by C. E. Olson
“Witness!” the King barks, snapping his fingers and ushering everyone out of his chambers with just the flick of his wrist. “How the hell did you get seen? You’re the bloody Fae Hammer!”
“Seen may not be the best way to put it,” he amends. “Recognized is more like it.”
“Recognized? Grow a damned beard and call it a day. Recognized...” His Majesty shakes his head.
Indignant, Varis straightens up. “You see, Your Majesty, it all started when my father decided he was more interested in some random woman than—” It’s clear instantly that the blacksmith won't be the only one with his head in a sack soon if Varis doesn't shut up, so he clears his throat. “Apologies, my King. The job is done.”
“Off with you.” The King waves a hand, but stands to escort him out. “I’ll have a room made up for you. Male or female companion tonight?”
Glad his brother isn't around, Varis blushes. “I'm not picky, Your Grace. You know this. I suppose I'll take whoever will have me.”
“I’ll send in Jeskar. I know he favors you to other clients.” The King clasps his back and turns away without another word, and Varis lets out a slow, steady breath.
He makes a quick trip to pick up the other half of his payment — the half that can actually be used for real sustenance, not the kind Reeve considers important — then allows Naslan to escort him to his room. As one of the Sentinel, he's quiet when on duty, though Varis knows a very different side of him. “You know, Nas... it amuses me that you're here guarding me when we both know who’s the better swordsman.”
“I’m not guarding you, Bastard. I’m guarding the rest of this castle from you,” he snaps.
“Ahh, there it is. I knew someone called me that. Almost got killed earlier for not remembering who.” He smiles almost cheekily at his massive companion, then stops outside his door. “One day, you'll understand that I'm on your side. Not everyone that was ripped from their homes to come here wants revenge, Nas. Some of us stepped into our roles willingly.”
Naslan slowly steps forward until Varis’ back is pressed against the door. “Oh, I know that, Bastard. You just weren't one of them.”
“I—” The stench of Naslan’s breath makes Varis pause, but the Sentinel takes that as an admission and turns to leave. Knowing better, he doesn't try to stop him. Instead, he quietly slips into his room and bolts the door for now, then slides down it to sit on the floor and try to calm his heart rate.
It's not as though the entirety of the Sentinel dislikes him. Gerves and Watt aren't bad, they spar with him sometimes if they're feeling brave, and Watt’s been known to share a drink or two with him after a long day. But the other five, there's been a disconnect that has stopped them from trusting Varis since the day he showed up at Attarand. He'd only been a boy then. Eight years old and nothing to his name but tears and terror aimed at those very men who took him from his bed and brought him here to serve the King. For years, he’d worked to gain their trust. It just never happened, and now, he has better things to do with his time than chase the respect of men that will never give it.
He distracts himself by wondering where Reeve is now; whether he went home to Laix or went back to Teag’s Tavern to search for a different kind of comfort. Here, in the silence of his room at Attarand, he can admit to himself that he could've handled things differently with his brother once they returned to their own realm. Truthfully, Reeve doesn't deserve to be blamed for any of that. He has his own way of doing things, always has, and he can't deny that they saved time. Under normal circumstances, he stalks his targets for days before choosing the right time and place to make his move. This time, he returned within a solar cycle.
Still, watching that random, nameless Fae point an arrow at his brother’s head reminded him of the very reason he works alone. Attachments are dangerous — not just for those he's attached to, but for himself. Reeve is a liability on trips like that. He's a liability everywhere, but Varis doesn't have it in him to convince him to stay back. He never has.
The argument they had worms its way into Varis’ mind until he can't stand the sound of his own thoughts, so he stands to pour himself some whiskey and finally disrobe. Jeskar should be the only one visiting him tonight, and taking off his many layers of armor will only help speed up the process. At any rate, he's tired of the way his ill-fitting leather chafes his skin. Once he strips, he notices the hot water in the tub just below the window. Reason tells him to wait, that he'll want that water clean later on more than he wants it now — but his muscles are stiff, and he knows that Jeskar will want him limber.
Knowing he has no other friends at the castle that will visit, he unbolts his door then allows himself to sink into the water and leave the day behind. It feels so good on his skin that he barely notices the faint knock at the door, doesn't notice it until it grows louder. With a slight jerk, Varis sits up in the tub and prepares himself to grab his axe if needed, though he's sure he knows who it is.
“Come in.”
When Jeskar opens the door and smiles over at him, Varis relaxes again. He's spent the day taking care of the realm... it's time to let someone take care of him.
THE EARLY MORNING FINDS Varis outside in the courtyard. It's cold out for a day this late in the warm season, but he's wondering if he doesn't think that simply because he's been spending so much time in the Sun Court lately. For one reason or another — there's always a reason — nearly all of the mission's he's been sent on lately have been to that particular court.
But it's not his place to question it. Instead, he lunges forward and smiles when his sword glances off Watt’s shield. “Very good. Surprised you still use a shield, though. I've told you it only slows you down.”
“Of course the mighty Fae Hammer would think that.” Watt huffs and swings his sparring sword over Varis’ head. “What’s the Golden Realm like, Var? I only never asked because I thought by this point in my life I’d visit there myself, but since that doesn’t seem to be happening... I’m curious.”
Varis pauses and lowers his own sword. “Honestly? It's a lot like this one, minus the stink and the whiskey. Layout’s the same for the most part. Animals are better, but don't say that to my brother’s shadow cat. Magic’s a little thicker, too. Can almost taste it in the air.”
The look in Watt’s eyes tells Varis that isn’t enough. He needs to taste it for himself. “I could go without the stench of the city... but I don’t know if I could go without the whiskey.”
“It's torture some days. Their wine is too sweet for my tastes, but I’m the Bastard. I take what I can get.” He lunges again, knocking Watt’s shield out of his hand and forcing him into proper swordplay. For a few, glorious moments, he's nothing but the air he's cutting through and the ground he's dancing across. Nothing but the blunt weapon he's wielding. It feels good, letting go like this and letting his instincts drive him. There's no downside, no risk, no consequence heading his way — no Fae trying to kill him or his brother, no one giving him orders. Just the clash of unsharpened metal and the tang of summer sweat dripping down his cheek onto his lips despite the chill.
When Watt ends up on his back, he yields. Varis tosses his sword and helps him back to his feet. “You're getting better.”
“Thanks to you.” Watt nudges him playfully and starts putting their equipment in a bag. “You brought up whiskey, and now I have a thirst. Drink tonight?”
Varis nods his head, knowing the King’s gift was only good for one night. “Tonight, then.”
He makes his way back into the castle itself to get some breakfast and answer the few letters he's received. They're all the same; lords from Boedal and Epriven begging him to come dole out justice that isn't his to serve. Every one of them knows they'd need to go through Balian for that, so instead of answering, he burns the letters until they're little more than ash. If his King were to find out, who knows what would happen. Varis, for one, doesn't want to know.
After that, he follows the same routine as always — he takes
time to polish and sharpen each of his weapons, restocks the few arrows he occasionally carries, and visits the tanner to make a few minor adjustments. Everywhere he goes, he hears the whispers. It never ends, though he can't for the life of him figure out why the humans hate him as much as the Fae.
By the time the day is done, he's beyond ready for that drink. He meets Watt just beyond Attarand’s perimeter and tries to shake off the uneasiness of the hours before. “You ready?”
“Always ready for a drink.” Watt looks him over and nods his head toward him. “You look like you need this drink.”
“I always need the drink,” he counters as he opens the door. “I swear, I'm impossible to please. When I'm stuck in the Golden Realm, all I want is to be back here. But when I'm stuck at Attarand, all I want is to be back in the Golden Realm doing my job. Drinking helps me cope with that particular dilemma.”
“Well then, let’s drink until we forget what realm we’re in altogether. Maybe find a nice warm bed.” Watt raises two fingers at the barmaid and pulls out a stool.
When she winks at them, Varis smirks softly. “That might not be too hard tonight. She's very pretty.”
Watt eyes him and waits until they've got their drinks and she walks away to speak. “Seems like a rare day. You've smiled and flirted with a barmaid. Are you ill?”
Varis swats the hand that reaches for his forehead and takes a sip. “No. It's been brought to my attention that I don't do this enough, so... here's me doing it.”
“If this is what it looks like when you do it, no wonder your bed’s always empty,” Watt jokes with a laugh too loud for the small space they’re in. “Maybe I can give you some pointers.”
Varis studies Watt for a moment and shakes his head. “No. I don't think I want to learn the underhanded tricks you have to employ to get a woman in your bed, Watt.”
“Oh, what a pretty boy with pretty jokes,” Watt retorts.
“And a prettier axe.”
He snorts. “Aye, that's a good-looking axe you've got. Why aren't you the Fae Axe instead? You get confused with your weaponry, boy?”
“I didn't give myself that name. I suppose you'd have to ask Aylard. He gave me that name on my last mission as his protégé. We were tasked with taking out one of the Star Court’s greatest warriors. He was armored to the teeth, couldn't get the blade of my axe to pierce it, but I learned that day that if you're strong enough and scared enough, even the toughest armor will bend enough to crush a man's head. They burned his body with the helmet still attached.”
Watt shivers. “I've heard that tale. Thought it was a lie.”
“It wasn't.” Varis takes another drink and wishes he'd have just kept quiet. Already, he can sense Watt shifting away from him. “It was ten years ago, and I did it to save my own life. Aylard’s, too. I'm not going to bash your head in over our evening whiskey.”
“I know that,” Watt snaps, but his body language suggests the opposite. “I'd like to see you try, anyway.”
There's no reason to argue. No reason to state the obvious — that he's bested all seven of the Sentinel at one point or another, Aylard included. They know. The whole kingdom knows, and maybe even the kingdoms beyond. Maybe that's why they all hate me, he thinks to himself. Because I proved their King’s great defenders really aren't all that great.
As the night continues, Watt speaks less. Varis speaks less, too, but he prefers it that way. Small talk is hard for him under the best of circumstances, but particularly when the atmosphere is as tense as it is now. He flirts off and on with the barmaid, but even that doesn't seem as natural as normal. It doesn't bother him, though; he figures that by the time he has her in his bed, the awkwardness will be gone because Watt will be gone, so he simply tries to hang in there so her attention doesn't shift to someone better at this.
He never gets the chance to see if that happens or not. Halfway through his fourth drink, Edis bursts through the tavern door and yells for him. Varis turns quickly and nearly spills the last of the whiskey. “What? It's my night off.”
“Not anymore. There's been an attack on the King. You're needed. Now.”
He's on his feet without another word, his bar tab left unpaid. The moment they're out in the open air, Varis rounds on Edis. “What happened?”
“No time, Master Kester. Naslan has been called away, which means you're the executioner now.”
The words turn his stomach, but he nods with a clenched jaw as he takes off toward Attarand again. He stops in his own room only long enough to grab his longsword — his axe is for killing Fae, not humans; it's the only weapon he has that’s never been tainted.
Two steps at a time, he rushes down to the throne room and comes to a stop, looking around wildly until he spots Balian safe and sound. “Your Grace? What happ—”
The King points a meaty finger at a man currently on his knees. “An assassin from Boedal. He admits it himself, though he won't say who sent him. That's your job now, Kester. Figure it out and then bring me his head on a pike.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Varis nods to Gerves and Louvel, and the two Sentinels haul the man up by his armpits and shove him forward. He doesn't question where Naslan is or why Ostusen's torturer, executioner, and general twat isn't around to do the job himself. Instead, he tries to prepare himself for the hours to follow.
“Oh, and Kester? Take him to the courtyard, not the dungeons. I want to make an example out of him.”
“Your Grace?” Varis asks, a little stunned. “Are you—”
“Do you want your head mounted next to his, or are you going to follow your King’s orders?” Balian snaps.
It's enough to make Varis bow. “Of course, Your Grace. Right away.” He backs out of the room still bowed, then tells Gerves and Louvel to take him out to the stocks. With his longsword being the endgame now and not the only weapon necessary, Varis makes yet another trip back to his room. Most of his weapons are designed with quick deaths in mind, not slow torture — not torture at all, actually, but he'll make do. He grabs a couple of smaller knives and a thumbscrew, though he hopes that won't be necessary. Torture isn't his forte, despite this not being the first time the King has called upon him to do it.
As he makes his way to the courtyard, there are no pep talks this time. No inner mantra reminding him that he's a force to be reckoned with, that he's Varis Kester, the Fae Hammer of Ostusen, nothing like that. There's only raging silence and a growing sense of dread.
The courtyard is quiet save for the desperate pleas of the would-be assassin. Varis draws his smallest blade and kneels in front of the bent-over man to get his attention, then asks simply, “Who sent you?”
“N-no one!” he stutters. “I came meself.”
Varis grips the man’s hand and splays his fingers, then slices the tendon between his pointer and middle digits. The scream would make him flinch, but he has no sympathy for this man. No sympathy for anyone that would try and kill a king. “I don't believe you. Would you like to try again? Or should I keep going? Maybe I'll take the whole finger this time.”
The man clenches his fist and cries out when the blood drips over his fingers. “No! Please, please! I'll tell you anything, just stop!”
“You're awfully squeamish for a man who came to kill a king of his own accord. Is it all blood that bothers you, or just your own? What did you think would happen when you killed my King? I'm guessing you didn't try to poison him since his poison tester is still standing, which means you were going to stab him. It's a bloody business, stabbing, and no one tells you the worst part.”
He slowly dances the edge of the blade up the man's arm under the pillory until he's pressing the tip between his lower ribs. The man bucks, trying to squirm away from the blade as he babbles, “What! What’s the worst part!”
“The sickening, sinking, sucking feeling when you pierce flesh and organs with a blade. It doesn't feel at all like you think it would, and bodies have a funny way of trying to keep the blades that are shoved into them. Pulling
one out is nearly as unsavory as pushing it in, but I'm guessing you don't know anything about that. I'm guessing you don't know anything about killing at all, so I'll ask you again: who sent you? Tell me now, and I'll aim true. I can promise you a quick end, as there are few in this realm better at that than me. You won't find a cleaner death. Or—” he slices open the man’s tunic with a flick of his wrist and makes a small cut over his chest “—I’ll pull your ribs out one by one. Your choice.”
The look he gets in return is pure, unfiltered fear, and Varis gets the distinct impression that he won't be getting any information from him. He's not scared for himself, he's scared for someone else — for someone that might pay the price in his stead if he talks. He's seen the look before. “Attachments are dangerous,” he mutters out loud. “And yours proved to be your end. Any last words?”
Tears freefall as the man shakes his head. “I've never had anything worth saying me whole life.”
“I believe that.” Varis stands, tucking his blade away and drawing his longsword. From behind him, he hears Gerves questioning why he's not torturing the man to get the answers he needs, but Varis pays him no mind. He'll likely be punished for this, but it doesn't matter. He refuses to torture someone purely for trying to protect their family. “Fortente iter.” The olden rite slips from his tongue as he swings his blade, and silence fills the courtyard, save for the sound of the man’s head hitting the ground and the wet spray of blood. Varis wipes his sword and turns away, not saying a word to Gerves, Louvel, or anyone else as he walks back to his quarters with his head bowed.
The only comfort he takes is in the fact that Naslan wasn't the one to do it. Knowing him, the man would be there for days, slowly bleeding out as Nas searched for information he'd never get — or worse, information he would get, which would then either pitch the kingdom into war or cost innocent lives. He knows that it will fall on him to discover who hired that man, but for now... he just wants to sleep.