Saturday's Storyteller: "She thought it was over. She was sure that there was no way it could happen again."

by Belinda Roddie

She thought it was over. She was sure that there was no way it could happen again. It did. It came back, and it was crueler and more painful than ever. She was left contorted against her cot at nights, one hand clutching her head while the other gripped the ivory frame so tightly that all of the color dripped away from her fingers. More than once, she would faint from the agony, and she would wake up with blood still pooling from her flared nostrils.

The first two times it happened, she went to the innkeeper for more pillows. When he began to grow frustrated with seeing the smears of red on his sheets, she would flip over the cushions a few times so that the blood could dry, and she could finally attempt to sleep. The migraines she suffered through were nothing new to her, though the reprieve had lasted a good twenty years at this point. It was a minor fraction of the number of years she had actually lived - or endured, perhaps, was a more accurate word - but it had been worth something. She had felt happier and more lucid than any other time since the curse had first been placed on her.

This was the life of Devon Brendil Garragos. And it had been such for over two centuries.

One morning, after a particular bad episode that had left her sore and stiff and almost unable to walk, Devon dressed slowly, wincing as the collar of her tunic brushed against her jaw as she pulled it over her head. Everything stung. Even the black runes on her skin stung. The woman had been permanently branded by the sorceress's incantation. Anyone who remembered the language of the Wizard Triad could interpret what the tattoos that danced up and down the sides of Devon's face: Until I return from this paralysis, so you, too, shall be paralyzed. It was more complicated than that, of course: some people would find immortality such as this a blessing. Eternal youth. No sickness could touch them. No blade or bullet could end them. Not even hunger plagued Devon, and she ate only when she felt the desire to, though she certainly found a penchant for drinking.

She had tried desperately to use her situation to her advantage. Under various pseudonyms, she had traveled the continent of Dyravia countlessly, interviewing individuals and recording the stories of those she found worthwhile. With her, she carried sheet upon sheet of her records, until not even two briefcases could hold them, and she resorted to her crystal clear memory to retain even more information. She was the one who asked questions; no one else did the same to her.

She knew a lot more than she wanted to as well.

In her mind, the deep closed cavern of Huss's Maw remained vivid and daunting. There, she knew that the sorceress Glendora remained imprisoned by her brother's magic. Devon understood all too well why she was still here, and succumbing to such incredible physical and emotional pain each night, or when she was overly excited or active. Glendora wanted her to surrender to her curse, and return to the Maw to set her free. How she could set her free, of course, was anyone's guess. She would need a descendant of Llandorr, the brother of Glendora, to reverse the spell that held his sister hostage in that cave. As far as she was concerned, no such descendant existed. It was a futile game that they both were playing, and neither of them stood to win.

***

Devon took her time descending the steps to the kitchen, where the gaggle of guests hovered over small tables, scooping lumpy stew and soggy potatoes into her mouths. Chalsey, the cook, was not at all untalented. The food was decent, and the ale, which she brewed herself, was superb. Devon slowly trudged to the bar and sat on one of the stools, where Chalsey, her red curls struggling to escape from her flat black cap, was scrubbing a particularly stubborn smudge on a white dish.

"You look like Death Herself," the cook said, instinctively putting down the bowl and reaching for the steel pitcher of ale.

Devon exhaled. She ran a callused hand across her short, black hair. Her matching tattoos felt particularly raised against her jaw, curling beside her ears and nearly touching her scalp.

"Tell me again why Death is a she," she murmured to Chalsey, graciously accepting a heavy mug of beer. It smelled like licorice and cinnamon, but it tasted like a well-deserved remedy. This was medicine she could always dose on.

Chalsey wiped her hands on her red apron before placing them against the grooves of her impressive hips. Her large lips were pursed, as if she were ready to kiss an invisible god. "Death is a she," she announced, "because no man would ever have the audacity to take what no longer belongs to the living."

"And why is that?"

"Because a woman knows when things must end," replied the cook, "while a man clings desperately to a legacy that will only exist once he had returned to dust."

"Very poetic."

She beamed. "My father came up with it. You remember him. Always a poet."

Devon did remember him. They had had a history, in fact - she still had an image of his rosy, cherub face while he was still only five years old. It was a strange picture compared to the way his jowl drooped and his eyes blazed beneath white eyebrows just months before his death.

"My father loved you dearly, you know."

Devon remembered that, too. She knew because he had kept her secret safe. Chalsey had only met her three years ago and had been none the wiser.

She swallowed a sizable quantity of beer and set her gaze out on the window, where frost had only just begun to melt from the panes. This inn, just outside the border of Dolfhagen, was her favorite by far of all the lodges she stayed at, though she had to be careful. She tended to wait a good ten to twenty years in between each visit, in order to be seen as someone different. Her pseudonym this time was Jethro. It was the name her father would have given her if she had been a boy.

The door popped open, rather than swung or creaked, as two men in long, black coats stepped in. They removed round hats from their balding heads and made themselves comfortable at a vacant table, where originally a fat man with a red nose had been hiccuping over a plate of radishes. Devon wrinkled her nose. She was still unaccustomed to the change of wardrobe throughout the years. She herself had purchased a coat similar to the men's as a result of it, and she wore it quite often, as the climate all year round was typically chilly. She was not familiar with the bowlers, though. Two hundred years ago, it had been feathered caps and capes. How quickly things changed.

Fearing that another attack would come on if she wasn't careful, Devon drank her beer more slowly, savoring its rich flavor. The two men had begun to converse loudly, and it was only halfway through their conversation that she suddenly became interested. Taking her half-finished drink with her, Devon left Chalsey staring as she walked toward the visitors' table, looking starkly out of place despite her best attempts to fit in.

"Begging your pardon, gentlemen," she said, a bit too formally, though it did earn their attention. "You said you were looking for a seasoned historian?"

They both looked up simultaneously at the sound of her voice. Devon could not have appeared more unorthodox, but they weren't dismissive. One of the men, mustached, cleared his throat and seemed embarrassed that he had been speaking loud enough to be overheard from the bar.

"Er, yes, ma'am. May I inquire as to which historian you know?"

"You're looking at her," Devon replied. "Runs in my family. I have years upon years of documentation."

Now their intrigue was showing. The second gentlemen, not mustached, pulled an extra chair away from a table so Devon could sit down. Chalsey came by with stemmed glasses of mead for the men, hurrying back to the kitchen for a refill for Devon.

"We come from the Dolfhagen Estate," the first gentleman explained. "I'm sure you're familiar with him. The Dolfhagens..."

"I know their history."

"Master Dolfhagen has expressed an interest in hiring a historian or two to stay at his estate. He has an utter fascination with archiving," added the second gentleman. "You said years of documentation?"

"Two hundred years, specifically."

"It must be copious."

"Heavily detailed," Devon remarked with a forced smile. "I have a good memory, too. And lots of time on my hands."

The gentlemen each lifted up their glass in a synchronicity that almost perturbed Devon, but she did not let it show. After sips of mead and more guttural growling, the second gentlemen stroked his chin with a gloved hand.

"Perhaps, if you are able, you can come with us to see Master Dolfhagen himself," he said. "We have a carriage that leaves this evening. Would you be inclined to - "

"I'd be honored."

They seemed to be satisfied with this, as well as by Devon's given name of Jethro Vinteri. Devon looked down at her refilled mug and caught her odd reflection in the amber. She wondered how similar the estate looked compared to the glorious palace that had once represented the great kingdom of Dolfhagen. And she also contemplated how similar this "Master Dolfhagen" looked to his ancestor, the very king who had stood beside Devon and her father as Llandorr had saved Dyravia from annihilation by his brother and sister.

This week's prompt was provided by Christopher Morton.