Agatha
“He lives over there, just beyond the hill. Take a turn, and you’ll spot it right away,” a short, plump woman told me, bouncing a small child on her hip. Behind her stood a neat little white cottage with painted doors and shutters, surrounded by a well-tended garden buzzing with life. Vibrant flowerbeds splashed color across the yard, delighting the eye. She herself was tidy and prim, as if she’d stepped straight out of a pastoral painting. The whole town, in fact, had a festive, cozy charm about it.
The rosy-cheeked, chubby toddler stared at me with curiosity, sucking on his thumb and bobbing in rhythm with his mother’s movements. A long, glistening strand of snot dangled from his nose, threatening to drip right onto the woman’s spotless white apron.
“But don’t go to him now. Better to wait until evening, when the sun’s setting. He’s in a kinder mood then,” she advised.
“Why’s that?” I asked, intrigued.
I’d never heard of someone’s temperament shifting with the time of day.
“Maybe because in the dark, you can’t see his face. Though he always wears a hood anyway. Hardly ever has a light on in there, either. And mirrors? Don’t even get me started. As for the castle outside town, you’ll see it soon enough. Used to be a grand place, all bright and lively, hosting balls and receptions. But now…” She shook her head with a sigh, and at that moment, the snot from the child’s nose finally plopped onto her chest.
“Thank you so much!” I said, hoisting my heavy suitcase and trudging off toward the hill she’d pointed out.
I’d arrived in the tiny, forgotten town of Krapitas today, right in the middle of the day, when the sun was nearly at its peak and the heat was unbearable. The old stationmaster gaped at me, dropping his weathered, rusty white disk—the one he used to signal trains—as he saw the train actually stop and a passenger step onto the platform. This was a “request stop” station; trains rarely halted here. Back in the capital, they hadn’t even wanted to sell me a ticket, claiming Krapitas wasn’t on the list of stops. I’d had to argue for ages, dragging the station manager into the mess, who, after lengthy discussions with some elderly, dignified clerk, finally allowed me to purchase a ticket. By then, the “request stop” train had left just minutes before I got my pass. So, I’d waited until late at night for the next one. Now, having finally reached this godforsaken nowhere, I was utterly exhausted, hungry, irritable, sleep-deprived, and—to top it all off—I’d broken a heel stepping into a massive pothole on the platform, of which there were plenty. Now I hobbled along like a duck, waddling awkwardly. I couldn’t very well go barefoot, though the thought crossed my mind more than once.
Gritting my teeth and cursing everything under the sun—especially the reason for my trip, one Netta Luminay—I rounded the hill and finally caught sight of the castle.
My suitcase slipped from my hands, and I stood frozen, utterly mesmerized. It was breathtaking!
The castle perched on a rise, encircled by a deep moat. A wide wooden drawbridge, currently lowered, led to towering arched gates. Before the moat, I could make out the half-ruined remains of a barbican*. A high stone wall, studded with four turrets, wrapped around the castle, its narrow arrow slits resembling the hollow eyes of strange birds. You could almost call it a fortress. Even now, when Sterantion hadn’t seen war in ages, its sturdy, well-preserved defenses looked ready to hold off any siege.
Beyond the walls, numerous tall towers soared skyward (I counted twelve, lost track, then counted again and got thirteen), each incredibly slender and pointed. The castle reminded me of the whimsical palaces of fairy queens that our second night nanny, Zofra, used to read to us about on the rare occasions she was in a good mood.
Grabbing my suitcase, I walked toward the castle as if under a spell, captivated by its elegant, mysterious beauty.
“Get out of the way!” a loud, angry male voice barked.
Almost instantly, a rider on a tall black horse thundered past, nearly grazing me with the animal’s hot flank. I felt a breeze on my cheek as the stirrup whizzed dangerously close to my head. Startled, I stumbled back, tripping on the foot with the broken heel, and fell sideways into a massive, muddy puddle on the road. It was the kind of puddle that probably never dried out, and after yesterday’s rain, it was brimming with slimy, greenish sludge.
The rider didn’t even glance back. His horse galloped across the distance to the castle bridge, hooves clattering on the wooden planks, before disappearing through the open gates of the fortress. I watched enviously; I still had a long way to go.
Soaked to the bone and covered in stinking mud, I dragged myself out of the mire. First, I let loose a string of curses, every foul word I knew—and after ten years in Saint Gertrude’s orphanage, I had quite the repertoire. Then, wiping myself off as best I could with the hem of my dress, I trudged on toward the castle. Now, on top of waddling like a duck with one broken heel, my shoes squelched with foul-smelling water. On the bright side (ha!), at least I wasn’t so hot anymore, being drenched head to toe. What can I say? There’s always a silver lining, right?
Oscar
This man irritated me beyond belief. I wanted to grab that blasted predictor and shove it straight into his toothless, jabbering mouth that wouldn’t shut up for a second. I barely held myself back, feeling my hands tremble and clench into fists, a red haze creeping over my vision.
“Now, if you pop open this little lid here, Netta Luminay, you’ll see a tiny notch. Everyone thinks it’s a flaw, a chip, but that’s not the case at all, let me tell you. There’s supposed to be a thread there, fine as a hair, that sets the whole mechanism in motion. Normally, it almost never breaks, made of a special material and magically reinforced, no less. But things happen. I can see your predictor’s taken a fall, so it’s possible the insides are misaligned, and that thread…”
“Can you fix it or not?” I cut off his endless monologue, feeling that another few seconds and the artificer would leave this world with a gaping hole in his shiny bald head.
“Well, how should I put it,” he drawled, not looking at me and completely oblivious to how close he was to death. “They don’t make parts like these anymore. The exclusive materials have to be sourced from the capital. If you order now, it could take six months, maybe a year—finding them, attuning them to the local currents, shipping them out… A true artificer could handle it quickly, of course, but as you know, they all work in the capital.”
“I get it,” I forced out, snatching the predictor from the counter and storming out of that cursed shop.
Wind, my horse, waited for me tied to the fence. He snorted, glancing at me with a glossy black eye. I stood by him for a moment, stroking his sleek flank to calm myself down.
I needed an artificer like I needed water. My tools broke at the worst possible moments, and the things I relied on kept falling apart. Just when I thought I was close to finishing my work, everything went to hell because some critical piece failed, forcing me—damn it all—to start over from scratch!
Bernice, whom I’d approached about a month ago, promised to ask around and see what he could do, but he made no guarantees.
“You know, Oscar, specialists like that are worth their weight in gold. True artificers? You can count them on one hand. And it’s unlikely any of them would come out to a backwater like your Krapitas,” he’d said.
“I’ll pay double,” I growled, feeling despair wrap around me like a dark fog.
“They’re not exactly struggling for money as it is. The capital is the capital. But I’ll try to figure something out,” Bernice replied before disappearing, probably to avoid the string of curses already on the tip of my tongue.
I’d stared into the communication orb for a long time after that, seeing only my scarred face distorted by its round surface, smeared across the glass. I told myself, “Oscar, who are you kidding? You’re not going to pull this off. You’re beating your head against a wall for nothing! Your fate is to live out your days and die in this godforsaken place.” And time was running out. Almost gone. If I didn’t find an artificer, death was inevitable. But with one, I might still have a chance to fight fate a little longer. As they say, hope dies last. I’d go right after it.
I stuffed the broken predictor into the saddlebag, untied Wind, and swung into the saddle. Sensing my mood, the horse bolted down the road, the wind whistling in my ears. The hood I wore flew back, but I didn’t bother fixing it, too angry and frustrated to care. Let the gossips talk about my disfigured face later, let them come up with their clever nicknames and metaphors, let them shake their heads and cluck their tongues in fake pity. I was used to it. Almost.
Sometimes I think back to the days when, full of beauty and grandeur, I could command anything with a mere raise of my brow, condemn or pardon with a glance, bring joy or despair with a look. Do I miss it? I don’t know. Probably not. Something in my soul broke irreparably, forever. Even if everything went back to how it was, I wouldn’t be the same. Emptiness and darkness have claimed my heart for good. I’m not just the ordinary, somewhat lazy scoundrel I used to be—I’ve become a cruel, cynical bastard who’s learned his place, like a dog returning to its kennel after a beating from its master.
The red haze over my eyes lifted a little, but the anger and bitterness toward the world stayed with me. They’d been my loyal companions for years, etched into my heart like the scars that now marred what was once a handsome face.
Wind galloped like the wind itself—I always compared my horse’s stride to that. I loved him more than all the people in the world combined. Maybe Hector, too, my dog. He’d never betray or abandon me, unlike people. Every single one of them. I’ve never met a person who wouldn’t compromise something in life. They can always be bought, intimidated, forced… Deep down, everyone carries the seeds of betrayal and deceit. They lie, scheme, make shady deals, always with a laundry list of excuses.
The road beyond town wound through fields, dotted here and there with puddles left from yesterday’s rain. At one turn, I nearly ran over some old peasant woman limping along, dragging something behind her. What a hag—why did she have to shuffle along right here, right now? To hell with her. Let them wander and get in the way, annoying me.
Wind thundered across the wooden bridge, the noise likely waking Hector. Dismounting at the castle entrance, I handed the reins to a servant who rushed out to meet me, head bowed to avoid meeting my gaze. I hurried up the steps to the hall, where my dog was already bouncing and yipping with joy at the door. Here was someone who truly loved me, just for existing. He didn’t care if my face was scarred, if I had a hunch, if I limped, or if I were a picture-perfect gentleman with flawless looks and manners. He just loved me. It’s so simple, just to love. And yet, it turns out, so incredibly hard.
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*Barbican (from French barbacane): a fortified structure built to protect the approach to a castle gate, often placed before the drawbridge, serving as the first line of defense for a castle or fortress.