Arc 3: Chapter 4: Turning of the World
Catrin was one of the few people I could call a friend, since the war. Maybe the only one. Rysanthe and Donnelly were too tied to my work, Emma was a pupil, and I’d become estranged from my old life, my old acquaintances.
I’d met her during one of my bloodier missions, in a time when I’d sunk very deep into the gloom that’d consumed my life. I shouldn’t have been surprised to find I wasn’t alone in that darkness. Given a grim mission and little faith that anything could get better, I’d fallen into a dark place for a long time. I’d forgotten how to trust, how to be courteous and have faith — not in gods, but in people.
Catrin had surprised me, in more than one way, and helped reawaken a dormant sense of Chivalry in me. Without her, I’m not sure I would have given Emma the benefit of the doubt later on. Regardless, the dangers I’d faced alongside Catrin had made me feel almost like a knight again. For that, and for her, I will always be grateful.
I’d learned of the Backroad through Cat, and had gone to her for advice and gossip more than once in the past year. As an employee of the Keeper, she knew plenty of secrets sordid and strange. In fact, the workers in the Backroad harvested most of what the Keeper knew, both abroad and from its assortment of patrons. They poured drinks, warmed beds, smiled and jested — and listened. They were the Keeper’s eyes and ears, the links in his spider’s web.
And, sometimes, they were his fangs.
I did wonder how many of my secrets she’d passed to her master. I didn’t like to think on it, preferred to believe I could trust at least one person, but I knew it to be a possibility. It didn’t anger me, really, though I never fully let my guard down around her, for that and other reasons.
I couldn’t afford to let my guard down. Never again.
“You’re doing it again,” Cat said, her voice sing-song. “That thing.”
We were sitting at a table near the edge of the taproom, lit by a hanging lantern, me with honey water and Cat with something that smelled like medicinal tea. “What thing?” I asked. I idly watched the flames dance in the pit, trying to trace the shape of the thing lurking inside without much success.
“The thing,” Cat repeated, annoyed. I glanced back to see her studying me. She’d propped her chin on one fist, her other hand idly tracing an old groove in the table. Making the groove deeper, I noted, a sharp nail scoring into the oak. Her eyes, framed by her chestnut bangs, were a liquid brown and never without a hint of impatience.
“You…” she waggled her fingers mysteriously, like she was casting a spell. “You go away. Think about things that make you unhappy, on purpose. Relax.” She gave me a pouting expression and half-joking said, “pay attention to me.”