Skyrider of Renegade Point

by Erik Christensen

  “Excellent, sir. I don’t mean to malign the dead, but your friend wasn’t cut out for the job. That said, I’m truly sorry about what happened. I wouldn’t have chosen him for your butler, but I know he meant much to you.”

  “More than I realized,” said William as he stared at the ground to cover his feelings. “Until it was far too late, anyway. Look, Ruskin…this may be an awkward question, but I’m going to ask it anyway. What did you have against Oz? I don’t mean just as my butler—I got the sense you didn’t want him around in any capacity. I’m not criticizing. I’m simply curious.”

  Ruskin sighed and looked around before answering, avoiding William’s gaze. “He was the son of a drunk, my lord.”

  “You said as much before,” said William. “But Oz barely touched a drink as far as I could tell, and I certainly never smelled it on his breath.”

  “No, I agree with you there, sir—he was no drunk himself. But I know something about drunkard’s sons. I’ve met more than my share, and they all seem to come in two varieties. The first is so obsessed with reversing his father’s faults that he becomes addicted to his work, so much so that he can’t keep a family himself. The second is an aimless, undisciplined boor who attacks others to make himself feel better. Like my brother, for instance. Or a certain former school bully.”

  William reached over and squeezed Ruskin’s shoulder. “So, you lived through the same sort of hell Oz did. How bad was it?”

  “Bad enough,” said Ruskin. “I still carry the scars on both my back and my soul. As does my brother. But while I bury myself in my work, he wallows in self-pity, blaming everyone else for his bad luck.”

  “And you think Oz was like your brother?”

  “Yes—to begin with, at least. And of all the men I’ve met who were subjected to the same childhood, not one changed his path—he either lives for his work or he avoids it completely, and he stays that way for life. But Oz…was different.” Ruskin paused for a moment, then continued. “He was trying to change, to reclaim something he’d forsaken in his childhood. I’m not certain he would have endured, but he started young, and that might have been in his favor.”

  “I’m puzzled, Ruskin,” said William. “If you saw him trying to improve, why would you hold his past against him?”

  Ruskin turned away in shame. “Because it scared me, my lord. My whole life, I’ve believed a man becomes what he is because of how he’s shaped during childhood, and that the path he chooses is the one he’s limited to for all time. But if Oz could change for the better…”

  William sucked in his breath as the truth became plain. “It meant you could change for the worse,” he said, filling the silence. “You were scared you might become what you hated.”

  “Exactly,” said Ruskin with a sigh. “Part of me knew how stupid I was being, but another wouldn’t let the thought go. I didn’t enjoy the struggle. My lord, if there’s anything I can do to atone for my—”

  William brushed the suggestion away with a wave of his hand. “You have nothing to apologize for, Ruskin. We’re all prisoners of our upbringing, one way or another, whether it’s from a father’s drunken ravings or a hero’s untimely death. The fact that you struggled against your tendencies says a lot about you. I’m glad you’re here, for reasons other than the skill with which you’ve built this barony. Something about you instills me with the confidence to face an uncertain future.”

  Ruskin nodded toward the mill. “A little less uncertain now.”

  “That reminds me…how did you get the new millstone so quickly? We couldn’t guarantee I would get the earl’s gold back.”

  The agent reached into his pocket and pulled out a letter. “The earl sent this the day you left for Faywater. Apparently, he was so impressed with your determination that he sent assurance of your deferral regardless of your results.”

  William chuckled as his eyes bugged out. “I don’t suppose he was impressed enough to send word of the reward money?”

  Ruskin gave a half-smile and tucked the letter back into his coat. “In fact, he was. One seventh of the reward money will be sent to each of you and Lady Melissa, plus a third to be held in trust for Oz. Which is why I think he wants his share of the mill’s earnings to start coming as soon as possible. Luckily, I have a long list of farmers and barons eager to use the mill. Even half that income will make the barony more than solvent.”

  “Speaking of solvency, Clyde and I were about to walk to the orchard and check the figs. Want to come along?”

  Ruskin’s eyes twinkled as he did his best to hide a grin. “I should stay here for a bit and keep an eye on things, my lord. Besides, I inspected them this morning already.”

  “Suit yourself. Come on, Clyde.”

  “Bye, Ruskin,” said Clyde as they departed.

  Lord and dragon ambled along the gravel path through the farmlands, William returning the greetings sent his way from the fields on either side. He felt self-conscious in the formal clothes he’d chosen that morning, and he struggled not to show it. Whether it was his clothes, or his bearing, or the simple fact that the busy spring planting season was upon them, he found no one loafing, no one wasting time, and no one fighting.

  It was a pleasant change.

  The orchard was unoccupied, and he welcomed the opportunity to wander through it alone. The apple trees sported tiny blossoms, and William nodded to himself in satisfaction. Once again, he silently thanked Ruskin for convincing him to invest in mature trees. Another bumper crop would mean plenty of cider, perhaps even enough to set aside for market.

  The pear trees were barely budding, but the king buds looked promising. His stomach rumbled at the thought of the wine-poached pears Mrs. Gracey would serve for dessert in a few months.

  William stopped short, his breath catching in his throat. Before him stood row after row of trees, their branches heavy with large green buds.

  The fig trees had bloomed.

  Well, not bloomed, exactly. According to Ruskin, the buds were called scions, and they housed the flower inside them and would later contain the fruit.

  He walked closer and noticed that the scions were quivering. A closer look revealed tiny wasps flying from branch to branch, collecting nectar, pollinating the flowers as they went. William recalled that some types of figs resulted in the wasp getting trapped and dying, but Ruskin had assured him these figs weren’t that type. Not that William cared much for wasps, but it seemed inefficient for a tree to kill the insect it relied upon.

  He bent a branch to smell the scion, reveling in the sweet, heavy aroma that emanated from inside it, unlike anything he’d ever experienced. It was the smell of money that would roll in from a rare and desirable fruit. It was the aroma of a fine dessert served at his table for appreciative guests. It was the scent of hard work rewarded, hope justified, and a huge gamble finally paying off.

  It was the smell of long-delayed success. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with it.

  “Hey mister! You’ll break that tree if you pull any harder.”

  He turned, startled, prepared to chastise whoever it was.

  Melissa smiled back at him with an impish grin. “You’re up early,” she said with a tilt of her head. “And you got home late last night. You can’t keep going at this pace, Will. We had a wild two weeks, and instead of relaxing, you’re out here working. You need to slow down for a while.”

  “I will,” he said as he kissed her cheek. “I just needed to check on things.”

  “That’s Ruskin’s job,” she said.

  He shook his head. “No. It’s his job to get things done. I still need to see for myself how well they get done. I’m the lord of the manor, after all.” He smiled with amusement as he made a show of brushing off his formal attire.

  She pulled back to arm’s length and looked him up and down. “Well, you certainly look the part. Where did you get the fancy clothes? You didn’t even dress this well for our wedding.”

  He sighed and squirmed, trying to get comforta
ble. “My mother sewed them for me when I was promoted to baron. I could never bring myself to wear them though. They made me feel like an impostor. Not to mention itchy.”

  She giggled at his discomfort. “That’ll pass. What made you decide to wear them today?”

  “Something Vincent said. He told me I have to start acting like a baron even if I don’t feel like one yet.”

  They walked hand in hand between the trees, gazing in satisfaction at the growing buds, the bright blue sky contrasting perfectly against the vibrant green.

  “How is Padma?” asked Melissa, interrupting William’s reverie.

  William made a sound like a chuckle, but with all trace of humor squeezed out of it. “We argued.”

  “Did she shed any light on your healing?”

  He nodded. “Maya was right. Padma injected me with something that heals wounds and makes me eat more than Charlie does.”

  Melissa gasped. “Will you be okay? I mean—is it safe?”

  William shrugged. “Only time will tell, but my guess is yes. In fact, I’m probably safer than anyone else on Esper, if what she says is true.”

  “What about me?” she asked. She slid her hand over her belly in a protective gesture. “What about the baby?”

  He sighed and shrugged again. “She says it won’t affect anyone else, not even those closest to me. And even if it did, it would be completely safe, even beneficial. I’m not sure what to think of it. On one hand, it’s certainly convenient to survive a mortal wound. On the other, I don’t understand how she can be so confident it can’t harm me in some way. I have no choice but to live with it and see what happens. It’s been nearly four years as it is. Clyde, leave those trees alone!”

  Clyde stopped digging in the roots. “Sorry, Will.”

  “You don’t need to apologize. No digging in these trees, okay? Leave the orchard alone.”

  “Okay,” said the dragon.

  Melissa chuckled. “Did Padma say anything about her wayward son?”

  William’s face grew dark as he frowned. “He’s not welcome at the hive. Not yet anyway. She says he poses a danger.”

  Melissa looked at Clyde in surprise, then back at William. “How?”

  “I don’t really know,” he said with a sigh. “She values conformance more than anything, I think. Any dragon who doesn’t fit in will pose a problem for her. So, I told her Clyde could stay with us for as long as she wants.”

  “Good,” she said. “I’d miss him if he left. Have you eaten breakfast yet?”

  William’s stomach rumbled. “I could use another,” he said with a grin.

  “Then let’s head home.”

  They walked in silence, Clyde strolling behind them in a haphazard path, sniffing at the plants they passed. William reached his arm around Melissa and pulled her close. “What have you been doing this morning while I’ve been traipsing about?”

  She leaned her head against his shoulder and her face relaxed into a peaceful smile. “Thinking about baby names.”

  A thrill of excitement shot through him, mixed with pride and a little fear. His thoughts touched briefly on his own father as he realized he was about to follow Orrin’s footsteps in a way that had never occurred to him until now. “Have you chosen any yet?”

  “Just one,” she said. “If it’s a boy, what would you say to ‘Oswald’?”

  He turned to her and smiled. “I’d say it’s perfect.”

  The End

  Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed the second book of The William Whitehall Adventures. If you haven’t done so already, sign up for the author’s New Releases mailing list and get a free copy of The Smugglers of Tighpool (and other Stories of Esper), a collection of short stories featuring new characters whose lives were changed by William Whitehall’s discovery in book one, The Defender of Rebel Falls.

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  About the Author

  Erik writes adventure stories.

  An avid reader of both Tolkien and Heinlein, he has used both of these influences to create stories that have the flavor of fantasy, but with the plausibility of of science fiction. By transporting readers to other worlds, he hopes to make this one a little better.

  With an adventurous spirit of his own, Erik enjoys travel, ballroom dancing, home cooking, and trying new restaurants.

  Erik lives in Coquitlam, British Columbia, with the two loves of his life: his wife Diana and their corgi Abby. Abby enjoys walkies, treats, and belly rubs.

  You can reach Erik at the William Whitehall Adventures Facebook page, or at his blog.

  Acknowledgments

  Although writing is a solitary activity by nature, publishing is not, and there are plenty of people without whose help I could not have released this book.

  Michael Anderle, Craig Martelle, and the admins from the Facebook group 20BooksTo50k, along with the other members of the group, provided valuable insight into various aspects of the indie publishing game, and they did so without the usual “you must do it THIS way” that all too often accompanies such advice.

  Several beta readers provided indispensable feedback on my first draft. This story would be nowhere near as tight as it is now without their input, and I was saved from many an embarrassing contradiction, plot hole, and downright error of facts. My thanks go out to the following (in no particular order): Sean Milligan, Angela Crane, Curt Kliewer, Manie Kilian, Jan Gheen, Ian L., J. R. Deatherage, Terry Compton, as well as many others who chose to remain anonymous.

  My editor Zoe, despite claiming that my writing is uncommonly clean, still managed to find plenty of errors that no one else could. A big thank you for the quick and thorough work, and the invaluable lesson on the proper use of hyphens!

  Karri Klawiter turned my incoherent ramblings into a beautiful and eye-catching cover—certainly the best that has ever been submitted for one of my books. She is also making a new cover for The Defender of Rebel Falls so the series looks visually coherent.

  Lastly, and most importantly, my spousal unit Diana has advised and encouraged me from start to finish. A published academic, she’s no stranger to the anguish an author often faces when deciding on a title, or working through a narrative, or designing a book description. Diana has helped with every one of those decisions, often turning me away from a tempting but incorrect choice. More than that, she’s been the very best friend a guy could have.