Chapter 8

The priest watched the soldier approach, frozen in place. The aeneeans from the Empire had a look to them, distinct from the aeneeans that remained there, in the west. Their skin was olive, their hair dark, their faces were shaved -- very unusual for those in the west -- but there was always a very distinct grey, stubbled region along their jaw where the beard should be. And most of all, their dark eyes tucked under stern brows, had a depth and focus to them. Imperials looked like masters of every situation they were in. They exuded a competence, where others looked like dabblers. They just knew how things went. That aura struck a kind of fear inside the priest, it left him feeling helpless as he watched the soldier close on the miller's son. The priest's protective instincts screamed at him to do something, but everything seemed futile.

The imperial soldier jammed two hands into the miller's son's chest, knocking him backwards. The coin hidden under his boot was revealed. "Vhat do you zink you are doing? Eh? You are lucky I am in a good mood, yes?" The slick accent of the eastern man sounded confident, sinister.

The miller's son lifted his hands in a feeble guard. The imperial soldier, a much larger man, and a full-man who looked to be twice the age of the miller's son, grabbed the miller's son's hands and held them together. Grey speckled the stubble on his chin. Deep set, dark eyes focussed on him from under bushy eyebrows. "Go! Go! Beggar!" The imperial growled. And he pushed the miller's son back.

The priest grabbed the miller's son by the elbow, and led him away. In perfect aen (the language of the empire) he apologized for the disturbance. The soldiers just waved them on, shaking their heads, and they derided the poverty of the west.

"What were you thinking?" The priest's anger was tinged with concern.

"It ... Like a reflex. I wasn't thinking."

"That was an imperial! Do you understand what that means?"

A strangely surprising smile spread across the miller's son's face, "Aego, I don't think either of us knew what that meant." He extended his palm and resting there was an aegenti (silver coin).

The priest was confused. "Where did you get that? Come, we need to take that back before he notices it missing." He quickly grasped the miller's son's hand and curled his fingers closed over the coin and looked about as if he expected someone to come and accost them.

"He, he put it there."

"What?"

"When he grabbed my hands, I felt it. He put it in my hand."

"Why would he do that?"

"Beats me. But he did."

"You better not be twisting this up."

"Come on, how else would I have a coin. Did you see me bend over? Think I can grab coins with my toes and flip them into my hands?"

The priest looked concerned, like a person worrying they were about to be caught in some kind of trap. He hurried them away. He wanted to get them to the temple, as quickly as they could. His simmering frustration with the miller's son bloomed into full blown anxiety that somehow, this man-child, would endanger them both. Maybe he'd prevent them from delivering the ==bloodwood= to the temple. Maybe he'd get them thrown into an imperial prison. Maybe he'd prevent the priest from returning home to his wife. He thought about what he knew of the miller's son. He remembered that bloody mouth, laughing, mounted on top of the blacksmith's son wailing away at the prone man.

The priest rushed the miller's son through Fael. He knew the way once, but before long he was turned around. His mind was on all that could go wrong traveling with this unpredictable boy. And things had changed. Merchant stalls that acted as a landmark had moved, or were altogether gone. The Imperial Quarter had no signs of the Vaenaens. Where did it go? Sterish people had claimed these buildings and evidence of wear and poor repairs altered the buildings. Crumbled stone and chipped mortar were shadows of a time past.

The miller's son didn't seem to notice when when had made a circle and found themselves back at the same market square they had begun. The priest stopped under a young tree, wiped the sweat from his brow, and screwed up his face in a mixture of concentration and exhaustion as he searched the skyline above for a clue as to which way to go. His breath came in fast. He looked pale. After a moment, he pushed off from the tree and headed in a new direction. The miller's son followed, as he took in everything he saw.

"Aego, let's get an ale. On me, seeing how's I'm rich now."

The priest wiped the sweat from his brow. His cheeks were flush. He felt a pressing need to get to the temple. He was so close to where he needed to go, and he feared if dallied at all, he would lose time, and more time would only make his wife more upset. Before he looked at the miller's son, he was ready to tell him they needed to just get to the temple.

"Come on now, you look like a ghost that saw his father's pee pee for the first time, all pale and flush. You need an ale."

The priest heard this absurd description and a strange kind of panicked anger rose up in him. He felt his chest tighten. Then he felt a flushing sense rush up his chest, to his head, and his thoughts swam. The world swayed underneath him. The next moment, he saw the miller's son look over at him. He was waving a leaf like a fan.

"There ya are, aego. Where were you? The gods called you back for a conference. Here, sip this." He handed the priest a mug.

The priest was laying on his back. Above, the boughs of a tree waved in the breeze. He heard the sounds of the city. He saw people, passing by, lean over and look at him lying on the ground with expressions not of concern but of derision, mockery and dismissal.

"What am I doing here?" The priest managed to ask.\

"Well, you passed out, aego. I caught you, barely. Ulso you're a heavy fuck. I almost fell over. People laughed at us." The miller's son was smiling. "I mean they laughed. Said things in languages I didn't know, but I bet they were either funny or disgusted. I dragged you here, left you while I got an ale from over there," he pointed off across the road. "I've been dying to drink it myself, but I wanted you to get your fill before I take a sip."

The priest sat up. Received the mug. Looked across to the stand where the miller's son bought the ale. A dwelvling stood on a raised section and pulled pints from a barrel, and handed them out to his customers with a loud bravado. He might have come up to the chest of the the priest, if they stood side by side, but he was half again as wide. Stout with short legs, a thick, broad chest, and arms that were like trunks cut short. He had a beard parted and braided in two strands. The miller's son stared at him. "Never seen one of them with my own eyes. Maybe that's why that keep looks so stupid. Those fuckers ain't that tall. Would have needed a lot of ladders. And yeah, I'd question whether it was worth it myself."

For a time, they drank in silence, taking turns to sip from the mug. The ale was warm, smelled tart. It tasted different than either of them expected, and was much stronger than what they had in Nemheim.

The priests head still swam and left him feeling resistant to movement. He sat against the tree, in the shade, and felt no urgent need to press on. The miller's son, who sat next to him, knees pulled up to his chest, his chin resting there, watched the passerby's with intense interest. And the priest felt conflicted. He both knew and didn't know this boy.

"Something's been on my mind since we left," began the priest.

The miller's son gave a glance to indicate he was listening, then he returned to watching people.

"That time you got into it with the blacksmith's son."

"Just a scrap," interjected the miller's son.

The priest regarded him. "It didn't look like any scrap I've seen."

"And I'm sure you've seen many a scrap," the miller's son's tone was ripe with mockery.

"You were laughing." The priest said it patiently.

"Was I?" The miller's son laughed. "What's on your mind, aego?"

"What was that about?"

The miller's son exhaled slowly, squinted and looked off. When he turned to the priest he said, "Why do you think they sent me to go with you?"

"I don't follow. Has that something to do with your scrap?"

"Everything, once you know."

"Now who's sounding mysterious?" The priest said it with such mirth that it seemed he had been waiting to turn that comment back on the miller's son all afternoon.

"I said you sound odd, not mysterious. Don't try to embrace that label and make it your own." The miller's son smiled fondly at the priest. "They sent me cause I won't be missed. And they think no one is gonna bother a priest."

"I'm not sure I follow what that has to do with the black smith's son."

"He came at me. Not the first time, either. He would get me when no one was about. I'd run but he was faster. Always caught me. And I begged, aego. I begged him not to beat me. I was scared of him. But that time, the time you saw me, I got him good. On accident, though. He slipped, fell into my punch. Caught him clean on the chin. It made a popping sound. Damndest thing I seen. His eyes rolled back all at once. He stumbled back. His arms pointed up, off at the sky. And I reacted, instinct, I had my time. I jumped on him. And he had already got me good. My mouth was all busted up. I was bleeding so bad. I had bit my tongue almost clear off. Mouth was filled with blood. Tests like metal. Nasty stuff. And when he fell back, I jumped on him and it was just funny is all. People seem to think I like to scrap. Truth is, if I were honest, I'm too scared to scrap. And I think everyone knows it, so they all want to scrap with me. Best I can do is pretend I like it, invite them to scrap. Cause when you act like you like it, people think you do and that scares some of them off. And so when I get into fights, it's with the ones that aren't scared off. Like the blacksmith's son. Nothing I want, aego." The miller's son took the ale and sipped it, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and stared out across the street.

The priest studied him. He didn't know what to make of him. "And you laughed?"

"I did?"

"Like a fiend."

The miller's son screwed up his face as he searched his memory. "Oh, that's right," he laughed then. "The whole thing was just crazy, Aego. You know how many times that boy knocked my teeth in? Look here," he lifted his lip and revealed a gap between two teeth. "He knocked that one out before I could grow a beard. Did it with a stick. Big ole knobby thing. Knocked me clear out. I don't remember much other than being in a clearing under that big ole redwood atop the falls and seeing him coming at me. They told me I put up a good fight, but then he grabbed a stick. When I came to, it was dark out. Stick was lying across my chest. The tooth stuck on it like a trophy. Mosquitos bit me up something fierce. My face was so swole. Dried blood. And you ever feel what it's like when your tooth is out and you fall asleep with the wound? You wake up stiff and your tongue feels like," he held up his hands in front of him and made the shape of a potato. "Just big. And so sore. So, imagine after that, you get the same fella with a lucky shot. He's already licked you good. My tongue must have been nearly cut in two. That kind of pain, Aego, I'm sure you've seen it, but have you felt it? It does something to you. And you see that guy on the ground. Same guy that done you before. But this time the gods let you have him. And for what? Won't be the last time. It's ridiculous. And in the moment, I guess I just found the gods ridiculous and I was brave enough to laugh at them."

The priest considered it, skeptically.

"What?" asked the miller's son. The priest shrugged. "Nah, aego. You got a look. There's stuff in that head moving around so fast it's twisted up your face, squeezing that skin between your brows."

The priest took a long inhale, he had a studied look, then with a resigned attitude said, "Sometimes, after things happen, people look back on what happened and they fashion a story, an explanation. It's not the story of what really happened, but the story they're telling themselves later on. Sometimes to make them feel better. Sometimes cause it's just an explanation that they think others will accept."

"You think I made all that stuff up." The miller's son waited for a response but the priest said nothing more. After a moment the miller's son said, "Maybe I am. I mean all those things happened. But, I mean, I honestly, honestly aego, I don't remember laughing at him. But if I did, well then. That's as good as a reason why as any. Ain't it?"