The Stains of Memory

Prologue

The city of Aartan was silent as the full moon crested over the mountains. The tiered sea of moonlit rooftops was webbed by the darkness of the city's winding streets and alleyways, like a sheet of ice beginning to crack under the strain of a man too heavy. It was all quite serene to Henri, who enjoyed his view of the Avaran Capital from his cell in the Flumontre de Aartan.

The large open window to his cell wasn't barred or boarded off. There was no need for such things. Henri snapped out of his thoughts when Aubin started to have a violent coughing fit. Henri glowered at the old man.

When the city guard stormed into the restaurant a week ago, Henri had had the misfortune of sitting next to him in the bar. Everyone in their right mind steered clear of the old man known as Aubin Cartier. Aubin, the crazy old man. Aubin, the old drunk ranting about revolution. Aubin, the man on the Interior Authority's watchlist. Everyone knew to steer clear—and no one bothered to tell Henri. No one was too surprised to see the guard plant a fist in Henri's gut and throw him in the wagon with Aubin. And, of course, since no one knew him, no one dared protest, not even the owner, with whom Henri was about to settle a considerable tab.

His thoughts were interrupted once again when the scrape of metal on stone echoed throughout the cell, and two steaming trays of grilled mushrooms slid through a slot in the door. While the young man scrambled for his meal, Aubin only looked at the meal from the darkness. The unclaimed trey wet mushrooms sheened in the corridor of light. Once he claimed their food, Henri retreated to their respective corners. Aubin just stared disgusted at his plate, but Henri started eating the mushrooms gingerly. His face, along with the rest of his body, was still hurting from the most recent interrogation. He had been in the Flumontre for a week. A week of men beating him, a week of:

"Where are your comrades, eh? Are they in the city already?" Slap.

"What is their target?" Slam.

"They won't come for you, you know. But we can help you. All you need to do is just talk. Tell us what we want to know, and this can all be over. You must be so tired." Crunch.

Yet, his blunt injuries were nothing compared to Aubin's afflictions. The old man's body was covered in cuts, sickly bruises, and fresh burns. In the darkness, Henri could see a long shallow cut snaking around his body, starting from the front of his shoulder and trailing all the way down the small of his back. The cut looked as if it had been made by a knife sharp enough to slice the skin without much force but dull enough for it to still snag. How a frail man like him was still alive was a complete mystery to Henri. But there was another question floating around in his mind,

"How did we get here?"

He hadn’t said anything to the old man for nearly five days, and he wasn’t used to his voice echoing in the cell. Aubin scornfully looked up from his tray.

"The fuck you mean 'how did we get here?'" He mocked, "Torren's Balls! Were you kicked in the head by a mule?"

Henri sighed, "No, I mean, how did we get here?" He gestured around his surroundings. Looking back at Aubin's ever-growing irritation, he decided to clarify, "What is with all this talk of rebellion in the countryside? These whispers of foreigners, even the mere mention of—" He hesitated, the steel-heeled footfalls of a soldier approached their cell. As the steps receded, he continued in a hushed voice, "Mentioning Fryadova will throw you in a cell, or worse. I want to know why."

Aubin looked intently at his tray, eventually crawling over to take it. When the old man’s figure entered the light, Henri couldn't help but grimace. Up until now, the shadows of the cell had generously concealed him, but he was now all too illuminated by moon; the beam of silvery light glistened off the still-fresh blood on his face. The old man's wiry white hair was matted by sweat and dried blood, and his cracked lips and bushy eyebrows were split. One of Aubin's bloodshot eyes had swollen shut, and when he winced at the effort, Henri could see the bloody black gaps between his bared teeth. He crawled back, his trey scaping against the stone. Finally, the shadows welcomed him into their fold once again. He picked up a mushroom about the size of a button.

"Mushrooms."

The young man stopped eating mid-bite.

"What are you on about? Lost your mind already?"

Aubin glared at Henri.

"Watch your tongue, boy! I'm telling you, we're here because of these damned mushrooms."

Henri eyed the tray before him, unsure of what the old fool was getting at.

"I don't follow."

"Pheh, I suppose not; you were only… what? Five, six years old before the war?"

"I was eight. But what about them?"

The old man, clearly disappointed with the mushroom he had selected, tossed the morel back into the tray and found a larger one to study.

"Before Avar's armies crossed Harcia's borders, we used to eat all kinds of things: Pork, beef, rice, carrots, you name it. And these little fuckers,"

There was a gleam in his eye as he looked down at his plate, as though envisioning a perfectly cooked pork belly through the steaming mushrooms. He lifted one of them between his grimy fingers to eye level to look at both it and Henri.

"These used to be a garnish. But since our livestock went away to feed the Imperial Army on their fool's errand of a war, we were left with a near-endless supply of mushrooms. And why not? They're easy and cheap to grow, and they provide sufficient…sustenance. While the Imperial Army is in the jungle eating meat and drinking wine from grapes, we're chewing on this shit as a main course!" To punctuate his disgust, he flung the steaming mushroom across the cell, nearly hitting Henri, "Pheh! The whole fucking empire eating mushrooms for over a decade: grilled mushrooms, boiled mushrooms, mushroom wine, steak made from mushrooms— it's a fucking wonder we aren't coughing up spores! Do you know how degrading that is? A whole empire, from the Narjou Sea to the Teron Ocean, reduced to eating a garnish! We're eating mushrooms while our 'benevolent' Emperor and his coterie are sitting on their asses in that warm and cozy palace of his, gorging themselves on our crops, our livestock!"

Now Aubin was shouting, not caring who heard now. His voice was aimed at the window as if he thought the Emperor himself could hear him all the way from his cell. He started another coughing fit, his wet hacking replacing his rant. Henri sat back against the wall, popping a mushroom in his mouth.

"Really? Mushrooms led to an insurrection, to these 'Unknowables' raising hell in our country? And surely not the whole empire."

"And that's somehow better? That what? Quelan, Blüchena, and the whole lot of nontrâvaon out there are all enjoying their food while we —true Avarans— are just meant to choke on this?" He gestured, disgusted, at his plate. "If that were true, I'm surprised that this didn't happen sooner. In either case, that's why we have these rebels running around the countryside. Some are just tired of the war, yes… but these 'Unknowables' and those who remember the days of roasted pork and good wine— yes, they're tired of eating nothing but mushrooms for twelve years."

He let that hang in the air. Aubin was beginning to calm down, his heavy breathing subsiding. He let out a defeated sigh. When the old man broke the silence once more, his voice broke along with it, "I'm so sick of mushrooms. Gods, if I have to eat—no— if I have to look at one more gods-damned mushroom, I'll save these soldiers some time."

Henri caught Aubin looking at the window, debating with himself. A moment passed, and the bells from the distant clock tower rang, shattering the silence that was smothering the city. There were twenty-one strikes, Henri thought, or maybe twenty-three? Silence enveloped the Capital once more as the deep, rich resonance of the bells dissolved into the night air.

"I could do it," Aubin whispered. "End it all. Right now. That's why they don't have bars on the windows, you know … it's one last 'mercy' they give us."

A minute passed; Henri's periphery caught Aubin staring longingly out the window that overlooked the city. He didn't know if it was just a trick of the moonlight, but Henri could have sworn that the old man was starting to get misty-eyed. Finally, Aubin despondently put a mushroom in his mouth and began to chew.

Bells pealed out their deafening symphony once more, this time shriller, faster, and piercing. The two men snapped their attention toward the window and got up to look outside.

"What is it? I don't recognize those bells."

Henri looked expectantly at Aubin, who was still trying to make his way to the window.

"The fuck you looking at me for? What makes you think I know what's going on?"

Like an audience blindly following the applause of a single patron, the other bells joined their brother in the song; first the Flumontre, then the rest of the city. Ringing all over Aartan at different times and cadences, Henri could no longer pick out a specific rhythm from the cacophony of tocsins. And as the bells woke up, so did Aartan. One by one, windows lit up, dimly illuminating the dark cracks left by the streets.

"Whatever it is," Henri said, momentarily breaking the spell, "It's something big."

Now soldiers were pouring out of their posts throughout Aartan. Like a river of fire running through the streets, their lanterns betrayed their movements to the two prisoners.

"No shit…" Aubin muttered, stupefied.

Up until now, Henri had only seen the old man either angry or indifferent, mostly the former. But now, Aubin was transfixed on the scene playing before him. The groups of light were all heading in one direction — West, toward them. Quickly, Henri tried to remember where the first bell came from. It wasn't from the Flumontre, but from behind it.

Henri tore himself from the window and ran towards the cell door. It was made from solid steel, but there was a small, barred slot at face level for guards to peer into. He watched as the whole citadel came alive with movement; officers yelling at their subordinates, soldiers sleeping moments before were hastily putting on their cuirasses, those on-duty were already rushing out the door. He could barely hear what the soldiers were saying to each other amidst the chaos, "He- Hey! Where's everyone going? What's—"

His questions were cut short when the glint of metal appeared in the corner of his eye. He quickly moved away as one of the officers bashed the pommel of his saber against the slot bars, nearly smashing Henri's teeth in the process. The sound was almost deafening in the cell. The mustachioed officer's fierce eyes filled the small window, glowering at Henri and blocking most of the light behind him.

"Shut it, brejou! If I so much as hear you cough again, I'll hang you at the city gate with your fucking guts! You hear me?"

Henri nodded his head, eyes wide. As soon as the officer's thunderous voice could no longer be heard in the hall, Henri returned to the cell door. After a few minutes, the river of soldiers passing his cell became a trickle. Just when he was about to give up trying to get a soldier's attention, he saw a familiar face, and an unmistakable limp.

"Hey! Hey, Edgar! It's me, Henri! Ed!" One of the soldiers stopped, nearly stumbling over himself. Henri called again, "Over here!" The soldier, who Henri knew as Edgar Bassett, didn’t run, so much as stumbled, to the cell door.

"Henri, is that you? What are you doing here? Oh, don't tell me you're the insurgent my captain was raving about."

The pungent stench of mushroom wine on his breath hit Henri like a Phantom Rail. At least that explained why he was the last of the soldiers to get suited up.

"Never mind that. Why is every soldier in Aartan losing their shit?"

Edgar blinked lazily, trying to shake off the alcohol. As much as Henri loved him like a brother, Edgar always managed to make a minute-long conversation feel like hours. Finally, in a guarded conspiratorial tone, Edgar spoke.

"Something… something happened,"

As quickly as he began to focus, Edgar's eyes were beginning to glaze over and wander around the hallway. He eventually looked down at himself and decided that the dryness of his mouth held more importance. Henri gave his friend an exacerbated look. After a few moments, Edgar continued.

"Something happened at the Imperial Palace."

"What? The Imperial Palace? What hell happened?"

Edgar sucked air through his teeth.

"I really shouldn't tell you, don't want to get in trouble again."

"Oh, come on, Ed! Don’t do this! It's me. Just tell me. Look around who am I going to tell, anyway, eh? The other bastard here who’s never leaving?"

Henri gestured around his cell, emphasizing his point. Now the rosy nature of Edgar's cheeks was gone. Sobering up, he looked around, making sure nobody was left on the floor to hear him. At this point, there were no other people on this level; Henri could hear the clump of soldiers move below him. Finally, Edgar released a frustrated sigh.

"Fine. But if you so much as breathe a word of this outside this cell, we'll both hang for this."

"You have my word: Not a soul outside this cell."

Edgar scratched his stubble and beckoned Henri. The prisoner's head was now pressed up against the door, and the soldier whispered into the outstretched ear. Then he stepped back, looked around, and ran off to join his comrades.

Aubin, who until now was still at the window watching the stream of lights rush towards and past the Flumontre, looked over to the stunned boy at the door with his one good eye. After withdrawing his ear from the door, Henri did not dare move. He was afraid if he so much as shifted his balance, he would come crashing to the hard, unforgiving floor. His hands were trembling, and his ears were ringing. He felt the world beginning to fall out from under him. The lights beyond the citadel became as distant as the stars. It wasn't until Aubin walked over to Henri and shook him that he found solid ground again. Aubin was yelling something.

Ignoring Aubin, Henri turned around and walked towards the window. He overlooked the city he grew up in; his face was lit from both the moon above and the lights below. There was a third light source beginning bathe the city in warm flickering light. As the light grew brighter, the Flumontre de Aartan cast a longer shadow on the city, then the screaming and wailing joined the chorus of bells. Aubin grabbed his shoulder and turned him around.

"Hey fuckwit, what did that shit-heel tell you?"

In a trance, Henri uttered one word.

"Dead."

“What in the gods are you on about?”

“The Emperor… he’s… he’s dead.”

The bells continued to toll as the sun crested over the mountains, and smoke choked the city.

Chapter I

In many ways, an empire is like a tree. It takes hundreds of years for a tree to grow to its fullest, but it only takes a fraction of that time for it to die. Its fate is a certainty, of course, but the speed of its death is dependent on the environment in which it’s rooted in. In the case of Avar, its tree grew in a paradise. However, the tree’s mere presence had condemned it to perdition.

~Conifer Norton, “A Forest of Empires: A History of Sirithell”

A flash, a brief feeling of weightlessness, then nothing.

Nathan opened his eyes and stared at a stone ceiling. A dull pain throbbed in his head, and his entire body was sore. He gingerly propped himself up and took in his surroundings. A lantern sat in the middle of the room, its dim light casting harsh shadows against the walls. Barrels lined the room, and the scent of wine-soaked wood filled the damp air. A flight of stairs hugged the corner of the room farthest from Nathan, its end was beyond the light’s reach. He tried to get up and a wave of vertigo crashed into him. When he put his hand to his head, his fingers glided to the side of his temple and across a patch of skin that felt crusty and hard. Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through his body; the agony splintered into his every thought. He shut his eyes, his hands hugging his head.

He felt weightless again, his ears were ringing, and he could hear other men screaming. They were close by, but it was muffled, as though he were underwater. The pungent stench of smoke filled his nostrils. When the pain subsided, he opened eyes again and was nearly blinded by the sun shining overhead. He was in field of stark white poppies now. A gentle warm wind played with his hair as he shielded his eyes from the brilliant sunlight reflecting off the petals. He had no idea where he was, but it a strange feeling told him it was a familiar place. When he blinked again, he was back in the dark wine cellar. He looked around again.

What the fuck?

Something in his pocket dug into his thigh when he began to shift around. Standing up, he began to reach for his pocket, but stopped. His hand felt warm and sticky. He looked down to see his palm coated in crimson — the warm blood glistened in the lanternlight as it ran down his arm and dripped to the floor. He cried out, stumbling back from his hand. His scream of terror turned into a yelp of alarm as he lost his balance and began to fall backward. Expecting to crash against the cold hard stone, he was surprised to feel a soft and lumpy surface beneath him. He was doubly startled when the thing beneath him began to groan and move, causing Nathan to roll off and land on his back. He looked at his hands again, but they were clean, not so much as pinprick of blood was to be seen.

His pain was all but gone, and he looked at the source of the groaning and found that he had landed on a body. The man appeared to be no younger than Nathan. He scrambled away as the man rolled to the side and clutched his stomach. After writhing around for a minute, the man was still. A few moments after, Nathan stood up again and tried quietly to make his way to the stairs. As he passed by the man, a hand snatched his ankle, nearly tripping him again.

“And where do you think you’re going, my clumsy fellow?”

The man was looking up at Nathan with a toothy smile that wasn’t exactly friendly. It was the smile of a man who would buy you a drink, only to pay with the money he stole from you an hour before. “You just shattered my body; I hope you don’t expect to get off without giving some sort of apology.” Half the man’s face was painted in shadow, making his smile more disturbing.

“Right, I’m—” Nathan paused, “I’m sorry, who are you?”

The man leapt to his feet with a flourish, he was very nimble considering he was reeling on the floor moments before. After pausing for a moment too long, looking theatrically just over Nathan’s shoulder, he returned eye-contact.

“The name’s Lucentio, Lucentio… Cask.”

“Lucentio Cask?”

The man cocked an eyebrow and leaned forward.

“Yes, and don’t you forget it. Now it’s my turn to ask you a question, my inquisitive fellow. Who might you be?” He said it in such a way that it didn’t sound like a question, but an accusation.

“Nathan. My name’s Nathan,” he said.

“What? Just Nathan? No surname?”

“Oh, right. Um- it’s… it’s…” He was certain he knew his own name, but it eluded him. “I don’t—”

“And I don’t have time to watch you splutter like a dying fish. What is this place? And who are they?” Confused, Nathan looked over to where he was pointing. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw that there were two other people beside Lucentio. There was a woman with stark white hair and the person farthest from him was covered by a blanket. They were both unconscious.

“I—I don’t know. I’ve never seen them before.”

Lucentio slowly paced around the around the room, stepping over the bodies. He walked over to the stairs and looked up to see where it led.

“I think there is a—” He paused when he looked back at Nathan. He squinted as his eyes looked him up and down.

“What? There’s a what?” Lucentio didn’t answer, but began to stalk towards him, his hand looking to rest on a hilt that wasn’t there. Nathan started to back up, and finally Lucentio spoke.

“Did you know you’re covered in blood?”

“What?”

For the first time, Nathan looked down at his clothes. He wore a blue button-down shirt, on the right side of it, from his collar to the chest, a large patch of dried blood stained the fabric.

“Allow me to repeat myself.” Lucentio said, suspicion creeping in his voice. “You are covered in blood. Now, that would suggest to me that you have perhaps harmed one’s person before.”

“What? What are you—” Nathan began to stammer again and back up. His head was throbbing again.

“And,” Lucentio interrupted, raising a finger, “You did harm my person just now. That sounds an awful lot like something a captor would do.” Lucentio took one more step, forcing Nathan to back himself against the barrel-lined wall. “Actually, that is something a captor would do. Did you put us here?”

“What? I don’t—. Wait, look!” He pointed at his temple. “I got it from this!”

Lucentio stopped, looked at the scab, and thought for a moment,

“How do I know you didn’t do that yourself?”

“Why would I do that?”

“That would be the exact thing a sadistic, and possibly masochistic, captor such as yourself would do!” Lucentio tutted, “Play mind games with us and pick us off one by one. Pretend to be this pathetic injured amnesiac with the charisma of a rock to throw us off the scent. Sowing the seeds of mistrust and whatnot. I must say, you are doing a rather poor job of it. I mean, who loses that much blood from something like that?” He pointed at Nathan’s head. Nathan began fidgeting with his shirt, the dried blood made the fabric stiff, and it made a scratching sound between his fingers. It was a lot of blood. His forefinger slipped through a hole in his shirt and beneath that he felt something on this skin. He began to unbutton his shirt,

“What the hell are you doing?’

“One second.” He continued to unbutton, faster now.

“Listen, if you were better looking and perhaps a bit shorter, maybe. But considering you might be— oh my.”

Opening the shirt, they could see Nathan’s right side bruised and covered in numerous lacerations which had scabbed over. Crusty bits of blood were still on his skin. There was a pause as the two men looked at each other. Lucentio’s wariness returned.

“Those wounds prove nothing.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“I can and I am. I’ll give you this, though, you sure know how to dedicate yourself to the role.”

“A role? This is ridiculous! Why are you so— wait! How do I know you didn’t do this to me?” Lucentio’s eye twitched at the accusation.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean, come on! You’re held-bent on pegging me as some kind of kidnapping psychopath for no reason. It makes no sense, unless you’re trying to shift blame.” He didn’t believe what he was saying to be true. However, Nathan wanted to get some breathing room to think, and perhaps, as unlikely as it may be, convince the man. Lucentio scoffed.

“That’s preposterous. I do have a reason. In case you forgot: You. Are. Covered! In! BLOOD!” With each word, Lucentio’s voice rose. Nathan decided to respond in kind.

“Yes! My blood! Tell me, if I abducted you and wanted to pretend to also be a victim, why would I be the only one covered in blood, hm? Think! Why would I want to stand out? And on top of that, know who you are! You even have a last name! That’s more than what I can say for myself!”

“Ah-Ha!” Lucentio shouted triumphantly, interrupting Nathan, “That’s where you’re wrong, my kidnapping fellow, I haven't a clue who I am! I’d suggest you look behind you.”

Nathan, who lost all momentum, cautiously turned around, making sure the man was in his periphery. He didn’t know what he was looking for, and he looked back at Lucentio. He was patting off the dust on his shirt. He gestured for Nathan to go on.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to bash your head in. Nasty business, that.”

Nathan turned around and faced a wall of barrels. Noticing a tear in his sleeve, Lucentio sighed,

“Pity. I don’t know why, but I have the feeling I liked this shirt. Anyways, it doesn’t matter. The point is, I haven’t the faintest grasp of my personal identity. I just remember having the most peculiar dream and waking up to you breaking my ribs. Now—”

The throbbing in his head returned, and Nathan remembered the white poppies.

“Wait,” Nathan looked back at Lucentio, “You said you had a dream before waking up?”

Lucentio rolled his eyes.

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“That’s not what I—"

Just then, the figure covered in sheets began to stir, with the rustle of the leathery canvas filling the room. Nathan looked to Lucentio. Lucentio gently nodded in acknowledgement and slowly made his way towards the canvas-wrapped figure.

“Good morning, my drowsy fellow. You wouldn’t happen to know where we are, would you? It would be a great help if you did.”

The figure dazedly stood up, shedding the cover like a mountain panther shaking off the snow. In the dim lighting, Nathan could see it was another woman. Her slender frame paired with her frizzy explosion of red hair casted a ghoulish shadow behind her. She groggily looked around,

“I’m sorry, what?” She yawned.

Lucentio’s frustration was thinly veiled by his pleasant demeanor, “I said, do you know what this place is?”

She looked around again, and almost immediately, her tired demeanor was replaced with panic when she looked at Nathan. Instantly she scrambled away, nearly tripping over herself in the retreat. “What’s going on? Wh-Why are you bloody?” She asked Nathan, not taking her eyes away from his shirt. “Why is he bloody? Where the hell are we? What—”

“Great…” Lucentio interrupted, throwing his hands up and walking away. “Now we’re three-nill for people trapped in a room with no gods-damned clue on what’s going on.” He quickly turned around, nearly kicking the lantern over. His next words were covered with a thin veil of comfort but failed to mask his growing frustration. “Ok, calm down. If we are to believe him, it’s his own blood. Now, ignore the bloody man, and just focus on me. Do you know your name?”

“Sibella.” She said, “My name is Sibella.”

“Is there a surname to this?” Lucentio asked.

“Sibella…Sibella…”, and the panic returned, “What’s going—"

“Gods damned!” Lucentio kicked the nearest barrel. “Argh! Am I the only one with a full name?” Lucentio was also starting to panic. He started to pace with an exaggerated limp and ran his hand across his neatly trimmed beard. “No one knows what going on! We’re trapped here, and no one knows what is happening! This is just—”

“Can someone tell me what’s—"

“Lucentio, calm down! She’s been up for barely a minute. You’re freaking her out.” Nathan interjected. Lucentio whirled around pointing at him. His eyes were like a cornered animal’s.

“You’re one to talk! I woke up to you kicking my sternum in half!”

“Can someone—"

“Can you stop with that? I fell on you!”

“Oh, fuck off! We both know you meant to do that!”

“I don’t know what your problem is, but—”

“Hey!” Sibella shouted, her voice easily overpowering the two who were bickering. “I don’t know what’s been going on here.” She pointed between Lucentio and Nathan.

“Well, you see, I think Nathan here has—”

“BUP-BUP-BUP! Shut it. I just want to know where I am and why I’m wherever I am with three people I don’t know. Or maybe I do know you. I can’t remember a thing about me. I mean, I remember my name. But everything else is gone. I don’t know how I got here, where I came from, who I’ve known…” The angry tone broke for a moment, replaced with fear. “My whole life. It’s just gone. I’m not even sure if Sibella is my real name. It’s just the first name that popped in my head."

“In that case, allow me to remedy one of those issues.” Lucentio stepped forward, composure back. “I’m Lucentio C—”

“He’s Lucentio Cask, I’m Nathan, we don’t know who that woman is.” Everyone glanced at the woman still asleep. “Right now we are in the same boat as you.”

“Indeed.” Lucentio shunted past Nathan, nearly causing him to trip. “As to where we are, I think we’re trapped in someone’s wine cellar. And if my working theory is correct, I think I know who’s. it is” He looked pointedly at Nathan.

“Can you stop with that, seriously.”

“I shall do no such thing.”

“Wait.” Sibella said. “Why do you think it’s his cellar? He’s trapped in here with us, isn’t he?”

“Well, you see, my confused fellow. This is a—”

“This is a conspiracy that he created for no reason. I’ve been trying to tell him that I had nothing to do with us being here.”

“And until you provide sufficient evidence, I shan’t believe a word of what you say.”

“What part of any of this,” He waved his hands around his body, “Tells you that kidnapped you.” Nathan looked at Sibella. “This is my own blood, by the way.”

“Yeah…” She turned to Lucentio. “What part of that tells you that?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“No, not really.”

“Thank you!” Nathan was liking this new member of the trio more and more.

As this went on, Sibella was starting to compose herself more. The panic was gone, and pragmatism was back. She walked to the stairs and pointed up. “Are we sure that door is locked?”

“I’m sorry?” Lucentio asked.

“Are you sure that that door is locked? It’s not stuck or something? Maybe it’s a push, not a pull? I don’t know, but there aren’t any windows to crawl out of, so I figured we would try the door again. Maybe we can use a barrel or something to ram it open?”

“Ah, the door…” Lucentio sucked air through his teeth. “Yes, the door. Funny thing, the door.”

“You did check, right?”

Lucentio looked at Nathan. “I… we hadn’t considered that.”

“Are you serious?”

With a glare fixed on Lucentio, Sibella started to make her way up the stairs. The wooden panels creaked beneath her bare feet. When she disappeared at the top, the clunk of a metal handle followed by squeal of metal hinges welcomed in a natural light, countering the warm light of the lantern. Sibella came back down and looked pointedly at Lucentio, one eyebrow cocked,

“Trapped?”

Lucentio turned away, avoiding eye contact with them. She started to go up the stairs again. “Maybe someone up there with a brain can tell us where we are.”

“That’s not fair!” Lucentio snapped.

“But what about her?” Nathan gestured at the still unconscious woman. Sibella was halfway up the stairs before she turned around to them, indifference scrawled on her face.

“I don’t know her, do any of you? I just want to know where the hell I am.” And she continued up the stairs. She didn’t close the door behind her.

“Who the hell is she think she is? I thought I established myself as de-facto leader pretty well.” Lucentio whispered,

“I’m sure you thought that. Come on, I’ll take the shoulders.”

Grumbling, Lucentio took the unconscious woman by the ankles and Nathan hooked his arms underneath her own and started their way up the stairs. She was rearing a hardened leather breastplate, and the pauldron was digging into Nathan’s bicep. When he tried to get a better hold, he noticed something on the woman’s collar. It was a silver pin that looked to be some sort of four-pointed star. Engraved were spear shaped petals.

“You may have fooled her, but I still have my eye on you.” Lucentio whispered, diverting Nathan’s attention.

“Whatever.”

Everything was quiet on the way up. When Nathan walked backwards through the doorway, he saw shelves of bottles lining the wall and a large bar counter strewn with beer steins and more bottles. He expected to see a room full of shocked patrons, but when he looked over his shoulder there was not a soul to be seen. The hearth sheltered no flame, only the charred wood that remained. The front door was lazily swinging back and forth, bringing in a cold breeze. Almost every table had either a bowl, plate, or half-drunk mug scattered across their surface.

“Well, this is certainly strange. Hold her for a second, will you?” Before he even finished talking, Lucentio immediately let go of the woman’s ankles, the heels of her boots produced a harsh clack against the hardwood floor. Nathan nearly dropped her as well. Not noticing or caring, Lucentio moved past Nathan, looking around the pub. While Nathan began to drag the woman to a nearby booth, he noticed Sibella at the base of the fireplace across the room. At this point was inspecting her arms. Nathan hadn’t noticed before, but Sibella’s right forearm was woven with tattoos, from the back of her hand and beyond the elbow, where it disappeared beneath her rolled-up sleeve. There appeared to something written between the thick black coils, and she was twisting her arm to try and read. As her lips moved, she looked even more confused than before.

His arms were beginning to tremble as he propped the still-unconscious woman up at a booth. While adjusting her posture, he paused, as his hands brushed against something strapped to her forearm. In the lighter room, he could clearly see the handle of a dagger poking out of her sleeve. The weapon looked to be made concealable at a glance, with the white-oak handle flattened and the blade no longer than the length of his hand. Looked around to see if anyone was looking before he slid the knife from the sheath and put under his belt. The blade caught on something protruding from his pocket, that’s when he remembered. He put his hand in his pocket and his fingers wrapped around something cylindrical. It was cold to the touch and when he took it out, he could see it was a glass vial of clear, colorless, liquid. The stopper was sealed with wax and a label read “No.23-S”. He put it back in his pocket, not sure what to do with it.

Taking his mind off the vial. He glanced at the table, which like every other table in the room, was cluttered with plates. He leaned in to get a closer look and saw the skin of dried stew that clung to the chunks of meat, potatoes, and carrots. There was a faint odor, but the cold combined with the heavy seasonings managed to mask most of it.

“Now, I may seem not to know much about unlocked doors.” Lucentio said, looking pointedly at Sibella, who rolled her eyes in response. “But I do know a bit more about pubs, in the sense that there are usually people in such establishments…”

“So where are the people?” Sibella concluded.

Lucentio lifted a mug from a nearby table to his nose, took a few cautious sniffs, and began to sip. All eyes were on him, faces stricken with disgust.

“What? Beer can’t turn.” He glanced at the dark brown liquid in the mug,

“At least, I hope it can’t.” He took a more confident swig.

“In any case.” Lucentio put down the mug and looked out the opaque windows. Since they had ascended from the basement, the greyish light outside had turned orange. “From the looks of it, it’s early evening. So, unless the owner is averse to making money, this place should be packed. Either that, or it’s a dry town with loose sense of commitment.”

“These meals look half-eaten, like it was interrupted.” Nathan chided in. Sibella looked at the table nearest to her — her nose scrunched up at the sight.

“Since I can still breath through my nose, I wouldn’t say this was too long ago.” Sibella said, kneeling down and looking across the pub’s floor. “And there nothing here that tells me there was a struggle.”

“So, whatever happened here,” Lucentio said. “It must have been voluntarily to some degree. Let’s keep looking, maybe something here can tell us where we are. I’ll check the bar.” And just like that, Lucentio found a spot free of mugs and dishes and hopped over the bar counter. While Nathan was walking past tables, he could see the man going underneath the counter and taking out a wooden box. He plopped it down with a loud THUD. Jamming corkscrew he found on the counter into keyhole, he began to twist. A string of curses followed the loud snap of metal.

“Gods damn it.” He muttered.

Lucentio then picked the box from the counter and walked towards the cellar. After two practice swings, he tossed the lockbox through the door. There was a second of silence as the box sailed into the darkness, then a crash of metal, wood, and glass echoed from the basement. The sound of coins clattering to the floor made him smile.

“One second, I’ll be back momentarily.” And with that, he snatched a sack from behind the counter and descended the stairs.

“Oh dear—Did we need the lantern?” Lucentio asked.

“Idiot.” Sibella sighed.

Nathan inspected the tables. Much to his chagrin, he didn’t find anything out of the ordinary. His stomach grumbled as he passed by plate after plate of food. Finally, he came across a roasted chicken which was not too populated by greyish-green fuzz. Looking back, the amount of time it took him to make up his mind was more than a bit disheartening. Making sure no one was looking, he tried to discreetly peel off the spoiled skin of a chicken breast. The meat beneath it looked good. Sibella looked over at Nathan and he immediately pretended to look around thoroughly around the plates. After she broke eye contact, he quickly tore a shred of meat and ate it. He immediately spat it out.

Sibella, who as now kneeling back at the fireplace, sifting her hand in the ashes.

“Still warm, I maybe three days—” When she looked over at Nathan, her eyes widened. In an instant, Sibella lunged towards a table, grabbed steak knife and was crouched down. Nathan followed suit. As Lucentio walked upstairs with a filled sack of coins, he was surprised to see Sibella urgently gesturing him to get down and come over.

“What is it?” asked Lucentio as he crawled his way to her.

“Quiet. There are people outside.” She whispered back, not taking her eyes from the opaque windows behind Nathan. He turned around and saw two blurred figures strolling past. If he strained his ears, he could hear the faint consonants amidst the murmur of a conversation. Through the window, Nathan could see a clear height difference, with the shortest one’s head barely peaking over the sill. Lucentio looked at Sibella, his brow furling in a mix of confusion and condescension.

“If we’re looking for people, then why are we hiding?” Lucentio said, not bothering to whisper, as he stood up and started walking towards the door.

“Wait-wait-wait-wait—” Sibella sprung for his legs, but he sidestepped, causing her to run into the chair directly in front of her. The two blurred figures froze at the sound of the chair skidding on the floor, not even seeming to stumble.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” Despite a layer of glass, the woman’s question could be heard clearly. Her voice was light yet firm, with the slightest hint of an accent. Everyone in the pub looked at each other.

“What now?” Lucentio mouthed, the frantic look in his eyes betraying any semblance of calm he once had.

“I don’t know.” Sibella replied, clearly incensed, “You wanted to meet them!”

“I assumed you would have stopped me. I have no idea who these people are.” Sibella gave an exasperated look,

“Then why did you—? Gods, I’m with a fucking child. Never mind, it doesn’t matter. They don’t know we’re actually here, so if we sit tight and—" Just then, a loud thud followed by a clatter disrupted the conversation. Everyone looked over to origin. The unconscious woman behind Nathan, who had been sitting upright at a booth just a moment before, slumped and slammed her head against the table. The force of the impact toppled over a mug and tipped a precariously placed bowl off the edge of the table. The bowl hit Nathan, spilling spoiled stew on his shoulder, and clunked to the floor. It rattled on its rim for a few painful seconds, and finally stopped. Everyone was petrified, the only thing to be heard now being the soft tap, tap, tap-tap of spilled wine dripping onto the floor. A moment passed, then the crunch of boots wet stone continued, the sound nearing the open door.