The Goblets Immortal by Beth Overmyer (read 50 shades of grey .TXT) 📕

“You find something?”

Aidan didn’t answer at first. He was busy moving mounds of dirt aside, ignoring the small cuts the rocks were scraping into his hands. There! Not two feet below was a chest made of iron, about four by three feet. He hastily cleared away the rest of the dirt, and with a triumphant laugh, he pried the lid off the coffer and found his store of water bladders, his saddlebag and moneys, his knives, some herbs, his fire-making tools, and his cooking patera. He was so happy, he could kiss something.

“Why’d they bury it?” Slaíne asked. She reached around him for one of the bladders, and her arm brushed his, causing his hairs to stand on end.

Aidan ignored his body’s reaction and Dismissed all but the bladders. “Perhaps they thought we wouldn’t escape if we didn’t have our supplies.” Who cared as long as they had the much-needed possessions back?

“And you’re sure they’re dead?” she asked.

“Why wouldn’t they be dead? You said it yourself. Their life forces were tied to the light. No light, no nymphs.” It sounded stupid coming out of his mouth, but it had to be true. And even if it weren’t, it didn’t matter now. They were free to be on their way.

Slaíne let out a grunt. “All right. If you say so, sir.” Before he could say anything else on the matter, she changed the subject. “Are we still for Wontworth?”

Aidan thought on it for a moment. “Frankly,” he said, trying to think of words as not to scare her, “I’m not entirely certain where we should go next.”

Of all things, the girl spat into the grass. “Can you, you know, feel for a place near us?”

“I could try. But if no one’s near for a few miles, it’ll be hard to say.”

“Go on, then.”

Aidan shook his head but closed his eyes anyway and reached out for Pulls. To his surprise, he found quite a few. The Pulls were weak, but strong enough to tug at him, meaning they were within at least ten miles. Finally, a bit of good news. “There’s a village,” he said, taking the bladders to the pond, “around seven or eight miles west from here. Its Pull is familiar, and the population is a small size. Might be Wontworth. Might be another town entirely. I’m not putting all my hopes in sheer dumb luck.”

* * *

Slaíne foraged for anything edible whilst Aidan filled the bladders and Dismissed any harmful properties from the water. This took some effort and concentration, and by the time he had cleansed all six, he’d worked up quite the sweat. His clothing had begun to dry, and his head throbbed in time with his heartbeat.

An hour later, Slaíne emerged from the woods with a dead goose hanging from around her neck. She dropped it at his feet, her expression expectant.

Aidan smirked, and Dismissed all the feathers. He Summoned his copper knife and stuck it into the dead bird’s flesh. “Don’t expect me to gut it.”

“Nah,” she said. “The innards are the best parts. You mind startin’ a fire, though, Ai— Sir?”

His smirk deepened into what might have passed for a smile if he were not so hungry. “You can call me Aidan, you know. That’s my name.”

Slaíne shook her head. “Nay, sir. Can nay do that.”

It occurred to him to ask why, but he had no desire for any more banter, playful or otherwise. So he set about working on a spit to roast the bird on while Slaíne gathered wood for a fire, skirting around each other in silence, the mood in the air uncertain.

He got the fire going and let it die down after an hour, and Slaíne helped him skewer the gutted carcass as to roast it above the small flames. The innards Slaíne insisted on stewing in his patera, something she claimed to never have seen the likes of in her life. The moments dragged. The tension built. Finally, Slaíne broke the silence. “I’ll be back,” she said, swatting at flies Aidan could not see. “I think I saw some wild onions growing o’er not far from here.” She muttered something else, but Aidan could not make out the words.

The bird roasted for an hour, and still Slaíne did not return. Had he not been keeping track of her Pull, he might’ve gone looking for her. He felt her, some yards off in the woods, singing to herself. For whatever reason, it made Aidan uncomfortable, like he was listening in on a private conversation. The words were nonsensical. Gibberish, if he half ignored it. And yet….

“Lock and key

The girl in the parlor

Crept on her knees

A’scrubbin’ the floors

Woe to she

For listening

At the keyhole

in the door

Oh I murthered a man

Said the smith to the banker

Oh woe to she

The wench at the door

I cheated he

Said the swarthy ol’ banker

But who is this

A’listenin’ at keyholes

They murthered a wench

A deal was struck

Beware to you eavesdroppers

You’ll learn what’s more for your luck.”

The tune was all over the place, and her voice was raised and angry in some parts. Honestly, Aidan did not think he wanted to know what or whom she was singing about. It put him in mind to shut out her voice entirely and focus on the pressing matters at hand.

“Find old Cedric’s grave,” Meraude had said to him. Yet, judging from what everyone had said, and what he himself had witnessed in the dream, the mage was not one to be trusted. But if she had the power to Summon what he could not – whom he could not – it might be worth the risk of losing…everything. And that meant finding the Goblets Immortal. The Goblet buried with Cedric the Elder was the first option, though he had no idea where it might be. The only one who might have known its location was goodness-knows-where, and possibly out to kill all magical beings. Then again, if Meraude had known the grave’s location, why hadn’t