After what felt like hours, Grant felt his weight beginning to shift to the front. He braced himself with his left hand on the seat, right hand on the rail. Seconds later, as suddenly as they had departed earlier, the caravan lurched to a stop in front of a city about the same size as Iori. Its stacked-stone gray walls stood three times higher than the top of the highest carriage, and guards patrolled the tops, peering down at the enormous line that had appeared at their front gate.
A call came from the lead driver, and each relayed it to the next.
“10 minutes!”
“10 minutes?” Grant looked around in confusion, but the nobleman gently closed his book, packed it into his satchel, and stepped off the edge of the wagon. His protective shield continued to keep him dry in the pouring rain as he walked off into the night.
The wagon swayed as Col stood up after him. Grant glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. The sailor wore an eager expression, staring at Grant’s foot. It was a look he’d seen countless times in school and at the orphanage.
Oh, we’re doing this then.
Grant braced for the pain while curling his toes as much as he could, pretending to stare at the city walls. Col lifted his front foot and drove it into the front of Grant’s left boot, stomping down on leather and air.
His self-satisfied smirk curled into a frown when Grant didn’t so much as flinch, but instead grinned up innocently at the man. Col was so confused at the lack of a crunch and reaction that he missed Grant’s other foot sticking out. It snagged his front shin, sending him pitching forward.
“Hmmmph!” he cried, hopelessly off balance, stumbling toward the edge of the cart. Miraculously, he managed to stop his forward momentum with a spin, and teetered on the edge for a long moment, waving his hands and locking his spread legs on the slippery footing. It may have been a product of all the sailing, it may have been a product of all the drinking, or it may have been a product of all the drunk sailing, but he was handling himself with remarkable agility.
Just as he began to regain balance, Lira jerked herself back in a full-body stretch, sharply rocking the wagon. With a sharp squeal, Col fell straight off the edge, plummeting from the back of the cart to the ground and splashing down hard into the mud.
Grant felt horrible sensation in his stomach. It tugged and twisted, like he had swallowed too much food too fast. Dizziness followed, and he scrambled toward the driver’s seat, as far away from the sailor as he could get. Lira stayed in place, crossing one leg over the other and folding her hands over her lap.
When Col pushed himself to his knees and slowly rose, his eyes were bloodshot, mud-caked mouth twisted, knuckles white on his gnarled fists. “Leeman, get down here,” he growled over the sound of pouring rain.
Grant swallowed a mouthful of spit. Boys from the orphanage knew it better than anyone. There was a social contract you signed the day you moved in, and it never expired: when you get hit, you hit back harder or get hit again. It was all a matter of pride and face, which were all the boys there really had. Pride, then face, in that order. And with Lira’s help, Grant had just struck a major blow to both of Col’s.
He grasped for a solution. He wanted to startle the man, not humiliate him. Thunder rolled and he flinched.
Col’s smile widened.
Grant may have been better off apologizing. Sometimes a small beating now can prevent a big beating later. Or in this case, a big beating now an even bigger one later. But he pushed the fear out of his voice and forced humor in its place.
“I’ve already had a bath today. I’d rather stay up here.”
Col snarled and took a step forward with his hands out, ready to drag Grant down into the muck and mire, but a booming voice stopped him dead in his tracks.
“You!” the coachman roared, pointing at Col. “You!” he roared, pointing at Grant. “Find another wagon!”
Grant cursed, frustration spilling over. His skin itched like a fresh bug bite at the idea of rolling in the mud and throwing fists with Col, arriving at the capital with two black eyes and two fewer teeth. Col seemed more than eager, though, which only made it worse. He slowly beckoned Grant down.
“Excuse me?” Lira leaned forward towards the driver, eyes wide and mouth ajar. “I—I think he lost his balance on his own.” Her voice quavered as she spoke and gestured towards Col. “It was just a misunderstanding. I don’t want anyone to get hurt over something like this.”
Grant tried to shut his gawking mouth. You could know someone for your whole life and feel as though you don’t know them at all. You could know someone for a few minutes and feel as though you’ve known them your whole life. Now as he watched Lira, he knew that he would never even know which group to place her in.
Every word dripped with sickly sweetness, as if she was a princess in hiding, just like in the storybooks. An unkempt and improperly clothed princess, but a princess, nonetheless. Even he wanted to believe her, and he was the one who had tripped Col.
The driver muttered to himself for a few moments before addressing Grant again. “Is this true, boy?”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Grant shrugged. “I don’t know why he has it out for me. I just want to get to the capital safely.”
Col seethed, sucking air in through his teeth and hissing it out. He twisted his glare into the most intimidating look he could muster in spite of his trembling lip and sodden clothes. Outnumbered and humiliated, he could do little else. Col was not an intelligent man, but even he knew that the coachman had already made up his mind.
“You,” snapped the driver, “find another wagon.”
Glowering at Grant one more time, Col marched through the rain with as much dignity as he could muster, boots sloshing with every step. He ranted loudly to himself about promises of violence, and Grant knew he would be biding his time for a better opportunity.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
He watched as Col went. “So… I can stay, right?”
The driver threw his hands up.
***
Over the ten-minute break, Grant could gather that it was a time to stretch their legs and empty their bladders. If anyone tried to escape in the rain, the officers must have gathered them up discreetly, as there wasn’t so much as a murmur or cry, although it was hard to hear over the rain. He spent the time talking with Lira and keeping an eye on the blonde woman while obsessively checking his Mana every few seconds. The moment it reached four, he cast Identify.
[Wisdom has increased to 5!]
He allowed himself to celebrate his progress with a subtle pump of his fist. He was getting a knack for casting the Spell on demand, and while he knew he was barely past the foot of the mountain, his climb was steady and path true.
A group of people huddled together as they exited the city’s gates. Grant counted nine, both men and women, and they climbed into various carts down the line. “Of course,” he whispered to himself. Tens of thousands of people had most likely been selected, on top of the volunteers. Their caravan would make multiple stops to the capital.
He squinted, finding two more a short distance behind. Unlike the others, who wandered to their carts on their own, these were young men, manacled together and connected by thick chains. Their feet moved in short steps as they shuffled through the wet ground, escorted by uniformed men. The one in front’s left eye was bruised and swollen shut.
Prisoners. Grant supposed that meant they sent someone with an Identify down to the cells to find any who had been selected. Or perhaps the Calibration process gave them away.
Grant prayed that they would be kept somewhere far away from him.
“One minute!”
The call echoed down the line.
Noticing the nobleman’s empty seat, Grant chose to speak up. “Excuse me, sir. I think we’re still missing one.” He looked in the direction that the man had wandered off, finding no sign of him. He dared to hope that he had made a run for it and had someone chasing him through the storm.
“Think again! Two carts ahead.” The driver was pointing towards a closed carriage. Grant squinted and craned his neck over the side just in time to see the nobleman step into it.
He let out a breath as he sank into his seat. “Shitting nobles.”
The driver only grunted in response.
Grant hadn’t had many opportunities to interact directly with the nobles in Iori. They went to different schools, and he’d be less surprised to find a hungry wolf in a full henhouse than a noble warming his hands by the hearth in Mr. Fletcher’s inn. On the few occasions that one accosted him in the streets for directions or to demand he give way, he was only reminded why ordinary townsfolk crossed the road to avoid them.
Lira cocked her head at him.
He pointed up ahead. “Looks like our noble friend found better accommodations. Closed carriage.”
Her harsh laugh cut through the sound of the rain. “Typical. The only guy in the wagon with a way to stay dry, but he can’t be bothered. Must have complained and dropped his daddy’s name to an officer.”
Grant could only chuckle with her. On his informal scale of ‘Unfair Things that Only a Noble Could Get Away With,’ this rated about a three out of ten.
He thought for a few seconds, and then an idea came to him. “Hey, you know what?” He leaned back and propped his feet up on the opposite side’s bench, where the nobleman sat before. “More room for us!”
Lira grinned, that constant touch of mischief in her eyes. She slid back, toed her boots off, and stretched her feet onto the bench too, wriggling her toes and sighing with relief. “Oh, I bet that closed carriage is cramped and stuffy inside. With these blue skies and shining clean roads, I’m feeling quite optimistic about this journey.”
As if to agree with her, lightning flashed again.
She turned her attention to the blonde woman. “You want to stretch out too? It feels pretty good.”
The blonde woman stared at the bottom of the carriage blankly.
“Departure!” The call came down the line like the first two. Grant gave his surroundings one more look, and a few moments later, they faded in the distance.
***
Grant hardly knew why he even bothered to try and be comfortable. Between the lurching pain in his ass every time his seat jostled, the cramping in his lower back, the hair that kept getting matted to his forehead, and the freezing cold, there didn’t seem to be a way to make it better, even after trying everything he could think of. If it weren’t for his co-passengers, he would have been tempted to lie on the bottom between its benches, just to get off the hard wood digging into him.
He checked his Interface clock. It was well past midnight.
Between casts of Identify and nodding off, he occasionally sneaked a glance at Lira and the blonde woman. Lira seemed to be in the same state as him, bursts of fitful sleep interrupted by a pothole or a puddle. The blonde woman was quiet as usual, but wide awake.
With Col and the nobleman gone, he couldn’t help but wonder about her. There was something unsettling about the woman, but he couldn’t pin it down. She was too clean to be a peasant, but she didn’t carry herself like a noble. While everyone other than nobles in Iori wore dull grays, beiges, and browns, her robes were a white that seemed unaffected by the rain and mud.
His Mana ticked up to four, and he focused his gaze on her.
[Identifying…]
[Name: Abigail Hart]
[Age: 19]
[Occupation: Shrine Maiden]
[Level: 1]
[Buffs: N/A]
[Debuffs: Wrath of the Goddess (8124:23:19:07 remaining)]
While Grant was trying to be subtle about poking in and invading her privacy, he winced. Her position as a Priestess painted a clearer picture about her white robes, but everything else only left him with more questions. Becoming even a Shrine Maiden in the Church hierarchy was a 10-year process, and unlike virtually everything else in Evenon, there was no amount of coin or fame that allowed one to skip the line.
Yet she had a Debuff that would linger for over 20 years. How could a Priestess, who devoted every waking moment to the Goddess, provoke her ire?
He looked up to find the Priestess’s blue, unblinking eyes boring into him.
“Why did you do that?” Her voice was unexpectedly deep.
Grant had no answer. Just moments before, she had been unresponsive. The torrential rains, lightning strikes, and rattling of the cart had unsettled even the driver at times, and yet she was as unbothered as a seaside cliff was to the waves crashing against it.
“Why did you do that?” she repeated. Neither her tone nor her facial expression had changed.
“I apologize,” Grant began, considering his next words carefully. “I thought you were unwell, and I wanted to check to make sure you didn’t have any Debuffs.” He cringed at his drawing attention to her Debuffs.
She stared expressionlessly, then leaned forward. “You wander catacombs unknown without a lantern,” she said, voice full of conviction. “The Goddess is merciful to those who bask in Her light, but unforgiving of those who stray. She safeguards the obedient from what is to come and razes the lands and hearts of the not.”
Grant found himself lost for words again. He had attended church services sparingly throughout his life, and he could recognize the words of Speakers to the Goddess when he heard them. He placed his hands on his knees and tried the first thing that came to mind.
“Thank you for the guidance.”
“It is not guidance,” she corrected, voice harsh. “I cannot guide. I am Invalid. I can only quote the words of Speakers.”
“They speak with wisdom,” he said.
Grant began drifting to the left. They were coming to another stop. He glanced over the front of the cart, finding blurred city walls in the distance. The horses slowed down to a canter, and then a trot before they halted, and the wagon jerked. The call echoed down the line as it had before.
“10 minutes!”
Lira startled awake, finding the Priestess staring at Grant, eyes wide and manic.
She wiped a spot of drool from the corner of her mouth with her sleeve. “What happened?”
