Solace Lost

by Michael Sliter

  She approached the inn’s doors cautiously, one hand clutching her knife that was now stained with the blood of a child. Still, no noise. Merigold was almost surprised to notice that she didn’t truly feel fear or sadness. She felt disconnected, empty, acting only for self-preservation. With her free hand, she clasped the door handle and pulled. The door swung open then, and she found the missing corpses.

  Bodies were stacked in the common room, over by the white table near the fireplace. They weren’t stacked haphazardly, either. They were placed purposefully in an organized pattern. Three at the bottom, head to foot to head, the next layer alternating so that the head of one was at the foot of another. None of these bodies had the shredded, bloodied flesh that Meri had seen in Dunmore. No, they were whole, intact. Almost alive.

  Merigold crossed the common room, as she had so many times before, typically while swaying around a milling, carousing mass of customers and friends, balancing trays of food and beer as she danced from end to end. Occasionally touching the people and drawing from them. Just to help her get through the evening.

  Now, crossing the room was easier. Meri righted some upended chairs and stools as she passed, and she pushed aside a broken mug with her foot. Dispassionately, she examined the bodies for some sign of her father or uncle. There must have been thirty corpses, many of whom she recognized. Farmer Tinny, a bent, old man with a liver-spotted, hairless head. Linds Emal, an annoying woman who was always coughing and clearing her throat. Both of the Pinkerton children capped the human tower, too small to otherwise fit the ghoulish latticework of the tower.

  But no Emmet. And no Ragen. She didn’t see his graying hair topping his muscular build. In fact, Merigold, in a detached fashion, noted that none of these corpses were strong and robust folks. There were children, the elderly, and several stringy, thin adults. The strong—like her father and uncle Emmet—seemed to be missing from this grisly display.

  Merigold left the bodies untouched and wandered into the kitchen, looking around mutely at the familiar surroundings. Atop the charred metal stove sat a vat of congealed cinnamon porridge, its surface covered in flies that somewhat scattered as she approached. Nearby, she saw some partially-cut apples, bared white flesh turned brown.

  The sharp cutting knife was missing from the cutting board. Ragen tended to his knives much like he’d tended to Merigold: overprotectively. He sharpened them weekly and generally kept them under lock and key in the big, oaken cupboard on the far end of the kitchen. The cabinet stood open, and she could see a blank spot where the fruit knife should have hung. But, it was gone. Not in the kitchen, not in the cupboard.

  Somehow, the missing knife cut through Meri’s stupor in a way that the stack of bodies in the common room had not. She began to shake, gripping the edge of the smooth countertop in order to remain standing. With several deep breaths, she just managed to will her feelings away again.

  She wandered the length and breadth of the first floor, checking each and every room, including Ragen’s. There was no one around, nothing else out of the ordinary. Most of the rooms were untouched, doors unlocked, as if the patrons had simply all met in the common room to die. Ragen’s room, too, was flawlessly clean. The normality of it all was a striking contrast to how shattered Meri’s world had become.

  Meri returned to the kitchen, the heart of the inn. Almost automatically, she began cleaning up the kitchen, clinging to the familiar motions as if they were a chunk of debris and she were stranded in the ocean. She closed Ragen’s cabinet, locking it with the key he kept secreted under the washing sink. She set the heavy pot of porridge just outdoors and gathered the leftover fruits in a bag to be tossed into the refuse pile. She washed her hands thoroughly to remove any remaining blood and then fixed herself a salad out of the pantry. The kale was still fresh, as were the carrots and radishes. Vegetables. For the first time in forever. She topped the meal with some oil, and went upstairs to her room.

  It was exactly as she’d left it. Her bed was made, an abundance of plush pillows arranged pleasingly, the green-and-gold bedspread untouched. Not a spot of dust on her desk or dresser, and her mirror still stood in the corner. Another gift from Ragen. Once he’d noticed how much she loved the mirror in their village house, he’d had this one imported for her from Hunesa.

  Merigold hesitated for a moment, then stepped toward the mirror, seeing her reflection for the first time since… that night. There was a different woman looking back at her, a tired woman. Her hair, usually a near silvery-blonde that regularly shimmered, was matted in places and seemed dull, dry. It was longer than it had ever been and hung limply down instead of falling in its usual waves. Her blue eyes were gray and haunted, hollow circles in her even paler-than-normal skin, her right socket rimmed by a purplish bruise. Even her lips seemed to be lacking color. Sandra’s dress, which she had thought fit well the night before, practically hung off of her.

  Removing the blood-splattered thing, Merigold continued to examine herself, noticing that each of her ribs stood out like rough bark on a tree, her hipbones protruding sharply below her sunken waist. Her arms and legs were covered in healing bruises, and there was even a fading, brownish-yellow ring around her neck. Her breasts were spotted all over with small round bruises, caused by grasping, prodding fingers…

  This was the body of a victim. And also… This was the body of a killer.

  Salad forgotten, Merigold laid down on the bed, its soft mattress so unfamiliar to her sharp, bruised body. She found herself on her left side, staring at the wall. Not sleeping. Just existing.

  ---

  Several hours later found Merigold in much the same position, with her eyes staring blankly, floating in the in-between of sleeping and waking. She sat up suddenly then, heart fluttering, blinking moisture into her dry eyes. Was that a noise from below? A shattering sound, maybe?

  Meri pushed herself to her feet, feeling lightheaded. Dear Yetra, she’d last eaten, what… two days ago? There was an untouched, soggy salad nearby. Wait, she was in her room at the Duckling? Whatever had startled her from her almost-slumber must have just been Ragen, preparing breakfast. It was already light outside. What a dream! What a terrible…

  She saw herself in the mirror then, still naked, still bruised. Still pale, still sunken, still broken. Still a killer. Yet again, Merigold found herself drawn back to her despairing reality.

  Another sound from below. Somebody was here! Somebody was in the common room. Was it Ragen, returned? Or was it whomever had caused this disaster, some sort of magus, come to wreak more havoc upon any hapless individuals who remained?

  Merigold hurriedly moved to her closet, carefully avoiding a few floorboards that she knew would squeak as she threw on an emerald skirt and white blouse—her most standard garb for serving. She dropped silently to the floor, flailing around in the pockets of Sandra’s bloodied dress until she found her little knife. Scant protection, but at least it had proven to be effective.

  Merigold slowly opened her door and, back pressed against the wall, feet working sideways, went down the stairs, treading as lightly as possible. She entered the kitchen and crouched behind the counter. She wondered if she could safely grab one of Ragen’s sharper knives from the cabinet quietly enough, but she quickly dismissed that idea. Instead, she crept toward the serving window, little nail-knife in hand, her rough, bare feet making slight scraping noises on the well-worn wooden floors.

  Slowly, a fraction of an inch at a time, she raised her head to sneak a glance into the common room. From the window, Merigold could see the common room clearly in the afternoon light that was filling the space. The bodies were no longer visible. They had been covered with burlap tarps, bedding, and towels. Despite the summer heat, a fire had been lit in the fireplace, the familiar sound of crackling, popping wood now bringing some sense of normalcy to the room. Merigold saw something that made her catch her breath then: sitting on chair at the end of the white table was a person, leaning toward the fire, back facing her.

>   From the short, brown hair and build, Merigold thought it was a man. He (if it was a he) was wearing a simple but well-made carmine shirt with short sleeves, and a brown vest covered his back. His boots, worn and dirty, were placed neatly by the fire, likely with the intention of their drying, although Meri was not aware of any rain that had passed recently. Now that she was focusing on the man, she could smell the distinct odor of cooking meat, and was disgusted with herself that it made her mouth water. He must be preparing a meal over the fire.

  Merigold ducked back down behind the window, slumping against the wall while she considered what to do. What was this man doing here? Did he mean harm, or was he waiting for someone? Was it he who had covered the bodies of her neighbors and acquaintances and friends, perhaps in a gesture of respect? Or was he here for more nefarious reasons, to add any travelers to the tower of bodies while stopping for a light meal?

  Her dagger was in her hand. A normal person wouldn’t dine in front of a pile of the dead. He must mean her harm. He must…

  “Merigold Hinter, you are welcome to join me,” called a man’s voice from the common room. She stiffened, debating whether to bolt, or to charge and attack. This man knew her! His voice wasn’t familiar, though, and just why was he here? And how did he know she was here? Meri stayed crouching, uncertain what to do.

  “My dear lady, if I were out to harm you, I certainly would have done so while you napped, above. But, I could sense that you needed the rest. Please, come join me.”

  Merigold’s mouth was dry as she rose. She cautiously entered the common room, her gaze fixed upon the man in front of her as she slowly moved forward. He turned and stood, a smile on his face, slightly revealing the white teeth of a well-to-do man. He was really a typical looking person, someone whom she wouldn’t have given a second glance to on a busy night at the Duckling. Not tall, not handsome, no real defining features. Well, there was a small scar above his left eye, just barely noticeable by the way it indented his eyebrow.

  He gave her a small bow and offered his hand. Merigold eyed it, suspiciously, one hand gripping her dagger behind her back and her other held out in front of her, not reaching out to his. The man gave a brief shrug.

  “Cryden Rensaw, at your service. Would you like to have a seat?” he asked, courteously pulling out a chair.

  “I’ll stand,” she said, briefly.

  “Suit yourself.” A small crack in his knightly manner. “You need not be afraid, Merigold. Like I said, I have no desire to harm you. In fact, I am here to help you.”

  “Convenient.”

  Cryden sighed and resumed his seat near the fire, flipping some meat in the pan. “I understand your suspicion. Look at what happened here,” he said, gesturing toward the bodies. “And I know that something similar happened in the village south of here, though the perpetrators were here first.” There was some question in his voice, as if he was somewhat uncertain and desiring of Merigold to fill in the details. She offered nothing.

  His fixed smile seemed strained. “My dear lady, we are going to be spending some time together in the near future. It would be best if you were to offer a word or two.”

  “I don’t plan on spending any time with you,” Meri said firmly.

  “I’m afraid there is little choice. Events are moving around us and there is obviously nothing left for you here.”

  That was true, painfully true. Merigold decided to try a different approach. This Cryden was right: he could have easily harmed her many times over by now. She went forward and took a seat across from him.

  “What exactly happened here?” she asked, warily. “Where are my father and uncle?”

  Cryden leaned back over the fire and extracted his pan, dumping the meat onto one of the inn’s platters. He brandished a steak knife and began cutting. Meri noticed that the table was already set for two. Again, she salivated. And again, she felt contempt for herself, knowing that the dead were piled up scant feet from her table.

  “Of your father and uncle, I know nothing. I’m sorry, Merigold.” Meri sighed, shoulders slumping, feeling deflated. “As to what happened here… there were powers at work yesterday. Deadly and dangerous powers.”

  “That much I gathered,” she said, acutely aware of the pile of bodies behind her.

  “To those who are unfamiliar,” he glanced up at her sharply while trimming off some fat, though his smile lingered, “it is called magic. Magic, my dear lady, is a tool of great use, but also a catalyst for great destruction.”

  “Again, I gathered that,” said Meri, growing irritated at his condescending tone.

  His smile broke, and Meri felt real apprehension as he stopped cutting and gave her a level glare. It was as if the light had been pulled right out of the room, as if the breath had been pulled from her lungs. The feeling lasted just a moment, but it was enough to fill her with trepidation. She needed to stop baiting this Cryden. It was so unlike her! Although, that girl that she’d used to be was dead. Either lying in a dark cellar or abandoned in the tall grass, just off the Dunmore path.

  “Now, if you would please just listen as I answer your question… The magic used here was of a prohibited nature,” Cryden said.

  “I thought all magic was illegal.”

  “Oh, that? Yes, yes, by the laws of dukes and earls and such, magic is not allowed in Ardia. One will find that those laws are less binding than one would believe, however. No, this is magic that is restricted by the laws of those who actually practice magic. The ruling bodies, so to speak, of the pasnes alna.”

  “Pasnes alna?” Merigold asked.

  “Apologies.” Cryden’s good humor and polite manner, feigned or real, seemed to have regenerated. “Pasnes alna is an ancient term. It roughly means, “those in touch with life,” though an exact translation is beyond our language. It is what magic users call themselves.”

  Cryden dumped some meat onto the plate in front of Merigold and procured a bottle from a pack under the table, next pouring each of them some deep red wine. Merigold was unable to contain herself, and she dug into the food with relish. The man grinned at her eagerness.

  “Now, what was I saying? Oh yes. Prohibited magic. I would imagine you know little of magic, and now is not the time for details. Suffice it to say that, with magic, there is always a cost. Some pasnes alna derive their power from plant life, from the green vitality that surrounds our world. Some people derive it from the earth—the minute, but pulsing life beneath our feet. Others still can pull this power from within themselves, sapping their own energy to impact their environment. A dangerous, but not forbidden, practice. Still others draw power from the life of animals and, sometimes, from humans.”

  Merigold recalled the dead, desiccated rat that she’d avoided while running through Dunmore to Sandra’s house. Strange that the vermin stood out in her memory now.

  “It is disallowed, by the ancient dictates of the pasnes alna, to draw extreme amounts of power from other humans, to utilize the life of others for your own gain. There have been… terrible consequences, in the past, from this. Of course, taking a nip of power, from time to time, might be frowned upon, but is not restricted,” Cryden murmured, giving her a meaningful look. She swallowed.

  “So, someone… stole… the lives of the people here?” Merigold was horrified.

  “That appears to be the case,” said Cryden, between bites of steak. “Not their lives, but their power, their energy, their maenen. The deaths were a side effect.”

  “Everyone I know is dead because someone wanted power?” Her voice was high in pitch, anger evident in her tone.

  “Not everyone. You examined the dead, no?” Cryden wiped his mouth.

  “Yes, and… I…”

  “There were undoubtedly people missing. The young, the healthy, the strong. People who can continue to provide power over time. They were taken, to be used…” Cryden trailed off, his eyes clouded.

  “Wait! So, people might still be alive? My… my father might… might be?” Merigold pu
shed away her plate and stood up, already rushing toward the kitchen.

  “Merigold!” Cryden shouted after her. Meri didn’t heed him. She dashed through the kitchen and up the stairs, and began shoving clothing in a pack. She switched her skirt for durable pants, ones she wore when working in the yard, and pulled on a good pair of walking boots. Her father and uncle might still be alive! Maybe she had not lost everything, not yet. She needed to go after him…

  “Merigold, get ahold of yourself.” Cryden was leaning in her doorway, one leg crossed in front of another, a frown on his face. “You want to go after those who were taken. You want to rescue them. But there is nothing that you can do. These people have powers that you cannot believe. Look at the devastation here! South, in Dunmore! Merigold, you can do nothing!”

  Meri was not about to let this stranger snatch away the first glimpse of hope she had seen since her escape. “You do not know what I can do.”

  “I have some idea.” Cryden’s voice was flat.

  “How do you know anything about me, Cryden Rensaw, if that is your real name? And how did you end up here, right when all of this happened?” These should have been her first questions. Apparently, hope also gave her courage.

  “I suppose I will humor you, my dear lady. Like I said, we will be spending some time together, so we might as well build on a foundation of trust and understanding.” Cryden gave Meri a small smile. She was unmoved, folding her arms.

  “I am a what is called a cautaton. A finder. A recruiter. I have the ability to detect those who use magic. I identify individuals who have powers, and I… investigate. This is a relatively rare ability,” Cryden added, with some pride. “Some individuals have powers that manifest weakly and have little potential. I do not pursue them, though I do mark their locations. Others are of the sort that we would not welcome into my order. We track them, as well. When I find an individual with potential and character, I recruit them.”