III #
The carriage rumbled, sending jolts through the planks every time the large wooden wheels rolled over a root, or even a pebble. Fortunately for Baptiste Gauthier, such things had long since lost their niggling snags at his patience. He was immune to nearly every mortal frustration known to man—at least, that’s what he liked to think.
However, the hypothesis seemed to hold water; considering he and his young apprentice had been shut away with the cheeses and grains day in and day out.
He’d nearly finished reading his third book since they started down the long road from Wystra and he was itching to move on to the fourth when the wagon shuttered to halt.
The wagon driver opened the door, bright moonlight flowing in to illuminate the dark cabin like seawater through a broken hull. Baptiste watched as the light glittered in his apprentice’s maroon-colored eyes, illuminated her smooth, fair skin.
How far we’ve come, my child…
“We’re making camp—need your eyes for one more night,” said the driver. “You sure you don’t want us taking shifts? You must be mighty tired by now.”
Baptiste offered a wry smile, careful to keep his mouth closed. “We’re up to the task, good man, I assure you. Rest well, we’ve nearly reached the summit.”
The driver grunted and nodded, then went off to help the other caravaners make camp.
“How is it,” his apprentice said, incredulous, “that these folks haven’t questioned our presence on this trip?”
“Wizards, my dear Armelia,” Baptiste tittered as he ambled out of the wagon, stretching his arms in open air, “are known for their eccentricities.”
She scoffed, shook her head. “Wizards…”
Not a one had questioned their odd behaviors, Baptiste’s strange habits. A full night’s rest on the road was a boon not to be questioned—an unspoken truth that Baptiste had long exploited.
Baptiste and Armelia made their own camp across from where the rest would sleep. He preferred to read by the moonlight rather than the guttering of a campfire. Besides, the further north they went, the higher up they climbed, the more majesty there was to be found in the night. How is it that in all my years, I’ve never ventured to the Great North?
Dusk’s Moon basked the wilds in her divine glow, and Baptiste took in her vivid paintings with captivation. Nature never ceased to amaze him. He sat on his stool, staring into the trees, for an hour or two before he even considered opening his fourth book that he so looked forward to reading. His eyes darted this way and that, watching faraway families of deer cross invisible avenues, and chubby chipmunks leap from fir to fir, their cheeks hoarded floor-to-ceiling with pine nuts.
His apprentice sighed and began tapping her foot against a log. Patience was a skill she had yet to attain—and likely, would not attain for many years. The young are so eager to charge into shadow of their futures. Nothing but time and experience can change that.
Fortunately, for Baptiste and his dear, young apprentice, those of their unique vocation needn’t worry on squandering their youth the way common folk oft did. It seemed the everyday Jorge had a nasty habit of learning his patience, only after he’s grown too old to enjoy it.
Take your time, my child, Baptiste thought, admiring Armelia’s sharp expression, her attentive alert. For the nights are long, and meant to be savored.
That was his favorite scripture. Mildly adjusted to fit his specific worldview, of course. It was one of the first things he had uttered to his apprentice, when first she opened her maroon eyes to the world as Baptiste saw it.
How far we’ve come… he thought again, this time accompanied by a note of mourning. How far, indeed.
Fatigued by contemplation, Baptiste finally turned his attention to his book, entitled The Encyclopaedia Monstronum and penned by none other than the enigmatic—and long since perished—Lord Byron Martikov. It was written before the eruption of Mount Vragognev wiped out the Eastern Kingdom of Kuzolova, and was intended as a very serious and very well-researched guide to the uncanny world of spirits and fae and demons.
Baptiste read it, with much enthusiasm and a hint of spite, as an absurdist comedy.
He had long since lost interest in non-fiction. Over the years, so much of it just seemed to regurgitate the same contradictory propaganda, the same misguided notions of nationalistic heroism. No, Baptiste preferred to read drama and poetry. Preferred to write it, too.
That was what had taken him to the Golden City, after all. Dreams of grandeur, forging himself anew. He was rather proud of his time there. Of the eight pseudonyms he managed publish under, two of them had gone on to gain some tangible recognition.
Of course, by that point he’d had to stop writing under those pseudonyms. Valentine writers were expected to maintain fruitful social lives, which clearly Baptiste was unable, and uninterested, in doing.
Had he known everything would all go to shit anyhow, perhaps he would have made an appearance as Julio de la Peña. Perhaps, he would have taken his—Julio’s—writing career to heights known only by the Valentine nobility, trained from birth to speak in iambic pentameter and write only with the most lyrical of rhetoric.
But how could he have known? Baptiste Fournier was many things… but he was no portent.
Oh well, Baptiste thought, summoning a weary sigh, whistling through his teeth. Whatever happens will happen, and we can do naught but carry on…
“What is it?” Armelia asked, her ears perked up at Baptiste’s slight discomfort.
“Oh, nothing,” he said. “Just reflecting. It’s been a long road—and I’m ready to settle down again.”
Armelia only nodded. Though she never said it aloud, Baptiste knew she was less than thrilled about their exodus to the north. Of course, she was—she was so young, had a whole life ahead of her. To have all that ripped out from under her… it was almost too much for Baptiste to bear.
A hare jumped out from a snow drift a ways down a slope. They both snapped their heads around, their eyes trained on the tiny critter, so oft hunted by their betters. Armelia’s teeth chattered, as if she were shivering, but he knew shivering, she was not.
“We’re nearly to the village,” Baptiste spoke slowly and annunciating every word. “One more night, my apprentice. One more night.”
Armelia breathed deep through her nose, let it back out devoid of the plume that should have billowed from her lips with the chill of night. “One more night.”
They arrived to the village the next morning. As expected, the cloud cover was such that the blinding rays of the sun were suppressed, tolerable to Baptiste’s sensitive flesh. Together, Baptiste and his young apprentice bade farewell to the kindly caravaners that had taken them up the mountain. They set to unloading their few luggage crates as the Wystrans went off to negotiate the pricing of their shipment with the innkeep.
Baptiste’s and Armelia’s temporary quarters at the inn had already been prepared; two beds made and adorned with simple fur blankets, a reading chair and a writing desk, candles and stationary, and heavy wool curtains that should keep the room dark at hours of the day.
The efficiency of messenger ravens will cease to amaze me. It rivals even that of sorcerous communications.
Despite his fatigue, Baptiste’s compulsive need for order kept him awake, well into the morning, unloading his few dozen books into tidy stacks on the floor beside the desk. His apprentice did the much the same, hanging on the curtain rods, the half-dozen gowns in different configurations that she had salvaged from her blaze that had claimed her father’s estate back in Valencia. They were much the same in many ways, which was cause for Baptiste’s relief. He had spent most of his time on Earth alone and feared that taking on his first apprentice would prove entirely exhausting—but Armelia was a like a daughter to him and he enjoyed every moment helping to shape her ever-expanding mind. There was a certain sanctity in passing on his wisdom, he had known that, but experiencing that sanctity unlocked joy unimagined.
His worries going forward were twofold—keeping Armelia safe, and ensuring that he did not scrape against her impatience. One could not exist without the other. Those of his ilk tended to be solitary by nature and if he imposed dominance upon his willful apprentice, he feared she would go off prematurely into the world, unprepared and unarmed.
He was beginning to doze when someone knocked at the door. Armelia was wide awake, and cast a questioning glance at Baptiste. Baptiste’s calm expression told her not to worry, and he rose and opened the door.
A squat, chubby man with a thick red moustache stood at threshold. He wore a fine, embroidered tunic over a thick, padded jerkin. “Hello!” the man said, much too loud for the ungodly hour. “You must be Monsieur Baptiste Fournier, and…” he trailed off, looking round Baptiste’s shoulders to where Armelia lounged on her bed.
Baptiste smiled his closed smile. “My apprentice.”
“Armelia Cordoba,” she said, elegantly rising and moving to shake the man’s hand.
“My,” he said, wincing at her touch, “must have been mighty cold on the road! I’m Collin—wanted to officially welcome you both to our little village. We’ve got a pot going at all hours and I ensure there’s always something on tap. So tell me if you need anything.”
“Thank you, good man,” Baptiste said, folding his hands behind his back. “I must say I was impressed when we arrived. I’ve much respect for proactive planners.”
Collin chortled, his cheeks suddenly flushed. “I can’t take that much credit, sir. Fact is, we’ve got scant little to do and there’s always open rooms. We don’t get many travelers up here. Once the caravan embarks tomorrow morning, we’ll likely be empty till they return in a fortnight.”
Armelia tilted her head, maroon eyes trained on the man’s warm, red face. “If not from rooms… where do you make your profits?” Her teeth chattered, as if she were shivering.
Baptiste shifted some, so he was partially in front of her.
“Ain’t about profits, lass. I’ve left that life long behind.”
“An admirable venture,” Baptiste huffed, taking hold of the door, placing yet another barrier between the innkeep and his willful apprentice. “We must continue this discussion soon, it’s a been a long journey and we’ve kept watch most of the night.”
“Rest well, sir and madame,” said the innkeep, entirely ignorant of dire situation he had placed them in with his imposition. He turned to leave, then stopped. “Oh—I almost forgot. We have tradition here in the Shins, we always welcome newcomers with a feast. Would you join us tonight?”
Baptiste cringed, anticipation clotting in his chest. “Make it tomorrow night, if you please. We won’t be pleasant company in our current states.”
“Oh. Of course—”
Baptiste swiftly, as politely as possible, shut the door.
Sight line finally obstructed, Armelia retreated into the room and crumpled on the bed. She looked as though on the verge of tears. “I’m starving, Baps. When can we…”
“Midnight.” Baptiste snapped. “Then we may finally hunt.”
“I’m not sure I can wait…”
“You can. You will. Now try to get some rest, my dear. The worst is behind us.”
Without another word, Baptiste retrieved The Encyclopaedia Monstronum sat on his reading chair across from Armelia’s bed. He gestured for her lay down and she did so.
I’ll not again allow harm to befall you, my child. Baptiste thought as he was watched wrap herself with furs and forced closed her eyes. Before long, though fitful and jolting, slumber had taken his young apprentice. You will live a long, fruitful existence… I promise you that.