A faint smile tugged at the corners of my lips as I eyed a display of carved wooden statues. I stopped momentarily to examine their intricacy. The largest was an owl roughly the size of my forearm with eyes of a strikingly clear stone.
“Crystal quartz,” the merchant behind the table said, dusting wood shavings off his apron. He sat on a stool, carving a small figurine. I hadn’t even noticed him.
“A symbol of the sight?” I asked, intrigued.
Standing, the man placed his newest piece—a wolverine snarling and posed in an aggressive stance—on the table. “That’s right. You know more than most do of the old lore. I’m impressed.”
I hummed. He was an older man, and the sparkle in his eyes gave him an air of trustworthiness. He reminded me of my mentor. “Isn’t that what this festival is for?” I countered. “To celebrate the moon gods and their spirit lines?”
The man laughed. “Yes, well, to most it’s just an excuse to gather, to drink, and to barter uncommon goods.”
“I find the lore fascinating,” I admitted. The man was easy to talk to; his candor reminded me of Leighis. My attention caught on an animalistic mask in the middle of the collection, lying flat alongside others. Absentmindedly, I traced a finger over a silver filigree brow.
“You want to see it?” the man asked.
“I haven’t the money to buy anything,” I said truthfully; the two coppers in my pouch would not scratch the value of any of his wares. Still, after a brief hesitation, I gave in to the allure and took it into my hands to admire the artistry. Silver ribbons at each side of the mask trailed beneath it, catching on a breeze and shimmering. “What is it?”
The carver scratched at his short beard with one hand. Without any notable features—such as ears or snout—the mask could have depicted any number of animals.
“Obscurity,” he offered, though it came across as more of a question.
Amusement laced my tone as I caught a glint in the old man’s eyes. “You don’t know.”
“Obscurity, child,” he said, mock wisdom in his tone, “is the gift of being whoever you want to be. Or being no one at all.”
It was poetic, despite the improvisation. Or, perhaps, because of it. I trailed my thumb over the smooth, dark surface beneath one of the eye slits. “You’re incredibly skilled. Have you always been a carver?”
The old man returned to his stool and lowered slowly to sit. “When I was young, I wanted to be a blacksmith.” A distantlook crossed his face, and he cast his eyes down. “It wasn’t an aspiration I was given the chance to follow.”
“I’m sorry.” I knew all too well what it felt like to be unable to pursue one’s desires.
The man shrugged. “I found another method to create. Fulfillment can be found in many places.”
Setting the mask back on the table carefully, I raised my eyes to him. “You’ve found contentment, then, in this?”
“When you approached my stand, you had a far-off look, and now you appear wistful. That has brought me happiness.” He gestured with a nod to the mask. “Something about this piece speaks to you; it should be yours.”
I offered him a smile but shook my head. “I haven’t the coin.”
He interlocked his fingers and stretched. “Take it nonetheless.” There was finality in his tone. “We all need the freedom that comes with obscurity at times.”
After relenting and taking the mask, I dismissed myself, musing over the carver as I walked the dust path uphill. I was grateful the old man had found happiness. Yet in the same breath, a strange bitterness befell me. I wanted to be an apothecary, to work in the shop with Aureus. Yet, as a woman, I never could be a healer, never let others see my skills. Not when such a concept caused whispers in the street. “Witch,” they called me. I could only ever be someone’s wife.
I let out a huff of air and brushed the thoughts away, tapping the pouch at my hip and considering how I might spend my coin. The slight weight of the mask was a comforting presence in the oversized pocket of my skirts.
After a short time, the path gave way to a cobbled road, and the hum of voices grew as people shopped in closer quarters. I stopped and raised my head, letting the awe of the city and the festival decorations settle over me.
Banners of a shimmering silver cloth that hung between buildings, some with moons painted on them, flitted in the light breeze. Though the road was narrow, stalls still lined either side, pressed in tight against townhouses and shops. In Elrune, very few buildings were taller than two floors high. Here, some reached three or four. But they were nothing in comparison to the massive castle that sat atop the hill, at the highest point of the city. With its towers, high walls, and billowing banners that must have been some thirty feet or more in length, decorated with the royal crest, the castle was a formidable and captivating sight.
A woman bumped into me, breaking me from my trance. I’d been standing in the middle of the road, completely enthralled. Yet beneath the wonder, my heart thumped with a distant sorrow. For when the sun set, the castle would stretch an impending shadow over the poorer part of the city, on the eastern side where the hill dipped down to the meadow beyond. In the alleys, the stench of decaying food and the contents of bedpans tossed from windows hung in the air. Hunger clawed at the bellies of men, women, and children alike. The path I traveled, where the higher classes lived and worked, was merely a façade.
Stepping to the side to allow people to pass by, I caught the scent of fresh bread. I let my nose lead me to a bakery with a permanent stand out front. Its awning was a stretched hide of some sort, sturdy and dyed a cobalt blue that matched the shop’s door, which stood propped open. As I approached, a young boy wearing a dark apron, patted with smudged handprints of flour, appeared in the doorway, carrying a basket of rolls. The bread steamed in the brisk midday air.
“How many can I get for a single ferre?” I asked the boy, nodding to the fresh bread as he drew nearer to the stand.
“One apiece, mam,” the child said. He placed the basket and adjusted the cap that sat atop his head. The cap, made of a brown fabric, matched his short, straight hair.
A ferre for a single roll. I let out a breath, and my stomach growled as if voicing my disappointment. If these were the prices in the city, I would have to head back toward the stalls in the outer grounds. I’d have better luck stretching my coppers there.
