Erosan's Tears

by Jason Scott Gleason

  “I’m going to the Artisans’ District, to speak with Master Storbrin. Perhaps I can find out the history of the painting and discover who else may have been interested in purchasing it. Then I will return to the Craftsmen’s District and interview Sir Aertis’s partners and competitors. I want to know everything about this man’s business dealings. I have found that most intrigue has a financial motivation. Perhaps the painting was stolen because someone felt Sir Aertis owed it to him, and the papers that were stolen would incriminate the thief.” Corlwyn paused for a moment, his eyes becoming steely. “When we find the man who believes the painting should have been his, we will find the man behind the murder.”

  Corlwyn turned and walked from the room, his footsteps creaking down the hall. Raelyn considered his words, and the situation he now found himself in. You really have no idea where to begin, do you Corlwyn? You’re looking for a man to pillory, to blame, regardless of whether or not he’s the man who did this. You want to make sure that someone is punished for this, but do you know how to make sure you’re looking for the right man? He thought of the stories he had heard, of men being tortured until they confessed, of people afraid to speak out against him for fear that he would turn his baleful eye toward them.

  But crime had decreased dramatically since he had become High Inquisitor, even in the Wharf District. It had become safe to walk about the Wharf District during the day, when the Watch patrolled. Known rogues and scoundrels had been locked up, perhaps on false charges, but the difference in the city was notable.

  I was one of those men, he thought, silently cursing Corlwyn’s heavy handed tactics. You have never been concerned with whether or not you swept up the innocent with the guilty, with whose life you destroy in the process. If it had not been for the grace of Lord Perinor, where would I be now? If you had your way, I’d be imprisoned right now, or sent to Northkeep to dig trenches until my body fell apart with age. And if you hadn’t been so overzealous in your investigations, if you hadn’t pushed so fast and so far—would I be First Man of the Watch?

  Raelyn thought about the irony of the situation. He had long ago learned to replace his anger with rueful amusement, and he turned to the same sense of detached aloofness that he often felt.

  So Corlwyn will start turning the screws on anyone who was an adversary of Aertis—or more to the point, anyone that anybody else in the city accuses of being his enemy. He’ll push until he has enough accusations to have someone hanged for this. In the meantime, I’m supposed to look at the people most likely to have actually killed him, so he can have someone to put muscle on. Unless someone cracks before that.

  He turned and walked out on the balcony, looking down at the square beneath, at the fountain and the garden and the people. The sun had grown hot in the sky, and the people of the village were gathered around the fountain to find some relief from the summer heat. Craftsmen and their families were talking, laughing, blissfully going about their business, unconcerned with the fact that a murder had been committed just yards away. How many of you could be targeted by Corlwyn’s overzealous investigation? Raelyn asked himself silently. How many of you could have your lives destroyed in the name of Moradarn’s Justice?

  He turned back and walked into the room, his mind on the investigation under Corlwyn’s command. It looks like I’ve only got a little time, then. If I don’t find out who killed Aertis before you start breaking heads, I may never get the chance. Then what happens? Lord Perinor doesn’t have his revenge, Lord Elotarn doesn’t keep his secrets, and Moradarn doesn’t have his Justice.

  Until whoever did this makes a mistake—or until I figure out what mistakes he’s already made—I’m going to be kept rather busy. So Corlwyn will be here, looking for people who would have wanted to hire a killer, and I’ll go where I always go. To the docks.

  He glanced back on to the balcony, and saw how short the shadows had grown. Of course, first I have to meet with the prodigal son and teach him another lesson in humility. His hand went up to his jaw, which was still black and blue from Trevan’s sword. With any luck we’ll both escape the lesson without any new injuries, and I’ll be able to focus on this case. I need to go down to the Wharf District, where I can operate on my own terms, where I can ask questions the way I want to ask them. Where I might be able to discover something useful. Like the person who actually killed the man.

  Chapter Five

  Raelyn was late for Trevan’s lesson, but to his surprise Trevan said nothing. His eye had turned a nasty shade of purple and there was a bandage on his right hand, so Raelyn decided that they would practice footwork instead of point work. If Trevan was grateful for the reprieve, he was too busy sulking to show it.

  His mood didn’t improve during the lesson, and Raelyn was starting to get irritated. You’ve been sheltered your entire life. It’s a pity your brother’s not alive to give you some pointers. You wouldn’t last a week in the Regulars.

  When they were finished with the lesson and were packing up their things, Raelyn walked over to Trevan. “How’s your hand?” he asked, trying to keep the aggravation out of his voice.

  Trevan looked up, and his scowl softened. “It hurts,” he said, unwrapping the bandage so that Raelyn could examine it. It was swollen and bruised, and a thick scab had formed where the point had dug into his wrist, but it wasn’t too bad. Raelyn was a bit relieved.

  “Did you go to the Temple of Erosan?” he asked.

  Trevan shook his head. “I went to the Temple of Moradarn and visited Sir Bastican. He cleaned it and dressed it for me.” Trevan looked a bit uneasy. “Then he told me to visit the Temple of Erosan.”

  Raelyn laughed then, in earnest, and Trevan immediately flushed with anger. “You mock me!” he snapped, balling up his good fist. Raelyn put his hands up and took a step back.

  “Easy there, Trevan,” he said, trying to calm him down. “I wasn’t trying to mock you. You just caught me off guard. There’s nothing wrong with praying to Erosan, even if you hold Moradarn first in your heart. Sir Bastican is right—the Women of Erosan are the best healers in the city. Even the Lord of the Temple says you ought to visit them.”

  Trevan’s eyes narrowed. “I was a devotee of Moradarn. My father forced me to come home when Mardal died, to take his place as his heir. If he had not made me break my vows and leave the temple, I’d be a priest or a Justicar by now.” Trevan gritted his teeth. “I’ve broken my vows to Moradarn once; I will not do so again.”

  Raelyn winced inwardly. No wonder you’re so angry, he thought. You never wanted to inherit your father’s lands and title. All you wanted was to devote your life to Moradarn, and you’ve never forgiven your father for taking that choice from you.

  Raelyn’s tone softened. “Giving homage to Erosan is not a betrayal of your devotion to Moradarn. If it was, the Lord of the Temple wouldn’t advise you to seek out his women. Even the priests pray to each god in its turn. Your hand needs to be healed; I’m sure you’d have Moradarn’s blessing to pray to Erosan for his healing.”

  Trevan seemed unconvinced, but his anger was beginning to fade. “I am trained to be a warrior in service to Moradarn, not some kitchen wife brewing poultices in a cellar. It’s unseemly for a Justicar to hide from pain.”

  “The Healer may seem like an odd god to pray to for a warrior, but he’s the best friend to one that wants to survive. He can heal the wounds of the soul, those that become infected with the demons. Until those wounds are healed, you’ll always be fighting Tarus.

  “You have to keep your anger in check,” Raelyn said awkwardly. “One demon torments every man—for you it’s Tarus. You have to block him out. There are those who harness the demons, especially Tarus, and claim that it makes them stronger in battle. That may be true on the open field, when you want to terrify your enemies and you’re surrounded by chaos, but even then you have to ride him rather than let him rule you. In a duel there’s no room for anger. A duelist keeps his demon caged, knows that its influence poisons the mind. You fig
ht well when you are focused, but when Tarus clouds your mind you become reckless. That’s when I defeated you yesterday—when you lost yourself to him.”

  Trevan looked up, a mix of emotions playing across his face. His voice seemed tense, and Raelyn could not tell if it was respect, resentment, fear, or awe that tinged his words. “You know the roles of the gods well, and understand their rites intimately. You’re telling me how to deal with the priests, even though I was an initiate of Moradarn. I called you ungodly yesterday. How can you live like you do when you know so much?”

  Raelyn snorted. “The army,” he said with a wry grimace. “I’ve gone off to war and seen what men do to each other. War changes men, gives them scars deeper than flesh. When a man comes home from war, he’s consumed by his demon, and he’s more in need of healing than any other man. Erosan offers that healing, and his women do good work. They can help mend the flesh—as well as the soul.” Raelyn looked at Trevan. His eyes were devoid of judgment.

  “When we die, we stand before Aeltharin and Moradarn. The Lady grants us grace for our sins and the Lord judges us for those sins for which we haven’t been forgiven. But for the Lady to forgive us, she must take pity on us for what we have endured. Now, I don’t know if she’ll forgive me everything I’ve done, but I know that for what I’ve gone through, she’ll take some measure of pity on me. And then Moradarn will judge if I have served the gods, and I pray that I have served them enough.” Raelyn looked long at Trevan. “I tell you this not because I stand in judgment—that’s not my place. I hope, for your sake, that you grow into a fine, strong man like your father. He’s wise and has served his people and his gods well. He served in the Vashtik wars with me. He has seen death and pain—and he treats the men below him with grace and compassion. Even the men of lower station and other races, those that a lot of people in his position distain. But it’s the pain that he’s endured that has made him deep. He has lost a wife to child birth and a son to war, and he has seen what crimes men commit in the most desperate of times.”

  They looked at each other for a long moment, silently evaluating one another in the hot sun. Raelyn felt the sweat still trickling down his back, heard gulls crying in the far off breeze, smelled the familiar tang of the salt air of the nearby bay. And he remembered a cold winter, fighting in the mountains, a small band of soldiers-turned-marauders who committed acts for which there could be no justification, should be no salvation—only the prayer of grace. I wonder if this boy, so sheltered by his father who has lost everything else, will ever know deprivation. I wonder if he’ll ever suffer anything that will give him compassion.

  Trevan’s brow furrowed, a question forming on his lips. “When my father commanded you to train me, was it simply in the sword? Or did he think that you could teach me something else? Something that you and he learned but that he can’t speak of?”

  Raelyn chuckled. He still doesn’t understand. Everything has been provided to him. “First of all, your father didn’t ‘command’ me to train you; he pays me to do it. I’m not his bondsman or his servant.” Trevan started to reply, but Raelyn cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Second, he hired me to teach you how to fight. He has raised you to learn the skills of his seneschal and become a lord in his place. He has always had high ambitions for you politically, but when Mardal was killed he became afraid that you would want to go fight in the wars as well. He wanted me to give you the skill you’d need to stay alive, whether you ran off to war or were attacked on the streets of Galavan’s Port. He hired me to teach you how to fence, that’s all.”

  “You knew Mardal well,” Trevan said. It was a statement, but there was a question in it.

  “And you know as well as I do that your father made me promise not to talk to you about him. He wants you to remember your brother as he was when you knew him. He doesn’t want me stirring up emotions, raising questions about your brother’s life or his death or who he was after he left for the campaign in the north. I’ll say only that he was a good man who I held in high esteem, much as I would have held your father if he had served under me as your brother did.”

  “But you don’t look at me that way.” It was a statement. There was no question in this one.

  Raelyn sighed. Trevan had a way of trapping him with words. You’re too clever by half. “Your brother served under me, and I served under your father. We have common bonds, forged by war. Your father will never let you volunteer in the Regulars, and he’d be hanged before he’d let you go to Shaelwyn and enlist in the Shaelese or Orevanthar armies. He needs you here. For his own sanity, if nothing else.” Raelyn paused, picking his words carefully. “I don’t want you to think I don’t respect you. You’re very bright, and excel in everything you try—even swordplay. I think you’ll make a fine lord of the city when you come of age. I know that’s what your father wants for you, and it’s a good life.”

  “But it won’t earn me the respect that I’ll need,” Trevan replied, a note of bitterness creeping into his voice. “There are so many veterans of the Vashtik campaigns, so many men who come home with ties to soldiers and mercenary companies. How will I command the respect of those men? The respect of the soldiers who defend the city? What if we have another Coscan rebellion, or the fragile peace between the Vashtik Kingdoms and Galavan’s Port is broken and we’re invaded? How would I fare then?”

  In spite of himself, Raelyn couldn’t help but laugh. “You’ll be fine, Trevan,” he replied, his levity genuine. “You think that I answered to a bunch of soldiers when I was serving the city? Of the five high lords, your father is the only one who has served in war—the others only commanded men from a distance, if they campaigned at all! And of the ‘statesmen’ who sit in the Chamber of Freemen? No more than a handful have served in the Vashtik wars, and I dare say that most of their service has been embellished well beyond their accomplishments. No, they rule this city for one of two reasons: either they’re wise and strong and respected for their vision or leadership, or they pander to the masses and are good at throwing their coin around. But I served them, and I’d do it again if called to.” Raelyn shook his head. “Don’t worry about how the people will look to you if you haven’t gone to war. You only need to curry favor with the men your father suggests. You’ll inherit his lands and his treasury, and probably his position and title as well. As long as you don’t squander his lands, you don’t have to worry about losing his position as one of the high lords of the city. And if you command the men as your father commands them, you’ll have their respect as your father does.”

  Raelyn sheathed Tempest. “I will be away tomorrow,” Trevan said, breaking Raelyn’s reverie. His voice had resumed its regular imperious tone, the one that grated on Raelyn’s nerves. “I’ll speak to my father about your schedule and your payment. Expect to come again the day after, at eleven. And try not to show up drunk from the night before.”

  “Yes, my lordling,” Raelyn said, a half bow mocking Trevan. He turned, walking toward the gate that led from the courtyard to High Street. “But don’t worry about talking with your father about my wages. That’s an arrangement between me and him, and until you start paying my wage, I’d just as soon you stay out of my purse.” He reached for the gate, lifting the latch and swinging it open.

  “How will I command that respect from you?” Trevan’s question was unexpected, as was the tone of his voice. Raelyn stopped and turned, regarding Trevan with a long look. There was no hint of sarcasm, no trace of accusation.

  “I don’t know, Trevan. I suppose you’ll have to earn it.” Trevan’s face didn’t change. “Your father dotes on you. People do your bidding to curry favor with him, and in the hopes that they’ll find favor with you as well, when you assume his position. But you give me nothing. I’ve lost my chance at station in life, so your father can’t give me anything but payment for my services. And I guess I’m too old or broken to think that you can restore me to what I could have been.” Raelyn thought for a moment. “You want my respect? Be the man
your father sees in you, and you’ll have it.”

  Trevan nodded, a curt, silent nod. Raelyn saw the calculating look in his eyes. What are you thinking? he asked himself. Trevan’s face was impenetrable. Raelyn gave up hope of reading his expression.

  “I want to know one more thing,” Trevan said, holding Raelyn with his gaze. “Earlier you spoke of my demon, Tarus. My anger clouds my vision. What is your demon, Raelyn? What is it that torments you?”

  “That is a very personal thing you ask,” Raelyn replied with a chuckle, smiling as he turned. But behind the smile, his guts started to tighten. You want to know my demon so that you can call him to me, to use it to control me. You want to know my weaknesses so that you can use them against me, make me lose my composure in a fight. He walked through the gate, out into the street.

  The question isn’t what demon torments me, though. The real question is, why? Why am I tormented by Etos? The demon of craving.

  Chapter Six

  Raelyn spent the following day in the Wharf District, visiting people and places he had known since he was a boy. He had grown up there, on the east side of Fisherman’s Row, among the warehouses and small apartments that were crammed on the shoreline, fighting for space between the Warden Street Canal and the docks. Rough people lived here, working back breaking days and drinking long into the night, but they had a fierce loyalty for their own. He hadn’t known anything else as a child, playing in filth strewn alleys with the other boys, fighting with wooden swords and stealing mince pies from the vendors that sold lunches to the longshoremen. Every block had its own gang, it seemed; with his quick wits and tough bravado, Raelyn had been king of the Seventh Street Ogres, as they had called themselves. But that was in his childhood, before Lord Perinor had taken him in, when he was the only son of a washerwoman who would bring home sailors when she had to make rent.