Chapter Text
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”
The last breath of the boy who had just saved the most precious person in her life. Again, death. Again, this damned city. Again, blood on her hands.
With a convulsive sigh, Amicia sat up in bed. She quickly wiped her cheeks, wet with tears. Nightmares tormented her every night now, they were fickle and unpredictable - it could be the death of Rodrik, just as today, or the death of Arthur, or a mortal battle with Vitalis. Sometimes her dreams turned into a relentless race with the black mess of an army chasing her. Rats, people, dirt and fire$ everything mixed into one shapeless mass, swallowing her like a wave.
She glanced around the room absently. Spending so many nights there, Amicia had never been able to accept it as her own. Whitish daubed walls, a shaky creaky floor and a low ceiling with straw falling off, made her melancholic. The need to share a bedroom with her mother didn’t add any comfort, as did the habit of being quiet as a mouse - after all, only a thin curtain separated their beds.
Dawning was rising behind the window; it was the time for her to get up and wake the others.
Amicia crawled from under the covers and groped for her boots under the bed. She stirred the coals in the almost cold fireplace and shivered shiveringly - the nights had become long and cold; winter was coming. Walking over to her mother's bed, Amicia lifted the curtains. Mother was fast asleep, wrapped in blankets up to her eyes; her dark hair, in which graying became more and more noticeable every day, was scattered across the pillow.
“Good morning, mom,” Amicia said softly, as if afraid to wake her up.
Beatrice shuddered as she opened her eyes, but noticing who was next to her, she smiled faintly.
"Good morning, Amicia." She sat up in bed, wrapping her shoulders around her. “Time to get up?”
"Yes." Amicia touched her forehead to check the temperature. It seemed to be normal. “How do you feel?”
“Better. Slept well.” She squeezed her daughter's hand gently. “And you? Any nightmares?”
“Not at all, mother.” The familiar lie slipped from her lips, but Amicia still frowned involuntarily, self-reprimanded. “Lie back down, I'll bring you breakfast.”
Silently closing the door, Amicia left the room. Before going downstairs to the kitchen and the hearth, she shook Hugo awake - he slept like a log, as usual. The boy trudged unhappily to wash, rubbing his cheek with the pink fold from the pillow imprinted on it. He hated mornings, and it became a real torture for him in winter, when the sun rose late. The gloomy mien left his face only after sunrise.
They rarely spoke at mealtimes now. Most days Hugo ate silently and left, leaving the dirty dishes on the table. But this day, Amicia wasn’t lucky enough to finish her breakfast in peace.
“I’m not eating it,” Hugo said in disgust, and pushed his plate of wheat porridge away from him.
“Well, go and be hungry all day. We don’t have anything else,” Amicia replied coldly. She had long ceased to indulge her brother's whims.
“Come on, there must be something! You've been paid, buy us meat or apples!”
“You know very well that I spent all the money to repair the roof. Otherwise we would freeze to death. Sit down now and eat.”
Hugo made an unintelligible but obviously displeased sound and reluctantly returned to his food.
He recently turned thirteen, and from a sweet, affectionate child, he turned into an incredibly stubborn, sometimes simply unbearable teenager, unable to keep a civilized conversation. He spent his days in the forest gathering his herbs and chasing birds, and there was no help from him at their small household. As soon as Amicia mentioned that Hugo is already grown enough to earn his own money or at least do some chores, he immediately bristled. It always caused quarrels between siblings, which made Beatrice terribly upset. The last thing Amicia wanted was to make mother worry, so eventually she simply stopped bringing this topic up at all.
Now she hardly spoke to Hugo. Especially after he shouted in her face, in the middle of the argument: “Lucas left because of you!”
She often said this to herself, so often she started to believe it. But it was a hundred times more painful to find out that Hugo also blames her for what had happened.
Amicia sighed, and for probably the thousandth time she thought that Lucas would definitely get a handle on the nasty boy. He has always been Hugo's undisputed authority.
If only Lucas were here.
***
After breakfast, Amicia made her way to the town. She quickly patched up a sock that had been torn the day before and finally found a winter skirt; the first autumn frost fell on the world last night. Putting her purse and a piece of bread for a snack into her bag, she kissed her mother’s thin cheek and went out the door.
The walk took almost a quarter of an hour, across the river, through the tiny walnut grove, through the deserted outskirts, and finally to the square. The house where they settled several years ago stood at a decent distance from the town — only an empty meadow and an endless forest stretched beyond their yard. The de Runes were considered outcasts for a while: either because they were French, or because of their home, or because they laid low, put no effort in making friends and rarely were seen on the streets. One way or another, the townspeople treated Amicia aloof. It saddened and irritated her at first; she bitterly recalled how welcomed and loved she was in her father’s chateau.
Those bright days were long gone.
However, she found undeniable advantages in their position over time. Coldness eventually gave way to indifference, and the de Runes became noticeable for others. Merchants began to consider Amicia as another customer instead of “that French”; children ran past her without teasing; people stopped whispering behind their backs and found something new to gossip about. Even the fact that she was the only woman who worked in the town hall didn’t surprise anyone. That was what the remaining de Runes needed now - to be invisible, to merge with the gray mass, to disappear being in sight. They were still wanted in their homeland after all.
Lost in thought, Amicia did not notice how she reached the city hall - a two-story stone building with a dovecote on the roof. Poorly lit den was waiting for her in there, a tiny place with a table, a quill and a bunch of accounting books, which she checked from morning to evening. It was a decent job, she was paid good money—good enough for a foreigner, of course. But it was never enough, and sometimes she had to go to bed with an empty stomach just to be able to feed mother and Hugo.
But the work brought her not only money. The monotony of her service soothed Amicia’s anxious mind. Plunging into the numbers, she forgot about time, about herself, about nightmares, and about everything in general; she ran her finger along the countless pages, making notes and enjoying the inner silence. Sometimes she was thinking amusedly what younger Amicia would say if she saw her like this, still and concentrated: Amicia had always preferred riding to actual lessons, and sling training to embroidery. But times have changed, and she has changed, even though in a way that was totally unexpected for herself.
“I hear an alchemist arrived last night. A good one.” Amicia heard a male voice from the corridor. Two officials passed by her closet and stopped at a nearby window, talking. “He stayed on the square, just right there. My wife says he's from Birmingham.”
"Just in time," grunted another man. “The gout has been killing me for months, I can barely walk!”
An alchemist! This could be indeed helpful.
Although Beatrice said she was better, she was still very sick. Cruel torture in the casemates of the damn inquisitor left its indelible mark: mother was often tormented by terrible headaches that wouldn’t go away for days. A year ago, she lost feeling in her legs almost completely, and her energy was barely enough to get out of bed. The doctors Amicia had brought to her in recent years said that a severe head injury could cause that; Amicia still had this awfully vivid memory of her mother turning terribly pale at these words. Later, swallowing back unstoppable tears, Beatrice quietly told her about how Nikolas hit her in the face with his iron-clad fists.
Amicia remembered how she and Hugo had killed him. It was hell, but it was worth going through. For mom.
While Lucas was there, he prepared herbal infusions that eased her pain. But without him, Beatrice became much worse, and all the medicines that they could find or prepare had no effect.
Amicia herself could no longer live with constant nightmares. She already forgot the last time she woke up and felt refreshed. Perhaps the visiting alchemist could find a remedy for her ailment too.
Having finished her business, she went straight to the said square. The crowd was already dispersed; the sun had almost set, letting the early November night to take over. Only a few shopkeepers were still waiting for late customers; the butcher was chatting with the milkmaid; the blacksmith's daughter, a tall girl with pale eyes, looked wistfully at the people passing by her goods. A large cart, similar to a gypsy's, was seen at the far edge of the square; Amicia had never seen it there before. A revival around it was quite noticeable.
Two girls passed by, giggling loudly.
“He's so handsome!” Amicia heard. “Lord, if only I wasn’t married…”
Amicia smiled involuntarily.
Stepping closer to the wagon, she saw a tall, dark-haired man surrounded by several women. He stood with his back to her, but Amicia guessed that he was quite young; his narrow shoulders, a slender, energetic figure, and ease of movement instantly gave out his youthfulness. Finally, Amicia caught a glimpse of his profile for a moment; she noted the dark stubble that accentuated his graceful features.
She stepped closer.
The man, noticing her movement, raised his eyes to her.
The eyes Amicia would recognize even in a thousand years.