A Solution Through Shadows Chapter V

Oren sat at the kitchen table, picking at his bowl of pottage as Wilfred sat by Jaye’s side. He thought the older man had become transfixed, waiting for a sign from his daughter to give him the chance to move again.

But with Wilfred distracted, Oren distanced himself to think of a plan to infiltrate Lord Rey’s manor.

The light behind the shutters turned from orange to purple, prompting Oren to move with a heavy sigh.

“You okay?”

Oren froze at the door, turning back to the illuminated Wilfred, looking back at him in concern.

“You’re going out again,” Wilfred noted.

“Yeah,” Oren said, right hand on the handle, and keeping his bandaged hand out of sight. “It’s just … hard to stand by, and watch, unable to do anything for Jaye. I’m just … tryin’ to walk it off. Think of somethin’, anythin’, to distract me.”

Wilfred lingered his gaze on Oren before stepping to the fireplace gazing at the flames. “You should be prayin’, Oren. Ban Dia responds better when we pray for the same thin’s. But it would be best to … clear your head before you do so. Don’t stay out too late. We have thin’s to do tomorrow, and I need to get some sleep.”

Oren turned his back to Wilfred, staring into the weathered door.

“I’ll keep what you said in mind,” Oren said. He pushed on the door and stepped out to Caladh once more.

In the purple sky, humanoids put away their goods or moved to the rambunctious taverns laughing with friends. Oren climbed past them, eyes settled to the top of the mountain where the wall separated the forest from Caladh. But it wasn’t the green cover that kept his interest.

Stepping into the Market District, Oren managed to purchase a few things for himself, regarding the line of soldiers standing guard by the tower doors.

They paid him no attention as he made his late purchases, and moved towards a street he had not taken often. Where the glass windows were lighted, and silhouettes shifted in the house.

Oren thought how weird it was to have such a commodity with onlookers capable of watching their lives.

At the end of the street, Oren paused to regard yet another wall, small in comparison to the one it stood beside and hosting over-hanging roofs at the top of them. An iron, spiked gate moved to shut with several figures standing guard. Beyond the gate, Oren could see a large building with illuminated glass windows more massive than the ones he passed.

Oren backed away and looked at the other houses for another path to get inside the property, slipping into a blind spot where the guard couldn’t catch him climb up to the roofs.

It took him some time, jumping across the neater houses with no commotion, before he found a cranny between a building and the wall big enough for him to stage his preparations. He settled there and changed out of his clothes into the black-dyed ones he had bought from the vendors earlier.

Jaye’s charm dangled by his chest, and Oren hesitated, thinking about his promise to her.

“Sorry, Jaye,” Oren muttered, dropping his tunic into the bag and continued dressing.

Form-fitting, Oren stifled his groaned at how tight the clothing was before slipping up the mask over his face and pulled over the hood. He took a coiled rope from his bag and two heavy iron hooks, tying the ends to each of the loopholes before holstering them onto his belt, next to his knife, and shouldered the rest of the length.

Patting down everything he would need, Oren inspected the jutted pieces of stone.

A loud call from the sky froze the human in his counting, and he watched a vast birdlike figure land atop the wall, turning its head side to side before strolling along the edge.

Oren rolled his eyes, stopping his voice from observing the humanoid turning out to where he flew in and leaned back against the building and as another joined them.

Undoubtedly, Oren thought, the quila were the reason why the seasoned thieves took their time in preparations. He scratched his chin, shaking at the sight of the bird-like humanoids, but worked to retrace the path on the wall, looking up to count how often the patrol lapped around his side of the wall.

After a while, Oren rolled his shoulder and breathed through his nose, stepping up to the wall and testing the holds he would use, thinking of Jaye’s labored breathing. He shook with the memory. His heartbeat quickened as he craned his head back to watch the guards a few more times, listen to their shuffling feet then pull himself up.

Oren’s limbs reached far for the imperfections along the wall, pausing when his inward counter passed a number, and listened to the march above before resuming when they passed. He grabbed onto the rafter just as the last guard did their lap; he hung there by one hand as the other reached for the hook to test a clean pull.

The guard’s patrol dimmed in the distance, and another’s filled the space, Oren swung his body and pulled up on his strained muscles, exhaling without stressing his throat as he rolled for the other side with the winged guards not too far from him on either side, looking out to Caladh. Teetering over the other ledge of the roof, Oren pulled out one of the hooks, and fumbled through the air for a beam before catching one, and slipped off the top, clutching onto the rope as his body swayed from the momentum.

Constant tension on his limbs and the thought of Jaye’s life pushed Oren to control his thoughts, grabbing onto the beam and shifting the hook closer to the wall, planting his feet to the stone and stabilize himself to regard the yard below.

No different than the rooftop wall, Oren observed a rotating guard with torches in hand around the two-storied, square wooden building. No more than two men. The rooms on the upper floor were not as well-lit as the ones of the lower level, sudden laughter bounced off the farthest wall, and Oren snapped his attention to the backside of the building where a porch stood.

He noted he might have to get through whoever occupied the space, but pursed his lips thinking about the new rotation of guards and the ones on the wall, timing the visibility they could have on him to the next round. His hand loosened the hold on the rope, lowering his body to get a clear view before taking his opportunity.

His weight ran the rope through the gloved hand, and Oren grimaced at the burning friction as he neared the ground despite the precautions he had taken to avoid numbing damage. The rope coiled around his body and started to restrict Oren’s breathing before he stopped at the bottom, keeping his eyes on the guard by the building’s wall as the mask grew warm.

They continued their routine slouched, and Oren completed his descent, drawing his knife and cutting the rope with a single swipe before falling to the ground.

His limbs flexed to cushion the fall, but Oren faltered as his hands clutched onto rocks.

Without another thought, Oren collected himself and dove for the shadow by the building, pressing himself against it, and tiptoed to the front of the manor as a flying humanoid swooped in from the front of the property and landed at the spot Oren had faltered.

Oren peered around the corner before taking refuge in the new covering, several yards away from the iron gate.

“Hear somethin’?” a shrill voice called out as Oren dashed over the steps leading inside the manor, and rounded the next corner.

“Stone,” the voice grew dimmer as Oren pressed forward, watching a guard continue their patrol, unaware of what had happened.

“What’s wrong, quila? Why you down here?”

Oren brushed against a vine-covered lattice next to him, his eyes running up to find a window above him, and pulled his weight on it, catching the muffled tones of a group close by.

“Disturbance in the garden. Could’ve been a rodent.”

“Nothin’ went through the gate today. Everybody’s eyes are all on the perimeter. So why you down here?”

“Just bein’ thorough. Not like much happens around here.”

Oren climbed up, careful to limit the noise he made and attract attention from the quila continuing their rotation. He reached a second-floor window and hung by the ledge, pushing up on the window frame and surprised himself with how easy the glassed frame slid up without noise. Hauling himself over the windowsill, Oren collected his senses in the new space, staying low as the quila passed.

In the little light the moon-lit night gave, Oren noted the furnishing that would belong to a bedroom, but also the number of trinkets that laid on shelves, a vanity, and a dresser. He bit his lip, looking to the bright outline of the door and crouch-walked his way over, stilling for a moment to listen for anything trekking the manor.

Aside from the noises coming from the lower level, Oren opened the door with caution and peeked out.

A bright, glossy sheen blinded him for a moment before blinking off his discomfort and addressed how the upper floor, opened to the level below, appeared covered top to bottom in tapestries and banners. Silver candlesticks perched on the banister every few feet, candles burning their lone flame. The slender carpet in front of him was decorated in a variety of colors, and Oren admitted to himself Lord Rey had an impressive home.

Oren stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind him, eyes darting for the room the hooded man described, but took the man’s advice to search every room.

The first he opened and peered inside only finding a bed and he pressed forward despite a wave of disappointment. A clatter of dishes spooked Oren just before he checked the next room, daring to glance down to the lower floor to see if anyone ran through before inspecting the next room full of displays garnering his attention. But not one of them cushioned the sword.

Room after room, Oren inspected the spaces’ contents, but found nothing to say that the noble had moved his office. His hands trembled each time, and heart beat faster when it came time to cross the open space in front of the stairs. But aside from a servant passing below with a bottle, Oren remained unnoticeable as he inspected the next few rooms.

“I swear, Father, you were rash to pull your funding so soon.”

Oren’s head snapped to the voices and then to the dark corner the light of the candles didn’t touch. He pressed himself into it, dragging the hood further down to cover his eyes.

“Not that it matters why you did it, of course. Cyrus wishes to perform small operations this time around.”

A loud grunt filled the air.

“The aleckso is, no doubt, aware a disaster is waiting to happen if he brought large numbers to Air Fhagail.” An older man’s voice came through, his tone controlled but struggling, as the footsteps echoed across the hall.

“It would explain why he wants to keep the Journey-Men small,” another male joined in over the sound of clinking chain mail. “To not put Caladh at risk tossing our best Vanguard, like Fionnlagh, to the bheistean.”

“I could care less about the heroide,” the older man continued, to which Oren frowned by the unfamiliar term. “Kentigern took the greatest lengths in achieving my requests.”

Oren pursed his lips at the mention of Kentigern, recalling whispers over the years of the great warrior. But also, of the Journey-Men, whose mentioning was met with disgust and ended conversations.

“Yet, all he got was that sword decorating your fireplace,” one of the younger males said. “It’s not worth anything if you don’t study its history and work to replicate it. I’ve instructed Cyrus to put an emphasis on uncovering the ruins, given that the king and the commander no longer have an interest in the project.”

“Again, you wager in a fool’s errand, Tuathal,” the old man warned. “Under your finances or not, Cenheald will task Cyrus to other assignments. Do not fancy your thoughts that you’ll be successful in expanding Caladh.”

“Men dream of things more fanciful than I do,” Tuathal said with an amused tone. “I dare say Cyrus is far fanciful than I, but my investments to Cyrus’s expeditions will bear a fruit greater than the legends of our past. With a collection of valuable relics, many a humanoid will look to return to their roots, and clamor to join my movement.”

No one said anything, only taking a few more deafening steps.

“Will you join us for dessert, Enon?” a woman’s voice asked. “Or do you return to your post?”

“I’m afraid I face the night watch, once more,” the man named Enon spoke, his voice a little heavier than Tuathal’s. “Getting sick with that damn plague had Commander Richard push me to return the favor of the ones who covered for me. But after last night’s … bore, I would care to be assigned in the day where there will be activity occurring.”

“I’ll talk to the commander for you,” the old man said, clearing his throat. “I’ve needed to have a chat with him anyway about extending the range of my guard here. He wouldn’t allow me to cover one of the entrances before.”

“I’d like to pass on dessert as well, Mother,” a younger, feminine voice spoke up, surprising Oren.

“Very well, child,” the older woman said before a snap echoed around the hall. “Vandalia, get my daughter ready for bed.”

“Of course, milady.”

The three adults continued their conversation as footsteps climbed the stairs, and Oren waited in bated breath as a slender, blonde-haired girl in light, loose pink robes stepped onto the top floor. She scanned the plane, pausing in the spot Oren remained.

Oren clenched his eyes and muscles, wishing for the girl to pass over, before retreating footsteps eased the man into watching the girl walk across the carpet, head bowed, with a heavy-set maid trailing after her into the room Oren had entered from.

“Not goin’ back that way,” Oren breathed, but more footsteps echoed across the hall with the clatter of dishes, and the thief counted the time in between trips, finding they were too inconsistent in their passing and left him to wait for pure silence.

The maid stepped out of the girl’s room, taking a moment for herself before moving down the hallway and the stairs to the lower level. Her echoing footsteps dimmed in their carry to Oren before he stepped out of the shadows, towards the last door.

Stifling a groan, Oren stretched out his stiff limbs and opened the door with a quick maneuver to get in and close the door in silence. Oren rose to his full height, observing the moonlit office of its contents.

Though smaller in comparison to the other rooms, the office followed the style of the rest of the home. Just as ornate and covered with trophies. Oren couldn’t help but inspect one of the high-backed chairs in front of the desk, lined with silver-studs along its wooden frame.

A stack of papers drew Oren’s attention to the desk’s polished surface, a single sheet laying center, a clear signature of Lord Rey’s name written across the document, as well as several others.

“‘Update to policy,’” Oren muttered, pressing a finger to the sentences. “‘To increase costs for all goods throughout Caladh. Double prices on herbs to prevent the recovery rate of the lower—’”

Oren’s voice hitched as his hand arched into the shape of a spider atop the document, pulling it inward.

“Tryin’ to kill us off.” Oren snarled, stepping back with a desire to shred the paper. “Bastard.”

He turned to the fireplace and found the sword he had been looking for, reaching out and lifting the weapon from its stand and drew the blade a quarter of the way to unveil the silver, patterned edge in the moonlight before sliding it back in.

“Now I know your plans,” Oren muttered, going to the window to watch a quila shuffling along the wall’s roof. “Wait until Caladh hears about it.”

“About what?”

Oren jumped, scrambling for his grip on the sword, pivoting to the owner of the voice, the slender girl from earlier in a white chemise standing at the door with her arms crossed.

They stared at each other, the girl remaining still without a trace of emotion on her face.

“I wondered if I was going crazy.”