He stayed seated. “A bed sounds delightful,” he said. “Jon, will you take writing supplies up to my room, and some soap and a sharp blade? Wren, check your trading book numbers, because I must to talk to you about the gold that we will need. And Selia, would you be so kind to pour another bowl?” A small, sincere smile touched his face. “It feels like a lifetime since I have had something so warm and delicious.”
Jon and Selia sprang into action. Wren stayed to keep him company and discuss his plan.
Andor’s presence changed everything.
Chapter 7
SOFTNESS IN THE NIGHT
“Now, for the love of Love
and her soft hours,
Let’s not confound the time
with conference harsh:
There’s not a minute
of our lives should stretch
Without some pleasures now.
What sport tonight?”
Wren could not sleep, and it was not just because of the prince’s return. Although his mind was sharp, his body felt soft. It was like a dull sunset, when the sun fades away without glory.
He remembered training as a younger man, running miles every day and losing sweat and blood in constant competition. His hands had been harder. Walking had been crisp, like a uniformed march always poised to turn and strike. After days of slamming padded blades against his friends, he could tap into his comrades’ existence. He knew where their bruises were and who they wanted to soothe them.
Sitting now, running numbers on his stock of gold, Wren the merchant knew little of others. He knew little of his body. He just understood the trade; his thoughts ran over the profits that would be streaming in if he bought low on iron now and sold his excess grain. The numbers were hard, but the resulting profits only added to his body’s softness. Delicious feasts, lace cuffs, fine leather shoes—those were his hard-earned marks of inner crumbling.
His merchant companions praised his advances and his shiny façade. They would say something like: “You were such a brash young man, Wren, driven to conquer and no fun to be around. You are such a pleasure now, welcoming and rich in disposition. Blah, money, blah.” That kind of empty flattery made Wren think of something Father Yates had once said. “Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal.”
It all made Wren want to run from this life. He wanted to be hard again, to show those merchants what it felt like to suffer the assault of his blade. Maybe, like a young knight rising in the ranks to remove the padding of his sword, Wren would combat the formidable enemy of wealth and society. If the pad on a blade could be removed, so could his softness. The longer the parasite of comfort clung to him, the more dangerous it became. Removed of the comforts, he would be a danger again. Otherwise, Wren thought, he would be no help to Andor at all. What is the point of a sword if it is always padded?
He rose from his bed and went silently down the stairs. It was not uncommon for him to awake in the night and work, but this night was the beginning of something different. He would be leaving with Andor and Jon soon. He felt unprepared, uncertain.
Cracking open the back door to the alley behind the shop, Wren slipped out into the night. The air was crisp, seemingly cleansed of its earlier foulness. A few low clouds dotted the sky, and the moon filled the tight passage with pale light. Wren walked along the building’s wall. The end of the alley opened on a small road that led to the main plaza. He turned his head around the corner and studied the scene.
The bacchanalia was complete and its consequences were obvious. Bodies were scattered on the ground, concentrated around the central tree. Wren crouched and darted from mound to mound. Most of the people were alive, breathing irregularly as they fought unconsciously to rid their bodies of the toxins consumed during the festival. It was a stale reminder of the night’s excesses.
Tryst and his royal band were nowhere to be seen. The bloodied bodies had been left on the stairs where Tryst had struck them down. The deceased should have been given more respect, taking their bodies away for burial or a pyre. That was not Wren’s calling this night. He still felt a desire to fight, to lash out against the softness inside him and his city. So he left the plaza, looking for trouble.
He wandered the city’s streets for at least an hour. There were a few lights in windows, and he smelled the first scents of bread baking for the morning. Dawn would be coming soon, but now the city was mostly dark and quiet. Weary but desperate for action, Wren decided he would make one last stop before returning home.
Walking along the road that hugged Valemidas’ outer wall, Wren made his way to the front gate. Beside that gate, Wren knew, he would find the Sojourner’s Inn. The owner, Randall Kay, was a friend. He had been a merchant, and a fair trader with Wren. Randall had always liked drinking more than trading, so he set up this little place near the gate. He had told Wren of his vision. It would be a simple inn with a simple tavern—a place meant for travelers to visit when they first arrived in the city. He would be the middleman between them and Valemidas, which often confounded its visitors by sheer size.
Business had been great for Randall under Andor’s short reign. Travel had been open and frequent. Since losing Andor, the city’s gates stayed closed more often than not. There was danger in the midst of the changing princes, and Tryst tried to hold greater control.
Still, tonight Wren heard a large crowd as he approached the Sojourner’s Inn. He paused outside a window and looked in.
Set off against the opaque night, the tavern had a warm glow. Its main room was a small rectangle, with fires burning brightly in hearths at both ends. Four long wooden tables, lined with benches, covered much of the floor. In the corners, there were rich leather couches around low tables. The space was surprisingly full. It was as if every activity of the night had been drawn out of hiding and into the Inn.
Wren did not see his friend Randall, who was surely asleep at this hour. Two of the innkeep’s guards were standing at the two doors to the tavern, and at least five serving maids were racing about. They filled tankards with ale while dodging groping hands. Randall had a strict rule that was fitting for visitors to the city if not for soldiers. The maids dressed simply but provocatively, with white bodices fastened tightly over skirts that did not reach the knee. They were to be admired, but the patrons could not touch. Bandying words was encouraged, as long as it never became serious. Contact was forbidden. Randall would always say, “Take your ales and have a peek, but if you touch, it’s the door you seek.”
It took only a few moments for Wren to see that doors would be sought tonight. They probably already had. The men were mostly soldiers who seemed to have come straight from the night’s debauchery. They were rowdy and lustful, making this the perfect company for dispelling softness. Wren would have a target on his chest, with his linen attire and aristocratic grin.
He walked into the Sojourner’s Inn stridently. The noise of the place shot out of the door as soon as Wren opened it. The guard welcomed him with a curious glance. It was a strange time of night for someone to be arriving, much less a wealthy merchant. Wren paid him no heed and found a seat at one of the benches, wedged beside two particularly boisterous men. From their plain brown uniforms and crude language, Wren marked them as the lowest of infantrymen. A minute of observation confirmed his suspicions.
They were cussing and yelling about their conquests. The whole room was full of stories, and most of them sounded at least a shade off the truth. Conquests in distant lands and princesses saved. Wren found it amusing at first. The mood was unsettling, though, because these men lacked leadership and direction. The night of heavy drinking, starting with the corrupted stuff in the main square, only made it worse. Now the maids were suffering the brunt of their rowdiness. Even though Randall paid the girls handsomely, Wren planned to make one of these brutes apologize for the rudeness.
Wren downed his first drink in minutes and listened to the crude conversations around hi
m. The two men he was wedged beside may have been the worst.
“Dustin, take a look at this one,” the lout to Wren’s left garbled. “I’d like to get my hands on her.” Wren followed his glance to an attractive tavern maid who was leaning over the bar to the kitchen. She turned with six massive tankards clutched to her chest.
“Nah, Tuco, you oughta be lookin’ somewhere else. That one’s mine.” Dustin was barely keeping his head off the table, but he managed to give his mate a clumsy punch to the arm.
“Quit that, Dustin. I reckon next time you touch me it’ll be trouble.” Tuco responded in slow motion, drawling out words. “Besides, with a body like that, this woman has enough for both of us. Watch this.”
Tuco tried to stand and wobbled. Wren could not contain his laughter at the man’s poor balance and judgment.
“What’er you laughin’ at, fancy boy?” Dustin demanded.
Wren pointed at the approaching maid. “Dustin, right? I mean no offense. I am just admiring my next catch.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.
“Boy, I’m gonna—” Dustin started but was cut short by Tuco, whose eyes were locked on the serving maid who had reached the table. “Oh lord, she, uh, heats me like the summer sun,” he kept his eyes locked somewhere below her chin and above her waist. “My princess is here, bringin’ me drinks. It don’t get no better.”
She leaned over Wren’s right shoulder, obviously amused by the compliment. “Gentlemen, it looks like you are close to empty. I have a little more special brew for you, if you still want some.” She wore a devilish smile, as if daring them to touch. Catching Wren’s non-glazed eyes made her tense a bit. It seemed she was used to handling the drunk ones but stayed more wary of others.
“I need all the special brew you got.” Dustin’s attempt at some kind of composed flirtation was pathetically hilarious. Wren almost fell off the bench laughing.
“Why thank you!” She answered. “It only gets better by the tankard for the hopeless,” she said as she spun, tossed her hair and was off to the next tease. The men shared a dull glance, but anger began to build at the insult. Apparently an insult from the woman sharpened their senses.
Tuco lumbered up, arrested by her spell and losing restraint. Once on his feet, he moved with surprising speed and pinned her to the wall. He began groping desperately.
Seizing the good cause for action, Wren jumped to his feet but fell flat on his face before he could stop the assault. Glancing back, he saw Dustin looming over him, fuming and bright red in the face. He had been tripped.
“Cheap move,” Wren growled from the ground.
Dustin pulled his leg back to kick. Wren was almost to his knees but knew that he would not dodge the boot coming at his face. Shifting to block the worst of the dead-on blow, he saw a black blur swipe out Dustin’s back leg and send him tumbling to the floor.
Wren rose to his feet and turned to protect the maid. One of the Inn’s guards had ripped Tuco off of her and slammed him onto the ground. Some of the soldiers had left their seats and were approaching in an unstable circle. It seemed they were willing to fight for each other this night.
Time froze for Wren. Every trained fighting instinct surged out of dormancy. He counted ten soldiers, weapons drawn, with only three people facing them—Wren, the guard, and a hooded figure in black. The other guard was outside the circle, ready to help. The maids were fleeing the room. Other soldiers were around, but seemed to be staying away from the fight.
“To my sides,” commanded the dark figure who had helped Wren. He and the guard slid into position quickly. Wren tried to focus on the assailants but was distracted by the lady issuing orders. It had to be a woman, he judged from her voice and slim stature. She had two long blades drawn, longer than was allowed under recent regulations in Valemidas. It all seemed familiar—the tone of authority, the long black cloak, the close-drawn hood, the refined stance—but he had not yet seen her face. Before the puzzle came together, he was ducking to dodge a tankard thrown at his head.
Crouching, Wren pulled a dagger from his belt and threw it into the shoulder of the soldier in front of him. He charged towards the soldiers to that man’s right, opening his left flank and entrusting it to the woman in black.
The soldiers were moving slow, drunkenly. Wren dove into them low, taking out their legs and staying under their weak stabs. He sliced at the calves of two men and rose as they fell. He connected a knee to the head of one falling man and moved to face another. The man swung his dagger wildly, nicking Wren’s shoulder. Before Wren could counter, the man’s eyes went wide in shock and he fell forward. Two hilts carved into ravens stuck out of his back.
“Ravien!” Wren shouted before he could think. He locked eyes with her and briefly forgot where he was. He forced his mind back to the room. The fighting had stopped, with several men on the ground around them. The last of the soldiers were fleeing out the door. Of course, thought Wren, no one in his right mind would stay and fight the prince’s sister. She was glaring at him.
“You did pretty well, Wren,” she said, “but you seemed a little slow. What’s a merchant doing out this late?” Before he could answer, she put her finger over his lips and whispered “shhh.”
She then began taking the identification tags from the soldiers. Those tags were another new requirement under Tryst. A few soldiers were groaning in pain, a few seemed unconscious or dead, including Dustin. No one resisted Ravien.
As always, the princess wore snug black boots. They flared out at the knee, revealing bare skin up to her black skirt. Wren could not keep his eyes away.
The two Inn guards were also watching her. They had found a spot on the bench where they rested. Only their eyes moved, following Ravien. As they stared at her, three of the tavern maids were tending to their wounds. One of the guards was bleeding heavily from the forehead and the side.
Ravien, after collecting the tags, stepped to the injured guard and cupped his head in her thin hands. She locked eyes with him and whispered something that Wren could not hear. Rising from him, she pressed something into the hand of the maid standing at his side. The other woman blushed, smiled broadly and said, “oh no, well, maybe, oh, thank you!” Whatever Ravien had said and given, Wren guessed that it had left the man a better chance of living and the maid a better chance of ending up with the man.
The prince’s sister then faced Wren again. Her eyes were so dark, like midnight pools reflecting the Inn’s light. “Follow me,” she said without any question about whether he would obey. With that, she disappeared out the door.
Wren followed and found her sprinting to the right as soon as he was outside. He took off as fast he could. The quick pace knocked all thoughts and breath out of him.
He gained ground on every straightaway, but she stayed out of reach. She made her turns too quickly, and left Wren guessing a few times about which way she had gone. Whenever he lost sight of her, she would appear for an instant and then be around the next corner. It was as if she measured the distance between them, keeping it exactly far enough to avoid losing Wren or letting him catch her.
After maybe ten minutes of pursuit, Wren was exhausted. Lack of sleep and battle fatigue wore on him as much as the run. He had always been a runner, but that history did not make up for years sitting at a desk.
Just when he decided to make a final push, closing the gap to a mere ten paces, Ravien ducked into the door of an anonymous building on a dark alley. Perfect, thought Wren, because Ravien proved herself to be so unskilled indoors. He saw again the recent memory of his attacker falling with two daggers sticking out of his back, and Ravien looming behind him.
Wren opened the door slowly. The hinge was silent, as was the room inside. It was musky, with cobwebs hanging from the low ceilings. Wren wondered how long it would take someone to find him dead in this abandoned place.
He froze for a moment at the potential truth of that thought. She really could be trying to kill him. Wren had known Ravien for a long time. Everyone who grew
up around Tryst knew his sister. They had been inseparable as kids. People whispered, often loudly, that she was the reason Tryst had not married. He would never meet someone who could equal his sister, they said. Wren had his doubts, but he had not spoken to Tryst in years.
Ravien was loyal to her brother and her intentions were unclear, but Wren believed she had played no part in the coup. She cared too much about a free Valemidas, and about Lorien, to help depose Andor. Either way, he felt helpless to resist her call now. He took another step, then another. When a temptress like that beckoned, who was he to leave her waiting?
Once inside the building, the only place to go was up. A narrow stairway on the far side of the room led to the second floor. Wren went up and found the second floor to be almost an exact copy of the first floor. He climbed four more flights of stairs. Each floor was the same. Wren knew that Ravien could not catch him off guard in an empty room.
The sixth and uppermost floor was also like the five below it. The only difference was that this room had a door opposite the stairs. It stood open to the night. Wren stepped lightly through the door and surveyed his surroundings. He was on a small and flat roof, with no railing between it and the sixty-foot fall to the ground below. There was no sign of Ravien here, and Wren thought that perhaps she had vanished.
Then to his right, where there had been nothing a second before, he saw a silhouette standing at the top of a high arched roof. Without pause, Wren sprinted towards the figure. Adrenalin propelled his jump from the first building to the second, covering six feet with nothing below. He did not look down and charged on.
The second jump, to the arched roof, was even longer. It also dropped further, and Wren landed hard against the slate tiles. Looking across the gap he had just leapt, he was feeling pretty good about himself. But when he turned an instant later, the silhouette was gone. He ran up to the peak of the roof and tensed at the quiet solitude. Not again, Wren thought. She has to be—
Light in the Gloaming (The Gloaming Book One) Page 6