Something Extra - Hungry Heart - Ch. 22 (Patreon)

Chapter One  / Chapter Two  / Chapter Three  / Chapter Four  / Chapter Five  / Chapter Six / Chapter Seven / Chapter Eight / Chapter Nine / Chapter Ten  / Chapter Eleven / Chapter Twelve / Chapter Thirteen / Chapter Fourteen / Chapter Fifteen / Chapter Sixteen / Chapter Seventeen / Chapter Eighteen / Chapter Nineteen / Chapter Twenty / Chapter Twenty-One 

Chapter Twenty-Two – The Story of a Name

Duril stopped for a moment and stole a glance at Elidias. The librarian crossed his arms and offered him an encouraging smile. “Go on. I’d say it’s quite an interesting tale.”

A tale? Hadn’t they traveled here to find the truth? For the moment, Duril decided not to question the strange librarian. After all, if he was spirit kin to Agatha, as far as their knowledge of the world was concerned, other people would do well to listen and learn from them.

“The path of destiny will open with the sound of the flapping of birds’ wings,” Duril continued. “That was --” he started and looked again at Elidias.

“The roc attack.”

Duril just nodded. “A senseless creature will stop them in mid-flight.” He stopped again. “A senseless creature?”

“Myths are not always accurate,” Elidias replied with a small shrug. “Go on,” he urged Duril again.

“A message sent to heaven, and yet not enough. The dirt rises, the light dims. And in the order of all things, the tiger walks to make them whole.” Duril rubbed his forehead. He stared at the intricate illustration of a tiger walking through a field of ashes. That could be Toru, but he wasn’t convinced. He turned the page. “It is a battle for the light, so the tiger sheds his own skin.” After a small pause, he asked, “Because Toru is a shapeshifter?”

“All things are connected, but they cannot be whole if the link is broken,” Elidias explained. “Read further.”

“The tiger walked and walked…” Duril was a bit confused. Sometimes, the text talked of things in the future, then in the present, and then in the past. He cleared his throat. “He walked, chasing the light to bring it back. But in exchange, he had to give up on his dearest.” What could that mean? What would Toru have to offer this quest to avail it? “Little by little, the light rose from his coat, and so, in the end, he turned to snow.”

Elidias was examining him with keen eyes.

Duril hesitated for a moment. “This myth is not about Toru.”

The librarian cocked his head to one side. “You’re either right or wrong. What do you choose to be?”

Duril threw the text in front of his eyes a dubious look. “But it could be about Toru just as fine.”

Elidias nodded. “See the text through to the end.”

“Earth is a circle, life is a vine, to make it all whole, one must combine,” he recited. He was starting to have the feeling that someone as strange as Agatha or Elidias must have written that. “The stripes from his back, they talk of a crossing, but the sign on his forehead, it foretells a king.” Duril turned the page, but he was met with nothing but empty space, devoid of even one drop of ink. “Is that all?”

Elidias smiled broadly. “What good would a tale serve if you knew its end beforehand?”

Duril deflated and closed the book. The text he had just read only provoked more questions.

“I can tell you’re disappointed. A cup of tea will work wonders for your mood.”

Duril thanked him politely, while his mind began to turn what he had just learned about in his mind so he could consider it from all sides. “Is there any truth to this tale?” he asked out loud.

“The flapping of birds’ wings,” Elidias pointed out promptly.

Duril frowned as he continued to think. “There was a tiger before Toru. Another tiger,” he said. “The one that the text talks about as if things happened to him in the past.”

“Ah, semantics, my dear healer,” Elidias warned in a playful tone. “Things didn’t happen to the tiger. He made them happen.”

Duril took the cup of tea from Elidias’s trembling hands. “Tigers are the makers of their own destiny. Is this what you’re trying to say?”

“Oh, I’m not trying anything,” Elidias said and waved somewhat flippantly. “But do ask away. I would hate that you left here without getting any answers.”

“Is this just a case of history repeating?”

Elidias took a sip from his cup and he gazed into the distance, his eyes foggy with remembrance. “That is one thing humans believe. That history repeats itself. But it is not always the same. Some things remain, but others change. A tiger saved the world once. Another would save it again.”

Duril pondered over the librarian’s words. “Is it always a tiger?”

Elidias tapped on the cover of the tome Duril had just closed. “In this myth, yes.”

“The stripes being the crossing… what does that mean?”

“Ah, yes, a very good question. And you noticed that bit about a senseless creature. You see, an animal may be considered that. But what makes a human human? Is it their shape? That they walk on two legs and can use their hands? Hmm, what do you say, my human friend?”

Duril inhaled the sweet scent wafting from his tea cup. It really did wonders for his mood. It was as if, with each sip, something heavy was lifted from his heart. “No, I suppose it’s not only such things.”

“Then what?” Elidias insisted.

Duril looked inside the cup and noticed a small leaf moving in slow circles. “It is the power of making choices.”

“Aha!” Elidias exclaimed. “I knew it wouldn’t be a waste of time opening the door to you. Now ask me something else.”

What else could he ask? If he inquired about the meaning of the text, he would get, without a doubt, a complicated answer.

“The empty pages… why?”

“History is to be written, my friend,” Elidias said and patted his hand. “I know that you’ve walked a long road, but you’ll walk much longer for the answers you seek. The path of destiny is long.”

“So, will we grow old walking it?” Duril joked and smiled.

“If you’re lucky enough,” Elidias replied with what appeared to be a joke of his own.

Duril stared into the distance. A storm front was approaching. On the vast expanse of the sea, the fishing boats looked like scattered wilted petals. “It looks like a storm is coming,” he said.

“Yes. The hope of being spared, oh, what a waste.” Elidias sighed and drank his last sip of tea. Those words seemed as if spoken to himself. “You should go find your friends, Duril.”

His heart filled suddenly with longing. “What kind of tea is this, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Elidias offered him a warm smile. “One meant to soothe the soul. I’ll prepare some dry leaves to take along with you.”

Duril stood and adjusted his bag. “I would like to come back and read some of the books here someday, if that’s not too much to ask.”

“You’re always welcome here,” Elidias said. “But you walk the path of warriors.”

Duril chuckled. “Indeed. I suppose there’s not much time to indulge in such pastimes.”

Elidias laughed. “Of course. And since you’ll be too busy writing down your adventures.”

“Writing? Who, me?”

Elidias took the tome with the empty pages and handed it to him. “This is also for you. I’m sure you’ll know what to do with it.”

Duril blinked in disbelief. “I doubt that I would be the right choice for such a task.”

“I beg to differ,” Elidias said. “Who else would be the right choice if not you? You will witness it all, you will be part of it. You are already part of it. I doubt your tiger friend would ever find the time or inclination to spend his leisure hours bent over a tome, scribbling down. As for your wolf friend, he is much more a man of action than one of many words, especially written ones. It has to be you, my orc and human friend.”

For a few moments, Duril didn’t know what to say. The lack of doubts in Elidias’s eyes was filling his heart up to the brim. “Thank you,” he murmured as he took the tome and made it disappear in his large bag.

“You’re welcome.” Elidias patted his shoulder, but then he turned and looked at the sky. “Now hurry. Your friends will need you soon.”

Duril wasted no more time. He knew it would be futile to ask the librarian about the dangers that awaited them, not because he didn’t want to share his knowledge, but most probably because he didn’t know about them all.

***

Toru and Varg pulled the cart, while the city dweller, now invigorated by not having to do that himself, chatted away.

“We get people from all places here. Shroudharbor is, indeed, blessed. All we need comes from the sea, and all we want comes from people who travel here to sell their wares.”

Toru was curious, but he promised himself to let Varg ask all the questions.

“What else but fish comes from the sea?” the wolfshifter asked.

“Treasures,” the man replied. “Unimaginable treasures.”

“Like grilled fish?” Toru asked, forgetting about his earlier secret promise.

The man laughed as if Toru was dim-witted. “Fish doesn’t turn a fishing village into a city like our own. But precious stones and pearls…”

“Pearls?” Varg asked.

“Where are you people from that you haven’t heard about the famous pearls of Shroudharbor?”

“Whitekeep,” Varg replied. “It’s a place up north.”

The man pursed his lips. “I never travel there. Too cold.”

“Where are the pearls sold?”

“Ah, that’s not a place where just anyone’s allowed. You have to be a merchant to gain entrance,” the man said with self-importance.

“Are you a merchant?” Toru asked.

The man lost some of his arrogance. “No. But I’ve heard tales. The merchants of this city erected the library, and the city hall, and everything beautiful that you can see around here.”

Toru had a mind to question the truth of that statement. All he had seen so far had been stalls selling fish and sundries. But, in all truth, they had been at the outskirts of the city and couldn’t have seen much of it.

“Good man,” Varg said, “do you happen to know of a place where we could get food and board for the night in exchange for strong arms that can help with hard work?”

“That would be The Spicy Clam. It’s an inn not far from where I live. They cater to travelers and could always use a hand in the kitchen, the stables, or even inside, tending the tables.”

“We’d work the stables,” Varg said. “None of us is handy with a tray or a ladle.”

“Then that’s where you should go,” the man confirmed.

Toru had a mind to ask about what Duril had noticed earlier, the people being sick in the street. “Where are people treated when they get sick?” he asked directly.

“Treated? That’s what Friar Ralf is concerned with,” the man replied. “Everyone goes to him whenever they have an ailment.”

“A city this large and there’s just one healer?” Toru expressed his doubts out loud.

“We don’t need more,” the man said matter-of-factly.

Toru exchanged one look with Varg. He could tell the wolfshifter was as surprised as he was.

“Then people here must be blessed with a bull’s health,” Varg said courteously before Toru had a chance to open his mouth again.

“That’s true,” the man puffed his chest. “We don’t keep the sick.”

“What do you mean?” Toru asked.

The man finally realized that his words must have sounded strange to these travelers’ ears. “We don’t get sick often. Friar Ralf takes care of everyone,” he said quickly. “We’ve arrived. Thank you, travelers. The Spicy Clam is over there.” He pointed out the way to the tavern, and then he took his cart and disappeared quickly behind a wooden fence.

“Which one is it? They don’t get sick or they get rid of the sick ones?” Toru asked.

The deep frown etched on Varg’s forehead was enough to confirm his suspicions. “That’s something that we might have to find out, sooner or later.”

***

They found the inn by the smell of roasted chili peppers over a fire that cleansed the nose and tightened the throat. It appeared that the place had earned its name, rather than the owner choosing it on a whim. Varg made a small sign for Toru to follow and let him do the talking.

A ponderous grey-haired man wearing a large apron tied over a generous belly welcomed them the moment they set foot inside. There were still a few hours until dinner, so the place was almost empty.

“How can I do for you, travelers?” the man said in a pleasant voice while wiping his hands on a clean cloth.

“We’re looking for work,” Varg replied. “Honest work that can put a roof over our heads tonight.”

The man nodded and smiled at them. “I’m Randle. I run this place, so you’ve come to the right man. Now, I see that you two are strong lads. Do you know how to tend to horses?”

“Yes.”

“Then I have some stables in much need of mucking. Let me show you there.”

Varg didn’t have to look to know that Toru was already making faces. The innkeeper pointed out to them where they would find the tools and fresh straw.

“Do a good job, lads, and I’ll throw in a bowl of soup when you’re done. As for the roof, I’m afraid that I have to accommodate a large caravan by nightfall. They sent a letter in advance. If one of you could help me in the kitchen once you’re done here, that would be great. And you’ll be able to sleep here, with the horses.”

“Another friend will join us later. He might be able to help you with the cooking,” Varg said. “And we’re used to sleeping under the naked sky. The stables will do nicely.”

The innkeeper left them to work and hurried back to the kitchen.

Toru picked up a pitchfork and threw a disgusted look around. “Are we supposed to shovel horseshit now?”

“It earns you your dinner,” Varg said and shrugged. Without another word, he chose another fork and began working. “I hope you’re not just going to stand there, letting me do all the work,” he warned Toru. The kitty looked in no mood to start getting his hands dirty.

“We should be busy saving the world,” Toru said while sounding pretty miffed.

“It doesn’t hurt to have our bellies full to do that,” Varg reminded him. “What? Did Rory’s words go to your head?”

“What words?” Toru asked.

“I heard him when we left,” Varg replied. “He’s pretty sure you’re going to become a king.”

Toru snorted. “Rory is impressed by whoever is bigger than him. And that’s easy since he’s such a small human.”

Varg laughed, and his heart filled with fondness. “Just get to work, kitty. For the ones we left behind, we need to spare no effort.”

“I’d rather fight,” Toru said petulantly, but he pushed the fork under the used bedding and lifted it.

“We don’t always do what we want, but what we must,” Varg said.

“Domesticated mutt,” Toru said with a smirk.

“What did you say?” Varg grinned. “If you want me to chew your ears so much, you can just say it.”

“Who wants that?” Toru shivered and grimaced.

Varg had an inkling about what could be the source of all those reactions from the tigershifter, and they were quite the opposite of what he was showing. “Or I could lick them,” he said in a soft voice.

Toru’s golden eyes shot to him. It was just as he thought. The kitty didn’t even need to be petted. He was reacting to mere words.

“You do this part,” Varg pointed out a section of the stable. “And I’ll do the rest. The faster you finish, the sooner you can go to get Duril from the library.”

That put an immediate spring in Toru’s moves. “You’re not coming?”

“I’ll stick around and see what the innkeeper likes to gossip about. And I know you would rather do something else than sit around and chat.”

“That’s true. Will the innkeeper let Duril stay here, too?”

“He will. I make friends easily with humans,” Varg said.

Toru snickered. “Because you’re a house pet.”

Now, that was enough. Varg took advantage of the fact that Toru was busy working hard to finish and snuck up on him. He grabbed him from the back and wrapped his arms around Toru’s chest. The tigershifter’s strong body filled his large hands and he fondled him, earning an immediate protest from the other.

“What do you think you’re doing, mutt?”

“You’re a house pet, too, kitty,” Varg whispered in his ear.

Toru was not entirely unaffected by Varg’s well-aimed fondling, and his breath was growing deeper and slower.

“One only needs to know how to pet you right,” Varg continued his teasing. “And you’ll just start to purr.”

“You mutt,” Toru protested weakly.

Varg nuzzled the tigershifter’s neck and then placed a loud kiss on it, while he released him from his hold. “Don’t mention house pets if you don’t want me to try you again.”

“I’ll mention pets as often as I want,” Toru said defiantly.

“Didn’t you want to finish so that you could get to Duril?” Varg cocked his head to the side and gave Toru a sly smile. “I could play with you all day.”

Toru grunted, put his eyes down, and started working again. Varg shook his head in mirth. It was easy to read the kitty and his wants. His heart was clean, and his face an open book.

***

“I’ll go find Duril,” Toru said as soon as he put his pitchfork down.

Varg stepped out of the stables and looked at the sky. “I think you should hurry, too. It looks like there’s a storm coming.”

Toru followed him outside. Above them, the clouds were gathering, clumps of dirty wool full of water. Quickly, he shed his shirt and gestured for Varg to pour some water on him from a nearby barrel. It had to be that the innkeeper often used such means to collect rainwater, which meant that it was either a rainy season, or storms were a common occurrence in Shroudharbor.

He washed himself fast, not wanting to go meet Duril smelling like a stable boy, even if that was what he was at the moment.

Varg handed him the shirt back and stared with strange eyes.

“What?” Toru asked.

For a moment, Varg’s nostrils flared. “It may be just my mutt instinct, but be careful, Toru. Don’t dally on your way back. Just meet Duril and come here as fast as you can.”

Toru bristled. “I may be a tiger, but I’m not afraid of water like a house cat. A bit of rain won’t scare me.”

“What about hail?”

Toru grimaced. “If that happens, we’ll just find shelter under some awning until it passes. It won’t last forever.”

“Hurry,” Varg said shortly. “I’d rather you and Duril be here and safe.”

Toru puffed out his chest. “I fought rocs and creatures of the night and whatnot.”

“Just do as I say, kitty,” Varg ordered. “You keep forgetting I’m your leader.”

“Hey, who said that?”

Varg’s large grin let him know that he was being teased again.

“Will you go pick the innkeeper’s brain already? You’re like a midwife at the market. You’re just dying for some gossip.”

“You go do yours, and I’ll do mine,” Varg said and planted one heavy hand on his shoulder.

Then, he surprised him by placing a quick kiss on his forehead. Toru didn’t say a thing, but that simple gesture was enough to warm his heart. The wind was picking up, making his open shirt billow around him. He buttoned it quickly. Like in any new place, he couldn’t just shift at will and scare the living daylights out of the city dwellers of Shroudharbor.

***

Varg entered the large hall of the inn. A couple of servers were already busy arranging the tables in expectation of the caravan that had been announced. The innkeeper noticed him after a short while. “You finished already?”

Varg nodded. “Anything else you want me to do, I’ll be happy to help.”

“Then just join me in the kitchen.” Randle gestured for him to follow. “I know you might not be able to help much, but I guess you’ve peeled potatoes before.”

“Of course.”

“And I don’t mind talking to a stranger while at it,” Randle added.

That was exactly what he had in mind, Varg thought. Randle, like any other innkeeper in the known world, had a taste for gossip. What better way to learn about the world than by talking to travelers? In that respect, innkeepers had an unnamed guild of their own. Whoever wanted to learn about distant places and events that took place anywhere that wasn’t where they lived, they only had to talk to an innkeeper.

The kitchen was a flurry of activity, but Randle found a corner for Varg where he could start working on a large pile of potatoes. Randle had another cook who was busy grabbing ingredients and throwing them into a big pot.

“Where are you lads from?” Randle asked as soon as they grabbed their knives.

“Whitekeep, up north,” Varg replied promptly.

“I’ve heard of it. Harsh weather there, isn’t it?”

“We’re used to it. But I see that there’s a storm coming. Shroudharbor must have its fair share of bad weather.”

Randle nodded thoughtfully. “From time to time. But it’s already the second time this week that the skies are rushing against us. And last week, a hailstorm blasted the early crops. We’re fortunate that the sea provides.”

“I see no shortage of food here,” Varg noticed.

“We’re always ready to receive travelers,” Randle explained. “We have our reserves.”

Randle, like Rory, kept enough food around to ensure the good reputation of his place. The smell of the fish soup was already making Varg’s mouth water. And he had gotten used to the stinging scent of chili peppers. Apparently, they were ever-present on the list of ingredients. Everything the cook made, he grabbed a few and sprinkled them into the pots.

“But these signs of corruption --” Randle started to say and then clamped his mouth shut.

Varg had been so busy observing the other people working in the kitchen that he had almost missed that. “What signs of corruption?” he asked.

Randle sighed. “Nothing. I meant nothing by it.”

Varg wasn’t willing to let that go so easily. He could tell the innkeeper wanted to share something, but he couldn’t do that with just anyone. A stranger that he would be unlikely to see again after tonight was the best choice for a confidante.

“Shroudharbor is quite an interesting name,” Varg said. “It’s the first time I’ve traveled here. How did the name come about?”

Randle let his eyes wander, in search of a memory long forgotten. “We’ve been here for hundreds of years,” he said. “The story of our name, that’s something from a long time ago.”

“And who else would know it if not an innkeeper?” Varg said courteously.

His compliment was quickly snatched up by the innkeeper. Randle smiled, pleased with himself. “That’s true. We know so many things. It is, indeed, an interesting name. Legend has it that on these shores, a giant clam was once beached, brought by cold waves. Shroudharbor was nothing but a smattering of houses. It didn’t even have a name.” The innkeeper laughed shortly like it was hard for him to believe such a tale. “The fishermen gathered around it to force it open, but they worked on it for days and nights to no avail. Then the oldest of them thought of a way to make it open. They dragged it into the cold water and waited for it to open by itself.”

“And it worked?” Varg asked as his hands moved fast, peeling potatoes and throwing them into a large pot filled with clean water.

“It did. And lo and behold, inside it there was no meat nor clam liquor, but a humongous shroud wrapped around something. Under the water, the fishermen could see the luminous round shape covered by the shroud. So they cut through it and found the most amazing pearl, so large that no man could bring it to the surface by himself. They pulled at the shroud and dragged it to the shore this way, amazed by the pearl’s beauty and perfection.”

“That’s quite the tale,” Varg admitted. “What did they do with it?”

“You see, it wasn’t easy to decide how much the pearl was worth. Besides its impressive size and weight, it was golden, unlike any other pearl seen before. And mind you, this place belonged to impoverished fishermen at the time. Many of them had never seen a pearl in their life, let alone sold one to know how to appraise it and its worth. They considered it a gift of the sea, and they created a small shrine around it, from pebbles, shells, and the abandoned houses of snails.”

“What happened afterward?” Varg inquired.

His eyes met the innkeeper’s, and he held them locked in his gaze. More often than not, members of his pack had told him that he had the power to look inside their souls and make them spill their secrets. Varg had considered it mostly a joke, as he had only used this so-called gift to make the younger wolves behave when they tried to hide something from him. But, by accident one day during one of his many talks with travelers happening through Whitekeep, he had done the same, and the man had spilled all his secrets. And after he’d talked, the traveler had said that it felt as if a burden was lifted from his heart, all of a sudden.

“Ah, you see,” Randle began, although his voice sounded a tad unsure. He kept gazing back into Varg’s eyes. “The pearl was pure. It had no blemishes, which was astounding, given its size. And the fishermen would come and wonder at its perfection, and the same legend has it that they believed that it was their own purity reflected back at them. Until one day.” Randle made a small pause. “One day, a merchant happened by. His carriage had a broken wheel, or else he would have never stopped at a fishing village. And he saw the pearl and, in his mind, he saw the vast riches that the pearl could bring.”

“Shroudharbor is known as a city of merchants,” Varg commented.

Randle nodded. “Other places have nobles, others have kings. We have our golden guild of merchants.”

“Tell me the rest of the story,” Varg encouraged him.

“Right, the story,” the innkeeper said. “He offered the fishermen an abysmal price for their treasure, but they refused. At first, their purity held. The merchant left and came back with other merchants, their carriages filled with never-before seen treasures. Again, the fishermen refused, but by now the seed of greed was planted. They began to quarrel among themselves. The wise old man who had known how to open the clam cursed them for it. He chose to sleep by the shrine where the pearl lay, deciding to protect it with his life. And, in the end, he paid that price.”

“Someone killed him?” Varg asked.

“The legend doesn’t say if it was the merchants or the other fishermen who committed the abominable crime. He was found one morning, with a knife buried in his chest. Some of his blood splashed on the pearl. The other fishermen hastily decided to sell the pearl, but the merchants now argued that it was tainted. In the end, they reached an agreement, but when they tried to move the pearl, they couldn’t. As if it had taken root into the shore, the pearl refused to move.”

“How did they move it?”

“They didn’t,” the innkeeper said mysteriously.

Varg stared for a moment. It looked like Randle was savoring his moment. It was probably not often that travelers cared for him to tell this story.

“They began chipping at it with tools and whatnot. They broke it into pieces, and it was such an arduous task that it kept their bodies and minds prisoners. Most of them moved here, to be close to the pearl, and they founded this city.”

“So they sold the pearl, piece by piece?”

Randle nodded. “Until there was nothing left. Except for the shroud that, believe it or not, didn’t wear out like any other piece of cloth would. No, the shroud remained as white as snow.”

Varg frowned for a moment. “What a legend indeed. Did they sell the shroud, too?”

“No, it’s still here,” Randle replied. “They keep it at the guild of merchants, encased in a gold frame. No one except merchants is allowed inside, but we all know it’s there. Ever since that time, the sea has been good to us, sending not only fish and clams and other wonderful seafood, but also pearls and precious stones.”

“Why did the merchants keep the shroud?” Varg asked. This time, he didn’t manage to catch the innkeeper’s eyes.

Randle looked down, at his hands. He spoke the next words quietly. “Without it, their fortune will run dry. So, they need to keep it fed.”

“Fed? What does that mean?”

Randle straightened his back. “Who knows? I’m not a merchant, nor close to one. All I know is that because of that shroud, this place continues to thrive. And we’re all part of it,” he added proudly.

Varg had other questions to ask, but the cook called Randle over to taste the fish soup, and he was left alone, among the piles of potatoes still waiting to be peeled.

His nose flared again. There was another scent in the air he couldn’t quite catch, as much as he tried to recognize it. Shroudharbor was more than about fish and mysterious treasures brought by the sea. And Varg knew that, to uncover the next part of their quest, they had to dig deep to uncover all of the secrets of this place.

TBC

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