“By the Divines, is that you, Zeldava?”
It struck me then how fragile he sounded. His voice was stained glass, a window waiting to be shattered by too many dangerous words. And it was the last thing I expected to hear walking up to me in the Ebony Flask. I sighed and turned, my eyes landing on him as I took a deep swig from my mug.
Vanitus looked almost exactly as I expected him to look. His robes were plain and dusty, a far cry from the elegance someone of his rank deserved. His staff lacked the gold inlays and other vanities that so many other Imperial priests of his rank carried. At first glance, he was the same man who’d trained me so many years ago.
But the details were wrong. His shoulders slumped, the bags under his eyes dark like bruises, the mirth that had lit so many rooms in years past dead and gone. Vanitus looked like the one thing I’d never thought I’d see in him: defeated.
“You cut your hair,” he said, eyes glancing to my undercut hair, far shorter than it had been when Stendarr still answered me. His eyes fell to the leather armor that barely covered the upper half of my chest, the spiked metal plates on my greaves and boots, and the variety of swords, daggers, and arrows strapped to my hips and back. Something in them flickered, the same way they’d flickered when I’d failed my first practical test.
“You grew a beard,” I said, leaning one arm on the counter, resting my cheek on my fist. “What brings you to this particular shit hole?”
Vanitus’ face flickered again at my swear. I heard the bartender behind me mutter something about an ungrateful bitch, and I used my middle finger to pointedly slide the tip I’d left for him back into my pocket.
“I travel these days, offering my services to those in need,” Vanitus said. His staff clicked softly on the wood flooring of the tavern as he leaned against it, his thin form threatening to collapse if the staff slipped. “There is a wedding to be held here in Reaper’s March between some old friends of yours.”
“Oh, did Dimerian and Isandra finally stop sleeping around and settle down?” I said, lazily feeling the liberated coin of the bartender’s tip as I stared longingly into the depths of my empty mug. “Or is it one of the other definitely celibate former students of yours?”
I expected Vanitus to frown, maybe get red in the face and slam his staff in disapproval. Its what I remembered him doing back when he was my teacher and I just another of Stendarr’s hopeful pupils.
But what I saw on his face was far worse. I’d seen the look once before, when he’d gotten word that one of his star pupils had been killed in the war effort. Despair. My eyes slipped back to my empty mug and I set it softly on the bar.
“It’s indeed Dimerian and Isandra,” he said, his voice soft again. “Perhaps you could spare a moment for an old fool like me, yeah? Catch up for old time’s sake?”
For a moment, I wondered what that conversation might look like. Then I remembered why I was even in Reaper’s March, and the wolf at the back of my head stirred in anticipation.
“No thanks.” I pushed myself to my feet, the quiet clinking of my various instruments of death against my armor a sound like metal rain. “I’m not inclined to talk to one of the men who signed my arrest warrant.”
The door to the Empty Tankard slammed shut behind me, but didn’t stay that way for long. My boots had just kicked up the dust on the road outside the tavern when the door creaked open again.
“I’m sorry, Zeldava.” His voice was nearly lost in the wind. “I... I hadn’t read your report when the arrest warrant came through. Honestly I... hadn’t let myself believe the things I was hearing about the Legion.” Vanitus’ voice cracked. “If I’d known what they made you do...”
The silence cut between us, a thick blanket that let only Vanitus’ quiet sobbing through. I stared at the sun rising high in the sky, my fingers idly tracing the dagger on my right hip. My teeth hurt from clenching them shut, but the wolf was whispering thoughts of Vanitus’ death and I couldn’t think of any other way to keep her quiet.
Eventually the silence needed to end. “I forgive you, Vanitus.”
“You don’t... blame yourself, do you?” He called after me, his words still stained with tears.
I turned to face him, my hands resting on the saddle of my horse. He looked pathetic, leaning against the tavern railing, eyes red and puffy and leaking. It struck me in that moment that I couldn’t imagine comforting him, helping him feel less distraught. My lips formed into what I imagined a cheery smile might look like. “Of course not, Vanitus. You know me, I never take anything seriously.”
Again, I expected a look of disapproval. I expected the stern words I’d heard so many times before. “You may take Stendarr’s quick response to your prayers for granted, but know that I certainly do not” or some other wise bullshit. But all he gave me was more wet sobbing.
“I’m so sorry, Zeldava,” he sobbed into his robe, “I should have protected you. I knew Darius and his crew were rotten to the core, but it was such a huge promotion for you. I... I thought I was doing the right thing. You have to know it wasn’t your fault.” His words were swallowed by a choked cry, his hand grasping at his eyes as if it might stop the torrent. “None of it was your fault.”
The smile fell from my lips. “Enjoy the wedding, Vanitus.”
