Transcendence and Rebellion

by Michael G. Manning

  Irene’s cheeks flushed with anger. “If you’re suggesting that…”

  “I am not telling you to do anything, young lady,” said Rose calmly, her cool tone cutting Irene off. “You’re old enough to make your own decisions. I’m simply sharing my observations about you and your siblings, so you can make intelligent decisions.

  “When your mother died, your brother, Conall, took on the role of protector. Your departed sister, Moira, took on the role of nurturer, as odd as that seems. Neither of them were really ready for those parts, but they tried,” explained Rose.

  Irene’s eyes narrowed. “And what about him?” she asked, referring to Matthew.

  “Matthew was forced to become the leader, ill-equipped though he is to deal with it.” Moving to the stove, Rose took up the kettle and then began to pour the steaming water over the tea strainer. “Do you know what the worst part of a leader’s job is?” asked Rose.

  Irene said nothing.

  “They take the blame,” said Rose, answering her own question. “Without making excuses, they accept the blame for whatever happens, whether it’s really their fault or not. Leaders don’t take credit for success—they give that to those they lead—and when things go wrong, they accept responsibility for any and all mistakes.

  “Your father did that in the past. He was an excellent scapegoat, even for the Queen. But he also had a remarkable ability to inspire trust in people. His charisma, and your mother, kept him from being completely ostracized for all the tough decisions he had to undertake. Unfortunately, Matthew didn’t inherit that from him, and your mother is gone,” finished Rose somberly.

  Feeling uncertain, Irene spoke up, “I don’t know what you think I’m supposed to do, but I’m not going to forgive him just because you think—”

  “I am only sharing my experience, Irene,” said Rose, cutting her off once again. “What you choose to do with it is entirely up to you.” Then she motioned toward the cupboard. “If you’ll get the cups and saucers, we can serve the tea now.”

  ***

  As Irene and Rose returned to the room and everyone began sorting through the latest shock, Karen ducked out and went to find Matthew. It would have been a simple task for any mage normally, but the house was divided by a number of separate privacy wards that shielded both the house as a whole and individual rooms within it, preventing her from spotting him with her magesight.

  He wasn’t in his bedroom—a room he had been sharing with her—nor was he in the hall. She didn’t think he would have gone into any of the other rooms, so the best option was the workshop behind the house. As soon as she stepped outdoors, the scope of her magesight expanded and she knew then that he wasn’t outside, meaning he had almost certainly gone into the workshop.

  It was a safe bet in most circumstances, since it had always been his preferred place to think, and she wasn’t disappointed this time. Opening the door and stepping in, she found him standing at the drafting table, a large, blank sheet of parchment stretched out in front of him. There was a pen in his hand, hovering above the page as though he might start writing or sketching at any moment, but it didn’t move.

  His eyes stared through the page, blank and devoid of purpose.

  “What are you doing?” she asked mildly.

  Matthew’s voice was numb as he replied, “The only thing I can.”

  “Which is?”

  His eyes darted to her for a moment, then returned to the emptiness before him. “Thinking. Searching for a solution.”

  Karen moved a little closer, painfully conscious of the tension in the air around him. “You look stuck,” she remarked, noting how the muscle in his jaw tensed as he received her words.

  “This is always how it starts,” he responded coolly, “with a blank page. If I stare at it long enough, something will come to me.”

  She wanted to touch him, to pull some of the tension out of his shoulders, but she knew better than to try. At moments like this, any contact would only make him push her away. It was a lesson she had learned slowly over time. As rational as he seemed, when Matthew was upset the only way to approach him was slowly, from the sides. He wouldn’t talk about what really bothered him. She would have to sneak up on it by getting him to talk about something else. “Is this how you usually begin?” she asked.

  He nodded without looking at her. “First I define the problem.”

  “Tell me.”

  “My father is going to destroy the world, simply by existing,” Matthew muttered.

  That was news to her, so she asked him to clarify, keeping her questions neutral, and he did. Speaking dispassionately, he described what he had learned from Rose and how it fit with his own observations. It took several minutes for him to explain it all, and throughout his exposition his voice remained calm, clinical, and devoid of emotion.

  Except she knew he wasn’t devoid of anything. While she was still learning to interpret the aythar around others, she knew enough to know that the flickering of his aura reflected a disturbance in his heart and mind. When he finished, she offered her own suggestion, “That was a lot to take in, even given the fact that he’s not my father. I don’t think you’re going to find an answer by trying to think it over logically.”

  His aura flashed as he looked at her, and in his features she could see desperate frustration. “What are you saying?” he asked.

  “Everyone thinks you’re cold and calculating,” began Karen, “but whether they realize it or not, you’re very creative. This problem requires a creative solution, but creativity doesn’t come from logic. That’s why you stare at a blank page.”

  Matthew’s brows furrowed as he listened, but he didn’t reply.

  Karen went on, “Creativity comes from boredom. That’s what a blank page represents, boredom. But it won’t work for you, not now.”

  “Why not?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Because the last thing you are right now—is bored. You’re human. You’re blaming yourself for what happened to Moira, to Conall. You know how angry Irene is. You know how shocked and upset everyone in the house is. Your heart and mind are full to the brim with a riot of emotions. The very last thing you could possibly be is bored,” said Karen.

  “I can’t help that,” he muttered angrily.

  “Yes, you can,” she informed him. “Go back in the house and listen. Talk to your family. Answer their questions. Argue with them.”

  He released the tension suddenly with a long sigh. “That won’t help anything. Besides, with only a quick peek I can see the outcome. There’s no point in having a conversation when I know it won’t solve anything.” A tiny drop of ink fell from the pen that had been hovering so long, unused, above the page. Matthew glared at it as though it had betrayed him.

  “Idiot,” Karen reprimanded softly. “You’re so smart, but you don’t even understand yourself sometimes. You don’t go back in there to solve anything. You go in there and talk to your family to drain the wound. They won’t be satisfied until you do, and neither will you. You talk until they can’t stand it anymore, until you can’t stand it anymore—until your heart and soul are so sick of it you can’t bear to even think about it. You have to wear your emotions down, wear them out. Once you’ve done that, you’ll be too tired to think. You can go to bed and sleep. Then, when you wake up tomorrow, and your mind refuses to look back, then you can be bored, then your answers will start to form. Right now, you’re just wasting time.”

  He stared at her for a moment, then whispered, “First Irene, now you—today has been full of surprises.” Putting the pen away, he took out some sand and blotted the spot on the page before lifting his hand to rub his face, leaving a dark smudge beside one eye. “You’re right,” he admitted, then started toward the door.

  Karen moved to block his path, holding out her arms. “Advice doesn’t come cheap. You have to pay for what you get.”

  With little resignation and a wry smile, he hugged her. “How could I forget that?”

  “You�
�ll learn eventually,” she told him.

  Chapter 34

  Chad Grayson sat at his favorite table, tucked away in the back corner of the Muddy Pig. Ordinarily, that was all he needed to be content, but this particular morning he was in a sour, sullen mood. In fact, his mood was a holdover from the previous two days, and the fact that he had a hangover did nothing to help.

  Danae stood behind the bar, cleaning cups with her hands, while her mind remained with the hunter. He was the only customer, since it wasn’t even yet midday. Technically the tavern wasn’t supposed to be open yet, but she had let Chad in, despite her misgivings.

  “There’s something wrong, Danni,” groused Chad, using the name he often called her when ‘Danae’ somehow became too difficult for him.

  “It’s called ‘morning,’” she replied sourly.

  “No, not that,” he muttered, scratching his head with both hands while resting his chin on the table in front of him. “Something’s really wrong.”

  “I’m not closing the shutters,” she warned. “This place needs to air out while there’s plenty of sun, so you’ll just have to deal with it.”

  “It’s not that either,” he muttered. “Well, that’s part of it, but that’s not all of it. I think I’m dying.”

  “You’re sobering up,” she informed him, tossing her head to get a stray piece of hair out of her eyes. No matter how she tried, some always escaped her ponytail.

  Chad looked at her with mournful, red-rimmed eyes. “That’s terrible. I shouldn’t be getting sober. It’s only been two days.”

  “Three days,” she corrected automatically.

  “Three days,” he agreed with a nod. “But I distinctly remember planning to be drunk for a full week. This is too soon.”

  “Too bad,” she told him. “I’m not giving you anything else until this evening.”

  His face twisted into a grimace, but then an idea occurred to him. “What about the two bottles I promised the lady in Iverly?”

  “Eddard packed those up yesterday,” said Danae. “They’ve already gone with the weekly courier.”

  “It would probably be better if I delivered them meself,” suggested Chad hopefully. “Why not pack up another two and I’ll take them with me?”

  “Not a chance,” she replied. “Eddard is coming back with lunch before we open. I told him to bring extra for you. You’ll feel better with some ham and eggs in your belly.”

  “You’re trying to kill me,” whined the hunter. A few seconds later, when she hadn’t responded, he added, “Won’t you kill me, Danni? Please? I’d rather be dead than sober.”

  She knew he meant it in jest, or at least he pretended to mean it that way, but over the past few days she had learned better. Danae had gotten fairly close to the archer over the years, closer than anyone else, at least. In better times, they had occasionally been lovers, but while she had once wished for more, he had never let her into his heart. Now they were just friends, drinking buddies, and occasionally, when she had too many to exercise better judgment, bedmates.

  Since he had returned from whatever dark hell he had been wandering in, his mood had been blacker than pitch, and when he was at his drunkest, he had begged her earnestly to put an end to his life. Seeing Chad like that frightened her, for even at his worst he had never been suicidal.

  Keeping her worries to herself, she left the bar and walked over to the table he sat at, ruffling his hair with one hand. It was oily and stiff. “Eat with us when Eddard gets here. If you do that and take a bath, I’ll let you have a glass early,” she said, relenting out of pity.

  His face perked up, sensing an opening. “How about before the bath? I don’t think I can handle the water with my head aching like this.”

  Danae sighed. “Eat first, then I’ll think about it.”

  The front doors banged open, and Eddard was silhouetted in them, with the bright morning sunshine streaming around him. Chad winced at the sudden increase in lighting. Then Eddard announced, “There’s a stranger in town, looking for a bowyer.”

  “There ain’t one here!” barked Chad. “Tell him to go to Arundel. Old Mattley will take care of him.”

  A second figure entered, pushing past Eddard. This one was taller, more muscular, and familiar, even to Chad’s somewhat blurry eyesight. “I don’t actually need a bowyer, just a bow,” said the stranger in a low, resonant voice. “Perhaps you have one to sell.”

  Chad knew that voice, and a chill ran down his spine. Reaching under the table, he patted Danae’s knee to get her attention. “Go out the back,” he whispered earnestly. “Go home. Don’t come back until…”

  The stranger approached the table, a gleam in his eyes that only made the strange tattoos running down his arms seem even stranger. “It’s really you, isn’t it?” asked Tyrion, his voice full of wonder. “I never thought I’d have the luck to see your face again.”

  Danae stepped forward protectively, placing herself between the newcomer and Chad’s seat. “He’s not in any condition to bargain,” she informed the stranger. “Your best bet is to go to Arundel.”

  Tyrion stared at the bartender, his gaze boring into her. Slowly his eyes tracked down, then up again, as he took stock of her—then he smiled. “Your guard dog is pretty, Grayson,” he announced. “You should call her off before something bad happens to her.”

  Chad had risen unsteadily to his feet, and he put a hand on Danae’s shoulder. “This ain’t your fight, Danni. Go home.”

  She saw a telltale flicker of steel as Chad pushed her aside, and she knew immediately what he was doing. Going with the flow, she pretended to stumble before seizing a nearby chair and spinning to swing it at the newcomer’s head.

  For a split second, she saw it all, Chad moving with that uncanny speed he sometimes displayed, a long knife in one hand, and then she was flying. Her body struck the wall with enough force to drive the wind from her lungs, but she didn’t slide down. Some unseen force kept her pinned there, her feet not quite able to reach the floor. When her vision cleared, she could see Chad sprawling belly up on top of one of the tables, apparently also caught by the same invisible power.

  Tyrion was leaning over him, grinning. “Isn’t this a heartwarming reunion?”

  “Go fuck yerself!” swore Chad, and then he spat in Tyrion’s face—or at least he tried to. Whatever kept him pinned down stopped the spittle mere inches from his lips and it dribbled back down to land on the archer’s cheeks.

  At that moment, Eddard slammed the chair in his hands down over Tyrion’s head, but the only result was a broken chair. The man stared at it in open-mouthed horror.

  Unfazed, Tyrion took a moment to address Eddard, “The reason I haven’t bothered looking at you, slackwit, isn’t because I didn’t know you were there, but because I have absolutely no reason to even consider your presence. Get out, and don’t even think about bringing others unless you want to turn this bar into a slaughterhouse.” Then he looked back at the helpless archer. “The last time we met, you didn’t even greet me properly before trying to kill me.”

  “I don’t give two shits what you think you dickless—,” Chad’s words cut off abruptly as something blocked his nose and mouth.

  “At least I had the manners to say hello before killing you,” said Tyrion as he watched the hunter’s face slowly turn red, then purple.

  “Please,” begged Danae. “Whatever your quarrel is, please don’t kill him.”

  Tyrion studied her for a moment, as though seeing her for the first time, then walked over to inspect his other captive. “Is this your woman, Master Grayson?” he asked as he reached out and lifted her chin with one finger. When the hunter failed to reply, he glanced back. “Oh, that’s right, you’re suffocating to death.”

  Suddenly able to breathe again, Chad drew several great, heaving lungfuls of air. “Leave her out o’ this. She’s just a barmaid. I hardly know her.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I examine her a little more closely,” commented Tyrion, letti
ng his hand drift down from Danae’s chin to squeeze her breast. Her head jerked to the side as she tried to escape.

  “I said leave her alone!” screamed Chad, causing the table to buckle slightly as he struggled against the shield holding him down.

  Tyrion stepped back from Danae, a faint smile creeping across his face as he looked at Chad once again. “I thought so.”

  “Just kill me, asshole,” cursed the hunter. “If that’s what you want, I don’t give a damn.”

  Tyrion stopped, becoming utterly still for several seconds as he locked eyes with the hunter who had once tried to assassinate him. “You really want me to, don’t you? You truly want to die.”

  “No!” yelled Danae.

  Raising one finger, the former Duke of the Wester Isles sealed Danae’s lips, though he left her nose free to breathe. “As much as you might want to think I came here to kill you, Master Grayson, our meeting today is pure happenstance. Not that I wouldn’t mind ending your miserable existence, but now that I see your utter despair, I find myself wanting you to live. That’s the only way you can suffer, really suffer.”

  Chad found the force holding him down suddenly gone, but before he could leap up from the table, Tyrion’s voice warned him, “I hold her life in my hands. Don’t test my patience.”

  The hunter said nothing, staring fiercely at his antagonist with spite-filled eyes.

  “Go get your bow, Master Archer, preferably the same one you shot me with, and bring the enchanted arrows as well, however many you have left.” Walking over to Danae, Tyrion released her and gently eased her down until her feet touched the floor, then he led her over to an empty table where he sat down and gestured to his lap. “Have a seat,” he told her.