maiden from Afar

The week of rest afforded Zaile much less freedom than he had anticipated. His days started before first light, when he would sneak into Ferric’s safehouse to practice his battle cry. He would return later in the dead of the night to repeat this training. During the twin sessions, Zaile spent much of his time patching leaky roofs, chopping firewood, and repairing broken furniture. He quite welcomed all these activities that gave him reason to avoid his siblings, especially Prim. Add on top reading and writing lessons with Ruan, he had barely enough time to eat and sleep.

His nightmares did not ease one bit. Even after surviving hundreds of stampeding tree demons and a brushing with a Zunarkian Templar, Krugo continued to inspire his horror. All too often, he would wake only to find the moon was still up. The brief intervals of idle solitude gave his mind the opportunity to wander. It would mock him for getting no closer to leaving Sahjax. Sometimes, it showed him Rondel’s death in all its gruesome glory. Most importantly, it took every chance to remind him that Prim was leaving.

Lost in his unrelenting routine and troubled thoughts, Zaile did not even realise it was Penance Day until he saw a group of women in Finnardian white marching into their courtyard. He tensed at their arrival, now fully aware of the danger that the Envoy of Mercy represented. Prim, blissfully unaware, met them with a spring in her step.

“Zaile, can you come down?” Prim called out to him. “Mother Fennaj has brought supplies.”

Fennaj was a senior priestess and the founder of the orphanage. On her withered face was a pair of reading glasses and a permanent scowl. Zaile had never known the woman to speak softly or to raise her hand in anger. After Euphon’s revelation, however, he could no longer see her as an austere matriarch. Rather, she seemed a grotesque crone feeding her livestock.

Grunting, Zaile dropped his tools and leapt down from the rooftop. Wiping imaginary sweat from his brows, Zaile passed the Finnardian entourage, deaf to their whispers and blind to their gazes. Something tugging at his sleeve stopped Zaile. He froze.

“Here.”

The speaker proffering him a handkerchief smelled of wildflowers. This young woman had ruddy lips curved in a bright smile. Large, sapphire eyes, twinkling in the morning sun, regarded him with a puerile curiosity. A long, silver hairpin held back ebon hair that fell to her waist. Her figure, with curves not even the conservative Finnardian habit could conceal, commanded greater allure than her facial features.

“Thanks,” Zaile managed sheepishly as he accepted the cloth.

“I’m Anne,” she sang. “What’s your name?”

Before Zaile could answer, the elderly Fennaj was at his side. Seizing his chin with her raspy hands, she brushed back unkempt hair and scrutinised him with such rigour that her nose nearly poked his eyes. He stiffened, but she paid no heed to his discomfort. Then, grumbling and nodding, the matron slapped him on the back, evidently satisfied.

“You keeping out of trouble, Zaile Avarion?” she gave him a hard look and carried on without waiting for a reply. “Awful! You’re the only child I had that’s ever gone to jail. Do you know what you put poor Prim through?”

Zaile looked away.

“And why are you still hunting?” Fennaj said, each word hitting a higher pitch. “Awful! Our children have ways to secure safe, decent work. The Merchant Guild is hiring all the time and the Guards are always shorthanded. Why haven’t you tried them?”

Zaile sighed. He’d train a cat to eat cabbage before he could convey the joys of freedom found beyond the barrier to Fennaj.

“Just awful!” Fennaj snapped. “Zaile, you didn’t have the happiest childhood but that can change. How old are you?”

Zaile hugged his elbows. Was this genuine care or just a ploy to cross his name from their ledgers? How could he leave Ruan in Finnardian care after what Euphon said?

“Old enough to at least know better than to worry these old bones, I hope,” Fennaj said, digging her gnarled fingers into his shoulders with unexpected force. “Awful! That Isondre told me that you’d grow up to be a great champion of the people but you’re just a violent, swashbuckling delinquent. Awful! Now get going! I want you in a proper job by the end of the month. You got that, young man?”

Zaile made a face at Prim the moment Fennaj turned her back. Prim tried, but failed, to contain her laughter. Returning Anne her handkerchief, Zaile made for the cart parked by the gate. The weight of the cargo, or rather, the lack of, dragged him back down to earth. Before he could even break a sweat, Zaile had offloaded all supplies. Pursing his lips, Zaile returned to his roofing.

Fennaj soon rang a bell, sending the children pouring into the hall. Zaile watched with a faint smile as the boys raced each other, vying for a seat next to whichever priestess they fancied. That’d probably be Anne today. With a stone-faced Fennaj at the door, however, his brothers promptly abandoned their jostling and bantering for a Finnardian salute.

Running a sleeve over his grimy forehead, Zaile snuck in just as the priestesses commenced their noon prayers. While few paid him any attention, his delayed arrival attracted from Fennaj an irked glower. Zaile decided against a seat at the table, opting to take refuge by the stairs from her stinging disapproval.

Peeking through the gaps in the railing, he found Ruan next to a woman in white, pointing to a pile of papers. The younger Avarion stabbed at the yellow sheets, waving his quill with agitated energy. Prim, commanding a group of older girls, wove between the tables with bowls of gruel. Drake and Blake, now easier to distinguish due to one wearing a sling, predictably sandwiched Anne in between them. Together, they loudly announced their envy for Lan, who sat on Anne’s lap.

Lan, who only ever sought maternal affection from Prim, had warmed to the beautiful newcomer. Earlier, during the prayer, Anne had placed a hand over Lan’s to form the Finnardian salute. Since then, the little girl clung to Anne as if the priestess were one of her dolls.

Fennaj rang her bell again. The dozens of children attacked their lunch, filling the hall with a chorus of clanging spoons and slurping. Prim and a few others wandered the hall with pots and ladles. On high alert, these girls dished out seconds and head knocks with equal swiftness.

“Why aren’t you joining us?”

Zaile dropped his spoon, nearly spilling his thin gruel. Despite his sharp nose, he did not sense Anne approaching. He shrugged at the question, rolling up his sleeve and pointing to the grey scales that ravaged his skin.

“That’s not an answer,” said Anne, undeterred. “Do you prefer solitude?”

Again, Zaile shrugged.

“I think they love you more than you know,” said Anne. “Lan thinks you’re a good brother that defends the kids. Drake and Blake, when not trying to get up my skirt, said they want to be a fighter, just like you.”

Zaile chuckled and resumed eating. Finnardians would not understand the reflexive fear a Fallen child has for Freakish deformities.

“I disagree with Priestess Fennaj,” whispered Anne, squeezing his lean but sturdy shoulders. “Someone so strong and brave shouldn’t be wasting away inside the barrier.”

Zaile blinked. If her pleasant scent and melodic voice had not broken through his guard, then the unexpected praise certainly did. A priestess did not defy Fennaj.

“Thanks.”

“It takes a stout soul to ward off Curses,” said Anne. “Yours must be especially potent.”

Zaile flinched at the probe and quickly shook his head.

“Mercy will surely bless your devotion to humanity,” the priestess hummed, smoothing her skirt. “I best be off. I want a friend to see Drake’s arm. Poor boy was still complaining during lunch.”

Mesmerised, Zaile watched Anne wading through the dining hall. Addressing each child by name, she patted heads, shook hands, and cuddled toddlers. Only when she waved him from across the hall did he break his trance. Shaking his head, Zaile inhaled his gruel, which had long since gone cold and made for the kitchen, where he stumbled into Fennaj and Prim.

Busy taking stock of the pantry, neither woman noticed Zaile slipping in. Like a mouse hunting for a midnight snack, he scoured the kitchen, dipping the cleavers into a bucket of murky water. Before he went hunting, Prim had assigned Zaile to the chopping board. For reasons unknown, she flinched at the mere sight of anything with a sharp edge.

“Out of coal again,” said the old woman. “What are you doing, Prim?”

“Traded it for linen,” said Prim. “Fabric is going for silver these days.”

“You let me worry about coins,” snapped Fennaj. “Awful. Are you still starting fires with your Curse?”

Prim snapped her fingers. “I can control it now.”

“And hurt yourself again? Have Mercy, Prim. I’ve got the Avarions to worry about.”

“Speaking of which, I’ll have Ruan show you the ledgers later.”

“Awful rascal too smart for his own good. And where is Marcus?”

“In his own words, allergic to accountability.”

Zaile heard not gruff affection, but a chilling assessment from Fennaj. He dropped a cleaver, splashing water on the floor. Cursing his clumsy handling, Zaile scuttled out. A personal turn in the conversation, however, had him leaning against the doorway.

“You were a timid girl who couldn’t reach my waist,” Fennaj said. “Now I'm going to lose a beautiful young woman.”

“Not until next month.”

“You found work?”

“At a tavern.”

“Why not come to the inner circle?”

“Not everyone dotes on Fallens like you, mother.”

“I’m going to miss you, Prim.”

Zaile creased his brows. Having grown up with Prim, couldn’t he have had this conversation with her? Somehow, he didn’t think so. He leapt atop the roof again, dislodging damaged tiles with a knife. He thought the slippery footing and stubborn stonework would make a good distraction. Unfortunately, his hands remembered the task too well. With no challenge to occupy his thoughts, they naturally returned to Prim.

Prim was the one who made this house a home. She was the first to shake his hand when Fennaj herded him into the dining hall. She cried whenever he fought and sent him outside when he almost blinded another boy. One night, when a brother failed to return from hunting, Prim snuck into his attic to weep in secret. He still recalled her cold fury when he joined the Hunting Guild. She did not speak to him for weeks. And now, she was leaving.

“Hard at work, Mr Eavesdropper.”

Anne poked her head above the shingle. She had a mischievous grin that ill-fitted her snowy habit. Gaining purchase of the roof with one hand, she swung down. Riding the momentum, she somersaulted to his side. Her divided skirt, designed without such nimble motions in mind, needed a moment to catch up to her.

The frilly garters around her thighs hastened his heart. The long needles they held quickly doused the fire on his cheeks. They were longer than throwing knives. What kind of priestess concealed steel rather than modesty beneath their skirts? Was she seducing or threatening him? Even now, she was studying him.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. Then, as if realising something, Anne giggled. “Was white not your colour?”

The coquettish probing, rather than flustering Zaile, had him sighing in relief. “Needles?”

Her teasing not producing the desired result, Anne pouted. “If you know a better way to carry knitting needles then I’d like to hear it.”

Zaile snorted.

“Forget it,” said Anne. “Need a hand?”

And here was his vegetarian feline. Zaile studied her with wide eyes. This woman was serious. Smiling, he offered a tile in one hand and a knife in the other. Somehow, he knew she’d choose steel over stone. The short blade, a scalpel in her hands, unravelling the leaky ceiling with no visible effort. Somehow, Zaile doubted she had learned such skills in the kitchen.

“Done,” Zaile declared, dusting his hands after laying down the last tile.

“Excellent,” said Anne. “Now you must join us for reading and writing.”

Quills, papers, and tomes had replaced the utensils and bowls on the trestle tables. Under the stare from a certain priestess that decried him “awful”, Zaile darted into a seat and began copying the first chapter of the Finnardi scripture. The material, clearly meant for younger children, left Zaile with nothing to do but to survey the class.

Anne glided between the tables, occasionally leaning over to correct the children. Some of her less enthusiastic peers whispered among themselves. Their furtive glances, inflections, and gestures piqued Zaile’s interest.

“You know Priestess Fennaj tolerates no slight against Anne.”

“Mercy my witness, I swear I saw that country broad go into a whorehouse.”

“I couldn’t believe it. She even went by another name –”

Fennaj shot the gossiping priestesses a venomous glare. The trembling girls scattered like a dust castle caught in the wind. With an exaggerated harrumph, the matriarch stomped away while muttering under her breath.

Anne’s smile returned so fast that it made Zaile question whether it had ever left. She continued making her rounds, scrawling cursive corrections for each student. Her cordial passion carried her to the natural conclusion of class.

Under the setting sun, Prim herded the children out to see off the Finnardian entourage. The toddlers clung to Anne so tightly that Prim gave Zaile a look. Sighing, he rolled up his sleeve and swung out the scaly hand. This earned him an appreciative smile from Anne and another lecture from Fennaj. In hindsight, Zaile thought himself poorer for it.

“End of the month,” she said, wagging a finger right under his nose. “You’ll have a proper job when this month ends. Understood?”

Zaile stared at the ground. “Yes.”

“Look at me when I'm talking to you,” Fennaj snapped, poking his forehead. “Such awful manners! Well?”

Zaile sighed. The woman had ferocity to match Solmis. “Yes.”

“I’ll see to it, mother,” Ruan piped up. “Zaile. Can you join me in the study after dinner?”

The study, of course, was the shack Marcus repurposed into his clinic. Pinching his nose, Zaile stepped into the dusty office. Although the air was musty, it contained not a trace of alcohol or tobacco. It seemed the rightful occupant had vacated this room quite some time ago.

Already seated at the desk with a lit lamp, Ruan pored over a heap of snowy sheets of paper. The younger Avarion muttered to himself, scribbled something into his notebook, and flipped over the page. So engrossed was he in his reading, Ruan did not look up when Zaile came in.

“Have you ever seen what they write about us?” asked Ruan, flipping through the pages. “It’s rather interesting.”

Zaile was not as interested in the text as he was in the golden eye embossed on the upper right. Official Finnardian documents. He swallowed the lump in his throat. These files were not for them.

“Only the bottom box is written in Finnardian glyphs,” Ruan went on, oblivious to his unease. “To what purpose?” The boy jabbed his quill at the sheet. “And everyone with three stars here got adopted. How curious.”

The question terrified Zaile. The fact that Ruan seemed to already know the answer, however, had Zaile’s scar tingling. Without realising, his mind went to Anne, or rather, her long needles.

“Do you think they’re still alive?”

Zaile quickly lifted a hand to silence a gasp.

“Ah, it seems my fears were true. How do you know this?”

Knowing they were alone did not stop Zaile from spinning around to check the doorway. “Lufeir.”

“The High Guardian?”

“Grandson.”

Zaile jumped at a squelching sound. Ruan was chewing his tongue again. His brother took to every fascinating thought as other children took to desserts, heedless of the poison beneath the sweet coating.

“So Lufeir sent his scion to the rear while Isondre...” Ruan muttered to himself before chuckling. “I’m beginning to see why Lufeir didn’t make Grand –”

Arms folded, Zaile shot Ruan a venomous glare. The boy gulped and pushed the white papers to one side, redirecting his focus onto a stack of frayed, brown pages.

“Forgive the tarrying mind,” Ruan apologised sheepishly, hurriedly opening the ledgers. “Coins before intrigue.”

Zaile tilted his head. “Well?”

“If mother could’ve solved our problems, I wouldn’t be coming to you,” said Ruan. “At this rate, we’ll be fighting over crumbs in the dining hall before winter finishes us off.”

Somehow, Zaile already knew what Ruan was going to say. “No.”

“I haven’t said anything yet.”

“No.”

“Take us with you,” said Ruan. “Teach us to hunt.”

Zaile shook his head and made for the door.

“You got a better idea?”

Zaile’s heart creaked and groaned like the floor as he pivoted back.

“Sort this for me,” said Ruan, handing him a heap of white papers. “If they don’t have a sun in the bottom box, put them in this pile. I want to start recruiting tomorrow.”