Castle Kingside

A waxing moon hung low in the sky, painting the white-plastered walls of timber-framed buildings teal. The main roads, packed this afternoon, now supported sleepy-eyed laborers, wandering drunks, and Ravenfall’s arcane caretakers.

Accompanied by a guard, a yellow-robed woman held green rocks in one hand and hovered an outstretched palm over a dim streetlight. “Illumina,” she whispered.

The streetlight’s luminescence intensified until its brightness matched the dozen others lining main street. But neither had a candle. Nor oil. Not even a hearth. Instead of crackling flames, a stone orb glowing bright peaked atop every iron rod.

Dimitry watched with wide-open eyes. The robed woman’s chant reminded him of the dark hall. He used a rock just like hers. Was he capable of magic as well?

The thought would have dropped his jaw in awe if the green celestial body overhead hadn’t already. He had watched it rise since the skies began to darken. This moon dwarfed the Earth’s in size and light. While breathtaking and wondrous, it was a constant reminder that he was no longer home.

Nowhere near home.

Once more Dimitry told himself he should focus only on what he could do, and once more his hand pinched his torn white robes to discover that they were finally dry. From midday to evening, he froze in pre-winter gales, the rumbling void in his stomach sharpening every icy chill. But his efforts paid off.

He could interview for a job at last.

Unfortunately, time was limited. Many of the city’s workers packed their tools or marched towards alehouses. Their workplaces would close soon.

If Dimitry didn’t find employment tonight, he would have to sleep in some cold ditch, his clothes dirtying before morning. Every effort would have been for nothing. He rushed to where his chances of being hired were highest—the port. Most laborers dressed almost as poorly as him, their work was unskilled, and with Dimitry’s advanced knowledge, he probably wouldn’t have to drag a single sack across the pier.

His bare feet pounded across a gravel road. The prospect of money invigorated sore muscles. From food to warm clothes, he could buy anything he wanted. Shoe shopping thrilled Dimitry for the first time in his life.

Past an arched bridge and a timber harbor stood a wide building. Plank-reinforced bricks comprised the warehouse walls, and loose tiles formed the roof. Laborers hauled crates and two-wheeled wagons through front gates.

Relief flooded warmth into Dimitry’s numb thighs upon discovering that the business operated into the early evening. Perhaps he would find a job tonight. He combed his hair, straightened his back, and faked a confident gait to give the illusion of health and confidence as he entered.

Leaning against a wall and sat on stacked sacks, a man with fatigued eyes studied Dimitry. His shirtless chest and sweat-drenched, baggy pants hinted he was a laborer. They lacked the authority to hire anyone.

Even so, Dimitry greeted him with a respectful nod. “Good evening. Do you know where I may apply for a job here?”

The laborer’s brows furrowed. He shrugged and pointed to a back room.

Unsure if their blasé response could be trusted, Dimitry afforded another nod. “Thank you.”

He strode past crates, vermin droppings, and workers who roared with laughter while discussing tonight’s plans. Gales squeezed through chinks in the walls to chill Dimitry’s neck until he reached a door leading to a back room. His hand reached to knock.

“What now?” A cloaked figure barked from within. He pushed aside stacked parchment bearing scribbled numbers from past calculations as his face rose to glare through a tiny green glass screen in the door.

Their rudeness didn’t disturb Dimitry—a day’s work made anyone impatient. Instead, he smiled amiably as one did during any job interview. “I’ve come to inquire about employment at this facility.”

“Inquire… facility?”

Realizing he spoke too formally for an entry-level unskilled labor position in a medieval society, Dimitry chose simpler words. “I’m looking for a job.”

With an irritated grunt, the man tumbled towards the door. It creaked open. However, instead of inviting their potential employee into their office, they blocked the entrance with a wide gut. Their tunic’s hood flung back to reveal a bearded frown. “Who the fuck are you? Do I know you?”

“We haven’t met. I’ve arrived in Ravenfall just recently, but I believe I can offer you services no one else in this city can.”

The man’s hand shot forward to grab a fistful of Dimitry’s torn white sleeves. His gaze fell onto an embroidered symbol on the inner cuff resembling a cane. “A pilgrim, huh? Never seen eyes like yours, must have been quite the journey. Celeste guide you.” He backed off to unblock the doorway.

Dimitry followed him inside. He wasn’t sure what being a pilgrim entailed, nor if it was a desirable circumstance, but his choice to avoid over-qualifying his credentials was a good one. A pilgrim seeking employment in ragged robes held more believability than a beggar surgeon ever could. Even in this world.

“I’m James.” The man pointed at a crude oak chair across from his desk. “Want a drink?”

No. Dimitry didn’t. After drinking from wells to quench an insatiable thirst and fill the emptiness in his gut, worsening muscle cramps hinted that his blood salt levels were plummeting from overhydration. He risked developing a deadly electrolyte disorder without money to buy nutritious foods.

“I don’t wish to trouble you more than I already have.”

“Nonsense.” James blew into a cup, from which dust chunks erupted towards a low plank ceiling. He reached for a ceramic jug. “Zera would despise me if I did nothing for a pious kid like you.”

Brushing aside being called a kid, Dimitry waved a hand. “Please. Don’t trouble yourselves with—”

Before he could finish his sentence, a cup slid across the table.

As it approached, Dimitry’s stomach churned.

But James watched unmovingly.

Aiming to appease a potential employer, Dimitry reached for the water despite primal disgust begging him not to. “Thanks.”

As if accomplishing a bothersome yet necessary chore, the man’s shoulders relaxed. He leaned back in his chair. “You said you wanted a job, right?”

“That’s correct.”

Two bloodshot eyes traveled up Dimitry’s scrawny arm. “You saw the kind of work we do out here, din’tchya? You’d be a liability. Last thing we need is someone dying on the job—especially a pilgrim. The Church would never let us hear the end of it.”

Damn. Although Dimitry expected his health to be problematic, he hoped an uncaring employer would allow for oversight until he recovered. Unfortunately, the title of pilgrim conferred unwanted protections.

His gaze shifted to the scattered parchment beneath the man’s elbow, each displaying columns of crossed lines and numbers—unnecessarily laborious and reckless math. While the digits took strange forms, Dimitry deciphered them as easily as he did this world’s alien language. Basic mathematics seemed to operate on the decimal system just as it did on Earth, and the additive nature of the numbers indicated James was handling some sort of ledger.

Dimitry’s skills were relevant.

They were his best chance at securing a job.

“But of course,” he said. “You’re absolutely right. I cannot possibly transport goods as well as your other employees, but that’s not why I came here. I have something far more valuable to offer you. A skill I learned in a distant land.”

“And what skill is that?”

A glance at the nearby quill was all it took to dissuade Dimitry from demonstrating proper long-form algebra. The potential embarrassment of fumbling with a writing implement he lacked experience with would destroy his credibility. Mental calculations were a better option.

After briefly cross-checking the numbers, Dimitry’s eyebrows furrowed. There was a mistake. One so basic that even a middle schooler could see. “Just making sure—you’re keeping track of something with this, right?”

James’ tongue dug between yellow teeth to fish out remnants of today’s dinner. “It’s our raw material inventory.”

Dimitry pointed to a misaligned seventh row. “Would you please double-check this number?”

“Why?”

“Just try it.”

The man groaned before throwing an abacus bearing the scratches of frequent use onto his desk. After a sluggish dance of jotting numbers and the lazy clashing of wooden beads, he jerked up in his chair and hunched closer to the table. He did the calculations once more, except this time, his hands moved feverishly. Mumblings escalated into panicked groans as the abacus’s sliding beads slammed against one another.

Four repetitions and an agape mouth later, James glanced up. “Who are you?”

“Just someone that knows a bit of accounting.”

“Bullshit.” James tossed the loose parchment stack into his desk drawer and slammed it shut. “Do you expect me to believe a roving pilgrim like you just comes out of nowhere dressed like shit but can do something like that? And out of all the places you can go, you come here looking for work?”

The dissonance between Dimitry’s appearance and capabilities—did he oversell himself? “I didn’t mean any disrespect. Can’t you tell I’m just desperate for money?”

Massaging his forehead, the man inhaled a deep breath. Rage gradually left his face. “Look, do you have anyone impressive who can vouch for you? We can’t just trust a random smartass with our finances.”

Dimitry met only two thugs, a homeless woman, and a church priestess. Neither knew him longer than a day. “No, but—”

“How about guild certificates or connections from The Holy Kingdom?”

“Can you explain?”

“Prominent family in Ravenfall?”

“I don’t think I have any here.”

“So how the hell am I supposed to know you’re not a gambling addict or a Tenebrae bum sent here just to fuck us over? Shit, at this point, I don’t even know if you’re a real pilgrim.”

“I just told you,” Dimitry said. “I’m starving. If I don’t clothe and feed myself soon, I’ll die. There’s no reason for me to compromise your business. Give me a chance.”

James stood. “Maybe you are a good kid, but if I fuck up by hiring you, it’ll be my head on the chopping block. Unless you can pull some actual credibility out of your ass, I suggest you get outta here before I really get mad.”

Dimitry lazily traced a moon floating across a pitch-black sky, blinding green light illuminating an alleyway of scattered refuse, soot-coated roof edges, and cracked plaster walls—his home after a long evening of job-searching. He would have continued looking were there a shop or establishment without a locked door, but Ravenfall’s businesses closed early. The only option was to lie on a makeshift mattress of hay and thatch until morning.

But he didn’t sleep.

He couldn’t sleep.

Although Dimitry’s eyes wished to close for a moment’s rest without the constant burning dryness brought on by fatigue and the frigid air’s irritation, skittering vermin and gravel crushed beneath patrolling guards’ iron boots repeatedly shot him into wakefulness.

So he lay in perturbed silence, inflamed toes curled to conserve heat amongst icy blitzes. Dimitry fantasized about scorching showers and warm coffee. Rarely a bacon and egg sandwich on the side. Usually just an espresso. It was often his breakfast after falling out of a toasty bed and driving to the emergency room for a twenty-hour shift comprising a dozen car crash, random trauma, and violent crime victims.

Sometimes Dimitry would complain about sleep deprivation while on-call, but it was always in jest. Even time spent outside the operating room wasn’t a waste. Potentially saved lives outweighed the tedium that came from feverishly reviewing CT scans and X-rays, especially when patients frequently suffered from easily missed injuries. Every effort was worth it.

All of it except paperwork.

However, even hours of filling forms on a touchpad sounded good after tonight’s job interviews: the first at the warehouse, the second in a butcher shop, and finally at a tailor’s. They were suitable places for him to seek employment. Weaving various suture stitches for over a decade familiarized Dimitry with needles, and the occasional amputation gave him proficiency at severing flesh.

But it wasn’t that simple. Despite any skill Dimitry demonstrated, one flaw undermined his every attempt: credibility. No one knew who he was.

The tailor and butcher feared a homeless man would steal from their shops, while the warehouse operator fabricated an entirely new identity for Dimitry. Their paranoia, although angering, made sense.

Even on Earth, electronic security checks fostered little trust for those seeking employment without credentials or connections. Hiring panels cared more for reliability than brief demonstrations of knowledge and skill—more so when the one they interviewed wore nothing but a tattered white robe.

Dimitry sighed and rolled onto his back to avoid the sharp hay digging into his thigh. His gaze focused on the flickering shadows of a flame dancing behind an overhead shuttered window. It must have been warm inside. With the progress his current job hunt was making, it was a comfort he would die before experiencing.

Going about it as he did wasn’t viable. What he needed was for someone to vouch for him. Someone who knew the local businessmen.

He initially considered asking the Church for help, but the thought of indebting himself to them elicited a wince from Dimitry. Their self-portrayal as selfless givers eroded under the weight of patient and believer neglect. Along with being morally reprehensible, their ‘pilgrim’ robes earned little sympathy from employers. Religion offered no advantages in the private sector.

Another idea was asking Samuel and Arnest for references, but the bloodstains on their rags and the elder’s sinister parting words incited concern. Were they murderers? Thieves? They did dig through Dimitry’s clothes while he lay unconscious. Even if associating with two muggers somehow improved his reputation with an employer, they weren’t the type any self-preserving man should work for.

That left Dimitry with only one option—one he preferred not to take. Asking a favor from an ailing woman who struggled even more than he was the ultimate disgrace, yet worsening stomach spasms compelled him to do so anyway.

Or that was what he told himself.

However, simple survival was not the sole yearning within Dimitry. As yet another frigid gale hurled fabric debris through the alleyway and sent shivers down his slender arms, he wanted one thing more than anything.

He wanted to feel like a human again.

Like a healer.

Church bells sang from every direction, filling Ravenfall with Zera’s undying affection. Normally, that was when Milli would have awoken. But not today.

Today she awoke early.

Her head no longer ached and that constant fog clouding her mind… it was gone! For the first time in years, her thoughts were clear. Milli had vitality! Even before the day began, she had already bathed and began sewing.

It was what she used to do before fatigue made her incapable of paying taxes on the shop. How long had passed since then? How often had she prayed to work once more? A problem of the past. Zera had mercifully granted her wish!

Never again would Milli conserve needle and thread for a day she feared would never come. Her fingers, no longer frozen stiff, dipped and swerved to restitch the unfurling hem of her gown. Although some threads came out uneven, at this rate, her skills would soon return to normal.

Milli would practice on her clothes before doing work for others. She would gradually earn enough to purchase a small tailor shop, just like the one she owned in her prime.

Surely such a blessing was brought on by Jarin—her youngest son. Entrusting him to the Church was Milli’s best decision. There was a time selfishness made her hesitate, but her baby must have become a proud Zeran knight by now and slain a truly evil heathen, earning enough forgiveness for even a mother as wicked as Milli!

She inhaled a mouthful of cool, crisp air. What a lovely boy she birthed. Milli would visit him once she saved enough coin to travel to Mettingcrest. Would Jarin recognize her? He was only an infant when they parted.

Only time would tell.

Time that waited for no one.

Sat in an alley, Milli focused on tailoring even as the streets grew lively and colorful with Zera’s children, most of whom had just left their homes for work. Gentle laughter and the occasional prancing horse brought levity. It was a beautiful day, you know?

The hushed sound of softly crunching gravel approached from around the corner.

With newfound agility, Milli’s head darted to the right.

A lanky young man with mysterious golden-brown hair trudged closer. Eyes gentle and pale green like autumn grass, he stepped out from main street and into the alley. It was that kind ‘doctor’ from yesterday except he no longer had a beard, and the torn robe he wore was that of a pilgrim.

A pilgrim’s robe…

A pilgrim’s robe?!

Milli’s mouth opened wide. Could it be? It was strange for Zera to deliver miracles through men, and for seaweed to bring vitality, but for her tiredness to vanish after a pilgrim from The Holy Kingdom visited… it couldn’t have been a coincidence!

She was saved.

The young man limped closer. “Mrs. Milli, is everything alright?”

Noticing the warm tears racing down her cheeks, Milli mopped her face with a half-stitched cuff.

His unique eyes flinching with unearned guilt, the young man froze.

Milli’s hands deftly dug into her crate and quilt bed to unearth a small pouch. She knelt and held it forth on two open palms. “Please, I want you to have it. For food and your journey back home.”

His fearful gaze transformed into a warm smile. He crouched beside her. “I assume you’ve taken my advice?”

She nodded. “I got seaweed from a friend. It tasted bad, but it feels like I can do anything now, you know? I’m full of energy!”

With a brief chuckle, the young man leaned closer. A hand reached forward, but instead of grabbing her pouch, they held up Milli’s fingers. His gaze darted across her cheeks.

“You definitely look more alert. Interesting that the seaweed has taken effect so soon. Your nails are probably going to take longer to heal, and your face will be puffy for a while still. As for the lump in your throat, it’ll get smaller, but there’s a chance it’ll never go away completely. You probably won’t even notice it by then, though. That’s assuming you continue eating seaweed once a day. Not more often than that, and only a handful for now. Eating too much too soon can hurt you more than it helps.”

She could only nod. Although Bishop Marianne said her Mark of Devotion was a gift from Zera, who was Milli to forsake the advice of a cleric sent by her holiness herself? All she felt in her heart was praise.

Pouch still on outstretched hands, she lowered her chin to the alley floor. “Won’t you accept? There may not be enough to repay one of your wisdom, but I would feel better if you took it, you know?”

The young cleric’s expression contorted as if confronting an inner struggle. A long silence passed before a smile returned to his face. “How about this? I’ll happily take your money after you’re healthy enough to earn more. My responsibility entails more than prescribing patients seaweed. I have to discharge them too, you know?”

Although Milli had the feelings, she didn’t have the words to respond to his kindness. She kept it simple. “Thank you.”

“Just glad I could help.” An elongated grunt escaped his mouth as two bony legs struggled to stand. He headed towards the street, gave an unsure glance back, and continued to walk away.

Milli felt guilt. An old woman like her had already fulfilled her duty to the Church by having children, but for her to let a cleric who converted hog feed into miracles to suffer as he did was a crime she would never forgive herself for. Even if Zera did.

“Wait a moment!”

His head shot back. “Is everything okay?”

“That’s what I want to know. Where are you going?”

He licked his cracked lips and pointed at the intersection ahead with a limp finger. “Just getting pottage from the church.”

Milli pressed her hands to her hips as she used to when reprimanding her eldest son. “And then?”

“And then… well, it’s actually one of the reasons I came to see you, to ask if you can help me find somewhere to work.” He gazed at Milli’s cuff, which dangled a needle from a thread. “But I can see you’re busy trying to put your life back together as well.”

Somewhere to work? Why would a talented pilgrim like him have difficulty finding a job?

Milli thought for a moment. Perhaps clerics were much like tailors: both had to establish a base of clientele. Usually, an apprentice inherited their master’s customers, but how could a young man have the same soon after a pilgrimage from The Holy Kingdom? It was a pity. Without money, he would starve, and without him, many would die.

Zera blessed few women and even fewer men. Milli couldn’t let his divine talents go to waste. “There’s a lot of sick people around these parts, you know? I can help you find them.”

“So I’ve seen. Unfortunately, what I did for you was an exception. My skills mostly deal with surgery. Without tools or supplies, I can’t operate. That’s why I wanted to ask about your butcher friend who gives you tallow. Do you think he could give me a job?”

Surgery?

Milli’s head tilted back. “You’re a barber?”

He gave her a familiar look. It was one of those looks that people claiming Milli’s struggles were just in her head had given her before—utter disbelief. “I sometimes shaved people before surgery, but I wouldn’t call myself a barber.”

“That’s exactly what I mean! You’re a barber-surgeon! Why are you throwing away the gifts Zera blessed you with to be a butcher’s errand boy when you can work for someone like a barber?! You should be out there saving lives!”

“Barber-surgeon?” The young man thoughtfully rubbed his chin. “I saw the shops, but I never thought they’d be run by physicians. Is that some sort of subspecialty in this wor—in this city?”

Milli wondered if The Holy Kingdom lacked something as trivial as barber-surgeons, but she didn’t waste precious time explaining trivialities. Every moment they spent here was a life stolen from Zera’s ill and beloved faithful. She thrust her sheathed needles, dyed spools of thread, and a red pouch into her pockets so no one would steal them in her absence. “Come on!”

“To get pottage?” he asked. “If you want, I can prepare it so it’s easier for you to eat, and there’s also a few swallow-strengthening exercises if you think you need—”

“Don’t bother yourself with me.” Sacred duty pushing her forward, Milli rushed past him. “You’ve come to this city for a reason, and I know why.”