by Sean Hinn
Vincent pounded the mahogany table, rattling the glassware. “So it was said!”
Par Greel, the plump master builder, nodded. “So it was said. By many, if what Gerald says is accurate.”
“Who could you have turned to? There were no Merchants of Justice then,” said Mahl.
“Again, that name,” said Samuel Thomison, brother to Vincent. The room shot him a look. “It’s a terrible name.”
“Forget the name,” said Mahl, shaking his head at the man. “Must you always be so disagreeable?” No one took up for him. Vincent’s older brother was not much loved by the Merchants, owing not only to his constant attempts to bicker with Vincent over the most trivial of matters, but also his unwillingness to get his hands dirty. Yet Vincent insisted on his inclusion to their ranks, if for no other reason than to keep him close–and complicit in their activities.
Mahl looked back to Vincent. “Point is, the guards didn’t care a speck. Fury, they didn’t even care when you killed Thallinson, in front of a dozen witnesses! You delivered your own justice. Much as we all do.”
“I delivered revenge, Mahl. And I destroyed a young boy’s life in the process.”
“Did you?” asked Kalindra. “As Gerald tells it, James Thallinson never drank a drop after you tossed him out of the Wench. You probably turned that man’s life around.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you saw him today. I did.”
“I don’t understand,” said Gerald.
“Never mind. It doesn’t matter. What I want to know is this: Why, Gerald? Why tell them now?”
No one spoke as Gerald leaned towards his friend. “Because Mor needs to know, Vincent. It’s time for Halsen to go, before this kingdom turns to dust, and someone needs to step up. It should be you.” All heads nodded, save Samuel’s, who averted his brother’s gaze. “Mor needs to know that your reputation is undeserved.”
“It is deserved! I’ve done everything I can to cultivate that reputation for two decades! You of all people should know!”
“We all know now,” said Gene Derry, the dock master, breaking his silence. “We all know that the enigma that is Vincent Thomison is nothing more than a ruse.”
“Enigma?”
“Don’t think us fools, Vincent,” said Maris. “Everyone loves you. Your staff loves you. Your clients love you. Your bloody horse loves you. That doesn’t reconcile itself with the cold-blooded killer you pretend to be. We all suspected you were something different than what you pretended at. Now, it all simply makes sense.”
“I am a killer, Maris. We all are.”
“But not cold-blooded,” said Jons. “If you think that of me, Vincent, I will slice off my mark here and now.” Jons rolled up his sleeve to expose the tattoo, a dagger piercing a coin.
“As will I,” said Gene.
“And I,” said Maris. One by one, the Merchants rolled up their sleeves, brought out their daggers, and held them to their marks. Samuel was the last to do so.
Vincent beheld his friends. They are my friends, he admitted. He considered the way they had all handled the revelation. They would have had the right to shun him; he had portrayed himself in a false light, using the dread of his deeds that terrible day to protect himself, to make himself appear to be something he… well, something he was not.
“Put away your blades. I do not think you murderers.”
No one moved. “Then you cannot think yourself one, Vincent,” said Gerald, a pleading in his eyes. “You must forgive yourself. You must.”
Vincent sighed as emotion overwhelmed him. He choked back a sob, blinking through tears. He looked around the room; nine sets of eyes looked back to him expectantly.
“I will try. That is all I can say.”
As one, the nine sheathed their knives.
“But nevertheless, what you intend to ask of me… it’s absurd.”
“Is it, now?” asked Lane.
“Fury you won’t,” said Mahl. “Who else?”
“Anyone. You.”
“Me? Ha! I’m sixty-and-five years old. I have no children, and I sure as Fury don’t see any in my future.”
“Lane, then. He has the military experience.”
“As a dishonored Defender and a mercenary?” Jons Ganner replied. “Please.”
“Hey, watch it,” said Eriks.
“Sorry. No offense.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Vincent, it has to be you,” said Gerald. No one spoke for a turn. All eyes looked to Vincent expectantly–again, save his brother’s.
“You would have me tell the people of this kingdom what happened that day? To repair my reputation? I will not allow my Anie’s shame to be known to all of Mor.”
“Shame?” said Maris, apoplectic. “Shame? What in Fury does Anie have to be ashamed of?”
“Well, nothing, of course–”
“Then what bloody Fury are you talking about?” shouted Kalindra.
“I, I only meant–”
“Oh, we know what you meant, Vincent. And that’s the damned shame. Maybe you’re not fit to be king after all!”
“What? I–”
“Ladies, please,” said Mahl.
“Don’t you ‘ladies’ me, you rock chewer,” said Maris. “Now listen, Vincent, and you listen good. And the rest of you, too. There isn’t a damned thing for a woman to be ashamed of if a man takes from her what isn’t his to take. Anie didn’t give that bastard a thing, it was taken from her. And what he took left such a gaping hole in her heart, she took her own life. You dishonor her by not telling Mor the truth, Vincent. And that’s a fact.”
“Damned right,” said Kalindra. “Would you rather they think what they do now, that she invited him into her bed, less than a cycle–”
“Don’t, Kalindra.”
“–after she wed you? You know what they say, don’t you? What the people of Mor all say?”
“Stop Kalindra. Now.”
“They say you killed her. They say you named her a whore and slit her throat.”
“You shut your mouth, Kalindra!” Vincent roared.
“Well, that’s what they say,” Maris supported her sister. “How’s that sit with you, Vincent?”
Vincent felt shattered. He had spent the last twenty years trying to forget those days; now, in front of the only friends he knew, it was all laid bare. He writhed inside.
“Vincent. My friend,” said Gerald. “Am I still that, your friend?”
Vincent regarded the man. He nodded.
“Kalindra speaks with wisdom. This would honor your Anie.”
Vincent knew it was true. He simply dreaded the knowing looks, the whispers, the empty condolences he would receive from those who would wish to garner favor with him. Oh, Master Thomison, I heard about your wife… so tragic… if you ever want to talk… He had avoided those conversations his entire life; no one dared broach the topic with him. Now? he wondered. He shook the thought from his head.
“There is another reason I cannot be king.”
“And what reason is that?” asked Maris, knowing his answer.
His thumb rolled absently at the platinum band around his third finger. “I will never remarry, Maris. I will not beget children.”
Maris laughed musically. “First he thinks he should be king, now he wants to marry me! Good Father, Vincent, but you are a haughty one!”
Kalindra rolled her eyes. “Had that one ready to go, did you?”
“A bit obvious?”
“Yeah. And a bit eager.”
Maris stuck her tongue out at her sister. For the first time that day, the Merchants shared a laugh.
“One thing at a time,” said Mahl. “You can always abdicate the throne later to a worthy successor.”
“Now that’s an idea,” said Samuel, turning to Vincent. “You could assume the throne for an interim period. Allow time for a suitable king to emerge.”
Vincent’s face curled at his brother. The slight did not go unnoticed.
Lane broke the tension
. “Bah, once he sits his arse in that throne, he won’t want to give it up,” he joked. “He’ll grow fat as Halsen on the fruits of our noble labors.”
Vincent decided it would be best to join in the joke, anxious to veer the subject far from that of his past. “I’d need to have it sterilized first. Can you imagine the paste of filth lining that seat?”
“That’s repugnant, Vincent. Come on,” said Kalindra, frowning in disgust.
“It probably makes a squishing sound when he sits on it, something like stepping on a frog,” offered Jons Ganner.
“And a sucking sound when he rises from it, those fat thighs stuck–”
“VINCENT!” shouted Maris and Kalindra together.
The men laughed. The women did not.
“So, it’s decided then,” said Gerald, looking anxiously to Vincent. The room fell silent.
I do not want this, thought Vincent. Fury, but I do not. Not without her.
A younger Vincent Thomison had dreamed of being king, as all young men did. He had imagined sitting the throne of Mor, his Anie at his side, doing whatever kings did – which, at the time, he had assumed to be little more than lying around all morning, making love to his queen, then emerging to order people around in the afternoons. The day’s activities would, of course, be followed by feasting, dancing and drinking in the evenings. As a man in his middle age, wizened by time, experience, and loss, he knew better; the duties of a king, a good king, were endless. Yet, even if the job were exactly as he had once imagined, he would not wish to rule Mor without his Anie. Her loss had extinguished that youthful fire in his heart.
In truth, he had not forgiven himself his vengeful deed, but that was immaterial. He knew himself to be, despite his shortcomings, a far better man than Halsen, one who knew which strings needed pulling, one who could wield the power of the throne effectively, to truly serve Mor and serve it justly. Were that throne vacant, his coronation would be a mere formality; the Merchants would ensure he won the conclave. It was not then a matter of worthiness, nor of opportunity. It was merely a choice, his choice: one that came down, simply, to duty.
Nevertheless, he felt his ascension would somehow distance him from Anie’s memory, and the idea shredded his heart. He had lived as her husband all his life, forgoing romantic entanglements, even dalliances. He clung to the memory of his bride even now, as if she shared his every moment. To become king…he would be required to leave Concord, his family home, the home he and his young bride were to have raised their family in. He would no longer sleep in the bed she slept in, no longer envisage her dining across from him, no longer imagine the scent of her perfume lingering throughout the house.
Yet he could not remember that scent. He could barely remember her face.
She is gone, his conscience whispered. This is a duty only you can discharge.
And it was. Vincent looked up, aware that he had been lost in reverie as his Merchants awaited his reply. He felt thoroughly morose; he knew he must appear sullen to his friends. That would not do; the men and women before him needed hope. Mor needed hope. If he was to accept this charge, he knew, he must do so with enthusiasm. Or at least good humor.
Vincent took a breath and broke the silence. “Well, the first thing I’d need to do is get myself a proper wizard,” said Vincent, concealing a wink across the table to Maris. He turned to his friend, deadpan. “Frankly, Gerald, I don’t think you’re quite suited for my royal court. No offense.”
Gerald blinked, shocked to silence.
The Merchants laughed. “He’s joking, Gerald, you dolt,” said Maris.
“Oh. Well, yes. I knew that.”
“I need some air,” Samuel said, rising suddenly. “If I have your leave, my liege.” He did not wait for a reply.
The Merchants sat quietly until the door closed behind Samuel. “He’ll come around,” Gerald offered, not meaning it. No one replied. Maris stood, raising her glass.
“To Gerald Longstock, soon to be the poorest example of a court wizard the kingdom of Mor has ever seen!”
“To Gerald!”
Gerald and Vincent shared a look, the wizard relieved, knowing he had been forgiven his betrayal. He saw the uncertainty in his friend’s visage. You will do fine, Gerald conveyed silently, proud of the man, knowing the grief he was suffering, sharing it. Vincent nodded faintly; he had understood the unvoiced reassurance.
The Merchants spoke gaily for a time until Samuel returned. Vincent stood on his arrival. “I believe another toast is in order, is it not? We must celebrate our new Master of Agriculture,” said Vincent without a hint of disdain. “Congratulations, brother. I know you will serve Mor with honor, no matter who sits the throne.”
All eyes beheld Samuel. He shot Vincent a brief glance and returned to his seat. “Never did like Barrington much,” he said, “but it’s a shame how he went out. Poor bastard.”
Kalindra stifled a cough. “Surely, you’re devastated.” She made no attempt to hide her sarcasm. “We’ll toast to Barrington’s passing as well. More wine, Miranda!” she called, turning to the kitchen door.
Gerald spoke. “Not too much more. We still have much to discuss. For one, exactly how we intend to depose a king.”
Vincent downed his glass. “And thwart the Master of Kehrlia, don’t forget.”
The room turned to Vincent, confused.
“Didn’t tell them that part, did you, Gerald?”
“I, ah, thought it best to wait for you, my liege,” Gerald bowed dramatically.
Vincent laughed and took his seat. The Merchants sat as well, exchanging sober glances. Vincent peered across the table, relieved to see the violet stone glowing in its cradle. “I have an idea about how to handle Halsen. Might even be able to avoid bloodshed. Sartean D’Avers, however…”
Vincent spoke. The Merchants listened. And drank. And schemed.
XIX: THE FARMLANDS
Earl sat across from Mila at her desk, listening attentively as she wove the tale of her life, beginning from that dark day.
~
She had fled that night into the woods, running blindly into the dark, battered by branches, falling, bruising and tearing her skin. She ran for hours, ran until she collapsed. She was discovered the next day by a trapper. The man, Darrin was his name, was blind in one patch-covered eye, his left leg partially lamed. He had taken her to his cabin, fed her, tended her scrapes, allowed her to bathe. He continued to care for her over the course of the following three years. She had nowhere else to go, and thus she never thought to leave; he never asked her to. Darrin was kind to her; he would go to town on occasion and return with new clothing, toys and dolls to play with, books to read. She was only nine years of age when he found her, but she had been careful not to reveal her secret; she claimed not even to know her surname, only her given name: Mila. Her mother’s name. Her terror at being someday discovered by Sartean held her tongue.
She had also been careful never to use her magic. Not because she feared the man might shun her or punish her. She had resolved never to use her magic again, convinced that it was her unnatural gift that had cost her parents their lives. She had kept to that resolution as she slid gradually into her new life with Darrin, learning the art of trapping, cleaning and skinning the carcasses of caught game, cooking, cleaning; for the most part, she fulfilled the role of a dutiful housewife.
It had occurred often to her that it was odd, this man living alone out in the woods, no family, no visitors. She had no complaint; it suited her, allowing her to remain hidden and anonymous. But one day her curiosity got the best of her, and she had asked the man about his choice of lifestyle. His reply had been gruff; the world was evil, he had said. Unfit to live in. Filled with temptations, betrayals, horrors. Its people were wicked, sinful, unclean.
She found she could not argue the matter. Her limited experience confirmed all that Darrin had said that day. His demeanor as he spoke, though puzzled her. He seemed dark, cold, almost… hungry.
In the winter of her
third year with Darrin, as she had barely begun to blossom into womanhood, she discovered for herself the source of Darrin’s hunger, the foundation for his macabre outlook on the world. Both came from within.
His attentions had become increasingly affectionate that year; Mila had first merely assumed that they had been becoming closer, more like father and daughter. She had asked one winter evening if she could call him Father; he had refused her request nastily. She did not understand. She went to bed that night feeling rejected, undeserving, shamed. She cried herself to sleep, but awoke in the middle of the night to find Darrin crawling into her bed beside her.
She knew. Instantly. She turned to look at him, saw the hunger in his eyes, and she knew.
“No,” she said meekly.
He leered at her. “You are unclean,” he said, the darkness in his tone reminding her of Sartean’s voice that terrible night. He reached around her, fingers grasping at the ties to her nightdress.
Mila’s magic had not suffered from misuse. Darrin died before taking his next breath, his heart imploding as if Mila had reached into his chest and squeezed the life out with her own fingers.
She climbed over Darrin’s corpse, stood, and dressed. She was not angry. She was not afraid. She felt neither guilt nor remorse. But that realization–that she had just taken a man’s life without a second thought–that idea horrified her.
“What am I?” she asked herself aloud.
The answer came as she recalled Sartean’s words that long-ago night. “Our sins fall like rain around us.” The darkness, the emptiness inside her…it was not her fault, she decided quickly. The world was dark, it was evil. The hollowness, the void in her heart…that was Sartean’s sin.
As she walked out into the falling snow that night, Mila decided that her magic had not killed her parents. She was not to blame. Sartean D’Avers had killed them; the blame was his, and his alone. As for her magic–it had saved her from Darrin’s lechery. She would no longer reject it. On the contrary, she made a vow to herself: she would become powerful. She would never be vulnerable to men like Darrin, not to any man. It was then that she named herself.
