Solace Lost

by Michael Sliter

  “My lady, you have bought me several kegs worth of drink. I’m certain that my stomach will appreciate it.”

  Escamilla smiled weakly before pausing at a window, looking out at the rows of tents and the few men still moving about. The forges were still lit, and there was the telltale sound of hammers pounding metal. There was never rest for blacksmiths during wartime.

  “My turn,” said Fenrir, trying to take the focus away from his life and his mistakes. “Why do you go to war? Why do you hide the reasons for raising an army? A woman of your power and wealth could easily leave the country, seek asylum, live off of your amassed earnings in immense comfort. What motivation is there to risk losing everything?”

  A pause. Escamilla turned to Fenrir.

  “There is more to it than preserving my own wealth. Even more than preserving the country as it is.” Her face was dark in the waning moonlight.

  “There is some evidence that the Little Duke Penton has some assistance from a covert organization called Recherche Oletta. Seeking wisdom, in ancient Auqinen,” said Escamilla.

  “Not news to me.”

  “Of course not. You are a vault of information, a walking, talking Englightenment. But let’s pretend like you know nothing for a moment. Can you manage that?” Fenrir could, indeed, manage ignorance. “Recherche Oletta appeared almost all at once in Rostane. They really became a spear in the side of our mutual friend, as you know. But, they also approached many nobles, me included.” It might have been Fenrir’s imagination, but it seemed that Escamilla shivered despite the thick heat of the evening.

  “A man came to me when I was in Draston, tending to some business. He was… persistent. My guards, posted at every entrance to the small estate, saw no sign of him, but he was in my bedchamber one night. He made… threats.”

  “What did he say?” asked Fenrir, brows furrowed.

  “The specifics are not important. But, I know that I cannot run. There was evidence that he had some sort of powers. Magic.” Fenrir had never seen Escamilla appear so uncertain. He was shocked. Perhaps there was a breach in the walls of the great lady after all. Nonetheless…

  “Superstitious nonsense. There is no magic.” Fenrir thought, briefly, of that little Merigold chit from the burned down inn. The one who had touched him.

  “My bedchamber, in my Draston estate, is resplendent with foliage. The ceiling is glass and the light shines down to support flowers, vines, and small trees. It was my favorite escape; you felt like you were sleeping in a beautiful forest.” Her eyes were far away. “As he spoke, the plants began to wither. ‘Wither’ isn’t the right word, however. Some began to turn to ash before my eyes. The man appeared to… I guess resonate is the right word… he resonated with a restrained power. Like a bell humming with energy after it has been struck. And then he grabbed my arm, and I felt myself being pulled away. Emptying. And… pain. I can still feel it, inside of me, next to my heart. Always, as if I were somehow marked.” This time, she definitely trembled, and Fenrir had the odd inclination to hold her. Perhaps this was why she filled her evenings with young boys—to scare away whatever might be stalking her in the night.

  Her story reminded him, once more, of the girl from the burned down inn. Getting slammed in the skull and dumped in a ditch really overshadowed that entire evening, but he remembered her touching him, her blue eyes almost gleaming as she gazed past him, through him. And then, the same feeling Escamilla was describing. A feeling of hollowness, wrongness. He didn’t recall feeling any accompanying pain or warmth, but Fenrir had been absolutely certain, in that moment, that the girl was stealing something from him. Had that been magic?

  “So, you are fighting this war to..?” Her experience was plainly distressing, but it did not explain her motivation.

  “I am fighting this war to protect myself. I am fighting because he gave me an ultimatum, and I do not take well to such choices, whatever the risk. I am fighting because I can still feel his magic, his wrongness, burning on my heart. I am fighting because men like that should not be guiding a nation. And, even if I could run, how long would it be before such a man desired more power? And at that point, with all of Ardia subjugated by him and his ilk, what’s to say he wouldn’t strike at Jecusta or Algania?” Her fists were clenched, and her weakness seemed to have disappeared. This was a hard woman.

  “I see.” Fenrir was uncertain how to respond. He had little desire to fight in a war, although it had admittedly been a rush battling in the ruins. That wasn’t to say he would go searching for more folks to cross swords with, and particularly not if he were one of thousands, where his chances of survival depended more on luck than skill. Where he could be killed by a stray arrow, shoved forward onto the weapon of an enemy, or even accidentally skewered by the spear of an ally. Tavern stories always portrayed great battles as if they broke down, cleanly, into hundreds, or thousands, of individual duels—tiny islands of combat. However, his time listening to knowing lectures about the horrors of war while on guard duty told him otherwise. He had no desire to be stabbed, pierced, shot, trampled, burnt, crushed, or otherwise killed.

  Escamilla resumed her measured stroll down the hall. “Now, Sir Coldbreaker. I have divulged a great deal to you this evening. I’ve one more question for you, and then we will be even. How… what’s this?” She paused, and then approached a window. Squinting in the dim light, Fenrir thought he could make out a rope and grapple on the ledge…

  “Camilla, get back!” he shouted as a shadowy figure peeled smoothly off from the larger shadows behind a beautifully-carved archway. Fenrir didn’t hesitate for even a moment, launching himself forward toward the short figure while flinging Escamilla back with one arm. The figure stepped backward, shouting “no!” just as Fenrir crashed into him. Fenrir tumbled forward, somersaulting over his assailant, hitting far less resistance than he had expected. He landed on his back as something hit the side of his head. Groggy, he got to his feet just as a second blow connected with his shin. He grunted, unable to get a read on his attacker, a small man circling him, a sort of baton in his hand. With little recourse, being unarmed, Fenrir darted in close, his fist swinging. The attacker dodged Fenrir’s first punch but caught his knee in the stomach. Using his far superior weight, Fenrir pulled the man to the ground, punching him in the face once. Twice.

  “Stop!” He could dimly hear Escamilla’s commanding voice. Three times.

  “Stop now!”

  Fenrir’s arm was restrained as he drew back for another punch. He shook her from his grip but, as he moved back, he saw that the light illuminated Morgyn’s bloodied face.

  Chapter 25

  “Tennyson sent me,” wheezed Morgyn, her voice high and nasally as the air was forced through her damaged nose. One of her eyes was bloodshot and squinty, surrounding flesh already turning a sickening yellow that was emphasized by the candlelight in the room. Her lip was split, and the wound had a wet look to it. She lay in a bed—the same bed Fenrir had failed to sleep in—propped up with pillows as Escamilla dabbed at her wounds. Fenrir felt the dried blood on his own shin. No one was fussing over his injury, though he wasn’t the one who’d been breaking and entering.

  Morgyn’s face and arms also had telltale signs of fading bruises. Funny, Fenrir hadn’t remembered her getting hurt in those ruins.

  “Why in the fuck would you come in through a window?” he asked, voicing his thoughts, which earned him a sharp look from Escamilla. He tried questioning the beaten girl in the hallway, but the commotion of their brief fight had drawn attention. Escamilla had waved other residents of Brockmore back to sleep, sent her reluctant guards back to their posts on the first floor, and spirited the girl back to Fenrir’s room.

  “They wouldn’t let me past the barricade. Said I was a shifty-eyed urchin and that I had no reason to be near Brockmore.” She coughed a couple of times.

  “Can’t say I blame them,” Fenrir commented. She glared at him from beneath swollen eyelids.

  “Young one…” Escamilla
ignored Fenrir, “why did you come all this way? You must have left nearly immediately after us to have arrived so soon.” The girl struggled to sit up, but Escamilla pushed her back, easing her to the mattress. “Rest, young one. Give me your message and then you can rest. We can talk more in the morning.”

  Morgyn paused, rubbing her face tenderly and then withdrawing her hands and examining them. She didn’t look up. “Tennyson wanted me to tell you that Duke Penton is working with Recherche Oletta.”

  “We know. He sent agents to meet us just after we left Rostane.”

  “Yes, and…” Morgyn broke into another coughing fit, covering her mouth and bringing her knees to her chest. She was just a child, Fenrir recalled, a young teenager. How had he mistaken her for an assassin?

  “Take your time.” Escamilla was stroking Morgyn’s hair.

  “Yes, and… I… I also worked for Recherche Oletta.” So, this scheming little chit was actually working for the two organizations. Not that it was a surprise to Fenrir; she had attempted to rob him in that filthy alley, all those months ago, even knowing his affiliation with The House. Tennyson had seemed to suspect her, as well, though he’d still put Fenrir’s life in her hands.

  “A dangerous game for one so young.” Escamilla did not withdraw her hands, but Fenrir could see a twitch on her face as she clenched her teeth. She asked the only question worth asking. “Why?”

  Morgyn’s damaged face grew hard. “Do you know what it’s like, living in poverty? Rashes from cast-off clothes that never seem to dry. Blisters in shoes that never fit, assuming you can even find a pair. Eating soggy scraps of food from the trash, hoping that it isn’t covered in piss from vindictive tavern owners, who try to keep the untouchables from congregating. Drives away the business.” Her face was flushed with anger around the bruises. “You wouldn’t know, either of you. Both born lucky. Me? I was born to a whore who abandoned me as a cost of doing business.” She wiped her now-bleeding lip on the clean, opalescent sheet.

  “A hard life, young one.” Escamilla’s face was stone. Immovable. “But do not make assumptions of our backgrounds.” Seemed like Morgyn had found an open wound.

  “Huh,” Morgyn grunted noncommittally. “Well, I wanted more than rags and shit. I started exploring the city, stealing whatever I could. I started leaving the city, exploring the ruins, finding and selling whatever I could find of value. A copper chip here, a silver shaving there, but nothing that improved my life or the life of… others with me. You find yourself in a great deal of debt, buying a crust of bread or a roof for the night. Or paying for protection.” She coughed again. This was a very different Morgyn than Escamilla and Fenrir had met in the ruins. Gone was the talkative, eager girl. The enthusiasm and guilelessness must have been an act. Fenrir’s throbbing shin could vouch for the girl’s dearth of innocence.

  “And, The House? Recherche Oletta?” Escamilla’s arms were now crossed, her lips pulled into a tight, colorless line.

  “Both found me. First, The House started ‘training’ me. They helped pay down my debts. Recherche contacted me some time later. Wasn’t Recherche back then; I thought I was just making a bit of extra money, working for a few folks trying to make their mark on the city. And then, recently, a man took charge of the group, called himself the Patriarch. We started targeting The House. That’s how I met my friend, there.” She raised a tired hand toward Fenrir who glowered in response.

  “That’s all well and good, but why are you here now, girl?” growled Fenrir. Her story was getting a bit long-winded, and he still thought to catch a couple hours of sleep before leaving. Maybe there was a bench, somewhere, that would be more palatable than his now-occupied bed.

  She cleared her throat, eyes shifting from Fenrir to Escamilla, again transforming into a little girl. “I… Do you see these bruises? The old ones? These were from the Patriach, for helping you escape.” Her eyes were wet, reflecting the orange candlelight. “I am trapped, being crushed between two powers, Tennyson and the Patriarch. I can’t deal with it.” Openly weeping now. “I’m scared. I thought you might help me, Lady Escamilla. You seemed so kind. It’s been… so long since someone was kind to me.”

  For a moment, Fenrir felt a twinge for this girl. She was a scared kid, over her head, much like Fenrir at that age. She had people who wanted to hurt her. Who had hurt her. Again, like a younger Fenrir (not to mention an older Fenrir). And, she was around the age his daughter would be, today.

  Her wet, choking sobs filled the lavish guest room for several moments, and for the second time that evening, Fenrir was urged to comfort someone. He even took a reflexive step forward before catching himself with a small shake of his head. He glanced at Escamilla; she hadn’t noticed his movement.

  It was unclear if the older woman was moved by the girl’s story, by her tears. The lady’s face was impassive, her eyes clouded, her mind obviously somewhere else. Her arms were still crossed, and she almost appeared to be hugging herself. She shook her own head to clear away whatever was tearing at her, and gave Morgan’s hand a quick squeeze before rising slowly to her feet.

  “Young one.” Escamilla moved toward the door, waving for Fenrir to follow. “Rest. We will talk about this tomorrow.”

  ---

  “Evidently, first light has arrived,” sighed a drained Fenrir, standing outside the bedchamber of Lady Escamilla. Beyond the windows, the blue of the sky was becoming visible, cloudy streaks slicing gray and orange across the heavens. Ornery sergeants were kicking reluctant soldiers out of their bedrolls, mobilizing them for the morning drills that Fenrir had so loathed in his youth. And a new group of fighters trudged down the muddy road toward the camp, dragging their feet as they marched out of formation. Obviously, they’d gotten as much sleep as Fenrir.

  “Yes, you had best be off to Hunesa. Me, I plan on catching up on rest. It has been a trying few nights.” Escamilla flashed a smile, though the black bags under her eyes, as well as the fact that the wall on which she was leaning was bearing nearly all of her weight, betrayed her true exhaustion. At least twenty years Fenrir’s senior, still recovering from serious bite wounds, and coming off nearly two weeks of travel, he couldn’t blame her.

  “Yes, you had best rest,” he said, sincerely.

  “Sir Coldbreaker, please give Tilner a chance. He is simply protective of me and sees you as a threat. He is a good, honest, honorable man.” Traits that tended to get men killed.

  “Erm,” Fenrir grunted, noncommittally. “While I am gone, take care around that Morgyn. She seems authentic, but I’ve learned not to trust so easily. There’s more to her than meets the eye.”

  Escamilla gestured to the windows, at the expansive land currently being trampled by an army. “We are currently standing in one of several of my manors, located all over the country, just a piece of all that I own. Tens of thousands draw pay from my coffers, and there are few within Ardia who do not know my name. Believe me, Coldbreaker. My assets and reputation were not built on trusting my competitors.”

  “Fair enough. Nonetheless, I am charged with your protection, and I’m certain Tennyson would not be forgiving—were you to end up batonned to death by a child.”

  “I will take care; perhaps even make a true ally out of the girl. I suppose I will have to start stationing guards outside of my chambers, though they might not like what they hear. Well… Put it out of your mind.” She exhaled heavily. “Sir Coldbreaker, I want to thank you for all that you have done for me over the past weeks. I understand that you are being paid for this, but know that if you stay in my service, you will want for nothing. I can even grant you a command, if that would suit you.”

  Fenrir Coldbreaker, Captain of the Guard for Lady Escamilla Breen. One thousand fiercely loyal men, well-trained and well-mannered, aside from some occasional dicing and drinking—which Fenrir would overlook, particularly when he was involved. He had to admit, it was an interesting notion. But even as he considered Escamilla’s generous offer, he knew he wouldn’t be accepting i
t.

  “I’m yours, for now, my lady. But only as long as Tennyson deems it so.” In reality, Fenrir had been wondering how he could escape this situation entirely. Surely, Tennyson was distracted enough by the war that he’d not miss a recently-demoted enforcer who happened to get lucky in a rescue mission. Fenrir had already pilfered a bag of expensive ornaments from his guest room, as well as an obsidian dagger with a bejeweled handle to fence in Hunesa as some insurance. Tennyson hadn’t paid him for the rescue job yet, and all of his coin was otherwise hidden. He had little trust for banks. His father—the man who provided the seed for his birth, rather—had lost a great deal of money when a reputable bank had turned out to have less repute than anyone had thought, and Fenrir had heard him rail against banks more times than he could count.

  “If you change your mind…” She left the offer open. “In the meantime, is there anything I can offer to you in thanks? Anything within my power.”

  If not Captain Coldbreaker, maybe he could solve a problem that had been nagging his thoughts for weeks, and particularly now that things had slowed down.

  “It seems that you have an extensive network of spies…”

  “I wouldn’t call them ‘spies.’ Information gatherers, let’s say.” The corner of Escamilla’s life twitched.

  “Whatever you like, my lady. But, something recently happened to me. An attempt on my life.” He tugged at the collar of his shirt, revealing the ropy, pink band of raised flesh that ran across his shoulders. Even with the excellent suturing of Martis and his subsequent medical care, it was a scar that would never fade in any sense of the word.

  “Ah, a papercut. I did not realize you were a scribe.” Escamilla chuckled at her own joke. She certainly needed a nap.

  “A large, pointy piece of paper, driven into my shoulder by a man wearing black. I want to know who. Not who tried to kill me, but who arranged it.”

  “Not much to work with, Sir Coldbreaker. But, I will have my information gatherers listen for your name. Danby will interview you about the details before you embark for Hunesa. Of course, it may take some time.”