The Death of Dulgath

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “A dangerous thing for you, I suspect.” She grinned.

  “You’ve been hanging around Royce too much.” He pretended to sound hurt.

  She dropped the grin. “Tell me, what have you been thinking?”

  “You’re a northern girl; you don’t belong down here. I can’t imagine you enjoy entertaining drunks in Wagner’s tavern for thrown coins.” He softened his tone. “You’re smart, too. Good in a tight spot and incredibly brave. Took a sword to the stomach and only cried a little.”

  She scowled. “Didn’t cry—eyes just watered.”

  “That’s what crying is.”

  “I didn’t blubber, didn’t sob. It just hurt is all.”

  “I know it hurt, and I didn’t mean to…” Hadrian sighed. “How did me complimenting you turn into—look, my point is, I was wondering if you’d like to come with us, back to Medford.”

  “And do what? Be what? Part of your little thieves’ guild? I’ve already gone that way. Didn’t work for me, remember?”

  “Might be different this time.”

  She frowned at him.

  “So you’re just going to stay with Wagner and dance in his bar?”

  “Actually…” She looked up at the walls of the castle. “Last night Lord Fawkes told me that if the king made him earl—and he was pretty sure he might—he planned on cleaning house. Getting rid of the ones he thought might be disloyal. The first to go would be Chamberlain Wells.”

  “And?”

  “And he said if that happened, the job was mine.”

  Hadrian blinked. “Really?”

  “You don’t have to look so shocked.”

  “Sorry—I just—wow, that’s huge.”

  She shrugged, embarrassed. “I told him I don’t know anything about running a castle. Lord Fawkes said anyone could learn, but there were only a rare few he could trust. Have to admit…” Her eyes became glassy, and she reached up to wipe them clear. After a cough to clear her throat, she continued. “It felt good to be recognized like that. To be rewarded for something—for doing something good, you know?”

  Hadrian’s hopes collapsed, one by one, in rapid succession. A series of optimistic dreams, which had only started to take root hours before, winked out with painful pricks like a dozen nasty needles. A faint pressure squeezed his chest as muscles tightened. He nodded and continued to nod, buying himself time to swallow.

  “You should definitely do that.” He took another breath. “That’s an incredible opportunity.”

  “It is, isn’t it?”

  He couldn’t help thinking that she wanted him to convince her of something.

  “I mean, I’m a daughter of a poor farmer, turned thief, turned failed wool spinner, and I’m going to be the chamberlain of Castle Dulgath. It’s insane.”

  “I think you’ll make a wonderful chamberlain.”

  She stared at him for a long moment as tears welled once more in her eyes. “Thank you for saying that.”

  “No—no, I mean it. I really do. Bet you look really good in blue, too.”

  “Aren’t you just full of shoot and sugar.”

  “Maybe—I don’t even know what that means.”

  “Neither do I. It’s a local thing.” She wiped her eyes again. “Look, Dulgath is missing a sheriff, and as chamberlain I bet I could convince the new steward to give you the job. You did okay as a constable.”

  “I was a lousy constable.”

  “Just don’t drink the ale.”

  Hadrian smiled, but the edges of his lips turned downward as he did. “The king—your king—ordered us out of Maranon.”

  She looked as if he’d slapped her. “But you saved his life!”

  Hadrian nodded. “Turns out he’s prejudiced against thieves and assassins. Can’t really blame him, I suppose.”

  Scarlett looked away then. Her hands found Dancer’s neck again, and she stroked the horse while looking at the ground as if it had moved in an unpleasant and unexpected direction. Hadrian knew the feeling and gave her a moment. He clapped Dancer again. “You’re spoiling my horse.”

  “When are you leaving?” Scarlett asked quietly. “Lady Dulgath’s funeral is tomorrow. You’re staying for that, aren’t you? They’re going to carry her up to the monastery to bury her next to her father. All the Dulgaths are up there.”

  “Actually, I think Royce is going to want to head out in just a few minutes. We’ve been here a long time, but…”

  “But?” The single word lingered. Spoken softly, it sounded more like a cry, desperate and fearful.

  Hadrian placed his hand on hers. She grabbed it and squeezed. In that moment, Hadrian hated Dancer as she stood between them. If she weren’t there, he would have…but far more than a horse separated him from Scarlett Dodge. Of the three of them, Hadrian realized Dancer was the wisest.

  Hadrian gave in, letting go of Scarlett’s hand and simply shrugging. Looking at her became too hard, too painful. He lowered his head and focused on Dancer’s white socks. He wasn’t accustomed to losing battles, and while this wasn’t one, he felt the loss just the same. He was helpless, beaten by powers beyond his ability to affect.

  Dancer took a few steps to the right.

  Hadrian lifted his head and saw red hair, lots of red hair. Arms swung around his neck as Scarlett’s body pressed against his. She pulled, rising up on her toes to kiss him. Her lips pressed against his, gentle and soft, but firm—hungry. Fingers slid up his neck, reaching into his hair. He heard a sound, a soft hum. Hadrian couldn’t tell which of them made it. Scarlett’s lips parted slightly and lingered briefly on his. Then her hands released, the arms drew back, and those lips stole away, taking his breath with them.

  Lord Fawkes led Royce to Nysa Dulgath’s bedroom, which looked unchanged from the last time he was there.

  “Must be strange,” Fawkes said.

  “What?” Royce asked. At that moment, he could think of half a dozen things fitting the description.

  “Coming in here through the door.” Fawkes smiled.

  “Why are we here?”

  “Two reasons.” The lord crossed to the table with the shell collection, and opened the drawer. When he turned around he held out a brilliant white dagger. “Hadrian said you lost this.”

  “Thank you. I wasn’t planning on leaving the providence until I found this.”

  Fawkes raised a brow. “Really? Give it back then. I’ll have someone bury it.”

  “Too late.” Royce said as he put the dagger away. “What’s the other reason you asked me here?”

  “I wanted to show you this,” Fawkes said, pulling the cloth-covered painting from behind the headboard of the bed. He set it up on the desk. “Sherwood spent two months painting this portrait of Nysa Dulgath. I wanted you to see it. Frame got a little banged up recently, but I put it back together.”

  Fawkes threw back the cloth.

  Royce stared at the image of a young female elf. Her ears came to points; her eyes, a brilliant blue, were teardrop-shaped. Cheekbones were sharp and high, but the most surprising thing was that the elven girl was entirely bald—that and the fact she didn’t look like the elves Royce knew. Something in her face, in those piercing blue eyes—she wasn’t ashamed of who she was. This person was proud.

  “This is you?” he asked.

  “What I looked like before I died. I don’t know how Sherwood did it. I don’t know how he knew. Perhaps he was more than an artist. Maybe he unknowingly practiced The Art.”

  Royce wasn’t sure what the difference was, but he didn’t want to interrupt her.

  “Sherwood had the ability to see people. Really see them. He told me that, but I didn’t believe. He was killed before I saw this. Before I could tell him he was right.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Royce took a step closer to the image. “He knew.”

  “Yes.” Fawkes nodded. He took a labored breath, then spun on his left heel and moved to the window, leaving Royce with the painting. “Do you…do you find it ugly?”

&nb
sp; Royce reached up and touched the dry ridges left behind by the paintbrush. “No.”

  “I can’t help wondering what Sherwood would have painted if he’d done your portrait.”

  Royce found the thought more than disturbing.

  “I’m more human than anything,” he said. “You can see that just by looking at me. I honestly don’t even know how you knew.”

  Fawkes turned around and stared at him in surprise. “The same way you knew about me. Didn’t take you but a second. You came in the door ready to kill Christopher Fawkes but didn’t. What stopped you? How did you know?”

  He shrugged. “The way you moved, the way you stood, how you talked. I recognized it. I recognized you.”

  “We are more than the bodies we inhabit,” Fawkes said. “They’re little more than clothes, and yet we judge so much by them.” He laughed bitterly. “I, of all people, should understand this truth, and yet…” He looked at the painting. “I never gave Sherwood a chance. He saw the truth in me, but I refused to see the same in him.”

  Fawkes took a step toward Royce. “You could stay.”

  “Your king would object, and that would ruin your chance to be earl.”

  “I’m not afraid of the king.”

  Royce nodded. “No, I don’t suppose you are. But you also don’t want to start a war because you’re lonely.”

  Fawkes scowled at him. “I’m really starting to hate this woman of yours.”

  “Goodbye, Lord Fawkes,” he said, and moved to the door. Before exiting, he stopped. “The weather here—you control it somehow, don’t you? That’s why it’s always sunny and warm, but not too warm.”

  “What’s your point? You don’t like fair weather?”

  “Too much of anything isn’t good.”

  “Goodbye, Royce Melborn.”

  The inhabitants of Brecken Dale lined the streets of the village. Everyone was out: husbands, wives, and children held close to thighs. Each was dressed in their best set of clothes—which for many was their only set. But the collars were straight, the shoes bright, the hair neatly combed. Not a hood or hat could be seen, and all eyes were on Royce, Scarlett, and Hadrian. The crowd had been waiting for them.

  Royce’s first reaction was concern; his second was suspicion. Has someone peeked into the ramshackle church this morning? Given how the townsfolk felt about Pastor Payne, Royce didn’t think so. Only when the stench becomes too unbearable will anyone bother to open that door. The following funeral will likely be attended by the fewest people needed to carry the body to a shallow, unmarked hole.

  Why the villagers were out, each watching them with wide eyes and grins, eluded Royce. Given the numbers, the turnout had to be nearly everyone. One father went to the trouble of hoisting his son to his shoulders so the lad could see well. Even Scarlett looked puzzled.

  “By Mar!” she said when they came into view of the village market. The place was full of folk. “It’s like a fair day.”

  Wagner, Clem, Brook, and Gill stood with the others.

  “Wag?” Scarlett asked, getting down from her horse. “What’s going on?” She tied the animal to the post and joined him.

  “They know what you did,” Wagner replied. “What all of you did, and tried to do for Lady Dulgath, and what you’ve done for Lord Fawkes.”

  “How?” Royce asked.

  “Small town, people talk, and I might have mentioned something.” The bartender beamed a grin. Scarlett gave him a weak shove that made them both laugh.

  Royce looked out over the gathering, boys and girls stared back at him with awe.

  We’re celebrities. He shivered and thanked Maribor they were banned by the king.

  Hadrian didn’t get off his horse. He’d said his goodbyes. He and Scarlett exchanged one last look; then she bowed her head, turned away, and headed for the sheltered ivy of Caldwell House. Hadrian watched her go. The door closed behind her, but he continued to look, even then. After a moment more he turned to Royce and asked, “You ready?”

  Royce nodded enthusiastically.

  Hadrian urged his horse forward, wading through the bodies that were slow to make a path. Royce followed.

  “Thank you for everything you did,” said a woman, holding a less-than-content chicken in the crook of one arm. She reached out the other hand to touch Royce’s leg. He recoiled and gave his mount a kick, making the dawdlers jump back. Once clear of the crowd, he gave another light kick and his horse broke into a trot, heading for the pass. He kept up the quick pace until clear of the village and the nearby farms. Only then did he let his mount settle back into her relaxed walk.

  Hadrian caught up, and they rode side by side. Royce expected he’d talk. For once, they had a lot to discuss. The two hadn’t had a private moment in more than a day, and a lot had happened over that time. But although the sky was clear, as it always was in Dulgath, Hadrian didn’t say a word. He spent most of the trip looking at his reins and playing with the knot.

  Farms faded behind them as the trail began its upward grade. Even hunting shacks disappeared as the left side of the path fell away and the right became a cliff. They were nearing the gap that led out of Dulgath and back into Greater Maranon, to that open world where herds of horses roamed.

  They’d reach Mehan sometime after dark and get a room at one of the inns. The next morning, they’d head due north, and if they pushed hard, they’d make Ratibor by nightfall. An easy day would see them in Aquesta, but he’d press Hadrian to keep going. With luck, they would reach Medford in five, maybe even four days.

  Royce wanted—needed—to see Gwen’s face again. Just knowing they were headed that way made him feel better.

  She must be very special. You’re turning down a title and an estate that would make you wealthy and respected for the rest of your life.

  He’d would never admit it, not to Hadrian, and certainly not to Gwen—didn’t even like thinking it to himself—but somehow Gwen had become his fifth thing. To survive, Royce had only ever required four things: air, food, water, and sleep. He was less bothered by heat and cold than others and could live in a forest or field if need be. But those other four things were absolutes.

  Reluctantly, he had discovered Gwen had become the fifth. He could last longer without her than any of the others, but if too much time past, he felt the effects. Sick wasn’t the right word; empty was closer, but even it didn’t fit. Thin. He nodded to himself at the thought. That was it. He felt translucent, as if less of him existed when she wasn’t there.

  I just never noticed how little of me existed before; I was a shadow without a person.

  He didn’t know when it had happened or how he’d let it happen, but somehow when he was without her he felt less than whole. Gwen had stolen part of him and—No, she hasn’t taken anything. She’s given me something I’ve never had, and now I can’t live without it. The idea was unsettling, and he bristled, frowning at himself under his hood.

  Royce began to wish that Hadrian would start talking, some nice pointless blathering about flowers on the roadside or how a cloud looked like a girl he’d once known, except that she parted her hair on the other side of her head.

  Then, as if Hadrian could read minds, he said, “Well, look at that.”

  Royce glanced over, assuming Hadrian would be pointing at a rock and insisting it resembled a turnip. Instead, he found his partner staring back toward the village.

  Fearing that the villagers had changed their opinions and were now in some fanatical pursuit, Royce whirled his mount around and then sat, stunned.

  From their position high on the ridge, they could once again see the whole valley of Dulgath, the village below, the castle and the ocean beyond. And there, arching over all of it, was a rainbow. Clear as stained glass it stood out beneath a single gray cloud as if painted for them.

  “What do you suppose that means?” Hadrian asked.

  “It means it’s raining down there,” Royce said. “But there’s sunshine, too.”

  <<<<>>>>


  Afterword

  Well, there you have it. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading The Death of Dulgath; I know I certainly had a blast reuniting with the pair. Some may know that my wife has a bit of a crush on Hadrian, and there is nothing better than seeing her just before and during a new Riyria tale. That said, I can always write stories for Robin and be happy leaving it at that. Publishing them is another matter entirely, and as I’ve mentioned elsewhere, whether there will be additional Riyria books “out and about in the world” will depend largely on the desires of other people. If the pair starts to overstay their welcome, I have plenty of ideas I can turn my attention to. If people want further adventures, there is no one more excited about that prospect than me…well except maybe Robin. So, don’t be shy; drop me a line at michael.sullivan.dc@gmail.com. I might even have a little free short story for you as a way of saying thanks for taking the time to write.

  Before we part, I have a few other things I’d like to bring up. First, I want to let you know about www.michaelsullivan-author.com/maps.html where you can find high resolution copies of the maps which will allow you to zoom in and see more detail then I can provide in either the print or e-book versions.

  Also, I want to take just a minute to encourage you to leave a review (or simply a rating) at sites like Goodreads or your favorite retailer: Amazon, Audible, or Barnes & Noble. Good, bad or indifferent, all I care about is honesty. I’m not sure readers understand just how important these reviews are. Being able to hear from third-party sources can really help those on the fence decide if the book is right for them. Your comments don’t have to be comprehensive, just a few words about what you liked (or didn’t like) will help others decide. Even if that means they don’t pick up the book, that’s fine. I realize that no book is a good fit for everyone, and I’d rather have that reader go on to find a different book they can love, than spend time reading my book that turned out not to be a good fit for their particular tastes.

  Speaking of Goodreads, I started up a private and secret group there called, The Dark Room. It is a place for lovers of the series to hang out. In The Dark Room I can answer questions, talk about things that aren’t yet public knowledge, and even offer exclusive extras from time to time. If you want an invitation to join, just email. Please put DARK ROOM INVITE in the subject line so it’ll stand out.