Kings Game

Chapter 109 - Old Wives Tale

(1)

With the address in hand, Roran left the Crucible behind and began working his way through the city. The sky overhead had turned a dark gray and the wind was beginning to pick up. Wind didn't normally penetrate far into the valley, the mountains always blocked it, but today it was cutting through the streets in chilly gusts.

After walking for a bit, Rath paused. He turned, as though listening to someone speak. Though Roran couldn't see the person, or hear what they said, he could sense the lyhlim's presence. If he leaned into his godspell, he would be able to see the lyhlim as easily as Rath did, but that would leave him winded and there was no need.

"Is everything alright?" Roran asked.

Rath hesitated. "Things...haven't become worse. At least, not so far as I can tell."

Roran blinked at him.

"Apologies, I'm not sure what to make of the situation. We can discuss it later. For now, I believe you were heading somewhere?"

"Right," said Roran, unconvinced. Rath was a shrewd character. He needed to be in order to fulfill his duties as caretaker of the lyhlim. If something was bothering him, then it was something that affected everyone. Roran wanted to press him on it, but he knew the old man wouldn't budge.

They set out again, heading for Mount Balaki. The address was towards the upper slope, not so far as to be in the shanties, just removed enough from the city to be out of the way. It was the sort of place one would stash something they might need again later.

The walk was long and strenuous. Roran did his best to ignore the exhaustion slowly creeping into his limbs. He needed to improve his stamina and exercise was the best way to do that. Rath continued to hover over him as they climbed out of the inner city and ascended the gentle slope of Mount Balaki.

As the city became more spread out and less populous, Roran slowed his pace. He counted street signs and began weaving his way into the side streets, double checking the address as he went. Within moments, Roran found himself standing in front of an old building three stories high and in desperate need of fresh paint.

The buildings around them were in worse condition, a couple of them already beginning to collapse in on themselves. It surprised Roran that the wealthiest city in the world would let any part of itself fall into such disrepair. Then again, every city needed a place to stash its downtrodden and ill-fortuned souls.

Roran knocked on the door. Nobody answered. Roran knocked again, louder this time. Still nothing. Roran frowned. His lyhlim abilities let him know that people were inside, he could sense the gentle fire of life coming from them, but that didn't explain why they weren't answering the door.

Giving up on being polite, Roran expanded his presence, pushing it through the door and exploring the building. The first floor was sparse, with an entryway leading into a larger room. Two people were in the room, one man who was lightly armed and a young woman. Pushing further, Roran let his presence drift upwards. The second story was made up of smaller rooms, each of them with a bed, a trunk, and a basin for washing.

Roran let out a soft groan. Several of the beds were occupied. It was an eclectic collection of people, ranging from young to old, but they all had one thing in common. All of them were sick and dying. Roran could see the gentle candle flame of life within them wavering, flickering in and out as they clung onto their mortal coil. This was an infirmary of sorts, one kept out of the way. Out of sight, out of mind.

His heart heavy, Roran probed further searching the third floor. His eyes went wide and he swore. Roran slammed his fist on the door. The people inside jumped, the man reaching for his sword. Swearing at himself for being stupid, Roran undid the locking mechanism with a flick of his wrist and threw the door open, waltzing inside.