Solace Lost

by Michael Sliter

  Meri didn’t know what was going on with Ragen this night. He was rarely this sentimental, and rarely this… forthcoming about his emotions. He was often so busy that they would go for days without saying more than a few words outside of “take this to the blue table,” “it’s your night to mop,” and “be sure to pray before bed.” She was comfortable with that. She’d never been much for talking. She liked to ask questions and let other people speak, to learn without having to really offer much in return. It seemed easier that way.

  “Papa, of course this is my home! I love being here with you, working at the Duckling, seeing all of my friends from Dunmore and all of the interesting people who come by! I wouldn’t trade it for the world,” said Merigold gently, her most convincing voice ever at the ready. In reality, of course, she ached to see the world. Just being a stay-over in other people’s lives wasn’t enough for her. She loved seeing the different styles of clothes, all of the different colors of skins. Hearing the different languages and accents. Smelling the unique perfumes and scents over the reek of the road.

  “Okay, my little flower. Just remember that I… Oh, looks like we have a late guest. Welcome, sir, to The Duckling and The Boat! You seem chilled—would you like a seat by the fire?” asked Ragen, noticing the man through the kitchen window. He rose from the table, leaving Meri with her cooling stew. Meri sat for another moment, took a final bite, and then followed Ragen back into the common room.

  When Merigold saw the man, however, she paused for a moment. Ragen was showing him to the white table, the one nearest the fireplace. The man, limping slightly, was dressed in close-fitting, rough-spun clothes, the durable type worn by most farmers. They didn’t seem to fit him, and not just because they were tight. The man had greasy brown-blonde hair hanging down to his jawline, maybe with a hint of gray at the temples. He was also a bit unshaven, with more obvious gray stemming from his chin and jawline. But, despite his dirty appearance, he was fairly handsome. This was something she would think of afterward, though. For now, she simply got a strange, almost visceral feeling from him. Something from his eyes, maybe. Or the hunch of his shoulders. A feeling of… violence? Of regret?

  Ragen, having gotten the man settled, gestured Meri over and placed his hand on her shoulder. He met the road-weary guest’s eyes. “Meri here will wait on you this evening. We’ve put out the kitchen fire for tonight, but I believe we have some leftover venison stew that should still be warm. We also have bread, baked fresh this morning, and a handful of our famous spiced duck eggs.”

  Meri approached then, the unusual feeling she got from the stranger starting to subside. The man smiled at her—a charming smile, with teeth much whiter than his clothing would have hinted at. Most farmers, in her experience, had awful teeth.

  “Greetings, good sir. As my father said, I’ll be helping you this evening. Would you like any of the food that he mentioned? Or would you like to try some ale or whiskey? We might have some of my father’s home brew left, if the locals over there haven’t drained it,” said Meri, gesturing at an increasingly boisterous group of Dunmorians she had known for years. “We also have beer imported from Hunesa and Draston. And maybe a bit from Algania, too.”

  “I’d love nothing more than a local ale and some of those famous eggs. In Rostane, we hear of your delicacy all the time. At the Plateau, in fact, I recall the eggs being imported from this very inn,” said the man, his wide grin persisting despite his obvious weariness.

  The Plateau? Odd for a man in farmer’s clothes to know anything about the great fortress in the heart of Rostane. “Yes, I remember… My father went to take them himself, leaving me and my Uncle Emmet in charge here.”

  Meri recollected the time very well; it had been three or so years ago. She had begged and cajoled and bribed and cried to get Ragen to take her along. She’d wanted so badly to see the fabled fortress, standing high and overlooking one of the biggest cities in Ardia—housing over two hundred thousand souls! She’d wanted to see the marketplaces, the docks, watch a play, devour some food that wasn’t cooked by her or her father. But, Ragen hadn’t budged. It had been a small victory she’d won, even getting him to allow her to even work those days with Uncle Emmet. He had originally planned to close down the inn entirely while traveling with some hired help.

  “I would love to hear more about the Plateau, if I might be so bold. Let me get you an ale and get you some food, and I will return shortly,” said Meri, giving him a curtsy. Sometimes, Ragen wouldn’t mind if she sat and spoke with the customers—especially when the business was slow. He said it built customer loyalty, making them want to come back to the Duckling even if the road was a little bit longer. He was an excellent businessman in that way. He was always thinking ahead.

  She left the man by the fire and went back to the kitchen. Ragen wasn’t around. She guessed he had gone to compost the trash or get some extra wood from the shed. He was never gone for long, not until Uncle Emmet arrived for his midnight to mid-morning shift. She busied herself around the kitchen, filling a platter with the leftover stew (still surprisingly warm), some fresh rye bread, and the few remaining duck eggs. She found a bit of Ragen’s homebrew left at the bottom of the keg then and filled up a crock.

  As she picked up the platter and stepped toward the common room, a sudden dizziness fogged Meri’s head and turned her legs to jelly, as if she had just spun around a dozen times and ran three miles. She collapsed into a chair—nearly losing the food and drink—dropping her head in her hands and waiting for the weakness to pass. This sometimes happened when she drew from patrons too much during a long day—she tended to crash once she wasn’t able to draw more. It was a very particular type of fatigue. Meri almost felt hungry now, but not in a way that could be sated with food. There was certainly an emptiness, though; her experience told her that she would feel better after she rested for a moment, and back to normal by morning.

  Moments passed, as did the worst of the faintness.

  Leaning back, Meri pulled back the hair that had come loose around her face, straightened it with her fingers, and re-bound her ponytail. She tweaked her blue sapphire earrings, small blue studs that seemed to shimmer constantly, at least as Meri saw them. They were a keepsake from her mother, and Meri never went without them. She had so few reminders of her mother in her life, and since her memory was so cloudy from the fever dream, she treasured her sapphire studs above all else.

  Reminding herself that she only had to hold it together for an hour or so longer, and thinking of her bed upstairs (there was no way she was walking back to Dunmore tonight!), Meri again grabbed the platter she’d prepared for the traveler, leaving the kitchen. The man was sitting at the edge of his seat at the white table, his hands held up against the heat of the fire. She noticed that he was a muscular man with a broad chest and arms that strained at the tight fabric of his poorly-made shirt. Maybe it was just his rather imposing appearance that had given her that uncomfortable feeling earlier. Now, hunched in front of the fire, the man actually dripped with vulnerability—a street dog having finally found shelter for the night.

  She set down the platter on the white table, startling him with the sound.

  “Thanks, girl. I’m Fenrir. Fenrir de Trenton,” he said expectantly. Meri had never heard the name before, but his tone suggested he felt it was important enough to merit recognition. Although he was dressed like a farmer and smelled worse than a sty, she could tell well enough that his clothes didn’t accurately reflect his status. Something about the way that he spoke, the way that he held himself, suggested he was more than a simple farmer.

  “It is lovely to meet you, good sir.”

  “Fenrir,” he corrected.

  “Fenrir, then. You can call me Merigold.”

  “Well, Merigold,” he said with a wink. “Sit with me. Let me tell you of the Plateau and Rostane while I enjoy this delicious-smelling food. These eggs are as delectable as I remember.”

  Between bites, Fenrir began to tell her of the P
lateau. And he painted quite the picture, as eloquent as a traveling bard. Meri could see herself standing at a window of the great fortress, wearing one of the colorful silk dresses typical of a noble lady. She was looking out over the city, seeing the red-brick roofs of residences, shops, and warehouses, smoke drifting lazily from chimneys. To one side, she could see the graceful Tulanque Mountains, impossibly high peaks cutting the clouds. To the other, the busy Fullane River was choked with boats and ships, moving between the docks and the sea, bringing in and sending out the many goods—textiles, beers, steel, precious metals—that were the lifeblood of Rostane.

  Then, Meri could see herself at a ball in the expansive chambers of the Plateau, eating delicacies from around Ardia and beyond. She passed on the local duck eggs, of course, as she spoke with dignitaries from around the continent, speaking of politics and plays and music. She even saw herself dancing, the arms of a well-dressed, lithe nobleman… maybe a baron or a viscount… wrapped about her slim waist. People from all over watched her as she simply stared into the eyes of this beautiful, strong-jawed, well-groomed man. Interestingly, he looked like Saren—just a cleaner version. And Viscount Saren (she decided he was a viscount) couldn’t look away from her. Despite all of the important courtiers and dignitaries in the room, the viscount only cared about Lady Merigold.

  Meri was still listening to Fenrir, his tale of being the heroic, honorable guardsman floating at the fringes of her own fantasy. Something about fighting off assassins, protecting the old Duke Penton. Assassins didn’t play much of a role in her own Plateau, a place where few folk could pass by Lady Merigold without bowing deeply and smiling at her attention. Sure, there was an armored guardsman here or there, but they were more decorative in nature. No, her Plateau was grand and beautiful and only filled with people who she wanted to see. In fact, it was filled with people who wanted to see her. She still responded to Fenrir with the appropriate social niceties, “yeses” and “Oh, tell me mores,” but she also continued to drift dreamily through her own version of Rostane and the Plateau. And she loved it.

  Soon, though, Meri realized she was actually drifting off to sleep. The weariness from the long day, the fatigue from drawing too much, and the hypnotizing voice of Fenrir were causing her eyelids to lower languorously, her shoulders to relax. Yet, she wanted to hear more. She wanted to hear of the city itself, of the markets and the plays. She wanted to see herself as Lady Merigold, strolling with her escort through Rostane, with crowds straining to see her over the heads of her retinue. She wanted to browse through the stalls and the shops, examining beautiful oddities from around the world.

  As Fenrir spoke, his arm rested on the table just inches from hers. In fact, his hand was much closer to hers than she remembered. Curious. She shifted in her seat, touching his hand with the tips of her fingers, almost as if on accident. And she drew just a little bit from him—enough to keep her going for a few more minutes. Fenrir didn’t appear to notice. Lost in her vision of Rostane, Meri drew some more… more than she’d intended. More than she realized. Enough to keep her fantasy going longer.

  A sudden vivid image of tore into Meri’s skull. Amidst fierce rain and illuminated by lightening, she was shattering someone’s skull, with a… belaying pin? Blood sprayed into her eyes.

  “What in the name of Ultner’s cock?” exclaimed Fenrir in surprise, leaping away from her and knocking over the bench in doing so. He snatched at Merigold, his strong grip on her wrist, hurting her. She was too stunned to react. The pain in her wrist was Lady Merigold’s. She had fallen while stepping out of her carriage, landing hard on her wrist. Was there blood on her hands? She felt suddenly terrified, weary, and even sad. Luckily, her retinue was there, helping her back to her feet.

  “What did you do to me, you little bitch?”

  Lady Merigold heard this hissed at her from the crowd of Rostanians. Wait! Through heavily lidded eyes, she saw a face, older and handsome, inches from hers. Meri wasn’t in the market. She was in the common room. In the Duckling. She was staring into the blue eyes of a man she had only met an hour or two before, remembering his name was Fenrir. And he was hurting her.

  Meri was about to say something just as a fist slammed into the back of Fenrir’s head.

  Chapter 4

  Three days more found Fenrir approaching the southern gates of Rostane amidst a great deal of traffic and the setting of the sun. And he felt like shit.

  After the innkeeper had hit him, he’d been carted a few miles down the road, in the wrong direction no less, and dumped in a ditch. This was a typical punishment for traveling drunks in small towns that either didn’t have any holding cells or that just didn’t want to bother detaining an itinerant inebriate. A peasant or farmer would cart the drunk halfway home and drop them on the side of the road. Surprisingly, those who’d taken him off hadn’t robbed Fenrir of the little remaining money (or the human finger) that he’d been carrying, and his heptagram was still secreted in his boot. In fact, they had left him with a rather fresh loaf of wheat bread, which had been a surprising kindness.

  He had awoken near morning and vomited up everything that he had eaten the night before. Actually, he must have become violently ill at some point earlier, because his peasant clothes, stolen from a clothing line on his journey from Umberton, were stained and reeking of rotten eggs. Weak as a malnourished dog, Fenrir had tried to cover some ground with the rising sun at his back, but he’d soon become sick again and had to pause until several minutes of dry-heaving had passed. And, by the gods, there’d been the sun to deal with. The sun had felt like it was melting his eyes, so bright it had been. Apparently, falling down the stairs and bashing one’s skull, followed by having that same spot beaten in by a surprisingly strong innkeeper, was not conducive to a day of walking.

  Fenrir had ended up having to crawl off the road and lay in a shady grove of apple trees for a time, trying to regain some semblance of health. He’d drifted in and out of sleep, not really noticing the passage of time, simply rolling to one side to relieve himself. He’d tried to eat some of the bread, as well as an immature, sour apple, but not been able to hold even that down. Fenrir had passed the next two days in a haze, lying amidst piss and vomit, staying out of sight of any passersby.

  By the second evening, he’d been sitting up with his back against a tree, his shirt balled up behind his head to cushion the increasingly-swollen lump on his skull. With the sun thankfully hidden by the distant Tulanques, he’d finally been able to take in his surroundings and puzzle out his location. Luckily, thanks to guard duty in the atrium at the Plateau (where he had done little more than stare at a map of Ardia for hours on end), even a concussed Fenrir had the wherewithal to pinpoint his present location. As it had turned out, his lunar navigation—and daytime ambling—was not as precise as he had hoped; he had ended up near the tiny foraging village of Dunmore. Too far east. Planning on stopping at that gods-damned inn for a bite, Fenrir had instead found himself beaten and lugged toward Hunesa down a minor road, only recognizable to him now because of these apple orchards.

  That evening, Fenrir had managed a few miles back toward Rostane, walking slowly to reduce his dizziness and nausea. He’d passed The Duckling and the Boat again, and briefly considered putting in another appearance. For a bed or revenge, he wasn’t sure. Either way, given that just moving in a straight line had been enough of a challenge, he’d opted to trudge on, putting the inn about a mile behind him before falling asleep in the brush.

  With the dawning of the next morning, Fenrir had found himself to be both still alive and actually able to tolerate the sun. He’d managed another mile or two, finally reaching the Hunesa Road. This time of the year, the road was busy, and he’d been able to convince a trader (with a couple of his remaining yets) to take him toward Rostane in the back of his cart. After a few hours of trundling through well-irrigated, rolling farmland, freshly plowed and smelling like cow shit, the trader had reached the Rostane Highway and decided to set up shop at the cros
sroads. He was selling a variety of aged cheeses and hard breads, and likely hoping to entice hungry travelers on their way in to, or out of, Rostane. Plus, if he managed to sell his entire stock outside of the city, he would be able to avoid the rather stringent gate tax.

  After thanking the cheese trader, Fenrir had quickly found a clothing vendor. Many people had had the same idea as the helpful trader, and the crossroads had thus become a crowded, impromptu market. Fenrir had spent the bulk of his remaining yets on a new white, woolen shirt and black trousers, something better made than his tight, vomit-soaked peasant rags. Then, among the milling shoppers and traders, he had managed to find someone selling a nice, light broth to go with his remaining bread, bringing his money pouch down to one final yet, a bit of string, and a ball of lint. His queasy stomach had quieted a bit with his flavorless meal, though, and Fenrir had thus mustered enough energy to walk the last stretch to Rostane.

  Now, Fenrir was approaching the southern gates—exhausted, nauseous, aching, and generally feeling like old trash. Not to mention nervous. At this point, his benefactor at The House would have been expecting him for days. And, given the type of organization The House was, his benefactor would likely already know about the better portion of his misadventures. By the gods, how had this happened? The first part, taking the finger from Frommis, probably killing a giant blacksmith, and inciting a mob in the town, was bad enough. But, getting lost in the woods and subsequent farmland (which he partially blamed on a likely concussion), being knocked unconscious by an innkeeper, and being discarded in a ditch—all that was an absolute embarrassment to The House. He would have loved to sic the proverbial dogs of this organization on that innkeeper, but then he would have had to admit what had happened, and that was something he could never do.

  Frankly, Fenrir wasn’t even sure what had led to his ignominious beating. He had been in the middle of flirting with that cute country bumpkin, a little beauty with blonde hair and blue eyes—her brand of beauty common enough in Ardia. Her rear, however, was uncommonly rare. Merigold, or Daffodil, or something like that. As was typical, he’d had her enthralled in his stories of Rostane and the Plateau. These country girls; they were so easy. He’d been able to tell that this girl was particularly engaged with the dancing and pageantry of the nobles, so he had focused on that. It had seemed to be going quite well, and he had been fairly sure he would be sharing her room, hopefully, for free. She wouldn’t have been his first innkeeper’s daughter. Then, she had touched him.