Solace Lost

by Michael Sliter

  Merigold had been for some meaning for all of the atrocities that she had been through over the past months. She had been faithful, but had turned away, swinging far from Yetra’s image. Now, she felt herself being unwillingly pulled slowly back, and she clung to the chaplain’s ideals like a drowning woman clinging to a bit of debris.

  Even as she realized that the debris might not save her.

  “Where do Ultner and the pagan gods fit into this? Riaon? Oletta?” asked Morgyn abruptly, as if she had been holding in the question. Meri was pulled from her hopeful revelry.

  “That is a dark topic, young lady. Perhaps beyond what should be discussed here,” Ignatius said, his voice holding a warning.

  “We’ve discussed rape, murder, and wholesale slaughter. Little can be darker than that,” said Emma with some sarcasm, earning yet another glare. “But, perhaps you could be even briefer than before.”

  Ignatius’ face clearly showed his consternation for a moment before he found his composure. “Ultner is the counterpart to Yetra, the human-born aspect of Pandemonium. As Yetra began to unite the world under her banner, Ultner was born. By the time he grew older, moving into power, Harmony nearly held sway and peace was falling over the land. He again brought war, destroying so much that Yetra and her people had built, again bringing the world to the brink. The Martyrs sacrificed their own lives in order to hold him at bay, and eventually Yetra managed to subdue Ultner, resulting in her ascension. The world was in shambles, the very face of the earth change, but Yetra has since guided our hands in the path to revival and rebirth.”

  “And the pagan gods… Oletta?” pushed Morgyn, her eyes glittering.

  “The church does not acknowledge them,” said Ignatius.

  “But—”

  “The pagan gods are nothing more than imaginary idols, created by people in an effort to subjugate others,” Ignatius spat, finality in his voice.

  “Hmmfff,” grunted Emma, noncommittally. Meri wasn’t sure of the implications of her grunt, but Ignatius clenched his fists and his face turned red. If Emma had offered an insult to Yetranians, then Meri should feel angry herself. But, she couldn’t muster the energy.

  “Okay, I think we have had enough of a history lesson.” Emma reached forward and grasped Meri’s hands. “Meri, I am so sorry for what you have been through. Please know that you are safe now, and that anything you want will be yours.”

  “Thank you, Emma.” Merigold felt a flush at her touch. Emma’s hands, despite her fancy clothes, were just a little rough.

  Emma smiled. “I will be back to speak with you one-on-one again soon. Unfortunately, duty calls, as it ever does.” Emma did seem reluctant to rise. “Morgyn, come along. We need to let the lady rest after her ordeals. And no running, this time. When you avoid questions like that, it only seems suspisicous. And you don’t need to steal! We’ll give you whatever you want. And furthermore…” Emma grabbed Morgyn’s arm and lead the reluctant, sullen girl out of the wagon and back into the storm.

  Ignatius rose to follow, though with more difficulty and a slight grunt.

  “Chaplain, please wait. Can I have a private word with you?”

  “Of course.” Ignatius appraised her for a moment before flopping back to the bench. “I won’t mind an extra moment to stay dry.”

  Merigold had already trusted this man with most of her story, the first time she had given voice to the atrocities of Dunmore. He had given her some small hope, again, that her life might have meaning, that she might have the strength to do what was needed. She might as well seek his advice on one final matter, as difficult as it might be.

  “What is on your mind, sister?” he prompted, kindly. All signs of his anger with Emma had disappeared.

  Merigold wrung her hands in her lap, nervous to breach the subject. Who, indeed, liked to talk about being abused?

  “During… while Dunmore was…” A deep breath. “A man imprisoned and… and raped me for months, and, before I escaped, I became pregnant with his child,” Merigold blurted out all at once, lest she not finish at all.

  Ignatius, to his credit, only flinched a little at the unexpected statement, squinting his eyes. He shifted in his seat, seeming markedly uncomfortable, but he did not turn away. “Meri, you have been through so much in your young life. My heart bleeds for you,” Ignatius said with sincerity. “How can I assist you?”

  “Saren. He was a bad man. A monster. He forced me to do… things… that I am so ashamed of. Things that, if I think about them in the daylight… I am appalled with myself. If I think about them at night, I can’t stop crying. And, he even brought others to… to violate me while he watched. Paul and Chad. All monsters… all fucking demons,” Merigold choked out the last part, unable to believe she’d cursed in front of a holy man, but unable to dredge up any guilt. No words felt strong enough to convey what she had experienced.

  The chaplain simply watched her, his face as still as a common room after the lunch rush. And, just like in an empty room, Meri felt an urge to fill the silence.

  “I don’t know who the father is. There is no way to know. Saren, Chad, or Paul. Regardless, the father is a rapist and a liar. A demon. The child growing inside of me... He is the spawn of an evil, sick man. Chaplain, I know that ending life in the womb is a practice frowned upon in the church, if not explicitly forbidden. But… the child will be evil. And, no matter who the child resembles, I could never love it. Never.” Tears were streaming down Meri’s face now. Though she had thought about ridding herself of the child, this was the first time she had voiced the option. And she felt like a monster, herself. But, she could not go through with this, with having such a baby.

  Again, Ignatius considered her for a long moment, searching her face for something. Or perhaps trying to understand her thoughts. Meri, herself, was unsure what she wanted from this conversation. Just someone to talk to, to confess her sins to? Did she want Ignatius’ support in ending the baby’s life?

  Or, did she want Ignatius to instruct her to keep the child?

  “The world, Merigold, is filled with more people than can be counted. They outnumber the stars. And, like the stars, each is a little different. Of course, that applies in terms of physical characteristics. You, my dear, are quite slight, whereas I… ” Ignatius patted his ample gut “…am of larger proportions. These differences are what makes us special. ‘For we should celebrate our differences rather than let them divide us, lest we be split in twain and separated from love.’”

  “Eonor,” Merigold murmured, recalling the frequent verse intoned during readings, particularly popular during binding ceremonies.

  “Yes! Such a well-learned young lady you are. You should have considered the church…” Merigold’s face darkened at this. Only virgins could be confirmed as Maids of Yetra. Ignatius realized his mistake immediately and, flushing, cleared his throat.

  “These differences, however, are deeper than just our physical appearance. People have unique fears and wants, needs and desires. People are infused with Pandemonium and Harmony at birth. The father, Merigold, whomever it is, let Pandemonium grow and fester within him, controling his life and behaviors. You, my dear, are filled with Harmony, chosen by Yetra for something great. As are all men, here, currently marching for war. Marching for her honor, to combat the Pandemonium that spreads across Ardia.”

  Merigold recalled hearing, from one of the soldiers immediately behind her wagon, that an old man had been beaten to death by some soldiers for supposedly being a pagan.

  “We are all born with the capacity for good and evil, Harmony and Pandemonium. However, the course of a person’s life is not set at birth. No one is born a rapist or a murderer. Or a saint, for that matter. The experiences in their lives—their family, their friends, the events experienced as a child—all feed either this internal Harmony or Pandemonium. Children born by good parents awash in Harmony have a propensity for Harmony, of course. An internal drive for peace and love and protection. But, if they spend time with gr
eedy, vicious friends, surrounded by evil, they will, themselves, become tainted and corrupted. However, the reverse is also true. A child, born with the propensity for Pandemonium, if raised by a loving mother and family, shown the correct path to faith and decency, will grow to be a good person.” Ignatius voice was passionate, full of conviction. Meri felt herself moved by his words, just as she used to be moved by Taneo Marsh during service. A lifetime ago.

  “But, I have no family left. I have no friends. I am sitting amidst an army marching for war. And… I don’t know if I could bear to see the reflection of the father in the face of the child.” In fact, Merigold was not certain which man’s likeness would be most terrible to see. Saren’s, the man who’d beaten and violated her, the man who’d brought others to abuse her. Paul’s, her father’s age, who had always made her uncomfortable and seemed to be the most innately evil. Or Chad, a boy who’d tried to apologize to her, but instead been killed by her own hand.

  “My dear, there is a strength in you. The fact that you are still moving forward after all that you have been through tells me that. Just as Yetra did, despite her losses, you have the infinite capacity to love. You will hold that baby, when he or she arrives, look into its eyes, and see the Harmony within the child and be at peace. Good people will be drawn to you and will support you. Balance, my dear. There will be balance in your life. Yetra will let it be so.” Ignatius smiled gently as he spoke, reaching out to hold Meri’s hand.

  Merigold had forgotten the sheer comforting power of a kind ear. It had been months since she had met a soul to confide in, months where her own thoughts, own emotions, had been imprisoned within her mind with no escape. Fenrir was a reassuring presence, but he brought back memories of violence and simply bolstered her resolve to pursue a path of vengeance unburdened by a child. She had been so filled with anger, sorrow, fear, and hate that avoiding the birth of this child seemed like the only option.

  But Ignatius Pender continued to dole out hope in generous portions. He spoke with Merigold for hours, through the delivery of the afternoon meal, past even when the army stopped for the evening. He turned away messengers and put off his own work to listen to Meri and to provide his perspective, his wisdom. He told stories and parables from The Book, stories that Merigold already knew, but not the way Ignatius told them. He related accounts from his own life, which was surprisingly diverse for a man of faith, spanning two continents and a half dozen countries from his years as a sailor before finding Yetra. And not a single time did he instruct Meri how to live her life, tell her what to choose.

  It was with the calming, focused words of the chaplain that Meri decided that she had the strength. Merigold would keep this baby and raise it as her own.

  Chapter 33

  Emma took a deep breath in a vain attempt to gain some composure. Her two escorts—a hulking, silent brute called Hammer, and his smaller, droll brother who went by Nail—did little to give her courage for her task. Strong arms and shiny armor would do nothing to help her this evening.

  Somehow, this tiny undertaking felt insurmountable. But if she could fight monsters and escape through a ruined temple, if she could confront a holy man and his hypocrisy, she must have the strength to deliver a message to Fenrir.

  Because of the build-up of muck from the storms, the army had made camp early. Navigating the messy lines of tents and lean-tos, Emma and her escort eventually found Fenrir’s tent, pitched within the confines of Ferl’s Company’s camp. The mercenary camp felt… unsafe. The men seemed unpredictable, like knives thrown by a juggler, just as likely to cut as be controlled. Perhaps this was an appropriate place for Fenrir, at the side of that slimy Ferl.

  Emma had little trust for leader of the mercenaries. Ferl was too handsome and well-spoken. Too confident. And there were more murderers in his army than soldiers.

  Emma was not the only one who disliked the mercenary captain. The Silver Lady, Trina Almark, constantly insulted him during meetings, tossing out implications about his honor and manhood, and in particularly how both were lacking. Emma had quickly realized that Trina and Ferl’s interactions mirrored her own with Fenrir in many ways, and she felt a connectedness with Trina because of it. There was almost certainly a history between those two, but Emma would likely never know the truth. Regardless, Fenrir was currently acting as the mediator between the mercenary company and the Army of Brockmore, and had been given some vague officership where he did not necessarily have a command of his own, but could issue orders to units in both Escamilla’s military and the mercenary company. Part of the terms of the contract.

  Emma gestured for her guard to stay outside the tent and straightened her wrinkled riding dress. The poor garment had gone through a cycle of being soaked from the rain and dried in the hot, humid air, and as a result, it was now significantly less striking in appearance than it had previously been. The hem, beautifully embroidered with a floral pattern, was stiff and splattered brown with the omnipresent mud. Her mass of hair was in a similar state.

  Making herself presentable was a lost cause.

  Emma closed her eyes and scratched at the fabric of Fenrir’s tent.

  “Yeah. Enter!” called a distracted voice. Cocks. Emma had fostered some small hope that she could avoid her former lover.

  Flanked by a servant, Fenrir was sitting at a thin table, his head resting on his hands while his fingertips worked at his temples and he peered down at a stack of papers. Orders, probably. Or requisitions for the quartermasters on behalf of Ferl’s Company. The most decisive battles of any war were fought with paper. And Fenrir appeared to be losing.

  His eyes glanced upward slowly from under his lowered brow, but she noted that his head popped up fully when he noticed the identity of his guest. Fatigue dripped from the bulky man just as rain had near ceaselessly dripped from the iron-shaded sky. His eyes were red-rimmed and framed by dark circles, and he rose from his chair slowly, as if exhausted. He wiped his hand across his forehead and one eye.

  “Emma… what could I have done to earn such a delight?” he sighed.

  “Hello, Fenrir. Or should I say ‘Captain Coldbreaker’?” Emma responded, mirroring his sarcasm.

  “I’d prefer Fenrir. By Ultner, I’d prefer to be back in Rostane. Now, will you sit down?” he asked, slumping back into his chair. Emma followed his example. She wasn’t exactly brimming with vigor, herself. And, oh, did her legs and back ache from the riding! Horses truly were a terrible way to travel. It took her a few seconds longer than usual, but she managed to work her tender backside into the seat without betraying too much weakness.

  “A moment.” Fenrir scrawled something onto a scrap of paper and handed it to his servant, who gave a quick bow and left the tent. Fenrir then took a quick swig from a hidden silver flask, grimacing as the liquid evidently burned his throat, and only then did he give Emma an appraising look.

  Emma realized that she was alone with Fenrir for the first time since the night that he had mutilated her, all those years ago. They’d certainly spent a lot of time together as they’d traveled from Rostane to Brockmore, but there had always been Escamilla or Tilner Pick within earshot to serve as a buffer. Looking at him now, older and weary, she wasn’t sure how to feel. Instead, she decided to let actions drive her feelings.

  She quickly stood from her chair and leaned across the small table, putting as much of her body weight as possible behind an open-palmed slap. She’d connected solidly with Fenrir’s jaw, catching him completely off-guard as he staggered out of his chair, knocking it to the ground.

  “You little…!” he shouted, bringing his hand to his face. Already, she could see a red mark beginning to appear. She met his anger with resolve, her spine stiff in emulation of Lady Escamilla during a negotiation. Inwardly, she was wondering if her escort would reach her in time to stop the muscular man from throttling her.

  “Damn, that stings!” Fenrir pounded his other palm onto his table, sending papers flying and an inkwell plummeting to the ground. He rubbed
his jaw, breath hissing as he sucked in through clenched teeth while he righted his chair and slowly slumped back into his seat. “I suppose I deserved at least that,” he mumbled, barely audibly.

  Emma had expected anger, but his sullen acceptance? She wasn’t sure how to react to it, and crouched halfway between standing and sitting for a moment before re-taking her seat.

  “I don’t remember you being so strong,” Fenrir said in a weak attempt at humor.

  “When you’re forced to use one arm for everything, you’ll find that arm becomes much stronger,” she said firmly, and Fenrir flinched at the remark.

  The two sat in uncomfortable silence, Emma fidgeting with her hands, Fenrir rubbing his reddening cheek and tapping on the table.

  “So…”

  “I…”

  They both drifted off. What had he been about to say? Emma waited, but Fenrir seemed to be deferring to her. Another quiet moment stretched out in the air, reflecting the gap between the present and the time when they’d been lovers, years ago.

  After several painfully long moments, Emma broke the stillness—if not the silence—by reaching into her satchel and pulling out two envelopes, each stamped with Lady Escamilla’s apple insignia. She held the first one over the table and Fenrir grabbed it, opening it blindly. She realized that his eyes were now focused intently on her.

  “Why did Lady Escamilla send you? I gather that you are quite an important lady in this camp, Emma. Far too important to be delivering messages to the hired help,” Fenrir said, working the flap free of the seal and pulling out the missive inside.

  “Oh, I am quite influential in this operation. I speak with the voice of the Lady Escamilla. Officers and soldiers and servants follow my orders, and men bow when they see me coming. In fact, I could likely demand that you walk off a cliff and my escort would help me enforce the order,” Emma said with a half-smile. Fenrir gave a hint of a smile in return, showing small wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. She’d either never noticed them before or they were new.