“Amarrah Brewer, was it?”
“Yes. What of it?”
“You said you can make a passable ale, is that right?”
I blink. Of all things, I never imagined that the Beast of Bitterburn might actually be interested in my ability to turn grains into alcohol. Cautiously, I answer, “I can, yes. Mind, it won’t be ready straightaway. It needs time to ferment and for the best results, it could take up to a year. The minimum is—”
“I’ve a surfeit of patience. ‘When’ matters little while you stare into infinity. Take stock of our supplies and see if you can brew some ale. The prospect of sampling it unexpectedly offers some savor.”
I wonder if it’s a good idea to give liquor to somebody who hasn’t had any for a while. It seems odd that there’s no liquor in the keep, but maybe he drank all the ale and lager, leaving only fancy spirits and fine wine? This is all he’s asked of me so far, and it benefits me to appease the beast. I could do worse in terms of a landlord’s demands.
“Right away.” I put my spoon down to check the pantry.
“No hurry,” he cuts in. “Finish your meal, little one. Whatever we have will still be there when you’re done.”
“Thank you.”
At home, nobody thinks twice about sending me on errands and it doesn’t matter what I’m doing. How ironic, I went all the way to the Keep at the End of the World to meet someone other than Owen who cares if I finish my food. Or maybe Njål has been forced to learn patience over these long solitary years, so it’s less about me and more about his state of mind. Either way, I devour my bean and barley soup with great alacrity.
“You’re truly content to work here and bear me company?” he asks at length.
“I wasn’t exaggerating when I said I have nowhere else to go. And winter is coming,” I add.
His tone is somber. “Winter never leaves this place. You’ll find the ice never melts. The snow never goes either.”
“How is that possible?” I breathe. But even before he replies, I feel the answer in the prickle of unease that lingers on my skin.
“You must have sensed the fell magic? This place is cursed, me along with it.”
“That’s what they say in the village,” I whisper. “But it’s hard to know what’s true amid so many old stories.”
“Do they still speak of me? I imagined the world would have long since forgotten.”
“You know they haven’t!” I shouldn’t snap—it’s most unwise—but I can’t staunch the outpouring of angry words. “Our village sends you provisions every winter to entreat your mercy. To keep you from sweeping down on us and—”
A laugh booms out, interrupting whatever else I might have said. “Is that why? Oh, that’s rich.”
“Are you laughing at us? People are starving because of you!”
“Those poor fools. They’re starving because of their own ignorance, aren’t they? I’ve never demanded anything. The truth of the matter is this: I cannot leave this place, so your village was always safe from me. I had no idea why your people were bringing me things, year after year. It’s not as if anyone ever inquired how I felt about it or if I wanted any of this nonsense. I would’ve traded all that grain for a bottle of ale if I’d been asked.”
I could howl with the injustice of it. Fear has left the village of Bitterburn ravaged and for no reason. People have tried to loot the keep, but they never returned. Once every generation, someone decides they’ll creep in and emerge with untold riches, but then they’re just gone forever, and townsfolk worried that we had incurred the beast’s wrath. The Burgher says that’s why we started the tributes. There’s been no communication between village and keep, however, no attempt to leave a note or wait for a response.
I bow my head because I believe him. If he could leave, why hasn’t he? Whoever Njål was before, he’s cursed and powerless beyond these walls. If there had been more food, if Owen had eaten better, maybe he wouldn’t have died of fever. If he’d been stronger.
“If you had left the supplies outside . . .” No, that’s wrong. Once the shipment is dropped off, we don’t return for another year, so we couldn’t have collected them to use. Though if he’d left them, perhaps we would’ve found the rotten remains and stopped sending tribute long ago. “Why do you bring them in, if not to use?”
“It seemed disrespectful not to,” he says.
I swallow my scream, clenching my fists so tight that my ragged nails bite into my palms. I wish I could blame Njål, hate him, but how was he supposed to tell us when he cannot leave and there are no messengers in this desolate place? Leaving a note outside, exposed to the elements, would have ruined paper and ink, long before anyone read it.
Superstition would have killed our town through privation, had I not come, out of abject despair. Those fools indeed.
I let out a breath instead of a cry and quietly clean my dishes. Finally, I can speak. “One day I may ask about the curse, but not today. I’m in no frame of mind to listen with the attention your tale deserves.”
“One day I might answer,” he returns.
He’s gone then.
I still haven’t seen Njål’s face, but it doesn’t matter if I’m working for a mountain troll or a bipedal wolf. As long as he leaves me be, we can scrape along together until I die of old age and go to Owen.
With that admittedly morbid thought, I check the pantry. We have most of what I need for a batch of ale, and I can improvise the rest. The bigger issue is finding the supplies for brewing, as they’re a bit specialized. I suppose I could go back down the mountain to trade, but that would open the door to questions I’m not ready to answer. Just as well that I find odds and ends to turn to my purpose. If I come and go freely, the villagers will decide Njål isn’t as terrible as we’ve always believed, and they might come for him.
In my own way, I’m protecting everyone as best I can.
3.
A person can get used to anything.
The following week proves that. After I assemble the promised batch of ale and leave it to ferment, I spend my days cleaning and trying to restore some semblance of order to the keep, but the task is daunting. As I scrub and straighten, I also explore.
The courtyard has multiple doors, but I enter the keep through the kitchen, which connects to a long corridor dotted with doorways, leading to dim rooms with narrow bunks and wooden partitions; the servants must have been quartered here. Sconces line the walls at regular intervals, but I don’t light them. Wide doors open to the great hall. Here, the floor is tiled in white, black, and red, creating a pattern that disturbs me. I don’t want to step on the red part of the mosaic, so like a child I exaggerate my strides as I cross the floor. It’s probably my imagination. I spend too much time alone, sensing danger when there is none.
I pass through the great hall into the gallery, a vast space full of exquisite paintings in gilt frames. Some are landscapes while others are portraits, elegant people with serious faces dressed in clothing that went out of style hundreds of years ago. Neck ruffs and velvet coats, tight pantaloons and tiny lap dogs. One by one I study their faces, seeking some reflection of Njål, but what do I know of him, really? Mostly the sound of his voice, but I admit my secret interest is gaining traction.