Chapter Six: First Impressions

The Journal of Percy Lee

31, Larksveil, 920 After the Sundering

It is like the heavens knew what we were up to. We fled Saudade three days ago, stumbling our way along Pilgrims Road as the rain pissed on us nonstop. I am damp…. everywhere. I shiver to think what is between my toes.

So damp.

Is it pretty beyond the edge of the road? I would not know. I cannot see past the fog and rain. If I try too hard, the sideways droplets strike me like needles. It ceases when we slumber. I dry off. But I swear, I crack an eye and the heavens open.

So far there have been few trees. I was told of a great forest. The infamous Wilds that Clemence warned us of and yet the side of the road is barren and the scenery dead.

The lands beyond Saudade were supposed to be grand. Blissful. Isn’t that why all the rich abandon the Capital for Silverwake?For fish that leap into your net and birds that fly into your palm as they sing? That must be where all the foliage has gone.

Clem—I called her that once, she hated it, thus I will do it forever—appears at ease. Her magicked cloak keeps her infuriatingly dry.

At least the gnome and the bald one suffer as I do. Thank the Seven.

We do have mounts. Not much of a matching set: two old ponies, a mule, and a horse with a bite missing from one ear. Clemence procured them the night before we vanished.

Guess who got the donkey? Clem did the assigning. I bet she figured I could not get an ass to bolt.

I did try but the donkey bonded to Bristle’s pony and refused to flee. How do you improve relations with an animal more stubborn than yourself?

The short, hairy one should get the kindest pony. He’s a gods awful rider. It's like his entire body seizes the second his ass hits the saddle. He turned purple thrice on the first day. He is barely breathing even now a few days on and lets out a strangled gasp every time he dismounts.

Did I mention Clem is hot? She’s held her blade to my throat more than once, a sad attempt to control me, but it only furthers my interest. By all means, keep pressing me against trees and boulders. She is welcome to put me between her and a hard place.

 That is delusional. I am delusional.

I am only here because I was at The Gauntlet when her beloved vanished and Clemence thinks I know something.

 Honor. Duty. UGH.

It is bullshit but it might be why she did not kill me in that alley or, worse, turn me over to the King’s Guard.

I’ll get away when I can. Back to her.

Josephine. Every night I relive that kiss. On a bar floor coated with dried ale and divots digging into my knees, and yet, no moment has ever been sweeter. I scribble sketches of her every night. To keep her in my head.

My memory feels soft, like over-ripened fruit. The details from the last few weeks are fuzzy. I fear the only reason I remember the kiss is that I replay it constantly.

I should not write this here.

I may have had something to do with the explosion. Not that I did it. The guards are wrong. I’m just an easy target. Not a guilty one.

But I do remember visiting the blacksmith. For what, I cannot remember, but I do recall the brush of his calloused palm against my hand as he handed me something.

And he’s Saudade’s primary explosives supplier.

I do not think I would do it.

 But maybe I did?

BUT I WOULD NEVER. RIGHT?

That is not the only mystery. I’ve got something else hiding in the recesses of my skull, just out of comprehension.

I think I know what happened at The Gauntlet. 

The Journal of Clemence Marceau

33, Larksveil, 920 After the Sundering

Eye of the raven, soft hair in the dark

Moon glowing over milky skin,

Caw Caw Caw

Circling Wrens hear your voice

Caw Caw Caw Caw

I cannot write with the thief a horselength away. They talk NONSTOP. If they are not speaking, they are groaning. Into the rain. Or humming.

I banned my men from humming. The sound makes me twitch. Thus, I twitch.

They act as if I control the weather when they should have a better cloak.

Why did I force them to come? I keep waiting for the truth to slip. A drop of knowledge that directs my compass toward Beatrice.

No matter Roger’s orders, I am not here because of Theodora. Even if I knew her before she was spymaster, me Warden of The Wilds, and Roger, King.

 I have not seen Roger in years, and yet, he sends orders through a gnome?

I almost wrote to him. But I let Bristlebeard do it. His eyes gleamed and his beard twitched against his dark skin as his hand raced across the parchment. I can imagine what he said to the king, with whom he seems fairly close.

Roger and I were like that once. But no one must know.

I have kept something else from the others.

What the king demands does not bring us to the border but beyond it. Likely into the heart of the Northern Kingdom. A place no Elyndorian has ventured in three spans. The last expedition failed when I was a small child. My only hope is that we complete the mission swiftly and exit before Dorian is made aware.

 The others would flee if they knew. The four of us, a donkey, two ponies, and a horse armed only with a broadsword and the handful of blades I took off of Percy.

I have worried the inked wren at my wrist raw with my thumb, passing over it again and again as I reach for images of her. Bea. My Beatrice.

 The dreams stopped the day The Heartkeep fell. Now my dreams are plagued by Dorian. The rat that no trap can catch. When he spoke in the apothecary, his voice penetrated more than that room. He is now in my mind. I do not know if it is this way for the others. I am afraid to ask.

Bristle remains angry and will likely run. I doubt he has realized the letter from the King was magicked with a commitment spell. It will be impossible for him to leave before the mission is complete.

Stranger is the hardest to read and yet…I know his face, but I do not recall from where.

The Journal of Stranger

2, Greenglen, 920 After the Sundering

You cannot escape him in your dreams. Who he is, you do not remember, but part of you keeps whispering, “The truth is right in front of you.”

What is right in front of you is an ass. Ridden by a thief you have never met. Their eyes flicker to you when they think you are not looking, as if you have done something to call for such scrutiny.

I have done nothing wrong.

Your heart knows better. You do not know if you have done something wrong. That is different.

You awoke and found yourself strapped to a pony, wet from the swirling clouds above. 

Your mind is akin to a flower pot. Each time something is poured in it drains out. Flashes of the past invade throughout the day. You feel the rough earthen road of Saudade beneath your feet and yet, the next moment, you feel cobblestone.

Clemence is wary. As is the short one who found you. Your arm is sore from what feels like the slice of a knife. But you do not recall a fight. Did you fall?

No one speaks to you. Or, if they do, you do not hear them. Or remember what they say.

Milky white eyes find you in your dreams.

You read the prophecy.

Eye of the raven, soft hair in the dark

Moon glowing over milky skin,

Caw Caw Caw

Circling Wrens hear your voice

Caw Caw Caw Caw

From where, you do not recall. It is rather poorly written for scripture.

Clem is watching you. A fleeting thought passes.

Have we met?

You retain the question because it is written here. You now remember.

The Journal of Bristlebeard Crookshank

7, Greenglen, 920 After the Sundering

Who the fuck is Dorian Voss and why does he know my father? No, not know. He called him a friend. I have tried to remember any inkling, but I have sabotaged myself with my desire for closure.

What gnome in their right mind seeks closure from their father?

That is the only reason I agreed to join this ragtag bunch. That, and, my king commanded me. Roger is…I do not know what he is anymore. He is not the man I knew when we were children. I thought it was the illness, a change in him these past few months, and yet, here I am on a quest with a warden I have never met but he surely has, a thief who looks more miserable than I, and Stranger.

I wish I had left him at The Heartkeep.

He mutters to himself, day and night.

Something about wren’s circling and glowing hair. Clemence pales but says nothing. I wonder what else is kept from me.

My only solace is the map I sketch by the glowing embers when the others sleep. I will find my memories and escape. Roger was mistaken when he sent me after a spy.

What use is a healer on a mission such as this? Ridiculous.

Ugh. I just got another insect bite.