Jay - Ahern's Burden

“I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”

Flog realized the voice wasn’t coming from a dream, and quickly sat up in bed.

Ms. Kora sipped tea from her fine ceramic cup. She didn’t look at Flog while she set her cup down on the matching coaster.

Flog looked around. They were alone.

Ms. Kora continued to look out the window.

Flog relaxed and looked at his guest. Ms. Kora wore a decorative long sleeved, form-fitting blue dress covered with finely stitched, lacy accents that ran from her ankles to halfway up her neck. It had to be about three sizes too small. She sat with perfect posture, not touching the back of the chair. Her matching bonnet stuck to the left side of her head and she had let her wavy blonde hair fall beyond her shoulders.

“It’s going to be a beautiful day,” she said, still looking out the window. “The clouds have moved on.”

Flog looked around for his clothes and found them draped over the back of the other chair at the table.

“Ms. Kora.”

“How many times have I told you to call me Spree?” she asked, turning towards him.

“Many times,” Flog admitted. “I’m sorry, but, I am not dressed.”

“I know,” she said. “I will leave you to it.”

She rose gracefully from the chair and made sure her dress was down and flat.

“Harrow is at his table. He has asked you to join him for breakfast.”

“Thank you. I will head down.”

“It’s good to see you,” she said with a smile and made her way to the door.

“Ms. Kora?” Flog asked.

She stopped with her hand on the knob and turned back.

“How long have you...”

“Not long,” she said, cutting him off. “I’ve only had two cups.”

While he dressed and prepared to meet Harrow, Flog had to deal with the thought of Spree, or Ms. Kora, watching him sleep for not one, but two cups of tea.

He pulled on his shoes and picked up his bag when the thoughts from the library flashed through his head. He thought of the amazing scene and still had a difficult time believing it had happened.

After Jay and Barclay disappeared, Flog and his surviving partner were left alone. The wolf had found strength in his legs before Flog and fled. Flog waited on a nearby balcony until the morning brought enough light for him to make his exit.

With a limited but growing light source, Flog collected the recently used torches and gathered Barclay’s dagger and swords. On his way out of the library he searched for anything he could sell. He needed the money to travel, but he never dreamed he would find a complete set of silver spoons. He sold the spoons at his first opportunity and received enough coin to carry him for another year. He knew he could get more for Barclay’s dagger and swords, but only brought the dagger down with him.

At this time of day, the tavern was empty of patrons. A few of the workers swept and mopped away the previous night’s antics.

Harrow sat alone at a corner table, eating his eggs. Two body-guards accompanied him; one at the door and another in front of his table.

Ms. Kora sat at the bar with another cup of tea, looking out of place against the old backdrop.

Flog tried not to look at her when he stepped off the stairs and made his way to Harrow’s table.

Beyond middle age, Harrow had developed a particular knowledge of things forgotten. He prided himself on knowing what other people didn’t. He wore expensive clothing and didn’t mind the constant sneers he received from most everyone he passed by. He looked older with his hat removed, exposing his nearly bald head. His face bore the marks of a man suffering from too much sun, or liquor, but his eyes were sharp, revealing a subtle indication of a keen mind.

“You should eat here more often,” Harrow said between bites.

Flog didn’t respond but watched him chew his eggs in earnest.

“Not hungry?” Harrow asked.

“No.”

“All business today,” he said, pushing aside his plate and wiping his mouth. “What do you have?”

Flog reached inside his coat and produced Barclay’s dagger wrapped in a cloth. He placed it in the center of the table.

Harrow took the package and removed the wrapping quickly, despite not knowing what might be inside.

“Take care,” Flog cautioned. “The blade is sharp.”

Harrow nodded. “I have the handle. Oh, what have you brought me?” He held the handle closer to read the engravings. He lowered the blade and looked at Flog. “Do you know what this is?”

“A dagger.”

“Where did you find it?”

“The ruins at Cedar.”

“Why were you in the library?”

“I spent some time there,” Flog tried to explain, “looking for valuables.” He let the explanation hang in the air. “Did I find one?”

“You may have,” Harrow responded, turning the blade in his hands. “This is only the second of its kind I have come across.”

“When did you find the first?”

“Many years ago,” Harrow said, running his fingers around the engraved handle. “If this is authentic, it will have three points, right here.”

Harrow applied pressure to three small nubs on the handle at the same time, when a central piece of the top of the handle popped up enough for him to grab and twist.

“Captains in the Koshian army were given a dagger during their advancement ceremony.”

A Captain, Flog thought.

Harrow removed the small capsule.

“The captains were to keep their latest orders within the dagger,” Harrow explained.

He popped the lid off the capsule and removed a small rolled up strip of paper. Harrow unrolled the tiny parchment and read it out loud.

Teach and protect the child all your days.

Harrow watched Flog’s reaction, and the two locked eyes. He let go of one end of the paper and it recoiled into its former position against his fingertips. He gently tightened the tiny scroll and returned it to the capsule and finally returned the capsule to the handle. He looked at the dagger one last time and set it on top of the wrappings in the center of the table.

Ms. Kora moved from her seat and crossed the empty room full of overturned chairs. She disappeared through a doorway, leading to a back hallway.

Flog looked back to Harrow and shifted in his seat after he found his mind out of focus.

“She is lovely,” Harrow complimented, after Flog looked away.

Flog nodded, looking at the dagger.

“Who’s the boy?”

Flog looked around at the empty tavern.

Harrow sat back and waved the body-guard away. “Go watch the door.”

Flog waited until they were out of earshot.

“For nearly a year, I’ve been under contract to track down a criminal.”

“With whom?” Harrow pressed.

“You don’t want to know,” Flog said. “What I will say is that I was hired to bring in a young boy. A few months ago, I almost had him in the Cyprus Mountains. The boy used magic and disappeared before my eyes.”

“He’s a sorcerer,” Harrow said, bluntly. “He would be executed if you brought him in.”

“I came to the same conclusion,” Flog agreed. “For a long time, I thought the answer was clear, but there is more. When my employers learned how I had failed again to bring him in, they tried to buy me out.”

“How much?”

“I don’t know,” Flog said, trying to stay on track. “I need information.”

“What kind of information?”

“You know about legends and what people hope to be true.”

Harrow didn’t follow what he wanted.

“You knew how to find the note in the dagger,” Flog pointed out.

Harrow had picked up the dagger again and balanced it in his hand.

Flog watched him hold the dagger for a moment before he spoke again. “What is a Seraphic?”

Harrow froze, and the dagger fell to the table.

Flog watched him scan the empty tavern without turning his head.

“The people who hired me called the boy a Seraphic,” Flog explained.

Harrow shifted in his seat and picked up the dagger.

“The word in unfamiliar to me,” Flog admitted. “Do you know what it means?”

“Stop,” Harrow said, in a curt tone, pointing his finger into the table. “Don’t speak that word again.”

“What does it mean?”

Reluctantly Harrow exhaled and set the dagger again on top of the wrapping. He knew Flog wouldn’t let it die. “The word carries different meanings,” he began. “Some believe it to represent a mystical animal. Others believe it to symbolize deity. Those who understand its roots know it only to be used to depict a chosen one.”

“A chosen one?”

“A chosen individual,” Harrow continued, “someone chosen by destiny, or fate…someone who will lead, an immortal.”

“I don’t understand,” Flog admitted.

“If your former employers are referring to a boy, the same boy a former captain in the Koshian army had been ordered to protect, if they are referring to this boy as a Seraphic, then they are close to the Idols.”

Flog thought about this new information.

“And if what you say about the boy being a sorcerer is true, then the Idols could well believe this boy will be their downfall.”

“The Idols fear a small boy is a threat to their power?” Flog asked.

Harrow nodded. “Why do people have body-guards?” Harrow asked, pointing to the two men watching the front door.

“To protect them,” Flog answered in an obvious tone.

“How many young boys have body-guards?”

“None,” Flog said, looking at the dagger.

“Exactly,” Harrow responded. “Is the captain the boy’s father?”

“I don’t know,” Flog admitted, “but I don’t believe him to be.”

“I don’t either, based on the note. Did you kill his guardian?”

“He was alive when they disappeared,” Flog said.

“How did you get his dagger?”

“He threw it at another man when we were fighting,” Flog explained. “He had no time to collect it.”

“You were fighting him in the library?”

Flog nodded.

“Why were they in the library?” Harrow asked.

“I don’t know,” Flog said, “Maybe they were looking for valuables. Why else would they be there?”

“I don’t know why they were there,” Harrow said, raising his hands, “but you need to go home and forget about this boy.”

“Why would I go home?” Flog asked.

Harrow didn’t have an answer. He knew he was alone. “What else are you going to do?”

“I’m looking for answers,” Flog explained.

“About this boy?” Harrow asked.

Flog again nodded.

“Flog,” Harrow said. His frustration growing. “Do not track this boy down. If the Idols know you’re involved, they will intervene.”

Flog tried to look natural, but failed, and Harrow knew. “You contracted with the Idols.”

“I have spoken with them,” Flog admitted, unable to dance around the topic.

Harrow looked around, fearing something would come crashing through the door.

“Calm down,” Flog said.

“Calm down?” Harrow questioned. “Do they know you’re here?”

“I don’t know,” Flog admitted. “I assume they’ve heard our conversation.”

“It’s not a joke,” Harrow said.

“We are alone,” Flog affirmed. “When did you hear about the Seraphic?”

Harrow gave him a look for again using the word. “It’s a legend, nothing more.”

“The Idols believe he is real,” Flog said, trying to convince him.

“The Idols will do anything to snuff out a potential rebellion,” Harrow said. “Do you think they care if a rumor has merit? Many believed a Seraphic would deliver them during the war. It didn’t happen.”

“Why are you concerned about what the Idols do?” Flog asked.

“Everything they do affects us, affects me, you,” Harrow explained. “They sit up in their hall plotting new ways to tax and exploit. I’m running out of places to hide.”

“What if the boy is what they believe him to be?” Flog asked. “Would you help him?”

“You’re mad.”

“I may be,” Flog said, looking up to the ceiling, “but for the past many days I’ve had time to think. I’ve concluded I need to know more.”

“About what?”

“Everything,” Flog said. “The Idols, who they are, what they’re doing. Why do they care this much about catching a young boy?”

Harrow and Flog locked eyes.

“The Idols have kept me in the dark long enough,” Flog said. “I need to know.”

“You are mad.”

“No,” he said, slowly shaking his head. “Not about this. I think it’s time I stopped hiding.”

“I did not come here to help you start a rebellion,” Harrow said, pushing his chair back. He put on his coat and pulled his hat tight, “or to assist in your suicide.” He threw a small bag of coins on the table. “For the dagger.”

A good sale, more than Flog expected, but before Harrow could lean forward, the feeling again rose inside him and he knew he couldn’t take it.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Flog said, reaching out and grabbing the wrappings. “Keep your money.”

“What?”

Flog threw a few coins on the table. “Breakfast is on me. The rest is for your travel and information.” He pushed his own chair out and started to walk away when he turned back. “I need you to be my ears.”

“What?”

“I need you to inform me when you hear of anything regarding a Seraphic or the boy,” he said.

“Why would I…”

“Don’t pretend to be ignorant,” Flog said, cutting him off. “I know you will hear something.”

The two shared a look, and a silent agreement passed between them.

“You know how to find me,” Flog said, and he turned his back on Harrow and headed for the stairs. He reached the bar when Ms. Kora entered the room, talking to a worker.

She snuck a quick glance at him before he ascended the staircase.

Flog did not look back and he stepped out of view.

Ms. Kora finished her conversation and headed back to the counter.

Harrow crossed the room and stood beside her at the empty bar.

“Tea?” she asked.

“Not today, Ms. Kora,” Harrow said with a polite bow. “The eggs were perfect, but if I may take a moment of your time this morning to discuss a separate matter?”

“What do you require?” Ms. Kora asked.

“I fear my friend’s mind may be off center.”

She knew he was speaking about Flog. “Why would you think so?”

Harrow looked her in the eye, his face impassive. He didn’t want her to worry. “I may be wrong, but I believe he has made some powerful enemies.”

“Doesn’t everybody?”

“Yes,” he admitted, “but I fear his actions will bring additional complications.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Ms. Kora asked. “He can manage his own affairs.”

“You care for him,” Harrow said without flinching.

Ms. Kora held his gaze.

“I’ve seen how you watch him,” Harrow said. “I know how you prepare his room days before he’ll arrive.”

Her expression begged for an explanation.

“It’s my job to know things,” he said, “at times to my detriment.”

Ms. Kora looked away. “I don’t see how telling me your unsubstantiated concerns will change anything.”

“Nothing changes unless we act,” Harrow stated. “I leave it up to you.”

Harrow gave her one final nod and left the tavern with his guards.

Alone, Ms. Kora had to make a decision, one she did not expect to have to make, or know how to handle.

Adjacent to the Hall of Requisition, Grydin, or counsel hall, ignored the effects of time. It had survived countless blizzards and avalanches brought down by Mt. Vintori, standing strong and brilliant for days without number. The exterior facade still held the original plain white stone finishes, kept clean and homely without maintenance. Inside, the building continued its simple design. A modest rectangular vestibule branched off in opposite directions, circling above the main hall. The building had a symmetrical design, in which either direction one traveled from the vestibule you would find three identical offices. Opposite the vestibule, across the main hall, Seneca’s office acted as a break in the symmetry. This room was not much larger than the others, but Seneca chose it as his own, assuming it meant he should occupy it since he claimed to be at the head of their order.

From the vestibule, a decorative spiral staircase led down to the floor of the main hall. It allowed anyone other than an Idol to join in the discussions. No one had used it in many years and several of the Idols had considered having it removed. The Idols entered the hall from private staircases beginning in their offices.

A high-domed ceiling with reverse terraces helped to accent the immense size of the main hall. Rectangular clerestory windows brought in an abundance of light that eliminated the need for candles when the sun was high. This morning however, this early morning, the sun had yet to crest the mountain range and many different candle clusters burned together.

Throughout the Idols’ reign, each had taken turn renovating the interior. The first dramatic change occurred when Philo, the most flamboyant of the six, ordered the walls to be covered with black marble. A few years later, Quinto changed the marble to green.

It was unclear who made the decision to use marble, but each took a turn. Remis, Atticus, Seneca, even Demetri altered the walls to blue, yellow, red, and white, respectably.

Two items that never changed throughout the renovations were the fireplaces in the main hall. On opposite ends of the room, in the periphery of the vestibule, finely carved ancient stone mantels controlled enormous fires, burning in harmony. These two hearths knew every secret of the Idols. They knew their strengths and weaknesses, they knew their passions, and they knew what the people of the known world could expect before it rained down on them. They were the secret keepers, and they sat again, patiently with five Idols, awaiting yet another meeting.

Seneca kept the others waiting most of the morning before he made his appearance. He swept into the hall dripping with over-confidence.

Atticus had fallen asleep, but Demetri grew more impatient every time Seneca played this game.

Seneca placed several documents on the table before graciously taking his chair. He organized the pages in an order only known to him, and everyone knew they couldn’t start until he finished.

The oversized circular table once housed twice as many people when meetings were held. In ages past, an Idol had an apprentice, and those young men would fill the voids of the half-used table. Even the chairs they once used had been removed. Demetri had never grown accustomed to the emptiness.

In the table’s center, a variety of fresh fruit sat in a large pile. The food was never eaten.

“Glad you are all here,” Seneca started.

“How is my wolf?” Atticus asked. Everyone knew they were there to talk about what Atticus’ wolf told Seneca.

“He is resting,” Seneca answered politely.

“Is he dead?” Atticus pried, wanting a solid answer.

“Atticus…” Seneca responded. “Why would you ask such a question?”

“It’s happened before,” Atticus returned.

Seneca ignored Atticus’ comment and continued, leaving the question still unanswered. “My friends, I do believe, based on the wolf’s account and other information we have received, that the boy we have been searching for is a Seraphic.”

Remis gasped. Philo and Quinto leaned towards each other and began to whisper.

Demetri and Atticus eyed each other without looking up.

“Does he have the Garrison?” Remis asked, hoping the question held merit.

“From the information I have received,” Seneca responded, “I do not believe he has the Garrison. He does have power, and we need to find him if we are to obtain the elixir.”

Demetri and Atticus again glanced at each other.

“We need to employ all our efforts to apprehend this boy,” Seneca concluded, reaching for his first document.

“The boy has the ability to teleport,” Demetri said, looking at the fire. “How do you suggest we apprehend him?”

“We have eyes and ears in many places,” Seneca said, frustrated with Demetri’s lack of enthusiasm and his interruption. “We must do a better job of listening. And you know we can prevent him from using his powers.”

Demetri moved his eyes to make brief contact with Seneca and looked down to the pile of fruit. He raised his hand and opened his fingers. The apple on top of the pile flew straight into his hand. He breathed heavily onto its skin and rubbed it against his chest to give it a good shine.

Seneca and Demetri hadn’t seen eye to eye about the Seraphic for many years. This boy marked the third individual in as many decades they thought to be Ahern’s heir. Whenever the discussion turned towards the topic, Demetri gave Seneca a hard time and did not shy from showing the others his displeasure.

Demetri took a large bite and Seneca looked around the table before continuing the discussion. “We’ve had no information since the boy and his guardian left the library,” he explained, “but we do know the guardian is injured. Our wolf used a muzzle during their fight, and his abilities are limited. I believe we can suppress the boy’s magic when we find him if we have enough support.” Again, Seneca reached for his first document.

“I would like to ask a question,” Demetri said, again interrupting the proceedings, his mouth still full of chewed apple. “When using your strongest magic, which colors do you produce?”

The Idols looked at each other. They all knew the answer, and assumed Demetri knew as well.

Demetri continued before anyone could answer. “When I perform my most powerful incantations, which is to say, that when I pull from deep within, a strong orange rests on my hands. Atticus, yours is orange as well. Remis, yours is dark blue. Philo, yours is a most exquisite turquoise, and Quinto, your hands glow light green.”

The men looked around, unsure of why this had entered into the conversation.

“Seneca,” Demetri continued, “the strongest color I’ve ever seen you produce is orange.”

Everyone waited for an explanation.

“When the boy was cornered and his guardian about to be killed, the boy’s entire body was covered in a dark red glow.”

“What?” Remis asked in disbelief. Philo and Quinto again leaned in to have a more serious conversation.

“I want to understand your claim Seneca, about being able to handle the boy if we had enough support. Not one of us has ever seen another turn dark red.”

Seneca’s lip began to curl in frustration. He had planned this meeting, so he might build confidence in the others towards his agenda. Demetri’s words were quickly unraveling his hopes.

Atticus watched Demetri with a proud smile. He knew what he was doing, and he thought it brilliant.

“The only recorded event of another individual glowing dark red occurred when Ahern….”

“Stop!” yelled Seneca, shooting to his feet, scattering his neatly organized papers.

“Are you not well, Seneca?” Demetri asked with a calm tone and a blank face. “Or did I say something you didn’t want the others to hear?”

Seneca returned to his seat and tried his best to regain his composure. How does he know?

“A few moments ago, you expressed a desire for us to be better listeners,” Demetri explained. “Sound advice. I do hope more of us will put our ears to good use. I have been following your counsel and learned that the boy is more powerful than we could have imagined.”

The room fell silent.

Demetri took another casual bite out of his apple. “How do you suggest we apprehend him?”

“We will find a way,” Seneca answered. “He must have a weakness.”

Demetri licked his lips and nodded. “My dear Seneca, you don’t even know his name.”

“You will all use your resources to find this boy,” Seneca commanded. “Inform me the instant you have information.”

Seneca rose from the table without another word. His scattered papers lay motionless and unused.

Remis, Philo and Quinto followed Seneca’s lead. They quickly walked from the table and returned to their offices to do as they were instructed.

Demetri and Atticus stayed behind. They preferred to sit in silence with the pile of fruit than fulfill Seneca’s latest request.

Ms. Kora tapped her finger on the polished counter. The thought of intruding in a man’s affairs didn’t sit well with her. But she never thought she would be asked to interject her feelings into the personal life of a man for whom she cared deeply in this manner.

She stood at the counter for some time arguing with the situation, unable to move her feet. By the time she reached Flog’s room, she felt embarrassed and at a loss for words. Harrow was a crafty, and at times, a cunning man, but he was also honest. She had watched him and Flog converse over the years and from what she had learned, she knew Harrow wouldn’t have asked her to talk with him unless it was necessary.

She took a deep breath and resumed her posture. She raised her hand and knocked confidently.

“Yes,” Flog answered, reaching for his knife.

“It’s Spree.”

Flog wanted to see her but had to deal with his own conflicting emotions. He didn’t want to leave. He had grown fond of her and had hoped this trip back would allow that fondness to develop. He thought back to this morning with her waiting in his room. He wanted nothing more than to have that experience every day, to ask for her hand and to wake up with her every morning. But he knew she hadn’t come on her own. She would never expose herself in that way. Harrow would have sent her and that again complicated the issue.

By the time he opened the door, he was screaming inside, but held a passive face when he saw her standing elegantly in the doorway. Her beauty took some of his breath and he coughed when he found it wanting. He didn’t know which words to speak and the two stood for a moment rooted to the floor.

“May I come in?” she asked.

Flog’s tongue still eluded him, and he nodded and stepped to the side.

Spree walked in and scanned the room with her eyes while Flog shut and locked the door. She went straight to the window and looked out at the street.

Flog walked to the side of his bed and slowly continued packing. He can’t do it. He set his bag aside and sat sideways on the edge of the bed, so he could still look at her.

“My guests rarely stay longer than one night,” Spree began. “I’m relieved when they leave. They are unruly and vile. I want them to go.” She turned and faced Flog with her eyes down. “You’re different. I long for your letters requesting a room. I look forward to you staying here. I want you to stay.”

Flog watched her and looked down at his hands. Why does this have to be so difficult?

“I know you have a home in Shent and a life outside Theaton,” she continued, this time raising her head. “Is there nothing for you here?”

I’m going to kill Harrow, he thought.

Flog looked away from his hands and into her eyes. “I would enjoy nothing more than to stay,” he said honestly. “But I have something I must do.”

He watched a sadness cover her face and looked back down to his hands. He screamed louder in his head. He had to think of something quickly if he wanted to save the conversation.

“I’ve been lost for many years,” he said softly. “I thought I knew my role, but I was misled. I have since repented to myself and for what I deemed my purpose.”

Spree walked to the table and sat in the open chair, facing him.

“Please understand,” he continued, attempting to push as much sincerity upon her with his words, “my desire is to remain here with you. But I have wrongs that I must right. Past sins I cannot avoid.”

Flog watched her eyes begin to glisten.

“I must ask you to be patient,” he said, pausing to find the right words. “I give you my word. When I return, I will not leave again.”

Spree turned her head to the side and flicked a tear away with her index finger.

“I know it’s not what you want to hear,” Flog said.

Spree continued to stare out the window. She didn’t know how to respond.

Instinctively, Flog walked around the foot of the bed and knelt at her feet. He took her hands in his and waited for her to look at him.

When she finally did turn her head, his smile surprised her.

“I know it may feel an appropriate time for sadness,” he said, “but let us not give in. We should be happy we’ve found each other and look forward to the day when we can be together. I know you don’t want me to leave and if I could stay, if I had already settled my affairs, I would never leave you.”

His honestly brought a slight smile to the left side of her mouth.

He loved that about her.

“I pledge to you,” he continued, taking in a breath, “I will not linger, even for a day. You will be the force behind my desire to be an honest man. If you will be patient with me, I promise that when I return, no mob of men will keep me from you. No power will prevent my return. I will run until my legs have no strength and I will carry you away from the vile and unruly.”

Her smile stretched out from the corners of her mouth. “You’ve gone mad.”

“Yes, I have,” he admitted, “but I accept it, because I know one day we will be together.”

Spree couldn’t contain her emotions. She leaned forward and fell to her knees and threw her arms around Flog’s neck. She held him tight and rested her head on his shoulder.

Flog reached out and gently tightened his arms around her waist. This was the first time he had truly embraced her. The feeling could not have been more natural. He backed away, took her hands, and guided her to her feet. Then in a swift move he leaned forward and swept her up into the air.

Spree squealed in delight and buried her head against his chest while he spun in circles.

After a few turns he stopped, and she raised her head. Her thick hair fell close around her face, accentuating her features. Flog stared into her eyes until they leaned towards each other and shared the first of many kisses.

Flog set her down and they again held each other tight, neither wanting to let go.

A knock at the door brought the two back to the present.

“Yes?” Flog asked.

“It’s Crit. Looking for Ms. Kora?”

He looked at her and she shook her head.

“Not since breakfast,” Flog lied. “What do you need?”

“An old lady wants a room,” he said. “I don’t know what to tell her.”

“Can’t help you,” Flog said. “The last I saw of her she stood down in the tavern.”

“The tavern, right,” he said, before bounding down the hall towards the stairs.

“I should go,” she said, checking her bonnet and tucking her hair behind her left ear.

Flog nodded and took her hands. “May I give you something before you leave?”

“You don’t have to give me anything,” she said after Flog let her go.

He walked to the hidden cabinet and removed the panel. Flog pulled out one of his large bags and dug in. After emptying half the contents onto the floor, he produced a small leather purse. He pulled on the strings and opened the top. Then, he reached inside and produced a delicate blue jewel enclosed in a silver casing connected to a silver necklace. He set the purse on the table and stood in front of Spree.

He watched her lips part as she gazed at the jewel. Before she could speak, he gently grabbed her hand and placed the jewel in the center of her palm.

“I’ve had this necklace for many years,” he began. “I make sure I bring it with me whenever I travel through Theaton.”

Flog began wrapping the necklace gently around her hand.

“The last time I was in Chaldry I saw this and thought of you,” he said, and he laid the last of the necklace in her palm. “Every time I see it I think of you.”

Spree took her eyes off the jewel and smiled at Flog. “It’s beautiful.”

“Keep it as a promise,” he said, “my oath to you that I will return.”

“I will,” she said, giving him one last embrace.

Flog found it hard to let her go.

Spree unlocked her arms first and fixed her dress. “Hurry and pack,” she said in a very blunt tone. “The sooner you leave. The sooner you will return.”