Orphan At The Edge Of The World 5 Oew 4

When Orison awoke the next day, quite a few worries plagued him now that another person was added to the mix. It was doubly so considering this person was practically a stranger that had legal guardians.h.i.+p over him. For the time being, most of those worries seemed to be unfounded as she was a genuinely likable person. And though she could be a bit of a firm hand when it came to what she believed Orison should and shouldn't be doing, her demands and restrictions were fair and more than understandable considering their current situation. That a part of Orison relished the attention and guidance of this kind and steady woman was something he decided to accept. After all, he knew people were not designed to live without connection. That was a fact orphans and a modern hermit understood more than most.

The mystery of the disappearing chest contents was eventually solved when he realized that there were a few more trees around the west side of the house and the stone faced hill nearby was moderately larger with conspicuous rusty veins running through it. Apparently, the 'becoming authentic' process had translated the materials in as innocuous a way as possible. Surprisingly, he did find some precious metal ingots and unprocessed moonstone while cleaning up. Out of guilt and to avoid suspicion, if and likely when Droya found some of her own, Orison turned over a third of what he found.

Orison balked hard when Droya revealed her intentions to collect up all their new found wealth and lock it away until her husband returned to discuss it. Mixing truth and lies, he reasoned that living like paupers would hurt the hero's image, that his 'father' held t.i.tles with substantial wealth in safekeeping at Whiteriver and claimable holdings in the Centerland Empire. He fabricated a story of his conversation with the man that revealed the hero as a hobbyist blacksmith and overzealous in preparation for his child and future children's paths in life, with the alchemy room and training yard as evidence. Taking the risk of saying too much and to test her trustworthiness, he even explained that there were two eternium crystals set aside in the house somewhere for either his first enchantment or to ease his way at whatever mage college he could attend.

In deep contemplation, Droya fiddled with the hidden purse she had found on the Bastet thief that contained a handful of gems and the two priceless enchanting crystals, then said ruefully, "Impulsively pa.s.sionate yet scatterbrained, stoic yet kind, this sounds like the man I know as well. Not that I can claim to have known him well enough. He may not have been Bastet but that golden Northlander beard and mane were quite fetching in the sunset and what hotblooded woman could resist a true in-the-flesh hero? Pity we did not have more... ahem.

"At any rate, I suspect some of what I found on this distant kinsman to be his own savings and a bit of allowance for our personal wants isn't inappropriate... That doesn't mean we'll suddenly become spendthrifts, however, little cub. As for the crystals, I don't doubt that they are for you but even if your father didn't give it much thought, I must. I'll place them in the hidden lock box underneath the fireplace. The key for that's in the hollow of the lid on the cracked pickle jar in the cellar, just in case something should ever happen to me... Please don't betray my trust, sweetling, and remember that each one is worth more than most could make in a lifetime. All of those and more might murder one small child for such a thing. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Taking a dry swallow, Orison replied, "I do, Momma Yaya."

***

The following few days were some of the most peaceful and fulfilling in Orison's memories. Mornings filled with ch.o.r.es where Droya filled in the boy's missing common knowledge on how to do such things as light the fireplace, lead to afternoons of combing through history books and acclimating himself to his meager collection of martial skills. Orison discovered that Droya was fairly proficient with dagger work and archery which she was more than happy to impart. And since Orison was tactful enough not to be intrusive about a past she obviously was uncomfortable speaking about, she returned the favor by not asking about the unfamiliar scroll and mage's journal she caught him with. Although she did look at the scroll, comb through the journal and burn the pages related to the summoning ritual, lecturing him about trafficking with hedge witches all the while.

The study of said scroll and journal bore some useful, if not completely need fulfilling, fruit as well. His first and most personally satisfying gain was the spell of his hopes and dreams which made lighting a fire and creating a cold beverage relatively simple. It could even do a pa.s.sable job of cleaning something, though when used on himself, it wasn't nearly as thorough as a good wash. The alternating waves of heat and cold wasn't particularly pleasant either and he was pretty sure using it on wood surfaces regularly wouldn't be a good idea.

The spell from the scroll, moodily named 'Summon Stupid Horse', was only useful as carefully utilized transportation. It only verbally responded to kneel, stand, walk and run spoken in ancient elvish by anyone touching it. And though it would respond to it's reins and heel kicks, it did so a bit sluggishly, making it's 'run' mode a tricky proposition with obstacles around.

The real surprises gained from learning this spell came more from Droya who revealed that learning spells from scrolls was considered a pipe-dream to the few mages she ever had dealings with. Through hearsay, she explained that only an archmage was guaranteed to have the wide range of theoretical knowledge necessary and nearly all young acolytes only had access to the spells spoon-fed to them from the master mage they served.

Orison thought, "Control knowledge and control the population. A mage's entire future practically lies in the hands of the one and only master that teaches them. The two colleges are better than the guilds about disseminating knowledge but they are notoriously expensive or hazardous for the health as the only ways to mitigate tuition are completing tasks, usually dangerous, or a.s.sisting with experiments which sounds awfully a lot like code for volunteering to be a part of said experiments. Well, there's the Sigil Order but who wants to be a magic monk world police officer. Hehe. Magic Monk World Police, I'd watch that movie." A sudden cold chill cut off his train of thought.

Aside from a buggy battleaxe conjuring spell that would take weeks if not months to fix, the rest of the journal was locked behind a cipher that he thought would probably take a long time to break unless he got lucky. With magic scrolls not being a 'bought at the market' kind of thing and the poor chance of talking Droya into using connections she likely took a long time distancing herself from, Orison realized his magical studies were about to become a great deal less productive.

With an expanded budget and a great deal more faith in Orison's ability to defend himself or at least escape with a little help, Droya was itching to return to the nearby village for more extensive shopping. That she planned to fully exploit the limitations of 'Summon Stupid Horse' was fully justified as 'helping her little cub with his magic studies'. And after seeing Droya in full gear for the first time, he had no desire to argue. Not that he wanted to. He was just as eager as her, not giving a d.a.m.n if the house burnt down while they were gone.

After sharing what little horsemans.h.i.+p Droya knew, they both felt confident enough to let Stupid Horse run for the largest part or the journey, only slowing down when they were getting near the village. To while away the time and distract himself from the metal bits of Droya's leathers digging into his back, Orison asked about the village and tested Droya's bottom line on what he could ask for based off what was available. When Orison turned their most wanted item into a count of three confession game, their combined answer of soap sent them both into a short lived bout of chuckles. Orison was certain, however, that what kinds they wanted would have a vastly different outcome since this world, much less this village, was guaranteed to not have his favorite brand.

Orison was surprised to see that a wall surrounded the center most part of the village and even more so that despite having a wall, there wasn't a guard at the opened gate. As they did their shopping, he asked Droya about the current state of affairs in the Northlands. While not much, it still enlightened him about the barely avoided civil war and the current political cold war between the Centerland Empire and Summerland Domain for resources and alliances. One which Northland was happy to exploit since the two forces were at least half, if not more, of the reason why a civil war almost happened.

Droya stopped by the trader's post to arrange for her distant acquaintance's cremated remains to be delivered to his family which prompted Orison to ask, "So the bastet guy, he was actually related to you?"

Droya was silent long enough that Orison was about to apologize for asking when she said, "He's someone that I once knew. Not well but I used to 'run' with his cousin and his mother was kind to me once when she had no reason to. It was enough of a favor to return her son to her, nothing more."

Orison thought to himself, "Well, that's nice I guess. I mean, who knows how much of that ash is actually him and not his buddies or our burnable trash. It's the thought that counts right?... Now that's done. It's time to do the thing I've been looking forward to, other than buying soap."

The local blacksmith, who most just referred to as the pot mender, looked in need of heart medicine as Droya set the broken and twisted pieces of metal from the orc's breastplate and the bowman's shortsword on the counter.

She asked in a smooth, almost purring voice, "How much for the sc.r.a.p metal?"

Part of the conversations the odd mother and son pair had over the past few days revolved around the hows and whys of the home invasion. After pouring over every single detail of her last trip to the village, the best she could come up with was a momentary slip of the tongue where she told the pot mender she couldn't wait around for her order to be forged. She explained she had a boy at home alone to worry about.

Plenty of people would have liked to go visit the hero's home. But said hero had a reputation of being civil and amiable when he was the one doing the approaching, kill first and ask questions later under the slightest provocation when he was being approached. At the barest hint of possibility that the one simply known to most as the Dragonblood, was home, not even a kindly neighbor would dare approach without good reason, much less thieves. Such a slip is exactly what an opportunist would be waiting to hear.

Whether it was the pot mender himself or one of his loitering customers who was responsible for leaking Droya's slip, the message lying within the sc.r.a.p metal would be a powerful deterrent from future repeats.

For good measure, doing his best to look haunted, Orison said, "Oh, seeing those reminds me. I found a finger yesterday that we and the wolves missed." Turning to Droya he continued watery eyed, "Those men won't blame us for not finding all their pieces right? I don't think I could stand any more ghosts in our house."

Stunned for a moment, which only made it more believable when she said, "The only things in that house are the things your father wants to be there. Since he wants you there too you have nothing to fear. Only unwanted things have to worry."

Trying very hard to keep from laughing, as soon as Droya was handed her wares by the shaky handed blacksmith, Orison looked much like a boy who didn't want to cry in front of strangers as he darted out of the shop. He hadn't expected that she would follow up his hammy performance to extort the blacksmith into exchanging the sc.r.a.p metal for her goods. Orison didn't see anything wrong with it though. As they were putting on their performance it was obvious that even if he wasn't the main culprit, he knew what was happening and didn't tell anyone.

Patting Orison on the shoulder as they walked away from the smithy, Droya said, "A fine bit of support, little cub...It's only midday and all our shopping is done. Do you have any small requests? I managed to squeeze a few extra silvers out of that trumped up pot mender that aren't worth mentioning beside what I got out of Gorm at the trading post."

Orison thought about it and said, "Fancy a bite at the tavern? I imagine it's a little more family friendly at this time of day and I don't think breakfast stuck with me well enough to want to wait until we can whip up something once we get home."

Droya smiled and said, "As long as they aren't too busy, I don't see why not. It's good to see your appet.i.te improving. It amazes me how you managed to get stronger while eating so little. Were you sick when my husband brought you to me? The first day I saw you, you were pale and frail looking but the day I pulled you out from the trough was the first time I got a proper look at you. I don't know what you were doing at the orphanage but you shouldn't push yourself too hard. Over-training can ruin your body."

Orison replied wryly, "So they say." Then thought to himself, "Are all bastet pediatric physical therapists or something? I'm starting to develop body image issues over here."

While waiting for their midday meal, Droga slowly nursing a pint of local brew, a familiar sibilant voice said, "Orison, is that you."

He whipped around to face the voice, inwardly cringing against the inevitable souring of Droga's mood. The reptilian Marshlander face that greeted his eyes dashed any hopes of a more fanciful reason a person might call out to him.

While he rea.s.sured his suddenly tensed mother that everything was alright, the slightly older Marshlander to her right said, "Are you certain that this is the one who rescued you? He looks even younger than you said." The last part uttered with a sense of relief.

Orison felt a sudden building tension headache as he sighed out, "Yeah, I'm clean and I haven't beaten my face into the ground any time today."

Lithis hastily chirped, "It's definitely him. Orison this is my... uh-"

The young reptilian man put an arm around her shoulder and said, "Lover. After she follows me home, she'll be my wife."

Lithis' silent frozen smile and body language that neither invited nor discouraged closeness spoke volumes Orison was intent on not acknowledging. He might have saved her from getting her heart cut out but was uninterested in what she did with it or the rest of her body.

Half smiles and half building storm clouds, Droya said, "Just what our midday meal was missing, a good story. I can't wait to hear it."

Before Lithis could shoot him in the foot harder than her boyfriend had with his rescue reveal, Orison twisted and simplified the story: He felt an ominous energy building in the house. Unwilling to wait until something bad inevitably happened, he followed it to it's source. Upon seeing the situation, he used a little magical know-how to disrupt the ritual which caused it to backfire on it's caster, killing the crazy elf. He found the slave collar key and tricked her into letting him free her then showed her how to use it to save her father. He went home happy with his good deed. A deed, he emphasized, that was fully repaid with the scroll and journal. He finished with a toast to the couple's beautiful future life together and with a breaking voice, loudly begged the bar maid for a refill of whatever fruit drink he had.

Droya, facial expression unchanged said, "That story is far less entertaining than I expect it should be."

Smiling angelically, Orison replied, "That's the problem with dutiful and obedient folks, absolutely colorless imagination."

She purred darkly, a voice Orison filed under intimidation tone, "Indeed." Turning to the couple, she continued more mildly, "My son, a child, risked his life for you. Cherish it." Once finished speaking, she looked at the contents of her pint tin as if something important was floating inside.

Gathering her courage against the unspoken dismissal, Lithis blurted out, "I-if it's not too much trouble, this one's father and Mr. Morrel would want to also say a word of thanks to honorable sir and miss-tress, mistress."

Droya sighed and said, "There's no harm in it. I... would like a few words in private with my son while we eat our meal.

Once the couple half bowed solemnly and left, Droya mulled her thoughts to Orison. "I'll try my best to put this into words and you listen, alright?... You saved someone so I'm proud of you. You put your life at risk so I'm scared you'll do it again. You didn't tell me so I'm angry. I'd only be sad and disappointed you didn't feel like you could trust me on other things but killing someone and freeing slaves will earn you enemies. Enemies I c. Thank you, Min. We'll finish this after you're done eating.