Sanctuary for a Night 

“Bless the stars. Blay Bughunter!” A spry grin cracked Zefymi’s lips as Blay strode into the light. Water was dripping from Blay’s hair, wild white, as rivuletes crawled along his armour, dripping down and puddling on the hardwood floor.
“Good to see you again.” He gave the inkeeper a gracious bow, then hobbled to her table. The gentle lantern light seemed dazzling through Blay’s green goggles. “It’s about time I came here,” he said as he sat down across from Zefymi. “The woods and wastes left me famished.”
“Oh, I’m sure.” Said Zefymi, still beaming. “But you’re back in the right place.”

 

The Inkeeper’s assistant perched dutifully by his matron’s side, directly across from Blay. Giri, a freckle-cheeked lad, thirteen years old, straightened proudly as Blay looked him over.
“Remember who I am?” Blay asked.
“I never forget a face,” the lad replied.
“Even one that became this frail?”
“Perhaps your face has changed some, but your deeds remain.” Giri turned to the matron. “Can I get the Bughunter started with a drink?”
“May I.” Zefymi corrected. “And he needs to eat as well. Didn’t you hear the hero? The woods and wastes left him famished.”
Giri opened his mouth, but Blay spoke first. “I’ll have stew, bread, and boiled water. Twice each please.”
“Aye, you shall,” said Giri. “Two of each I’ll give you. Big and steaming. Would you be liking any mead, or perhaps some cider to soothe your sorrows?”
“No!” Zefymi cut in. “He just listed what he’d like. Bughunters drink water! Why must this weary man suffer the temptations of your dumb mouth?”
Head shaking, Zefymi turned away from the boy. “I’m sorry, Blay.”
“No need to be,” said Blay.
“An apology for my rudeness,” Giri spoke. He spun and scurried into the depths of the smoky kitchen.

 

“Giri.” Zefymi spat the name. “The boy does not shine as bright as his father did.”

“Perhaps. Yet few Stoneyfolk ever shined half as brightly as Hale Brayflame.” 

Blay loosened the straps of his green goggles and lifted them to rest against his forehead. His face felt lighter as the pressure released, and the pink grooves carved around his eyes revealed. 

“Near every inn in Deepthicket ravaged,” said Zefymi, tucking thick strands of oily orange hair behind her ears. “With windows shuttered, scouts stationed, and pitchforks near every hand. Not near enough. The cursed bugs sense the liveliness within, and hunger to ruin it. Every inn along the Daggar Road ravaged, save our Storm’s Eye. Oh, I’ve collected plenty enough weapons. Thirty pitchforks from the farms…  ” 

“That many sharpened tines are a fine start!”

“Aye. My patrons and I never touch them, though. I have more useless weapons, growing beards of rust down in the dark, lined up in rows against my basement wall.”

“Why are they untouched?”

Zefymi snorted. “You of all folk should know why. Dark drink and sharpened weapons mix about as peacefully as a burning coal dropped into Yellow Dust. But… we Stoneyfolk thank the Bughunter’s blessing for our survival. And now, we must be double-blessed.” 

“Bughunter’s blessing?” Blay gave a sharp chuckle. “The Storm’s Eye was our favourite ,” he admitted. “But regardless, you and your Stoneyfolk must prepare. Begin by noon tommorow. Drill yourselves before the drinking starts. Each morning, I urge you, start preparing. And every dusk, expect them.” 

 

Zefymi gave a loud snort. “Prepare to hide and hope, you mean? We Stoneyfolk lack the talents to drive bugs away. No. Without your protection anymore, a blessing is all we have.” 

“That’s not neccesarily true,” Blay countered. “I’ll be travelling to Tyr soon, before the seasons turn. There I’ll purchase a keg of fine Yellow Dust for you.”  

 “Yellow Dust is it?” Her buggish eyes went wild. “Hah! I hate the monsters more than most. But not near enough to blow my inn to bits for hope of wounding one.” 

“We’re not trying to break a siege here. I’ll make portions of the keg for you. You’d need no more than half a handful.”

“That little?”

“The blinding flash and great loud bang that half a handful of Yellow Dust makes when it is lit… will save your inn some night.” 

Zefymi leaned slowly back. Pondering, making him wait.

At last, she shook her head. “Not a chance, I’m afraid. I can count too many reasons against your idea.” 

Blay felt a surge of fire flare up in him. Has Zefymi truly turned so cold since my last visit? But as he breathed cooling breaths, his answer dawned. He knew the woman’s mind. A shrewd intelligence that yearned for sober sparring partners.

“Many reasons have you?” he prodded. 

“Aye!” Zefymi’s huge eyes squinted down at him, barely able to conceal her mounting glee. Blay held his glare on her defiantly, giving time for her to brew the inevitable speech. 

 

“You Bughunters,” she began, “as all we Stoneyfolk well know, were well funded by our sweet queen. I might forgive you then, Blay Bughunter, for not already knowing the reason of my reluctance. Yellow dust, say you. From Tyr. A city with a thousand masters, and millions of allegiances more tumultuous than the sea which parts our lands. And you, Bughunter, speak of Tyr like it were a village, just days down the Daggar Road. You speak of its rarest product like salt.”

“Lady Yellow will be eager to give a fresh keg to me. Because a true story is worth-”

“Aye.” She cut him off. “We all remember Maggie Raine, biggest and bravest of you all, according to most. Blew a bug to bits with nothing but a candle, string, and a fortune in Yellow dust. All while the rest of you boulder-footed Bughunters were hiking up the hill to join her. By the time you made it, we hear, there was nothing left to hunt but gooey bits of shell.” 

“Lady yellow invested fortunes in us, I don’t doubt. But by arming Maggie, she now has a story. A folk story, made of a Bughunter, with Yellow dust.” 

“Aye. We Stoney folk tell the stories well. It’s a rare traveller that leaves my inn without knowing them! But to we Stoney folk, Yellow dust is finicky, dangerous stuff. Far too pricey without the Queen’s coin.” Pausing, she swept her gaze over the nearby patrons, and leaned in. Her lips curled into a snarl to reveal rows of huge, gravestone teeth. One tooth, near the back of her lower row, was a rotted shade of dead brown. “Bughunter….” she rumbled, “Some of the dirty mutants, or nomads as you like to call them, are cursed with extra sets of ears. If they ever heard that I was in possession of such a precious keg, well… we could expect their cousins that very night. 

“True,” said Blay grimly, leaning back as the stench of rot wafted from deep inside her giant mouth. “But a Bughunter’s blessing… I’ve never taken you, of all folk, to be a believer in such things. That you would trust this many lives to superstition. I must’ve had you wrong all this time.”

“No one said you had to believe it! What’s your point?”

“I’m not quite sure what it is,” he spoke softly. “It’s simply strange to be met with such defiance, when all I’m doing here is to protect you.”

“Of course you are.” Zefymi sighed. “Yet I’ve enough fears to keep me up at night, and no great need of an explosion dormant beneath my bed. A Yellow pregnancy, if you will.” 

 “I’m sure you’ve nursed many.” Blay lowered his gaze, letting her simmer hotly. She kept scowling, until Blay looked up sharply. “Imagine it,” he said. “Opening your door at night to a bulging eye looking back. Sagging grey flesh filling the doorway. And in the eye, a throbbing scarlet pupil, huge enough your could sink your fist into it, if only the draysk couldn’t pluck your hand from you like a berry from a bush.” 

Zefymi’s wild gaze darted around, checking to see who might be listening. She’s desperate to keep them feeling protected by the ‘blessing,’ Blay observed. “Can you imagine them?” he continued, gesturing to the very guests Zefymi had just been peering over. “Deep at night… a quiet night, suddenly aroused by the sound of something above. It’s thumping on the roof, trying to get in. And when that wretched night arrives, you’ll forget all memory of the Bughunter’s blessing and reach instead for my parting gift, if you have it. You’ll reach for Yellow dust, and nothing again will ever feel like so much safety.” 

“Aye… and we’ll be in your debt forever after. Or worse, the Yellow debt.” 

“When the wretched night brings bugs, it will seem priceless. But worry not about the price. Don’t trouble yourself when you’ve troubles enough, Zefymi. I’m well favoured in Tyr. For me to accept a gift from Lady Yellow would honour her. I promise you, I’ll deliver a keg full of fine Yellow dust, if you simply promise me to prepare to use it.”

Zefymi huffed, nervous fingers tapping on the table. 

“You could run away,” he said. “Or stay to watch it ravage. Everything Gone in minutes. Or, with Yellow dust, you could scare it away. Pay for their lives in stink and smoke, and chilling memories. I need a decision.” 

“Blay…” she purred. “Why must you defy me?”

“I don’t believe in blessings,” Blay spoke, not bothering to lower his voice. “But I believe the Storm’s Eye is worth defending. These good Stoneyfolk, trusting you-”

“Alright! Now you hush.” She relented. Zefymi huffed, eyes darting, but slowly settling as the din of her patrons continued, oblivious. “Look!” She hissed, rocking the table as she bore forward on her elbows. “If you trade in Tyr, word of that will reach the nomads.” 

“Oh, yes I see. Nothing good would come of it.” 

“Not at all. So, I’ll send someone lesser known than you to Tyr, and give them my coin to pay in secret.” 

 “Truly?”

“You’ve already given us enough, Bughunter. I promise I would not lie to you.” 

“Good then. It’s a wise choice you’ve made, old friend.” 

“I know.” Zefymi grinned, as if the ordeal she’d put him through had been for sport. But her face hardened again when she saw Giri coming. 

 

The servant came bearing bread and stew, but before he could place their water, his matron stopped him with a word. “Wait! You’ve kept us waiting, haven’t you? Enjoying a little freedom in the kitchen. Peering out the window again? Is that steam I sense?” She beckoned the boy closer, to hold her face over the brass flagon tucked in the crook of Giri’s arm. Cheeks darkening, she recoiled. “Boiled does not mean boiling!” She bellowed. “I ought to make you drink it.” 

“I’m sorry,” Giri stammered, straining to hold himself still as the heavy flagon slowly slipped. 

Holding in anger, Blay put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You got my order right.” Swiftly, he took the flagon and set it down before Zefymi could object. Zefymi huffed and glared at her servant. 

“That was great service, Giri,” she said at last. “Very great. I see you’ve swiftly served our other patrons as well. But we adults have matters to discuss. Go get scrubbing.”

“We do?” asked Blay. “Just now I’d rather fill my mouth with food than words. I say he’s welcome to join our table.” 

Smiling sheepishly, Giri began to sit, but Zefymi set her hand flat on the boy’s seat, cocking her head toward the kitchen. Giri sprang up, as if the fingers splayed across his seat were rods of scorching metal. “Well, please enjoy your supper,” he said, giving Blay a bow. 

Blay lifted a finger, telling him to wait. “Before you go, then…” Blay flicked his wrist and something sparkled through the air. Giri caught it deftly, opening his hand to reveal a golden coin. “A tip,” said Blay. “In case I don’t see you again.” Giri’s eyes widened as he played the coin swiftly through his fingers.

 For a moment, Blay revelled in the boy’s marvel, but the marvel soon winked away when he turned to face his matron. “May I keep it?” he asked with a stoney voice.

“Oh, aye,” she answered. “But when you go back to the kitchen, keep your eyes pointed into the pot!” 

 

“You’re spoiling him,” grumbled Zefymi, the moment Giri was gone. “Soon he’ll start begging me for a wage.”

“I think he should have it.” Blay tore off a piece of bread and began chewing, focusing all his senses on the stew. It was thick and green and smelled of fresh summer.

“Ah!” Zefymi grinned. “You arrived just in time to savour my final batch of sprouts. You lucky lad! Those delicious sprouts you’re smelling are from the final crop of summer’s harvest. You’ll discover my stew is seasoned with the finest Tyrish spices. Quite a compliment to the senses, no?”

 

Blay swallowed the last bit of loaf and took a great swig of water. It tasted vaguely of cider. Scalding hot, it was almost boiling still. Without a wince, he drank it down, belching a plume of steam as he set down an empty cup. 

 

 and was scalding hot, almost boiling still. He didn’t wince, but drank it all down, belching a plume of steam as he set down his empty cup. Zefymi chuckled as Blay carefully lifted the first bowl of stew to his cracked lips. “I can offer more of everything. Just give Giri a command and he’ll bring whatever your heart desires, steaming fresh from the kitchen.”

Soon, Blay set down an empty bowl. “Ah…” He sighed in bliss. “I’ll admit. It feels like lifetimes since I could really rest.” 

“I’m sure it’s been far too long,” Zefymi agreed. “You’ll be sleeping here tonight.”

“I believe I will. My stomach loves this place.” 

“Good! Your safe return deserves to be celebrated. You haven’t stayed here since you were with the Expedition!” 

“Aye. That was the last time…” he sighed.

“The last time you could really rest, you mean?” Zefymi gave a playful swat. “You flatter me.”

“Not at all. It’s the truth.” Blay paused, holding the second bowl of stew halfway to his mouth. “My head has not felt the softness of a pillow since my Storm’s Eye bed.” 

“That was weeks ago.” Cheer fell from Zefymi’s face, as knots of worry took hold. 

Blay set down the bowl and crunched into a hard, burnt corner of bread. The stench of stew was sickly sweet. He shoved the bowl away and washed his throat with scalding water. “Hold on… don’t dare tell me. ” Zefymi’s voice went dark. “Have you been hunting?” 

 

As he nodded, Blay was acutely aware of the folk surrounding them. He tenseley squeezed the table’s edge. Gripping hard, his attention turned to the sensations of pressure in his fingers, forcing air through his burnt throat. “Nothing’s changed,” he growled at last. Purpled fingertips felt the bumps of old candlewax stuck to the underside of the table. Numb fingers traced the seams of old scratches. 

“The only difference now is I’m alone.” 

 

Zefymi leaned away, twisting a lock of her hair with thick, callused fingers. “Nothing’s changed…?” she echoed. Blay tore off more of his second loaf. Crunching and chewing as Zefymi sighed again and again. At last, the great woman bore forward. “Hunting alone isn’t nothing, Blay. It’s everything!” 

“Why are you trying so hard to sway me?” 

“Why? Oh why. Because I’m apparently the only person here who cares whether you continue living.” 

Blay took a massive bite and chewed, tasting nothing. 

“You want to die, is that it?” Zefymi continued. “You want to lie rotting on the Thicket floor with the rest of the Expedition.” 

“It doesn’t matter what I want.” Blay swallowed, swishing his tongue across his teeth to clear them of the bitter black flakes. “My hunt’s been fruitless. The last time I met a draysk was the day the swarm attacked. I haven’t since found even a single draysk path.” 

“Then I dare say you’ve been lucky. Recall that you came to me directly after that same swarm attacked the Expedition. You thought of the Storm’s Eye. You thought of home! That was one good judgment of you. If you told me then, in the wake of their doom, that you intended to keep hunting…” Zefymi gave a haughty huff. “I’m sorry to say, but I would have kept you here. Whether you wanted to or not.” 

“I would not have let you,” Said Blay. “After the swarm attacked, my only wish was to find each one of the attackers and end them.” The table groaned, bringing Blay’s awareness to his gripping fingers, clamped around the edge. 

“Where have you been?” pleaded Zefymi. 

Blay inhaled slowly, watching the innkeeper’s thick, many-ringed fingers quiver.

“Deepthicket,” he answered. 

“Of course!” She let burst. “Deepthicket is all around us. I’ll wait for the story.” 

“…Okay.”

 

Blay willed his memory back to Deepthicket. 

Darkness. Pressed in from every side by spear-tip branches, and itchy, infested bramble. All was jumbled. It seemed impossible to separate the threads of time from that dark drone. Whatever the true answers, Zefymi left no choice. He had describe something. 

 

 “I tried following our final path,” he started. “But… we’f diverged from it. We’d gone deep that day. The swarm… found us far from any path.”

“Keep going.” Zefymi had a rare quiet about her, poised. 

“I wanted to bury them. Reclaim their belongings, and bring back our relics to the families. I tried to retread our every step, but… I couldn’t find them.” 

“Ah.” Zefymi released a sigh. “If you couldn’t discover the fateful place, it’s lost. I dare say good. Better we remember them alive and hearty, riding on victory, and let that bloody graveyard remain imaginary.”
“Perhaps.” Blay heard himself distantly. The inn surrounding his body was just noise. He was inside again. Deep. Inside the Thicket, nearing the group of companions. 

 

“Hey there.” Zefymi reached over and squeezed his hand in hers. The clutch of her massive hand enclosed him. Even in tenderness, he felt the matron’s domineering strength. “Come back to me,” she coaxed. “I have better questions to ask.” 

He nodded. Zefymi kept holding. Heat was pouring from her hearth-hot blood, flowing into and warming his own.

“Why?” She asked. “Why come home now, when you prefer hunting bugs out there?