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This small tavern by the Canalbrine docks is packed with so many knights that it feels rather like being back in Stormhail—except, blessedly, the ale is far better, and when the door swings open to admit more of their comrades there’s no icy blast of howling blizzard winds, only the gentlest breath of ocean breeze.
Half of their ship must be crammed in here by now, drinking the poor barkeep dry, eager to congratulate Crick and hear the story firsthand after news of his capture of the Pontiff’s murderer spread like wildfire.
“More ale for our mighty Godsblade here! The hero of the day!” comes a call from somewhere in the crowd, and a rowdy cheer goes up.
“Thank you, but I shouldn’t,” Crick says politely, his face already flushed rosily from the many cups that have been plied on him so far. “I’ve had more than enough…” But his empty flagon has already been swapped for a full one, the merriment staunchly refusing to let up just yet.
Ort elbows him in the ribs. “You aren’t going to let it go to waste, are you?”
Crick smiles and picks up the flagon of ale, raising it in a toast to thunderous roaring and table banging, before downing a good amount in one go. He’s clearly not accustomed to this much attention. He left the ranks of the academy with few real friends beyond Ort, all his earnest talk of cleaving evil from the world coming off as a bit intense, or even laughable to the more cynical among them. But now he’s gone and proven it was more than just words—not that Ort ever doubted—and for his reward finds himself embraced enthusiastically with the belonging he deserves.
A knight from Ort’s squadron sits at their table, laughing heartily—Ort swears that she hasn’t stopped since she first heard of today’s events. “I would have paid good silver to see the Deputy Captain’s face after you broke ranks and handed over a murderer—with the Inquisitor, to boot! Bet she was seething. She’ll definitely have it out for you now, if she didn’t already.”
“Only a few weeks anointed and already you’ve slain a felvarg and foiled a murderous heretic,” remarks an officer that had traveled upon their vessel, as he passes by the table. “Better watch yourself, Wellsley—you’re making the rest of us look bad.”
One of the local knights, his breath rank with liquor, leans in close and claps Crick on the back. “Tell us how you felled the varg! A mate of mine at the cathedral saw the scene after an’ wrote that it was bigger’n a plow horse. Must’ve put up a helluva fight.”
Even Ort cannot help but look over in interest. Until now, Crick has carefully kept the tale to himself out of respect for the Pontiff and the ongoing investigation, but tonight the culprit is safely in shackles, and the alcohol is succeeding in loosening Crick’s tongue.
“It was a fearsome beast,” Crick begins. He speaks slowly, carefully, trying his hardest to keep his voice steady as his audience of equally drunken knights hang onto his every word. “Each fang and claw like a dagger, its fur so dense my blade barely left a mark. It… it seemed hopeless. But Temenos—Inquisitor Temenos, that is… he was not daunted. Brave as any knight, he lifted his staff and struck it on the snout. It let out such a whimper. And I knew then that we stood a chance.”
An awkward silence falls over their corner of the tavern, the surrounding knights staring at him in confusion, as if unsure whether he’s pulling their legs. Then one scoffs. “Yes, yes, but surely he couldn’t have slain it with a mere staff. The killing blow came from your sword. Tell us of that.”
Crick shakes his head, speaking around hiccups. “Not me, alas. It was his magic that ended the beast, and overcame Vados as well. I’ve never seen a cleric so fierce in battle…” He gazes into some unseen distance, beyond all of them and this tavern’s walls, lost deeply in drink and his own thoughts. It’s a worryingly long time before he speaks again, his eyes shining with wonder as he murmurs, “Temenos… He was not what I expected. Not at all…”
The other knights were quick to bore of him and move on while he was quietly pondering and have instead started belting a drunken song a few tables over, so only Ort is here to witness that last bit. How fortunate for him.
Ort places a heavy hand on Crick’s shoulder. And, for his own sake, he opts to pretend he heard nothing. He’ll pray to the Gods later, and beg some guidance for his foolish friend. “I believe it’s time we took this Godsblade back to the inn. We set sail bright and early tomorrow.”
Crick nods. His jaw is clenched tightly and his face suddenly white as a sheet as Ort helps him stand. The Gods must be shining some luck upon them, because they are blessed enough to make it outside before he empties his stomach into some bushes.
“Are you certain this is wise? We are technically on duty,” Crick reminds Ort as he frowns down at the flask he’s been handed.
The moon shines down on them where they sit upon a pair of crates in a quiet corner of the ship deck, close enough to the water to watch the dark waves breaking against the vessel and feel a cold misting of salt spray. It’s far less comfortable and far more blustery than the mess belowdeck where most of their shipmates are enjoying their evening leisure, but it’s nice to have some privacy. They could both do without the bother of having watered-down grog sloshed on their shoes in such tight quarters, or being needled into yet another retelling of Crick’s heroics for the group’s entertainment.
“You should take a moment to relax, while you still can,” Ort says. “Captain Kaldena is disembarking the ship for Flamechurch when we dock in the morning, and our squad along with her, so you will be in charge of overseeing the prisoner for the rest of your voyage to headquarters.”
Crick takes a sip from the flash and nearly splutters from the strength of the liquor. “What business could the captain have in Flamechurch?” he asks around coughs.
Ort raises an eyebrow. “What business do you have, questioning the actions of our captain?”
It’s amusing, the way Crick balks, his eyes wide with horror as he realizes what he’s just said. He’s always been far too easy to fluster. “I simply mean, what brings her to Flamechurch?” he says in a rush. “Are there still security concerns following the Pontiff’s murder? They must be quite dire, to warrant her personal attention.” He looks down at the flask in his hands, and the reflection of the nearby lantern flame on its metal surface, his expression contemplative, then pulls his gaze back up at Ort. “Do you not wonder?”
Ort just shrugs unconcernedly, taking back the flask for a much-needed swig. “I do not. It’s not my place,” he replies, and it’s not wholly a lie. He doesn’t have the time to concern himself with such questions, he already has his work cut out for him simply catching up to the more experienced knights in the Captain’s guard. “You have been spending too much time with the Inquisitor, I fear.”
Crick lets out a huff of what could laughter or protest, or both, but does not argue that point. They pass the flask back and forth in companionable silence for a time, until Crick says, “I wonder where he is now. Perhaps he’s reached the Wildlands—I’ve heard the beasts there are formidable.”
“Surely he will be fine. The way you told it the other night, he must be capable of wrestling a frost bear to the ground singlehandedly.”
Predictably, Crick blushes, the rosy hue that spreads across his face lingering as he takes another sip, then shakes the empty flask in disappointment, his eyes already clouded. Still the lightweight. No wonder he sticks to ale. “Sometimes… Sometimes I wonder if I should have gone with him...” Crick admits softly.
Ort suppresses a cringe. Oh, what a fine mess that would have been. “Your duty is here,” Ort reminds him sternly. “You are ensuring the heretic you captured together arrives securely at headquarters for questioning.”
Crick nods, slowly, and more times than necessary. “Yes. Yes, of course,” he agrees, and for a moment it seems like he may have come to his senses. But then he lets out a sigh that sounds a bit too wistful. “I should not worry so about Temenos… Inquisitor Temenos, I do mean,” he amends quickly. “He is capable of taking care of himself. And he is not alone, he was traveling with some companions. They seemed—” He pauses to hold back a belch, his manners carefully polite as always. “They seemed very reliable. So he must have no need for me.”
He’s not fooling anyone. Certainly not Ort, nor the Gods above, nor even the rats scurrying in the belly of the ship below them.
“Indeed,” Ort says flatly. “I’d toast to their safe travels, if I could.” He holds up the empty flask to punctuate that wry remark, but it seems to spark an idea in Crick. He sits up taller with new purpose, gazing up to the heavens.
“I will offer him my prayers, morning and night, until the day we meet again. In Stormhail.” He speaks it like a solemn vow. As earnestly devoted as he’d been upon their anointment as Godsblades, eyes gleaming with determination.
Ort sighs heavily. “Promise me you’ll save a few prayers for yourself, that you may stay out of further trouble—for a little while, at least.”
Ort had forgotten how truly awful the ale is in this town. But despite the half-full tankard of swill before him that he’s forcing himself to choke down, having paid good leaves for it, and despite the ever-present chill that has already seeped once more into his bones, unable to be kept at bay by the fire burning in the tavern’s hearth, it is a comfort to be back in Stormhail. And even more so to see Crick alive and well—not having gotten himself tangled up with any new murderous plots or dangerous beasts while they were parted—if in a rather somber mood.
It’s almost as if nothing has changed since their training days, Ort suddenly realizes, as they sit at their usual rickety table in this familiar, noisy tavern, himself listening with as much patience as the Gods will grant him while Crick rambles on about the Inquisitor. Back then it had been the same story over and over about Inquisitor Roi, and noble flames, and how the Inquisitor’s gentle kindness and wise words had guided him towards a new path. Ort would much prefer that again, over this.
“I told him it wasn’t fate,” Crick is saying morosely, his eyes big and pitiful and glazed from drink, as he hunches over yet another mug of bitter ale, “but I think I was wrong…”
Ort resists the urge to drag his hands down his face in frustration. “Yes, so you’ve already mentioned.” Several times, in fact.
Crick hardly seems to have heard him, too far adrift in the ocean of his musings. “What must I do, to make him see me as more than a foolish little lamb,” he ponders aloud. “If… if perhaps… I could take this investigation into my own hands… and questioned Vados myself…”
Grimacing, Ort takes a long swig of ale. “You will never get permission for that,” he points out. Crick does hear him that time, sulking in response.
That brief moment of blessed silence is harshly interrupted by a hand slamming against their table. A young knight still in training, thoroughly soused and swaggering about far too big for his britches, looms over them. “Wellsley! Tell us the tale of how you slayed the varg!” he demands.
Crick scowls at the unwanted company. “I’ve told it enough. Leave me be.”
But this pest will not be shooed away so easily, and his loud voice draws the attention of other knights nearby. Eager to hear more, they flock around the table like carrion birds.
One has the audacity to slide into the empty chair next to Ort, and waves about her tankard wildly as she speaks, coming perilously close to dumping half of it on his lap. “I wager there’s still heretics lurking around the cathedral, waiting to strike again.”
“Is it true you heard the Pontiff’s dying words?” another presses.
“Quite the odd coincidence, isn’t it?” comes a voice from behind them. “That you and the Inquisitor were the first on the scene like that.”
Crick has been making a good effort of tuning them out, but that last one breaks his resolve. “What are you saying?” he blurts out, turning in his seat. And Ort has a feeling that this isn’t going to end well.
The knight that spoke is one Ort recognizes from around headquarters, always obnoxiously ingratiating himself with the senior officers, his arrogant face made even more unpleasant by drink. He doesn’t waver under Crick’s glare, undaunted. “There’s a rumour going around that the Inquisitor had something to do with the plot. Wouldn’t be the first time a hound bit the hand of their master…”
“Silence! How dare you repeat such cruel and— and unfounded gossip.” Crick manages to sound impressively authoritative, even while slurring his words. “Take it back now, or…“
“Or what?” the rude knight sneers.
Eyes sharp with newfound focus, Crick rises to his feet, swaying only a little. “I will duel you, in the names of the Gods.”
Ort groans. “Crick…”
“You’re defending him? An Inquisitor? Surely you jest. They may act all high and mighty, sticking their snobbish noses where they don’t belong, but they’re nothing but the Pontiff’s dogs—“
Perhaps Ort could have stopped the punch Crick throws, if he really wished to, but Crick did deserve to get one good hit in. And it is awfully satisfying to watch the scoundrel crumple to the ground from a single punch. Then Crick is promptly tackled by two of the knight’s allies, and Ort knows he must fulfill his solemn but unspoken duty to always aid his friend in a bar fight. He sighs, gratefully sets down his ale, and stands to intervene.
It’s not very difficult to extract Crick from the fray, all its combatants pathetically clumsy and slow in their drunkenness. He shoves those foolish knights aside roughly so he can grab Crick by the scruff of his shirt and drag him to the door.
They escape outside, the stinging slap of the frigid air a more vicious foe than any within the tavern. Crick seems to be no worse for the wear, rumpled but not bruised or bleeding. Though still drunk, of course, and leaning heavily against Ort for support.
“It’s so cold here.” Crick’s breath rises as mist in the air. He turns his flushed face into the brisk wind and gazes up at the night sky, oppressively dark from the ever-present bank of clouds swirling above, empty of even moon and stars. “Temenos’s light is warm. He healed me after we fought the varg. It felt… nice.” The long sigh that escapes his lips is beyond wistful, now; he’s pining. “I hope I can see him again soon.”
“Perhaps it will be tomorrow,” Ort suggests as he tries to guide him along the street in the direction the barracks. “You should get to bed now, so you’ll be well-rested when he arrives.”
“Tomorrow…” Crick echoes in a murmur, his head slowly dropping onto Ort’s shoulder like he’ll fall asleep here and now, and Ort has to shake him awake again.
That damned Inquisitor better make haste. Ort doesn’t know how much longer he can put up with this.
“Temenos, you’ve been awfully quiet this evening.”
His eyes flit up to his companions briefly as he smiles into his glass of wine. “Merely thinking,” he says lightly. “We’re not far from Stormhail now. Much awaits me there.”
The truth he’s been hunting for so long, yes, of course—but also a certain young knight, with fiercely burning faith and shiny new armor, who has taken Temenos by surprise time and time again. Curiously, he finds his thoughts tend to drift most persistently to that particular little lamb whenever he’s had a few cups of wine. Curiouser still, he finds that he welcomes the distraction, and the feeling of fond warmth that blooms in his chest, an echo of what he’d felt in those moments when Crick had stood before him, adorably flustered.
And so, when the wine bottle is passed around again, he allows himself one more glass. But just the one, he tells himself. They depart Montwise early tomorrow morning, after all.