The Arkanist

Chapter Two: Woodhearth

            “I’ll get you an Applewood and a loaf of good bread then,” said the young man over the bar. “Anira, see if we have a small room open down the hall, would you?” he asked the sleeping woman sitting beside Hale. She perked up suddenly at his words and turned off the stool, heading down the hall.           
            “How much do I owe you?” Hale asked. He didn’t want to be caught between coins, so the phrase went. It had happened to him before, to a butcher a long time ago. It was astonishing he still remembered.

            “I’ll take a royal from you,” said the innkeeper, uncorking the bottle of Applewood Ale and splashing the golden liquid into a wooden mug. “You look like you could use the money.”

            Hale placed a single silver coin on the counter and the innkeeper slipped it into his pocket as he fetched the bread. He returned about the same time as the woman, who sat back down beside Hale, saying nothing.

            Hale took a bite of the loaf as the innkeeper laid his forearms across the wood and leaned over in an exhausted sort of fashion. “Heard the talk men are spreading of late?” he asked Hale, who simply shook his head in honesty. He hadn’t heard anything in the greater part of a span.

            “Men are speaking of dark things dwelling in the deep out there,” he said. “Evil things, daemons, they say. I still keep the iron around my neck just in case, and also at my threshold.” He pointed to the door. “Dangerous times to be out on the road, my friend. You’re lucky you didn’t find any out there. By the looks of you, however, I might think you did.”

            Hale smirked. “Outlaws were all it was. Hardly daemons.”

            “Hardly daemons true,” said the innkeeper, “but wretched bastards all the same. Times being what they are, I didn’t know those kind were still out and thieving in the world. Thought maybe by now the Evernight would have killed them off.” Hale caught the innkeeper check the window. “Cold, dark, dead. The world is dying, my friend. Let us hope it dies after we pass, eh?” he grumbled a laugh and Hale released some accumulated tension. It felt good. The first time he’d felt good in a long time.

            “How’s the inn?” asked Hale, looking about, trying to make conversation. It was the first time he’d been able to sit and talk by a fire, dry and warm, for time untold.

            “Truth be told,” began the inkeep, “I don’t know what’s going to happen. We hardly get two people a day, sometimes none. Folk are scared to go out their homes, and I don’t blame them. They have a right to be scared. They have a right to fear.”

            The innkeeper put a hand through his auburn hair. “Heard two days ago, the next town over was set to ruin by the daemons. Said they burned the everything, with white flame. I still keep the iron round my neck, but I don’t think it can stop white fire from tearing this place apart.” His fingers played with iron-piece at his chest, looking at it through the dim light as it shone pale. “If not the daemons, then the Anturans. I’ve got taxes to give the bloody empire and I’ve got nothing to hand over. I barely have enough to run this place, buy food, and maintain supplies.”

            The innkeeper took a seat momentarily, looking out the window and into shadow. “Sometimes, I wonder why, you know, but I just can’t think of anything. Now, I simply ask: when?”

            Hale sipped at his mug and tore off a piece of the bread. He watched the young innkeep as he stalked the darkness, as if waiting for something, but nothing came.

            Then the innkeeper slunk away behind the bar for a time and the taproom was returned its customary silence. It wasn’t an enveloping silence, but a dead sort of silence all the same, filled with the distant, chilling winds and the creaking of the floorboards. Hale ate and drank in silence, adding his own silence, his own part to the play.

            The woman named Anira returned soon after he had finished and pushed his mug and plate away. She collected both and stowed them under the bar, cloth in hand, ready to clean. Her hands worked upon the wood with a dirtied cloth as she peered up at Hale, pale eyes greying.

            “Three doors to the left,” she said, pointing down the hall she’d just returned. “It’s yours for the night.”

            Hale thanked her and gathered his scant belongings, slipping his light coin purse back into his cloak pocket.

            As he was walking, she called back to him, quietly, but true: “Thank you, for talking to him. Thank you.” She said nothing else. Hale didn’t know what she meant, but nodded all the same, and continued down the dark hall.

***

           

The room was small. That was Hale’s first thought. It was large enough to fit a bed, filled with straw, and a feather-pillow, but little else. Beside it, a small wood table and opposite, a drawer filled with nothing. Two candles hung upon wooden posts and a single oil lantern, wan as anything, sat beside the bed. Hale walked in and shut the door. At least I’m out of the ash, he said to himself, breathing a sigh of release. My night could be worse. Much worse. It may not be much, but I’ll take it.

            With nothing else to do, he settled himself upon the bed, and laid out what little remained. He had his coin purse, drastically lighter than what he’d set out with. There was a loose amount of eclectic coins from across the realms, splayed like rune-stones across a gaming board. Then, there was his father’s book: The Arkanist. Two things. That was all he had left. His life consisted of two things: an old, near-empty coin purse, and an even older book. Not to mention his dagger, but that wasn’t his, not really, anyway.

            In the feeble light of his room, in the dead of night, Hale held the old volume in his hands and brought it close to his heart. It was the last remaining piece of his father, his life’s work. His father had wanted him to have it, and wanted him to have it badly, but why? There must have been a reason he stayed up all night translating it, editing the text. There must be…

            Hale opened the cover and the binding cracked, sending a chill down his spine.  Within, he found a blank white vellum page, stained at the edges, and worn down by time. He flipped once more and in a scrawling font the title was centered, its author forgotten.

            Then Hale turned the old calfskin and started to read.

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