The Last Sin

Travel that day was slow but uneventful. I spent the morning swaying on the makeshift stretcher carried by Dugan and Castille. By noon, I found the strength to ride. Without a horse of my own, I rode behind Dugan on his gelding. As the sun crawled across the sky, the ambush Castille feared did not happen.

Before night, we struck camp a few hours away from the road. The surrounding woods were full of wildlife, giving Castille plenty of game to hunt. She used her longbow with deadly accuracy to bring down a stag. She and Dugan field-dressed it with practiced efficiency.

Isla and I could only watch with wide eyes. Between her experience as a highborn lady and my experience as a street rat turned rogue, watching was all we could do. She always hovered near me now, another lesson on Landbound magic on the tip of her tongue. I was beginning to enjoy her lectures. They had utility: I learned something new, and it distracted me from reliving Cynthia’s last memory. She found a useful prop as we sat around the fire to eat venison stew.

"Think of this bowl as the amount of land you hold."

She held the plain wooden bowl with both hands.

"The more land you hold, the bigger the bowl. The stew is the will you burn when you use your abilities."

She positioned the bowl near the pot as Dugan poured another serving of the stew with a steady hand.

"The amount of land you hold determines how much magic you can output in a single moment. It’s your cap. The will you burn determines your actual output. A well-trained mage can control how much they fill the bowl from moment to moment. If your bowl is very big, you may never fill it completely."

I chimed in.

"So, it's possible to not have enough stew to fill your bowl. What happens if you have more stew than the bowl can fill? Does it spill over?"

"No, it means you can stay at your capacity for a longer time. Like what happened with you."

My mouth went dry as I remembered the pillar of fire shooting up to the second story of the watchtower. It had lasted for hours, she said.

Isla looked at me with a mixture of concern and guilt.

"I'm sorry; I didn't mean to bring that up again."

"No. It's alright…"

I grasped for something to say to change the subject.

"Your bowl must be huge."

Brilliant, Jacob.

On the other side of the fire, Castille laughed. She paid closer attention to Isla’s lectures than me—always with her hand close to her sword hilt.

Isla's face flushed.

"It’s not that big. I - I grew up near a lake in the countryside."

"Cut the crap. We all saw what you did the other day," Castille said.

"And you've been staring at me like a Dahlgeshi stares at a bathtub ever since. Why do you hate me, Castille?" Isla asked.

Castille's face twisted into a mocking smile.

"You’re a noble and a powerful one at that. Your shy girl act might fool Dugan or Jacob, but I know your type. You’re using us. We’re pawns in some game and don’t even know it yet. A game between nobles."

"You don't know me, Castille! What I've been through?! Who I've lost?!" Isla shouted.

The pain in Isla's voice cut familiar wounds in me. Her eyes became glossy, and the stew in her bowl rocked back and forth like waves breaking on the shore.

"WALK! NOW!"

A voice like distant thunder cut through the tension in the camp. It took me a second to realize the source.

It was Dugan.

The stocky man set his calm gaze on Castille. Their eyes met for a lingering moment before she stood up.

“Aye, I’ll walk.”

She bent down in a mock curtesy in front of Isla.

“Use us, my Lady, because I’ll be sure to use you.”

She looked down at Dugan, who had gone back to doling out another serving of stew to Thor. She snarled, storming off into the darkness outside the campsite.

I sat stunned.

Dugan could speak.

# # #

We spent the rest of the night in silence. By the time Isla and I turned in for bed, Castille had not returned. The tent we shared was not meant for two people, at least not two people in separate bedrolls. We positioned ourselves on the opposite sides of the tent, leaving a patch of grass between us that had just enough space to build a single brick wall.

The awkwardness was its own wall. I shifted in my bedroll, focusing on a corner of the canvas tent. Cynthia’s body wasn’t even cold, yet another woman had already found her way into my private quarters. Her burned corpse flashed in my mind, and I fought to keep the night’s stew down.

Cynthia… no one can replace you, not Cindra or this blue-eyed wannabe.

Cindra? I lifted my head off the bedroll. In Cynthia’s memory, she escaped the assassin. I thought back to my meeting with Alden.

“Only four bodies,” I whispered.

Cindra was alive!

Was she OK? Where is she now? How do I find her?

My mind raced at the new possibilities. Cindra survived and… and…

I failed her.

The thought made my stomach sink. I broke my promise to keep Cynthia safe. There was no way I could face her. Not now.

I curled into myself. It was going to be a long night.

"Hey," Isla whispered.

Canvas rustled as she turned in her bedroll.

“Yeah?”

"Do you hate me too?"

I despise you.

"Why would I hate you?"

"Because I'm a noble."

"I shrugged under my bedroll. When I was on the street, nobles ignored me just like everyone else—they just wore fancier clothes. Then, I became a noble or at least I thought I was. It was the happiest time of my life.”

"Why?"

Images of Gren, Cynthia, Mr. Reeves and Mrs. Dulldrey around the kitchen table flashed in my mind.

A weapon…

A weapon is not sentimental.

I laughed.

“It was fun to boss people around.”

She giggled.

“Really? I never got around to that.”

"Then what kind of noble are you?”

“Do you really want to know?”

Before I could answer, warning calls from Thor cut through the silence that settled over the camp.

Castille was right. We were about to get ambushed.