Chapter 5. What the Searing Wrought

t was nearly noon by the time Kantele had finished making the list of items she needed to collect on behalf of the Lions Arch archivist, Master Saulean.  Sighing, she drifted down the cobbled slope of the upper city and entered the chaos of the square and marketplace to immerse herself in the stink of unwashed Ascalonians.  Not that she had anything against her own kind, but with the Searing, Kryta had become their refuge and this part of the city was where the lowest kind tended to congregate.

Unfortunately, it was also where she needed to obtain her extensive list of items.  Years of study and discipline had reduced her to little more than running errands.  She frowned ruefully to herself, smoothing her soft red hair with a flick of her hand before threading lightly through the bustle of traders and merchants.  She cut a stunning figure in her white and silver silks and she was very proud of them, stepping carefully around puddles of filth and keeping her distance from the greasy crowd that milled about the food vendors.  There was a carnival atmosphere near the docks and she smiled to herself as she observed a small gang of mesmers gathered near the boats to test one another’s skills in dancing and legerdemain.  The hollow rap of their feet on the planks had no doubt drawn them to that place.

Sadness clenched her throat as she admired their beauty, sensing also the loss that drove them to this improbable means of passing the time.  The psychic wound of the Searing clung to everyone, most of all her kind.  They had once lived in splendor, diplomats and couriers, and now they were little more than pretty creatures begging morsels from their Krytan hosts.

“Come, dance with us” said a tall man in a black top coat, making room for her on the pier.  His fiery hair was drawn back in a fetching tail and his blue eyes flashed with mischief.  The others continued to dance, taunting one another.  What had drawn her to come to this place?  It was filthy and disreputable.

“No, I’m sorry, I have work to do,” she murmured, feeling foolish amid their laughter and cheeky glances.

“As you wish,” the man said, bowing deeply to her before turning his attention once more to their game.  She smiled sadly at him, feeling very alone as she moved on, resolving not to come back.  Only when she was away from the dock did she relax, grateful for the anonymity of the crowd once more.

At a Canthan vendor she exchanged coin for several rolls of the finest grade paper and admired the bottles of inks and quills designed to lure even the most crusty scholar.  She relaxed a little, resolving to focus on the task at hand and stop thinking about the Searing.  It was difficult amid the press of Ascalonians.  She was an empath like all the women of her noble line.  Most of them had become healers of psychic wounds, working alongside monks and priests.  The raw pain and anguish of the Searing, however, was beyond her ability to mend.  Her own wounds were deep.  She had lost everything.

“Like everyone else,” she chided herself, refusing to feel sorry for herself.

When Pendaran emerged from the crowd, she nearly dropped her basket.  Holy Dwayna, how had he managed to survive when both of their houses lay in ruins?  It could not be.  Surely it was someone else, another mesmer driven from Ascalon and seeking refuge like the rest of them.

And yet she recognized the finely chiseled Caradec nose and the delicate arc of his brows.  There was the chestnut hair, warm and coppery in the autumn sun and eyes the color of ocean waves, green and stormy and staring back at her as he detected her bold stare.

“Do I know you?”he asked.

“Kantele Marella,” she said, curtseying, “I was a friend of Clarissa Ermengarde.  I was her bridesmaid at your wedding.”

He treated her to a winsome Caradec smile and bowed deeply to her.

“Yes, I remember,” he said, “We attended the academy together.”

Kantele noticed a tall warrioress and a monk were with him.  At least he appeared to be gainfully employed this time.  Pendaran had been remarkable for his lack of drive and discipline.  What Clarissa had seen in him beyond his stunning good looks she never knew.  Still, she remembered how much Clarissa had adored him and she longed to know if her old friend and confidante had made it away with Pendaran.  She missed them all, the dances and gatherings of the royal court, the music and decorations.  Angry with herself, she pushed down her grief for fallen Ascalon and presented a brittle mask of calm.

“It is good to see you again,” she replied, composure restored, even though she longed to ask him a thousand questions about his life since the Searing.  Thank Lyssa he had been an utter flop at reading emotions and thoughts.

Tell me someone I cared about survived, she pleaded silently.

"I am the only survivor of my line," he replied to her, shocking her with the intensity of his unexpected mental prowess.  The Searing had not ruined him, at least.  If anything, he was far more focused and disciplined than he had ever been at the academy.

“These are my friends, Brigit Gaenor and Brother Nandao,” he said politely and his two body guards nodded politely to her, although she noted a look of annoyance upon the warrioress’ face. 

“I guess I should be going,” Kantele breathed, curtseying again, “I don’t suppose you would be willing to meet sometime.  I’d love to talk.”

“Of course,” he replied, “I’m afraid I cannot at the moment, however.  I am in pursuit of a birthday present for a lovely lady.”

“Then you really must speak to Kara,” she blurted, blushing as she gestured toward the town square, “Her jewelry is exquisite and Clarissa would simply adore it.”

His mouth twitched awkwardly and she realized she had made a terrible faux pas.  Clarissa was dead.  She read it in the swirl of grief that wrapped his form.

“I’m sorry,” she stammered, embarrassed and feeling stupid.  Time to go.

“Where are you staying?” Pendaran asked, grasping her hand before she could duck away,  “I would like to talk.  It would do us both some good.”

“The Lucky Penny… in the upper city.”

His bodyguards were clearly growing impatient and were talking to a Canthan woman in a green cape emblazoned with a serpent. 

Her body tensed as waves of malice pounded her psyche.  Hatred.  Anger.  Death.

That was when everything went terribly wrong.