The Pale Waters (#1 Reclaimed Souls) (8 page)

“Did the royals leave?” I ask, looking over
to a lower part of the mountain just outside of the city limits. A
dozen mansions peek through dark treetops.

Roland follows my gaze.

“No,” he says and leaves it at that.

“Are you nervous for some reason?”

“That the prototype won’t work?” he asks,
deliberately, in my mind, misunderstanding the question. He knows
full well what I meant.

I grin at him, but he’s no longer looking at
me. Roland’s head is bent low, and he gives a perfect impression of
a downtrodden individual, oppressed, depressed, and easily
frightened. I doubt we’ll attract any notice—the city is empty,
after all—but at least he’s acting the part. He isn’t a young buck,
prancing and dancing in their sheer fabriskin robes, singing songs
of hopeless, tragic love.

As if on cue, just as we round another
corner and pass a large, dilapidated warehouse, a fairly young man,
maybe twenty, begins to serenade us. I grin when Roland realizes
the singing man is singing to
him
.

“
Dearest Goddess has sent me a love… she
hears my song of woe… with a heart as pure as a dove… oh,”
he
now sings to our backsides as we move away,
“he delivers me a
fatal blow.”

“That wasn’t funny,” Roland growls. I can’t
see his face, but I suspect he’s red with embarrassment.

“It was to me,” I say with light laughter.
After a several moments of silence, we reach the entrance.

It’s a small, hidden alley. We walk through
a beaded curtain made of finger bones that click and clack lazily.
We pass through a crooked pathway that weaves between shanty
businesses and homes and other buildings whose purpose are best
left unknown and unquestioned.

“What is this place?” Roland asks.

“Like I said, it doesn’t have a name.”

The mediocre and moldy smells of the inner
city fade away and in its place, a newer, spicier aroma permeates
the air. It mixes with smoked herbs, intense incense, fruity
cigarettes, women’s perfume, and the heavy scent of charcoal
chicken kabobs. Widow’s Lane was empty last night, but today, it is
bursting with life.

“Everything smells so good,” Roland
exclaims. “I don’t know where my nose begins and my stomach
ends.”

I laugh softly. “Be careful what you say
around here; folks will take you seriously, serve you, and then
expect you to pay. And, if I’m being honest, avoid the fruity
cigarettes and don’t follow the women’s perfume. It generally never
leads to an actual woman. At least not one you’d pick out of a
crowd. The results aren’t pretty. But, on the way out, we’ll get a
chicken kabob. I know a good place.”

“Don’t worry. I’m already following the
woman I want.”

“You keep talking all romantic like that and
I might swoon.”

I stop in front of a nondescript, unlabeled
rusty building—though in certain spots, the original red paint pops
through. I pull aside a leaning door, step inside, but then I
quickly step back outside, place a hand on Roland’s chest and say,
“Stay here. I won’t be but a moment.”

“I’m not staying out here alone.”

I smirk. “Scared?”

“Absolutely. What if another woman or,
Goddess forbid, fruity cigarettes lure me away?”

“I’d say my opinion of you wouldn’t be
altered.”

“That’s low.”

“Come in if you want, but I must warn you,
if you value your life, don’t—”

A woman’s wrinkled face appears behind the
half-opened, half-broken door.

“Rahda, is that ye? Thought I heard ye
voice.”

“Don’t do what?” Roland asks with an edge to
his voice.

“Dorni, my love.” I hug her. I steal a
glance at Roland. He’s staring at the old woman with an odd
expression. I get the sense he knows her, but that can’t be right.
If anything, he wants to know why I know a woman who lives in a
shanty village with no name. And what might Dorni
sell
to
me. “Don’t touch
anything
,” I tell him.

***

“Come’n, come’n,” my friend urges us, “‘fore
Gryan walks by. He’s been grumpy lately.” Dorni turns to Roland.
“He try ta git ye ta buy his wife fer an hour. So… wot can I git
ye? Who’s ye friend? I haven’t seen ye in months now. Da
Grandfather is in good health. Says that if I see ye ta tell ye
that he be waitin’ to hear from ye.”

The old woman pulls us inside her tiny
shoppe. Bijou it is not, but I still marvel at her ability to
collect things; even the most innocuous items, such as fallen-off
toad warts—good for curing hiccups—never miss her smart eye. Her
small shoppe is but one wall only. The shelves are filled top to
bottom with vials, jars, and boxes of ingredients and artifacts not
found elsewhere. Some safe. Most not so safe. The three of us
barely fit, Roland can’t even stand up straight, and Goddess
forbid, if we added a fourth person, the shanty walls would fall
out.

What I’m looking for today won’t be in one
of these vials. Dorni must make it for me.

“That’s very kind of the Grandfather. Tell
him I’ll message him soon. This is my friend, Ron. I tried to keep
him outside, but you know how Gryan’s wife can get, money or no
money, so I felt it best to bring him inside.”

“True, Rahda. Gryan’s third wife wicked.
Can’t tell wot yer feller be lookin’ like with hood, but she’d
want’em fer sure. Wot can I git ye? Wot ye be needin’?”

I press the silver ten bedallion into her
hand. I notice that Roland’s eyes round as I do so.

I lower my voice. “I sort of need you to
make a charm.”

Dorni nods quickly. Her eyes tell me she
knew this already.

“Fer ye or him?” she bobs her head at
Roland.

“Him,” I tell her.

“Wait, what’s this about a charm?” Roland
asks.

“Hold out yer arm, feller,” Dorni croaks,
but she needn’t have said so. Her hand darts out like a striking
snake and Roland’s arm is instantly seized in a firm grip.

I watch Roland as he watches Dorni pull out
a sharp blade. If he wants a working prototype, then the charm must
be conjured. My old friend, with fingers as skilled as a surgeon,
cuts into Roland’s forearm before he can react, and collects his
blood and a flap of skin in a small pot.

“I be needin’ a few minutes,” Dorni says,
sprinkling black powder over Roland’s arm, then shuffling into the
corner to make the charm.

***

She hands me a blue jar, but I notice she
keeps a second jar to herself.

“Ye be knowin’ wot ta do with it, but I got
somethin’ else ta be givin’ ye,” she informs me urgently, her tone
higher, excited. She all but pushes Roland outside. “Stand outside
fer a minute, feller.”

“I won’t be but a moment,” I tell him.
“You’ll be fine.” His eyes say
You owe me one
as he steps
outside.

“Don’t be followin’ da green-tongued woman,”
Dorni shouts out playfully.

Dorni immediately drops her ancient frame to
all fours. She rummages under her sleeping cot, pulls up a hefty
board first and then an ivory carved box, and sets it in front of
her. Her precious box of priceless things.

As far as stories goes, many, many years
ago, Dorni, as a small girl, prolonged the old king’s life—Roland’s
grandfather—for an extra day, long enough for him to get home to
impart important information to his heir.

As payment, he presented her with the only
valuable object in his possession at the time—a carved, ivory box.
Apparently, the old king died exactly twenty-four hours later. Only
a few individuals know of this story or the box’s existence. I
remember how, years ago, Dorni made a point of telling me this
story.

Her frail hands dramatically open the box
and I spot its contents: a single vial of three pearly-white
stones. I go stock still.

It can’t be…

Reaching for it, she snaps: “Careful,” she
warns. “Be careful, m’luv.”

“Is this what I think it is?”

Blessed stones known as The Pale Waters. It
is a myth it even existed.

“Rarest element on da continent. Da Feeble
Princess’s Pale Waters. Me mind tells me ye be needin’ it
soon.”

What else does your mind tell you,
Dorni?
When I look in her eyes, it feels like I’m looking back
at myself.

“How did you come across
three
of
them?”
And
how many dead bodies did you pry them
from?

My friend shrugs. She can be stubborn.

“These things have a way of workin’ out,
is’all.”

A burst of shouting outside the shoppe
interrupts our conversation. I shove the vial into a deep pocket
inside of the fabriskin robe, kiss Dorni on the cheek, and tell her
to keep the rest of the money as a shoppe credit for me in the
future.

“Also, tell the Grandfather that all is on
track and to get a message to me if anything has changed. Goodbye,
Dorni.”

“Yes,” she mutters absently as she takes a
peek outside. “Everything is on track.”

Without warning, she grabs my hands tightly
and asks, “If yer feller be needin’ help, if he be dying, will ye
be givin’ me permission ta assist?” Her wisdom scares me sometimes.
She has that look about her right now, like she’s not looking at
me, but some future scene.

Something hits her shoppe then, a rock
maybe. The loud metallic ring echoes in my ears.

“Of course,” I answer her quickly.

Dorni kisses my cheek, clucks her tongue
like a mother hen, and pushes me through her metal door.

And she literally pushes me into the middle
of a scuffle.

A bear-sized man, equally as furry but
uglier, wearing nothing but a loin skirt and laced-up black boots,
holds a long metal rod the same size as a thick tree branch. He’s
swinging it at Roland.

It is Gryan, a ruthless son of a bitch and
one of the Grandfather’s guards. When I met him years ago, we took
an instant dislike to each other, and generally I try to avoid him
if I can.

But not today. Surprisingly, Gryan isn’t
alone. A pretty young woman, small and petite, with long, braided
blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and an attractively embellished,
though semi-sheer, fabriskin robe stands on the opposite side of
the scene, near Gryan, and watches the situation with interest.
It’s Galeni the Pretty, Gryan’s third wife, though how he managed
to convince her to marry him is still a mystery.

The moment Galeni spots me, she crosses her
arms across her chest and raises an eyebrow disdainfully, her
expression one of complete contempt for
me
. But her look for
Roland
is another story. It’s no wonder why Gryan suddenly
looks ready to destroy my would-be lover.

Naturally, I step in.

SEVENTEEN

AN AUDIENCE FORMS. EVERYONE LOVES FREE
entertainment, especially a bloody sport, and soon, dozens of
disheveled inhabitants—from the elderly to the toddlers sitting on
their mother’s hips to the half-humans—step outside into the alley.
The smell of fruity cigarettes fill the air.

“How dare you speak to my wife without my
permission, you filthy mutt,” Gryan yells.

“Kill’em!” Galeni’s pretty voice urges.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Galeni?” I
ask her over the crowd. She doesn’t respond to me.

“What?” Roland asks incredulously as he
steals a quick glance at me. He backs up and nearly trips on loose
stones. “You
know
her?” he asks. The hood still covers most
of his scarred face. It wouldn’t matter if they all knew who he was
or not. They’ll gladly destroy him, royal or not, and brag about it
for a full year.

Gryan swings the metal rod again just as I
step in. Roland dodges it easily, as do I, but the force of its
movement ripples my robe. I can hear the air shift, the sound of a
low, thundering whoosh. Galeni continues to stare at me with a sick
sense of satisfaction. I crouch down and pick up a large, craggy
rock, its weight solid in my hand. It will do.

“I can assure you that there has been some
sort of misunderstanding,” Roland explains. His arms are
outstretched in what could be considered a peace-offering motion.
So far, Roland has been able to avoid Gryan’s weapon. But I don’t
know for how long. The bear-sized man has never been known to fight
fair, and Galeni has always been known to enjoy causing a
scene.

“You can
assure
me?” Gryan spits on
the ground. “Your assurances are worthless around here,
stranger.”

I take another step toward them and, with a
sinking stomach, instantly notice that the top half of the metal
rod is studded with tiny spikes, rusty hooks, and other
flesh-tearing barbs. I could be wrong, but I think I see dried
blood all over it. I haven’t seen Gryan in a few months, but his
savage behavior seems worse. More barbaric. I wonder what has
caused the change around here.

“Careful, m’luv,” a soft voice says from
behind me. Dorni. I didn’t even hear her come out of the shanty. In
a moment of distraction, a tentacle-like barb from the spike sinks
into my fabriskin robe. It barely misses my flesh as it grabs the
fabric like a roaring, horned beast, drags me down to the rocky
ground, and tears a large chunk of the robe off completely.

The crowd goes wild. They don’t care who
gets hurt, or even killed. They want carnage.

Roland is on me in a flash.

“What the hell are you doing, Rahda?” he
yells at me, his green eyes filled with worry. He feels around my
legs, searching for an injury, and yanks the fabriskin robe off me
as if it were about to come alive and strangle me. Dorni, like a
skittish dog, quickly snatches it up. She knows that I put The Pale
Waters and the Charm in one of its pockets.

“Rahda?” Gryan roars feverishly. “I autta
kill you right now, you bitch!”

“Da Grandfather won’t be likin’ dat,” Dorni
announces, her voice clear.

Gryan snorts. “Last I heard, the Grandfather
disowned her.”