22
Quendel’s tavern was nothing more than a run-down cottage with a couple of lopsided tables and wooden stools. The bartender was as old as the mountains, as worn as a rutted road. Brommel suspected the old man had spent his life as a farmer and was supplying liquor to the village to keep himself busy and fed. Quendel wasn’t a large town. There couldn’t be enough customers to support it as a regular income. He was the only one there tonight. Still, Brommel was grateful the tavern was there at all.
“If you’re in need of a room, I ain’t got but one,” said the grizzled man as he poured Brommel a drink with a shaking hand. Some of the liquid spilled onto the table. “You can have it if ya want it.”
Brommel swallowed the liquor. It burned going down, reminding him that he was alive.
“I’m staying with an old friend,” he said. “But thanks just the same.”
Brommel held out his glass. The bartender started to pour again, but then shrugged and set the bottle on the table. “I’m goin’ ta bed,” he said. “If ya want another bottle, help yerself. Just leave yer money in the jar on the shelf.”
The old man dropped his towel onto the table. “And clean up after yerself. I ain’t no one’s mother.”
Brommel did not open a second bottle. He did not finish the first. Instead, he sat slumped over the wobbly table, his hand wrapped around the glass, staring into the clear liquid. When he had first come to Imaness, he had drunk more than his fair share. He had spent the first month in a stupor, mourning for his wife and daughter. But one day, Rylan found him lying on the floor half drowned in his own vomit. The boy didn’t cry. He grabbed a rag and cleaned Brommel up with the same tenderness his mother would have. After that, Brommel had vowed to never let his boy find him drunk again. So, he drank, but he never drank too much.
The room grew dark as the sun began to set. Brommel got up and lit the lone lantern hanging from a hook in the wall. Then he returned to his table. Behind him, the door to the place opened with a stubborn creak betraying hinges as old as the proprietor. Someone walked in.
“The old man has gone to bed,” called Brommel over his shoulder.
“I’m not looking for Stelvin,” replied a woman’s voice, a familiar voice.
Brommel turned on his stool and found the Sotherby woman standing in the open doorway. She wore a long, brown cloak with the hood pulled over her head. In the weak light, Brommel noticed the apprehension—and determination—in her eyes.
“I need to speak with you,” she said.
Brommel lifted the bottle and refilled his glass. “All right,” he said. “I’m listening.”
“I lied to you, earlier. About my husband.”
So, she had lied after all. She was good at lying apparently.
“My husband was home—”
“And you’ve had a change of heart,” interrupted Brommel with a nod. “You want me to come fetch him rather than lose the farm.”
“No.” The word was firm. Insistent. “My husband isn’t well, you see. He became ill a few weeks ago and is still recovering. If you took him now, to work before he’s strong enough. It might kill him.”
Brommel had heard such excuses before. My husband is sick. My husband is lame. My husband is old. Lord Fredric cared nothing for excuses.
“I’m sorry for your troubles, ma’am,” said Brommel, “but I have my orders. Unless you have enough money to pay the fines on your property…” He paused.
The woman shook her head. “We have a little, but not enough, I’m afraid.”
“Then I have no choice. Your husband must come with me in the morning, whatever condition he’s in.”
The woman came further into the room so that she stood within arm’s length of Brommel. She grasped the edge of her hood and lowered it onto her back. Brommel could see now that he was not wrong about her beauty. This close, he could see the smoothness of her skin, the curve of her brows and lips.
“Take me.” She said these two words with her eyes cast down, but then when Brommel did not reply, she looked up and met his bewildered gaze. “I’ll do whatever you ask. Just please don’t take my husband. Not now.”
Brommel’s gaze faltered. Had she just offered herself to him? Offered to lie with him to protect her husband?
He lifted his glass to his lips and downed the contents in a single swallow. He coughed.
“You want me too—” He coughed again. “You want me to—with you—” This time his cough turned to laughter. The woman’s expression turned fierce.
“How dare you,” she hissed. “You destroy people’s lives and think nothing of ridiculing a woman willing to sacrifice herself to keep her family together.”
Brommel forced himself to control his laughter. “You misunderstand,” he said, trying to sound kind. “I wasn’t laughing at you. You are a beautiful woman.”
The woman’s eyes shifted as though unaccustomed to such comments.
“You are truly lovely,” Brommel added, “and any other man would gladly accept your gracious offer, I’ve no doubt of that. I only laugh because of the irony of it all. A woman such as yourself coming to me, a man so empty and alone that he should readily take you to bed and be grateful for it. But you see, I am empty because of a woman. My wife.”
The woman stepped back. “Oh. You’re married—and are faithful to her.”
“I was married,” said Brommel. “And I have always been faithful to her.”
“She’s gone?”
“Yes, four years now.” He filled his glass a third time and ran his thumb around the rim. “Her memory haunts me each and every day.”
“I’m so sorry.”
In the lantern, the flame sputtered. The woman’s posture relaxed now that the pressure was off. Brommel felt sorry for her, that she would feel that the only way to protect her family was to make herself a whore. By the way she had approached him, he was pretty sure she had never done that before. She was desperate, but Brommel’s unwillingness to take advantage her didn’t rectify her problem. He still had to take her husband. If he didn’t, it would be his own freedom at stake, his own family.
“Want a drink?” Brommel asked. He hooked his foot around the leg of the stool next to him and pulled it closer. The woman hesitated but then sat down. Brommel held up the bottle, repeating his offer.
“No, thank you.”
Brommel set the bottle down and finished off his drink. It would be his last for the night.
“What was her name?” asked the woman gently.
Brommel slid the bottle away from him. “Brielle,” he said.
“That’s beautiful.”
“She was. I had a daughter too. She was just a baby. They are buried together in Hestoria.”
The woman pinched the edge of her cloak and tugged it closer around her. “You must miss them.”
Brommel nodded. Then he got up from his stool and set the half empty bottle on the shelf with the others. There was a small wooden bowl there, as the owner had said. Brommel dropped two coins into the dish.
“What about you?” asked Brommel, returning to the table. “Do you have a name other than Mrs. Sotherby?”
“Arla.”
“Arla.” Brommel repeated the name with deliberate care. It was a strong name, and pretty too. Suiting for the woman who now looked at him with questioning eyes.
“You’re from Hestoria,” said Arla. “I know someone there. Well, she’s from here actually, but she traveled to the mainland a few years ago and hasn’t come back.”
“Why did she leave?”
“To find her husband. He’s there too, somewhere. I don’t really know much about it except that I expected her to return and she never did. You can imagine how worried I’ve been.”
“Hestoria is a large kingdom, but there is always a chance I might have heard of her.”
Arla glanced around, uncertain.
“We’re alone,” assured Brommel.
Arla looked into his face, her eyes determined. “Ivanore,” she sai
d. “Her name is Ivanore.”
23
After Arik’s abusive outburst, Ivanore lay in her bed for hours, staring at the ceiling of her room. Every so often, she was overcome with a fresh wave of tears. What had happened to Arik? What had this monster done with her brother? She had to accept the fact that her brother was gone. Was there any kindness, any love left in him at all? Had she been a fool all this time, believing that he would eventually listen to her, show compassion on her, and end this futile quest to be king of Imaness?
She ached terribly. No bones were broken, she was grateful for that, though she was certain she would be covered with bruises in the morning. Her lip had swollen, though thankfully the bleeding had been minimal and was now clotted. He had never struck her before, except for once on the day he lied to her about sending her home. He had slapped her then. Maybe the Arik she had always known had vanished that day.
Ivanore rolled to her side, ignoring the fire in her shoulder. She thought of the innocent villagers who lay as scraps of flesh somewhere in Hestoria. She thought of their wives and their children. She thought too of other visions she had seen. Was the future unalterable? How much more death would Arik cause? She shuddered to think of it.
There was a rap on her door. Ivanore stiffened with fear. Had Arik come to finish what he had started? Would he kill her and be finally rid of her?
The lock clicked and the door swung open. Erland stepped into the room. He was clean now and dressed in a linen tunic and his favorite brown trousers. His hair was combed neatly to the side, his face shaven.
“Milady?” he asked hesitantly.
“You may enter,” said Ivanore, not bothering to sit up. She hurt too much to get up.
He moved toward her. The lantern on her table was still burning and cast him in a feeble light. He looked at her with sincere concern.
“I’ve come from reporting to Arik,” he said at last. “He was drunk. He told me what happened.”
“Gloated in it, I suppose.”
“No, he seemed sincerely remorseful. He asked me to look in on you.”
“Well, you can tell him I’m alive, if that’s what his conscience is worried about.”
Ivanore placed her hand on the mattress and pushed herself into a sitting position. She grunted from the effort and bit her lip to keep from crying out. Erland’s eyes widened in surprise.
“You’re hurt,” he said.
“What? Didn’t my brother explain the details of our interaction?”
“He told me he lost his temper, that he sent you away in tears.”
“He took the fire iron to me, and after that his fist.” She set her feet on the floor and tried to stand, but the pain had eroded her strength, and her knees collapsed beneath her. Erland moved to catch her, but even the pressure of his hands on her made Ivanore wince. She reached back for the bed and sat down again. Then she let out an ironic laugh.
“I don’t find this at all amusing,” said Erland, his eyes now glowing with anger. “I can’t believe Arik did this to you. He hasn’t been himself lately.”
“Hasn’t he? I hate to admit it, but I think the true Arik has finally revealed himself. To both of us.” She met Erland’s eyes, but he looked away.
“At least tell me you didn’t want to hurt those people,” she said. “Tell me you had no choice, that Arik threatened you, your family, if you didn’t follow his orders.”
Erland met her pleading gaze. “I have no family. Not anymore,” he said. “And I did have a choice. I’m a soldier, Ivanore. You must understand that. My life is to obey the Ministry, to serve the Vatéz.”
“Even when the Vatéz murder innocent people?”
His expression hardened. “Our cause is just,” he said. “We must make Hestoria safe from the Guardians.”
“The Guardians are harmless.”
“They are rebels,” said Erland firmly. “Before Jayson, they were known for their attacks on our men. They killed several members of the Ministry without provocation. They were bent on taking down our government. Don’t you see? We must root them out and finally put an end to their rebellion, or else our very way of life is in danger.”
Ivanore did not see, but she said nothing. It was no use trying to convince Erland that Arik was manipulating him, that the last thing on Arik’s mind was the safety of the Ministry or of Hestoria.
She lay down on her bed, clutching an arm around her bruised ribs.
“I want to sleep now,” she said, closing her eyes.
Several moments passed in silence, and then she felt a cool damp cloth laid across her forehead. Her eyes fluttered open and she saw Erland wiping her brow. He drew the cloth across her cheeks and throat, and down her arms. It felt soothing against her skin, like a lullaby or a whisper.
“Thank you,” she said once he had gotten up to re-wet the cloth in her water bowl.
Erland rung out the rag and returned to kneel beside Ivanore’s bed. “The cool water should ease the swelling. Later, I’ll go to the kitchen and make a poultice. It will help heal your bruises.”
“I didn’t know you were a doctor as well.”
Erland cautiously lifted the hem of Ivanore’s shirt to reveal the swath of purple on her side. He gently pressed the cloth against it. “Soldiers must know something of remedies out in the field where often no other help is available. I’ve saved many a man by stitching up wounds and applying mullein to infections.”
“Sounds like you’ll have a good career once you retire from soldiering.”
Erland chuckled, then moved the cloth to a bruise on Ivanore’s arm. She felt not only the cloth against her skin, but the delicate touch of his fingertips. She could hear his breath, faster than it should be. She opened her eyes to look at him. There was longing in his eyes and conflict. He wanted her, she could see that. It was cruel of her to allow this to continue.
“Erland,” she said, placing her hand atop his, “I need to rest. Thank you for your help, but I think it’s best that you go.”
He closed his eyes and nodded. Then he stood and, draping the cloth over the water bowl, turned for the door. He paused with his hand on the handle.
“If I wasn’t a soldier,” he said haltingly, “if my hands were…clean. Would you—?” his voice faltered. He looked to her to finish his thought, but she could not. Instead, she pulled her quilt up around her shoulders and settled her head deep into her pillow.
“At night,” she said as tenderly as she could, “I dream only of him.”
Erland gave his customary nod, then stepped through the door, pulling it shut behind him.
Ivanore waited for the inevitable clack of the iron lock, reminding her that she was imprisoned once again. She listened for a long time, but the sound never came.
24
“Is the deed done?”
The single candle burning in Arik’s room cast a weak glow throughout the space, giving the impression that Erland had stepped into a crypt instead of sleeping chamber. Arik stood beside his bed, his face hidden in shadow.
“I left the door unlocked,” said Erland, “and the guards have been sent to other posts, just as you asked.”
“Good.” Arik pulled off his tunic and tossed it on the floor. “Be sure the Gorelian is let loose in the morning. There’s no better tracker in all of Hestoria, so I’m told.”
“Do you really think she’ll run?” Erland had his doubts. In the years Ivanore had been in the castle, she had made only one failed attempt to escape and had shown no signs of planning to try again.
Arik pulled back the covers on his bed and smoothed down his sheet with his palm. The he stood back, inspecting it. “She’ll run right into the arms of her dear, beloved, mongrel husband.” He said this with thick sarcasm in his voice. The hatred he felt for Jayson dripped from his lips like blood. Arik wondered what had happened between the two men to bring on such loathing. It was more than the crystal. Had to be. Arik wanted his sister’s crystal shard more than anything, he wanted it enough to kill for it.
But Erland sensed that beneath the surface of Arik’s greed, there was some personal slight he had never forgiven. And his resentment had festered over the years, seething like a pot of boiling stew until it had come to consume him.
Arik sat on his bed. The soft mattress sunk under his weight. He slipped his feet beneath the covers and then he laid back against his pillows and pulled the blanket up to his chest. He sighed deeply, as if savoring the comfort.
Erland began to feel awkward. Arik was a young man, barely twenty, yet he had somehow connived his way to the top of the Ministry, had gained their trust with promises of power. He had promised them Imaness and the island’s vast store of celestine crystal. Now he was bound to give it to them, though the cost be great. Yet here, in this chamber, lying in this bed, Arik looked like a child, a contented grin on his face. It made Erland feel sick. Arik had beaten his own sister bloody, had sent dozens of innocent men to their deaths. He was manipulating Ivanore into betraying Jayson, and yet there he lay like he didn’t have a care in the world.
Erland looked down at his own hands. He had washed them thoroughly when he’d returned that afternoon, had scrubbed the blood out of every pore, but when he looked at his hands, he could still see the blood on them. That is why Arik could sleep so soundly at night, he realized, because Arik sent others to do his deeds for him.
Erland tucked his hands behind his back, out of sight.
“May I take your leave, Minister?” said Erland, careful not to betray his thoughts.
Arik turned his eyes on Erland and studied him. A few moments passed in uncomfortable silence. “Would you like to join me?” Arik asked finally.
Erland bristled. “Excuse me, sir?”
Arik patted the space beside him on the wide bed. “You must be exhausted.” Arik’s voice was sweet yet laced with seduction. “Here, Erland. Come lie with me.”
Erland felt every muscle in his body stiffen with disgust, but he dared not reveal it. Arik had risen to the position of highest power in Hestoria. If Erland should offend him, it was only a matter of time before someone else would take Erland’s place as Captain of the Guard, and what would become of him then? He suspected he would end up like the men of Ralen-Arch.
The Crystal Keeper BoxSet Page 10