Fenrir had approached the sleeping Emma, grabbing a gag from an interior pocket. He had brushed back her hair, just so that he was able to make out her features in the dim light. He had stroked her cheek—Emma was ever a deep sleeper—fighting the urge to kiss her supple lips, to take her as he had so many times before. To leave with her, run from his shame at the Plateau, from his new life as an enforcer. The foolish thoughts of a younger man with hopes, dreams, and prospects.
Instead, his gentle touch shifted into a rough grab, forcing her mouth open and shoving in the gag. Emma had awaken then, desperately scrambling and flailing her limbs. Fenrir had climbed on top of her, using his weight to hold her down, managing to pin one of her arms with his knee. He had reached for his knife, planning on simply overpowering her and taking the finger. But just then, she had looked directly at his face and paused, ceasing her struggles. She had locked onto his eyes for a long moment, and he had simply restrained her, returning the look. Dear Yetra, he had actually started to tear up, so beautiful were her emerald eyes, so red were her curls. So… soft… were their memories together.
His heptagram had been dangling an inch from her face.
All at once, he had shoved her hand against a wooden end table, trying to isolate her ring finger and bringing down the heavy knife with all the force he could muster. As she’d screamed through the gag, he had seen his mistake—in his haste, he had severed three fingers and the upper part of Emma’s hand. He’d released her hand as she screamed through her gag. Screamed and cried, her eyes squeezed shut as she writhed in pain. Then, she had opened her eyes long enough to look at the bloodied remains of her hand, just before mercifully losing consciousness.
Fenrir had taken her bedsheet, cut it into strips, and bound Emma’s mutilated appendage as tightly as he could, trying to reduce the blood loss. He had sat on her bed at her side for several long minutes, his hand on the side of her face. Remembering. And then he had scooped up her ring finger, wrapping it in some cloth, and left the servants’ quarters and Little Town, delivering the prize to his masters. They knew of his failure, of course, and he forfeited his pay and nearly his life. But, as always, he managed his way through the danger.
---
While recalling his failed exploits, Fenrir must have drifted off to sleep. He woke sometime in the late afternoon, every part of his body aching. Muscles long underused felt as if they were on fire as he dragged himself to his feet, and several joints creaked and popped in a rather alarming manner. It had stopped raining at some point during his unintended slumber, as the sun was now shining merrily through the newly-budding trees.
The cool temperature of early spring was, unfortunately, not conducive to drying his cloak and clothes. He was still damp, still smelling as sour as week-old trash.
With the sun well above the horizon, Fenrir was able to orient himself (although he still felt relatively dizzy from his uncomfortable slumber and aching skull). Luckily, he had been traveling in roughly the right direction, and he must have covered a good deal of ground. He didn’t see a single Arbutus tree, and the oaks and pines had started to thin out. Fenrir knew this area: he should soon join up with the Hunesa Road, or one of the numerous, small tributary roads that would take him back to the Rostane Highway. With luck, he would be back in Rostane sometime in the next few days. In the meantime, he was bound to stumble across one of the dozens of villages and towns that dotted this region. Somewhere to find a meal and a change of clothes. He was going to burn these vile rags at his first opportunity.
The sun to his left, Fenrir set back out for home with a slight limp.
Chapter 3
The inn was surprisingly busy for this time of the evening, with every seat taken and even a few patrons resting—and drinking—on the floor. The Duckling and the Boat Inn was always a popular stopover for folks traveling between Hunesa and Rostane via the southern path, catering to those who preferred the road less traveled. The Hunesa Road, the more direct route between the two cities, tended to become quite congested in the early spring as a result of trade traffic. This in mind, many people were opting for the longer and bumpier, but significantly less crowded, path connecting the major cities… the road on which the Duckling fortuitously sat.
This translated to great business for the inn, which was famous for its duck eggs, a delicacy sourced from Dunmore Lake just to the south. It also translated to very sore feet for Merigold Hinter as she bobbed and weaved through the crowd, expertly balancing empty crockery and platters on extended arms. Having been on her feet all day, Meri was really starting to feel the fatigue. Despite the fact that she’d been serving food from breakfast until dinner, she had not had a chance to eat a single bite herself. And, dear Yetra, the Duckling was hot! Her long, nearly-white blonde hair, gathered low in a loose ponytail, was sticky with sweat, and errant pieces were clinging to her neck and ears. Her face—pale with a small nose, thin lips, and blue eyes that she thought were too far apart—was abnormally flushed with exertion and heat when she happened to glance in a mirror.
“Meri, get these over to the white table by the fireplace! Two men, two women,” hollered Ragen from the kitchen window, raising his voice to be heard over the din of the crowd. Ragen was Merigold’s father—as well as the owner, repairman, brewer, launderer, and cook at the Duckling. He had always had a lot of trouble delegating, and instead tended to take on the brunt of the work himself. Too much work, in Meri’s opinion. He was in his late forties, quite fit from years of labor, but Meri occasionally saw him looking pale and breathing heavily, sometimes even when he wasn’t straining himself. She often counseled him to retire—or at least take it easy—but of course he wouldn’t listen.
A rugged man, probably a hunter, staggered into Meri as she was reaching for the platter, and she nearly lost her balance and tumbled into the group. Luckily, another man had caught her gently and placed her back on her feet.
“Sorry, sorry,” the hunter mumbled, bowing his head to Meri and walking back toward a group of like-dressed men.
“Thank you, Farmer Murphy!” Merigold said, smiling brightly at the lanky fellow who’d saved her a few bruises.
“Of course, my dear,” said Murphy, looking askance at Ragen before returning her smile. Ragen’s face, of course, grinned right back, but Meri understood Murphy’s hesitance. Ragen was fiercely protective of her.
A road inn could be a hard place for a woman to work, and particularly a woman with features as delicate as Merigold’s. However, Meri rarely experienced the typical plight of a bar maiden; men generally left her alone. No pinching, no insults, and rarely even disrespect. Meri recalled once, when she was only sixteen, a traveler had smacked her behind, snagging her by the ponytail as he did so, calling her a very dirty name. Ragen had leaped through the kitchen window, knocking aside food and other patrons, a furious bull seeing only blood. He had rushed up, grabbed the traveler’s shoulders, and fiercely punched him square in the nose. The man’s face had disappeared into a spray of blood as he fell out of his chair. The man’s companions—two rough-looking men—had both stood up and flanked her father. Ragen was fit, but he was not a tall man, and both men had been noticeably taller and bulkier. Nonetheless, Ragen had been in a scarcely-controlled rage. As the first man swung a fist at him, Ragen had simply absorbed the punch into the top of his skull while his left arm caught the man right under the jaw, knocking him back into his chair. Ragen had turned, face red, eyes blazing with a single purpose… and found the third man already restrained by Meri’s Uncle Emmet and another inn patron. It had taken obvious effort for Ragen to regain control of himself. His muscles had been tense as carbon steel, his teeth gritted, and his knuckles bleeding. Merigold had felt, for the first time, fear while looking at her father.
In the six years since then, Meri had experienced no problems with men. The Duckling saw travelers from all over the country—even from the neighboring Algania and Jecusta—and yet, somehow, they knew about the hands-off policy. Word must have spread q
uickly and internationally. Even on a busy night like tonight, no one thought to touch her. And that included Saren, a forager and mender from Dunmore who she fancied. Saren was here with some of his friends and, aside from one kiss months before, they had always been at arm’s length.
Shaking off the fog of reminiscence, Meri grabbed the tray from Ragen, who gave her a weary smile in return. Four bowls of stew and a plate of seasoned duck eggs. No beer. She balanced the tray on one arm—dear Yetra, it was heavy! Or, more accurately, Meri was near exhausted.
Luckily, there was a cure for that. As Meri wove through the crowd, she drew from the patrons. Touching a man’s hand here, a woman’s arm there, she was able to draw a bit of energy and somewhat rejuvenate herself. This was always a tricky game, as it took effort to draw. She had to put in ten eggs to get a dozen. And she also had to be careful to draw just a bit from each person. Otherwise, they might notice. But, she was very good at the game after so many years of practice.
The experience was as refreshing as an icy drink of water in midsummer, as delectable as a bite of Florence Marsh’s apple pie after a long service at the chapel, and as comforting as Ragen’s hand on hers when she was sick. Drawing, simply put, was amazing. Feeling inestimably better, Meri made her way to the white table and dropped off the plate of food, her eyes barely taking note of the group. One of the men, though, trapped her with his strange voice.
“Thank you kindly, girl. I’ve heard tell of your duck eggs and could not pass through this region without sampling the delicacy,” said the man, a smile evident in his voice. Meri stopped and appraised him, his accent piquing her interest. He seemed to be emphasizing the wrong syllables in many of his words, speaking very deliberately and yet also incorrectly. From his olive skin, it was clear that he was a foreigner, that he was not accustomed to speaking Ardian. Sestrian, maybe?
“Of course, good sir,” said Meri, returning his smile kindly. The man was handsome in an unconventional way, she supposed. He was clean-shaven with a broad jaw and a strong nose. He had an evident cleft chin; the cleft was so long that it could have been a scar, in fact, but Meri thought it was natural. He was young, maybe even younger than she was. “I am happy that you decided to stop by our humble inn.”
“My lady, it is certainly my pleasure,” he responded, eyes gleaming with pleasure.
The man seemed to legitimately be having an excellent time. He whispered something to a lovely woman next to him, a pale brunette with boy-cut hair, who barked a strident laugh at his comment. The woman had such delicate features that, with her short hair, she had the appearance of a storybook pixie. Meri’s eyes lingered on this beautiful woman for a long moment before turning back to the cleft-chinned man.
“If I might be so bold, good sir, from where do you hail? Your accent is very unique, and I am very interested in the world outside of Dunmore,” she offered, touching the man’s arm to get his attention. The man drew back from her touch, though, the smile leaving his eyes if not his face.
“Oh, my dear. I have been traveling so long that I can hardly remember where I began. Algania, the Green Peninsula, Rafón, even places beyond the Crown Seas,” he said, eying her warily. One of his companions, an unobtrusive man with a small scar splitting his eyebrow, nudged him. “If you would excuse us, my lady, we would like to partake in our fine food before it grows cold.”
“Of course! I apologize for interrupting—I just hope that you enjoy your meal. Please let me know if you need anything more,” said Merigold, not knowing what she’d done to upset the man or his companion. Perhaps, wherever he came from, you didn’t ask questions about origins. Or, maybe she’d just misread the whole situation.
As she backed away through the crowd, she thought the unobtrusive man—his features average in all regards—gave her an appraising look. And, had he winked at her? Strange people. Regardless, she quickly forgot about the group as she collected empty dishes and rushed around the restaurant, still feeling renewed from her earlier drawing.
---
A few hours later, to Merigold’s relief, the crowd had finally started to thin out. Several parties had retreated to their rooms for the evening and just a few stragglers were still enjoying crocks of beer. Ragen had been brewing his own beer of late, and there were a few folk from Dunmore and the surrounding communities who hung around until the keg was emptied every night. With their being regulars, Ragen tended to give them a discount, or even allowed for bartering. He was always very willing to trade, though Meri often enough insisted that he only take yets. Too often, she felt like he was on the short end of some of these deals.
With only regulars in the Duckling at this point—Saren unfortunately not being among them—Meri finally had a chance to sit down and have some leftovers: stew and a small handful of duck eggs, which Meri actually refused to eat. She loved the little ducklings from Dunmore Lake. The lake, itself, was more of a swampy wetland, the perfect environment to attract thousands upon thousands of ducks every year. She always fed the ducklings bits of bread and other crumbs, and she felt so guilty that all of the eggs harvested could have been adorable little ducklings. Half the town made their living foraging duck eggs, though, and there were strict regulations against over-farming the nests. If a nest had ten eggs, a gatherer could take no more than five. Afterward, they had to leave a little red flag near the nest, indicating that it had already been farmed for the season. Meri knew that some gatherers over-farmed and would bury the nests, and she hated those people. Wiping out a family of adorable, fuzzy (if occasionally ornery) birds for just a few extra yets was intolerable. Unforgivable, so far as she was concerned.
As she was resting and eating in the kitchen, Ragen came by to sit near her. He seemed as healthy as a man in his twenties, displaying no hint of the weakness that Meri had seen more often of late, although his expression did look a bit more serious than usual.
“Long day today, my little flower,” he said, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. “You’ve been on your feet for most of it—how are you feeling?”
“I feel good, Papa! You know me—I can stand for days, if needed,” said Merigold, smiling at Ragen. And she was mostly telling the truth. She was down to the dregs of what she had borrowed from the patrons, but the thick stew was filling her with warmth and energy.
“You are a bundle of energy, just like when you were little,” said Ragen, his face creased into a fond smile. Her father’s smile was rare and special, always seeming like a gift. It brought her a deeper warmth than either drawing from patrons or the stew.
“I wish I had half your energy, Papa. Though I do wish you would spend a few days away from the inn. Uncle Emmet can handle things. Maybe we could go together, see Rostane? I so want to see the Plateau.” Small chance, for either Ragen taking some time off or her ever seeing the capital of the duchy, but Meri simply had to try. Perhaps she would wear him down one day.
“No, I could never do that with spring travel season just finding its stride. Now. Chapter of Errance, opening line of section eight?” Ragen queried, an eyebrow raised.
“Let’s see… ‘It is a poor man, indeed, who relishes idleness. Diligent hands ease the burden of others, and is that not truly Harmony?’ Is that right?” Merigold could almost recite the entire Book of Amorum, the Yetranian holy text, but Errance was a dense read.
“Close enough, my flower.”
“Still, you mustn’t overdo it, Papa. Taking care of yourself isn’t the same as idleness.”
“You remind me of your mother when you talk like that.” There was a sorrowful wisp of a smile on Ragen’s face now, memories bright in his eyes although it had been nearly eight years since her mother had passed into Harmony.
When Merigold had been fourteen, she and her mother had fallen gravely ill. Her mother had passed away from the illness while Meri lay in a fever dream for months. Ragen had tended to her as if he were battling Ultner, himself. The folks of Dunmore often said that Ragen had beaten death in those days. They also s
aid darker things—that Ragen had had a crazed look in his eyes, that he’d been willing to do anything to bring Meri back to life. That he’d made a deal with dark forces. But, Meri had only heard whispers from time to time. Ragen was likely enough to beat senseless any man who voiced such accusations aloud.
Meri didn’t actually remember anything from the time of her illness, however. Really, she only had impressions of all that had come before it—her childhood, her friends, even her mother. It filled her with guilt that she could scarcely recall the woman who’d birthed her, aside from some vague recollections of blonde hair, blue eyes, and a feeling of comfort. After Meri had recovered, she’d had to reassemble her life, and Ragen had been there for her, every step of the way. Rather than resenting Meri for surviving while Lilth—her mother—had passed on, Ragen loved her that much more for it. Clung to her, even. Maybe a little too hard.
“I wish I remembered Mother,” Meri said. She heard a small movement, and then found herself embraced by her father. She snuggled in close, a sudden catch in her throat. Her father smelled of food, woodsmoke, and sweat. The smells of home.
“Meri, I know you worry about me,” said Ragen, pulling back after a long minute and looking down at his hands. “I worry about you, too. More than you can know. I know that it can be hard here, at times, at the Duckling. I see you looking down the road, wondering what is out there. Talking to patrons, longing for stories of their travels. I tell you, my flower, things are good here. So many people do not have a safe place, a meal, their health.”
“Papa…”
“You are safe, here, Meri. This is home, no matter what. It will always be here for you, as will I. Remember that, even if…” he drifted off, still not meeting her eyes.
Solace Lost Page 3
