“Principal, we have retrieved the man Fenrir de Trenton. Please note that he did not come willingly, and he needed to be persuaded,” said Sigmund, keeping a carefully-professional tone.
“Sigmund, thank you for your service and loyalty, as always. You are dismissed,” noted Darian, his voice gravelly from years spent near caustic chemicals.
“Principal, I had thought…”
“Dismissed. Now.”
Sigmund gave a small, deferential bow, turning toward the door. Quite accidentally bumping Fenrir in his injured should while leaving the room. Meanwhile, Darian continued to dissect Fenrir with his razor stare, whilst Fenrir felt increasingly uncomfortable.
“Father, it has been some time,” started Fenrir, unable to bear the scrutiny any longer. He knew better than to speak first—one of the primary rules of negotiating—but it was difficult not to break under his father’s examination. Every discussion with this man was a negotiation.
“Fenrir,” said Darian with a nod. Not “son.” Never “son.”
“I hope the day finds you well, Father. You look as healthy as always.” The thought of Darian being unhealthy was almost laughable. Fenrir hadn’t ever seen him sick, and any injury was shrugged off. When Fenrir was a boy, before Darian had fully established his mercantile empire, he still recalled seeing his father’s hand impaled by a piece of glass during a small explosion in the chemistry lab. Darian had walked out of the laboratory, pulled the glass out with some pliers, wrapped his injury in a cloth, and gone immediately back to work. The man was as immovable as the Tulanques.
“The same cannot be said of you, boy,” Darian grated. Boy. Fenrir could almost pretend that was a term of mild familial endearment, although he was relatively sure that Darian called everyone ‘boy.’
“My apologies, Father. I lacked the opportunity to change my clothes. Your summons came so quickly. I had a small accident, but I assure you it is nothing to worry about,” Fenrir said, falling into the familiar formality of having both worked for his father and served for a decade and a half in providing protection for nobles. Fenrir shivered now, though, having the distinct feeling that Darian knew exactly what had happened. His father had a larger network than even Little Duke Penton. By Ultner, his stretch might even rival The House.
“What do you require of me, Father?” Might as well get to the point. Somehow, this meeting was less desirable than that he’d had with Tennyson.
“Tell me, boy. What have you been up to over the last year or so?” asked Darian, knowing damn well what Fenrir had been up to, if Sigmund’s earlier comment had been any indication.
“I’ve mostly been working, on and off. Primarily running protection duty for caravans operating between Florens and Hunesa. Merchants are always looking for men with military experience,” explained Fenrir. This wasn’t precisely a lie. In the last two years, he had protected exactly one caravan each to Florens and Hunesa. In both cases, he’d spent his money upon arrival, getting drunk and brawling in Florens, and getting really drunk and whoring in Hunesa. Either way, a long walk home.
Darian rose from his seat—a simple, well-made wooden chair—leveling his gaze at Fenrir. His father had about an inch on him, but it might as well have been a foot.
“You lie, boy. And, I am not surprised by this. You always lie,” said Darian, not raising his voice. Still, Fenrir felt his malice. “No, you’ve been off doing work for your new friends, the parasites that infest this city. In fact, I understand you recently had a run-in with Martin Frommis, a long-standing friend of this family.”
There was no point in hiding it. “Yes, I bumped into the man,” said Fenrir.
“Bumped into him?” Darian raised an appraising eyebrow.
“With a knife.”
Darian stepped closer to Fenrir, standing an arm’s length away. Fenrir could smell the omnipresent mint on Darian’s breath. To Fenrir, it was the odor of rotten meat. “Some honesty, at last. It must be a hard thing, a personal thing, to hurt a man in the way you do. I wonder how it’s changed you. Has it changed you, boy?”
Fenrir had no idea what Darian was after here. Whatever it was, Fenrir wanted to give him the opposite.
Fenrir grinned his most irritating grin. “I am the same man that I have always been, Father.”
Darian studied Fenrir’s face while Fenrir labored to maintain his smile. His father’s eyes, sharp as twin knives, cut into him, searching for something. Fenrir’s heart pounded hollowly in his rib cage while his stomach twisted and roiled, as if he’d drank a gallon of sour milk. His eyes stung as he struggled to meet Darian’s glare without blinking, still maintaining Ultner’s smile.
After an eternity, Darian shook his head, apparently not finding what he was looking for. “I shouldn’t be surprised. You are nothing more than a common criminal, an unsightly stain on our civil society. You know, boy, I once thought you could be something great. I once thought you could even step into my shoes, one day, and run all of this. You were always clever, smart. Able to see beyond the immediate problem. Able to sway people to your side, even when you were obviously wrong.”
“Like I said, I’m the same man I’ve always been,” said Fenrir.
“Unchanged.” Darian spat the word like the fiercest insult. “Unaltered. At one point, I expected more from you. That you would quit that military foolishness and take your place in the family business. Ever since your brothers died…”
“They were not my brothers,” growled Fenrir, briefly overcoming his dread of his father, the Bull replacing the compliant son.
Darian stepped forward with a speed that belied his age, slapping Fenrir across the jaw. “You will not interrupt me, boy! My sons, they were. And, whether you shared a mother or not, they were your brothers. After they died, your place was here, learning the business. But you stayed in the military, continuing to underachieve at an amazing rate. What was it? Fifteen years with only a single promotion? A promotion that I arranged! Certainly nothing you earned.”
Fenrir’s cheek stung and he shrank in the face of his father’s anger. He felt, again, like he was a child, being berated for shirking his duties. For showing any sort of weakness. For coming home with a mangled leg after being nearly beaten to death by Sigmund, Ethan, and Aiden. But, he wasn’t a child anymore. By the gods, he would not be treated like this. The Bull continued to buck.
“And nothing I wanted! It is beyond you to understand that people can be satisfied with what they have, satisfied with their lives. I did your bidding. I married that shrew Bethany, gave you a granddaughter.”
“I didn’t want a granddaughter! I wanted a son who is worth a damn, and I wanted a line of strong heirs for this empire that I have built. This should be a legacy to span generations, to last hundreds of years! But you, Fenrir, couldn’t be bothered to inconvenience your life by honoring me, your godsdamned father. The man who gave you life.” His rage was popping, boiling pitch, threatening to burn Fenrir. But, Fenrir was beyond caring, lost in his own fury at being struck, at the frustration of the past days.
“Yes, you gave me life and nothing else! You’ve never treated me as a son. The third born, spawn of the second wife.” Fenrir’s fists were clenched at his side.
“I loved Astora, you ungrateful sloth!” snarled Darian, twisting back as if to strike Fenrir again.
But, Fenrir persisted. By the gods, he had nothing to lose at this point, given that he was likely to be killed by someone or another in the near future. He stepped forward. “I’m certain you did, the way that you ignored her. The way you let your heirs demean and humiliate her for her Domain looks, her Domain ways. My mother, the only true person in my life, brought to the brink by your negligence and the abuse of your children.”
Darian struck at Fenrir again, but Fenrir was ready this time, blocking the blow with his forearm. Then, suddenly, he was on one knee, clenching shut his eyes and grimacing in pain, his father’s hand digging into the puncture in his shoulder, tearing apart the stitches.
&nbs
p; In barely more than a hiss, his father said, “I called you here, today, to see if there was anything left of the man you could be, to see if you were worth salvaging. To see if any honor remained with you. To see if, maybe, your hard life had made you a harder man. A better man. Instead I find a shell, little more than a vile little criminal, taking up with the savages in The House. I thought I might be able to find my blood somewhere within you, find a true heir. But, no.”
Fenrir grasped at Darian’s wrist as he continued to dig his fingers into the wound. Darian batted aside the attempt.
“From this day forward, you are no longer my son. You are no longer my heir. You are no longer a de Trenton. If I find you using my name, you will be severely punished. If you enter any of my holdings, you will be killed on sight. I would kill you now if I thought you knew any of the family secrets. Your sloth is saving your life, but I am never to see you again.”
Darian released Fenrir with a shove. He landed hard on the ground, twisting his weak knee in the process. Darian’s hands were dripping with the blood of his former son. Now, just the blood of a man on the street, so far as he was concerned. Fenrir, clutching his widened, bleeding wound, staggered to his feet. He stared at the man who he’d once considered his father, expecting to feel anger. Or sadness. Or even remorse. But all he felt was the pain of his wound and the desire to inflict pain, any kind of pain, upon the man in front of him.
“Sleep well, Darian. With the blood of your son, and his mother, on your hands,” Fenrir said through gritted teeth as he turned and limped out the door.
Chapter 7
Merigold was ready.
She scrutinized herself once more in her full-length mirror, a birthday gift from her father when she’d reached her majority, years ago. Sandra’s dress was gorgeous. A simple, dark blue sleeveless affair with a moderately-low neckline (lower than Meri was used to, but still respectable), the hemline falling just above her knees. The dress must have hung off of Sandra’s willowy frame, but it was nearly a perfect fit for Meri. She tied a small, white ribbon around her waist, and found an old, but still mostly white, shawl to drape over her bare shoulders.
Meri had even taken the time to braid her hair in a special way. Most often, she wore her hair in a loose ponytail, which was quick and kept the hair out of her face while she waited tables. Today, she wove her hair into three separate braids and then further wove these together. The result was a tight cascade of icy blonde hair that flowed over her shoulder. It took two hours, but Meri was very pleased with the result. It perfectly complemented her sapphire studs.
She tinged her lips red with a salve she had made from berries and wax secreted away from her father. He never liked for her to alter her appearance, saying that she was perfect as she was. Of course, he didn’t have to look into the mirror and see how thin her lips were!
Merigold also spent the time to make sure that she was groomed and cleaned… everywhere. Just like Sandra had suggested.
Now, she just waited. Dear Yetra, why hadn’t she picked a place to meet Saren? He’d said that he would find her tonight. Where would he look? Would he come to her house? Would he be looking in the town square, or at the small tavern by the chapel? Should she head to the bridge? The sun was already going down, which, to her, seemed to suggest the evening had arrived. Meri wanted to leave the house and check other possible locations, but was afraid that she would miss him if he came to her home.
So, Meri continued to sit. And stand. And sit again. And pace. She started knitting her blue shawl for a few minutes, but then found that she was making too many mistakes and gave up the attempt. She’d have to spend twice as much time fixing all the dropped stitches the next day. She started tidying up the already spotless house next, dusting clean shelves, rearranging knick-knacks. Meri even moved a rug from the welcome room into her bedroom, just because.
She even leafed through The Book of Amorum, the only reading material in the house. But, she was briefly overwhelmed with guilt in response—Yetra would not approve of her plans for the evening. The goddess was said to have been completely chaste before her Ascension.
Yetra raised her hand, cleaving the crimson firmament in twain, freeing the world from the scourge of Pandemonium, bathing the earth in Harmony. Her purity and her need gifted her with the requisite power. Prenen.
Merigold did not understand how she could be simultaneously dreading and eager for her meeting tonight with Saren. Part of her wanted to toss aside this fancy dress, stuff herself back into her bar clothes, and head back to the inn and work nonstop. To do what she was used to, what was normal, what was safe. The other part of her wanted to toss aside the dress the second Saren arrived, taking him into her, finally discovering what love really was. To do the things that Sandra spoke of. To show Saren that she was all he wanted, all he needed. Standing at the window, she felt her legs shaking with fear and anticipation as she focused on the path leading to her house, awaiting Saren, the man she loved.
The sun had set now. There was no more light to see by, and Meri was sitting in the rocking chair, assuming that her planned evening wasn’t going to happen. By now, the dinner rush would have ended at the Duckling, and she’d normally have been either cleaning up the kitchen or running errands to the various rooms of the inn, delivering pillows, sheets, and additional food or beer. Ragen would be tending to the regulars, and the more robust and thirsty travelers, handing out ales, food, and stories. Dear Yetra, she missed the inn! That was where she belonged, working with her father, attending to travelers from around the world. Doing the…
A knock at the door. A knock!
Merigold jumped from the chair to her feet, stumbling as the rocker righted itself and bumped the back of her knees. Her heart was pounding, and she stood for a moment trying to collect herself. She was ready. She was definitely ready.
Opening the door revealed Saren, looking freshly cut and trimmed, wearing a white shirt and brown pants, anchored by a set of suspenders. Sandra hadn’t given Meri a strategy for suspenders! Merigold didn’t know how those worked, so she would have to figure that extemporaneously.
“Hi, Saren. How are you this evening?” Meri asked, attempting to sound as if she hadn’t been panicking for the last hour or two over his arrival.
“I’m doing fine, Merigold. You look lovely tonight,” he answered, a smile playing across his mouth.
“This old thing? I just had it lying around the house. Speaking of, would you like to come in?” she asked, stepping back from the door to welcome him. Saren scrutinized the opening, but didn’t cross the threshold.
“I thought we might go for a walk. Does that sound okay?”
Saren was always so considerate, asking rather than assuming.
“Of course! Lead the way!”
The two of them left Meri and Ragen’s home, and began walking slowly toward the center of Dunmore. The sound of cicadas and hoppers created a comfortable silence that neither of the pair breached. Meri simply walked next to Saren, at his side, waiting for whatever would happen next.
The pair walked through the village. The square of the town was made up of a cluster of about fifty houses, a general store, a stone chapel, and a small tavern, all built in a similar fashion, using processed lumber from a nearby mill. Most houses were whitewashed, although a few folks had imported red or yellow paint from Rostane, and all were raised a couple feet from the ground in case of flooding—a not uncommon danger, this close to the lake. The chapel was the largest building in town, being the home to the bell tower. Since Dunmore lacked a smith, the iron bell had been imported at no small cost to the townsfolk, with Ragen footing most of the bill.
While walking, Meri and Saren only saw a few other townsfolk, most of them on their way to or from the tavern. Dunmore was a working town, and folk were typically in their homes by dark, with the intention of rising around sun-up. Meri did hear some giggles from the shadows behind the chapel, though, and she wondered who was necking back there. Could it have been Sandra, or
was it one of the younger girls like Marissa or Penelo, finding someone to spend the cool spring evening with?
Meri and Saren approached a small trail that ran along Dunmore Lake—one that Meri was familiar with. Saren offered Meri his arm, and she was happy to hold on. His forearm was well-muscled, and provided immovable support as they continued down the trail, still not sharing many words. Saren had lit a small lantern that he had swinging from his waist. The cicadas, night crawlers, and hoppers continued to play a symphony, getting louder and louder to the point that Meri would practically have had to shout to be heard. She felt as if they were isolated, away from everything that she knew. About a mile from the village, that might as well have been a reality.
Meri suddenly stopped and pulled back from Saren’s arm, turning and facing him.
“Is everything okay, Merigold?” Saren asked, some uncertainty evident in his voice.
“Yes, everything is wonderful,” she said, parting her lips and meeting his in a passionate kiss. On her toes, Meri could feel Saren’s beard, his lips, his tongue. She could feel his muscular body against hers as she continued to meet his lips. She could even feel him harden beneath his trousers. Meri almost pulled back at that, but persisted. She must show Saren that she could be the woman he needed, not just the innocent girl he’d grown up with.
She broke the kiss and whispered into his ear “I’ve wanted this for so long, Saren. As long as I’ve known you.” It wasn’t as dirty as what Sandra had suggested, but it was more honest.
Solace Lost Page 10
