Self-Made Scoundrel (35 page)

“I am glad to see you doing well,” the High Priestess said, sitting down. “After Sindra was taken from us I thought I would never hear of you again. The others of you who aided us check in from time to time.”

Derk nodded, putting his tea down without sipping from it. Asa and Devra were of course living and getting on. Both married. Devra had two children. Asa apparently caught on to a woman who liked him and married her, a woman who didn’t follow the Goddess. “I move around a lot, and my business affords me strange hours, Sister,” Derk reasoned. “I barely have time to get letters off. And I know you are busy with matters of Church. I didn’t think you would remember me.”

“Sindra spoke of you so much, I had no choice,” the High Priestess said with a warm laugh. “Especially when she came back from the first mission, for the Cup.”

“Pardon?” Derk asked. He realized what she was speaking of as soon as she turned her eyes on him and he looked into his teacup, hoping he didn’t seem as flustered as he felt.

“The Goddess Cup, when you went into the Freewild.” The Priestess sat down at the table finally, making Derk feel less nervous. “I remember her making sure any letters you sent would make it to her assignment in Tyestown.”

Sindra had always seemed to be happy when she saw him. Initially. It was just the rest of the visit which wore on them both, ended in a disagreement or a fiasco. Never done. Derk took a sip of his tea and wondered if he could pour a bit of his flask into the cup without the priestess noticing. He was feeling strangely nervous. “Right, I remember when she took up the position at Tyestown. She did a good job there.” Derk set the cup down, frowning at the delicate silver dishes.

“She was exemplary,” the High Priestess said. “When she arrived here from Whitfield, she was very eager to please. She had a lot to prove, she felt.”

Derk fiddled with his bracelet. “Why?” he asked.

“Well, not being from the Valley there were some who didn’t know what to do with an elven woman who felt called by the Goddess. Some didn’t trust her intentions. Some made it very clear they didn’t. Did she ever tell you about the time her fellow students cut her hair in her sleep?” The High Priestess raised what were her eyebrows; Derk noticed they were painted on. “To a Forester, to have your hair cut is.…” The High Priestess paused, taking a sip of her tea. The skin on her hands gave away her age, silver rings adorning her wrinkled fingers. “From all accounts, she could sit on her hair when she arrived in Whitfield.”

“Why were they cruel? Had she done something to them?” Derk asked. He had gone to Whitfield to see what he could find but even the lower ranking priestesses were busy. He had gone during the Blooming of the Field, when all the moonflowers surrounding the city bloomed, which had been a sight to behold but made doing anything with the clergy close to impossible.

“Sindra was different and it was reason enough for them.” The High Priestess smiled but it was a sad smile digging into the creases of her face. “Among the clergy, she was known as a devout student, a good leader, good with council. Wherever she was assigned she dealt with the Tower of the Moon in the Trees, till they dissolved.”

“They dissolved while she was here in Portsmouth, right?” Derk asked. He remembered Sindra seeming upset about something during one of his visits.

“Yes, there was a small group of Foresters who had their own temple but they disappeared. A temple to the Goddess.” The High Priestess poured herself more tea, steam rising off and out of the cup as the aroma wafted to Derk’s nose. “They probably just wanted to go home. Life in the Valley for Foresters isn’t always easy.”

Derk sat up straighter in his chair, remembering the first time he had walked with Sindra and the stares they received. In Tyestown she was called ‘the Forester Priestess’ more than by her title. People weren’t mean but they noticed she was different and pointed it out. “Do you think perhaps her being different had something to do with the manner of her death?” Derk asked the question plainly. There wasn’t any polite way to ask it. The nature of the question itself wasn’t polite. It was disturbing.

“I doubt it” the High Priestess said, lines of worry creasing her forehead. He thought she looked more upset he could assume such a thing more than the idea itself. “The people of the Valley are not a hateful people, you know this. We left Holy Haran because of hatred toward us, and know what it can do.” The High Priestess shook her head. “They were more…curious. The Foresters have all gone back to their forest, whereas the stories of the beginning of our people here, they are often present. When I was a little girl, my grandmother said the Foresters were around on holidays and roamed the festivals when she little. By the time she bore my mother, they were gone. I would find it hard to believe that anyone could hate a Forester for being a Forester. Or even hate Sindra. As a priestess, as a student, as a woman?” The High Priestess shrugged. “She would have risen to serve many, if she was still living. She would be in Whitfield now. Probably scouring the
library.” The High Priestess smiled.

Derk remembered the parchments and books of Sindra’s quarters, the table always littered with books so the food he brought always wound up on the floor. The smell of her ink stained hands. Her calligraphy. Her belongings were probably scattered throughout the Valley now, taken by those who lived and loved her. She had given him a few trinkets over the years but most of them had been lost. He always thought there would be more. He took a deep breath and forced a smile. “Probably,” he agreed. “I just…her death, Sister…I’ve been trying to sort it out and move on but…I’m having trouble. I’ve been all over the Valley, picking up pieces here and there but all I have is someone killed her and no one knows who or why. I know the Church launched an investigation and found nothing within or without but.…” He thought about Jezlen’s answer when he had asked him plainly if the Forester had any idea. The elf had looked just as bewildered
as Derk felt. “Do you think a Forester could have done it?”

It was the High Priestess’ turn to look confused. “I don’t know why they would. Sindra only cared about the Valley. She wrote about the history of the Valley and was working on a complete history. Why a Forester would kill her for that escapes me.”

Derk didn’t know enough about the Foresters to fill in the large gaps the possibility presented. Derk only asked Sindra about her childhood briefly, lest she ask about his childhood. Jezlen always grew agitated when questioned about their upbringing and going to the Forest to ask was out of the question. He had hit a dead end. Another one.

“Darik,” the High Priestess said, using the name he had given her. She reached over and put her hand on his. Her skin was soft and he thought maybe she washed her hands in rosewater, as her skin smelled faintly of it. “I know it is hard to let someone as good as Sindra go, even harder when they are suddenly taken. I know she meant a great deal to you. She was loved by many. But she is in the Bosom of the Goddess. Finding her killer won’t make her love you any more. It can’t.”

Derk felt her squeeze his hand. He nodded slowly, considering her words and his presence there. He shook his head and exhaled sharply through his nose, running his free hand through his long hair, combed back to look more presentable for the High Priestess. It was probably messy now. He looked to her and pulled his hand back. “You’re right. It was just.…” He shook his head again, trying to sort out his thoughts. “I prayed for the Goddess to shine a light on this, so I would understand. But she doesn’t want to give me understanding.”

“The Goddess has gone through Her phases, Darik. And you?” Derk sat there for a moment. A lot had changed over the last year. He had been inducted into the Cup. He didn’t answer to Hock all the time but roamed the Valley as he pleased just like he had before he joined. But now he knew the signs to look for, for a face which appeared more than friendly. But as much as he liked the security he still felt like something was missing. Like his life was on a path but he couldn’t see where the road was going. Aimless. He had tried to focus on Sindra, still. And it was wrong.

“Thank you for your time, Sister,” Derk said, bowing his head to her. He drank his tea, now cool. The honey had pooled at the bottom and was too sweet at the end but he drank it anyway. “I appreciate you sharing with me and your…advice. You’re right.”

“I didn’t pay someone to become the High Priestess,” she said with a broad smile, standing first so Derk could stand. She took his hands in hers, her rings cold on his skin, her skin warm on his. “May the Goddess watch over you.”

“May Her Black Hand guide us all,” Derk said, smiling. He turned and left her quarters, bowing his head to the priestess who stood outside her door. The honey sat thick on his tongue and made his mouth water. He would probably grab a pitcher of beer to take with him.

Derk stopped in the temple, paying the priestess for a stick of incense, putting it in the censor and letting it burn. It seemed only fitting to light a prayer for a new beginning. He watched the scented smoke curl and spin up into the air, hopefully taking his hold on Sindra with him. She was dead. It was unfair to think on her. One sermon said the obsessive memories of the living clawed at the souls of the dead. He didn’t want his thoughts of Sindra to be a source of pain to her. Or himself. He sat on a pew and watched the incense burn, grey smoke emitting from bright orange, the smell of moonflowers and red tree gum and sage wafting through the temple. Maybe he would come back for vespers. But first, he had some business to attend to.

Derk’s pack was light, lighter than it had been last time he left Portsmouth. It was autumn, almost time for Lover’s Moon. It seemed like a good time to come back, to see Gam again. He walked the familiar streets to the bar selling the beer Gam liked best, not bothering to complain about the deposit for the pitcher. He’d just be sure to not break this one. Derk rolled a cigarette while the barkeep went to get his pitcher and happily smoked as he walked the streets to her home, noting what had changed since last he’d been in town and what was the same. The door to the building she lived in was different. It looked stronger, newer. Not a bad thing, he thought as he pushed it open, clipping up the stairs. His boots scuffed merrily up the wooden boards, creaking under his weight.

Hers was the one on the left. He knocked three times and then waited. After a few breaths he put his ear to the door, listening within for a sound. He knocked a few more times to be sure, straining his ear to make out anything. When no one opened the door he set the pitcher on the floor, dropping to his knees and pulling a pick out of his belt, his cigarette dangling from his lips.

The door swung open. Derk froze in midair, the pick still in his hand, hands reaching for the lock. He looked up. Relief washed over him as he saw Gam, wrapped in one of her quilts, bare shoulders and legs sticking out of the top and bottom. Her curly hair was messy. It was obvious she had been sleeping. It was also obvious she was confused to see Derk there.

“Hello,” Derk managed, standing up awkwardly on the landing. He bent down and smiled stupidly, holding up the pitcher. “I brought us some beer. Your favorite.”

Gam didn’t even ask him in. She just walked back into the apartment and left the door open so he could follow her. Derk walked in and closed the door behind him, locking it before he set the pitcher of beer on the table. Gam walked over to the fire, still wrapped in her blanket and poked at it, trying to coax the embers into flames. She shuffled over to Derk and plucked the cigarette from his mouth, bringing it to her own lips with a smile and a slow drag making the tobacco crackle and the ember glow. She exhaled, looking at him sleepily as her hazel eyes darted over his face “You’ve a beard now.”

“Aye,” he said, not sure how to respond.

“I’ve a headache,” she muttered, turning around. She took his cigarette with her. “I went out last night and stayed out too late and drank too much. The band was playing all the songs I loved.” Gam watched the stove, taking another pull off the cigarette. “Stoke this while I get dressed,” she said, smiling. Derk blinked, taking the cigarette from her when she offered it to him and brought it back to his mouth as he watched the woman disappear into the backroom. He heard her moving things, throwing clothes. She came out wearing just a long shirt, the ribbons tying the sides of the garment loose and dangling. The garment was loose around her bust and shoulders. He could see the scar on her leg and imagined the mole on her stomach.

“Sounds like I missed a good time,” he said, pulling his eyes away from her. He picked up the poker by the fire and jabbed at it.

“Yeah, you missed a lot,” she said. Her words were sharp and Derk knew she wasn’t speaking about only last night. He could feel her eyes, wide opened and awake staring at him.

“Did you get my letters? And the gifts I sent you?” Derk asked. He watched the sparks shoot up and grow as he stabbed at it. The heat from the fire threw itself at his legs.

“Yeah, who was that fellow you sent? The dark fellow who holds conversation like broken glass?” she asked, her anger momentarily gone. “He was strange. Don’t like the look of him.”

“That’s Jezlen, remember?” Derk opened the cupboard and found it was bare, the breadboard sporting a few crumbs and nothing else. “I…wrote you about him. Though I’m not surprised he never introduced himself.”

“Sending strangers to my door. Many thanks,” she said. Old Gam sat down at the table and put her feet up on it. Her ankles and feet were dirty. Around one ankle was tied a blue anklet, frayed from being there too long. Derk could see the light line it had made where the rest of her skin had darkened in the sun.

“Do you want to go out for some food?” he asked quickly. “You’ve got nothing here to eat here.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go out of doors for some other reason?” Gam asked. She smiled crookedly, untangling a snarl in her hair with her fingers. “You think I won’t yell at you out of doors? You’re mistaken if you think so.”

“Celeel-”

“You’re gone for more than a year chasing after a dead woman,” she said. It sounded like an accusation. Gam started working her fingers through another snarl, shaking her head. “You’re the stupidest man I know.”