The Tale Teller

Ch 6

Vaun wasn't sure how he should feel waking up alone, but he wasn't fazed by the empty space beside him in the bed. He took a quick glance around the room. Celise was gone.

The sun was bright as it shone through the window. It was at least mid-morning, so it was understandable that she would be up and readying the inn for the day.

Her image popped into his mind, with her flowing blonde hair and swishing skirts, as she collected the ingredients for a soup or another stew. Maybe she was baking bread, or sweeping the floors. He imagined her slim hands, kneading dough or grasping a broom as she hummed another song with a pretty smile on her face.

Vaun rolled onto his back, a yawn breaking the smile he hadn't realised was on his lips. He didn't mean to smile at the thought of her, but the night before had been wonderful.

The crowded inn hadn't been so nice, with the stench of too many people in a cramped space, or The Bard's song. Holding Celise in his arms had been a rather special highlight though, an ideal way to end the evening. A part of Vaun wished she had stayed in bed with him, for he easily could have rolled back onto his side and loved her all over again.

He pushed himself up, shivering as the blankets on the bed fell to pool around his bare waist. His shirt had been tossed somewhere on the floor, as had his breeches and underclothes. Now, they were neatly folded and arranged on the chair that sat beneath the window. His cloak joined them, along with a suspicious parchment that sat boldly on top of the pile. At the sight of it, Vaun's stomach dropped.

The floor was cold as he stepped out onto it, the wooden floor boards a contrast to the softness of the mattress and blankets he had just left. He was naked, but he didn't care as he crossed the room and snatched the paper from the stack of clothing.

It was the letter Maiden Woods had gave to him, and although the curiosity had been there to open it, he hadn't dared to. Something inside told him that it was to do with Corum, and as much as Vaun wanted to know just what, the concept scared him until his fingers shook.

He had left it here with his bag and cloak last night, unopened. The folds fell open in his hand now though, the black ink revealed against the off-white background.

It was tossed to the ground. The sound of crisp paper hitting hard floor was the only noise before a single footstep of Vaun's joined it. He tugged on his underclothes in a fury, followed by his breeches and shirt, fingers stumbling over the buttons in his rush. Feet were pushed into heavy boots, laces left untied as he yanked for the letter, and scanned over the words.

As much as Vaun didn't want to read this, he hated the idea of Celise knowing it's contents when he didn't. Without knowing just what was said, how could he confront her on it? Would she question him? What would she ask?

Did this letter reveal Corum's death? Would she cry and give him her sympathies and sorrow? He didn't know, but the last thing Vaun wanted was her pity, and he wasn't going tackle her unprepared.

He squinted at the letters, small, and formed in a thick ink which pressed them into one another. Vaun had never been the best at reading, always a little slow, too busy being distracted by the animals outside of the window to focus in the schoolhouse. More often than not, his mind was thinking up stories, and he had been too young to understand the usefulness that reading, or writing them down, could be.

A finger traced along the first line, below the greeting to a man named Feenad, of Rookery Street. That was the first clue that this wasn't a normal letter, for who would pass a note to a traveller, rather than to a pigeon, when it was to be delivered to a man who lived right beside the city's rookery? This wasn't a letter wishing him good health and telling tales of the latest mundane gossip, that was for sure.