Respite I

Not every path is lit. Kestrel knew this. Eruditian Jermard told him this every time he'd visit his office for counseling. He knew this, yet an unlit path was an unsafe path. How could he keep walking it. A bird chirped.

Kestrel opened his eyes, slowly. He wasn't sure on what plain of existence he found himself, and then he realized that he was awake. He sat up in a creaky bed draped with off-white linen covers. The walls were made of dark pale wood, and the floors were covered with fur mats. There was a cabinet by the bed with an unlit candle on top of it. The room felt sterile. Cool light seeped in from a window, soft wind bellowing along. On the window sill sat perched a sparrow. It chirped as it hopped around, before fluttering back outside from where it came.

His body ached as he moved out of bed, putting his bare feet on the rough furs on the floor. His pants were roughened up. His chest was bare--no signs of injury. Then he remembered. The monster that attacked their coach, then attacked them on the road. He was forced to use up one of his woestones. Yet that thing still broke through. He remembered the crushing force he felt that moment bearing down on his chest, but he felt rather fine, and there was only minor aching. He then remembered Marquis turning into a beast, and Eyleen shooting him right then and there without hesitation. The bloodied memories of Marquis crooked dead body lingered, but worse than that, the memories of Marquis' deranged eyes and neck cranking back to look at him. 'Water, water..." Kestrel rubbed his eyes and shook his head. He got out of bed and headed for the window. He felt his face with his fingers. His glasses were gone. 

Peering outside, he saw rows of sloped shingled roofs supported by wooden beams. Streets of mossy cobble swerved into multiple alleys. Every surface was slick with dew. Leaning out to get a better view, the earthy scent of rain pleased his nose as he took a deep breath in, letting his shoulders relax as he breathed out. Off in the distance he saw a stone tower poking up, an emblem of the sacred light at its peak. He heard the distant squeaking of unoiled wheels, and as he looked below he saw a man dressed modestly in rags and tool belts walk leisurely down the cobbled pavement, his barrow filled with burlap sacks. He had arrived in Hedgelen. But how?

He turned around and opened a door in the corner of the room, its hinges creaking as he quietly snuck his way past, not caring to close it behind him. He took careful steps down a staircase made of the same dark pale wood as the rest of building. Paintings lined the wall leading downstairs, each depicting old men dressed neatly in white and beige robes. Each painting was signed by name and title. 'Adlan Wallstencroft, Meister Physician, Ordin Healing Arts, Year of the Grain, 634'. Adlan had a thick brow and an even thicker beard, and his expression carried solemnity. Year 634, that was more than a hundred years ago.

Kestrel had only been to Hedgelen once in his life--when he left the Swarth to study at the Academy, but he had heard of the Ordin healing arts. It was a branch of healing derived from the teachings of the church of Sacred Light, but many academic regarded Ordin as inferior.

As he came down to the first floor, he noticed how cluttered it was compared to upstairs. Tables and cabinets were tucked into different parts of the room. Differently sized cases, both opened and closed sat on top, along with scalpels, bandages, glass bottles containing a variety of herbs, and other miscellaneous tools Kestrel didn't know much about. Around the room was strewn about chests, buckets, and crates of coal. From the ceiling hung variously shaped thuribles from chains. The smell of boiled cloth and incense made the area feel clean, in spite of the fact that it was as cluttered as it was.

Kestrel finally noticed, in the midst of all the clutter, a balding man dressed in a white and brown robe, slouched over in a rocking chair, eyes closed, sleeping. A door by the far end of the room caught his eye. When he slowly moved in that direction, he bumped his hip against the corner of a table while stepping over a chest too large to ignore.

"Oh, I must've fell asleep. How careless of me," muttered the man in the chair as he looked up to lock eyes with Kestrel. "My, my."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you," said Kestrel in a hushed tone.

"Good morning. How did you sleep?" asked the man.

Kestrel straightened his back. "Sleep? Oh, I'm not sure."

The man crossed his fingers on his lap. "I see. You were lucky they found you when they did. Your lungs were barely functioning when you got here. I even had to tap into the sacred fountain to restore you to normal function."

"What, my lungs?" said Kestrel, placing a hand on his bony chest. "They, who are they? Where is Eyleen?"

"Eyleen? Oh, must be that woman with the hat. Richard told me they found her around a fire, caring for you. She's staying by the Brimming Cup. It's an inn."

Kestrel's concern furrowed his brow.

"Don't worry. She was healthier than me when she got here," said the man.

"You saved me, didn't you?" asked Kestrel.

The man stood up from his chair, dusting himself off. "I save a lot of people every day, my friend. That's what I'm here for." 

He was much taller than Kestrel, about a head and a half or so. His white and brown robes were tied at the waist by a thin rope. He had boiled linens hanging off of it, and a heavy set stone necklace depicting the insignia of the Sacred Light hung from his neck. His cheeks were hollow and his eyes were pale. Crows feet stretched back towards his ears, and his balding head still had whitish brown hair clinging to its side. His nose was prominent but thin, and so was his lips. In fact, his whole demeanor had an air of thinness surrounding it. Painting his every word. Like translucent-thin pages in a book too thick for its own good.

"You must be hungry. Why don't you head to the Brimming Cup. The innkeeper, her name is Lorma, she will feed you. And you should meet your friend. She was awfully worried when she came to my door."

Kestrel nodded gently. "Thank you for healing me. Oh, and, may I have my clothes back?"

"Ah, my apologies. I had to remove your vest in order to heal your wounds," said the man. "I put it out to dry, and your boots too. They were covered in all manner of things that I don't want to speak of. How about you open up that chest there by your feet. Take whatever garment you like. And there are boots by the doorway."

Kestrel opened up the chest below. It was filled with a surprising amount of clothes of different sizes and wear. He picked out a beige tunic, sleeves strung together by tough string, and a pair of foot sleeves. 

"Why do you have so many clothes just laying around?" asked Kestrel, putting the tunic on.

"Oh, you know. Clothes come and go, and such," said the man, his old voice hanging heavy in the air.

Kestrel sat down on the chest and began wrapping his feet in the sleeves.

"What is your name, young man?" asked the man.

Kestrel looked up. "My name is Kestrel." 

The old mans brow raised in surprise, and Kestrel felt a sense of regret at what he just said.

"So you have come back. The prince in the flesh. Kestrel of house Shebac."

Kestrel felt a wave of worry wash over him, and the blood rushed out of his face. He shouldn't have said that. Why did he say that.

"Some of us have been wondering how it went for you, young prince. Why did you come back?"

Kestrel hesitated for a moment, before answering. "I'm searching for my parents. Do you know anything about their whereabouts?"

"I'm sorry, Kestrel. Nobody knows anything about what happened at the castle. Only that the curse emerged from that region," said the man. 

"That's what I heard. But I can't accept it," said Kestrel, finishing wrapping his foot sleeves. He pulled the knot, his fingers gripping the cloth too firmly. "People at my academy. The ones who knew who I really was. They mocked me. Said I had cursed the lands myself and fled. Some called me a traitor."

"Nobody thinks of you as a traitor here, Kestrel," said the man gently. "I don't mean to be brash, but nobody thinks of you much at all. Everyone has left every notion of the crown behind them. Only the curse remains, now."

Those were harsh words, sure, but Kestrel found comfort in them. He worried that people wouldn't accept him into his own lands. He wasn't a traitor. Perhaps he had come here to prove that, if not for the people of the Swarth, to himself. Now that he knew that the people didn't even give him much thought at all, it made him feel almost accepted.

"What is your name?" asked Kestrel.

"My full name is Morguth Wallstencroft. I'm part of the lineage of Ordin healers in Hedgelen. You can call me Morg, that's what most people call me."

"Thank you, Morg, again, for saving me," said Kestrel, standing up.

"Go and get yourself some breakfast, young Kestrel. If you ever hurt yourself, you know where to find me."