Peacefall: Book Two of The Fourpointe Chronicles

Chapter 12

Clank, clank, clank, clank.

So on and on the racket went. Dawkin glanced at the column of young men, some younger than he, as they trudged in the opposite direction. His gaze fell upon their feet. Bare, caked in sweat and dirt, they bore shackles linked to the same shared chain which bound them all.

Who would choose such torment?

Atonement for sins was one thing. But this? Such agony, self-inflicted, for guilt? Dawkin shook his head at the notion. He could not compute the idea of a persistent feeling, much less a damning one, capable of leading to one's demise, however traumatic the inciting event may have been.

His mind turned to Ely. That poor chap. 'Tis must be how he feels at times. Captive to his own mania.

"Judgment is expected."

Dawkin looked to his left. Lady Cora rode at a pace matching his own, one which had slowed considerably as they had come within sight of the Lost Souls. Though neither had reason to fear the restrained, unarmed, and repentant mass, she avoided eye contact nonetheless. With her head lowered, her cowl nearly obscured the whole of her head, save for the skin of her right cheekbone and a single golden curl peeking out from the wool border. Enchanting.

"Judgment?" Dawkin queried, many moments after she had spoken.

"By onlookers who forget their manners." She twisted her head toward him, flashing a wry grin.

"I, I had no intention of staring."

"They want the attention, though in their humility, they would never admit it. Rumor has it they added the chains because their travels no longer garnered the admonishing looks their predecessors received. People had simply grown accustomed to seeing pious men in dingy robes. So they started to ignore them. Such apathy to outward repentance could not stand, so they added the chains for . . . shall we say . . ." Cora paused, the word she grasped for suddenly out of her mind's reach.

"Theatrics?" Dawkin ventured.

"Not the phrase I would have chosen, but it'll do."

"So, I do them a service by staring."

"Hardly my point."

"'Tis mine."

"You're imprudent."

Dawkin smirked. Damn, this is fun. His mood lifted, he sat taller in his saddle as the entourage – and their song of shame – passed.

For the past two days, their journey to Seafall had been uneventful. On the morning of their departure, Dawkin had obligatorily met with Cora's uncle to convince him of his intentions. Namely, that he would protect his niece, and abstain from behaving as anything less than a gentleman. To Dawkin's surprise, the man seemed indifferent to him. He offered no protest to the proposed escort, nor did he question Dawkin about his family history or profession. The lack of interest disappointed Dawkin somewhat, for he had spent the previous night concocting an elaborate backstory tied to his alter ego.

In truth, Lady Cora had not expressed concern over his intentions either. She seemed far too lax over the past few days, hardly the demeanor expectant of a woman – or man – riding the highways. At taverns, she did not press him for her own room, though he always made arrangements for such. Around the cookfire, she did not flinch when he used his hatchet to split wood or draw his knife to cut meat. She acted as if she had known Dawkin his whole life, a sense of familiarity he found both puzzling and refreshing.