“Kidnap, it sounds like.” Merigold had no intention of going with this man. Her father needed her help. She didn’t know how to find him or how she could help him, but she needed to do something.
“Merigold, yours is a unique case. I’ve been here before, several times, and noted your talent. However, you had already been… marked.”
“Marked?”
“I cannot explain this right now, but there are different orders of the pasnes alna. At times, in specific circumstances, an order can lay claim to an individual. This is something that is respected across the orders, though we might disagree on many fundamental issues.”
“No one can lay claim to me!” Merigold stepped forward. “Not ever again.”
“Apologies, Merigold. I had nothing to do with how you were marked,” Cryden said, his hands raised. “I felt the power used here from Rostane. Far outside of my usual range, meaning the power unleashed was expansive. I came here, and found… all this. I could sense you resting in your room, and I decided to wait. An event like this… long-standing treaties have been broken. The rules no longer apply. You have a talent, Merigold, and there is nothing for you, here. Come with me and learn how to control your powers.”
“I have no powers,” she said, averting her eyes.
“I am certain that you do. I am never wrong.” A bit of conceit, there, she thought. “I’ve seen you, weaving in and out of the crowd. A touch here, a brush there. Very subtle. Commendable.”
“That was then. I no longer have any powers.”
“My dear lady, being able to utilize magic, having a talent, isn’t something that goes away simply because it you will it to be so. It is innate. I can sense it within you, right now, swirling about, quite brightly,” Cryden said, bright eyes fixed on Meri as if he truly did see some power within her.
“You are wrong. I… used to be able to… borrow energy from others, just a tad, to keep me on my feet during busy days. I used to be able to sense energy within others, even within myself. But now… Now, I cannot see anything. I cannot feel anything.” Meri licked her dry lips. She’d never admitted to having this ability before. Giving voice to it seemed wrong, but this Cryden obviously knew the truth of it. And, what was the point of hiding it, now?
“Hmmmmm…” Cryden rubbed his smooth jaw. “You can no longer sense maenen. This is unusual, but not unheard of. Tell me, my dear lady,” he added more delicately, softly, “have you, perhaps, experienced a recent trauma?” He seemed to look at her, Merigold, for the first time, eyes flickering to the bruises that riddled her arms and legs.
Merigold hurriedly averted her eyes. She wondered if Cryden could sense her blood-covered clothes, bunched up in the closet. Or the brown and crimson-dyed dagger, its metal surprisingly warm in her pocket. Or even Saren, miles away, injured and frightened, trapped beneath the floorboards of an unassuming, nearly hidden, cabin.
“Perhaps…” Still, she was not meeting his eye.
“Like I said, not unheard of. I am certainly no expert on this topic, but at times of great trauma, the maenen can become obscured, particularly to the untrained. It is not insurmountable, however. Once we reach Rafón, I’m certain that we will find you help.”
“What makes you think I want help?” Maybe she was better off being unable to access this destructive power. Merigold was very acutely aware of the shells of humanity stacked like so much wood in the inn, lives stripped away with the use of magic or maenen or whatever this Cryden called it.
“Because you have no way to find those who are lost. Because if you don’t learn to control your power, you might do the same, one day, by accident,” Cryden said, gesturing in the direction of the dead. “Because there is war in the air and you cannot protect yourself as you are. Because maybe, just maybe, you will have a chance one day… for vengeance.”
Vengeance. To do unto others as they had done to her family and friends. To make them suffer, to make them pay. Certainly, the Yetranians would preach against such a practice, but given that Yetra had protected neither her nor the people of Dunmore, not her father or uncle, she gave such teachings very little credence at this point. Perhaps one could not wait for divine intervention to balance the scales. Indeed, lightning rarely seemed to strike at evil. Rather, the people needed to be the instruments to help the world find Harmony.
Merigold could not wait for balance to be returned to her own life. She was too far gone, everything she knew lost or taken. But, she had brought justice to Saren. And Chad… Amidst her swirling emotions, a plan began to form in her mind. A desperate plan, but at least it was some direction in her life.
“You are right, Cryden. There is nothing for me here. Nothing. I will come with you, but I make no guarantees that I will stay at this… where exactly do you intend to lead me?”
“We can call it a school, though it is much more than that. Where you will learn to again feel your maenen, to control it. We will travel to Rafón by a ship out of Enowl, and then over land to the Agricorinor, the seat of my order.”
“Agricorinor… I will come with you, at least as far as Enowl. I expect to learn more of this school by then,” said Merigold firmly, having no real intention of boarding a ship. “Now that we are agreed, though, will you please let me pack in peace?”
“Of course, my dear lady. Pack practically. We have many hundreds of miles by land and sea.” With a bow, he left the room.
Merigold stuffed some more clothing in her bag, as well as an additional pair of sturdy boots. Travelers coming through the inn always talked about the importance of good footwear. She left her room, glancing back to make sure that Cryden was not watching, and she strode quickly to the smaller linen closet. As quickly as she could, she pulled out her knife and pried up a loose floorboard there, extracting an iron box. Inside the box, stacked in neat piles, were a wealth of yets. Ragen’s fortune. Enough coin to buy another, much larger, inn, and with plenty to spare. Enough money to buy a small castle, if one were so inclined.
The path to Enowl would take them through Hunesa. It should be an easy thing, then, to slip away from Cryden and use this coin to hire a group of mercenaries and trackers. With some help, Merigold could pursue the people who took her father and her uncle, magic or no. And then she would have her revenge. No need to wait until she learned to control her power.
---
“My dear lady, you certainly took your time,” said Cryden, standing outside of the inn and saddling his horse.
“You know how women are,” Merigold replied dryly. “Where’s my horse?”
“Given that I did not know I would be sharing your so-far sterling company when I left, I only thought to bring the one. Silly me,” Crydon said, sardonically. “We will have to ride double to Enowl, and plan on doing a good deal of walking. Sargon will need a break. You first.”
Merigold tied her pack to the saddle and pulled herself onto the beast, feeling uncomfortable. She had only ridden a horse a handful of times, and they always made her feel uneasy. They had those sad eyes that seemed to say, “Don’t sit on my back.” And they had those teeth that seemed to say, “If you ride on my back, you will lose a finger.”
“Just a moment, my dear lady. I seem to have forgotten something.” Cryden walked back into the Duckling and was gone for a long moment. Meri smelled something odd during this time. Was it… liquor? Had Cryden stopped in for one last shot of distilled rum, and instead spilled the bottle? The odor was so strong…
Cryden emerged minutes later, a pipe to his mouth, hands cupped around the instrument while he attempted to light it in the increasingly windy afternoon. He shook the match out and took a couple of puffs at the pipe then, closing his eyes and leaning against the building. The smell of kerena wafted over to Meri, stinging her nose. She had already begun to become impatient when Cryden tossed his lit pipe into the Duckling.
There was a near instant inferno as the spilled casks of rum ignited, flames engulfing the floors in the common room and the kitchen. Merigold dismounted in
a single move, running toward the Duckling and The Boat as Cryden strode toward her.
“What did you do? What is wrong with you? This is my home!” she shouted at Cryden as she tried to run past, heading toward the well. He intercepted her.
“Don’t touch me! Don’t ever touch me!” she shouted, swinging hard at his face. With relative ease, he knocked her fist aside and grabbed her shoulders with much more strength than she would have expected from his frame, dragging her away from the burning building.
“Listen to me! Do you want these bodies, the people you care about, to be defiled by animals? Do you want your home to be claimed by squatters, assuming that it isn’t claimed by the duchy? No, this is the only way. Let this pyre give some dignity to the deaths of these simple people, to the death of your home.”
Merigold pulled away from Cryden angrily, straightening her blouse. She watched the fire rage throughout the Duckling for several minutes, the flames reflecting in her damp eyes. She could feel the heat on her face, especially as the fire took hold on the second floor, roaring yellow and orange with the glow visible in each window, black-as-night smoke billowing thickly from the roof.
When she could stand it no more, Merigold turned her back on the Duckling and again mounted the horse, waiting to leave her home and life behind.
Chapter 20
If she opened her mouth one more time, Fenrir would toss her from the wagon, to land in front of the horses. Or beat her over the head with a stick. Or do anything that would shut her up. That godsdamned Emma was insufferable. Perhaps she did deserve her claw of a hand!
Ever since they’d left those forsaken ruins and met up with Lady Escamilla’s men, Emma had been taunting and baiting and generally insulting him. Comments about his beard and his bald head, he would have expected. He didn’t much care for his altered appearance (which he did not even need; he’d seen not a single guardsman he recognized at the Plateau, and no one had yet given him a second glance), but the constant remarks about his intelligence and the not-so-subtle jabs about the size of his manhood had really started to grate at his nerves over the last few days. He was confident that neither were undersized, but still…
By Yetra’s sagging tits, he was spiraling from one literally painful mistake to the next. First, the blunder with Frommis in Umberton and his subsequent beating by that innkeeper. Then the stabbing, then the follow-up stabbing by the boney, powerful fingers of no-longer-his-father. And that had been nothing compared to the mess at the Plateau. Emma trying to crack him with a vase. That little chit, Morgyn, clonking him in the head and alerting the guards. Their escape through the ruins and the fucking insane fight at the end.
That was another place where he and Emma disagreed. He remembered the conversation they’d had that night on the boat leaving Rostane.
Tilner Pick, Escamilla’s man, had been changing the bandage on Escamilla’s arm. The bite wound. He had rubbed some herb on it as she winced.
“What exactly happened, my lady?” he had asked, concern evident in his voice.
“Our escape did not go as planned,” responded Escamilla, fatigue showing despite her efforts to maintain her regal calm.
“That’s an understatement,” grunted Fenrir, sprawling exhausted against a crate. Every muscle ached. He had never fought like that before. Sure, there’d been plenty of sparring back when he’d trained, and annual tournament matches with blunted swords. But he had never had to fight such freakish foes, and certainly not with the intention to kill.
It was the first time he had ever killed in combat, too, and he would have expected to feel intense guilt or regret. Maybe both. He had heard from veterans, like Silas, that it was not all glory and slaps on the back, as stories and songs would lead one to believe. No, battle was a chaotic press, men desperately hacking at one another, doing whatever was necessary to stay alive. Silas, at least, had fought against Wasmer, and could tell himself that they were different, wrong, somehow alien. Fenrir wanted to believe that he had also fought against outlandish monsters. But he knew they’d been human, just like him.
A bit more insane, maybe.
The first one, who’d rushed at him out of the blackness, howling as it impaled himself on his sword… it had continued fighting with him, despite two feet of steel protruding from its back. Fenrir had held its thrashing face away from his with a gloved hand, watching the life leave its wild but still all too human eyes. Every feature of the thing had been human. In the light of the lantern, the thing had seemed unusually pale and very unkempt, but that had been the only distinctly odd thing about the man who’d attacked him.
Fenrir estimated that he had killed half a dozen of the things and maybe injured three or four more. But despite the realization that these creatures had, in fact, been human, he felt no guilt. No, he instead felt a rush, knowing that it had been his life or their lives. The blood spilling from their wounds, the knowledge that his strength and agility had been greater, actually gave Fenrir a touch of pride. After years and years of carrying a sword and never using it, he had proven that he knew how to wield his weapon, and it was gratifying. Anyhow, even if his inclination was correct, that they’d been human, they’d been so far gone that it had felt more like putting down animals. He had been practically benevolent.
“I never saw anything like it, Tilner,” said Emma. She was familiar with the man. “We were in the ruins and attacked by monsters! I think they were troglodytes. I’ve heard of those before.”
Fenrir hadn’t wanted to argue. The adrenaline of the evening had worn off and the exhaustion that mixed with the lingering pain in his shoulder and constant ache in his knee had brought him to the brink of unconsciousness.
“Perhaps,” said Lady Escamilla. “But I believe Fenrir thinks differently.” Damn.
“Yes. They were humans. Far gone, nearly insane, but they were humans,” he had said.
“There’s no way! They threw themselves at your weapon! After Erlins cut one open, it continued coming at him even with its guts spilling out. They must have been monsters! They were…” Emma had shouted back at him, hushing herself only mid-rant at a burning look from Escamilla.
“Troglodytes are three feet tall, blind, and nonviolent. I’ve seen them. These were a little taller,” said Fenrir, having no real idea what troglodytes were or if they existed, but wanting to be right. Emma glared at him.
“You’ve always had some perception issues, Coldbreaker. I remember you told me that this…” She had held her fingers a couple of inches apart, “was eight inches” Emma finished, smirking. Havert, Escamilla’s other man, had chuckled at this as he’d worked the oars, struggling mightily to move upriver while Tilner tended to their mistress.
By mid-morning, they had landed near Hunesa Road and camped for the day. Escamilla’s men had arranged for two additional soldiers to meet them off the path with a covered wagon. The wagon had been filled with cages, each one containing a cooing, shitting, twitching carrier pigeon. While they’d rested, Escamilla had written a dozen or more notes, sending pigeons in every direction. Fenrir had not bothered to learn more about these messages. He would know soon enough, or not. Either way, he didn’t care.
He wanted to be as far from Rostane as possible, but they’d continued camping a few hundred yards from Hunesa Road while Escamilla had worked. She’d finally fallen asleep by late afternoon and Fenrir had urged the group to load her into the wagon and get moving. They were to head to Brockmore, one of Escamilla’s largest holdings, southeast of Hunesa and a couple hundred miles away. However, her men would not budge without her command. Tilner had even partially drawn his sword in an attempt at intimidation. Fenrir hadn’t bothered responding in kind. Instead, he’d shrugged and slept fitfully until dawn the next day.
They’d begun traveling incognito, with Escamilla again dressed as a serving woman and secreted in the bed of the wagon. They wanted to keep her out of sight and Tilner had insisted that she rest. Fenrir was the wagon driver, seated next to Emma, playing the role of
a moderately successful merchant, silk clothes and all. Tilner and Havert acted as guards (well, they were guards), flanking the wagon, each mounted on chestnut horses while Escamilla’s other two men disappeared on errands for their lady. They presented a sight as common and unremarkable as a column of dirty peasants on the long, hundred or so mile stretch between Rostane and Hunesa.
So, Emma had been in close proximity to Fenrir for near a full day at this point, belittling him and mocking him with remarkable regularity. With Escamilla in the back, in the wagon bed, there was nobody to intervene, and Fenrir’s efforts to ignore Emma were wearing thin.
“…and you know how we serving girls talk. The term ‘limp noodle’ came up more than once. And, I heard your nickname was ‘the inch worm.’ Given that I’m an unclever whore, not worthy of rescue, I can only guess what inch that worm was referring to. I can only imagine that it was your penis,” chattered Emma, as if she was having a perfectly normal conversation.
“And, I wonder if that inch is even visible. If I recall, there was quite a bit of fuzz. Actually, it was the consistency of your beard! So, that inch is likely lost in a sea of gray by now!”
Fenrir gripped the reins, his palms turning white. He had thought he was in love with this little ginger-haired bitch, back when he’d been in his loveless arranged marriage with his now ex-wife. Thinking about it, he saw that she’d always been quite acerbic, but he had never been the target before. He’d used to like her biting wit, finding it refreshing after he’d spent his day absently listening to the feigned friendliness of the nobles or the tedious lectures and mutterings of the Scholars at the Enlightenment. Emma had a way with words. She rarely outright insulted her betters, even in the privacy of their chambers. Rather, she could weave a story that, with a simple and subtle use of words, told factual stories in which the real-life characters seemed ridiculous. It had been quite amusing to Fenrir, back when they’d been together.
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