Solace Lost

by Michael Sliter

  “Well, luckily, I am with you for the foreseeable future.” Assuming a better option didn’t come along. “I wish you a pleasant rest, my lady. I had best join the proud Tilner Pick on our noble journey to enlist a band of utterly trustworthy mercenaries to bolster our already-powerful forces.”

  “May Yetra guide you.”

  Fenrir raised an eyebrow at the blessing, but Escamilla had already turned around and shut her door. Fenrir shrugged, sighed, and trudged wearily off toward the stables.

  Chapter 26

  The room was swirling—wood paneling, cheap furniture, and even cheaper artwork coalescing into a sickening, multi-colored blur. It was so hot, so very hot, and yet Merigold lay under the covers in a cold, beading sweat. All at once, though, the spinning became too much for her, and she lunged to the side of the bed, grabbing a chamber pot just as thick, acidic vomit forced itself out of her mouth. It was like pushing a burning candle through her throbbing throat and out of her blistered mouth.

  Merigold’s hair hung limply, liberally spotted with flecks of regurgitated bread, while she waited for the spinning and the waves of nausea to die down. It had been a week since the constant nausea had kicked in, and she knew by this point that the only option was to wait it out. Unfortunately, she also knew it wouldn’t entirely go away. This seemed to be her new normal.

  The first bout of nausea had hit her when they’d been on Hunesa Road, after they had broken their fast with some bread and oatmeal that Cryden had prepared. The pair had barely talked since the Duckling at that point, and Cryden had done little to comfort her as she knelt against a tree, palms rubbing raw against the bark as her modest breakfast reappeared in a wet puddle. She walked most of the day, which apparently irked Cryden, as it meant that they spent another night on the road. The next morning was the same, as was the following, although the setting changed from a populous roadside campsite to a cheap Hunesian inn.

  As the sick feeling finally faded somewhat, Merigold slumped back to the bed, closing her eyes in relief and letting out a heavy sigh. She fully intended to wash up in a moment, after just a short rest, and start her day, but she felt her eyelids growing heavy despite her efforts. A moment later, she was jolted awake as the door thudded open, Cryden Renshaw strolling in with his customary smile. Groggy and panicky, Merigold rolled away from the door, landing roughly on her knees as she groped under the mattress for her little knife, knocking the chamber pot aside and spilling the acidic contents of her stomach across the floor as she did so. Just as her fingers clutched the handle, Cryden spread his arms wide.

  “My dear lady, my most sincere apologies for alarming you.” His smile grew wider, not exactly oozing sincerity.

  “I told you to never, ever, come into my room unannounced!” Meri spat viciously, her breathing heavy. She slowly stood then, straightening her rumpled night dress and running a hand through her sodden, disheveled hair. She could almost laugh as she thought about how she’d used to care, so much, about her appearance. Worrying about her eyes being too far apart. Always carefully styling her shining blond hair, even while working. Tinging her lips and eyes with berry dyes to give her some color. Begging her father to buy her the gaudy, silk clothing of a noble lady.

  Now, she stood in front of a man she barely knew in her night dress, her hair filthy and her breath rivaling the stench of the midden heap behind the Duckling. Oh, how her life had changed.

  “I tried knocking and you did not answer. I became worried, but I see I have nothing to worry about. You, my dear lady, are as safe as a cantankerous little scorpion in the desert.”

  Merigold didn’t understand his reference, but decided to take it as an insult. “What do you want, Cryden?” she asked, venom still apparent in her voice. As had happened at the Duckling, Cryden’s smile faded and his eyes darkened, and the air was seemingly forced from the tightening room. Her outrage leaked right out, leaving her feeling hollow and spent.

  “Now that you are awake…” And, like that, his smile was back. “…I wanted to give you an update. It will be another six days until we can depart from Enowl. My acquaintance needs to wait on his cargo and I’m not spending the coin to convince him otherwise.” Meri had learned little about Cryden in their short time together, but she did know a few things with certainty. First, he had an apparent temper that rose to the surface at the slightest hint of disrespect. Second, he was well-learned, and enjoyed the sound of his own voice. Third, he was cheap.

  Nonetheless, his desire to save a few yets worked to Meri’s advantage. She still planned to slip away and find some fighters for hire, including a tracker or two, and to hunt down the people who had taken her father. The people who’d murdered near everyone in Dunmore, leaving corpses—whole and shredded—discarded carelessly across the town.

  Hunt them down, rescue Ragen and the others, and then slaughter their captors.

  “Surely, you understand that I am in no rush. I’m still recovering from my stomach illness, and I’d rather be fully recovered before boarding a boat,” said Meri, hands on her stomach and a small embarrassed smile on her face.

  “A ship, my dear lady. Not a boat. A ship will be much larger, have a crew of five or more skilled sailors, and will even be carrying boats of its own,” said Cryden, hands measuring out the size of boats versus ships.

  “Yes, of course. A ship.” As much as Meri had always enjoyed listening to the stories of others, learning of Ardia and beyond, Cryden’s pompousness and self-importance was really beginning to fray her already razor-thin nerves. The fact that her stomach was beginning to roil again did not help matters.

  “Now, I would hate to leave you alone, here, in an unfamiliar place. But, I felt the echoes of heavy meinen… magic… radiating in the city, and I must investigate. Sworn duty and all that,” he said with a wink. Cryden also rarely ceased to discuss his ability as a cautaton. He provided few actual details, but certainly lauded his own talent and threw around technical magic terms with relish.

  “I’ll be fine, Cryden. I simply wish to rest today and continue recovering,” said Meri.

  “I trust you are feeling better?” Cryden didn’t seem particularly interested, as if her health was an afterthought.

  “Practically like new.” It took a teeth-clenching effort to push back her most recent, and hopefully last, surge of nausea.

  “That is excellent to hear.” Smiling, his white teeth gleaming, as always. “Can I get you anything before I leave?” He was already half turning toward the door.

  Merigold wanted Cryden gone from her room, but she did need something from him, particularly this might be her last opportunity. Information.

  “I don’t need anything, but… Cryden, what is it like, to sense magic? What does it feel like?” She hated offering him a reason to lecture, but if she was to be combating magic users, and maybe, someday, using this strange power herself, she might as well learn.

  “Finally, a bit of curiosity.” It was true that Meri hadn’t spoken to Cryden much or asked many questions. It may have had something to do with the overwhelming events of the past weeks. She woke at least once every night, shaking and terrified, in a sheer panic that she was still locked in the cellar. Realizing that this was not the case had brought less joy than she would have hoped. The reality of her life now was little better.

  “We prefer our students to be curious,” he said, leaning easily against a flimsy chair.

  “I do want to learn.” Merigold felt resolve building within her even as the nausea faded. She would learn as much about magic as possible, whether from Cryden or elsewhere. It was a tool that she could use in getting back her family. In getting back her life.

  “I am not regarded as an aerus, a teacher, but I can spare a few minutes to speak of being a cautaton. What you and others ignorant to the intricacies of the world label ‘magic’ suffuses the world. Anything that contains life in even its barest form has a hint or more of magic. Animals, people… Of course, you know this. You have felt it and used it yours
elf.” Merigold shifted, recalling how she’d before been able to see a person’s vessel, as she’d perceived it. And how she would skim just a bit of the energy or power or life force for herself.

  “Hmmm,” she murmured, noncommittally. She slowly crossed the room to a wash basin and sat down next to it, never taking her eyes off of Cryden.

  “Trees, vines, grass, weeds… plant life radiates its own form of power. More minute than that of animals, but significantly more plentiful. The earth, itself, contains traces of life that a pasnes alna can utilize, depending on his or her pasen. Passageway, I suppose, you might call it. There are other, much rarer—and even forgotten—forms of miernes, the broad term for what you might call magic, that people have been known to utilize.”

  “And what kind of… miernes can you use?” Merigold began brushing out her hair as he spoke, brush becoming caught on the countless knots in her once silken hair.

  Cryden laughed with perhaps just a hint of mockery. Merigold couldn’t be sure.

  “That is something that pasnes alna do not share with outsiders. And you, my dear lady, are an outsider. For now. Suffice it to say, when a person has a particular pasen, they can sense miernes related to that pasen. Although this takes both training and concentration to do consistently.”

  Sometimes, back when she’d still had the power, Meri had been able to see others’ vessels when she touched them, gleaming buckets of power, different colors. Other times, she’d been blind to this.

  “And you can sense all types of miernes in others?” Her stomach was settling as she went through the routine of brushing her hair, and she was starting to feel an edge of hunger. Her last meal had been a weak stew and some hard bread the night before, and whatever her body hadn’t absorbed was now on the floor and in her hair.

  “Ah, that is not how being a cautaton works. I can sense when people are accessing miernes. If I am close enough, I can even sense magic that someone has never consciously used. It is difficult to explain. Particularly to… someone like you.” Another subtle, condescending insult, but Meri would be gone soon enough, so she let it slide.

  Cryden straightened from the chair, gesturing as he spoke. “It’s a sense on its own, like sight, smell, or sound. The perceptions are unlike anything you would have experienced, but have an emotional aspect. Let’s say that someone is actively drawing maenen, the type of miernes associated with animal and human life. The miernes that you can access, my dear lady. I get a sense of warmth and fear and aggression, though it cannot be precisely described. The stronger the draw, the stronger these feelings. These feelings are constant—many more people are accessing miernes than you would imagine. Most cautatons are driven mad before they are found and properly trained. Those who are surrounded by active draws of maenen, particularly, tend to go on bloody sprees of violence.” Cryden mimic a knife stabbing downward.

  Merigold shivered, thinking of such poor men and women, constantly bombarded by emotions unrelated to their own lives, emotions they didn’t understand. She could understand how they might go mad, and be driven to lash out at others, to hurt them, to even kill them. Most people, however, had no excuse for such behavior. Briefly, she thought of Saren and wondered whether he had starved to death in the past weeks. And then about Chad, his lanky body rotting in the tall grass just off the path where she’d left him.

  Now that her sky was no longer a patchwork of wooden planks, such thoughts filled her with a sickening, aching guilt.

  “What do the other types of miernes feel like?” Meri set down her hair brush and began gently washing her face. Cryden did not seem irritated by her multitasking. Uncharacteristic for the conceited man.

  “You are asking the right questions. Impressive. The maen…” He drifted off, eyes vague and glassy, focusing on something that Merigold could not perceive. He stared at nothing for maybe thirty seconds. Merigold cleared her throat, which was still vaguely burning from her earlier sickness. Dear Yetra, she needed to drink some water!

  Cryden blinked rapidly, as if clearing spiderwebs from his eyes. “Apologies, my dear lady. We will have to continue this lesson later. I really must be going.” With a polite nod and a distracted smile, Cryden left as abruptly as he had entered.

  Oh, but he was a strange, pompous man that she would not be missing.

  Merigold finished washing as best she could, tying her hair into a tight braid. Digging through her pack, she found a serviceable pair of breeches (too loose, but tied with a bright scarf) and an unassuming, dull-white shirt. She also pulled out a smaller pack which contained Ragen’s fortune, and spent a moment running her fingers over the careful stacks of large-denomination octagonal yets—everything that Ragen had worked so hard for in his life. Perhaps it had been meant for his retirement or even her dowry. Her eyes grew misty at the thought, and her lower lip quivered.

  She shook her head and clenched her fists. The only way that she would see her papa again was if she helped him. If Marissa was accurate, Ragen had never given up on her when she’d been trapped, despite the rumors of her whoring. She would never rest until he was safe again. Until they were reunited.

  First things first, she needed to get a quick meal and calm her stomach. Then, she could find some mercenaries willing to work for Ragen’s money. In a city of this size, there was bound to be any number of warriors willing to do anything for a yet or two.

  Then, once she recruited a small army, she would find a herbalist or wise woman or fringe physician.

  Somebody who could help her smother the life growing inside her. The bastard spawn of Saren, Paul, or Chad.

  ---

  Hunesa was unlike anywhere Merigold had ever been. Of course, that list was relatively small—Dunmore, the Duckling, and three or four of the nearby villages that were similar to Dunmore in nearly every respect. She had always dreamt of visiting one of Ardia’s four great cities. Rostane, Hunesa, Draston, and Florens, each with its own wonders—at least, according to the ever-flowing hoard of travelers through the Duckling.

  The City of Wayfarers, as Hunesa was known. The Crossroads of Nations, as Duke Proan attempted to market it to travelers, though the name had never stuck. The city was the closest to a major border of any of the great Ardian cities, just scant miles from the thick forests denoting the somewhat transient boundaries of Algania. With the port town of Enowl within its jurisdiction, and with trade goods streaming from both land and sea, the city was a true blend of peoples, cultures, and styles. It was certainly a lot to take in for a village girl like Merigold, who had never seen more than one or two hundred people in the same place at any given time, and even that only during celebrations like Ascension Day or the Bright Harvest Festival.

  She’d expected it to be cleaner.

  In Dunmore, the houses were sturdy, well-built, and relatively uniform, lining the village square as well as several small lanes. In Hunesa, it seemed that the city planner had been as mad as a horse covered in big, black flies. There was no main roadway, but rather dozens upon dozens, if not hundreds, of smaller streets that converged and diverged, almost randomly, as she strolled. If a city map existed, it would have shown a spiderweb, but one spun by a spider who was quite drunk and none to bright to begin with. The buildings themselves seemed to follow no one style. Cultures clashed, with a noble, white stone-domed Sestrian building looming precariously close to a garishly-colored, wooden… something. And between such buildings huddled masses of unhappy, dirty people, shielding themselves from the light rain with lean-tos and makeshift tents that didn’t seem to be terribly effective.

  The major wonder of this city, the thing that brought visitors from all over the country and beyond, was the Hundred Markets. But what defined one market from another was as ephemeral as the shoreline of Dunmore Lake during the wet season. As Meri strolled through the city, feeling exposed and insignificant, she encountered her first market, if it could be called such a thing. She turned onto a crooked street, and three vendors, in worn clothing and with equally worn fac
es, started shouting after her. The three shared a single, long stall, but did not seem to care much for each other. And all sold some sort of food.

  “Crayfish stew—the best in the world! You must try! You must!” The balding vendor was shoved back by a meaty woman with ponderous jowls that flapped wildly as she shouted.

  “His is swill—those are not crayfish. Just water-bound dung beetles! This, you must try! Delicious, delectable—”

  “Horsemeat! The crone sells horsemeat from the oldest and stinkiest horses! Now, if you want real food…”

  Merigold covered her face with one hand, embarrassed by the attention and made nervous by their aggressive tactics. She hurried past.

  Mere minutes later, she stumbled into the second market. And was stunned by the sight.

  She’d been in the general store in Dunmore, of course. And she had shopped many, many times from traders’ wagons and even from some small caravans that they’d had at the Duckling. Meri had thought that she had quite an eclectic understanding of what one could purchase and own. With the way that Ragen had doted on her, she’d had many nice things that her neighbors did not.

  But this market made her gasp, stopping and gaping like the village yokel she actually was. Among the many, many stalls and storefronts, she saw both marvels and horrors. In one heavily guarded stall, diamonds and rubies and sapphires glittered on necklaces, bracelets, and arm pieces. She self-consciously touched her hand to one of her far less significant sapphire studs—so glorious in Dunmore, but clearly next to nothing in Hunesa. Another stall seemed to be selling animal parts. Not the parts that one would typically eat, but rather the garbage bits. And patrons were lined up, pushing and shoving to get the attention of the butcher, if that was who this man was. A third stall simply sold sweet-smelling perfumes, while the smell of decay radiated from a fourth stall, the vendor loudly claiming to sell a potion that would eliminate wrinkles. Old and young women crowded around. Every one of her senses was overwhelmed, though Meri seemed to be the only one of hundreds affected. She was shoved, jostled, and knocked about among the purposeful and frantic mob of shoppers.