Chapter 5: Two Steps Forward One Step Back

I splash cold water on my face, and rub the sleep from my eyes, the clattering of the empty Ursas Kiss bottle makes me wince as it rolls noisily across the room, I forget where it was and kicked it as I walk to the windows to pull the shutters closed, I need it dark and quiet in here. I sit at the desk and look at my notes, a list of people I want to talk to is all I have, that and two of the victims were being followed by someone in a cloak, they also felt in need of protection, did the person they seek protection from kill them?

At the bottom of the page there’s a scrawling in my hand, but I don’t remember writing it. The sigil is the key. Did I have some epiphany from the Ursas kiss? I know I’ve had some pretty bad ideas while drunk, I don’t ever remember having good ideas. I file that for later, I don’t even know if I wrote that,

 Then there’s the annoying elf merchant, I’ll have to ask Ness when he came into town. I decide I’ll go talk to Old Lady Colloga, and check out the reservoir first, then if there’s time, I will talk with Bryer Wheatrose and check out the townhall cellar.

Happy with my plan I head down to the tavern to break my fast with some of Ness’ delicious food and an ale to keep the hangover at bay.

“Mornin, investigator,” Ness is already behind the bar, I have no idea how she stays so perky when she’s up until close and awake before sunrise. The smell of biscuits and bacon makes my mouth water. “Bacon and biscuits are ready.” She slides a plate towards me and a stein of ale follows closely behind, she knows me so well. “Any leads today?” She talks while she prepares the kegs behind the bar.

“I’ve got a list of people I’d like to see and talk to today,” I say sipping on the ale, I set the stein down and eat the bacon, its crispy and delicious.  I down the ale and take the biscuit off the plate, “thanks, Ness,” and I head out the door.

The Colloga farm is on the north side of Moss Haven, I take the main road out of town and head towards the farm. The Colloga’s have an impressive amount of land and I’m not sure how Old Lady Colloga will be able to tend it all herself, unless she has sons and daughters at her disposal. The land has yet to be tilled and is covered in gopher holes. She may have to sell, now there’s a motive for murder, pristine farmland, old widow forced to sell, I’ve seen it happen before, that or she’ll be accused of being a cultist and her land will be taken from her.

“You’re the adventurer that claimed you could solve the case!” The old woman from the market yells at me from her doorway, it’s a quaint farmhouse, the roof needs patching and the window frames are starting to rot, but the overall appeal is nice.

“That’s me,” I say, trying to sound polite and not hungover. “I was hoping I could talk to you a bit about Peder, the cloaked figure and why he felt like he needed protection.” She eyes me suspiciously.

“It was that elf,” she scoffs as if its obvious. “There were no murders in Moss Haven until he showed up.”

“And when was that?” I ask.

“A week before Peder’s death.” She hugs herself against the morning chill. “Come in and have some tea, I can smell the tavern on you from here.” She’s not wrong, I smell like a distillery. The inside of the farmhouse matches the exterior, paint peels off the walls, the floorboards are creaky, and the table has seen better days. “Come sit,” she says patting the chair and pulling the tea kettle off the fire.

I sit and send prayers to all the gods that the chair can hold me, not that any of them would listen to me, it creaks loudly as I settle into it. The tea smells strong, I wave the cream and sugar away, I prefer the bitterness.

“What can I do for you?” She asks, sitting across from me.

I sip the tea, its strong and bitter, just how I like it. “I was hoping you could tell me a bit more about Peder, I saw that he felt like he was being followed?”

She sips her tea and nods, “yes, he swore a cloaked figure was following around the farm, I never saw it.” I nod, listening. “He did stop his drinking.” I glance around the house, and surprisingly I don’t see any liquor bottles anywhere.

“And he went to get protection?”

“Yes, from that witch, but it didn’t work, he died the next day.”

“And you mentioned to the investigators he cut his left wrist a few days before.”

“No, his right wrist.” She says, correcting me. Interesting. I pull out the scroll and check the report.

“It says left wrist, nothing about his right.” I say, showing her the report. She scoffs, clearly, she’s had it with the investigation. “You think the elf did it, why?”

“He shows up and the deaths start,” she says, repeating what she started with when I showed up. “He’s always talking in whispers to people, making shadowy deals,” she scrunches her face. “I’ve been watching him in town, he’s always sneaking vials into people’s baskets and bags, and most importantly he’s sold potions to everyone that’s died.” She crosses her arms triumphantly like she’s solved the case. Her sleeve rides up a little on her left arm and I notice a bit of a scar. She notices my gaze and quickly pulls her sleeve down. “Farm accident,” she says without a thought.

“I’ll talk to him,” I say, “I’ll figure out if he’s guilty for you.” She smiles but there’s a sadness behind her eyes.

“Thank you for the tea,” I say, “I know I can’t bring Peder back, but I hope that I can bring his killer to justice.” For once, I actually mean what I say, I feel bad, I want to solve this for her, what is happening to me. “Do you mind if I check out the reservoir on my way to the mill?” She nods.

“Thank you, I would really appreciate that, the guards have refused to hear my pleas.” I consider offering her the services of the Lyfe, the necromancer I befriended but, on second thought whoever he brings back is a little off…so not today.

Bryer Wheatrose lives in the mill, which is conveniently on the river that feeds the reservoir on the edge of the Colloga property. The water is ice-free now, the shore is mucky and muddy, my boot gets stuck in some mud, and I need to fight for it back. I don’t know why I thought coming here would be a good idea, I’m not going to find anything useful. I walk the shoreline, searching for any clues that may have been left, and nothing. I look around, there isn’t anyone out, despite the hangover, I’m tempted to attempt a tracking spell. I do the motions and say the words, I need to find some clues. “Veil rise and show the past, track whomever was here last.”  There’s a flash of shimmering purple and to my surprise I see glowing footprints, they come from up the river, stop by the reservoir and then enter the water. I watch as the trail crosses the waters surface and stands in front of a large pine on the far bank.  

 Up in the tree is the same sigil I saw on the tree near the trail to Freyanna’s cottage. Þœ. Glowing a dim purple, magic, my arcane detection spell didn’t fail. Well…it kind of failed, was there a sigil around the kennels that I missed? I’ll have to go back and check. I take out the scroll and look at the sketch of how the body was found, the sigil on the tree is directly west from where Peder’s body would’ve been. Interesting. This sigil wasn’t in my spell book, yet it seems so familiar.

I follow the glowing footprint trail up the path and into a thicket of Burnberry bushes. I don’t hope to find anything, but it doesn’t hurt to look. I push through the bushes and see where the footprints originate, a depression in the earth, a scattering of seed husks, most likely from squirrels and chipmunks. I take a handful of the husks, just in case.

The walk up the river is relaxing, there’s a well-worn path on the opposite bank, but now I’m on my own. I usually hate being alone with my thoughts, now however, I’m wrapped up in what Old Lady Colloga told me. There were no bottles of alcohol in her home, there was no residual scent of booze, she may have dumped them all after his death, but something tens me she’s telling the truth. I’m so wrapped up in my thoughts that I almost don’t hear the loud snap of a branch behind me. Almost, I whip around, hands glowing a hot red, I’m ready to torch whoever is following me. There’s nobody there, not even a startled forest creature. Strange, am I becoming paranoid?

I travel the rest of the way to the mill on high alert, man I wish I had taken Cowpoke, could’ve covered a lot more ground. I can be a fool sometimes. The mill sits on the edge of the river, the large wheel turning with the current at the base of some rapids. Being the son of a fisherman, I have to appreciate the pool fifty feet down stream of the wheel. I can hear my father’s words, get the line to drift in there and we’ll be eating good for a week. I shake the memory. I notice a figure creeping around the far side of the building.

“Hey!” I shout, I run towards where I last saw the figure. As I round the corner I’m knocked of balance by a horse galloping passed me, it’s a blur but in think I see a man on the horses back. Before I can do anything else, he’s gone. I dust myself off and return to the entrance of the mill.

“Suspicious,” I say to no one in particular.

I step up to the door. The mill is in much better condition than the Colloga farmhouse, fresh timber on the roadside wall, the door is heavy oak with a polished brass knob. I take a breath and knock on the door.

“Go away!” A voice from inside the mill calls, “I only take grain at the beginning of the week, how many times do I have to tell you!” Well, this will be interesting, I knock again, louder this time.

“Bryer!” I call, hoping it will change his tone, but knowing it will only rile him up more, I have that effect on people.

I hear heavy footsteps coming towards the door. The largest man I’ve ever seen swings the door open, he crosses his muscular arms across his broad chest, he takes up most of the doorway, the real mystery is what are they feeding these men to get so big.

“What do you want?” Breyer ask, he glares at me suspiciously. I’m a stranger at his door, who comes to the mill without grain?

“Hi, um, hello,” I stumble over my words, I need to tread carefully here, all I can imagine is my broken body being put through the mill if I anger this man or overstep. Gods, how big was his wife?

“Get on with it,” he shifts, and I swear the ground trembles.

“Yes, of course,” I say. “I’m Ceddrick Scaleheart, and I’m investigating the murders that have been happening in Moss Haven, and I wanted to ask a few questions about your wife, Hera.”

He stares at me, icy blue eyes piercing my very soul. He bites his bottom lip and snarls, I’m mentally preparing to blow this mill up with a meteor storm when his face softens, he steps aside and waves me into his home.

“I’ve been waiting for someone to come ask me some questions,” Bryer says with a melancholy smile.  “Please, come in.” I step passed him and I into the home, the first-floor acts as the mill, the pit wheel and millstone take up a large portion of the room, its rumbling slowly, the rest of the room is covered in flour dust, grain husks bags of different types of grains, barrels and sacks of flour. I’m quite transfixed, I’ve never been in a working mill before. The closest I’ve is when that necromancer took over an abandoned mill and was using it to make bone dust and I was sent in to stop him, turns out he’s a really nice guy, just a little misguided.

“Thank you for hearing me out,” I say. Bryer nods and leads me through a heavy door, his meager kitchen and dining room stand before me, two massive chairs flank an equally large table, a large cast iron stockpot sits over a low fire in the fireplace on the far wall. Whatever he has simmering fills the room with a rich welcoming scent. My stomach rumbles and my eyes linger on the pot. Is it in bad taste to ask for a bowl?

“Of course,” he says walking to the table, “I’ve been trying to get someone to look deeper into her death,” he shakes his head. “The mayor, Ned Kneckt, other guards, nobody would listen to me. They all have the same exact story,” he looks at me, “the barrels fell, they heard a crash, and Mayor Cahallan was there trying to revive her.” He walks to the pot and takes a copper ladle from a hook and pours some of the thick stew into a wooden bowl. He looks at me, “like some?”

“Yes, please,” I say, he pours another bow and brings a loaf of bread to the table. “What can you tell me about Hera?”

Bryer sits and hands me a bowl of the stew, chunks of beef, carrot, potato and onion fill the bowl and swim in a wonderfully flavorful broth. He taps his fingers on the table. “She was amazing, beautiful, funny, loving,” he looks out the window to the river as he speaks. “She was a goddess come to earth.” He gestures to the stew, “her recipe,” he looks back at the large pot over the fire. “She always insisted on having a pot going, just in case we were to have a visitor.”

“She sounds like a dream,” I say, I was hoping he would tell me about her death and any suspicions he had, but I guess we will get there, “the stew is amazing. It seems like everyone would’ve liked her.”

“Everyone loved her, nobody had any reason to kill her,” he pauses. “She had been stacking those barrels for twenty years and never had a problem, and then all of a sudden.” He stops and looks at me. “Sorry.”

“I get it. So, no enemies seeking revenge,” I say as I start eliminating options. “Did she mention anything about feeling followed, or watched?”

Bryer brings his large hands to his lush brown beard and strokes it thoughtfully.

“Yes, actually,” he stands, “she told me she was being followed by a cloaked figure.”

“When did this start?” I ask, three victims were followed by a cloaked figure. Bryer is across the room near a cabinet, a leather-bound journal in his hands. While he does, I take out the scroll depicting Hera’s death, I notice his stew steams, untouched.

“A week before she died,” he says flipping the journal open. He reads from it, “a stranger lurked in the shadows of the town, heavy cloak covering their face, they’re following me. That’s dated on delivery day, a week before she died, crushed, by barrels she’s been stacking for almost twenty years.” He smiles at the journal. “There’s a drawing of the flowers in the garden, she was such an amazing artist.” He looks at a painting hanging against the far wall, two silhouettes in a lavender field.  “Below the sketch she wrote that the violets reminded her of my eyes.” He blinks away a tear.

“Amazing, she was really talented.” I say, looking at the painting. “Anything else?”

Bryer is silent. He’s busy flipping through the pages of Hera’s journal. I sit in the silence, trying my best to eat the stew quietly. He needs this. He closes the journal and sets it back on the cabinet. “She bought a few potions from that elf in the marketplace,” he says, gesturing to swirling vials on the counter. They have the elf’s insignia on them, the seals on all but one are unbroken. There’s a green, blue and red potion, the red vial is half empty.

“Do you know what kind of potions they are?” I ask. The elf is looking increasingly suspicious, but his targets seem so random. What is the connection? He shakes his head.

“I wasn’t in town with her when she bought them.”

“The report noted a scar on her wrist,” I say, reading from the report, “did she cut herself before her death?”

Bryer pauses thoughtfully. He brings his massive hands to his chin thoughtfully. “I can’t recall,” he says. “It’s been a month, and she was so meticulous with everything…” he drifts into silence, into thought and memory. He shakes his head, “no I don’t think she did, why?”

I show him the report. He nods, he’s thinking about something, he takes the report from me and studies it. He takes it back to the journal and compares the two documents, looking closely between them.

“That’s not how the barrels are normally stacked.” He taps the sketch of the scene. “They’re out of place. She always stacked them closer to the ramp, easier access, she would never stack them over there.” He takes a quill and a blank scroll and draws the proper layout of the cellar. Two inconsistencies in the official report.

“One more question,” I ask, “did she see the hermit witch, Freyanna, before her death?”

“She did,” he says quickly, his body shifts like an unhealed wound flaring up. “We were,” he drifts off, his face highlighting the painful memory he is having experiencing. He’s quiet again, sitting with what he lost. “We we’re seeing her to help us start a family.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, it’s a genuine apology, “you saw her too?”

“Occasionally, it was usually just Hera…” I’ve unlocked a painful memory, and I have no idea how to handle it. And I feel incredibly uncomfortable in the silence.

We sit in the heavy silence of all he lost. I’ve finished my soup and three fourths the loaf of bread, his spoon is still clean and bowl of stew untouched. I look around the living space, I see more paintings, always two silhouettes, the only difference in the setting, my eyes freeze on one above the fireplace. Three silhouettes, around a table like the one I am sitting at now. I don’t know what to do with my hands, I’ve finished all the bread, so I play with my sleeves. It feels like we’ve sat there in silence for an eternity. Bryer stands and takes the bowls, one full and one empty, and places them on the counter then looks at me.

“You’re going to solve it.” Byrer says, it’s not a question, it’s a definitive statement. He walks over and slides her journal over to me.

I look at him, then I look away, towards the painting above the fireplace, what could’ve been but never will be. I take the journal and place it in my pack.

“Yes,” I say. I don’t believe me words, but he needs me to.