Braston cleared his throat, shifting his gaze uncertainly around the table. Time to address the topic that Emma had been dreading.
“What shall we do about the deserters?” he asked. “I sent out trackers this morning, and the trail is clear across the grasslands. They head south—no major cities in that direction, but dozens of smaller towns. Men could get lost down in those plains. Start over, even.” Braston’s expression, for a moment, was thoughtful.
Emma closed her eyes, inhaling a deep breath that was tainted by the smell of burning porridge and horse dung. You must become hard. Escamilla’s words rang in her mind again, and Emma knew there was only one thing to be done.
“Send twice their number of cavalry immediately. You are to disarm the men and reunite them with the Army of Brockmore. They will be spread across different companies.”
“And what is to be the punishment?” These were the first words from Guy Empton, slurred from his half-dead face from where he sat in the corner in his wheeled chair.
“Each enlisted man shall receive three lashes and half-rations for three days.” She donned her own mask, the mask of Emma Dran-Breen, ward of the Apple Lady and commander of this army. The mask of indomitability. The mask that brooked no question or dissent. The mask of steel.
“The deserting officers’ sergeants shall be given one night to pray to whatever god or goddess they worship. Then, the next morning, they shall be dragged until dead.”
Interlogue: The Birth of a Goddess
“Usually, sweetling, I am only greeted with fear. I appreciate you showing such a keen interest in me.
“But, please know that, though I love you, I cannot halt what has already begun. Your path will be the same regardless of our relationship. Over the years, I have developed many strong relationships with my donors. But it is a fleeting relationship, like so many in my life. When you have existed as long as I have, you will find that nothing lasts.
“How long? Millennia, I suppose. It does make me sound old, ancient. But, I think you would admit that I wear my age well. I see that, when you look at me, you think of your daughter. She does share some of the same characteristics—blonde, slender, and of the same height. But, in your mind, I see conflict. You still envision her as a little girl… your darling, innocent daughter. But, you realize she is a woman, a lovely young adult. And one of your strongest worries is that your protectiveness drove her to leave you, driving her into the arms of a man.
“Oh, my sweetling. This has been hard on you. It likely led to further weakening of your heart, but we’ve addressed that issue already. You need not worry. You know, every good father wants to protect his daughter from the world. And near every girl goes through a phase where they want to escape.
“They always come back, though it is a moot point for you, sweetling.
“You’ve undoubtedly heard the stories of my youth? As always, there is more mythos and embellishment—lies, really—than actual truth. Certainly, I did grow up in a safe town amidst a dangerous time. The location was such that it was well-protected by the natural landscape, and many brave men and women were willing to fight to protect it. The stories of my parents are varied. In some, they were poorer than mud, likely to inspire the less-wealthy individuals across the various congregations over time. In other tales, they were well-off merchants. Once, I even heard they were a king and a queen—royalty. Wishful thinking, no doubt, from the various nobility across Loriayne.
“But, no. My parents were actually lamp makers. Lamp makers! I cannot believe that was lost from history. You can think of the symbolism! Spreading light across the land and so forth. They made neither the best lamps nor the worst lamps in Auqine. Average lamps that average people could afford. Silly. People had all of these conveniences, back then. And even now, many are being rediscovered. But, they never think about the people who provide them. How many times did you turn on a gaslamp in your inn and fail to think about the labor involved in gathering the metal for the frame? The work to mine the coal, to extract the liquid gas, and to ship those components to the workers who assembled the final product? I say this not with judgment, but with recognition that we all fall victim to such shortsightedness. Something that can be assembled with such meticulous attention to detail and care, the results of the efforts of many… and the world cares so very little for that.
“But I digress. I often do; it comes with age. Yes, my parents were lamp makers. My father assembled them, and my mother cleaned and polished them, and then packed them for shipping. I often helped with the business, but I wanted more than that. I had no delusions of grandeur—I certainly had no mind to lead men and women into battle or in faith. I simply wanted a bit of variety. It takes a great person to cope with routine. I was no such great person.
“Eventually, when I was… what was it… fifteen? Sixteen? I don’t recall exactly. But, when I reached a certain level of maturity, a man came to visit our town. He was older than me by twenty years. He was well-spoken, and had the voice and bearing to sway the good people with mere syllables. I remember Amorum so vividly from that time. It is one of the few memories that has not withered.
“Before you ask, the book was not written by him, though it does bear his name.
“He was not a prophet, nor did he claim to be. However, he was a man of his time. He tried to teach the people of Aquine of the wars that ravaged the lands, of the people who fought back against power-hungry tyrants and so on. The world was, indeed, fractured back then. A thousand warring countries, a thousand small people vying for power. It was, as many say, true pandemonium for good people. People who simply wanted to live in peace.
“Amorum taught of this, and oh, did I listen. From around corners, behind benches, and from outside windows. Wherever I could hear his deep, narrative voice and glance at his handsome, weathered face. My father, however, did not want that. When he would catch me, he would deprive me of my little luxuries and confine me to my room. Which, as you know, sweetling, only makes a girl all the more desperate to seek what is forbidden.
“Amorum was eventually driven from town. What need do a peaceful people have for considering war when war is not at their doorstep? Such ignorance, but such wisdom at the same time.
“The stories leave Amorum out of this part of my life. Of course, they would. People would not like to think that a whore were worth listening to. But that’s exactly what I was. I followed Amorum out of Auqine—quite a feat, given the security of that place. I followed at a distance for two days. And, when he camped, one night, I approached him, casting my robes aside. Even back then, in my adolescence, I knew that men’s gazes lingered on me for longer than was proper. I knew that my platinum hair was a rarity, something that drew the eye. I had him almost immediately.
“We spent four glorious days in the wilderness. I have had countless lovers since Amorum. Great men and nameless men. Ugly men and strong men, warriors and scientists. A sea of faces, carried away in the vastness of my memory. But, Amorum… Not because he was my first love… No, it was more than that. He… cared.
“On the fifth day, there was a great pillar of smoke in the direction of Aquine. That part, the stories remember. I wanted to dash off, but Amorum—more seasoned, more worldly than me—held me back. He forcefully restrained me, his worried, lined face showing the truth. It was too late. One young girl and a gifted orator with some minor skill with weapons could do nothing in the face of what came. For two days, we waited. There was no more thought of sex. He attempted to calm me, speaking of peace, speaking of Harmony. Speaking of prevailing over Pandemonium through the powers of love.
“He was so misled, sweet Amorum.
“The town was ravaged. You must realize that the world was a much bigger place, long ago. Much more populous than now. My town, which would be a city by modern standards, had held over fifty thousand souls. So few remained after that. The dead were in piles, unrecognizable. Throats were torn out, limbs were ripped off, women had been raped and children abused. Men wer
e hung and nailed to doorways. My family… my family was missing, which was almost worse than seeing them dead. Amorum tried to dissuade me, but I ran through the town, inconsolable, a shell, searching for the bodies of those I knew. Those I’d grown up with. Those I loved.
“Oh, my sweetling. I cannot believe that, even after all this time, these thoughts can still affect me. I can still see Aquine, the place of my birth, ravaged beyond recognition. It was a reflection of me. I felt such guilt, being left behind. And such rage. I feel that now. I do not enjoy feeling this way. This is torment.
“And, this is enough for now. I cannot take this anymore. I wish we had not spoken. Let me take my due and I shall see you some time soon.
“I am taking your chair.”
Chapter 4
“So few problems, my dear lady, can be solved with violence. I know that is becoming your specialty, but, please, we will do this my way,” Cryden Rensaw said, glancing backward at the platinum-haired girl trailing behind him.
The retort stuck in Merigold Hinter’s throat. Cryden was correct in that her life, of late, had been awash in violence and death. Her hands were metaphorically stained with blood, but nearly all of it had come from protecting her own life. The cost of that, though, was high. Half a dozen lives ended—because of her.
One of those being her unborn child.
Meri clenched her teeth, shoving back her dark thoughts. These awful memories and insidious ruminations, like phantasms, eased into her mind almost at random, threatening to overcome her. But Merigold could be strong. She needed to be strong, lest she be cloaked in despair and accomplish nothing.
“When do we not do things your way, Cryden?” Merigold asked, with a fair bit of snark.
“When you run off to splatter mercenaries all over the wall of a tavern, and then join up with an army bound for war?” He didn’t look back, keeping his eyes on the muddy road in front of him.
Meri grimaced, but managed to bite her tongue. And then she asked, “Are we almost there?”
“Patience, my dear lady, is a virtue,” he said in that holier-than-thou tone. “But, I understand your desire for speed in this case. This place is… indeed… less than desirable.”
They were in Enowl, the main port town in the duchy of Hunesa on the shores of the Vissas. They were looking for passage to Rafón via ship. Unfortunately, the entire duchy—the great city and its environs—was barricaded and locked down because of the civil war. Not a single ship was leaving Enowl; nearly all had been commandeered by the Hunesian military in preparation for the growing Rostanian threat. According to Cryden, Hunesa was dominant on the sea, and thought to curb the Rostanian land assault by threating Rostane via water.
As a result, Merigold found herself reluctantly following Cryden—in near blackness—into the seedy part of Enowl. Seediest, rather, as the entire town seemed to ooze squalor and disrepute. The paint on cheaply-built, weather-beaten houses was chipped and peeling, and windows were boarded up despite their buildings obviously being inhabited. Every third building was a tavern, too, and men who were as weather-beaten as the houses peered out at them as they passed. And people spoke forcefully and with what seemed like unspoken threats, and everyone—even the women—openly wore long knives. The muddy dirt paths were full of potholes, and Meri had nearly broken her ankle when she’d tumbled only minutes ago. Some men, obviously sailors, had laughed at her and made rude gestures.
Meri, though, was past being intimidated by men such as these. She had killed malignant men and monsters, and would not let herself be afraid. Cryden’s presence was a reassurance, of course, but Meri expected she still would have shot the laughing, mocking men the same dangerous glare. She had already begun to visualize their maenen in case she needed to protect herself. Even sensing the maenen, though, was a struggle for her, giving her a piercing headache. And she hadn’t tried drawing power since the day she’d lost her child.
Cryden had known she’d been questing, as he called it, for the maenen of these men. He had laid a restraining hand on her shoulder and they’d continued on.
She had moved past flinching at his touch, though it hadn’t been an easy thing. However much Cryden could be irritatingly arrogant, and accidentally insensitive, he didn’t mean her harm.
“It looks like we are here, Merigold. Behold the splendor of one of the most storied establishments in Enowl.” Cryden spread his arms grandiosely. “Where the good and great meet, and where decisions are made that impact thousands.”
Merigold actually smirked at this. Cryden had pointed to yet another dilapidated tavern in a sea of dilapidated taverns. This place was called the Lonely Mast, and the sign—with surprisingly fresh paint and stunning artistic skill—depicted a young, buxom brunette rubbing herself provocatively on the mast of a ship. The old Meri would have been appalled. Today, she barely gave it a second glance, but for the skill involved in the painting.
“Now, let me do the talking, Merigold. There is a specific language spoken by these people, and you would rather not misstep. Do not quest; do not draw. Unless things are very clearly going wrong,” he added with a wry smile, his unassuming features basically unchanged.
At a time like this, Meri would have been happy to have a man like Fenrir near her, his bulky muscles acting to dissuade violence as much as anything. She wasn’t exactly afraid, but she would rather avoid dangerous situations for a while. She sighed.
“Sure, Cryden. And how will I know if things are going wrong?”
“I have a feeling that will become obvious,” he said with a wink. With that, he pushed open the doors and strode confidently into the maw of this tavern, Meri trailing a few steps behind him.
***
Dear fucking Yetra, did this place reek!
The inside of the Lonely Mast matched the run-down exterior. The common room was nothing like Meri’s Duckling, with its organized rows of colored tables, cheery ceiling lamps, and roaring fire. No, instead, here there were small oil lamps on every third mismatched table, their light occasionally dimmed by a depressed patron leaning his hands in his head. The crowd wasn’t exactly raucous at this hour, and the patrons seemed more controlled than in some of the taverns they’d passed. A couple of women, dressed in nearly nothing, lazily danced on a stage. Few were looking, and the women appeared more than aware of the lack of interest.
The acrid scent of old fish forced its way into Merigold’s nose, and that was mixed with vomit and old beer. The stench was amplified by the cheap incense intended to mask the odor, but which instead exacerbated it by a factor of ten.
Though she felt an urge to cover her nose, she followed Cryden’s example and acted as if nothing were amiss. The two sat down at a table, and a bar maiden was on them immediately, perhaps sensing the possibility of a decent tip. Cryden’s forest green shirt was of a fine material and he wore an ornate belt patterned with silver. Meri’s own clothes—a red, cotton blouse and a black skirt, split for riding—were perhaps not quite as fine, but they were the best that Cryden had been willing to purchase for her. And, of course, she wore her sapphire studs in her ears, though they didn’t match her outfit. She never took them off, though.
Completing her outfit, secreted under her blouse, was her little knife, a relic from her time imprisoned underneath the cabin outside Dunmore.
“Milord, Milady! What do you need? We have local and imported brews, and some little food left for this evening, though the cookfire is already extinguished. If you want, I can see what the chef can put together.” The blonde girl—not more than seventeen years old, Meri guessed—had an innocent smile reflected in her eyes. Merigold was stunned. Down to a discussion of beers and the cookfire, it was like a portal into her past. A naive serving girl wanting to make a little bit of coin. Perhaps this girl’s father owned this place; she seemed well-fed and unabused, surprisingly so given the quality of this place and the presence of those lazy dancers. The memories of Ragen and her old life strained against the lockboxes in her mind, and Merigold fo
ught to keep them closed just as she fought to hold back her tears.
“My dear girl, we are neither lord nor lady, though I do appreciate the compliment,” Cryden said, flashing his customary smile. He shot Meri a quick, fierce look that said ‘Get a hold of yourself.’ “The young woman and I will have your absolute finest wine. And, please see about the food. Maybe a small snack to settle our stomachs.”
The bar maiden grinned at the “finest wine” comment, and then moved quickly to the back room. With an effort, Merigold managed to regain herself.
“Merigold, you must learn control. If you are to be a pasnes alna—which I am beginning to doubt—you cannot allow every little thing to startle you!”
Every little thing. Like recalling the death of her father and family.
“Sure, Cryden. I will try to do better,” Meri promised with passable conviction. She knew he was right.
“Superb. This is a situation that we must handle with the utmost care. Losing control in any way could cost us both our escape from this civil war, along with our lives.”
“I can promise it will not come to that.”
“Thank you, my dear lady.” Cryden leaned back, seemingly appeased, just as the blonde brought back a bottle of wine and two smooth stone decanters. Merigold did not recognize the language on the bottle.
“Where is this from?” she asked, trying to interpret the sharp letters, so unlike the Ardian.
“Rafón. Rafónese wine is some of the best available,” Cryden cut in, seemingly unable to let the bar maiden answer. He always took an opportunity to show off his knowledge. “Though the climes are fairly intense, near the Filinial Sea, they grow some of the finest grapes in the world. And, they have patience in Rafón. Unlike with some of the swill made in Ardia, they allow the wine to age appropriately.”
Wisdom Lost Page 5
