Chapter 4

Slowly, Daelia sank onto the bed that had been hers for a little over a month now, letting her muscles relax into the soft blankets. Today had been a difficult one; she had spent all day in the hot bakery and at the market, trying to sell Sealen’s bread, not returning until late in the afternoon with most of the loaves remaining in the crate. Upon arrival back at the bakery, she saw that the shop was dark, the oven cold, and Sealen nowhere to be found. Daelia, not knowing what else to do, sat in the dark bakery by herself until Sealen came trudging in two hours later.

His movements were slow, his countenance solemn as he lit a candle and turned to see her sitting in the chair, the crate of unsold bread on the floor beside her. He did not seem surprised to find her there, nor to see that his bread had not sold at the market.

He sighed wearily and sat at in the chair across the table from her. He did not look at her as he stated simply, “I sold my bakery today.”

So, her feeling this morning had been correct. The bearded man’s voice held such defeat, it broke Daelia’s heart. “I’m sorry, Sealen.”

“No one came in today; only one customer yesterday. I have nothing with which to pay the taxes I owe. I am leaving town tomorrow; I won’t be coming back.”

Without another word, he got up and went to his room in the back, closing the door behind him.


She had just fallen asleep, or so it felt, when a strange noise woke Daelia. Not daring to move, she listened carefully, hoping it had come from the street outside.

Creak! There it was again, and it sounded like it was coming from the shop below.

Trying to not make a sound, Daelia slid from the bed. From a peg on the wall she took down her bow and pulled an arrow out of the quiver, putting it in place against the bow. Her body moved silently, gliding down the steps in the way she had trained herself to move through the forest. Many times she had wondered into the blackness of the forest with less fear than gripped her heart at this moment. You shouldn’t go down there! She argued back at herself, but someone could be here to steal Finneas’s money or the rest of the paintings…I can’t let that happen.

When Daelia’s foot went down on the third step to the bottom, the wood creaked loudly. She froze for a second, her chest pounding. A rustling was coming from the shop; she heard a footstep, then another. Slipping from the stairwell into the dark shop, she drew back the bowstring tightly.

She felt silly holding the bow as her only defense when she could not even see where to shoot.

Daelia felt a slight breath of air on the back of her neck, but before she could swing around, a hand snaked around her head, covering her mouth and jerking her backwards. She lost her grip on the bow string, and the arrow thudded into the far wall leaving her defenseless. The intruder held her firmly around the waist, pinning her arms to her side, making her struggles useless.

“Don’t make a sound, varlot!” a voice hissed in her left ear, “You will tell me what you have done with my paintings!”

Finneas!

She forced her body to relax, and his hand left her mouth. She gasped for breath.

“Finneas, it is only me, Daelia!”

“I know who you are, and I told you what I would do if anything happened to my artwork! The paintings are all missing!”

“At least light a candle and I can explain everything. Just let me go!”

He hesitated, and then released the supposed thief, “I am holding a knife, so do not attempt to run.”

Daelia pushed away from Finneas, fumbling around on the long wooden shelf for the candle. A spark, then a small glow cast a faint light about the room, illuminating the young artist who stood with knife still in hand; but something…

“Finneas! What happened to you? Your face…”

Indeed, in the flickering light his eyes stood out in stark contrast from his white face, purple and swollen; the right side of his face scraped and red. Dirty and torn, his once-bright blue tunic also had blood staining the front; she guessed it had come from his now-bruised nose.

The red-haired artist glared at her daringly, “First tell me what you have done with my paintings!” At least he had finally sheathed his knife…

“I sold them.”

“What! All of them?” his voice was sharp with agitation as he gingerly touched one of his blackened eyes, “Where is the money?”

But Daelia was agitated too. This man had just frightened her nearly senseless in the middle of the night; her heart was still in her throat.

“I shan’t tell you where the money is until you tell me what happened to you. What do you mean by attacking me in the dark with a knife, Finneas? I could have shot you with my arrow. I could have killed you! Or you might have killed me! What are you doing sneaking around in the dark like a thief!?” Her voice had had risen to a squeal as she spoke.

Finneas had sense enough to look a little ashamed for scaring a woman, “I was robbed…On the road last night.”

So, the great adventurer finally met face-to-face with his robber, Daelia thought sarcastically, then began to feel pity for him as she looked at his injuries. It was obvious who had come out the loser in this fight. Finneas stared at his feet looking like an ashamed little boy.

“And your money? Your horse?”

“Gone; all gone,” was his reply.

Daelia sighed, “Was that the money you had made from selling your land?

“Yes, some of the money; the rest had been spent to buy the horse that they rode out on; two men, smelly brutes.”

Most likely they were the same two that had taken her horse and money as well.

“Well, never mind; there is still the money from the paintings. I’m sorry for selling them without your permission, Finneas, but your customers were threatening to not return if I did not. I tried to tell them it was not my place, but they were most insistent,” She took from the shelf the leather bound book in which she had kept record of the transactions, “I even wrote down which paintings were bought, who bought them, and what they gave for each one.”

Finneas took the offered ledger from her hand, glanced at it, and tossed it back on the shelf, “As long as I get every penny from the ones you sold, I shan’t be mad. In fact,” he sighed, “I should probably thank you. I would have no money for immediate use had you not.”

Daelia was confused, “Well, I’m sure the other ones will sell soon too, and you can always paint more—“

“The money should be enough to travel with, and that is all that matters right now. The landlord shall take back the shop, so I needn’t worry about that.”

“You won’t stay? But I thought you loved Parsaena, Finneas!”

“I do; but I was fooling myself by thinking the taxes would go down. I could make enough selling painting to pay for the shop, food, and supplies; but never will the paintings pay for such high taxes. This was partly the reason I sold my land in Wainden; to pay my tax.”


In the back room, part workshop and part kitchen, Daelia mixed together herbs and witch-hazel, a concoction Sam had taught her for the treatment of minor injuries. Finneas winced as she smeared some of the mixture onto his cuts and bruises.

“But where will you go?”

“Oh, perhaps across the sea; I think traveling will suit me better than city life.”

Daelia eyed his bruises skeptically, “Then you had best learn to beware of robbers if you plan to live long on the road.”

He flinched as she applied straight witch-hazel directly to an open cut, rubbing lightly with a cloth.

“There,” she placed the remaining herbs in their leather pouch and tossed the young artist a clean tunic which she had found in the chest at the end of her bed, “I shall gather my things and go sleep at the bakery.”

Finneas shrugged, “I can sleep here by the fire for tonight; you keep the bed.”

“No, for you need the bed more than I do in your condition,” she told him firmly.

He shrugged again, but was silent.

Leaving the kitchen, she walked up the stairs to the bedroom, gathered her few belongings into her bag, tugged the stray arrow from wall downstairs, and opened the back door.

“The money is in the floor beneath your bed,” she informed him right before she closed the door behind her.


The next morning, just as she was rising stiff and sore from her place beside the bakery’s kitchen fire, a large falcon suddenly swooped through the open window and perched on the back of a large chair. The falcon, bright eyes blinking at her rapidly, began picking at something attatched to his leg; the object looked like leather tube.

The first letter had arrived.