“No,” he said.
“What?” she asked, looking up at him oddly.
“No, Cinder. I don’t want that.”
“I do,” she whined.
“I don’t, so stop it. I’m not mad you’re going out, so don’t feel you have to make it up to me.” His tone was somber and quiet, but serious and he would brook no argument.
Cinder buttoned his pants just as quickly then held his hand tightly until he was dropped off at Melissa’s doorstep. Dirk didn’t know what to say, so he simply stepped out and waved goodbye. Cinder smiled and waved as the coach pulled out. Dirk had no idea what he wanted in life anymore. He wanted Cinder, but she clearly would not commit. And his alienating Melissa as his serious love-interest left him splitting time between them and feeling awkward and oddly alone.
Cinder was fond of Selric. She felt he was as beautiful, if not more, than she, and the two of them were so alike it was peculiar; eerie. Though Selric was born of aristocratic parents, and Cinder of a Faerie and a human criminal, they were nearly identical. From their fine, chiseled bone structure, dark hair, entrancing blue eyes, and slender attractive bodies; to their keen minds, child-like curiosity, and rampant sex drives. Despite, or perhaps because of, their similarities, they had almost immediately given up thoughts of marrying each other, but they had indeed talked about it. Though they liked themselves well enough, neither one wished to spend the rest of his life with someone just like him, or her. But as friends they seemed to share the same spirit and knew they would remain such always. It was inevitable, this draw they felt. They spent little time together at this point in their lives, but felt as if they knew each other very well; and they did. Things unsaid could be felt as clearly as the spoken word. Hopes and dreams were understood, as were weaknesses and strengths of the other. Neither could explain this closeness, simply accepting and welcoming the friendship of someone so intimate. It was almost as if they were twins, or had known each other before, perhaps in another time or another life.
The coach arrived and Cinder was lifted out by two waiting footmen. Selric was standing near and she took his arm. The courtyard, lit by many torches, was filled with carriages and brilliantly dressed people, momentarily detoured, laughing and talking on their way inside to the real party. To her, it was awesome. There she was, at the veritable height of human society in that world. It was so much different than any elven function she had been part of. It was all so grand, so heavily perfumed and decorated; everyone there wearing so much of their wealth in show.
Selric guided his attentive lady through the crowd and into the hearth room. The great table was now set against the wall and loaded with rare and delectable dishes and snacks. Kegs filled with all manner of beverages lined another wall, as well as a rack of fine wines, brandies and other liqueurs. Servants stood all about, awaiting any request, their fine uniforms pressed and brilliantly clean. Cinder giggled softly at the new experience and was surprised to find herself almost immediately being introduced to Selric’s mother and father. Andric’s eyes opened wide.
“Well, well. This is Cinder,” he said. “She is beautiful indeed, Selric.” He kissed her hand, bowing low.
“This is my father, Andric and Violet, my mother,” Selric said proudly. “Mother and Father, this is Miss Cinder Starshine.” With that the men left for refreshments, Selric nodding politely to Cinder as he went.
“I don’t know any Starshines,” Violet said. “In what businesses do they take interest?”
“Oh, we are into...” Cinder paused, “...forests. I mean, forestry. Yes, lumber and, ah...magic. Lumber and magic,” she stuttered. Violet studied her then spoke.
“You’re not of an Andrelian family, are you? You’re not even nobility at all.”
“No,” Cinder said, uncomfortable, but not ashamed. “Not human nobility and not of Andrelia. I’m half-elven,” she said, not wanting to be put down.
“Even the lowest elves are more noble than any human,” Violet said, touching Cinder’s arm kindly. “That’s all right dear. Don’t let anyone here harass you. Selric has had other girls here that were not nobility, and certainly not as charming as you. No one will mind. Well, no one that matters.” She stood silent for a moment then spoke again. “How did you meet Selric?”
“I was at The Unicorn’s Run with friends.”
“Oh,” she said as Andric came back with a glass of wine for his wife. Cinder looked for Selric. Andric pulled her about, not wanting her to see Selric near the table.
“Here Cinder, let me introduce you. Selric will be back directly.” But looking back, Cinder saw him holding hands with and talking closely to a wholesomely beautiful blonde. She giggled thinking that Andric might feel she was jealous over his son. Nonetheless, Andric introduced Cinder to several of the prominent guests, one of whom was Sir Arikal Barley, an influential nobleman. He was with his wife, whom he had failed to mention to Cinder when she had been to his mansion a few weeks prior.
Sir Barley did not acknowledge Cinder as an acquaintance, as she had hoped, perhaps making her acceptance at the party easier. She didn’t know if he really could not remember her, or if he just didn’t want to admit it. She felt very lonely then, and wanted to blurt out to everyone what Arikal Barley had asked her to do when they were alone at his home, but she held her tongue. Andric felt Cinder pinch his arm in her anxiety.
“Maybe I’m overdressed,” she thought insultingly about herself and for the first time, wondered if she should maybe curb her lust. But when Andric kissed her hand, she realized how much she simply loved attention. His eyes sparkled at her, and while it was not love for her or even lust, his admiration of her charm and beauty was more than enough reason for Cinder to seek as much attention as she could fit into her life.
“What’s the matter, my beautiful flower?” Andric asked her as they stood alone, Barley and his wife, who had gazed kindly and unknowingly at Cinder, had walked away. Cinder laughed and shook her head, denying any distress. “All right then, what is so funny?”
“I see where Selric gets his silver tongue.”
“You mean forked tongue,” Andric said. “The way he treats you girls...no offense on you darling...but he may never call on you again.”
“Oh, I think he will. You are too hard on your son. He is very nice. He is busy, but always makes time for his friends,” she said honestly, relaxing a bit with Lord Stormweather. He, like Selric, was as straight forward as one could be without seeming totally boring and stale. Their charisma and stability would put even their enemies at ease.
“I’m sorry,” Selric said as he returned, kissing Cinder’s cheek and handing her a golden goblet of wine.
“Well, enjoy yourself, Miss Starshine,” Andric said with a rough nudge for his son as he walked by. “You had better not hurt this one,” he whispered in warning.
Cinder’s evening went better as the night wore on. Selric stayed only long enough for her to experience all that she never had; in all, about three hours. They left in a coach and went to a small out-of-the-way inn where Selric had reserved a room. They made love until dawn and slept in each other’s arms toward noon. It was Aurauch, or Worship Day, named after the Father of the Gods himself, so Cinder did not have to work. They went to the city’s main park and relaxed there with each other all afternoon.
Dirk was admitted to the house by Anna, the thirty year-old bodyguard. “Can I help you?” she asked curtly.
“Is Melissa here?” he asked, feeling slightly intimidated by the warrior woman.
“No, she isn’t,” Anna said, looking at him as if she expected him to then leave. “She’s over working, for once, and her cohort, Fiona, is being typically lazy.”
“I’d like to see her,” he said, wishing Anna would disappear.
“Fiona!” Anna screamed in his face, then turning to stride into another room. When Fiona failed to appear, Dirk went up to her room, not wanting to walk home after coming all that way. He opened the door and jumped inside, trying to startle Fio
na, but instead he tripped over a step just inside the door; a step that had never been there before. At least it had not been three days earlier.
“What in the Abyss!” he screamed. Fiona, standing up by some sort of altar, looked at him infuriatingly.
“Don’t you knock?” she snarled. “Shut that door. What are you doing here?” Dirk stood up and closed the door, harried by her anger and her tone.
“What is all this?” he asked timidly, walking in and looking around. In front of the altar, hanging from the ceiling, were two manacles suspended from one chain. The room, somehow smaller than before, was decorated in black and silvery-white accouterments, and six benches were set before the altar.
“A temple,” she answered plainly.
“I see that. To who?” Dirk asked, walking up and swinging the manacles with a look of disgust.
“Aura Painbliss,” Fiona said as she went back to polishing the altar.
“Her?” he screamed, immediately releasing the chain. Dirk had heard of the goddess in passing, but she was not very talked-about. “May Aura kiss you” was often said when wishing ill fate upon another. “I don’t believe it,” he said sternly.
“Believe it,” Fiona said, lifting a nine tail whip off the stone as proof. The altar, made of snow white marble, also bore manacles, two set close together at one end, one in each corner at the other. Fiona had made the room smaller by hiring a carpenter to sound proof the walls, which meant building another wall inside the first and filling the hollow space in between with padding. The same was done to the floor, thus the step Dirk had tripped over. All the others in the house, except for Anna, had been convinced by the charismatic and persuasive young priestess to attend services regularly. Fiona was very slick of tongue.
“You’re weird...weird and sick,” Dirk surmised confidently, turning to leave. Fiona grabbed his hand and dragged him to Melissa’s room, where she now slept as well, since the conversion of her old room into the temple. She gave him the same speech she had given Melissa and the others, and through her glibness and intelligence, Dirk’s disgust soon faded into simple misunderstanding. Though no longer angry, he could still not accept her beliefs himself.
“You see,” Fiona added, stroking his hand, “Aura is not simply the goddess of giving pain, but of understanding and coping with it. It could make you stronger, Dirk.” Dirk thought on her words for a few moments before shaking his head, as if resisting a spell or some strong temptation.
“No,” he objected. “I still don’t like it.”
“Why not?” Fiona asked angrily, her try at converting him failing, her frustration growing.
“It’s just strange.”
“Oh, but worshiping Telvar, the god of war and bloodletting makes sense? Bull shit!” she objected. “Worshiping a god whose sole purpose is to throw his faithful and the rest of us into wars is insane. Wars, Dirk, where people die. Do you forget The War so easily? And who comes in after all the death and helps the people deal with the pain caused by your god? We do.”
“That’s different.”
“Oh yes. Battle is grand; glorious. That’s a lot of...”
“Bull shit, I know,” Dirk admitted quietly. Maybe she was right, he thought. But Telvar Stoneshadow was grand. He was glorious. Aura Painbliss was vengeful; dark. “Then why aren’t there as many temples to Aura as Telvar?” he asked brightly, trying to strengthen his own faith.
“Aura is misunderstood and people would rather hide their pain away and not deal with it rather than face and conquer it. They are afraid to show others they feel it. And they are afraid of pain itself. And also because there are so many bone-headed people who believe that the strong should rule the weak and that they should be able to take whatever they want.”
“Then if Telvar’s followers always cause wars, Aura must like him because wars cause pain.”
“Telvar is just a pawn of Aura’s. He is one dimensional. Aura understands, causes, and heals pain, even that which Telvar brings.”
“Don’t even try to tell me that Aura Painbliss is more powerful than Telvar,” Dirk argued. “Telvar is the greatest god...”
“Don’t forget Aurauch, the Father of All,” Fiona cautioned. Dirk fell silent with a confused look on his face. Religion had never been a concern of his. He venerated Aurauch and thought well of Telvar, patron god of warriors. But all others drew no emotion from him at all. He had enough trials in his life that he didn’t need to worry about the gods, too.
“I don’t care,” he finally gasped in frustration. “I don’t even go to services. Worship who you want. None of this matters to me. “
“But it does matter to me,” Fiona said, coming near Dirk somberly. “I want you to accept my goddess...and me. Don’t think I’m weird, Dirk,” she begged. Dirk looked at her child-like face, her sad eyes, and her pouting lips as she leaned forward and kissed him.
The next day, Dirk was ready to try his plan. Mr. Bessemer, as he did every Aurauch, checked Jenderson’s bookkeeping. Dirk’s knock on the open door was answered. “Come in, Dirk,” said Mr. Bessemer, an attractive, muscular man in his forties. “What can I do for you? Is there some trouble?” he asked kindly.
Dirk admired Mr. Bessemer more than anyone he had known yet in his life, except maybe now Selric, but he had known Bessemer for many years at this point. He was friendly, generous, had a sense of humor and an inner strength that exuded charisma. He was often found throughout the store talking and joking with the employees, unlike Jenderson, who was only business and business only. Mr. Bessemer took it all less seriously. Perhaps, Dirk thought in Jenderson’s defense, it was because he actually owned the store and answered to no one but himself. Dirk imagined, hoped, that his father had been much like Mr. Bessemer.
“I wonder if I could talk to you. I mean, if you’re not real busy,” Dirk said.
“Of course, Dirk. What is it?” he asked, laying his papers aside and folding his hands. “You haven’t gotten a girl in trouble, have you?” Dirk looked puzzled. “It’s just a joke, Dirk,” Mr. Bessemer said, laughing at Dirk’s innocence and slow comprehension. “Please continue.”
“Well,” Dirk started, still wondering what the joke had been, “I came into some money, or I will soon, and I wanted to make you a business offer.” Mr. Bessemer sat up smiling.
“Money, huh? That’s a subject I like. Go on. What’s your offer? Do you want to be a partner?” he asked, laughing. Dirk cleared his throat and looked away.
“Actually, I wanted to buy the store outright,” he said. It was Mr. Bessemer’s turn at bewilderment. “You see,” Dirk resumed, “no offense, but you don’t really run the store anymore, and I thought that you might want to get what the place is worth and retire; not be bothered with it anymore. I’ve worked here ten years and you come in less and less every year. I thought maybe you were tired of being here and we could make a deal.”
Mr. Bessemer turned his chair around and looked out the window, down the street toward the South Gate, the store sitting at an angle in the street so that, fittingly, the store could be seen as soon as one entered the gate, and vice versa. He sat that way, hands folded under his chin, for several minutes; hours it seemed to poor Dirk. “Dirk, will you get Jenderson, please, and bring him in here.” Dirk’s heart sank, thinking he had angered Mr. Bessemer and would now lose his job for sure. Depression was overcoming Dirk as he found Jenderson and escorted him back to the office.
Still facing the window, Mr. Bessemer asked Dirk to tell Jenderson what he had said. Jenderson, after a few bewildered moments, began to scold Dirk, but their employer interrupted, swinging back toward them and quietly eyeing them both. “I’ve been entertaining an idea for several months,” he finally spoke. “I would like to open a store in Gelton, away from these harsh winters. I need cash to do that. But I knew Jenderson, whom I’d long thought could run the store sufficiently without me, never had the capital to buy me out, so I kept silent. Dirk, you couldn’t run the store and I’m sure it would fail if Jenderson l
eft, which he probably would, rightly so, if left out of this deal.” Jenderson smiled smugly. “Perhaps you would like to be partners. You can both do what you’ve always done, but be richer, if you have enough to buy the store so that I can open a new one down south.”
“I’ve got twenty-two thousand,” said Dirk proudly.
“I’ve got eight,” Jenderson said.
“You’re about halfway,” said Mr. Bessemer with a proud, but sly smile. Jenderson and Dirk looked at each other in astonishment; Dirk at the price of the store, Jenderson at Dirk’s finances.
“That much?” Dirk asked.
“I suspect you will each need a loan for the rest.” Mr. Bessemer said. “Before you run off to the moneylender—or a rich patron of the noble families—here are a few points to which I need you to agree.” Jenderson and Dirk nodded their consent. “The name will be Bessemer’s, now and always. It is well respected and we may lose customers in a name change. I will also receive ten percent of the gross income each month. We will maintain a trade agreement between this and all future Bessemer’s, and this agreement will mean that there will be no tariffs or mark-ups on items we exchange between stores. Everything will be on a gold-for-gold basis. This way, we can ship items from the north which bear little profit here to the south, where their rarity will garner us greater rewards. Without the middleman, we should be able to net a good profit, and you will even compensate for my ten percent fee. In exchange, the store will be yours and you will both, after your loan payments, still make ten times your old salaries. Agreed?” They nodded again. “Go see about a loan and talk it over between you. I’ll draw up the contracts and we’ll sign it in a few days; give us all some time to think about it.”
Dirk ran up to his room, threw open his chest and dug into the bottom, pulling out the cloak which would free him forever from his lower-class existence. He folded it up into a small bundle and laid it upon his bed while he donned his battle gear: he would not cross town with twenty thousand gold pieces in his hands without any defense. He slid down the ladder, the leather of his gauntlets buzzing against the wood. The most famous moneylender, Fauxton Mitts, was on Dirk’s way to Duvall’s—where he would sell his cloak—so he stopped there first and found him to be a tough dealer. Not only did Dirk have to put his half of Bessemer’s as collateral, but his freedom as well; if he failed on two consecutive payments, he would be jailed where he would work at labor to both cover his debt and as punishment; both common law practices. Confident, but even more desperate, Dirk signed the agreement.
By Moonlight Wrought (Bt Moonlight Wrought) Page 21