“Tennyson, I made a mistake. A few mistakes. Pandemonium, a lot of mistakes. But I am loyal to The House. You cannot doubt my loyalty.” He was sweating now, his bare chest glistening under his partially-graying body hair.
“I do not doubt your loyalty; just your competence.” Tennyson seemed ready to spring forward, an adder coiled for attack.
“I proved it earlier today. In fact, I have information for you!” Even to himself, Fenrir’s voice held desperation.
“Let’s see what you have, and I will tell you if it is valuable.” Tennyson still held his hands under his robe, but he was now standing back on his heels.
“Once I came into town, I took the shortest path to come see you. I went through that alley off of the Grand Parkway: Vagabond Stretch. Between the Parkway and Penton Street. Two people assaulted me, a muscle-bound warrior with big teeth and a lithe girl with short hair, maybe eighteen years old. I revealed my heptagram, and they laughed. Laughed at me, at the heptagram!” said Fenrir, exaggerating his plight for Tennyson’s benefit, but being careful not to overdo it. Obviously, this was a man who could uncover the truth.
“They threatened to take my finger, and that was when I bested both of them, weaponless.”
“And did they make mention for whom they were working?” Tennyson walked back to his desk and sat down, then writing something down in the huge, black-bound book that was omnipresent on his desk.
“No. I would have assumed that they were ignorant to The House, even foreign to Rostane, except for that last bit about my finger.”
“Interesting. Did you dispatch them? Capture one?”
“Incapacitate them, yes. Kill them, no.”
Tennyson sighed heavily, delicately setting down his pen and leveling a demon’s stare at Fenrir. “You are poorly suited to this line of work, Bull. Fenrir. De Trenton. You think you should leave our enemies alive without even securing one for interrogation? You have the brains of a disease-addled donkey.”
“Maybe so,” Fenrir said glumly. It hadn’t even occurred to him to fling the girl over his shoulder and bring her for proof. And killing the pair as they lay incapacitated in the muck? He didn’t need that on his conscience.
“Maybe so.” Tennyson echoed his words mockingly. “I do not understand you, de Trenton. You are more than willing to maim. How many bones have you broken from those undeserving? How many fingers have you severed from good men? It doesn’t seem to bother you. You are like a dumb dog—I can point and say ‘fetch,’ and you’ll bring me a boney stump, wagging your tail and begging for a scratch behind the ears.”
“I’m former military,” mumbled Fenrir, glancing at Tennyson askance. That’s what he’d been taught—do what he was told to do. After twenty years of being told to fetch, chasing the stick was second nature.
Tennyson ignored the interruption. “Like the dog, you are single-minded and unable to act outside the confines of expectations. This little attack of yours, in Vagabond Stretch, was an opportunity for you. To show that you can be more than a simple errand boy. More than a dog. But, like the job itself, you’ve somehow burrowed below your potential. You’ve fallen short.”
The silence hung in the room like the axe of a headsman. The moment stretched on past the breaking point; Tennyson might have been asleep behind his mask. Fenrir cleared his throat, trying to work some moisture into his sticky mouth.
“So, what next?” Fenrir asked. If Tennyson was going to finish him off, rambling excuses weren’t going to help.
“This was your last job as an enforcer for The House,” said Tennyson, voice as glacial as the ice fields of the Domain.
With lightning speed, the man again twisted to his feet and plunged his hand into the interior folds of his robe. Something glinted in the light as Tennyson flung his hand out, hurling the object at Fenrir as Fenrir swung his arm up in an ineffectual block. A sharp, cold sting blossomed on his chest, and he grasped at the wound. But… it was just a sting. His arterial lifeblood wasn’t flowing through his fingers, and his heart continued to beat. The iron payment chit, having bounced off his chest, was still spinning on the floor.
Fenrir looked like a fool as he scrambled after the heavy metal disc and scooped it up. Tennyson watched silently, arms folded.
“This was your last job as an enforcer, but The House will require more from you. For now, take some time off. Clean up and buy some new clothes. You look and smell like literal shit.” Mockery echoed from behind the silver mask as Tennyson ushered Fenrir out, shutting the door right on Fenrir’s nose. The clicks of a half-dozen locks were a friendly goodbye.
Fenrir clenched shut his eyes as a draining relief flooded his body. Obedient dog or not, he’d survived yet another failure. Fenrir reached up to rub the spot where the heavy chit had impacted his chest, just over his heart. His skin was still tingling with the vague memory of fear.
Chapter 5
Merigold couldn’t stop thinking about that man, Fenrir. Even a week later, with spring traffic at the Duckling heavier than she could ever recall, he still loomed heavy in her thoughts. Certainly not because of his looks—he’d been handsome, but almost old enough to be her father. Rather, Meri felt guilty, remorseful. What she’d done, what she’d caused. It was unforgivable.
As she walked from the Duckling to Dunmore, Meri continued to ruminate. Dear Yetra, she’d been so engrossed in his story that evening. She’d been able to see everything that Fenrir had described… the tall stone walls, graceful balustrades, the ballroom. She’d heard the voices of the nobles, felt the touch of Viscount Saren as they danced. She’d even smelled the exotic scents from foods and perfumes from over the seas! It had been almost as if she’d been living inside a dream, so strong had been her imaginings.
Then, she had drawn from him. Just a little at first, like she so often did, just for a bit of strength, to keep the dream unfolding. And for a second, her visions of the Plateau had been even stronger. Then she’d drawn even more, almost on reflex, taking from Fenrir a surfeit of power. More than she had drawn ever before. Not on purpose, though…
Meri could not deny that she’d felt a rush, both of energy and of details, about the Plateau. She almost hadn’t been able to separate reality from the visions, and hadn’t even noticed that Fenrir was hurting her at first. Then he had cussed at her, somehow knowing that Meri had stolen something from him. Although she hadn’t been able to perceive his hand digging into her wrist, she’d thought she could feel him, his emotions. He’d been scared, terrified even. And mournful.
And, there was that brief vision of blood on her hands as she crushed someone’s skull with a belaying pin, the crimson splatter infiltrating every other part of her vision.
Ragen, seeing Fenrir seize her, had immediately launched himself at the man, striking him from behind. After Fenrir had gone down, Meri had pleaded with her father, saying that the man had meant her no harm, that it was her own fault, that she had incited him. Ragen wouldn’t hear it, though, and had loaded Fenrir’s semi-conscious body into Farmer Denny’s cart. At least she’d managed to secret a loaf of bread into Fenrir’s shirt when no one had been looking, as well as to convince Farmer Denny to put Fenrir somewhere he wouldn’t be robbed. The poor man. He hadn’t been at all intimidating like Meri had thought upon first seeing him. He’d instead been strong and eloquent and… sad.
Over the next few days, Meri had felt like she was hollowly going through the motions of her life. Chopping wood, cleaning guest rooms, serving food and beer. She would still smile and laugh as her job required, but she didn’t feel any joy. Even meeting new people—a dark-skinned man from Rafón, a noble woman from Rostane accompanied by her entire retinue, an impossibly tall man who traveled with a giant, shaggy dog that he’d tied out front like a horse, and a band of traveling mercenaries based out of Hunesa—none of these experiences had elevated her mood. If she started to feel a glimmer of positivity or optimism, her eyes would be drawn to the fading bruise on her wrist. And again, she would feel an empti
ness. Even praying to Yetra for guidance and strength did not help.
Those who harm others, by design or misfortune, dip their feet in Pandemonium and are filled with a potent poison. Longorius, The Book of Amorum. Meri felt this poisoning her body and soul. The guilt of it was making her sick.
Merigold didn’t dare draw from any of the Duckling’s patrons now. She’d even sworn to herself that she would never draw again. She didn’t know what had happened with Fenrir—how she had drawn so much, how she had lost control. But she didn’t want that to happen again, and didn’t want anyone else to be hurt. Consequently, Meri was exhausted. She could barely remain standing by the end of the dinner rush. Her face became pale and drawn by the end of a long day. She had little appetite and had begun to lose weight. She ended each night trying to hide how worn and unstable she had become, lest Ragen become worried.
This day, a week after her encounter with Fenrir, Meri was supposed to head back to the village. Despite her efforts to hide her weakness, Ragen had finally noticed the changes in her and ordered her to take the next few days off. Meri would normally have seethed at such a demand, particularly as her father never took his own advice, but she had grown so weak that she didn’t argue. Much.
So, Meri found herself walking the three miles or so between the Duckling and Dunmore, planning on spending her time at the village house that Ragen owned but rarely visited. Her father was a major figure to the people of Dunmore, working to pass laws and mediate disputes, helping the town with small public works, giving unerringly of himself. He had a house built in the village to show his commitment to Dunmore, though he nearly always made the walk back to the inn no matter the time of night. Meri would spend a few days resting here, in this empty, unused house. It was not an alluring option, but little seemed alluring to Meri right now.
Though, Meri did have to admit to herself that it felt good to walk, to be outdoors, and to be away from people. The inn could be so confining and restrictive, a cage with doors and windows. But now, traveling alone for even a short spurt, she could close her eyes and imagine she was bound to faraway places, lands of unparalleled beauty. Lands where she was more than a bar maiden near a crossroads.
Granted, this fantasy was difficult to maintain, what with her aching feet, the biting insects, and the smell of manure emanating heavily from the surrounding fields. It was even more difficult to be imaginative at all, given her mood.
As Meri approached the footbridge, she finally saw something that bolstered her spirits for more than a moment, and even the brownish-yellow contusion ringing her wrist could not drag her down. Saren stood there, leaning lazily against the railing and chatting with Chad, one of the younger boys in town. As she approached the bridge, Meri had to work at concealing her creeping smile. She cursed herself for wearing an old blouse, one that was covered with the various food and dirt stains of her occupation.
Those who are faithful shall be forgiven in the face of transgressions. Yearen. He probably wasn’t referring to clothing options, but citing verses always gave Meri some solace regardless of true relevance.
Saren was such a handsome man. He had short, deep brown hair and a strong jaw sporting a well-groomed beard. His nose was a little uneven, having been broken at some point last year. Though he was wearing a loose yellow shirt and dark breeches right now, Meri had seen him shirtless, wading in the lake and foraging, with his lean, well-muscled chest and flat stomach glistening with water and sweat. He was a year younger than Meri, but that meant very little in a small village like Dunmore. And besides this, both were well past their majority.
Meri licked her lips and decided to be bold.
She hitched up her skirt, showing off just a bit more leg. She felt about as graceful and subtle as the ducks flapping and quacking beneath the bridge, but her best friend, Sandra, had said that Meri had to be more obvious, more assertive. More aggressive. Sandra was very popular with men, even occasionally spending nights with travelers at the Duckling. Probably as a result of this, Ragen would always frown when Sandra’s name came up, and he willfully avoided the girl. Regardless, Meri was determined to take Sandra’s advice. She had nothing to lose at this point, and potentially a lot to gain.
As Meri stepped onto the footbridge—a very simple affair of wooden planks that stretched over a shallow portion of wetlands—Chad looked up, grinned, and immediately ran off, leaving her and Saren alone. It was the first time they had been alone together since they shared that kiss those months ago, when she’d gotten cold feet and run off. Meri remembered the gentleness of his lips, the smoothness of his face (he hadn’t had the beard last year), and the strength in his arms. The taste and smell of ale in his mouth. He had pulled her close, just outside of the inn, kissing her deeply. It had somehow been both soft and firm, seeking yet commanding. Though she had kissed him back, she’d quickly grown too nervous and had run back into the Duckling, saying something about needing to get the fire burning or the tables cleaned or something. It was a regret, and she had enough conversations with Sandra to know that she wanted more than just a kiss.
“Oh, Saren! How nice to see you!” Meri smiled wide, holding her hands in front of her in what she imagined to be a very feminine way.
“Hi there, Merigold. Away from the inn today?” offered Saren, presenting his own dog’s smile. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you outside of the Duckling.”
“Yes, in fact, I am taking a vacation from the inn. My father hired six new girls from town to help cover the extra spring traffic this year,” said Meri, barely noticing that Saren’s smile had withered at the mention of her father. “So, I’ll be spending a week or so at our house in Dunmore.”
“That’s great, Merigold. So you’ll have some time to yourself, then?” he inquired. She nodded, her heart beating rapidly. “Well, maybe we will bump into each other while you’re in Dunmore.”
“I certainly hope so, Saren,” she said coquettishly, trying to emulate Sandra’s voice. Being just a bit breathless when saying his name, drawing out the ‘ess’ sound. The move seemed lost on Saren; Sandra did say men could be as thick as sodden-brained plow horses.
“Well, I’m off to help Farmer Denny mend his plow. The man is constantly breaking that thing. You would think he’d know how to avoid rocks by now.” Saren nodded politely to her. “It was good seeing you, Meri. I hope to see you again very soon,” he said, still with that wide, charming smile. He nodded again, pushed off the railing, and walked past her, heading toward the Duckling
Meri held her breath for a moment, feeling a lump in her stomach the size of a full clutch of duck eggs. She felt like she was standing on a precipice, about to pitch forward into a fifty-foot drop. But…
“How about tonight, Saren?”
He stopped, not turning around. He appeared… he appeared tense, she thought. His shoulders were slightly hunched, and his fists were clenched. What had she done? Had she upset him? Why wasn’t he saying anything? It felt like hours, days even, had passed. Dear Yetra, her cheeks were already flushed—this was a mistake. She was going to have to run away, jump on some random farmer’s cart, and move to Rostane or Hunesa, and become a bar wench or beggar. At the very least, she would never leave her room again. Finally, Saren broke the silence.
“Not tonight. I’ll be staying with Farmer Denny and his family. Tomorrow night… I’ll find you,” he said over his shoulder, continuing his walk away from town.
Meri remained frozen on the bridge, her heart hammering thickly in her ears as she watched him go. In no more than a few minutes, he was lost from sight, rounding a bend in the road, leaving her to doubt that she had been so brave, so bold. But she had been, and she fell to her knees at the thought of it, not sure whether to laugh or cry.
In the moment, Merigold didn’t think at all about the fading bruise encircling her wrist.
---
Arriving at their village house, Meri realized that she and Ragen hadn’t spent a night there in near two months. Luckily, in excha
nge for a hefty discount on Ragen’s homebrew, the nearest neighbors spent time maintaining the small property, keeping the weeds cut back and the yard free of branches, mending the fence and porch when needed and so on. Despite Ragen being the wealthiest man in Dunmore, the village house was relatively modest, keeping with the theme of the other residents. Ragen did not want to show off his wealth, and he preferred to reinvest his earnings into the Duckling anyway. He was also more than generous in paying for the duck eggs, the lifeblood of the town. He would even purchase them when the supply outweighed the demand. Meri had never quite understood why he did that. He would always end up throwing them away before long, so that it seemed like such a waste.
Meri unlocked and entered the house to immediately collapse onto a dusty chair, exhausted from both the walk itself and her turbulent emotions. Finally, she would have some time alone with Saren! She promised herself she wouldn’t be scared this time, wouldn’t let nerves overtake her. Well, she might be nervous, but she certainly wouldn’t run away. Not this time. She would show him the very best of her, and he would realize just how perfect they were for one another. He would see her sweetness and her charm and know that she was the one for him. After tomorrow night, Saren would propose to her, Merigold Hinter, who would soon be the wife of the man she had loved since childhood. As much of it as she could remember, anyway.
She’d often dreamed of her wedding day. The entire town would be there, all of her friends and family, in their worship-day best. She would wear the white dress that was her mother’s—Meri knew Ragen had stored it in the inn’s attic—and a crown of her namesake flowers, yellow and orange petals woven into her hair. Taneo Marsh would lead the ceremony, of course, and would read her favorite verse from Phillipa, her chapter mostly focused on love and joining.
Love is divine. Love is Harmony. Let Harmony root within the hearts of these before us, and let their vines become so entangled that it is unclear where one ends and the other begins. For true love has no beginning or end—it is eternal. Let these before us be joined by Harmony for all time.
Solace Lost Page 7
