Chapter 76 - River Surprise

  The night fire burned low, crackling softly in the stone-lined pit. Outside, the mist pooled heavily in the Hollow, hung like pale smoke against the trees. Pit hunched close to the fire, gnawing on a strip of boar meat, while Caelen sat across from him, eyes fixed on nothing, as though listening to sounds neither man nor beast made.

  At last, Pit sighed. “Supplies are running low,” he muttered. “We’ve meat for weeks, sure, but no salt, no flour, no oil. And I’m not eating boiled pig every day till I die.”

  Caelen lifted his head slowly. “Cache,” he said. “North.”

  Pit nodded. “Aye. Next one’s upriver. But it’s not like one of us can just walk there. Too much to carry. Too many pigs.” He looked toward the priest, who was stretched out near the fire with his wounded leg propped on a log. “Which means we both go.”

  Renn stirred at that. “Both? Leaving me here? Alone?” His face tensed with more than pain. “You can’t expect me—crippled, half-healed—to fend for myself in this cursed Hollow.”

  Pit raised a brow. “Cursed – I thought you said you felt the veils here, He teased. “We can’t expect to starve either, priest. You want to eat, we’ve got to fetch what keeps the pot cooking.”

  Caelen leaned forward, eyes steady. “Food. Water. Leave. Three days.” His cadence was broken, but his meaning was clear: they would leave him enough to last until their return.

  Renn frowned. “Three days… and if you do not return?”

  Pit chewed his lip, then shrugged. “Then you’ve had three days more than you would’ve without us. Look, we’ll hide the entrance with brush. The pigs don’t climb. You’ll be safe enough.”

  “Safe enough?” Renn gave a dry laugh. “In this place?”

  Caelen’s gaze fixed on him, calm but firm. “Trust. Stay. Heal.”

  Something in the boy’s tone—headstrong as stone—silenced Renn. After a long breath, he gave a slight nod. “Very well. Three days.”

  The fire had burned down to glowing coals, painting the cave walls with a soft red light. The mist outside pressed close, heavy and still. Pit was already stretched out, one arm draped over his face, but Brother Renn’s voice stirred the silence.

  “I do appreciate what you have done for me, sons of Avalon,” he said quietly, his tone warm and oddly formal. “You have done me a great service in taking me in and helping me heal. I am not ungrateful.” He chuckled, wincing as his leg shifted. “It is actually rather funny. The way you act—I thought at first it was uncommon, unpolished. But now I see… you act much like the Lord of the Realm’s son.”

  Caelen’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing.

  “Yes, yes,” Renn went on, mistaking the reaction for curiosity. “I know the young Aldric. I was part of the caravan with him. His bearing, his habits—I see echoes of them even in you. I thought it must be a trait of House Avalon, but perhaps it is of the Valley itself. If you would like, I can share some of my experience with him.”

  Pit stirred, groaning. “I don’t think that will be necessary,” he muttered, “we know him.”

  Caelen turned a glare on Pit, sharp as a blade’s edge. Pit caught it and shifted uncomfortably but held his tongue.

  Renn didn’t notice. He leaned closer, voice conspiratorial. “Ah, I knew you were not common children of Avalon. Your gear, your bearing—too fine for mere commoners. Tell me, are you part of a minor house? Or even—” he smiled, eyes bright—“part of the household guard of Avalon itself? One day I wish to go there. I’ve heard amazing things. Wonderful things. Sad things.”

  He settled back against the wall, eyes distant. “Aldric, I know—an amazing boy, sharp and full of promise. Then there is the daughter, blessed with affinity, a true mark of the Veil. And of course…” His voice dipped, reverent, almost pitying. “The other son. The one who survived the eternal punishment.”

  Caelen’s breath caught. “Why pity, survived?” he asked, the words sharp and raw.

  Renn raised his hands as if to placate. “I do not wish to gossip—” His tone shifted, though, carrying that familiar note of the preacher who cannot resist his own sermon. “But all know of it. The young man was struck with the eternal punishment—a wasting no soul should endure. Few survive, and those who do spend years clawing their way back to strength. Months, years of weakness, of pain. And worse…” He lowered his voice. “The council bound him. Soul binding.”

  Caelen tilted his head. “Soulbound?”

  “Yes.” Renn’s voice dropped, heavy as stone. “It is a confinement worse than chains. Flesh may heal, but the soul remains fettered. Soulbinding halts the current of strength itself—blunting growth, stilling the flow of essence. A child caught in its grip is forever stunted, never able to rise into what he was meant to be. And if his gifts awaken, they will be pale shadow—muted, fragile, brittle things. Envision a small tree forced to grow within an iron cage: it twists, it bends against the bars, but it can not grow as it wishes. That is soulbinding. It is not a death sentence, but a life shackled, a spirit squeezed into silence.”

  The priest’s hand touched the icon on his forehead. His voice rose with the weight of warning. “And that pressure and limit gnaws at the mind, too. It breeds doubt, meekness, despair. A man so bound is made less than he was meant to be. Even his laughter will dim, for the soul cannot stretch without tearing at the edges of the cage.”

  The priest’s hand tightened on his seal. His voice rose with the weight of warning. “This particular binding was martial in nature. The worst trigger would be speed. The moment the boy mounts a horse and drives it to a gallop, or even pushes his own body too fast, the bind would complete itself, becoming permanent, or other effects would take place, unbreakable. His soul, frozen in place. His strength, his essence, sealed as surely as if the Veil itself had slammed a door upon him. And even without the trigger, the bind remains until it completely fades: slowing him, dulling him, caging him.”

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  He leaned forward, eyes gleaming in the firelight. “Do you understand the dishonor and cruelty that this act was to a young man? To rob a warrior of the horse beneath him, to deny him swiftness and strength, to make every stride toward power an agony? Even a gift discovered would flicker and die under such chains. It is not merely restraint—it is slow suffocation of the spirit.

  The fire crackled. Pit sat up now, frowning, glancing between the priest and Caelen.

  Caelen’s voice came quiet, deliberate. “What… if soul stronger? Stronger than group that bind?”

  Renn shook his head, almost pitying. “It does not work that way. No soul, however bright, can outshine the weight of many lesser ones gathered together. Even a red—fierce, burning—can be held down if enough hands press upon it. That is the cruelty of it. One spark cannot break the grip of a thousand dampened fingers.”

  For a long while, only the fire spoke.

  Renn leaned back, sighing. “The boy’s essence was said to be blue. Calm, deep, strong. To bind such a soul with the weight of the full council…” He shook his head, eyes heavy. “It is a tragedy. A wound not of flesh, but of the very spirit. And such wounds scar forever.”

  Caelen’s face was unreadable in the dim glow. His eyes, though, were fixed on Renn with an intensity that made Pit shift uncomfortably. At last, he turned away, stirring the coals with a stick, and said nothing more.

  But the silence that followed was heavier than the mist outside.

  …

  By dawn, the priest had his ration: smoked strips of boar meat, a skin of water, and a little dried fruit Pit had hoarded. They covered the cave’s entrance with cut branches until it looked like nothing more than a rock wall. Then, with slings on their belts and short swords under their cloaks, Caelen and Pit set off through the mist.

  The Hollow’s mouth lay behind them, shrinking as they turned north on the horrendous road. Ahead stretched the road and the long line of trees that followed the river’s path. Somewhere beyond, on a stony island midstream, the cache waited.

  The ground was slick from mist, roots twisting across the path. Pit walked in silence for a time, his hobnail boots crunching softly, eyes sweeping the woods for the gleam of tusks. Then he glanced sideways.

  Caelen was too quiet again. “Always a bad sign, for me,” he thought.

  “All right,” Pit said, breaking the silence. “Instead of me waiting to be told what fool thing you’ve cooked up, why don’t I just ask? What’s got that head of yours grinding all morning?”

  Caelen blinked, then looked at him. “Barrels.”

  Pit frowned. “Barrels? Where in the pits did that come from?”

  “Need,” Caelen said, counting on his fingers as if laying bricks in his mind. “Staves. Iron rings. People… to build. Many, many barrels.”

  Pit snorted. “Saints save me. Here I am thinking of pigs, and you’re thinking of barrels.”

  Caelen nodded, unbothered. “Barrels hold water. Wine. Salt meat. Trade.” His eyes flicked toward the mist behind them, back to the Hollow. “Need. Hollow grow.”

  Pit grumbled but couldn’t help but grin. “Of course. Only you, Caelen. Most lads your age worry about bread and girls. You’re out here planning how to coop water like a brewer.”

  Caelen smiled faintly. “Also need… Spes Nova.”

  The words hung in the air between them, quiet but weighty as stone. Pit said nothing after that, only trudged on, the sound of the river slowly rising from the north.

  …

  The boys followed the river north, keeping low beneath the tangle of alder and willow that clung to the banks. Sound drifted above the water, curling between stones like breath, while the current whispered against rock. Here, the river ran deeper, darker, yet still scattered with broken teeth of stone jutting up from the current. Some places smoothed into dark channels where, Caelen thought, a boat could slip through.

  Caelen only nodded, his eyes never leaving the river’s churn.

  The forest hemmed them close, its roots twisting into the water. Branches arched over like ribs of a great beast, shielding them but narrowing the path. Now and then, the grunting of boars carried through the trees, nearer than either boy liked.

  Then came the sudden crash of brush—the sound of tusks and hooves tearing through undergrowth. Not one boar, but many. Five, snorting and squealing, their bristled backs rising like a wall of fury.

  “Veils save me—run!” Pit barked, bolting downslope.

  The boars thundered after them, smashing through saplings. Caelen and Pit broke from the trees to the riverbank, boots slipping on wet stones. The only way left was the water.

  “Swim!” Caelen cried, and without hesitation, he plunged into the cold current.

  Pit cursed but leapt after him. The shock of icy water stole his breath, and the river dragged hard at his legs, but better drowning than tusks. Stones loomed beneath the surface, sharp and slick. They kicked off the bottom and rocks to shove themselves across, the roar of water and squeal of frustrated boars chasing them.

  On the far bank, they clawed their way out, dripping and gasping. Pit collapsed in a hidden rocky hollow warmed by the morning sun, shivering but alive. Caelen sprawled beside him, shaking water from his sling.

  “I hate pigs,” Pit muttered, teeth chattering. “They are delicious, but I hate them. If I live to old age, it will be a miracle.”

  They lay there for over an hour resting and letting the sun bake the chill from their bones. But before comfort could sink in, a new sound drifted up the river—harsh, unfamiliar. The steady beat of oars. The sound of breaking and the bark of voices, sharp and cruel.

  Both froze.

  Slowly, they crawled to the edge of the depression and peered out.

  A long boat cut against the current, its sides scarred, its prow painted in flaking red. Along the benches rowed twelve men and women, their backs bent, their hands bound to oars. Their faces were gaunt, hollow-eyed.

  Behind them paced five others— not soldiers, bandits, or pirates, though neither boy had seen such before. Caelen counted them: one spat into the river, laughing as though the water itself were beneath him. Another drank from a flask and smashed it on a prisoner’s head when it was empty. A third leaned over the rowers, whip cracking without rhythm, striking for sport rather than need. The fourth prowled the deck barefoot, tossing scraps of meat at the prisoners, snatching it back before they could eat. And the last sat at the stern, boots on the tiller, shouting curses at the river as though he hated even the current that bore him.

  Pit’s eyes widened. “What in all the Veils' names is this?”

  Caelen’s face was pale, but his eyes were hard. He gripped the sling at his side and whispered, “We save. people.”

  Pit turned to him, horror and disbelief mingling. “Are you mad? Five pirates, twelve captives, and us with wet boots and no plan—”

  But Caelen didn’t answer. His gaze stayed fixed on the boat, as if the decision had already been carved in stone.