44

The ten workers Pavano hired were all chuckling and talking as they consumed their portion of the heavy stew Endaha made. Their laugher and joking was exuberant, more so because it was fueled by the moonshine San had offered them. A cup full of the recently distilled liquor.

Pavano was the salesman once more, extolling the virtues of the drink as Endaha prepared the meal for all of them. It wasn’t a hard sale as the men were laborers and free booze was free booze. They happily accepted both food and drink.

Little Kovass stared at San as he held him, the child’s big eyes tracked him as he slowly rocked him back and forth. This world didn’t have the carriers that Earth did, instead they used a combination of a cradleboard where the baby was strapped down and a carrier made of cloth to hold the child as the mother moved around.

San brushed back Little Kovass’ hair and smiled down at him. The big eyes stared back as if seeing him for the first time. As babies went, Kovass was a quiet child. The memories of Julia came back to him, how she had nearly spent a week crying and both Mary and he had been exhausted utterly. They had been panicked as new parents and stressed from San’s own hours trying to start up the brewery, Mary’s difficult labor, and financial troubles.

They had been frustrated and emotionally drained before San’s mother arrived to give them a hand. The world had seemed utterly impossible at that moment and they hadn’t been able to comprehend how they could raise a child and still achieve the goals they had for their lives.

It had been a moment of weakness, they realized. A moment where all the stress, fears, and sleepless nights had cumulated in a moment of crippling self doubt. As in all things, they had learned to care for Julia. They began to understand her cries and preempt her moody behavior. They had learned to become parents and seeing their little girl laugh for the first time was a heart wrenching moment that had buried all the months of stress and exhaustion.

How Endaha did it all on her own was an amazing feat. She had just given birth and less than a week later traveled to an entirely new city to live in a manner she had never before. She not only was caring for a newborn, but had a toddler to watch over as well. Along with feeding, cleaning, and keeping the children safe.

Mary and he had barely managed with only one child, but by the time little Sanjay arrived, they were able to deal with the little boy. They also had Mary’s parents and his own parents and brothers who came to help. Endaha had no one and San felt a wave of shame for that.

He had promised to help her and the children, but his days had been spent hobnobbing with Densa and the nobility of this land. Pretending to be a Merchant because the idea of setting up another brewery was so tantalizing in his mind, even if he didn’t want to fully admit it.

Kovass yawned widely, his toothless mouth smacking as he made cooing noises and closed his eyes. The wrenching in San’s heart was intense, the flood of memories and emotion that came with that small act on the newborn’s part was nearly overwhelming. Why did Kovass look so much like Julia and Sanjay when they were newborns. Why did it hurt so damn much to look at him?

“I can take him,” Endaha said.

San glanced up at her, blinking his eyes. “No, it’s fine,” he said.

“Are you okay?” Endaha sat down on a stool across from him. Pavano had gone shopping for some simple furniture. “I heard what happened this morning.”

“I’m fine,” San said a little too quickly. He paused and thought over the question some more. “I am fine,” he said again, “it’s just memories.”

“You have children?” Endaha asked.

“I had a wife and two kids, a girl and a boy,” San said. “Mary was my wife. Julia my daughter. Sanjay my son.”

San could feel the weight of the words as he spoke them. It felt he was uttering some kind of incantation, as if the act of speaking their names warped and charged the air around him.

“What happened to them?” Endaha asked, her voice small.

“They died,” San said. He spoke bluntly and couldn’t stop himself from doing so. How many times had he been asked that question after the funeral? The question had never been malicious but he had never managed to pull back the emotions that were bound with it. The words came out without him thinking of it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound rude.”

“I understand,” Endaha said.

He knew she did understand and he regretted his tone. He looked down at Kovass and watched as his tiny chest rose and fell as he slept.

“This is a good place,” Endaha said, referring to the warehouse. San smiled, hearing the obvious lie in her tone. “We should have figured out how to deal with Panchavi ourselves.” She added.

“No,” San said. “I already told you I would do what I can for the children. I was the one who killed Panchavi’s men and I was the one who fought them. I will deal with them. I’m sorry. I should have thought before I acted at the coppersmith’s shop. I shouldn’t have attacked them and tried to have resolved it better.”

“You did what was right,” Endaha remarked. “Very few men would have done so.”

“Yeah,” San said, not fully agreeing. He brushed aside a wisp of Kovass’ hair. The newborn’s tiny fingers clenched and unclenched.

Azios came up to them, carrying a clay pot.

“It’s done, San,” he said.

San glanced at the pot, within it was the product that he had created. Purification. San eyed it as he gently rocked Kovass. It had drained him of his mana or the creation had pulled a lot of mana out of him all at once. San didn’t fully understand how mana regeneration worked, there were no numbers or statistics that displayed how much power he had. One moment he had been fine and the next he had passed out.

It had happened before, when he first made Courage. The sudden exhaustion that had dragged him down into sleep. Had he also been toying with death then too?

The laborers were leaving, their food and drink finished and the promises of more work and pay the next day would bring them back. It was Midwinter’s Reprieve the following day and from what San heard it was supposed to be a time of celebration and festivities. A sort of Christmas and New Year’s celebration all rolled into one. The Reprieve was the winter solstice, the longest night in the Imperial calendar, but also the mark of the end of the year.

San didn’t even know what Imperial year it was or the name of the month.

“I’ll take him now,” Endaha said, leaning forward. San held the baby for a moment longer, the weight in his arms and the warmth caused far too much memories to swim back up into his mind. He wanted to keep holding him, but he gave Kovass back to his mother. Endaha watched him, possibly seeing the emotions playing across his face.

“You’ll be seeing the Baron, then?” Pavano asked as he walked to them. His eyes were a bit glassy from testing the first batch of moonshine San had made.

“Yeah,” San said.

“He is not a good man,” Endaha replied. “Many spoke of him during the fights after the Mage Chief died. He liked to torture people.”

Azios set the clay pot down before San. It was about two gallons of Purification, with the remainder in the glass bottle that San had continued to carry from his own world. The taste was like grain alcohol, harsh and powerful, but also with a faint hint of something sweet and cool, like mint. The math didn’t balance, from what he could understand.

Purification was a high percentage liquor. Yet the yeast San had pitched and the guesstimated sugar content of the imbar shouldn’t have made the type of liquor that was produced even possible. The only reasoning he could think of was mana; that using Power to infuse the drink had made it stronger.

He had everyone take a drink, wondering if the Cleansing Fire and the nature of the drink would repel anything that was afflicting them. Pavano had remarked that he didn’t feel any different. San didn’t know what the drink did or even if it was a drink at all. He stared down at the clay pot and then rose to his feet.

“I’ll go with you,” Elgava said. She was wobblier than usual. The news had come in about her brother and thankfully he was still alive in Sentari. Wounded, but alive. “In case those Panchavi fucks come around.”

“I’ll be here,” Pavano said, sitting down heavily. “Guarding our wares.” He fumbled with his cup, sloshing some of the contents onto the floor.

“We’ll be back soon,” San said. He set his hand on Azios’ shoulder. “Keep them safe.”

The young man nodded, glancing toward the loaded crossbows and pistols. San checked his own weapons, his sword, dagger, and knife. There was also the revolver that he continued to carry on his person all the time now. The near attack by Panchavi’s men had only reinforced the threats the city offered.

Elgava and he headed down the emptying streets. Night was falling and soon the streets would be deserted as the less wealthy headed off to light evening meals and sleep. As candles and lanterns were an expensive luxury, only the rich seemed to have any kind of nightlife. There were bars and taverns that were open, with light slipping out their doorways, but that seemed to be the only sort of entertainment the city offered.

The nightlife of White Tower consisted of either drinking heavily or sleeping. He had heard there were teahouses that were opened in the evenings, but had yet to see any of them. They were this world’s version of coffeehouses in the history of his world. Trade, deals, and debates were held in those places, among the wealthy and learned people of the city.

San would have sought out such places, but his own borrowed robes were becoming tattered and filthy from being worn daily. Pavano had claimed he had a new robe tailored for him, but it would be done before Midwinter’s Reprieve. The cost of fabric, especially decent fabric was astronomical as everything was done by hand. San didn’t want to know how much a new set of robes cost. He could already feel the sars he had left bleeding away.

Elgava and San walked through the streets without speaking, they approached the Trade Road that wound through the Market Square and Street, noticing as people continued to mill around the square as it was the only brightly lit spot at night.

“More Cults came,” Elgava said. “Kazo and Hetvana arrived. It’s weird seeing them together, but it seemed their wagons had been slowed due to snows to the south.”

“So the cults that matter are all here?” San asked.

“Yeah, I’m gonna have to go to the Corvanus temple tomorrow and be initiated. I hear they get you truly and utterly drunk and have a fight going on with all the Adventurers that have come to the temple.”

“Sounds like a good time,” San replied.

“Aye.”

San thought back on the woman who had rescued him. Livonna, the Corvanus priestess.

“They allow people to watch?” San asked.

“The fights?”

“The initiation,” San said.

Elgava shrugged. “Dunno. Never ever thought I’d become a Corvanus follower. Every kid dreams of becoming an Adventurer, but once you realize the value of your own life, its a shitty job with a high degree of dying. It’s why you rarely see many Adventurers wandering the land, they all die too damn quick.”

San had to nod at the comment. He had played Adventurer and he had courted death far too many times. It was a wonder that he was still alive. Or a god was watching out for him. The words of Lakovi, Corvanus’ Hero, echoed in his mind. He had been claimed and he would have to find out on his own who was holding his leash.

How would the priests of Corvanus if he told he had talked to one of their Heroes? He would be laughed at and if the Cultists were as tough as San believed they were, possibly beaten up as well.

They pushed through the crowds and reached the gates of the keep as the night deepened and more lamps and lanterns were lit in the richer part of town. The Guards manning the gates knew who San was now and they sent a message to Havatair or Densa that he was there.

Densa was the one who arrived, moving with grace and fluidity as she came up to the gates.

“Lady Densa,” San said. “I’ve brought something that may help the Baron with his injuries. I think it might be able to destroy or clean the necrotic tissue in his leg.”

Densa beckoned him forward and then pulled him into an alcove, Elgava took a position to prevent anyone form stumbling across them, giving San a wink.

“The Baron’s dead,” Densa replied.

San sighed, leaning against the wall.

“It was not due to the surgery. The wounds were cleaned and it looked well. He was murdered.”

The words hung in the air as San sighed once more. What would it mean now that the Baron was dead? Donsval and Havatair were still a part of the governing body of the Barony, but with the Heir now in charge. San felt terrible that his first thought was how the death would effect him.

“It hasn’t been announced yet, not this close to Midwinter’s Reprieve, it’ll be seen as a bad omen,” Densa explained.

“Is there a murderer loose?” San asked. “Are you safe?”

“I believe the Baron was the target, possibly one of the nobles. I do not think there is any danger to anyone else, only to the Heir and Young Baron.”

“They are safe, then?”

“As safe as they can be. They both have levels and they have bodyguards securing them. Havatair is a mess.”

“I suppose, I should give you this then,” San said, lifting the clay pot.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Purification,” San replied. “It’s what sapped all my mana this morning.”

Bringing up the topic of their morning conversation caused Densa to blush and look away. It was an expression that San didn’t think he would ever see on the composed woman. Her cheeks redden and she stuttered for a moment.

“I ask for forgiveness for this morning,” she said.

“There’s nothing to forgive, Lady Densa.”

Densa winced at the title. “There is much to ask forgiveness about, San,” she said. “I was… I had a vivid dream last night, after I parted ways with you. I dreamt that one of Senta’s Heroes had come to me, Magalina Satorio, and she bade me to obtain the ebony gem from you.” Densa wrung her hands in a bout of nervousness. “I don’t know if it was real, not until I saw those gems you carried upon you. I tried to take the ebony gem, but I could not. Something prevented me. Then I knew it was real.” She looked at San with an expression he couldn’t fully understand. It was somewhere between extreme joy and intense heartache, her eyes glittered in the lantern light.

“Who are you Sanjay?” she asked. The words weren’t sharp or demanding, but San felt the undertone of what felt like desperation within it. She needed to know, wanted, and sought to know who he was.

“I’m a brewer,” San replied. For all the times he said it, for all the times he used it as a shield against more probing, this time, in this moment, it felt completely and honestly true. “I am a [Brewer].” He could almost feel the weight of the words, as if they were chiseled into the air itself.

“The fermentation of grapes into wine is overseen by those devoted to Senta,” Densa said. She stepped forward, setting her hands on San’s chest. He did not move, rooted into the spot by her touch. She leaned her head against his chest, strands of her hair brushing against his beard. “The Holy Mother of the First Emperor was raised by Senta herself. She drank the first wine to come into this world, suckled on the breast of the goddess herself and bore the child that would become the First Emperor.”

San thought back on Lakovi’s words. She had been born in the city of Votaro, or the village of Votaro, before the founding of the Empire. If there really were gods in this land, then was Senta’s and the Empire’s stories anywhere near the truth?

“You brew what can only be seen as potions, using the same methods that vitners were taught by Senta herself. Courage in Faith, Purification of the ills that plague the world, and Resolve to help mankind. Those are the traits that Senta desires in all and I have seen you make two of them. I have seen what you are capable of.” Her head and hands warmed San in the cold night. He ached to wrap his own arms around her and pull her close. He desperately wanted to. “I knew you were special from the moment I saw you that night. I knew Senta had guided me to you.”

San braced himself, trying to stop his knees from going weak. Not from some swooning of romanticism, but from fear. He wanted to run, to flee, to drop the clay pot and rush to the gates.

“Stop,” San said softly. He heard Densa’s intake of breath and a slight tremor. “Please, stop.”

Densa pulled back from him. Her posture was straight and her eyes were clear, a mask settling upon her once more. San took a steadying breath, feeling the terror run down his arms and legs. He could still smell her and the warmth on his chest hadn’t dissipated just yet.

“I am sorry,” she said. “Please forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” San said. “I should apologize… I …” he could not form the words. “I…”

“I can see the grief you carry, Sanjay,” Densa whispered. “I know what it is. I have seen it plenty of times and I know the feeling of it.”

“You do?” San asked.

“I am a poor healer, Sanjay.” Densa looked down at her hands. “What healer allows the ones she loves the most to die? What kind of healer cannot save those that mean the most to her?”

San didn’t know what to say. Instead they stood there, in silence and in the cold that began to burrow into their bodies. Densa shivered and San did too.

“Fuck, it’s cold,” Elgava muttered, her voice carrying.

Her words caused Densa to smile. San returned it and the tension in the air seemed to snap.

“We are not needed here,” Densa said. “The Baron is beyond our help and we cannot help in finding who has betrayed the Barony.”

“I’ll guide you back to your temple.” San hefted the clay pot. “This can still be put to good use,” he said.

“Purification,” Densa said slowly. “Many a high priestess would wish for such a thing.”

“Then I give it to you. Freely,” San said.

“I cannot accept.”

“For those you care for without payment or demands. The poor, the sick, the unwanted. I offer this to you freely.”

“For them I shall accept,” she replied.

“We going?” Elgava demanded, stamping her feet.

“Yeah.”

Silence reigned as they exited the Keep. The Guards looked at them suspiciously, but didn’t say anything. San glanced back at the Keep, noting the somberness of it all. The night previous had been filled with revelry and drunken nobility, but now it was silent. He should have noticed the difference when he arrived.

The milling crowds near the Market Square were oddly silent as they neared it. This close to Midwinter the Market was doing brisk business in food, drink, and other trinkets that were common to give out. From what San understood, the long night of Midwinter meant that candles, fires, and torches were burned from the setting sun to the rising sun. To push back the night with different cults having different kinds of rituals they enacted during the night.

San felt the sickening flop of his stomach as they neared the crowd. He clutched Densa’s hand and she looked at him with shock.

“Something’s wrong,” San replied.

Densa turned to look where the crowds were facing, above the press of bodies San could make out the licking tops of a massive bonfire. It did not spread warmth or comfort, but the same wave of grief and misery soaked through him as it had the night before.

The Hesna cult were burning their strange fire once more, luring people in for purposes that they only knew. San caught sight of the man from the night before, he stood on his podium with the others of the Cult, hands raised to the air. In one hand he held something fleshy and dripping.

The crowd wailed and moaned, swaying as if they were glued to the spot. The fire roared higher and the red garbs of cultist seemed to deepen and swirl. Thier chanting began, slow but growing louder as every second passed.

The crowd swayed enough that San saw a figure upon the podium. A woman, dressed in a tattered tunic and rough spun cloak. She had a stunted arm, a hunched back, and lay upon the podium, her chest opened and her blood pooling about her dying body.

Gorge rose in San’s throat. He wanted to gag and run away. Yet the woman’s eyes seemed to lock on his, she wasn’t one of the citizens of White Tower, she was one that they had called Filth. The ones who had been supposedly cursed by Kazo for their deeds in previous lives.

This was wrong. It was very wrong. Everything within San screamed that this was wrong. Blood, sacrifice, a horrible flame. The memories of what the white furred creatures had done tore through his mind. The shock and horror of the imagery briefly cleared his head. He staggered forward, pushing into a young man who was staring straight ahead.

San looked into the man’s face and nearly recoiled. The young man’s face was pale and tight across his skull, as if the blood were drained and all fat and muscle were being sucked from under his skin. San turned to face another, an old woman, who was the same. Her skin pale and pulled tightly over her skin, showing every curve of bone underneath.

“Stop,” San hissed to. “This is wrong.”

He turned to Elgava and Densa, they too were staring straight ahead, tears running down their faces and beginning to pale. San saw that more people were being lured in, their eyes transfixed and grief etched in their faces.

San barreled forward, slamming bodily into other men and women, knocking them aside. He left a trail of sobbing men and women behind him, their grief stricken cries were like nails of a chalkboard. The flame grew higher before him, the eyes of the cultists snapped to him. One, a woman, lean and tall threw herself off the podium, a ceremonial dagger in her hand.

She was no warrior and she was not Leveled. San dodged the weak attack and kicked her aside. She let out an explosion of breath and tumbled into the crowds.

“Kill him!” the red garbed high priests ordered. There was no fear or anger in his voice, instead his eyes seemed to be black voids of madness. He stared at San and San could feel the pull of those eyes, trying to suck him in and trip apart everything that he was.

San tore his gaze away to find a man rushing at him, San barely managed to step away from the wildly swinging fist. He shoved the unbalanced man and he too crashed into the crowds. The cries of grief and fear erupted from those that had been knocked down. The spell had been broken, the fire had released its hold on them, and they wailed as all their grief and pain flooded back into them.

San’s grip on the woven rope handle of the clay pot tightened. He swung it and threw the pot to the flame, in a flash the pot crossed the distance. He saw the head priest’s head snap to the side, void eyes following the trajectory of the pot.

“No!” he cried.

The clay pot shattered at the base of the flame, strike hard against the stone and shattering. A ball of flame erupted from the high percentage alcohol, the black flame was overshadowed by a bright blue light as the alcohol burned.

San could feel something happening, the very air seemed to change. He could breath normally and his head was suddenly cleared as if a window had been wiped clean of accumulated grime.

The blue fire roared, but San could see it dying. He could see the black flame still burning at the bottom, slowly regaining its strength.

San rushed forward, the hot flames nearly scorching his robes.

“Cleansing Flame!” he shouted.

It was as if his entire body clenched at the words, all his muscles screamed and his breath exploded out of his body. San dropped to the floor and gagged, blood splattering on the ground before him.

He could feel the heat of the cleansing flame and the screeching of the entire crowd. Pain, grief, misery, the wail filled the night as San fell to the ground. He saw the dark void eyes of the high priest as he calmly stepped off the podium and walked away.