The Lupine Curse: A Tale of Netherway
Chapter 12: Orphans

Deidre looked behind her: the village was reduced to a pit of flames. She wished Timothy could not see, but in fact as she was running with him on her back, there was no way stopping him from watching the smoldering spectacle, and all the trees bathing in the roaring light of the fire, as if the setting sun was behind them.

Sneaking away from the assassins was easier than the Hare anticipated. After all, they were too busy executing the people she’d known her whole life. But the pain of it did not sting terribly, either—that was something else that surprised her as she fled as fast as she could.

The screams haunted them; they followed the two as they ran far, far from their burning homes. She hoped Timothy was young enough so that this morning’s memory persisted as only a nightmarish haze.

After a while, when the assassins were merely spots on the horizon, and when Timothy had spent as many tears as he could, Deidre heard him whimper into her ear, “Where are we going?”

The roads were a tangled mess in front of them, swerving over green hills and cutting into rocky slopes rising to mountainous terrain, all too familiar to her, but now daunting; in the past, she had made trips to neighboring cities to procure herbs and supplies for Crowshead. Seeking refuge in another village was futile; the Red Hand may burn those down, too. After chewing on her lip for awhile, she said, “We’re making our way for Gods’ Rest.”

Timothy’s tear-stricken face lit up while he gasped.

Deidre was delighted at the child’s surprise, happy to replace herself smiling. Suddenly, the child’s weight didn’t feel so heavy. She continued onward.

“Will we meet jesters and mages?” he asked.

“Yes. All sorts of folk,” she breathed, hopping over a log.

“And jugglers, priests, and … and apothecaries!” he shouted.

“Yes! But keep your voice down … it’s a secret!”

“Why are we running so fast?” he asked her, tiny fists linked below her neck, and beginning to choke her slightly as he sagged.

“We’re racing.”

“Racing? Who?”

“The gods.”

A thick blanket of clouds was stretching from horizon to horizon, softening the light of an ancient sun that fell through upon the backs of green fields, waving in winds of autumn. Deidre looked upon the sky, and wiped the sweat off her forehead. “It will get dark soon, and we’ll be needing a place to stay,” she said, but Timothy had already left a pool of drool on her shoulder, lost to an innocent sleep.

She set him down on a bed of soft grass beside the thin road, no longer worried about the pursuit of the assassins; it was too late in the day. They were nocturnal murderers, but not immortals. They needed sleep, too. It was surprising enough they had been at Crowshead at that hour to begin with. Deidre chuckled to herself as she imagined the elves applying salves to their sunburnt skin.

Timothy stirred while Deidre chewed loudly on a stale crust of bread. He looked up hungrily, so she shared with him. They sat together, looking at the sky, the mountains, watching buzzards fly high above and the heavy-winged bugs below, all around them.

“I miss father,” Timothy said through a mouthful. “… and mother. Father said she went to the city. Will we replace her there?”

“I don’t know, Timothy,” she said, knowing it was a lie. “I know that your mother misses you very much. And your father, too. I think that … one day, you may replace them, but it won’t be today. No matter what, you can always look forward to tomorrow.”

Looking at the boy, she could see he was a little too smart to believe her hopeful words entirely, so she ran her hand through his hair with maternal affection. “It won’t make any sense now, but when you’re older, you’ll know today only made you stronger. You may actually thank those mean elves for where this day took you, eventually. The hottest fires make the sharpest steel.”

Timothy continued chewing the bread, and said nothing more. With the way he looked at the clouds racing above, Deidre could tell he’d listened.

After a few hours of traveling, Deidre repositioned Timothy on her back for what she hoped would be the last time. At the far end of their road—one that had branched off countless times, and once led them into a plot of thickets—there was Gods’ Rest. The walls looked tiny from her perspective, though in truth they were massive, some of the tallest of the other major cities. Flags—only smudges of color—flapped at the tops of towers, like grey and green birds that could not decide on a place to perch themselves. Archers and guards were pacing the battlements, looking for signs of trouble that would not come.

There’s a reason why it is named Gods’ Rest: it was built on the land where it’s believed the gods, after creating the Runelands and most of the Moonish Lands, rested before continuing to craft the Withering Planes, Red Reaches, and beyond to the Forgotten Isles. It was not a city of quiet rest, mind you, rather the rest that includes the recklessness of indulged pleasures and materialized fantasies. It was the the type of rest that, ironically, desired more resting. We call that revelry.

Two guards on either side of the city gates, one clutching a halberd and the other a sheathed sword, looked over Deidre and her little companion. The one with the halberd wore a steel helm with a gated visor. His eyes were much more nervous than the guard with the sword. They jumped around, as if a surprise attack may befall the peaceful city at any moment.

The latter approached the two casually. His step was lazy after long years of service. Deidre recognized the peppered, unshaven beard and tired, friendly eyes. When she first met him, he was slapped for asking about her harelip. Such friendships can only go up from there.

“What’s with him?” Deidre asked, nodding at the halberd-wielding, decorous guard.

“Ah, he’s just one of my recruits,” the man said, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. “How’ve you been, lass? I haven’t seen you in a long while.” They had never gotten passed the terms ‘guard’ and ‘lass’. Lately, it seemed, names did not last long.

“The Scarlet Hand purged Crowshead.”

“Purged? Sons of whores. Where did you poor lot flee to?”

“Here,” Deidre said, motioning to the unconscious child on her back. “The rest of them’ve gone to the afterward.”

The guard spat on the ground, shaking his head. “Siflos’ Hoof, lass, I never thought I’d see the day that poor, quiet village was disturbed. Never whispered a word, Crowshead.”

“The gods don’t take kindly to the quiet ones. They’re like—”

“—a child and a sleeping cat. They just want to see what they can rustle up.”

She nodded.

“At least you grasped a small miracle in the chaos, saving that boy. And what of the person they were after? Did they at least get the poor bastard?”

“He left the day after he was cursed. Fled to his death, not wanting to cause anymore pain to us. They were too late … we died for nothing.”

“How old was he?”

“A year older than I. Sixteen.”

“A sad day for a sad world. So then,” he said, repositioning his belt, “are you going to shelter yourself here ’till you replace another village, another home?”

Deidre wasn’t sure if she would ever call a place ‘home’ again. If anything, she’d never truly had one, and could not fully grasp the concept of one. Home meant a bed, perhaps some warmth, if she was lucky. “I’m just here to drop the child off at Calan’s chapel. The priestesses have always been kind. Well, more than most, at least.”

“Don’t take offense, lass, but how are you going to pay them for looking after him?”

She started walking through the gates. “The same way a witch pays for everything,” Deidre shrugged. “Spells?”

“Be careful in there,” he said lowly. “The Red Hand doesn’t take well to survivors, I hear.”

“Do me a favor and tell your runts to stall any if they arrive.”

“You’ve got my word,” the captain of the guard promised, “but I’m not the lord of the city. His rule is strictly this: ‘always keep the gates of Gods’ Rest gaping,’ ” he mimicked in a deep, powerful voice. Deidre laughed. “Anyways, gods watch of you, lass,” he said.

“And you.”

“I want to see more! More!” Timothy exclaimed. Despite feeling tired enough to sleep on the street, Deidre hoisted the child up onto her shoulders and continued. There were no jesters out, as Deidre had promised, though they visited a blacksmith and asked him questions about his profession while he rhythmically hammered out a piece of steel.

The child breathed in amazement as they toured around the endless rows of strangely-shaped dwellings, the inns, the shops alight with faerie fires and purple flames.

“Blessings upon you,” one tradesman greeted as they passed by.

“And you,” Deidre replied. Knowing better, she kept walking.

“Wait,” he stuttered. He was as tall as Timothy when he was on her shoulders, though his confidence was a good deal shorter while he ran to catch up with them. “Care for a personally enchanted talisman? You can never have too many talismans. Toe of a troll or—or ear of bat!” he exclaimed.

“No, we’ll be just fine.”

Timothy stuck his tongue out at him.

“Well … I don’t want a peasants’ business, anyways!” he exclaimed childishly.

Strolling onward, Deidre rolled her eyes and hoped she’d replace some pointer to Calan’s chapel. It had been far too long since she visited, and she was losing her way as the streets darkened.

She stopped to think, gather herself and her surroundings. Behind her, an alchemist and his shop stood proud—almost ominous in its elegance—as if it had just appeared, glowing with concoctions in the windows beside rare animal parts and herbs hanging around them.

“I apologize for him,” the alchemist said, stepping from the shadows of his overhanging roof, rather mysteriously. “He’s not the best neighbor, and he doesn’t treat me any better, if that makes a difference.”

The young witch turned, looked at the man, and stared for a long while, lost in the coin glinting over his knuckles. He was fairly young, though surrounded in an aura of good fortune. His vest was decorated with black and amber swirls that complemented a violet cape falling only to the small of his back. Pointed shoes and a groomed goatee matched his black pants and shirt. He even had a top hat with a raven feather sticking through it.

“No need for the apology. It wasn’t yours to give,” she said. “And, yes, I suppose it does make a difference, come to think of it.”

“Fair enough. But you’re no fool. You’re a witch, and not your average type; no dilettante with lesser magick. You’re touched by Morros, aren’t you?”

Deidre blushed. She didn’t know what ‘dilettante’ meant, but being called one of the Touched was a rare compliment, often given to gifted scholars at the Blessed Academy. To hear of a peasant being one of the Touched was to listen to a tale around a fire, nothing more.

Still, the Hare let herself believe it. “You’ve flattered me, alchemist,” she said, admiring the symbol of a bubbling potion carved into the shop’s wooden sign. The ruby studs on his vest glinted as he swayed closer to her. “But you are not above my trade. I also sense you are in need of herbs, supplies, and ingredients for your craft.”

Deidre bit her lip. She still had not figured a way of payment for the chapel, and ingredients for spells were none too cheap, either. “You may see me again before the night is up,” she decided.

“Splendid. Well, if I am ever blessed with your presence, call me Saronis, Saronis of the Scarlet City, that is.” He bowed his head. The man had a full title. Deidre wanted to scoff, but held it in.

“Deidre,” she responded simply. “It’s no wonder you are wealthy. Down in the Scarlet City, they’d be in need of a good elixir or two. What led you to the Moonlands?”

“A wind or two, and a ship,” he winked. “Ah … but in truth, I found I could not heal everyone in the Red Reaches.”

Perhaps, Deidre thought, you could not heal anyone. He looked to be one of those men who had more coin than knowledge, who bought his way to the look of a regal alchemist, when in reality, he knew nothing.

Well, he did know something after all, or at least Deidre thought so, after he pointed her in the direction of Calan’s chapel.

The chapel was at the far end of Gods’ Rest, away from the raucous celebration that often ensued in the heart of the city. Made of stone and mortar, with wooden roofing rising well above the highest city’s walls, it looked to be one of the better structures in the city. Stained glass fractured the light of the setting sun, showering the witch and the boy in an array of colors as they walked up the short path to the doorway.

Some followers of Calan were still about—dressed in robes the color of earth—pacing around the sanctuary with hands linked beneath the drooping folds of their sleeves, their heads bent under hoods.

Uncertainly, Deidre the Hare pulled on the iron handle of one of the door’s halves.

Inside, incense-permeated air greeted her, though she could not breathe it in, for she was starstruck by the expanse of the structure. Beneath her feet, the polished stone felt cold and comforting to her blisters. Wooden benches lined the entirety of the hall, leading to an altar at the far end. The centerpiece of the chapel was a stone statue of Calan herself, her hand holding up a real daisy, as if offering it to the sky.

Timothy stirred to speechlessness. Deidre wondered why she had never thought to go inside the chapel before. Anyone could simply walk in.

“We do not allow leors here,” someone whispered from behind her. Well … not anyone.

Then Deidre remembered why. She turned to see a priestess of Calan—beautiful, with flowing black hair and stunning eyes that were sapphires of nature. She had full lips and a sharp, small nose that gave her the appearance of a tall fairy.

Deidre was hurt, though she was familiar with this kind of comment. Being a leor meant having a part of your body entirely inhuman. A harelip was hardly the bottom half of a satyr.

Deidre felt mute—silenced by her beauty. It had been a long time since she didn’t have a witty retort at the ready when someone insulted her. Then, words spilled out: “My curse is not of Siflos, but of Morros.” She was not entirely sure where they came from.

“Morros you say?” the priestess repeated quietly. She raised an eyebrow, but considered it. The only god who did not get along with Morros—the Mother of Magick—was perhaps Siflos, the God of Leors. Then again, he didn’t get along with many other deities, except the ones of darker natures. Morros was quite possibly the only goddess more beautiful and revered than Calan, and she was never associated with deformities.

Deidre bowed her head. “Yes, priestess. Please, I come with an innocent, untainted child of Calan. If you would take care of him until he is of age to fend for himself, I would be filled with gratitude.” Deidre’s mother was no fool. With the little time she had with her daughter, she also taught her what survival meant in a city: manners.

“Is he pure?”

“Both his father and mother were human. He is pure.”

The priestess folded her hands together like the followers. Deidre peeked up from her bowed head to meet her pensive gaze.

“Alas, child, I cannot make a decision on behalf of our goddess. She will have to judge you two for herself. Follow me.”

Deidre followed her a long while, embarrassed to be barefoot in such a clean place, until they stood at the end of the chapel before the altar. Timothy was fighting to stay conscious, slumping over every now and then, and dribbling on Deidre’s shoulder.

Flowers were growing in bounty, along with grass, around the altar and in spots where the stonemasons left shapes of unhindered earth. There were rooms cut into the sides of the chapel where followers slept, while some beds were simply pushed against the walls directly. Most were empty, but some were already taken by snoozing followers and priestesses.

In the center of the altar, a shallow, clay bowl was set into the stone. Vines with purple blossoms grew along the sides, coming from seemingly nowhere, knotting together. Even around the bowl, little daisies were stretching to catch the sun that would shine through the massive windows during the day.

“What is your entire nature for coming here?” the priestess asked.

“This child is now an orphan. His parents died. I, myself, cannot watch over him for long. I have … other business.” Her words did not sway the priestess. She looked sorrowful, though it was tinged with doubt.

Then her expression changed entirely—almost rudely—with the consideration that this child—really only the bastard of the whore before her—was simply being left here, and abandoned.

“Humph. Well, time is short and the gods are impatient. Do you know what this is?” she motioned toward the bowl.

Deidre shook her head, and resisted the urge to dunk her head in the crystal water.

“This, my child, is one of Calan’s springs. Here, the waters will test the truth in your words. Lend me the hand of the boy.”

Deidre jostled the boy awake. “Timothy … there, to the woman,” she whispered to him. Childishly, he crawled onto the altar, on all fours like an infant, looking as if he might pee himself in Calan’s holy spring while the priestess stared him down.

The priestess guided the boy’s hand into the cold water. Had she not been undeniably beautiful, the child might’ve pulled away, but he allowed her the motion.

Besides a slight ripple from his pudgy hand, the water remained the same, clear color. The priestess did not look entirely surprised, though she did not look pleased, either.

“You appear to be telling the truth, my dear. Or, at least the half of it. Even still, we have not determined the true nature of that mark on your lip.”

Sensing his freedom, Timothy dropped from the altar, his feet making a slapping sound against the stone that echoed in the chapel for a long while. He began to play in a patch of grass, rolling and stretching his tiny limbs. Deidre realized that he must not have the faintest idea of what is happening. She felt sorry—even guilty—as he played by himself.

“My apologies, priestess. We have traveled long and far.”

“Oh, that’s quite all right. He does appear innocent as you say, even if he is a bit wild! But that is how all children should be, at least for a time.” The priestess’ lips were touched by a forgiving smile, making her that much more beautiful. “Now, your hand, if you will,” the priestess said, holding out her palm.

Deidre put her hand in hers nervously. She realized that she was testing the waters of not only the spring, but that part of herself that had been so confident in her magickal talent for so many years. If she was not Touched, she was nothing—she was merely the Hare everyone claimed she was. In a way, this humble, shallow bowl of water was the culmination of her life.

One of the first things Fenris’ ever complimented her on was her proclivity to practicing lesser and even higher magick in her spare time. In a way, those compliments made her feel appreciated by him, understood; they might’ve helped her love him, even.

“Calan is the sister of Morros, as you well know,” the priestess explained, sensing the girl’s anxiety. “We are going to ask her of the truth in your words. It won’t be as fast as a spring in Morros’ chapel, but it will do. Calan will get the message across, I am sure. If you are indeed Touched as you claim, the water should indicate this.”

Deidre’s eyes widened. That sort of magick and communion with the deities wasn’t practical to rely on. After years of reassuring mothers in the heat of labor, she could never promise the light of a spell flickering between her fingers, as much as she had wanted to—it happened too infrequently. She was only the Hare of Crowshead, after all, but that is what people depend upon when reason and hope was not enough.

The priestess lowered Deidre’s small, dirtied hand into the water, and her heart decided to crawl up into her throat. The water turned a murky, brown color from the dirt of her travels, and soon she began to doubt herself. All the insecurities she’d faced before came rushing to meet her, and the water felt hot—boiling to the touch. She wished to run away.

She closed her eyes. Unshed tears started at the corners. She knew the answer before it came, and cursed herself repeatedly for having ever believed that falsehood of her worth. How could I have been so foolish, so blind, to think of myself as anything more? Suddenly, she decided it didn’t matter to her; whether or not she was gifted or useless, she would die a peasant’s death anyways! The emptiness came flooding in, and the doubt strangled her. She cried loudly.

“Child!” the priestess gasped. “Why are you crying?”

Deidre blinked away the tears, sensing a change in the woman’s voice. She saw the water in Calan’s spring; it was turning a deep, azure hue and shifting to green, then gold and crimson, and finally a deep black, until it went through the spectrum again, pulsating with colorful light that danced in her teary eyes.

“In all my years! I never expected … and from the likes of you!” This time, she bowed her head. “Calan and Morros, sacred mothers, forgive me for my poor judgement,” the priestess said with a hand over her heart.

Deidre removed her hand from the spring, and watched the colors fade. She was just as surprised as the priestess. What was left was the dirt of her hand, now settled at the bottom of the still, clear water. While the tears dried, she prodded the water over and over again, each time watching a different hue pour out from her fingertip.

My goddess is not deaf, after all.

“Forgive me, child,” the priestess repeated.

“Timothy, the other ‘child.’ I need you to look after him,” she explained, ignoring her quick reverence.

“For how long?”

“I don’t know. I just assumed … because this is a chapel of Calan, that you would look after him on behalf of your goddess’ graces.”

“Why, of course. We do that sort of thing quite often, you know,” she lied, trying to impress this ragged, dirty, unwashed girl in front of her.

The priestess turned into an excited, unrestrained child in less than two moments. “In any case, what does it feel like?”

“What? What does what feel like?” Deidre was perplexed by the notion that she felt any different—least of ways better—than anyone. She was barefoot, wearing rags, and the strip of cloth that she tied to hide her breasts was getting more torn by the day.

“To be Touched, to be a true child of Morros! There are precious few.”

Besides Fenris, the world felt dark and lonely. Her warmest memories were her earliest, and still, they were bitter than most others’. Even now, she had blisters from running for far too long—running from another oppressor, to another question, to another chance at something better that would be, most likely, only worse. Her throat begged for water and her stomach, like a rabid dog, growled incessantly. She wished only for a simple night of rest.

“Subtle,” replied Deidre unenthusiastically, examining the dirt on her body. It seemed that, even after having this proof, it didn’t mean anything. Without proper training, the gifts were merely pent up energies stuck inside without a way of release.

Arianna cleared her throat, and stepped away from the altar, regaining a sense of control. She folded her hands together such that the sleeves of her robes became one. “I think that this night has spoken enough for the both of us, for now. I wouldn’t want to keep you from resting. Excuse me, please, while I have someone prepare a bed for you. Tomorrow, when it is not so dark, we can prepare a bath for you as well.”

She walked away, leaving Deidre alone, staring at the shallow water in the alter.