Chapter 4

TT 17 Isildane 1772

(QY 17 Firedawn -862)

The following day the priest sat up in bed. The room was dark. Outside the window he saw the night sky fading. He heard the scrape of a pot on the hearth from the floor below. His wife was readying for his departure. He smiled sheepishly. He knew she didn't want him to go, didn't agree with why he was going. And yet she still took care of him. He felt happy, at first. The longer he sat in bed, though, the more her love caused him to question his own motives. Did it have to be him who carried forth this discovery? Was this discovery even worth the effort? What if this turns out to be nothing?. He felt the regret in his stomach. His appetite vanished. He questioned the value of going on this journey. He'd be away from home for ten days. Maybe a few more. Maybe a couple less.

His fingers laced and twisted in his lap. Outside the birds began to wake and chirp their greetings to the new day. His wife began to sing to herself, her voice carried up the stairs.

The priest thought about the ten days he would be gone. It sounded short. Only ten days.. What if he had indeed found something of note, or great importance, something placed by the gods for him to deliver? Only ten days. Leaving was hard for him. Staying felt much easier. If only she were more supportive of the idea, then he thought, he wouldn't have so much regret.

He got out of bed and slipped his frock on. He felt something in his pocket and he remembered. He had picked a flower for her, her favorite flower. An orange bluesum-huen (honey-blossom). He placed it on her side of the bed, just beneath the blanket. Something for her to find at night, when she went to bed alone, to remember him by. He patted the blanket softly, and felt better about leaving.

She gave him a solemn good bye. She wanted him to know she loved him, but didn't want him to forget that she didn't approve of this journey.

He doted over her. He was overly attentive as if showing even more affection before he left would make up for the time he was gone. She did not receive it well and hurried him out the door.

He headed for the village center where he was supposed to meet his guide. When he asked for one, he felt awkward, imposing and little embarrassed. But once the time came to leave, he was relieved he had. The journey was a long time to be alone. While the trails should be safe, it was always safer to have a companion. Even if he met a raider, most wouldn't harass a priest. Few wanted to risk the temperaments of the gods. But that's not foolproof.

He reached the square and his hopes turned to disappointment. The miller's son, a tall lanky man -- barely a man, still too much of a boy -- waited for him. He leaned against a redwood, one leg up, his foot against the trunk. He chewed on a long, yellowed grass. "Priest," he said. He had an impassive face, like a mask of flesh, that hardly moved when he spoke. His mouth was wide with almost no lips, just a cut in his face for words to seep out. He pressed a canteen to his lips, took two loud swallows. He asked, "Ready? Have everything you need?" His breath smelled of ale.

The priest clasped his hands over his midsection. He tried to take a deep breath but the wraps around his belly held him tightly. The priest knew this man. He was a drunk and prone to agitation, even when sober. He liked to scrap. He didn't mind getting a beating. One time, he picked a fight with the blacksmith's son, a strapping young man with the broad back of a laborer. As he pinned the blacksmith's son on the ground and wailed on him, this man just laughed. The priest had witnessed it. The freakish expression on his face. Blood thinly coated his teeth. And that maniacal laugh from the cherry red mouth. "I will go on my own," the priest said.

"Oh come on now. You can't do this alone. Besides, I'll catch sulfur if I let you go by yourself." He clasped the priest on the shoulder. "Downhill to Fael. Should make good time getting there."