They’re desperate because they have nothing. While I have everything.
It was a chilling thought. Perhaps Cleo too would become more savage if she had to live in this dying land for more than a week.
They entered the next village with its typical dusty streets and small, stone cottages with thatched roofs. In the market, which was the busiest section of the village, they stopped a few people and asked them about the Watcher.
They received the same response they’d gotten everywhere else.
“Watchers? Don’t know anything about that,” one woman said, her lips peeling back from broken teeth. “Don’t believe in such inane legends, dearie. If we had a Watcher among us with magic at her lovely, golden fingertips, do you think we’d have to sleep under broken roofs and eat frostbitten vegetables?”
“She’s an exiled Watcher, so perhaps it’s different for her.”
The woman waved a dismissive hand. “It’s bad enough that we put up with Chief Basilius, who uses our taxes for his luxurious compound working his so-called magic while the rest of us starve to death. Now he wants to steal our men for his foolish endeavors. Sickening.”
“Quiet yourself,” her gray-haired friend whispered harshly, grabbing her arm. “Don’t speak ill of the chief. He’ll hear you.”
“He hears nothing but his own satisfied belches,” the woman snarled back.
The woman’s friend dragged her away before she said anything else.
“Broken roofs,” Nic said, scanning the area. “She’s right. Half the roofs around here have holes in them. How do these people manage to survive the bleakest days of winter?”
“Some don’t.” The voice came from a stall selling woven baskets. Cleo stopped and turned to see a small woman with gray hair and a deeply lined face regarding her with black, sparkling eyes. For a moment, Cleo recalled Silas Agallon, the wine seller, just before his sons arrived. What happened shortly afterward slid through her memory like rancid jam.
“Apologies, but what did you say?” Cleo asked.
“The winters are harsh here,” the woman said. “Some aren’t lucky enough to see the spring. That’s just the way it is. You’re not from around here, are you?”
“We’re from Limeros,” Nic said evenly. “Traveling through this land doing research on a book about the legend of the Watchers of the Kindred. Do you know anything about them?”
“I know some stories. My family used to tell them, and I know many tales passed down through the centuries, some that would have been lost otherwise.”
Cleo’s heart pounded. “Have you ever heard rumors a woman who lives here in Paelsia used to be a Watcher? She was exiled and now makes her home in a village in this land.”
“An exiled Watcher around here?” The woman’s brows went up. “How exciting. But no, I’ve never heard this rumor. I’m sorry.”
Cleo’s shoulders sank. “So am I.”
The woman gathered her wares and rolled them up into a large piece of cloth, tucking them into a pack she swung over her shoulder. “You should find shelter. The storm is nearly upon us.”
“Storm?” Nic repeated just as a crack of lightning forked through the darkening sky followed by a boom of thunder.
The woman gazed upward. “Storms in Paelsia are infrequent, but always sudden and severe. Our land is still touched by magic, even as it fades before our eyes.”
Cleo’s breath caught. “You believe in magic.”
“Sometimes I do. Lately, though, it’s not often enough.” She cocked her head. “Are you sure you’re from Limeros? You hold the slightest accent that makes me think of our southern neighbors.”
“Of course we’re sure,” Nic said without hesitation. “Cleo and I have traveled extensively across the Western Realm as well as overseas, so we’ve managed to pick up many things along the way. Accents, habits, friends. Hopefully we can count you among the latter. My name’s Nicolo, but please call me Nic.”
“Eirene.” A smile helped fan the wrinkles out around her eyes. “A pleasure, young man. And you”—she turned to Cleo—“that’s an unusual name you have. Is it short for Cleiona?”
Her gaze snapped to Nic’s. He’d used her name in conversation without thinking.
She forced her gaze to remain steady. “I blame my father for my name. He had a special interest in mythology. He didn’t discriminate among the goddesses as many Limerians would. He considered them both as equals.”
“Smart man. Now I strongly suggest you find a room for the night.”
They exchanged a look just as the cold rain began to fall. Cleo pulled the hood of her cloak over her hair, but it only took a few moments before she was soaked.
“We’ll have to find shelter, but we can’t afford an inn,” Nic said. “We need food more and have not enough coin for both.”
Eirene studied them before she nodded. “Then you’ll come home with me. I can feed you and give you a dry place to sleep for the night.”
Cleo looked at her with shock. “Why would you do such a thing for complete strangers?”
“Because I would hope a stranger would do the same for me. Come.”
Eirene led them to her home five minutes away from the market. By then they were drenched through to their skin—and everything in Cleo’s bag was wet. As Nic helped Eirene build a fire in the hearth, the stone chimney rising up through the thatched roof, Cleo glanced around. The floors were tightly packed dirt, almost as hard as marble. It was otherwise very clean, but sparse. Wooden table, wooden chairs, straw mattresses at the far side of the room. While it was nothing compared to even the most modest villa in Auranos, it was certainly livable enough.