The Lupine Curse: A Tale of Netherway
Chapter 13: The Grace of Calan

Looking at the statue of Calan after a long night of rest, Deidre said to the priestess: “I simply don’t know how long his stay will be here, only that I, myself am not capable of being his mother … and, well … he has no parents to look after him. He is simply another orphan.”

Followers who were meditating or praying looked up from their devotion in surprise to see one of their more soft-spoken priestesses being talkative with the peasant.

Both of them watched Timothy play in a patch of grass. There was a butterfly fluttering around stems of daisies. He feebly tried to catch it.

“Don’t worry for him. I will make sure of his growth and enlightenment myself, personally.” What suspicions she’d had of Deidre had left overnight, and now she was entirely trusting of her. When Morros speaks, she does not lie. “We have more here than many could ever wish for. Food, books, a bed. He will even learn his letters, basic runes, and healing spells, if he is at all capable of casting them.”

Deidre was pleased. She smiled at her, feeling the journey was not fruitless, after all. “Well, I apologize, but now I must be leaving.”

“I understand. There are burdens enough without the responsibility of a child that is not your own.”

“No, no, it is not that.” Her weary eyes clouded with worries of the future.

“Oh?”

“I wish to find an old friend of mine, somehow. There may be something I can do for him.”

“A dutiful Touched One, if I ever saw it. Though, you are the first I ever met,” the priestess said. “You are just like the stories say. Quiet, with an air of determination.”

Before Deidre could even say her farewells to Timothy, the priestess clutched her hand. “My child, I am dreadfully sorry. But now it is I who beseeches you.”

Deidre chuckled at the formality in her tone. “I am still only a peasant, priestess, please … what is it?”

“Well. There is a man here, quite ill. It would do him wonders, no doubt, if you would cast a spell for him, even a prayer. Doubtless, Morros heads your beck and call.”

“Do you have herbs? Supplies for a healing rite?”

“No. The listeners of our weekly gatherings have been rather stingy with their coin.”

“Say no more,” Deidre said, holding up a hand, all too familiar with poverty. She was never in the listener’s position before, but if she had been asked to donate coin that she didn’t have to a god that wouldn’t answer prayers, she might be a little stingy, too. Most folks had already come to the conclusion that you can’t bribe your way into a deity’s good graces, but it was a conclusion that had to be reached the hard way.

Determined, the young witch left the chapel and stepped into the cool, morning air. Most of the shops were closed, but by the time she had passed several guards, three inns, and a beggar on the streets, she arrived at the alchemist’s shop.

Perhaps it was because the proof of her talents had just been laid in front of her, or perhaps it was the realization she had spent her whole life underestimating herself, but either way, when Deidre marched into the shop of the alchemist, it was clear she was a changed, fierce creature of an undeniable, ‘quiet determination’.

“My, if it isn’t the Blessed One,” the alchemist said behind an L-shaped counter in his shop. The glass cases were filled with herbs, trinkets, scrying orbs and other tools Deidre was only vaguely familiar with. Saronis was wearing very large glasses with at least seven magnifying lenses of various sizes glaring down upon a raven’s foot. It seemed he was searching for fairies, or tiny trolls, upon it.

“Hello Saronis,” she said.

“I sense an urgency about you, dear. Anything I can do for you?”

Deidre explained the dying man, the events at the chapel—all of which sounding very rushed and garbled to the apothecary.

“Aha, so you truly are one of the Touched. Well, even if that is true, why should I give you herbs, supplies for free? This is a business, you know.”

Deidre glared at him. The candles in the room began to change in their intensity. Several of them spluttered out, spraying the alchemist with hot wax. She had not intended for that to happen, but in her frustration, it seemed, some of her energy leaked. “A man is dying, alchemist. Is giving life for free not a bargain for you?”

“Gods be good!” he exclaimed. “Fine, fine, take what you need. Not like it matters to me, anyways. No one in this city knows how to use them except for me. I’ll just keep spinning gold out of iron!” he joked.

Deidre promptly thanked him—even kissed him on the cheek before leaving—and left with her arms filled with the ingredients she needed, as well as others that she knew the ladies at Calan’s chapel could use.

As Deidre came back into the chapel, she was met by a small group of tired followers excited to meet her. By then, the priestess had told those that had already awakened who Deidre was and her unique gifts. Even the people at the marketplace, the guards and the drunkards and the merchants, they all felt something strange when the girl walked past. Someone so young and yet so purposed was bound to stir up the atmosphere.

Many followers wanted to touch Deidre, talk to her, and ask her to bestow upon them goddess-like wisdom with Touched words, though she had none; she was as peasant-looking and deformed as she ever was, yet now they wanted something from her.

Ignoring the ridiculous attention, she asked where the sickly man was and was led to his room—far from the others in the chapel. The fever had left the aged man unconscious, sweating, shivering, and tossing in his sleep. Indeed, he was nearing that point of death few survived. Deidre performed a spell she’d known for a long while, heightened with a passion she had not felt mustered for many years, except for the day Fenris was cursed.

First, with chalk, she laid out a circle, in it was a spiral, representing the ever-spinning journey toward death. She cut a line from it to a second, inner circle, which embodied what small control individuals have over their lives. Between the two inner circles, on opposite sides, she smudged two smaller circles: the full and new moon, to balance it all out.

She murmured a prayer with her hands above it, and drew forth from the symbols a small orb of warmth, and cradled it, then—through her closed eyes—she saw a bright light of health pulsate in her hands. She recognized it was not her own light, that she was merely the temporary keeper, and transferred it to the old man, pushing it into his chest. At which point, his tossing and shivers ceased, and he fell into a deep, restful sleep.

“Keep the circle open until he awakens. Close it properly, and thank Morros as you do. You can keep what I have not used, I won’t be needing it.” As soon as she was finished, Deidre waded through the small pond of Calan’s followers to the doors of the chapel.

Halfway through the rite, she realized she did not need the herbs of faeriegrass or demon’s breath, nor the shadow cat’s tooth, nor the eye of the bat, which was typical for such a spell. Saronis was taken advantage of for nothing!

Being Touched, after all, meant a significant power without supplies. At least now the chapel had them.

“Blessed One, wait!” the priestess called after her.

Deidre stopped. Her hand was already on the handle of the door. She sighed, annoyed at the sudden respect and attention she was receiving, and turned. “Yes, priestess?”

“You cannot go, now, simply look how early it is. You must be still exhausted. One night of rest for a whole journey, what nonsense is that? And think of the boy, he simply loves you. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind another day beside you. We’ll feed you and have you prepared to leave with provisions at a moment’s notice. By Calan’s beauty, I swear it. But please, these things must not be rushed. You can stay awhile longer, can’t you?”

Deidre found no reason to disagree, and let her hand fall off the handle of the door, tempted not by her words, but the sweet promise of a soft bed.

The priestess had more than just a bed available for her. A large cauldron of water was heated for her, and she bathed for the first time in months. Her eyes closed, her body naked, and the room cleared of people and sounds and thoughts … she felt she might as well melt with the steaming water right then and die in peace. They had placed lilies, sage, and other herbs in the steaming tub, which she twirled and played with.

The priestess aroused her after she’d dozed off in the tub, and urged her to eat a hot meal in the dining quarters, despite the early hour. Her bony, malnourished body was clothed with light blue robes for the high priestesses of Calan’s Order.

As Deidre fought to keep the food in her stomach, the priestess indulged herself with personal, quiet words with the Touched One—who, after her bath and grooming, had been restored to a level of beauty that had been hidden beneath the grime. Even the shadow cast by her harelip gave her a mysterious and alluring appearance.

“They call me Arienna Westborn,” the priestess finally said, sheepishly, after a small glass of wine with the girl.

“And I am Deidre,” she said. “Thank you for all of this. I am not ashamed to admit this, only slightly uncomfortable, but it has been one of the better days of my life, especially after such a peaceful night. I can’t remember the last time I had slept without fear, or any other kind of disturbance. And this morning … a bath, a warm, full meal and wine.”

“It is the small things in life, truly, that make us happy, isn’t it?” the priestess agreed.

But that was precisely Deidre’s point. This was not ‘small’ for her, at all.

In the afternoon, and she found herself drowsy, unable to focus on the book that Arianna had given her to study from. It was a simple, yet knowledgeable collection of basic healing spells. However fascinating it was for her, she began to doze off, and thought a nap might befit both herself and Timothy, who had been screaming and running around the chapel for hours, disturbing all the priestesses and followers in their daily chores.

She shared a bed with Timothy, who complained and cried beforehand that he could not sleep. He fell asleep after only two minutes of squirming in the bed.

As his breathing slowed, she thought about how she’d rather leave him without another goodbye. In fact, she’d prefer to leave the whole chapel, in the darkness of the early morning, without a word.

So the day swept by, and night followed after, and she slept soundly, consoled by the thought that Timothy had somehow fallen into the gods’ good graces, and would be watched over.

The light had all but left the world, except for a single torch burning on a wall to the left of Calan’s statue. Timothy was still nestled in the warmth of the bed, sleeping steadily, wrapped in a heap of blankets. A grin crept onto Deidre’s face, and then faded, as she remembered why she had risen so early.

So without anymore delay, she slipped out of the covers, in search of her pack, which she had left against the table in the kitchen.

Outside, autumn was turning to winter with the first layers of ice splintering across every surface. Each and every window had a border of silvery frost, and in the deeper parts of the chapel, each breath turned into a wisp before dissipating.

Passing through a corridor, and pushing through the door to the kitchen, Deidre found her pack still laying there, the handle of her dagger sticking through the opening.

Just as she bent down to grab it, she felt a hand on her shoulder.

She exclaimed and jumped backward, already holding the dagger in her hand as she whirled around.

Arianna’s eyes were wider than two full moons, while her hands shot up. “I won’t hurt you!”

“Oh, priestess, it’s you,” Deidre sighed. “For the sake of the gods, why not say something before you sneak up on someone like that?”

“I thought … maybe, perhaps … you were just another one of my girls. Those robes make you look just the same, in the dark at least. There’s one girl here, who’s just as tall as you are, and she’s deaf. I didn’t think anyone else would be up at this hour. She has a tendency to wander at strange hours.”

Deidre looked down at the robes she had given her. “Well, priestess, I’m certainly not deaf. But you have found me, at least.”

“What are you doing up at this hour?”

“I’m leaving. You asked me to stay for another day. And I have. It is time that I seek fortune elsewhere.”

Arianna stepped forward to lay a hand on Deidre’s, and her mouth opened as if to say something, but then she stopped. In the darkness, it seemed the shadows allowed her to see more than just sadness on her face.

Once more, she felt short of words. The priestess was not someone to beg another to stay in her care, yet she felt that Deidre could do more than simply rest there. The girl had a gift, after all, but she was far too young to comprehend it. “Do visit Timothy sometime, Deidre. He will have plenty of sisters and mothers here. But with the way I saw him sleeping next to you … I can tell he only has one, true caretaker in his mind.”

Yes, and he hopes to find her ghost here, she thought sadly of his mother.

“I will visit when I can, Priestess Arienna.”

But the priestess was not enlivened by these words; she was ashamed that she could not think of something that would make her stay. Still, she could not stop herself from helping Deidre more. “But please, before you leave, follow me to the chapel’s stores. Your satchel is rather empty, is it not?”

“It is,” she admitted.

“We’ll attend to that.” Arianna took the torch from the wall and said: “Follow me.”

She gave her a fresh set of robes, and provisions to last her the next few days. For once, she felt prepared--a sensation entirely alien to her.

“Goddess guide your step, Deidre,” Arianna said as she bowed her head.

“And yours, priestess, be well.”

And before Timothy, or any of the others could awaken, she had already left.

There was only a dim light over the horizon, shooing away the stars of midnight, and ushering in a warmth that would melt the dew from the grass.

Deidre still felt that strange confidence that she’d gained the previous night. It was stirring over a new progression inside her, something that might propel her, somehow, beyond peasanthood.

Yet, as she walked down the empty streets, passing two guards sleeping on each others’ shoulders, she felt her stomach stirring with dread. There were crows perched on roofs, cawing. Although she always considered them friends, now it did not feel so. If there was one thing she’d learned from all her years at Crowshead, it was that good fortune never lasted long; crops quickly withered, rain came as it pleased, and people died as soon as other cities were affected by the season’s bitter diseases. Sᴇaʀch Thᴇ FɪndNøvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

She felt foolish for allowing herself the two peaceful nights spent without worry.

Because in just a moment, like all good things, it had soured.

A hand reached out from an alleyway and grasped the folds of her robes. “You’re not going anywhere, lass,” a familiar voice said. The arm pulled Deidre into the shadows of the alley. She was so shocked that she could only obey his movements, and follow the arm to its owner.

It was the captain of the City Watch, and he was leading her to exactly where she came from, only using the narrower and more inconspicuous routes of the city. The guard’s helmed head was darting around, looking everywhere as if Death himself might emerge from a doorway and take them. Deidre saw a fear in his eyes and thought that, in a way, he would.

“I had to wake up every last innkeeper, merchant, barmaid and beggar to know where you were headed. People have got an eye on you, lass. And this hype about you being Touched is only makin’ it easier. Those women in the chapel may not seem like it, but they are talkers.”

“What are you rambling about?” Deidre asked, annoyed and harried by the guard’s jerking, sudden movements. His arm felt like a leash on her, and she wanted to leave, to try and find Fenris. “Easier for who?” she repeated when he didn’t respond.

“This!” the guard hissed. He rummaged into his leather cuirass and revealed a crumpled piece of parchment.

Deidre dreaded the thing the moment she saw it, and wished she did not have the curiosity to look at what was on it. She took it from his hand and smoothed out the page. Drawn on the paper was her own face, beneath it was a reward for her death, and a complementary title: A Cursed One. On the back of the parchment was a crimson handprint.

So much for good graces, she thought bitterly, while a string of unholy curses flowed from her mouth as elegantly as silk from a seamstress’ hand. “What do they want from me?”

“I warned you, lass. You escaped didn’t you?”

“Do I look dead to you?” she snapped at his tone.

“No,” the guard said, ignoring the quip. “But they won’t stop searching until you are.”

Deidre stared at her picture in disbelief. It was damnable how close the resemblance was. She wondered which one of the elves had drawn it. Was it the High Priest himself? The one who shot Boran? Or the other who executed James? She shook her head. Her harelip was dramatically pronounced in the drawing, and her stare was menacing to anyone that held the paper. “I care not,” she said stubbornly. “It’s still dark enough. I’m leaving this city, with or without these cursed papers littering the ground.”

“Don’t be foolish. They’re many of them here already. I’ve seen their shadows. They crept in overnight, I don’t know when—some ungodly hour. They’re looking for you like a flock of crows for a corpse. You wouldn’t have made it passed that little road down there.” The guard motioned toward the path. “We can’t be certain they haven’t already seen us to begin with.”

Suspicion made Deidre step back. She looked again at the reward on the piece of paper: 300 gold coins. It was enough to live lavishly for several years, and well enough for half a lifetime. She started shaking her head and holding up her hands in premeditated defense, dropping the paper. That sum of money could turn the most honest men into murderers.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the guard coaxed, extending an armored hand.

Deidre slapped it away. “Back away from me! I won’t be gutted today, and certainly not by the likes of you! I won’t be hurt by another friend.”

The guard advanced on Deidre. “Keep your voice down, for your own good. They might hear you,” he urged further.

“Why? So you can kill me silently?”

In one final lunge, the guard closed the distance and covered her mouth. She squirmed in his grasp, but he was armored with leather and mail, and she couldn’t do much. “You think I’m not beyond the average man’s lust for coin, and you’d be right, gods dammit!” he admitted. “But don’t you see, lass? This isn’t just about your life, or that pile of coins waiting for some sick, son of a whore. This is about the Netherway. The Crimson Hand wants to string up your body outside the city gates, they could care less if you’re Cursed or not. They want to intimidate. They want power.”

Deidre’s eyes became wild. She stopped squirming, and suddenly realized this man, besides herself, was perhaps her only shield from danger. She tried to mumble some response, but her lips were frozen with the thought of her body hanging by a noose.

“Don’t say anything, just listen,” the guard hissed, shaking her slightly. The chain mail on his arms clinked as he did. “Soon enough those corpses out there, those assassins, they’re going to multiply. They’re going to spread out across this land like some sick plague, breeding strange, red-eyed elves until even the lord of this city will be one of them! So don’t tell me for one gods damned instant you’re going to dance out of those gates.”

The hare’s eyes welled with tears. “It’s not fair … it’s simply not fair. I just want some peace. Is that too much?” Just like that, the confidence seemed to fade again.

Immediately the guard regained himself, let his grip loosen, and cradled the girl gently instead. She buried her head into his armor. “I’m sorry, lass. I’m so very, very sorry. I just want you to understand. I’m not trying to hurt you. I want to help you.” He removed his helm and looked about the roofs of the buildings before looking into her eyes. “But we need to get you back inside that chapel. Calan’s followers are forgiving, are they not? You weren’t wearing this when you entered the city. I’m not certain there is any other place here that can hide you.”

“How … how many are there?” she asked. The guard brought out a handkerchief and cleaned her face.

The guard opened his mouth, then thought better. “Follow me. We can talk later in the safety of the chapel. Keep your hood drawn tight. Fold your hands and bow your head like one of the followers, and no one will bother you.”

After checking the alleyways, the guard led Deidre through streets that were more or less empty. Once, as they passed a particularly long street, she saw a courtyard across the way. One of the assassins was there, interrogating a merchant, shoving the man as he pestered him with questions. Another was on the battlements, scanning like a sentinel. She felt her blood go cold, and looked at the top of the chapel, dizzy.

Then they were there, at the door, safe and breathing. “I’m glad I didn’t tell you how many there were,” he whispered as he ushered her into the structure, “because I saw at least a dozen alone as we got here. Ah, and you may as well know, now: my name is Markus Defthand.”

Deidre withdrew her hood. “Deidre the Hare, of Crowshead,” she smiled at him.

Her name was repeated by the excited Priestess Arienna. “Did you forget something, child? I don’t believe you brought much with you, besides the boy, of course. Oh! Markus, is that you? I hardly recognized you beneath the steel.”

Deidre glanced at Markus, who took off his helm and put it between his chest and his arm. He looked rather heroic, the top of his forehead slightly damp with cold sweat. “Aye. It is me, m’lady.” He bowed, and she blushed.

Deidre chuckled. There was a long romance here, she could see.

“Well, what is it you two are doing here? I can attest fully, Markus, that this child has done nothing wrong.”

“No, m’lady. That’s not at all what I’m here for …” Quietly, and wishing not to disturb the other meditative followers, he explained the recent, silent arrival of the Red Hand’s hunting parties.

Afterward, Arienna bent to her knee and looked at Deidre sorrowfully. “My child … are you truly Cursed, as well?”

“Her village burned to the ground,” Markus explained, “but she was unharmed. That’s why the boy’s here. She saved him from them.”

“Burned it to the ground? That sort of ‘purification’ by the Red Hand has not been practiced for decades.”

“Hopefully it’s only in these parts,” Deidre added.

“Regardless. That can mean there is only one reason you are here again. You want our goddess and her daughters to lend the girl refuge.”

Markus shuffled his his feet. “I know it is no simple request, seeing as how you already have the boy—”

“Enough. The Hare of Crowshead is always welcome in our little chapel.”

The three stood there in the chill of the morning, not quite certain what this shelter would bring for her. Would it be safety … or merely time?

More of the Scarlet elves poured into the city, some from Vidarr’s settlement, and others from more distant villages, darkening the dawn like demons striding through the light.

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