The Broken Man

by Brandon Jones

  Lady Stonelowe lowered herself onto a stool in the corner of the room, looking between Vale and Kalen. “Calm yourself,” she said. “Are you aware of the goings on of your husband’s trading company?”

  “He runs trade ships to Venland, spices and—”

  “No, you silly girl,” Lady Stonelowe said, peeved. “Do you… Never mind. Your husband borrowed a prodigious sum of money to help cover the loss of two of his ships to Okeelay pirates—”

  “No. All of Kalen’s shipments this year have been successful—”

  “And a few other… less legal vices he’s picked up—to help him forget how much money he borrowed, I’m sure.”

  “No—”

  “Drinking and gambling mostly. Rub, as well.”

  “No,” Vale said, wet tears starting to roll down her cheeks. “Kalen doesn’t—”

  “He does,” said Lady Stonelowe. She waved a lazy hand at Kalen, who was now shivering—nearly convulsing—in Vale’s arms. “Those are classic symptoms of rub withdrawals. He was in prison for ten days before I found him, so he is likely nearing the end of the worst of it. Regardless, he will need medical attention I cannot provide here.”

  Vale nodded, feeling sick. “Thank you,” she said, standing. “I’ll get him home immediately. My family keeps an excellent physician on staff. I can’t even begin to thank you enough for what you’ve done for my family—”

  “Yes,” Lady Stonelowe interrupted her, waiving an impatient hand. “You can. I require a favor.”

  “Anything,” Vale said. “Anything in my power.”

  Lady Stonelowe’s stoic façade melted, and her mouth drew up in a slow, wide grin.

  Part 2: Reverate Oak

  Chapter 12

  Vale breathed a sigh of relief. She wondered if that reaction to her father’s funeral made her a poor daughter. Mother and Claret were both still sobbing. Even Kalen’s eyes were still red and puffy.

  Vale didn't feel like a poor daughter. She’d grieved for her father, had spent her share of tears. But in reality, her father had been dead for a long time now. The accident had been months ago and had left behind a mere shell of her father. Vale had been forced to tend to the ceral estate on her own. That her father, Reverate Bosch Oak, had now stopped breathing was a technicality—punctuation at the end of a silence.

  No, feeling relieved wasn't a betrayal. It was closure.

  Vale shifted uncomfortably. Kalen gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. His grip was still frail, but he was doing better. Vale silently thanked the Faceless God for her husband, despite the mess he had made for them. Lady Stonelowe’s intervention had saved Kalen, but it couldn’t erase the massive debt he had taken on. That left them with a significant financial problem. Kalen’s ability to run his trade ships to and from Venland was hamstrung by a lack of funds, and his inability to finance trade runs hamstrung their finances.

  But today was a big step toward breaking the cycle, in righting that mess.

  The study door opened with the telltale shriek of unoiled hinges. The noise grated, but Vale sat up and rearranged her face into a neutral expression. She would need to get someone to fix that starving door. Again.

  Reverate Bensen swept into the room, followed by a half dozen Deferate staff members. He wore his official robes of office and his customary out-of-place-scowl, though the scowl looked less out of place today. Vale often wondered how one of the friendliest men she knew had managed to cement that look on his face. If she watched closely, she thought she could see a hint of mirth dancing in his eyes, belying his expression. Today, however, Bensen's eyes were a match for his expression, both weighed down with gravity.

  “Lady Oak,” Bensen said. “God’s light is in you,” he said formally, offering her his hand.

  She took it and pressed his knuckles between her eyes, indulging the formality for the High Reverate. “His light warms us both,” she replied in kind.

  Ceremony concluded, Bensen seemed to relax slightly. “I am sorry to encroach my presence upon your grief,” he said as he made himself comfortable in a nearby chair. The Deferates remained standing. “But, as I am sure you are mindful, with ceral season soon to impress itself upon us, it is of prodigious import that we denigrate a new Reverate Steward over the Northeast ceral stewardship.”

  Denigrate. Vale couldn’t help but wonder if his habitual abuse of language was intentional, part of the humor she was sure was hidden somewhere inside this odd man. His use of “Northeast,” however, was an unmistakable reminder that the Oak estate did not in fact belong to the Oaks. No matter that the Oaks had worked that soil for generations, that it had been the Oak estate for six generations, that her father had literally given his life to sacred responsibility of tending and harvesting ceral on that land. It was a not-so-subtle reminder that the “Northeast ceral stewardship” would remain the Oak estate only as long as the Church deemed it appropriate.

  Vale held her annoyance mostly in check, and Bensen continued without pause, blathering in circles and using an inflated vocabulary with the grace of a drunken buffalo. It didn’t matter what they called it, Vale reminded himself. It was the Oak Estate, and it was hers, no matter the technicalities.

  “—Will truly be greatly missed. He was a great and gracious man, with a great grasp and ability in the fulfilling of his stewardship with honor and proclivity alike. The late Reverate was like a domineering—”

  “Reverate Bensen?” Claret interrupted the man’s simile. Part of Vale wished she hadn’t jumped in—she was curious to hear how it would end—but Claret pressed on.

  “We appreciate your kind words, but we know how busy you are. If you proceeded immediately to the business at hand, I’m sure no one would take offense.” Claret smiled at the Bensen, managing to sound as if his busy schedule was the true tragedy at hand. She had always been good with people. Like Josen. He could always get people to do what he wanted with a look and a grin.

  Vale felt the familiar tug of emotion in her chest at the thought of her lost little brother. The feeling had changed over the years—anger, loss, confusion, longing—but it persisted, even six years later.

  “Of course,” Bensen said, looking for all the world as if Claret had granted him leave from an extremely arduous task. “Thank you for your malevolent understandings. I suppose there is little harm in proceeding straight to the business for which this convention is intended.” He stood and stepped to the center of the room and spoke with a renewed air of ceremony. “Valencia Oak, stand forward.”

  Vale gave Kalen’s hand one last squeeze and stood, meeting the Reverate’s serious gaze with gravity of his own.

  “Valencia, the Faceless God of the People has reclaimed his servant, Reverate Bosch Oak. His stewardship is left without a Steward. The God’s companionship moves strongly from blood to blood.” Vale was grateful the recitation was rote with a designated end. “However, the late Reverate has left no heir to whom the Stewardship may be passed.”

  The words stung. She knew they were coming, but they stung still. As a woman, she was not expressly forbidden the Reveratecy—though women Reverates were uncommon. Women were, however, excluded from the clause allowing a title to be inherited. “The man you seek is not to be found,” Vale said, the words bitter in her mouth. It was a senseless technicality, but an important one.

  She silently blessed Josen for disappearing instead of dying. She was able to make the case that Josen might still be alive and was therefore the rightful inheritor of the Oak Estate. The Council of Arch Reverates had granted her provisional control over Oak Estate in her brother’s absence, even if she couldn’t technically be named Reverate Steward. It wasn’t the victory she hoped for, but it was a victory. Vale would take what she could get.

  “I will stand in his place,” she said without thinking about the words. Vale wondered what it would have been like if Josen hadn’t ran away—what it would feel like to watch Josen say the words. “The man lost was my father. I stand willing to take up his task, if not hi
s title.”

  “May it be so,” Bensen said. “By the authority granted me by Reverate Shanwick, Arch Solon of the Faceless God of the People, I charge you with the stewardship last held by Reverate Bosch Oak: the cultivating and harvest of ceral grain on one quarter of the land in the Ceral Basin. This sacred task is not to be taken with a light mind. If you are to take up this stewardship, you must become new. All obligations, contracts, agreements, affiliations, and associations to which you are now bound will be dissolved. You will stand clean and unbound as one of God’s chosen in the holy task of providing for his people. It is a heavy task, but if you will serve, say the words.”

  “I accept the charge to take up the stewardship, to cultivate and harvest…” The words flowed from Vales lips. She had memorized and practiced them countless times in anticipation of this moment. “I hereby forsake all obligations…” She would not have the moment ruined by a slip of the tongue or a moment of hesitation. “At your word, I will stand clean in the service of the Faceless God of the People—”

  The cruel protest of unoiled hinges halted Vale midsentence. The door to the study swung open, and three people stepped into the little room, the man in front as if it was his own home. Gareed, their butler of nearly thirty years, stood in the dark doorway, aghast and overwhelmed.

  Vale felt her face flush red as a wave of indignant fury washed through her. How dare they interrupt this? The memorized lines, the words that meant everything to her and her family, hung in the air, rendered impotent in their incompletion. The offending man froze as he caught the mood of the ceremony he had just disrupted. His eyes met Vale’s and held, confused and uneasy. The room was silent. Even Bensen had no words for once. Vale stared at the intruder, her mouth hanging open, quivering with rage.

  “Oh, hells,” the man said into the silence.

  That voice. Vale saw it—saw him.

  “Josen?” Claret said, echoing Vale’s recognition.

  Josen’s eyes flicked to Claret and lit with recognition of his own. “Claret. You’re… bigger,” he finished, clearly flustered. “I mean older, not bigger—well, bigger too, but—”

  Claret shrieked and leapt across the room, wrapping her arms around her older brother with a laughing sob, breaking the tension.

  Mother pushed past Vale and crashed into Josen as well. The three of them, Josen, Mother, and Claret, cried and hugged and laughed and mouthed out words Vale couldn’t hear over the buzzing in her head. She watched in shock, unable to comprehend. Her head felt light, and none of her thoughts would connect, but one thought repeated itself over and over.

  This cannot be happening. God’s tears, this can’t happen…

  Vale watched Josen’s smile change to shock, then grief, as Mother and Claret explained Father’s accident and recent death. Weeping and embracing, tears of reunion and of loss.

  Vale watched as if from the other side of a dream, through the eyes of a stranger. How many times had she wished for Josen’s return in the past six years, prayed he would come back home? Where had he been? Questions whirred through Vale’s mind. What had he done while he was gone? Why hadn’t he come home before, and why now? Why now?

  Vale barely noticed when Kalen ushered Bensen and the Deferates out of the room, though he did catch odd phrases here and there: “for the best,” “unusual circumstances,” and “much to consider.”

  “Vale?”

  Vale started at the sound of her name echoing through the buzzing in her head. She shoved the buzzing back as she struggled to refocus. Josen had untangled himself from the others and stood looking at her. He didn’t look like she imagined he would. Too many scars, too worn.

  “Vale? Are you okay?” Josen asked.

  Vale nodded and stepped forward to embrace her brother. “You left me.” The words surprised Vale even as they came out of her mouth. She hadn’t even realized she was thinking them.

  She felt Josen nod as they held each other. “I know. I’m sorry. I missed you.”

  “I missed you too,” Vale said. And it was true.

  But it was only part of the truth. She couldn’t voice all of the truth. She couldn’t say she wished Josen hadn’t come back, she wished he had remained a half-remembered ghost, a shadow of past. She couldn’t say that she wanted Josen to go away again, that it was all a big mistake, disappear and never come back. She couldn’t explain the hurt and relief, the utter loss and sense of release boiling in her belly. She couldn’t make sense of any of it.

  More than anything else, she couldn’t say that in that moment she hated her brother more than she had ever missed him. The realization made her sick, but she couldn’t dismiss it. This changed everything. Josen had ruined it all by walking through that starving, creaky door.

  “I missed you too,” Vale said again.

  Chapter 13

  Josen sagged into an overstuffed chair and buried his face in his hands at the end of a similar gathering the following morning—similar attendees and general purpose, but with a less dramatic, if no less uncomfortable, ending. Bensen returned this morning with a mercifully conservative retinue of Deferates in tow to complete the ceremony Josen had interrupted the night before—the key difference being that this time Josen, not Vale, was the one called take up the holy charge of stewardship. Vale sat uncomfortably in a comfortable chair and stared at the wood under her boots, never meeting Josen’s eyes.

  Also, there were no interruptions this time.

  The obligatory congratulations and handshakes had been hollow and habitual—words muttered in haste more in an effort to fill an awkward, empty void than out of any amount of sincerity. Josen couldn’t blame them. A significant part of him wished he had taken one long look at his childhood home, then turned and ran in the opposite direction. Odder, though, was the part of him that was glad to be home. He had missed his family far more than he ever realized.

  Josen heard the study door groan open and close several times. When he looked up, only Vale remained. She stared at him, an unreadable expression on her face. He opened his mouth to say something, but what could he say? He couldn’t even begin to wrap his mind around the events of the last twenty-four hours. After a single night in his old, familiar bed—surrounded sounds and smells and comforts he hadn’t realized he’d never forgotten—he felt like he had never left. Ludon and Saul and Parose felt like a different life—like half a dream he could only just recall. It was tempting to pretend it had been.

  “It’s strange,” Vale said, jarring Josen out of his thoughts. “Having you back. I don’t know how many times I wished you were here. I used to daydream about it. It was always so much more dramatic in my imagination.”

  Josen chuckled. “More dramatic?”

  “Well, maybe dramatic is the wrong word…” Vale’s lips twitched toward a smile that never quite formed. Her face landed on an expression more sad than anything. “I used to watch out my window and imagine a horse galloping up the lane, the rider carrying your unconscious body in front of him, a heroic stranger who saving you from unspeakable horrors and bringing you home to us. I imagined father receiving a ransom note along with some piece of you in a small box—a severed ear or finger or something. Sometimes, I even imagined that you had died—always in some noble, self-sacrificing way.”

  Josen looked down, unable to meet his sister’s eyes.

  “The one thing I never imagined was you walking through the front door, healthy and whole. Like you had only been gone a few hours. Everyone said you ran away, but I couldn’t bring myself to believe—even after I accepted that you were really gone—that my little brother would choose to leave us.”

  “Vale, I…” he started, but a dozen excuses and explanations dried up on his tongue. “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s it? You disappear for six years, and you’re sorry? Mother cried for months. You broke Claret’s heart.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll try to fix it.”

  “She was ten!” Vale yelled. “Six years, Josen. She has more memories witho
ut you than with! And in case you missed it, father is dead. You broke his heart too. He blamed himself when you left. Are you going to fix that? Or do you even care? You’re a Reverate now—all the money and power you could ever want without having to put in a single day’s work for it. Must be nice.”

  “Don’t,” Josen said, anger flaring. He’d not been home even a full day yet, and already Vale scolding him like a child. He stood up and glared down at her. “Don’t pretend to know what I haven’t done.” He pushed away memories of cold, hungry nights sleeping in a gutter, of the week in jail in Chessia—the closest he had ever come to dying. Most stark was Saul being led away in irons and the words that he couldn’t quite hear that still rattled him to the core: I’m sorry.

  Vale was taken aback at Josen’s sudden intensity, but he didn’t care.

  “You don’t know. There is no way you could,” he said. “So don’t. Just don’t.” He pushed past her and out the door.

  He didn’t have to go far to find Akelle and Tori, who seemed to be waiting for him. There was still a small gathering in the sitting area outside the study, and both of them looked out of place. Tori in particular didn’t seem to have any idea what to do with herself. Akelle was at least partially occupied, trying to watch Claret without her noticing. Even in new clothes, they looked terribly out of place, but that was a problem that could wait.

  “Come on,” Josen said, grabbing both of them and towing them downstairs and towards the door.

  “Wait, where are we going?” Tori asked.

  “Ludon.”

  “You know, Josen, I’ve always admired that about you,” Akelle said. “When you make up your mind, you really stick to it.”

  “We’re going to the Finger,” said Josen, ignoring Akelle’s sarcasm.

  “Why?” Tori asked, alarmed. “Don’t we want to avoid joining Saul in prison?”