The De'Nauguath Chronicles - Book 1: The Summoner's Daughter

Chapter 5: Echoes

It wasn't quite fair for her to say that, but as ever with Rylla's knifelike honesty, it was close enough to the truth.

Concealed by poor self-control, dark humor, and all the habits of an addict, Rylla's judgments rarely sounded wise. Yet by luck or cleverness, she'd never been wrong. I'd never gone against her advice, but the fact remained that the pub she said to hide in was a dive by any town's standards.

The floors had a thick layer of sawdust, which obscured a great deal of blood and mud – sometimes not very well. The tables were sticky and the food was dodgy. The beer was watery and the shine wasn't watery enough. The wine wasn't wine at all.

Along the far wall, there were two immense fireplaces to chase out the night cold, though folk didn't always keep them burning as hot as they could have. The still air in the room was a rancid blur of malt vinegar, month-off sausages, and cheap brandy.

It was a perfect place to be ignored.

Truthfully, I was far from a drinking mood. I needed to stay sharp. Folk drank to escape themselves or the world. This was the one time in twenty when I couldn't do that, even if it made me shaky the next day. To avoid hassle, I bought a large and weak beer, sipping as little as possible as the time passed. Time, of course, had to pass especially slowly that night, as it always did when anyone paid close attention to it.

Since the windows were caked in tar and years of smoke, guessing sundown's time was no easy thing. My stomach howled after awhile, but the vinegar presence kept me from buying any food. The pub became more crowded with frustrated miners and hungry fishermen, so everyone was primed for a fight. Some men barely needed a reason to throw a punch, only to fall down on their faces when the punch didn't land and their legs were weak from drink.

And then I heard – just barely – the patter of very small feet. I didn't turn around to look. I knew it was her. She leaned in very close. "You left before I could thank you."

I had always shivered prickers when someone whispered in my ears, but this time, my entire scalp flinched. I glanced to the left to find her standing barefoot but oddly clean. "You shouldn't walk around without shoes. No telling what filth could get in your blood." Reluctantly, I gestured to the empty chair at the table. She sat down in a smooth, gliding movement. "And I believe it's traditional to wait for the hero to wake up before you disappear."

"I didn't disappear. You weren't looking for me in the right way."

"Aye. It's my fault for being so weak that I lost my second sight."

She glared. "Don't take this lightly. You brought me back from death." There was firm sincerity, but also a cheeriness. It was all too elusive to read.

I snorted. "Tell me, does a shewla even die?"

"I don't know. Am I a shewla?" Her voice still sounded dreamy.

I clanked my mug down on the table. "You died. I put air into you and you lived again. If that e'nt a shewla, I don't know what is."

"Every living thing needs air."

"Aye, but you shouldn't have needed it. Vaco didn't hurt you that much. No one dies just from a broken arm."

She frowned. "It was never the wrist, Sóra."

My scalp wriggled again at the sound of my name.

"I rely on the ions in a place. If all's well, I'm as strong and swift as a soldier. If there's ill in the room, I'm as weak as that poor brute in the corner." She pointed over my shoulder to an old man quietly sobbing into his glass. "I was made to repel harm. If Vaco hadn't struck first, my presence would have driven him to be a dumb child again."