Solace Lost

by Michael Sliter

“One of my student assistants. A young lady volunteered, in fact. You have a way about you, Fen. Even comatose, apparently. Regardless, you will feel very weak for the next few days, so don’t be surprised by that.”

  “I’ll have to thank this young lady myself.”

  “Of course you will.” Martis’ tone was flat as a pond on a windless day. “Also, your head wound was not completely healed.”

  That accounted for those weird dreams, Fenrir thought. By the gods, Wasmer fighting rabid, pale humans, and giant, six-legged beast of burden. But, he might as well ask about something else that had been on his mind.

  “Martis, have you ever heard of… how do I put this… people having out-of-body experiences?” asked Fenrir.

  “Oh, certainly. Those who are briefly on Harmony’s threshold have reported that they can see themselves from a great distance, as if they were hovering outside their own body,” said Martis as he straightened the sheets around Fenrir’s body like a fawning mother.

  “No, not when they are dying. Like, a person floating above their body, watching their body performing actions, but unable to control it.” Fenrir didn’t add that he’d felt this a few times already, and that most often, he was in danger in some way. Yet, danger was not always a trigger—he had been in quite a few fights, taken a literal handful of fingers, without becoming disembodied. Without seeing through the eyes of his phantom.

  “If you experienced this, Fenrir, and if we are not speaking from a theoretical perspective, I would expect that it is a symptom of the concussions and a twisting of your memory.”

  No, it was more than that.

  “Never mind, Martis. It must be the concussions.” Martis glanced up at him, meeting his eyes for a moment. Then, he shook his head and shouldered his satchel.

  “With head injuries, it is important to keep hydrated. One of my attendants will ensure you are drinking plenty of water. And, oh, you appear to have done further damage to your knee.”

  That was a forgone conclusion. The joint felt like it must be the size of a jimpa melon, and even in his current state, he could tell the swelling was cutting off circulation to his lower leg. Thinking back, Fenrir realized that he must have slammed his knee into the ground during his father’s vicious attack. And probably again when he’d fallen senseless at Martis’ door.

  “We will need to get the inflammation down, and I will then determine what can be done. Luckily, I have the perfect thing for such inflammation.” Martis’ eyes glinted in the pale light of the room. “Have you heard of burning ice?”

  Fenrir groaned.

  ---

  Martis encouraged Fenrir to spend his convalescence in his medical ward, unconcerned that Fenrir might draw attention from Tennyson or his father.

  Apparently, the physician had opened a medical school in his own backyard, quite literally, and was bringing in talent from wherever he could find it. In speaking with various students and assistants, Fenrir learned that one was an herbalist’s son from Hunesa. Another was a young wise woman, obviously Sestrian based on her mocha-colored skin. A third had once been a beggar from the very streets of Rostane. The medical school had its own entrance, too, and Fenrir’s bloody journey through the front door of the estate had caused quite a stir.

  Fenrir felt like a dissected animal, what with these assistants inspecting his wounds on a thrice-daily basis. One inserted sea urchin needles into his knee to relieve the pain and help with swelling. Another woman, named Aggy—a corpulent woman with an exaggerated beak of a nose, who’d given her blood for Fenrir’s transfusion—changed his shoulder bandages daily. And she often lingered at his side, tittering a surprisingly contagious laugh.

  Fenrir felt like he was gaining strength rapidly as the days passed. At a week, he was able to bear his full weight on his leg. At three weeks, he was out of his sling and moving his arm in full circles. During this time, he didn’t have any more strange dreams, which was quite a relief. That last dream had been so intense, so real. Especially the last part, where those oddly-dressed warriors with the eagle, goat, and cat staves had wrenched away his life. Fenrir had been convinced he was dying, and it had been no pleasant way to go. It had felt as if his blood was trying to tear through his skin, to evacuate his veins and arteries, but had no path to exit. The feeling of pure pressure had been immense. Fenrir felt agony far past the point at which he should have died. And then, suddenly, he’d been waking in a hospital bed, surrounded by medical students and Martis.

  Luckily, the dreams really must have been a remnant of his head injury, and those symptoms were gone. Now, he was focused on regaining his strength and then getting out of Rostane, finding a new life as Fenrir Coldbreaker. Maybe he could find some place far enough away where he could join the military, finally taking on a small command. It was true he’d never wanted to move through the ranks at the Plateau. Partly because he was satisfied—good pay, little responsibility, and easy access to serving women—and partly because his father had wanted him to be promoted. But, somewhere far away from Rostane, he could see himself being the one giving orders for a change, and doing a better job than Sergeant Alus or Captain de Hosta. Maybe even becoming a Captain of the Guard himself.

  That would be an interesting experience, he thought, and Fenrir may very well have been good at the job, but, on the thirty-ninth evening of his recuperation, he found a visitor waiting in his room. A visitor who ruined any ambitions that Fenrir might have had regarding a new life in a different country.

  “You are a hard man to find.” A surprisingly high-pitched voice filled the room like a knife scraping a plate.

  Fenrir, having just walked into his room, whipped around and fell into a fighting stance, balanced on the balls of his feet, his hands positioned in front of him and ready to strike. Left arm in front to protect his injured shoulder. Tennyson stood behind the door, arms folded over his deep gray robe. Silver Ultner mask reflecting the soft candlelight illuminating the room. The demon-figure seemed to grin, as always.

  “Fenrir, why so jumpy? We are friends, aren’t we?”

  Fenrir didn’t relax his guard. “What do you want?”

  “I’m certainly not here to hurt you. If I wanted you hurt, you’d be four-fingered. If I wanted you dead, well… draw your own conclusions.” Fenrir could hear a hint of mockery in Tennyson’s voice.

  “Well, someone tried to kill me,” said Fenrir, not quite ready to leave himself open for attack. Although, if Tennyson had a weapon, his fists would avail him little.

  “I don’t like having to repeat myself. I told you that The House wasn’t done with you, despite how poorly you performed in Umberton. But that’s ancient history, at this point. The nobles settled down, as they always do. A bribe here, a threat there. Balance has been achieved.”

  Fenrir sat down on the edge of his bed, still a bit uneasy, and gestured toward the bench on the other side of the room. Unexpectedly, Tennyson actually complied, sitting and crossing one leg over his other, leaning toward Fenrir. Very out of character of him.

  “Big things are afoot in this city, in this country. Beyond, even. The House may be in balance with those that govern our fine city, but there are more scales to equalize. For instance, another power, attempting to rival our own organization, has arisen in Rostane. They are calling themselves Recherche Oletta. The Seekers of Oletta,” Tennyson said expectantly, a freakish school teacher awaiting an answer. Like a good boy, Fenrir complied.

  “Oh, um. Oletta. Isn’t that one of the old gods? Maybe of life and nature? Mountains?” Fenrir was trying to think back to his post at the Enlightenment. He’d heard enough lectures about the old gods, rites, and rituals. “I believe that the Wasmer used to worship her, and she had some popularity among peasants, as well. Thousands of years ago?”

  “Impressive memory for a dog.” Fenrir felt the urge to growl at the man, but the irony wasn’t lost on him. “Oletta, Goddess of Stone and Wisdom. Her name means wisdom, in fact, in old Auqinen. Your encounter in Vagabond Stretch was co
nsistent with their activities—charging tolls, attempting to undermine The House wherever possible. That man, that girl. Do you recall whether they were adorned with a shiny black stone hanging around each of their necks?” Tennyson leaned forward.

  Fenrir shook his head. “I don’t believe that I saw anything like that, but the whole situation was quite hectic.”

  “It is no matter. Recherche Oletta is my concern at the moment. You will be involved in another balancing act. There are certain personages in the upper echelons in Ardia who are attempting to covertly consolidate power. If these personages were to achieve power, it would be at odds with our own interests.”

  “I thought we remained neutral in such political maneuverings, and our services went to the highest bidders,” remarked Fenrir.

  “How idealistic!” Tennyson barked a discordant laugh. “No, this would represent a drastic shift in Rostane. In all of Ardia, in fact. So, in this situation, we are not neutral.”

  Fenrir wasn’t sure, but he could almost hear a tension in Tennyson’s voice. “I am here to serve. I would like an opportunity to make up for my failures.” Fenrir earnestly meant this, too. Whether or not The House had actually tried to off him or not, he would rather stay on the good side of such a dangerous organization.

  “Good. You are on a protection detail of the highest importance. A certain person of power is in a position where she needs to be smuggled out of the Plateau. You are to facilitate this, and bring her to her estate. You are to act as her protector in all things and are not to act in any way counter to her wishes, except as necessary to preserve her life. Upon safe arrival, you will continue your post until contacted by one of my agents.”

  “I appreciate your trust in me, Tennyson. But, the details are a bit vague.”

  “In good time. I must go, for now, but you will be given instructions in the usual way.” Meaning that someone would find him, no matter where he went. “I can’t stress how important your task is to the survival of The House and the preservation of your own life. Again, I would not put you in this position unless forced. We are spread thin as a malnourished whore.”

  “Thanks again for your confidence,” said Fenrir, his voice flat.

  “Ah, Fenrir, don’t be petulant. This type of work is more within your skill set. Although, I might suggest you brush up on your swordsmanship.” Tennyson twisted to his feet and turned to leave. Fenrir blew out, the stress of every meeting with this man a palpable force in his body, almost distracting him from the ache in his shoulder. He touched at the healing wound, clenching his teeth at the memory.

  “Tennyson,” hazarded Fenrir.

  “Yes?”

  “I would beg a favor of The House.”

  A pause. A long pause. “I’m listening.”

  “Darian de Trenton. I’d like him to be taught a lesson.”

  Another pause. And then the sound of laughter flattened against the silver of his mask. Fenrir thought he heard real mirth. Tennyson turned back around, the fading chuckle emitting from Ultner’s face. Truly disturbing.

  “You can’t have thought I would agree to that,” Tennyson said through his laughter. “Alienating probably the most powerful merchant in Rostane—maybe Ardia. Your father. Because, what? You had a little fight with him? After I just told you how much is in the balance? I’ve overestimated your intelligence.”

  “Fine, then. Sigmund Fitra.”

  Tennyson seemed to consider Fenrir then, tilting his head slightly, the horns of his mask glinting in the candlelight. Fenrir felt anxious as Ultner’s visage studied him, and he felt an urge to say something. But he held his tongue and simply stared back.

  “Hmmm,” Tennyson finally said. He regarded Fenrir for another moment and then, without another word, he flowed from the room like a shadow at twilight.

  Chapter 9

  The dripping sound was back. First, there was the pook, the sound of the molecules of liquid disengaging from the ceiling. Then, there was the higher pitched kee, as the liquid impacted with the existing puddle. The sound changed, over the hours, as that puddle grew wider, deeper. It was the one thing that could cut through Merigold’s torpor. And she couldn’t take it anymore.

  Most of the time, it was so dark that Meri couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. She occasionally lit her lantern to experience the sensation of sight, to remind herself that she still existed, that she was still alive. That her life wasn’t the nightmare that it seemed to have become. But, she needed to conserve her fuel, never knowing when her captor might return to restock her supply. So Meri sat in darkness, occasionally standing and feeling her way around her prison. The walls consisted primarily of tightly-packed dirt, this periodically broken up by vertical wooden supports and horizontal planks designed to buttress the soil and clay. The ground itself was uneven, with water pooling in the minute valleys throughout the room, and particularly around the perimeter. When it rained—at least, Meri assumed the sound above her was rain—these pools would grow larger. When her skin of water ran out, these little pools formed the bulk of her hydration.

  Food, on the other hand, was plentiful. Bags of dried, salted beef strips. Thin, gamey bits of meat that increased her thirst tenfold, with a taste that turned her stomach. Not to mention the effect the meat had on her bowels. Her chamber pot—a large, wooden bucket—was overflowing in one corner, but Meri’s nose had become desensitized to the scent.

  The first time Saren had come back, he’d been cautious, penitent. He’d said that he had drunk too much that night, that he’d lost control. He’d said he didn’t know what to do, that he would be a dead man if Ragen, or anyone in Dunmore, found out about what he’d done. Saren had said that Meri needed to stay here, in the cellar under the cabin, for just a couple of days while he sorted it all out.

  He’d sounded so much like the old Saren, the boy she’d thought she loved. Sensitive, quiet, uncertain. And Meri had hit him in the head with a rock.

  He’d beaten her mercilessly then, hitting her in the stomach, the breasts, the legs. He’d only left her face alone, as if beating her through her torn, dirty blue dress was somehow easier for him to bear. When she’d been lying on the hard, uneven cellar ground, unable to move, unable to resist, Saren had dragged her back up the ladder, into the cabin proper, and had his way with her once more. Meri had felt him penetrate her again, heralding tears that she’d thought had already been exhausted from the beating.

  Afterward, Saren had dragged Meri back into the cellar. He’d cleaned the room of rocks and rubble, bits of wood, anything that could be used as a weapon. Leaving Meri lying in a small puddle of water, he had absconded the cellar and tossed down a water skin, several bags of dried meat, and a large bucket. Minutes later, he had climbed back down the ladder and laid the white and green blanket from the cabin bed over Meri’s shivering, aching body, almost gently. He had left his lantern burning near Meri when he again left the cellar, taking the ladder with him.

  As soon as she’d felt like she could stand after the assault, Meri had desperately searched her surroundings, trying to find a way out. She had checked all of the corners to see if Saren had missed anything that could be used for a weapon. She had tried scaling the walls to get to the cellar door. She couldn’t get any traction, though, and, even if she could, Meri was almost certain that she had heard a key scraping on a metal lock, making her efforts meaningless. She had even tried to tunnel her way through the hard-packed dirt comprising the walls of her prison. After hours of trying, her fingers had been blistered, bleeding. Nails broken. And she’d only had a couple of inches to show for it before reaching a very hard clay.

  Initially, Meri had prayed to Yetra, beseeching her goddess for strength. For salvation. For hope. But, the goddess had never answered, and soon Meri had stopped asking. After years of attending services, trying to emulate the values described in the scriptures of The Book of Amorum, she felt betrayed. Her faith was a big part of who she was, of who she wanted to be. But, if her goddess had abandoned he
r, who was she, really? What was left?

  Yetra shall watch over all of those who live in Harmony, providing protection and guidance. Deontis. Deontis was a liar.

  Now, days had passed. Weeks, even. Maybe months? Meri couldn’t know for sure; time was only measured by how often Saren visited her. His visits were a sick, twisted charade that played out in the same predictable pattern of perversion each time. First, he would lower a rope that she would tie to the handle of her chamber pot. He would draw out the bucket, her mess sloshing over the edges. He would then come for her. He would take her upstairs and would speak to her like a friend, almost as he had when they’d been younger. But then, without warning, his eyes would grow hard, his face pinched with fury, his voice dripping disdain, and he’d drag her to the bed and rape her again. Meri learned quickly not to struggle, as it would only spark Saren’s increasingly violent temper. Afterwards, he would act contrite and penitent, sometimes even apologizing. He would then direct her back to the cellar, refill her water jug, toss her a bag of food, and leave. Saren might have visited either thirteen or fourteen times in this way. Meri had lost count.

  She had tried drawing power from Saren again when he came for her. But, as before, she couldn’t feel anything within him—no vessel, no power. And she could not feel it within herself, either. Merigold felt empty, hollow, broken.

  Hopeless.

  ---

  She was sluggishly pacing around the cellar, fingers running over the walls. Her fingertips were calloused and insensitive to the rough surface by now. She took a wide path around the chamber bucket and resumed her walk of the perimeter, her fingers barely perceiving the coarse dirt, the splintery wood. She moved automatically, taking small steps to increase the time it took to circle the space. The hand not touching the wall fumbled with her sapphire studs, still intact on her ears. They did little to complement her new outfit; Sandra’s beautiful blue dress had been abandoned, shredded and covered in filth. Saren had brought her some of his own clothes; they were far too large, all the more so as Meri continued to lose the little bit of fat that had occupied her body.