Beckoning of the Gate

Friendship and Gossip

{2}

Friendship and GossipDoubt and contempt pierced Santha’s mood like a nail in her own coffin. Doubt for herself and whether she would ever find a way out of this mess. Contempt for Percival and the dreadful tales that had sprung up since his death two months ago.

Mister Percival McKascey. The name still sickened her, and she wondered, not for the first time, how many others there had been. How many young and impressionable women he had preyed on, how many he had violated in a drunken stupor, leaving them battered and bruised in his barn. To hope there had been others, others he had hurt and defiled, perhaps even his own daughter, made her feel wretched indeed, but not as much as the thought that she had been special. That Santha had brought this on herself; gained the attention of one of the most respected farmers in the Silver Valley, and brought him lower than a base animal.

Santha licked her lips, recalling the last time she had seen the man … almost precisely two months prior. She should never have confronted him—not in his own home, and not in the manner she had—with no regard for her future. Her tendency to act before she spoke, and to speak before she thought, had gotten her into trouble before, although there had been no ‘before’ like this, not ever in her life. Overwhelmed, without the clarity that perspective can bring, and with no one to turn to, she had reacted thoughtlessly and the repercussions were harrowing. Of course, the town wouldn’t believe the word of a girl over a man almost thrice her age, with a wife, a family, and a respectable estate. The words she’d spat at him that afternoon were nothing but bitter ashes in her mouth now. Gossip was rife. Even from the grave, Percival McKascey was still tormenting her. And maybe she deserved it.

A wind rose, though she barely felt it touch her skin. She wished to be away from this perplexing heat so late in alban-heruin—the wet season. Where crops were supposed to be thriving, they withered and died under the sun, irrespective of the deluge they’d received this year. The perversity had farmers whispering: their luck must be tied to the fae unrest in the north. Coincidence? Santha thought so. But the Silver Valley was a small town of farmers in the highlands of southern Seratora; superstition and old wives’ tales were their daily meal. Half the folk wore their clothes inside-out, and the other half were too scared to venture into the forest lest they be attacked by an eldritch beastie. The town was so isolated and starved for news, it was ready to believe anything from the lowlands, no matter how farfetched.

Here in the Valley, perched on great Tora’s back, mountains hailed the sky and lavish forests grew wild. It was a magickal place, she had to agree, though only so far as its beauty and mystery—confound the fantastical stories. She’d spun similar tales (albeit less fanciful) to her mother and father to get out of trouble or to while away the boredom on cold and dark evenings. That did not make them true.

Making her way through the town centre, Santha wiped the sweat from her brow and readjusted her bonnet. The hustle and bustle of the markets was continuing to wind down. Even so, the town square had an open stall or two selling last year’s harvest to travellers and foreign merchants. Visitors paid well in commodities the Valley lacked, primarily coin and news from across the four kingdoms.

Alban-heruin was a harsh season, even in the mountains, and she was glad that they didn’t live farther south. Or—spying one of the dusky-skinned foreigners—worse: Vaera, a land the visiting merchants described as beautiful, but so humid one could drown in the very air within its jungles.

As she approached the stalls, one of the vendors called out to her. ‘Ah, Miss Lathagin. I’ve a barn that needs mucking out. And me wife’s deathly ill. Could you spare some time to check in on her?’ He grabbed his belt buckle crudely. ‘No coin to spare, I’m afraid, but I’m certain we can come to another arrangement.’

Some laughed, most kept silent, sending sympathetic or scornful looks her way before scurrying out of the heat. Santha ignored them all as best she could, though it still made her quiver inside. She wasn’t quite sure if it was anger or distress. She gripped her basket so tightly, her knuckles turned white—anger, then—and hurried on her way.

As she passed Ulric’s inn, she noted a group of capital city fops chattering by their horses and wagons. She’d heard a new group of fools was coming to try their luck mining silver from Serrin’s least forgiving mountain. They looked the part—another expedition by a well-to-do academic or lordling. Would they never learn? One might think so, considering the lives Mount Tora had claimed over the decades. But every year they came. The promise of riches and precious metals was too great.

The chief fool—louder and more richly dressed than the others, with a flat cap he apparently thought looked dashing, tilted upon his head—caught her eye. He stood in the middle of his men, talking animatedly. They all roared with laughter. The man with the hat, slapping one of his colleagues on the shoulder, looked over at Santha as if sensing her gaze upon him. He smiled at her and touched his brim in greeting. Santha blinked slowly and turned away, pretending she hadn’t seen him. Eyes firmly ahead, she continued on her way.

Her mind occupied, Santha did not see the ball until it was too late. Thud! It hit her squarely on the side of her head, taking her bonnet with it. Her hand went to the smarting skin, her basket falling to the ground and spilling half the kitchen scraps.

‘Sorry,’ squeaked Stephon, a lanky boy from Dandon’s classes. ‘Didn’t see you there.’ He stood amongst a rabble of older children in the middle of a game.

She made no reply, stunned from embarrassment more than the contact the rag-stuffed pig-hide had made with her face. Her gloomy mood had been replaced with shock and the urge to be away home with her goats.

‘Do you mind kicking it back?’ Stephon called meekly.

Snatching up her bonnet and basket from the ground, Santha marched away, leaving behind a scattering of potato peels, carrot tops, and withered cabbage. She could feel their eyes on her back and heard a snigger or two as she retreated.

She let out a sigh of relief when the sounds of play resumed and became contemplative as she left the gaiety behind. It was an odd reminder that, save for Dandon, she had almost no friends. And only the old gods knew how he, of all people, had become her confidant and ally.

Two years ago, Santha had been unable to even stand the sight of Master Dandon D’Avery, who had come to their quaint little town mere months after his fortieth birthday. A graduate from Berisolis University, he was also well-travelled, having left the capital the first chance he got.

After nearly two decades of teaching at other schools, academies, and universities throughout the entirety of the allied kingdoms, he’d somehow come to the conclusion that the Silver Valley would be his next conquest. Educating the snooty broods of upper-class merchants and the nobly born wouldn’t have enthused Santha either, but why he’d chosen this isolated farming town out in the middle of nowhere was beyond the comprehension of rational thought. He was the pure embodiment of all the pomp and circumstance of the capital: a peacock, preening his feathers with his perfect manners and condescension, prattling on and on about writing, arithmetic, and the fae unrest to the north.

His folklore classes were particularly tiresome. She’d never understood their importance, nor why her parents had insisted she had to be in the same room as the dandy once a week. (‘To learn how to protect yourself, of course,’ had always been their reply.) When in her entire life would she ever need to recite a love ballad to appease an angry sprite? Or recall the trees and plants favoured by the forest aelfe for home and hearth? Potions and wards, magickal creatures and long dead cultures—these were the classes of idle children whose parents desired nonsense to keep them mistrustful of the world around them. No matter what was going on in the kingdom, wights had no place on Mount Tora and the highlands, and neither had Master D’Avery.

For reasons unbeknownst to her, Dandon had taken this resistance as a personal challenge, seeking every opportunity to improve Santha’s learning. ‘Your daughter has a bright mind,’ he’d told her mother after summoning her whole family to luncheon at his school, where they’d dined on cold meats, braised vegetables, and expensive sugared cakes decorated in blue and yellow icing. ‘But she lacks the discipline to advance herself.’ Mama and Papa, nodding like lunatics, were beguiled at the first. To have one of such status take an interest in their daughter’s education, despite her background and advanced years, to them it was a boon. And, quietly (at least to Mama’s mind), the potential for something more.

That was when the gifts of books and Dandon’s unannounced visits to her home had begun (much to Mama’s delight). At first, Santha had spurned his attention. He achieved nothing for many months, Santha thinking, as Mama had, that the pompous fool really was seeking her out for betrothal. But they were both mistaken, as an abashed Santha discovered after calling out the lordling’s true intentions.

He’d promptly laughed in her face.

Like an earworm burrowing slowly but relentlessly onward, Dandon’s failed attempts to educate his self-appointed charge eventuated in something else entirely: quiet evenings of meaningless chatter, invitations to extended family dinners, and stories of his travels of a world Santha yearned to see for herself. An unlikely bond formed, one that had outlasted all others. When the lies first started about her and Percival almost a month ago, Santha had learnt how quickly friendships could be broken. But not Dandon’s, and she would be forever grateful to him for that.

His generosity in offering his home to her had been a godsend. It gave her time to reflect on her past actions and how she’d come to this moment. When she’d flown into his school only weeks ago, agitated and pacing like a feral cat, he’d calmly taken her into his waiting room and fed her tea and biscuits. He’d known for a long time now that Santha was not one to share her feelings freely. Yes, her thoughts and ideas on how things should be done, those were verbose and often tactless, but she’d never been one to display unnecessary emotion. All Dandon had to do was wait. A few hours of nibbling butterscotch biscuits and watching him scribble in his books was enough. Taking a final sip of her now cold rosehip tea, Santha had realised just how much she’d needed to talk. The words had poured out then, like a torrent of water spilling down Mount Tora’s side after a heavy rain. And they hadn’t stopped until she was a haggard heap folded into Dandon’s arms.

Her mentor had stated then and there that she would stay with him until she felt ready to return to her parents, to talk through and remedy the appalling situation she’d gotten herself into. It had been the right advice—the only advice, really. But how could she make him see it wasn’t that simple? Where Dandon was all composure and logic, her mother was as ardent and clumsy as she. Santha knew Mama had noticed her erratic behaviour for months now: the unusual irritability, withdrawing to the goat pen for days at a time, her anxiety in going outside the estate or visiting the town centre. Santha had sensed her mother’s concern grow, but she’d ignored it, hoping it would go away. How foolish she’d been to expect that of her own flesh and blood.

Like most things for the women of the Lathagin family, it had come to a head swiftly. A tentative discussion turned into a heated argument when Mama had started to prod and probe. In hindsight, a confrontation had been inevitable. An hour of arguing, cursing, and finally begging and pleading, yet Santha had given her mother nothing. She wasn’t sure why she’d held onto the truth when the easier thing to do would have been to lay everything bare. What she did know was that her home, the one place she thought Percival McKascey couldn’t reach her, didn’t feel safe anymore. She’d had to get out. She had to leave.

‘Excuse me, ashezūna,’ came an accented voice from behind, abruptly interrupting her reverie. A gentle hand touched her elbow, and with it came the scent of sandalwood.

Santha’s reaction was involuntary and immediate. She flinched, pulling herself out of the man’s grasp as if stung.

‘Excuse me, pretty one?’ said the voice again, a little unsure of himself this time.

Santha closed her eyes, her anxiety threatening to cripple her. Oh, gods, please don’t do this to me. She turned in place to confront the male voice, letting her face go slack, masking her revulsion, and took two well-practised steps back before answering.

‘Yes?’

The stranger gave her a grin that Santha supposed was charming. He appeared to have already overcome his uncertainty. Her bile rose.

‘I think I’m lost,’ he stated in his throaty and pinched inflexions, the familiar tone of the visiting Calig merchants. ‘I’m looking for my travelling party. I appear to have misplaced them. Or perhaps they have misplaced me.’ He flashed another smile, which Santha returned with a tightening at the corners of her mouth.

Santha thought she recognised him. The young man in the group of fellows outside Ulric’s inn, with his chequered flat cap atop a mop of sandy-coloured hair. Taller than Santha by at least a head, she had to lift her gaze to him and his pale blue eyes. The way he was looking at her—determined and much too brazen—made her feel like retching.

‘I’m sure they will be at the inn,’ she told him coolly. ‘Just follow the street back the way you came, almost to the town square. You will not miss it.’ Santha nodded curtly, turned, and kept walking. She was about to let out a sigh of relief when, from the corner of her eye, she saw the stranger walking alongside her.

‘My name’s Erod,’ he declared, not the least bit concerned by her blatant dismissal. He kept pace with her smaller steps and continued to natter on. ‘I’ve come all the way from Berisolis. A nice trip if you don’t mind the monotony of the road and the company of dull, old men.’ Santha glanced at him sideways without slowing. ‘Don’t misunderstand,’ he chuckled, ‘they are quite reputable, but they cannot compare to the company of a bonnie fillá such as yourself.’

Her palms had grown clammy. ‘Is that so?’ She didn’t know what she wanted to do more: bolt the first chance she got, or slap this impudent fellow across the cheek. As with Percival, she found she could do neither, and played along, hating her own meekness. Santha found her voice again and attempted some bravado. ‘How long have you been practising that line under your breath before delivering it to the first woman you saw?’

Erod took that slight without so much as a raised eyebrow. ‘Why, since I saw you staring at me in the marketplace this afternoon.’ Santha’s face reddened. ‘By the look you gave me, I thought you were partial to some stimulating conversation. But then you fled, in a quite a fetching manner, I might add. It did confuse me for a moment, before I realised you wished to be chased. It was the only logical explanation.’

‘How absurd,’ Santha muttered.

The young man beamed. ‘I thought so too, but you haven’t chased me off yet, so I’m a tad optimistic.’

Santha’s eyes remained forward while Erod kept pace. ‘Don’t be. I haven’t “chased you off”, as you put it, only because I have the common decency not to make a display in public. If you knew what was good for you, you wouldn’t be so keen to remain in my presence.’

The Calig’s eyes widened slightly. ‘Is that so?’ His expression was appraising, but not unkind. ‘Well, if that’s the case, I apologise if I’ve wasted your time.’

He looked like he was about to leave, which pleased and disappointed her. This was the longest conversation she’d had with someone other than her parents or Dandon in months.

Erod chuckled to himself, removed his cap to adjust his blond hair, and then replaced it. ‘But I assure you, you have not wasted mine.’

Santha turned her head slowly towards him without breaking stride. Fixing him with a deliberate stare, she frowned. The fellow was touched in the head, she decided.

‘I’m leading an expedition, you know,’ Erod babbled on. ‘It’s part of a project for the university. We plan to map some mining sites for mineral resources, a hazardous endeavour if the history of this place is to be believed.’

Santha returned her eyes to the road ahead. ‘Indeed,’ was her non-committal reply.

Erod slowed his steps, which Santha mimicked in turn without realising it, until they had both come to a stop. Facing her, he said, ‘I’m sorry. I see you’re busy and I have talked much too long. I should let you go. However, if you’re this way again in the next week, come by and visit me at the inn … if you’re so inclined, of course. I will be back for supplies and would very much appreciate another one-sided chat.’ He smiled, tipped his cap, and was about to depart when a thought came to him. ‘I forgot to get your name.’

Santha looked at him, head tilted. But I know yours, she thought. For years now, whenever these expeditions came to the Valley, she would turn the visits of these arrogant men into a dark game of sorts—she couldn’t help herself. She would look upon them, as she did now, and learn their faces, so when their corpses showed up on the town outskirts, ravaged by wolves or starvation, or they fell down an abandoned mining shaft on the mountainside, never to be seen again, she would be one of the few in the entire world to remember them. Not as they were, dead and broken, but as they had been. It made her suddenly, surprisingly sad to think that, soon, she’d be counting Erod among them.

The smile she returned to him, brokenly, was one of twisted mirth. ‘Ask around. You’ll learn it soon enough.’

Marching away as fast as her legs could carry her, she committed the Calig’s face to memory. Chances were, he would be dead before the month was through.