Chapter 32

Baron Cambera unlocked the iron door to the cellar with a key. Baron had meant to step in first, but he paused and chose to bring up the rear instead. Only after making sure no one was behind him did he follow the others underground.

The cellar was a pitch-black corridor lined with wooden doors on either side. Torches flared to life as the iron door scraped open, and the air filled with the pungent scent of medicinal herbs—an odor that reminded Baron of the traditional Chinese clinics from his previous life.

Baron Cambera led the way, opening each door with a flourish and naming the herbs stored behind it: their places of origin, their medicinal value, and the merchants from which cities bought them in bulk. Every door revealed a different herb—some already dried, others still waiting to cure.

Baron marveled that a storage method so similar to traditional Chinese medicine existed in this world.

Baron Cambera explained that this ancient technique had spread from the east, from Fern itself.

"Mister L, aren't you from Fern?" he asked.

Meeting Miss Yalilan's and Andre's skeptical stares, Baron kept a straight face and spun a tale. "I'm half-blood. My father and mother met during the Second Faith War..."

He recounted a moving love story, stitching together plots from Hamlet, King Lear, A Country Love Ballad, and The Legend of Zhen Huan. By the time he finished, the three listeners regarded him with sympathy rather than suspicion.

Baron Cambera said sadly, "I never imagined you had suffered so, Mister L. In your homeland your mother must still be waiting for your return."

"The past is the past. To me it's nothing but a little frost upon the road."

Baron walked on, expressionless and steady.

He could hear it—that childlike sobbing—very close now. He stopped before a wooden door. Miss Yalilan and Andre stopped as well.

The three exchanged glances; then, in silent accord, Baron and Miss Yalilan looked to Andre.

Andre Devereaux, the famed bounty hunter of Ford City known by the codename "Arrogant Hound," hesitated a moment, then pushed the door open with a wry grin.

A shrill screech burst out, startling all three. Alchemical circuits flared instinctively beneath their skin, but the portly Baron Cambera stepped past them first.

He clicked his tongue at the shattered window. "Ah... the storeroom window broke. My manor sits in Mondra's wind belt; evening gales are common..."

"Then the crying we heard must have been the wind," Miss Yalilan said apologetically. "We misjudged you, Baron."

Wind whistled through the cracks like a child wailing. Bundles of herbs scattered across the floor. Baron crouched, picked up a gray fruit, and inspected it between his fingers.

Baron Cambera smiled. "That's a tree-fruit native to Mondra. Ground into powder and mixed with calming grass, it treats malaria."

Baron nodded, popped the fruit into his mouth, and pointed at the crude mural scrawled on the wall—a child's doodle. "Baron, what are these?"

Stick figures. One outlined form bore a faint flower-shaped mark on its shoulder, arms outstretched as if to embrace something.

Baron crouched, brushed the wall, and found the pigment had sunk deep; it could not be rubbed away.

"Just a prank by former servants..." Baron Cambera glanced outside. "It's late, and the wind is rising. Allow me to arrange quarters for you."

Early next morning, after breakfast, Baron Cambera saw Baron and the others off at the gate.

"Baron," Baron said quietly, "my apologies for the trouble yesterday... I was only acting on Mister Andre's orders..."

"I understand the demon-hunters' rules." Baron Cambera twirled his mustache. "In gratitude for Mister L's service to Mondra's peace, I've assigned Sheila to you as your personal maid for the duration of your stay."

He gestured, and Sheila—valise in hand—stood blushing beside Baron's horse while the rough hunters teased her.

"She'll see to your meals and lodging. You'll taste Mondra's finest dishes."

Originally Baron Cambera had meant to give Sheila outright to Baron, but after learning the maid he'd sent to Baron's room the previous night had instead been dragged to the kitchen by the hunters to "make a few dishes," he changed his wording.

Baron nodded. Anything was better than black bread and dried potatoes.

"Mister L, with Fern closed to outsiders, returning home will be difficult," Baron Cambera said cheerfully. "But if you need help, I believe Lord Lucia may be willing to assist."

"Lucia?" Andre exclaimed. "Do you mean the Lucia of Iron City?"

Baron opened his mouth, but Miss Yalilan forestalled him. "Lucia Roskin, one of the vice-chairmen of the First Hunter Guild, a Silver-tier demon-hunter, and the candidate most likely to become the Elector of Gillian Duchy in the coming ceremony."

Baron Cambera bowed. "I have the honor of being one of Lord Lucia's sponsors."

...

In Mondra's Crimson Cathedral the following Sunday, worshippers crowded the pews. Sister Theresa stood solemnly beneath the statue of the Blood God, directing little novice nun Olivia and her younger sister Cecy to dispense "God-given Sacred Blood"—in truth, red wine—to each supplicant.

Baron knew because he'd queued for a cup himself to wash down his breakfast black bread. Since arriving in this world, his appetite had grown monstrous.

Now the church held only nuns, believers, and Baron eating his breakfast. Miss Yalilan had taken the others to search for traces of the blood fiend. Though fiends never appeared by day, daylight revealed things the night concealed.

After receiving the Sacred Blood, Sister Theresa and the few other nuns led the faithful in hymns. The melody was pleasant, the lyrics archaic and mystical.

To Baron, they boiled down to: Blood God, wake up; Blood God, why haven't you woken up; Blood God, are you awake? Blood God, if you're awake, please say something.

Next came the Blood Rite: a believer confessed her sins, Sister Theresa pricked her finger, and with her own blood drew a cross on the penitent's forehead.

Baron noticed the penitents were aging farmwives, their youth long faded. Some wept as they spoke; other nuns patted their backs and whispered comfort.

A few confessions caught Baron's attention. Not that he eavesdropped—after becoming a Dragon-Knight his senses had sharpened unbearably. Words he didn't wish to hear slipped in regardless.

He chewed his black bread, sipped his wine, and listened.

"Sister... I confess to murder..."

"Old Nana Lily, you're a pious, honest soul. How could you kill anyone?"

"I saw those children's smiles... and how they died... they came for me..."

Chew, chew, chew. Another farmwife pressed forward.

"They came... they finally came... Blood God forgive me..."

Chew—chew—chew. A third woman stepped up.

"We... we killed them... we shouldn't have... but in that famine, how else could my family survive..."

Baron's expression grew grave; he stopped chewing. When Sheila arrived with his milk, he managed to swallow the dry bread at last.

He studied Sheila; the maid's face looked odd.

She blushed crimson, set down the milk jug, and from beneath her apron produced a bright bouquet of flowers whose names Baron didn't know.

"They're the flowers I lost... I asked the villagers to buy them in Ford City... twenty coppers—almost half my monthly wage..."

Then, as if remembering something, she waved her hands frantically. "Don't misunderstand, Mister L... I—I spoke too much. I soiled Baron's flowers, so this is my punishment..."

Her face flamed brighter. "It's not a punishment! I'm honored to bring flowers for Mister L! Goodbye!"

She bowed hastily and fled in confusion.

Baron stared at the bouquet on his plate. Twenty coppers was half a month's pay—four silver a year. Baron Cambera was a bit stingy.

Still, he lifted the flowers with solemn care and tucked them away. Only after the maid hiding in the corner slipped away, face scarlet, did he allow himself a belch.

...

When confession ended, worshippers either left for home or stayed for the midday feast. Sister Theresa sat beside Baron, lifted a flower to her nose, and asked idly:

"Mister L, do you like virgins?"

Baron, still chewing, froze.