Total pages in book: 169
Estimated words: 161535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 808(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 538(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 161535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 808(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 538(@300wpm)
I finger-comb my tangled hair, stifling a yawn. I glance around the room, but there’s no sign of a sulky god. I don’t feel pain, though, so he must be close by. “It was time for me to get up. Where’s Kalos?”
“Out in the goat pen. He’s truly fond of them, you know. It changes everything I’ve heard about the Vulture God. I’m going to make a note of it in my diaries.”
“He does love a goat,” I admit. I wonder what he imagined Kalos to be like. I think of the temple back in Balsingra, the vultures, the warding signs everyone makes whenever he’s mentioned, and it makes me a little sad. He’s despised wherever he goes. He is disease, true, but he’s also got feelings in there. Somewhere. Deep, deep down.
Omos continues to grind herbs. “My lord asked me if I had clothes for you. Better clothes. Yours apparently offend his sensibilities. He said some very colorful things about them.”
Deeeeep, deep down.
I’m determined not to take offense, though. It’s too early in the morning. I get up and make my bed, tucking the blankets under the thin padding atop the cot. “He does enjoy nice clothing.”
“Oh, he didn’t ask for himself.” Omos glances over at me. “I confess I don’t have much more than some blankets and extra robes left behind by my brothers. Oh, and a few odds and ends left by travelers. They’re all in storage. You’re welcome to sew yourself something. Whatever I have is also yours. It is Magra’s way.”
Sewing. Another skill I’m helpless with. Back home, there’s just no need to sew unless you’re a hobbyist of some kind, and I never had the time to learn. Hell, I never had free time. I was too busy picking up extra shifts, enticed by the idea of overtime pay. “I’m pretty useless with a needle and thread.”
He chuckles. “Aren’t we all?”
He’s such a nice man. I want to hug him for how kind and understanding he is. I move toward the table where I’d sat to eat last night—there’s at least four tables scattered about the enormous, book-laden room, and each of them is covered with scrolls, maps, or tomes of some kind. There’s a new tray out this morning, with a new loaf of bread and a few pieces of fruit. I snatch up a small plum before I even think about it and take a bite. It bursts on my tongue, filling my mouth with sweetness.
Decent food, freely given. Omos is a saint among saints.
“You know, there’s a seamstress in Thornhill,” Omos continues. I don’t know if he feels the need to fill silence, or if he simply likes having an audience. “I’d suggest that you visit her if you need clothing but now is not a good time. She’s caught a little something.”
“Oh?”
He nods and finishes his grinding, then taps the contents of the mortar onto a narrow tray that he then uses to pour into a pouch. “Sickness in Thornhill. Not from your lord. Just the usual trials that the gods choose to send our way. I’m heading out to bring them some tea, but I’ll be back this afternoon. Can you watch the farm for me?”
“Of course.”
“Take your fill of whatever food I have and bring your apple cores for the goats.” He chuckles to himself. “They love a little treat.” He pulls on a cloak hanging from a knob near the front door. As I watch, he takes a sprig of a dried plant and stuffs it into something that looks like a leather cone. It isn’t until he raises the cone to his face that I realize what it is—a plague mask. The “face” is that of a bird with a long, long nose.
I’d be willing to bet the bird is a vulture.
My stomach churns a little at the sight. Not Kalos, he said. But maybe one of his aspects has been nearby and just skipped Omos? I’m going to worry every time someone so much as sneezes, thinking that we’re in danger.
Omos turns to look at me, no longer a kindly old monk but a stranger. “If anyone comes to trade crystals, make them sit outside and wait. Don’t tell them Lord Kalos is here.”
I nod. I’m not putting a target on my back.
After he leaves, I eat three apples and all the bread before the bottomless pit of my stomach seems to be sated. After drinking some water from a pitcher, I wash my hands and head outside in search of a cranky god and a goat. It’s a bright, sunny day, with a gentle breeze and puffy clouds in the sky. Kalos is sitting on the railing of the goat pen, watching them eat. He leans on his knees, all slouchy casualness, and the wind ruffles his beautiful silver hair. It’s a quaint picture and brings a smile to my face. “Good morning.”