“My dad was a scribe. We lived out in the ass end of the Kingdom, past the end of the desert and out in the scrublands, with the thin, cold air. His job was to receive written word from the capitol, about half the time directly from the King’s court, and do whatever it said, or give the orders to do whatever it said. We were close with the tax collector’s family, which made us oh so popular.
“Anyway, out there, lots of Veldimen come through. Made dad extra important because he translated both ways, Veldic and Hannumnan.”
“The King favors the honest man, and the honest man favors the King.”
Syr looked up to turn an icy glare on the soothsayer.
“I am familiar with the King’s tongue.”
“Suuuure…” hissed Syr, fixing her gaze on the soothsayer. “… and that was the problem. He was an honest man until he wasn’t. Or until he was caught. I don’t know. I… don’t really know.”
She hesitated, struggling to arrange the memories into a story.
“We were summoned to the capitol out of the blue. Two week trip downriver, even in good weather. Mom was clearly nervous. But they never told me anything but that it was for dad’s ‘duties’.
“Turns out it was a trial. Something about the Veldimen. It lasted less than an hour. The King judged it himself. He found dad guilty, and carried out the sentence right there, with… nothing. Not a nod, not a wave of the wrist, nothing. He just stared that stare of his and dad fell down dead.”
Syr took a deep breath and continued.
“Mom wasn’t the same after that. And she… she was also gone within a few days.
“I hate the desert, so I took a raft downriver. Stowed away on a trader bound here. And…”
“Pardon, child. Surely there is more to that.”
“No, there isn’t,” snapped Syr. “I hate the desert.”
The soothsayer’s head shifted under the veil. “Very well. Please continue.”
“I snuck off here. Been here a week now? Spent two of it in the castle jail because constable two-shoes caught me eyeing a clothier’s thinking I was going to steal something.”
The soothsayer’s head shifted.
“Yes, yes, fine, he was right. So, second night, the constable hauls in someone new and kicks me out of the cell. I go to leave, but he and his lord are busy yelling at each other and clapping in the new prisoner. Rather than get more face time with the law here, I grabbed whatever I could from the seized goods bin and left. That was… this…”
Syr gestured to the chestwrap she had fashioned out of the shirt, and the cloak she wore more like a blanket than clothing.
“… and…”
Her throat caught. Something dark and spidery danced within her ribcage.
The soothsayer stood and was upon her before she realized what was going on. She felt them seize her by the shoulders and turn her, then grab at the chestwrap. Rings jingled and beads rattled and soft robes whirled and obscured her vision while fear coiled around her chest and neck.
When all was quiet and still in the little room, she found herself sitting on the floor, leaning on her left hand, looking up at the robed soothsayer. The soothsayer held the little black square coin on its chain and was examining it.
Syr shook her head and pushed herself to her feet. “HEY. You can’t just…”
She snatched the coin back, froze, and fell to her knees, breathing quickly and shallowly.
“Shhhh.”
The soothsayer knelt over her, coin clasped in their left hand and their right over Syr’s forehead.
“Ahhhh… ouch.”
“Please allow me to hold the coin.”
“Fine,” mumbled Syr.
“All is clear. Please sit.”
Syr hauled herself back to the chair she had been offered when she arrived. When she was settled, the soothsayer pushed her a cup of piping hot tea, which she accepted. The soothsayer spoke in Hannumnan.
“This is a promise given and a promise owed. A wage paid and a toll pledged. For what you have given, you are owed. What you are owed will be given at the end of all things.”
They placed the coin on the table before themselves.
“This coin was struck in the world beyond, by the forgemaster with no name, and was given to a mortal to whom a God owed a debt. It is impossible to say which God or for what. The coin is only accepted by Death as a form of toll. A single passage for a single soul.”
Syr stared, only dimly comprehending.
“It is what you think it is, whether that is death or life. It is not so straightforward to employ. That does not concern you now. What you should know is that it is useless as payment. It may not be freely given to another while in a realm the Gods reach. It may only be offered to settle the debt it represents, as intended.
The soothsayer paused, looking down at the coin.
“The forgemaster’s will is very strong. You can feel it. It presses against your own, battles with you in your own body. That is what brought you to me.”
“Yeah. So… it’s useless to me? I won’t survive feeling like that for very long. Unless…”
“You need not my help to endure its presence. Your will—the forgemaster’s will—I do not mean these as rude forces akin to those of rutting boars. I mean your numinous being.”
“My what?”
“What I mean to say is that the forgemaster’s magic and yours are quarrelling, yes, but they may be reconciled.”
“My what?”