Ipid thought about the people who had been placed in his care. His first thought was for all those dead on the field across the river, of those buried under the remnants of the city he called home. Failure. He thought about his workers, saw them now as Dasen had. How was it that their haunted eyes had never registered before? Their dirty faced? Their broken bodies? Even if he claimed that they were better off than the serfs working the fields, did that mean he had helped them? Could he say he had taken responsibility for them? And if so, could it be called success? Suddenly, he felt sick. He had betrayed his people long before the battle of Thoren. His profits had been astronomical, his wealth legendary, yet he had spared none of it for the men in his care, for those who made it all possible. And now he wanted to protect them from the Darthur? Were they really any worse off under the yoke of that master than under his?
He laughed bitterly. “It is what I deserve, locked out of the house I have built on the backs of those I now wish to save? If I’d wanted to save them, I should have started a long time ago.”
Eia rubbed a tear from his cheek with a cool finger and then ran it down his chin. “Among my order, we have a saying about the freewill given to us by Hilaal, ‘it is a blessing to be able to make our own choices and a curse to have to live with them.’ However, my mother used to tell me something that may be of more use to you, ‘you can stop making bad choices anytime you want.’ That is the center of my beliefs. Hilaal gave us the ability to make our own choices. It is our responsibility to live with the consequences, good and bad. But you cannot allow yourself to think that bad choices in the past have locked you into making them in the future. That is the very definition of freewill. The blessing of Hilaal is that we never need be locked into a course. We can always choose.”
Ipid stared into Eia’s eyes a few inches from his own, seemed to get lost in their dark depths until he barely heard her. He felt her soft, cool hand on his cheek. The other rubbing the side of his arm. Her body so close that he could almost feel her pressed against him. He had not been this close to a woman since . . . . He cleared his throat and backed away. “Thank you for that. I think our counselors would disagree, but I appreciate the sentiment.”
“Not yet a convert? Well, a girl has to try.” She laughed, a small, high twitter, then ran down the steps from the door to the cobblestone carriageway that led to it. She bent and pried a hand-sized stone from the ground, hefted it with some effort, and returned to the door. “Let us reclaim your glory,” she said as she threw the rock through the thick glass next to the door. It shattered with a startling crash. Glass flew in, leaving a ragged hole surrounded by daggers.
As Ipid stood stunned, she reached her hand into the gap until it had taken her entire arm. She fumbled for a moment, then with a click, the door swung open. “Not very subtle but effective,” she declared as she drew her hand from the window.
Ipid gawked. “Why didn’t you use your magic? You can transport thousands of men thousands of miles, you can destroy an entire city, but you can’t open a door?”
Eia laughed. “It does seem an irony, doesn’t it? Perhaps later I can explain it all, but at the moment, I am powerless. The energy I draw upon to use my gift is dependent upon human emotion. Here, where there are no people, there is no power. My gift is worthless. If you wanted to be rid of me, now would be the perfect time.” On that disturbing note, she walked past him through the door.
Inside, the house was every bit as empty as it had seemed. Silence greeted them. Dust hung in the air, shimmering in the morning sun that shone through the windows to either side. The walls were bare where great landscape paintings from one of Thoren’s most renowned artists had hung. The delicate painted vases on either side of the entranceway were missing as well, only the pillars that supported them remained. No flowers greeted their entrance, springing fresh and full of fragrance from those vessels. No servant waited to greet them, take their hats, and make them welcome. At least they left the rug, Ipid thought as he looked down the hall to the interior of the house. Certainly, he had meant what he said in his letter, but he also had not expected to be returning to this house, had not expected the shock of seeing it empty.
Eia wrapped her cool hand around his, moved in close so that her shoulder bumped against his arm. “Welcome home,” she said with a sly smile.
“It barely feels like it. I’ve never known this house without the servants that make it run. It doesn’t feel right without them.” He thought. “I barely even know where the kitchen is? Who knows if they left us any food?” Suddenly, his own house seemed a daunting burden. How would he provide for them for seven days without his servants? Where did the food even come from? Ever since he had moved in, it just magically appeared. Surely, someone purchased the meat, selected the vegetables, baked the bread. But he had only the slightest idea who those people were, let alone how they did all those things.
“It’s a good thing I brought some then,” Eia said as she pulled a small bag from a pocket in her voluminous robe. “Do you think you can manage water and a fire before we eat?”
Ipid thought. Water. There must be a well somewhere . . . or a pump like the ones in the upstairs rooms. As regards fire, there were fireplaces in nearly every room, and even in this month, they should be stocked with wood. Now, he just had to remember where the kitchen was. He guessed that it must be near the dining room, probably through the door the servers used to bring his food. “I am ashamed to admit how helpless I am in my own house, but I think we’ll find what we need this way.”
Still holding Eia’s hand, feeling his palm grow sweaty, his breath and heart quicken, he led her down the hall, past an empty sitting room, along a barren hall, to the third door. Inside, the long, polished table and chairs remained – twenty feet long it had probably been too large to remove – but the crystal chandelier did not loom over the table, the side boards, china cabinets, wall-sized paintings were missing. Only the slightest outlines on the cream-colored walls showed where those items had adorned the room. But somehow, those absences allowed Ipid to see the swinging door at the far end of the room that he had previously managed to ignore. It was painted and paneled to match the walls, was nearly invisible and set behind the table’s head. He allowed himself that excuse for not having considered it before.
He led Eia through the door, past a small staging area, and into a part of his house he had never entered. The kitchen was far larger than he would have guessed – bigger even than the dining room it served. Two long, sturdy tables with thick blocks of scarred, blood-stained wood for their tops consumed most of the space. A great cast iron stove nearly as long as Ipid was tall stood at one end. The dark metal was cold. The doors to the firebox stood open. Heavy lids covered the burners. Likewise, the mammoth fireplace and oven were lifeless, but Ipid could imagine the heat that must radiate from this room when all those sources were engaged. In the already stifling heat, the very thought left him queasy.
Releasing his hand, Eia walked past the tables to a small windows that looked out over rows of vegetables that had been walled off from the formal gardens. “That will help,” she said then turned to a great basin with a pump above it. In a few short strokes, she had water pouring from the bronze spigot. She ducked her head under the stream and drank in a very unladylike way. When she came back up, her face sparkled with moisture and a few of her curls were plastered in place. She took a deep breath and wiped her face on her robe with a smile. “Ahhh, I was dying of thirst.”
She smiled again as Ipid plucked a wooden cup from a nearby counter and pumped the handle. “Are cups too much a part of the Order for you?” he asked when he had drained it.
Eia slapped the back of her hand into his chest. “I am not constrained by your need for such formalities.” She blushed slightly and turned away. “Now, if we can find something to heat it in, we can have bathes.”
Ipid looked around the kitchen. Other than the few crude dishes and utensils meant for the servants, it was barren. The hooks along th
e walls hung empty. The blocks held no knives. To his right, a series of painted doors stood open, the cabinets they protected dark, empty caverns. Ipid began to wonder how many wagons they had used. There must have been a veritable caravan leaving his estate. “I am at a loss,” he admitted. “I never even stopped to think about all the people, all the effort that went into maintaining this house. I would have no idea where the pots were if they were still here to find.”
“That will do,” Eia said, pointing out the window. She led him through a door to a great copper watering can sitting on a stump. “We can fill it and hang it over the fire. Can you bring it inside?”
Thinking to finally be useful, Ipid tried to lift the can. It barely budged. He looked at it again. It was full of water. “I’ll have to dump the water,” he said and began tilting the great vessel.
“No don’t! We’ll just have to fill it again.”
“It’s not clean. There are bugs in it.”
“I suspect the boiling will take care of them. Can you carry it?”
Ipid looked at the can. It must be five gallons, forty pounds. It didn’t sound like a lot, but he hadn’t lifted anything heavier than a ledger in years. He put both hands on the heavy wooden handle and eased it off the stump. Then huffing and puffing in a most embarrassing display, he waddled into the kitchen and dropped the can with a splash before the fireplace. Panting, he wiped his brow with his sleeve and cursed his deficiencies.
Eia smiled, suppressing a laugh. “It needs to go on the hook. Do you need some help?”
“No, I’ll manage,” Ipid snapped. He stared at her, but it only seemed to increase her amusement, so he wiped his sweat-soaked hands on his pants and, with a grunt, lifted the can and placed it on the heavy hook that swung out over the fireplace. He shook his arms – they were trembling from the effort – and rubbed his aching hands together. But Eia was still looking at him, smile slowly growing. “What?”
“We need wood for the fire. There is some stacked along the wall outside.”
Ipid felt foolish having to be ordered to complete simple, obvious tasks. Had he really become so dependent upon the labor of others that he could not even think for himself? He returned to the garden and found the split logs stacked under a great tarp along the side of the house. Conveniently, a square of leather with two handles rested on top of the stack. He took it down and loaded logs across the leather. When he had enough to fill the square with a jagged pyramid, he pulled up the handles. The logs barely moved from the ground. After another minute unloading, he made another shambling journey to the fireplace.
Eia waited with the same amused expression. “Are you alright?”
Ipid realized that he was dripping with sweat as he stretched his back like the old man he must appear to be. “I’m . . . well . . . I haven’t had to do this sort of thing in a number of years.”
“I can tell.” Eia lifted logs from the pile and stacked them in the iron grate of the fireplace.
“I used to work the caravans, you know.” Ipid felt a strange need to justify himself. “I could throw fifty pound bag ten feet to the top of the wagon. Not that I was a laborer. I negotiated the sales and kept the accounts, but I could toss cargo when I needed to.”
“I’m sure it was an impressive display.” Eia smirked. She had created a stack of logs but had left no space between them for air, had no kindling to start them. Even Ipid knew that would never work.
“How are you expecting to get a fire out of that? The logs are too . . . .”
That was as far as he got. Eia rose, grabbed his shirt, and kissed him. She held him close and would not let him go. She took the very breath from him, filled his mind with thoughts he had not allowed himself in twelve years, made his entire body tingle. He was just starting to accept her, to wrap his arm around her, to surrender to her passion, to grow comfortable with the movement of their lips and tongues.
Eia pushed him violently away. He slammed into the heavy table, felt pain stabbing through his back. She slapped him. “You fucking bastard!” she yelled and hit him again on the other side.
Ipid stood for a long moment, stunned. He stared into Eia’s eyes. And she laughed. She threw her head back and laughed, full and deep. Ipid’s shock turn to anger. He clenched his fists, felt the blood rise in his face. He came forward, prepared to scream.
Eia turned to the fire. Ipid felt his anger sucked away. A second later, fire erupted from the logs in a roar then settled into a blaze that rose up the can of water, turning the ruddy copper green. Ipid stared and stammered.
“Don’t look at me like that.” Eia caught his hand in hers, held it gently. Ipid tried to shake it away, sputtered to form his accusations. “I’m sorry, but wasn't that better than throwing sparks at tinder for an hour?”
Ipid felt his anger fading, replaced by confusion. “So all that . . . all that was just to . . . ?”
“Not all of it,” Eia smiled and took his hand again. “Part of it was real. But I won’t tell you which part.” She laughed. “Now, do you think you could find some wine to go with what I’ve brought? Or do you not know where that comes from either?
#
Ipid’s eyes drifted to slits as he laid in a barely tepid bath. The breeze stirring the curtains to his side evaporated just enough of the water on his bald head and naked shoulders to make him wish the water were warmer. But he had nowhere near the energy that would be required to fulfill that desire.
The only thing keeping him from dozing was the lists of worries clogging his mind. Dasen. Wildern. The village boys. His countrymen. Eia. When his mind tried to encompass them all, it felt like the very fate of the world hung on what he would do in the next week. Yet, even with all those concerns, his mind returned time and again to Eia.
Somehow, he could not get past the way she had kissed him, the sensation of her slim body pressed against him, her hand held in his, the way she watched him while they ate their meagre lunch. His mind returned relentlessly to those sensations, projected them, transformed them into fantasies that went far beyond reality. He cast those thoughts from his mind again and again, forced it back to the hard realities he had to face, the distance he had to maintain, the betrayal so fresh. But even those grim reminders kept fading to dreams of what lie beneath Eia’s robes. Finally, he gave in. He allowed himself to imagine how things might have gone in the kitchen, how he might have pulled off her robe, kissed her breasts, pushed her onto one of the tables, and. . . . Arching his back, he released his desire into the water of his bath, felt the water splashing into his face as his hand churned it below the surface.
When he was done, he felt nothing but tired and guilty. “Pathetic,” he said to himself. Certainly, it was not the first time he had done that in the twelve years since his wife had died. It wasn’t even the first time he had fantasized about someone other than Kira, but this was the first time he’d wanted the fantasy to be real, the first time that his hand had felt like a failure.
Rising from the water, Ipid jerked the towel from the stand next to the tub – the servants had not removed a single item from his room when they cleared the house – and buried his face in it. You can’t do this, he told himself. You have too much to do, too much to think through. And she is one of them. She cannot be allowed to cloud your judgment.
Stepping from the bath, Ipid walked to his shaving table. Normally, Elton would shave him. The thought brought a lump to his throat. He had spared barely a thought for the Morg who had died in his service. He had not even sent a letter to his wife when he had the chance. He grasped the copper bowl before him and felt the world spin. How could I have forgotten that? And now I have no way of knowing where they are. Elton had a house in the village on this side of the river. Had Paul taken his wife and children with them when they left? And what would become of them now? With a sigh, Ipid promised himself that he would do better, that he would stop failing the people who depended upon him, that he would work harder to protect them.
Slowly, carefully, he sha
ved away the few days of salt and pepper stubble that had accumulated on his chin, cheeks, and neck. All the while, he stared at the slim face in the mirror wondering where that man had come from. He felt his sagging stomach, slim arms, and somehow solid legs. He was as thin as he had likely been since before he married Kira over twenty years ago. Surprisingly, that fitness had left him looking older. Where the swelling of his face had kept the skin tight, the deflation left sags. But worst of all were his eyes. The clear blue he remembered seeing there just a month before had faded to grey. The white had dimmed to pale yellow streaked with red. The skin around them sagged beyond bags. The lids above drooped. These were the eyes of an old man, an old man who had seen a hard life.
What could Eia ever see in this? he asked himself. I look like I’m preparing to step into my grave. He shook himself. Enough! I cannot do this. I have already failed too many times, in too many ways. I have to double my efforts. I have to be more, to do more. I cannot have the distraction. I cannot allow my thoughts to be so scattered, my emotions so muddled, my confidence riding on the flitting smile of a mercurial, Order-defying invader. I need her, but I cannot allow her to do this to me.
He looked at himself hard in the mirror, built his resolution, then decided. Purely professional. Our relationship will be purely professional. I will tell her. No more kissing. No more holding hands. No more teasing. I have to be able to focus, and that means she cannot be constantly in my head.
And so, Ipid found his clothes, dressed, and began to write letters. He resolved to forget about Eia, to think of her as nothing but a trade partner or engineer in his employ. But his mind did not seem to agree.
#
“My lord, dinner is ready!” interrupted Ipid from his work.
He looked down at the stacks of letters arrayed around his desk, his ink-stained fingers, his most recent set of scratches. He had completed a score of letters in the last few hours. They stood in two stacks. The first for the families of his guards and the few dead boys whose names he knew well enough to address a letter. The second and much shorter were to officials in Wildern, the first to the Chancellor. Near copies, they told his story, explained what was likely to happen in a week’s time, and urged them to surrender, to accept the Darthurs’ terms, and, even then, to evacuate the city, to save as many lives as they could before the destruction began. Looking now from the latest of those letters, he rubbed his eyes, smearing them with ink so they looked bruised, and wondered what he would possibly do with these stacks of paper.
The False Martyr Page 5