Fire Emblem Fan Fiction ❯ Fire Emblem Tellius Saga: Book 1 ❯ CHAPTER 7: SURVIVAL ( Chapter 7 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

After two days of walking, Soren found himself wishing he didn’t have quite so many fond memories of Ike to look back on. They were like poison weakening his legs and his resolve. The sun felt too hot, the air too humid, his throat too parched, and his stomach too empty. He had come to know ease and comfort, and it had ruined him for the way the world truly was.

The days stretched into a week, and then one week became two. He’d quickly spent his meager coins and eaten through the food he’d taken. Now he survived on the ample fields that crosshatched the Crimean countryside like a quilt of golds and greens. He slept under the stars on clear nights and sought shelter wherever he could when it rained. This often meant someone’s barn, carriage house, or tool shed. He used wind magic to break locks when necessary and became quite adept at the simple, albeit precise, technique.

He passed people each day, and for the most part, he was treated warily but not unkindly. When people asked him who he was and where he was headed, he’d claim to be the apprentice of a mage in Melior embarking on a pilgrimage as part of his training. The yokels ate this up. If they showed any concern or suspicion, Soren assured them he was traveling alone of his own free will. He carried himself with confidence, and if anyone asked about his age, he claimed to be older than he was. If need be, he also claimed to be a Spirit Charmer, but as Greil had predicted, most people did not know or care what that was. Soren soon learned that a haughty tone, a passive expression, and a wind tome at his side were enough to satisfy the people’s curiosity or dissuade them from their fears.

 

The weeks turned into months, and summer faded into fall. The leaves on the trees crisped, the nights grew colder, and the fields were harvested, leaving little for Soren to steal. As he grew hungrier (and dirtier), his performance became less convincing. People regarded him with open distrust. They no longer believed his lies, clearly assuming he was a thief or a runaway. Some reported him to the local militia, while others threatened violence if he kept loitering around their fields and pastures. Soren always moved on. He was never arrested, and none of the people who threatened him actually hurt him.

When the last autumnal crops were squirreled away, leaving nothing at all for Soren to scavenge, the first frost bit the earth, and he woke up feeling half-frozen and terrified. He built a fire (heedless of who might see the smoke and come investigate) and was not satisfied until he could feel all his fingers and toes again. Stamping out the embers, he decided the countryside was too exposed. He would never survive a winter battling the elements, so he set a course for the nearest city.

 

The city’s name was Nirse, and its expertise was in textiles. The best cloth in Crimea was produced here, and Soren hoped to find work at one of the mills. He asked anyone who would talk to him to point him toward a factory with openings and soon discovered that any of them would take on a new hand as long as they were cheap and had all of their fingers and half a lick of sense.

The first boss he met gave him a cot in a hole with a dozen other dirty-faced children, and within an hour Soren was at work, mindlessly moving a shuttle across the length of a loom, elbow-to-elbow with orphans and vagabonds.

The other adolescents prodded and teased Soren while they worked, trying to intimidate him, to break his concentration, perhaps force him to make a mistake and get thrown out. It was clear they didn’t want him here. But Soren kept his head down and did as he had been instructed. No one could pester him with any seriousness, because they had their own looms to attend.

When the shift ended, however, that was a different story. The children stood in a line to receive their wages and their evening gruel, and here they began challenging Soren in earnest. One of the older boys came up behind him, wrapping an arm around his neck and squeezing. “Leave,” he whispered in Soren’s ear, “if ya know wha’s good f’r ya.”

Soren tried to pull the boy’s arm away, but he was stronger and didn’t let go until he wanted to. Soren coughed, and the line moved on.

The overseer gave Soren a single copper piece for his half-day’s work, while the other weavers received two each. But he was not allowed to keep it for long. Another of the boys grabbed his wrist before he could put the coin in his pocket and twisted his arm behind his back, forcing him to lean over. “Give it,” he growled.

Soren clasped the coin tightly in his fist and tried to break free. But his nose was within easy reach of another kid’s knee, which came up fast.

Soren released his fingers, and the coin slipped into the boy’s hand. He instantly released Soren, who covered his bleeding nose. It wasn’t broken, but it still hurt. Turning over his shoulder, he saw the overseer still passing out coins to the other children. He must have seen what had happened, but he didn’t seem to care.

The line moved onto where some sort of brown slop was being served out of a large pot. Each of the children in front of him pulled a dirty bowl from inside their shirts or bags. Soren did not have a bowl, and he explained this when he reached the server.

“You get one,” the server answered, taking a bowl off the stack behind him. “Don’t lose it.” One ladleful of the mysterious cuisine fell into the bowl, and the server threw a small slice of gray bread on top. Soren’s stomach ached hungrily at the smell. This was the only meal the mill provided its young weavers, and it was certainly the only meal Soren had had today.

He planned to head outside and find some secluded corner to eat in safety, but he didn’t make it that far. Two children blocked the door, and another came up behind him. She reached for the bowl, snarling happily: “Oh boy, seconds.”

Soren jerked the bowl away, but that only made her smile. “Careful, you’ll spill.”

She reached again, and Soren dodged again. But this time one of the children sprang forward and seized the bowl from the other side. Soren struggled to hold on, and hot gruel washed over both of their hands.

“Let go!” the kid growled, but Soren refused.

Then the girl who’d originally tried taking the bowl bashed down on both their arms, ending the struggle. The bowl fell to the ground, spilling everywhere. “Now look what ya did,” she sneered in satisfaction.

The other kid laughed, and the one blocking the door came forward to see the result. Standing in front of the trio, Soren was filled with rage, but he knew he would lose if he tried to fight. Even if he could utter a spell in time, amateur wind magic wouldn’t be much help against three opponents.

“Hey, you little shits!” the server called from across the room. “Clean that up!”

“You heard Ol’ Sal,” said the leader. “Clean it up.”

“With what?” Soren dared ask.

“You got a tongue, don’t ya?”

Soren wondered if he could escape unscathed if he just decided to walk away. “I’m not hungry,” he lied and made for the door. He fully expected to be hit from behind, and he was prepared to duck if he heard a blow coming. But it didn’t.

Once outside in the cool night air, Soren licked the spillage from his hands and set about searching for a garbage heap and perhaps something edible somewhere in it. When it became too cold to stay outside, he returned to the mill and crawled into the hole with the other children. They jeered and threatened him as soon as he arrived, but they didn’t attack.

The threadbare blanket the overseer had put on the cot was gone, so Soren just curled up and wrapped his extra cloak around himself. The stolen blanket was to be expected, and on the bright side, he was relieved to find no urine or fecal matter had been left in its place. He knew how cruel children could be. 

He slept lightly and woke quickly when he heard footsteps. However, waking suddenly did little to stop the blanket being pressed over his face or the wiry little hands holding his arms down. Soren kicked and squirmed, struggling to breathe.

“Leave,” a voice hissed. “We don’t need a freak like you making things worse for us.”

At that, Soren stopped squirming and the blanket came off his face. He gasped the stale air, and bodies moved away from him in the dark. All of the righteous anger Soren felt at his treatment suddenly blew out of him. He knew he shouldn’t have expected anything better. People would always seem him as a curse, and they would do whatever they could to relieve themselves of that curse. These were scared, starving kids. They didn’t owe him the benefit of the doubt.

 

Despite the difficult first day and night, Soren stayed at the mill another week. He tried to make it work, quickly learning that he was more likely to keep his pay if he was one of the first in line to receive it and if he found a place away from the mill to hide it. Similarly, he learned he was more likely to eat his gruel if he poured it down his throat standing up, as soon as it entered his bowl. He learned to sleep under his cot, rather than on top of it, and he learned to spend as little time as possible in the mill or in the hole when not working or sleeping. Even if the streets were cold, most of the other children wouldn’t torment, and if they did, there was a better chance of escape.

But Soren was constantly hungry and exhausted, and he decided he was not able to keep enough of his pay to make the long hours kneeling at the loom worthwhile. So he left the mill at the end of the week and found a different boss.

People’s habits were more or less the same wherever he went: the adults didn’t care about his birthmark as long as he could work, but the children did. An overseer would show him the ropes and leave him alone. From that point on, the kids would try to force him out. Soren did his best to survive, and he used magic to fight back only on three occasions, when he reasoned that the display of force was more likely to get him out of trouble than into deeper into trouble. Two of the three times, he was right and the ploy worked. But on the third occasion, the spell didn’t do as much damage as he’d hoped, and in return for the scratch, the older kid beat Soren worse than he had been in a long time.

Soren lost two teeth (accidentally swallowing one), but at least they were baby teeth and so no permanent damage was done. His left eye swelled shut, but he hoped his vision would be fine when the swelling went down. None of his limbs were broken, but his right arm was dislocated and had to be popped back into place by the overseer.

The perpetrator was not kicked out, but his day’s wage was docked. The overseer was clearly angry one of his weavers had been impaired. “You’d better be able to work tomorrow,” he warned him, “or you’re out of here.”

Soren returned to the loom the next day, but he could hardly move his arm. Deciding it was not worth the pain or the paltry wage, let alone the increased risk of losing a finger to the machine, Soren eventually left his post and walked out of the mill. He wouldn’t be paid a half-day’s wage, but he didn’t care. He curled up in the weaver’s quarters to get some rest until the overseer came with a whip and shouted at him to get out. Soren obeyed, and use of the whip was unnecessary.

 

Snow had set in for the winter, and Soren felt trapped in the city, certain that leaving would mean dying from exposure. At least here he could burn trash and bits of pilfered wood in a secluded alleyway and keep himself warm for a night. There were other homeless people in these alleys—the ones who were too sick to work or were missing appendages and therefore useless in the textile mills. Others were mad, mumbling to themselves and behaving erratically, although they were otherwise whole.

Forced to mingle with the dregs of society, forced to steal, crawl, and hide to survive, Soren passed the long hard winter. He had kept the bowl from the first factory, and sometimes he set it on the ground beyond the gates of the city’s temple, where he could spend a couple hours begging during the warmest part of the day. If he kept his head tucked down, no one saw his birthmark and assumed he was just another pathetic orphan. Sometimes this masquerade earned him a copper coin thrown into his bowl. But more often, an acolyte from the temple would come out and shoo him with a broom.

They knew his face from the time he’d joined the other homeless and helpless people who sought alms here. The priests gave the poor folk bread and broth once a week, but upon seeing Soren’s mark, they had refused to give him anything and begun chanting prayers of purification. He had left and never set foot within the temple grounds again. Begging outside the front gate was the best he could do—not that he expected any mercy from the Goddess. This was simply where the most charitable fools were likely to pass by.

 

“Why d’yah fight sah hard tah stah alive?” a grizzled one-eyed, three-toothed man asked Soren one day when the pair shared a fire for warmth. Their paths had crossed often enough the past two months, and he always seemed amused by Soren’s daily efforts to find food and shelter. “Can’t yah tehk ah hint? Nob’dy wants yah breathin’ up their air and bein’round where their eyes can see yah.”

Soren scowled over the tiny flame and refused to answer. But he did ponder the question in the privacy of his mind. In truth, the prospect of giving up had never occurred to him. Even if no one thought he had any value now, Soren dreamed of becoming someone of worth—and the first step to that was staying alive long enough to become that person. He refused to succumb to cold and starvation here in this pathetic corner of nowhere.

 

At the first snowmelt, Soren left Nirse, even though he doubted winter would be gone for long. The warming of the air held the promise of progress, and he was desperate to move on. When a snowstorm hit later that week, Soren hid in a barn until it passed. Once the winds and flying ice had stopped, a farmer came to check on his animals. Finding the barn’s lock broken, he quickly discovered Soren’s hiding place and chased him out. But he did not strike Soren with any of the dangerous-looking implements hanging on the wall, and for that Soren considered himself lucky. 

 

We wandered the countryside, moving from one small town to the next, over the following days. He asked for work wherever he went, and sometimes he found it. When people were cruel to him or turned him away, he came back in the night and used magic to break into their cellars, storehouses, and barns. He took what he needed to survive, but he was always cautious, fully aware that some people would kill to protect what little they had.

Each day stretched unremarkably into the next, and Soren forgot what trust and charity were. His memories of living with Greil and Elena seemed like a dream he’d made up to ease the bitterness he felt toward every other human he shared this world with.

But once in a while, a rare act of kindness would ground him again, and the days would seem new. Soren was slogging down a country road through a half foot of freshly fallen snow when a friendly voice called to him:

“Supper’ll be served in’n hour or so, kid. Go grab your people an’ come on by!”

Soren turned to the owner of the voice—a teenaged girl perched on the top rung of a fence. She had one leg outstretched with the other crossed over it at the knee. She seemed quite comfortable, precariously balanced as she was.

Soren stepped forward cautiously, knowing that seeing his face was likely to change her tone and retract her offer in an instant.

She did seem surprised, but her expression was more chagrinned than spiteful. “Woah there, you ain’t Gilly and Beb’s kid, huh?”

“I am not,” he answered.

She leapt down from the fence, and Soren got a better look at her. She had long teal hair tied back with a red ribbon, and around her neck was a thick red scarf. The scarf was luxurious and didn’t match the rest of her outfit: boots, overalls, a wool sweater, and a scrap-skin jacket.

“You from aroun’ here? I don’t think I’ve seen your face ‘afore.”

“I am just passing through.”

“Well, my offa’ still stands, you know. It’s Grandaddy’s bir’day, s’all the neighbors are ‘nvited to super. Travelers too, why not, right?”

Soren hesitated. “Are you certain you are in a position to make that offer?”

The girl shrugged. “We’ve got plenty’a food, and we’ve all got to support one o’nother, right? That’s what Ashera teaches us, and it’s what Granddaddy would do. Come on, I’ll show you the way.” She sprung agilely over the fence that had previously been her perch.

Soren hesitated.

“If you’re meetin’ some’n down the roa’ or you got a place to get to’n a hurry, I ‘spect that. But if you’re hungry, don’t be shy. We’re all good people aroun’ here.” 

Soren decided to take her at her word. Forgoing the promise of food was too much for his empty stomach to bear. Not to mention, seeing this girl’s face and hearing her voice devoid of disgust was an enormous relief. She reminded Soren of Ike and his family. She reminded him that Ike, Greil, and Elena had all been real. There were indeed people who could look at Soren without only seeing the mark on his forehead.

“I’m coming,” he said, ducking between the rungs of the fence.

“My name’s Nephenee by the way, kid,” she said when he reached her. She held out her hand, but Soren didn’t take it. Better not to press his luck.

“Soren,” he said simply.

They crossed through a wide pasture containing several clusters of cows. They were lying on their stomachs among the short, bristly grass. Soren thought it looked odd.

“Them lyin’ down like that means it's gonna storm,” Nephenee explained, perhaps noticing his gaze. “The cows always know when it’s gonna start stormin’. This time of year it’s all snow. It’s no good for the preg’nt ones. The cold’s holdin’ on a long time this year, and it’s not lookin’ good for the early calvin’…” She prattled on about cows the rest of the way to the farmhouse, whose porch was lit with a string of paper lanterns.

The house was busy with people cooking, drinking, and laughing, and Soren was nervous to meet so many people at once. He had every expectation that they would not be as welcoming as Nephenee. But the girl had the tact to introduce him as ‘My new friend Soren,’ and the suspicion in the adults’ eyes quickly faded. Once again, Soren was surprised by the effect of a single person vouching for him.

After paying his respects to Nephenee’s ancient and delirious grandfather, Soren scrubbed up in the family’s bathhouse so he wouldn’t stand out as much. Then he kept to the periphery of the party, waiting for the food cooking in the kitchen and in the firepit outside to be served. Then he dug in without hesitation.

When his stomach was full, he grabbed what he could and wrapped it in paper to keep it from staining the wind tome in his satchel. If rationed, these leftovers could hold him over another day or two. Feeling full and sleepy, Soren wished to leave the party as soon as possible and find a place to sleep for the night.

He did not seek Nephenee to say thank you or goodbye. Instead, he slipped off and broke into the family’s grain store half a mile away. The place was heady with the smell of fermenting corn, and Soren let it lull him to sleep.

The cows were right about the snow, and another late-season storm hit that night. The snow blew into a drift against the door, and he had to wait several hours for the sun to soften it enough to dig himself out the next morning.

 

Soren always kept his ears and eyes open, even while he tried to keep out of sight. This was how he learned of possible opportunities for work or shelter in other towns. He learned to pay special attention to where migrant workers, pilgrims, and other transients were headed. Strangers were not as unexpected in these places, and so he aroused less suspicion.

It was by eavesdropping and following in the footsteps of others that Soren learned of a temple at the intersection of three towns. The holy compound possessed a famous statue of Ashera carved a century ago by one of Crimea’s preeminent sculptors, as well as a library of historical and holy texts for priests and priestesses in training. They were even known for safeguarding a holy artifact known as the Goddess’s Chalice, although the Begnion Theocracy refused to authenticate it.

The errant sons and daughters of noblemen were sent here to learn discipline, and acolytes who had violated the doctrines of their faith came here to take vows of silence as punishment. And despite its colloquial fame, the temple itself was frequented by the farmers, artisans, and merchants who lived in the three surrounding towns. The more Soren heard about the Temple Asic, the more he thought it would be the perfect place to blend in, so he set his feet in that direction.

Eventually large stone lanterns appeared along the roadside. It was twilight now, and someone had already lit them. Soren followed the trail of lights, and the compound soon came into view between two hills.

A large wooden gate marked the entrance to the temple grounds, and to the east was a well-kept cemetery. Abandoning the road for a moment, Soren foraged among the graves to find recent offerings people had left their deceased relatives. Sometimes these foolishly wasted gifts were edible, and he had no qualms about stealing from the dead.

Satisfied he’d found everything there was to eat, Soren returned to the road and passed under the gate. The winding path brought him to an enormous stone statue of Ashera, and cast in the flickering firelight, her rigid face looked monstrous.

After staring for a few moments, Soren realized he was not alone. An elderly man was shuffling in the dark, finishing lighting the braziers. As he added more light, Ashera’s face grew more human, but no less severe.

“You there...” Soren acknowledged his presence although he did not seem to have noticed him yet. The old man jumped, dropping the candle he’d been using to light the lanterns. Due to the lack of snows the past week, last autumn’s leaves were dry, matted, and ready to catch. A pile on the edge of the path immediately took the flame.

Soren’s first thought was that he would be blamed for any damage the fire caused, which would certainly not work in his favor. His second thought was that he might be able to extinguish the fire with wind magic and prevent that from happening. Clenching the binding of his wind tome through the worn leather of the satchel, he uttered a simple spell and suffocated the flames with a wisp of air. Leaves and dirt blew into a tiny cyclone, but at least the fire disappeared.

The incantation was one he knew better than his own name, and he hadn’t needed to read it directly in order for it to work. Satisfied that he’d averted his own incrimination, Soren turned his attention back to the man, who was staring at Soren with a confused sort of gratitude. “Goodness, my child! Thank the Goddess for your quick thinking.”

Soren did not think Ashera had anything to do with it, but he didn’t say that aloud. He didn’t say anything, instead watching and waiting for the old man’s reaction. Judging by his simple white robes, he was some sort of priest, acolyte, or monk, and his reaction would be the first indication of whether or not Soren would be allowed to seek refuge here.  

With a tiny wheeze, he bent and picked up his candle. He had large blue eyes, beneath which sagged deep hammocks of wrinkles. These pushed down on his cheeks, forcing them to spill over the edge of his jaw like flows of magma. White hair shot straight out of his ears although there was not much left on his head or face. What remained of his eyebrows were two cluster of white whiskers that protruded from the points where his brow came together to make a curious expression. His small mouth was pressed into a closed-lipped smile, tucked between those igneous cheeks. “Tell me, what brings you to our modest shrine at this late hour?” he asked after a moment of mutual contemplation.

“Something to eat and a place to sleep,” Soren answered honestly.

The man bobbed his head with his eyes closed. “Come with me, and I will see you taken care of. Are you travelling alone?”

“Yes.”

The man bobbed his head again. “This way.” He started shuffling down the path, leaving half of the lanterns unlit. Soren followed, annoyed with his slow pace.

“My name is Belmephue,” the man introduced himself as they walked, “but please call my Belm. I am Head Priest here at Temple Asic.”

Soren was surprised at his luck. Stumbling upon the leader first certainly simplified matters. “My name is Soren,” he replied.

“It is wonderful to meet you, Soren,” Belm said warmly. “I see that you are a talented practitioner of the arcane arts for a boy so young. Please, tell me your story.”

Soren was prepared with the appropriate lies, but he knew that offering them too quickly and in too much of a well-rehearsed manner often made people suspicious. So he presented a reluctant exterior. “I am no one.”

“We are all someone, Soren,” the old priest chuckled. “We are all the children of our Great Mother.”

Soren did not reply. He would not feign faith for this man and end up having to act the part of a zealot the rest of the evening.

“Do you pray to the Goddess, dear child?” Belm asked as if the question were a baited hook.

But Soren imagined himself a clever fish that could take the bait without being caught. “Not recently,” he answered.

Belm nodded as if this were acceptable. “I would like you to pray with me later, Soren. It would make me very happy.”

“Okay,” Soren agreed after a moment’s pause, careful to seem neither enthusiastic nor reluctant.

The path soon forked, and Soren could see the shadowy walls and lit windows of buildings ahead. Belm led them on the rightmost path, and when it divided again, he did the same. This brought them to a modest building that was more likely the clergy’s living quarters than the compound’s main hall of worship. Smoke was rising from the chimney, and Soren hoped that meant there was hot food inside.

Belm pushed open the door and gestured that Soren should enter first. He was more than willing to oblige and found the interior was sparsely decorated but cozy with warmth. There were six narrow beds lined three to a wall, and on the other end of the room was a fireplace around which stood a few straight-backed chairs. Next to the fireplace was an archway leading to another room, in which Soren could see the outlines of a few desks and what was probably a shelf of books and scrolls. 

By the fire were two terse-looking women with tightly braided hair wearing simple white smocks. One was poking the smoldering logs with a stick while the other read a book in one of the chairs. The two women looked incredibly similar, and Soren wondered if they were twins. Their age was hard to determine, but he guessed they were both at least forty. Another old man was sleeping on one of the beds. He was shrunken to almost nothing with age, and yet his shriveled form released impressively loud, rumbling snores.

When Belm closed the door, the women gave them their attention but said nothing. They stared, their eyes questioning.

“Sister Eliza, Sister Maren, this young boy has just saved me from starting a fire in Ashera’s shrine with my own carelessness. His name is Soren. Please let him join you by the fire.” The two women nodded, and the seated one patted the chair next to her. Soren sat and worked his numb hands in the glow. Meanwhile, Belm continued his introduction: “Soren is a mage you know,” he said to the sisters as if this somehow made him a special guest.

In response, they looked happy and intrigued, but they still said nothing.

Ben turned toward Soren to explain. “You will have to forgive them. Sisters Eliza and Maren are acolytes hoping to become priestesses. As part of their training, they have taken vows of silence for a year’s time. They will not be able to converse with you.”

The women nodded their greetings to punctuate his words. In return, Soren nodded his understanding.

“Over there we have the former Head Priest of this temple, Brother Oten.” He gestured at the snoring man. “Two more acolytes round out our little family, but Mr. Noah and Mr. Sean are both at prayer this hour.”

Soren nodded again, not inclined to make small talk. All he wanted was the meal Belm had promised, but before he could remind him of his offer, Belm seemed to remember on his own. “The kitchen is in a different building, and it is quite cold this time of night. I will not subject you to it,” he chuckled, “but I will return shortly. Sister Maren will take care of you until then.”

Maren nodded dutifully. Rising from her seat, she immediately began setting a kettle over the hearth.

“Eliza, I was not able to finish lighting the lanterns. Would you complete the task?”

Eliza mimicked her sister’s nod and immediately strode over to the door, where she donned a cloak and exited with Belm.

Left alone in the quiet room, Soren stared at Maren while she stared at him just as intently. He was no stranger to silence and even preferred it to meaningless prattle. When the water was done, Maren poured him a mug of bitter tea. It tasted medicinal, but Soren drank it anyway, hoping that it would at least be fortifying. When she was apparently done staring, Maren returned to her book. Minutes ticked by. The fire crackled. Oten snored.

Finally Belm reappeared. “Brrr,” he shivered, shaking his jowls. Once he had removed his cloak and boots, he handed Soren an empty bowl and set about positioning a small pot over the fire. Into this he poured a savory broth from a pouch thrown over his shoulder. “Usually we do not allow cooking and eating in the sleeping quarters,” he explained while he spun the broth with a long-handled spoon, “But for a special guest, exceptions can be made.” Belm withdrew several strips of salted meat and some wrinkly tuber-looking things from a bag strung over his arm and tossed these into the pot as well. Finally he searched the sleeve of his robe until he found a hunk of bread, which he handed Soren along with another pouch of water. “Please.”

Soren did not hesitate to dig into the crust. He had learned the best method of eating bread without spilling (and therefore wasting) many crumbs, and it had become his habit to drink plenty of water between every bite to make his stomach feel fuller. When the soup was ready, Belm ladled it into Soren’s bowl and gave him and a deep-bellied spoon with which to drink it.

Eliza returned, bid Belm goodnight with a strange sort of salute, and then she knelt by her bed to say silent prayers. Maren, on the other hand, seemed content to watch Soren eat, balancing the book she’d been reading on her knee.

It had been a long time since Soren had last seen a book, so he leaned over slightly to steal a glance at the title. But there were no words on the outer binding for him to discern.

“Do you read?” Belm broke the silence. He must have noticed his interest.

“Yes,” Soren answered.

“Well of course, you are a mage,” Belm laughed. Noticing that Soren’s bowl was nearly empty, he poured in another ladleful. Soren continued to chew and sip. Flavor and texture did not mean much to him anymore, but it was hot, and there was something to be said for that.

“Where were you educated, if you do not mind the question?” Belm asked, taking one of the other seats and holding his gnarled hands to the hearth.

“In the south,” Soren half-lied. The man would surely assume southern Crimea before thinking he meant Gallia. “I was apprenticed to a wind sage.”

Belm looked appropriately impressed. “’Was’ apprenticed,” he observed, “Have you mastered the element already?”

“My master died,” he explained, staring at the fire and keeping the spoon moving from the bowl to his mouth.

Belm emitted a tiny, sympathetic gasp. “I am sorry to hear that,” he said with a nod, “But we all return to Ashera’s embrace, when it is our time.”

Soren lowered his gaze to the bowl and did not reply. Silence stretched between them. He would rather have eaten without making conversation or offering careful lies. But he knew the lull wouldn’t last.

After Belm tilted the pot and ladled the very last of the soup in to Soren’s bowl, he resumed his interrogation: “Forgive me if this is presumptuous, but I wonder if you are not a Spirit Charmer, to possess such talent for the arcane arts at such a tender age.”

Soren was rarely asked this question directly, but he didn’t let that trip him up. He turned to look Belm in the eye and lied easily: “Yes, I am.”  

The old priest was obviously pleased to hear this, and there was something dark, perhaps greedy, behind his jolly, wrinkle-ringed eyes. “I knew I had a good feeling about you. Maren, this boy lives under the Pact of Ashera’s Protection!” The acolyte’s face lit up, and she clapped her hands softly in appreciation. Soren knew that any attention could be dangerous, even if it was positive attention like this. He would have to proceed even more carefully.

“Tell me, what was it like to commune with the Goddess herself and receive her favor?”

Soren knew he needed to curb the man’s enthusiasm, and he quickly fashioned a lie. “I do not remember the ceremony,” he said, trying to seem a bit regretful. “My parents entered me into the pact when I was very young.”

“Ah, then you are a blessed child to be given such a gift.” Belm bobbed his head. “Are you traveling to see your parents now?”

“They died,” Soren lied vaguely, “years ago.”

Maren reached out a hand to stroke his arm consolingly, but this only made Soren lurch from the sudden touch. If there had been anything left in the bowl, it would have spilled. He quickly tried to control himself again, knowing that suspicious behavior like this could unravel his whole ruse.

Maren retracted her arm, and Belm tugged the bowl out of his hands. “If you have had your fill, I will set up a place for you to sleep tonight. “Maren, would you please retrieve the extra blankets and sleeping mat?”

The acolyte obeyed, slipping into the other room and taking her book with her.

Belm set about moving two of the chairs away from the wall near the hearth, and Soren stood up. “It is not much,” Belm apologized, “but it should at least be warm here next to the fire.”

A moment later, Maren returned with the bedding, and she and Belm laid it down. The sleeping mat was thicker and softer than any Soren had ever laid on before, and his eyelids felt heavy just looking at it.

After this, Maren made the same good-night gesture as Eliza and went over to her own bed, where she kneeled just like her sister. Belm, however, was lingering, patting down the top blanket. “Is there anything else you need, Soren?”

“No.” In truth, all he wanted now was to rest.

“We can discuss this more in the morning, but there is a proposition I would like you to sleep on, so to speak.”

Soren waited to hear more before showing a reaction.

Belm continued, “We are short-staffed this season with no new acolytes or novices coming to study, but if you would like to stay, we would be honored to have a Spirit Charmer live and pray among us. Here, let us share a prayer now.” He took Soren’s hands, and even though his mind rebelled against the touch, he did not pull away. The priest kneeled by Soren’s makeshift bed, forcing him to kneel as well. With Soren’s hands clasped in his, he closed his eyes and began chanting.

The first prayer was in the common tongue, and Belm asked for such things as patience to deal with hard times and the ability to treat other people with kindness. Soren hoped that would be the end of it, but then he launched into another prayer in the ancient language (which Soren hardly caught a word of) and then a final prayer in the common tongue. This one asked for Ashera to watch over and protect the weak and the poor throughout all of tonight. Soren wondered how Belm decided to set the boundaries for his prayers, but he did not taunt or tease him.

When it was finally over, Belm opened his eyes and smiled. “I certainly feel better. How do you feel?” Soren just shrugged noncommittally and was glad when Belm finally let go of his hands. “Sleep well, my child, and consider my offer. You are welcome here.”

Soren nestled down between the blanket and the sleeping mat and turned his back to the warm hearth. He was facing a corner, but if he looked up, he could see the cloudy night sky through the window pane. It was certainly the most comfortable place he’d had to sleep in recently weeks, and he couldn’t deny the temptation of the priest’s offer.

Despite his exhaustion, Soren remained awake long enough to consider the potential risks. Staying here for even a week would mean living a careful lie. If any of the temple’s clergy saw through his façade, he would be harshly cast out. But if that was the worst that could happen, then it was nothing he wasn’t used to.

Staying would undoubtedly require participating in the daily rituals of the temple, and that would be tedious. But there were worse fates than tediousness, and the work shouldn’t be too difficult. There was a chance the pilgrims and parishioners would make trouble for him, but that was a bridge he could cross when he came to it.

Finally Soren turned his mind to the fact that Belm had made the offer at all. Recalling the spark of coveting in his eye, Soren wondered why Belm wanted a Spirit Charmer installed at his temple. The peasants would not care one way or another, and Soren didn’t think he would make much of an exhibit for religious nobles. There was always the possibility he was a pedophile in clergy’s clothing, but in a well-trafficked temple like this, Soren reasoned that was unlikely. That left the likelihood that Belm truly believed the Spirit’s Protection brought a mage closer to the Goddess. If so, Soren could use that. All he needed to do was pass himself off as Spirit Charmer without allowing Belm to a cast him as a prophet or sideshow.

By the time he drifted off to sleep, Soren had come to the obvious decision: he would stay at Temple Asic. After all, he had no other prospects.