by Lee Bezotte
Son thought for a moment, then answered, “Yes, I believe I remember seeing one.”
“Excellent. Tromdel must have returned it after Faymia and I fled to the south,” the man said. “Please come with me.”
Dulnear and Son walked behind the ruined house to the outbuilding. The wagon that Dulnear had been forced to tow to Shenndel’s property had indeed been returned there, and the two of them began to pull it around to the front of the house.
As they worked together, Son told Dulnear all about his encounter with Searfain. When he reached the part about the man falling down the stairs and dying he hesitated, and looked away. “I didn’t mean for him to die,” he said with a tremble in his voice.
Dulnear swelled with sympathy. He knew the gentle boy’s heart well. He stopped pulling, walked to Son, and bent down on one knee. Looking him in the eyes, he said, “I know that you did not. I do not believe that you would ever want anyone to die.” A tear formed in the man’s eye and he continued, “His own violent heart is what killed him. It was not you.” He then pulled Son close and the boy wept. “Thank you for believing in me, Son,” he said. “We are almost finished here, and then I will never return.”
“Promise?” his young friend asked, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his coat.
“Promise,” the man from the north said, wiping a tear from his own face.
“Okay,” Son said as he regained his composure. “I’m ready.”
When they reached the front of the house, Faymia was stirring. Dulnear went to her and asked, “How are you feeling?”
Still laying in the grass, the woman reached her hand toward her face, swallowed and answered, “My head is throbbing.”
The man from the north looked at Son and instructed, “There is a wild cherry tree that grows near the eastern garden. Gather as many cherries as you can. Eating those should help with the pain.”
“Okay,” Son said as he ran off toward the garden.
Dulnear fetched a canteen from Tapp’s saddlebag and brought it to Faymia. He sat down beside her and she sat up to drink from it. “I am awfully sorry that you were injured,” he said sincerely. “I should have been more cautious. Will you please forgive me?”
“It’s not your fault,” the woman said. “I insisted on coming, remember?”
Dulnear looked at his friend’s face. The sight of her injured eye and the purple, swollen cheek broke his heart. “But I promised to do everything I could to protect you and the boy.”
Faymia reached out and took his hand. She gave him a reassuring smile and said, “It’s okay. You are still my champion and—”
Just then, Son ran up with his coat pockets stuffed with cherries. He knelt in front of Faymia and began piling them on the ground in front of her. “I got as many as I could carry. They’re quite delicious! Would you like me to get some more?” he asked.
“That should be enough for now,” Dulnear answered as he stood up. “I need you to hitch Mor to the cart.”
“Okay,” the boy said. “What are you going to do?”
Dulnear inhaled deeply and gazed at the burned-out house. He then answered, “I need to get something from in there.”
Dulnear carefully stepped through the remains of his once great home. The roof had fallen in during the fire, and beams of pale light found their way through the wreckage. An eerie feeling possessed him as he looked around and viewed the mansion in its current dilapidated state. All that he owned was now in ruins, and it was burned by his own choice. It felt much like a strange dream to him. His surroundings were familiar, yet altogether foreign at the same time.
Stepping around black, smoldering floorboards that had fallen from the stories above, the man from the north made his way to the large fireplace located in what used to be the dining room. After moving some scorched furniture and a few large boards out of the way, he stood and looked at it for a while, examining the stones that formed the broad chimney.
He squatted down and looked inside the fireplace. He then withdrew a knife and used it to drag the two long, heavy andirons from the hearth without touching the hot metal. He examined the stones forming the fireplace and chimney one more time, feeling along their edges.
Finding a stone where the mortar had begun to crumble around it, Dulnear used the knife to chip away what remained until it came loose and could easily be removed. It was about the size of a loaf of bread, and he used it to break away the other stones that surrounded the new open space. Once enough was broken away, the opening of the fireplace became tall enough for him to crouch inside without too much difficulty.
He stood hunched inside the fireplace, feeling the stones at the back of it for more crumbling mortar. Once he found a loose rock, he knocked it out of place, praying that the chimney would not come falling down around him.
Delicately removing stone after stone from the back of the fireplace, Dulnear opened up a hidden chamber that was barely deep and wide enough for the iron chest that was hidden inside of it. He used his knife to hook one of the handles of the chest and dragged it out into the open. Once he had it in a place with enough space and light, he knelt, checked to make sure it was not too hot, swallowed, and opened it.
Under the lid of the iron box was a fortune of gold and silver coins. As the man from the north ran his hand over it, he recalled the time his father told him about the treasure, and how he’d dreamed of all the ways he would spend the money when the time came for him to inherit it. Now, none of the things he wanted so badly during his youth seemed to hold any appeal to him. He only wanted to live in a way that was simple, and peaceful. Status and attention had become distasteful, for they had only ever brought him trouble.
Dulnear dragged the chest through the wreckage and out the door. The fresh air felt good in his lungs and removed the sting in his chest from the smoking debris. As he moved closer to the wagon, he could see Son and Faymia sitting in the grass together, and he called out, “Son, would you help me get this into the wagon?”
The boy jumped up and ran to the cart. Dulnear hefted one end of the chest onto it and strained to keep it from falling back to the ground. Son climbed inside and grabbed one of the still warm handles, pulling hard as his friend lifted and pushed from the other end.
Once the chest was in, they situated it at the front of the wagon. Dulnear then gave Son instructions to fetch a canvas tarp and a couple of boards from the outbuilding. When the boy returned with the items, they used them to hide the treasure.
“That box is incredibly heavy! What’s in there?” Son asked.
Dulnear smiled and answered, “Her freedom,” as he nodded toward the resting Faymia.
“So that chest is what we came here for?”
“Yes,” the man from the north said. “It is an inheritance meant for me, my children, and their children.”
Son’s eyes grew big as he asked, “How much is in there?”
“I really do not know,” Dulnear answered. “This chest has been in my family for generations. It has been hidden behind the fireplace since the house was built. When I was younger, I assumed that I would dig it up and spend it. But after my father died, I decided to leave it there for my descendants, just as he did for me. Now that we have it, we need to be leaving quickly.”
“Okay,” the boy said. “I noticed there was leather and some tools in the barn. Can I collect a few things before we go?”
“Of course,” Dulnear said. “But please be swift about it. We must be leaving before anyone comes looking for Searfain.”
The man from the north gently lifted Faymia from her resting place and laid her in the back of the wagon. His shoulder was still aching, and it was an awkward task to perform while wearing a sling, but he managed.
When Son returned, he stowed the leather and tools in his saddlebag and mounted Tapp. “Where are we going?” he asked.
“Ahmcathare,” Dulnear answered. “It is time to have a visit with the slavers.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
FOR FREEDOM�
�S SAKE
A day later, Dulnear and Faymia sat by the fire while Son was off catching dinner. It was a pleasant evening, and the ever-gray Aun sky was growing darker. “How do you feel?” the man asked.
“Much better,” Faymia answered. She kept her gaze away from her friend, and the tone of her voice didn’t seem to match her answer.
“Son did a fine job on your eyepatch,” the man said, referring to the leather patch the boy made for her.
“Yes, he did,” she said as she folded her arms and leaned in a little closer to the fire. “How is your shoulder?” she asked.
“Fine,” he said, moving his right arm up and down. Then he smiled and said, “I think I am ready to wear the iron hand again.”
Faymia’s expression didn’t change as she stared into the fire. Her shoulders drooped and her nose turned pink.
“Are you sure you are okay?” the man asked as he reached his left hand out to touch her shoulder.
A tear slowly ran down his friend’s cheek. “I’m hideous,” she said. “My face is scarred, and I have to wear a patch so that I don’t frighten small children with my dead eye.”
Dulnear moved closer and gently rubbed Faymia’s back. He struggled to find comforting words. Eventually he came up with, “I find the eyepatch to be”—he paused for a moment, then continued—“alluring.”
The woman froze, wrinkled her forehead, and looked at Dulnear with an expression of disbelief. “Did you just say, alluring?” she asked.
Dulnear swallowed hard. His face suddenly felt hot, and he hoped she was unable to see that he was turning red in the fading light. “Well, it is just that you look so strong, and you fought against a man many times your size…” He then trailed off as he mumbled something about marks of bravery and slowly, self-consciously, removed his hand from her back.
Faymia continued to look at the man from the north. Eventually, the corners of her mouth turned upward and a laugh escaped through her tense lips. Dulnear nervously laughed in return. He had hoped it was an appropriate response, but he really wasn’t sure. Then, the woman began to laugh harder, and it set his mind at ease. She wrapped both of her arms around his arm and rested her head against his shoulder.
“You really do have a way with words,” the injured runaway said, giggling.
The man from the north wasn’t completely sure what had just transpired, but was glad that his friend seemed comforted.
Soon after, Son arrived with a rabbit for each of them. He skinned them and roasted them over the fire. As the three of them ate together, he asked, “How much longer until we reach Ahmcathare?”
“We should be there in about three days,” the man from the north answered. “We will not be traveling all the way into Ahmcathare though. The tavern where Faymia once worked is in a town on the outskirts, and that is where we will be visiting.”
As they spoke, Faymia’s disposition changed again. The relaxed demeanor she’d held minutes before was gone, and she got up to dispose of the remains of their dinner.
“Will we be able to go into the city and spend some time there?” the boy asked, licking his fingers clean and rubbing them on the grass.
Dulnear watched Faymia as she busied herself. “I believe the wisest thing will be for us to return the horses to Aesef as quickly as possible. Perhaps we can visit Ahmcathare another time,” he answered. He then stared into the fire as he rehearsed in his mind the transaction that was going to take place when they arrived at the tavern.
Faymia laid awake as the last flames of the fire flickered out. She couldn’t get comfortable, as every stone and lump in the ground underneath her seemed more pronounced than usual. Dulnear was asleep nearby, breathing heavily. Son was also asleep, and a faint snore could be heard coming from his direction. Having both of them close brought her a sense of safety, but there were still thoughts that tugged at her mind, making it difficult for her to be at ease.
It felt like an extremely long time since she had seen her former slaver, Tcharron, and she was nervous about what was going to happen when they arrived in Ahmcathare. He had always been harsh and belittling to her, and frequently reminded her that she existed solely for the pleasure of men and the profit of her slaver. There was something about him that made her feel powerless and of no account. She didn’t like the person she was around him, and she dreaded the possibility of becoming that person again.
As she struggled to process thoughts of seeing the slaver once again, the events of the last several months played themselves over and over in her mind. She had felt hope, strength, terror, and pain, all in greater measure than ever before, and sometimes all at once. As she gently touched the leather patch over her eye, she thought about how freedom comes at a price, and that the greatest rewards in life often require the greatest risks. She had taken more risks since meeting the man from the north than she had taken in her entire life, and all of those risks were leading to whatever was going to happen the next day.
She also found herself concerned for the safety of her friends. The last time she’d encountered Tcharron, he’d had a group of Malitae with him, and they tried to kill Dulnear. She then thought to herself, Why would he go through all of that trouble to recover a worthless slave? It was a question that nagged at her until she was finally overtaken by a fitful, restless sleep.
“We will leave the cart and horses here,” Dulnear explained as he directed Mor off of the road and into a clearing. It was mid-afternoon and they were close to the village, so it was difficult to find a place where the wagon would not be seen by other travelers. When he felt that they were a sufficient distance from the road, he halted the horse, climbed down from the cart, and retrieved a few things from Mor’s saddlebag, including the iron fist.
Son and Faymia also dismounted and joined him. “What are we going to do?” the boy asked.
“I am going to make a business transaction,” the man from the north answered. “But I need your help.” He reached into his bag, produced several leather pouches, and handed them to Son. “Will you please fill these with gold and silver from the chest?”
The boy took the pouches and hopped into the cart. As he filled them, Dulnear rolled up his coat sleeve and began attaching the iron fist. Faymia walked closer to help and, as she buckled the leather straps, he looked at her face. There was something about her in that moment that seemed to cause everything else around them to fade until the only thing he saw clearly was her. It dawned on him that he was about to take a tremendous chance for her freedom, and a voice from inside of him asked, Is she worth it?
“Absolutely,” the man from the north said out loud, though he was convinced that his answer was only in his mind.
“Absolutely what?” the woman asked as she finished securing the hand and pulled the fur sleeve back into place.
“Hmm? Oh, just thinking out loud,” he said with a swallow.
“About what?” Faymia asked with an amused smile.
“You know. Different things.” He could feel his ears turning red, and was about to say something else when Son came down from the cart hefting several full pouches.
“That’s about half the chest!” the boy exclaimed.
“Thank you,” Dulnear said as he began taking the bags and placing them in various pockets throughout his long fur coat. When he finished, the boy was still holding one leather pouch stuffed with coins. “I want you to hold onto that one,” he explained. “You can keep it in Tapp’s saddlebag.”
“Why?” the boy asked.
“Because I want you to stay here and wait,” Dulnear said. “If anyone other than myself or Faymia comes back here, ride off as fast as you can. There will be enough in your saddlebag to take care of you and Maren for some time, so do not try to save the chest. You will only lose what you already have in the process.”
Son’s shoulders dropped and he exhaled. “But I want to come with you,” he protested.
The man from the north paused and smiled. “I know you do. You are the bravest lad in Aun,�
�� he said. “But this is not the time for a show of force. Besides, I need to know that, no matter what happens today, you will make it back to Aesef and Maren safely.”
“Okay,” the boy conceded.
Dulnear reached down and hugged Son, and Faymia did the same. “Pray,” she said with a smile.
“I want you to wait for us on your horse,” the man from the north instructed. “If we do not return by nightfall, then take the Cidens road toward Blackcloth until you reach Aesef’s farm.”
Son nodded in acknowledgement and gave his friend a final hug. He then mounted his horse and watched as they turned and began walking toward the road that led to the village.
When the tavern was in sight, Dulnear’s stomach turned. The last time he was there, Tcharron’s men attacked him, and he narrowly escaped by leaping out of a second-story window. It was not an occurrence he wished to repeat.
He and Faymia stepped into the bar. The slaver could be seen seated at a long table toward the back. His associates sat around him, drinking, and a Malitae warrior stood behind him. The southern fighter was the first to notice Dulnear and he drew a knife, then alerted Tcharron to the man’s presence. Immediately, he whispered something to the other slavers and they all reached into their coats and vests for blades of various shapes and sizes.
Standing, Tcharron obnoxiously called out, “Well, if it isn’t the enormous goat! Is that my slave with you?”
Dulnear approached the table with Faymia by his side. The smell of scented musk mixed with tavern smoke did little for his mood. He kept his cool and thought hard about what he was going to say next. “I am not here to fight with you, slaver,” he said. “I came to make things right.”
Tcharron gave a disgusted glare toward the woman’s eyepatch. “You brought her back damaged,” he complained. “How do you mean to make that right?”