Flaming Dove

by Daniel Arenson

  Aaron's features were soft and curved, and he would no doubt grow up to be a comely man. He had his father's hair, though, a reddish blond that curled around his ears and hung low to his deep blue eyes. He fell to one knee and bowed his head without saying a word, all while holding the book.

  "Do you know where Cregon is?" Thren asked. Aaron nodded.

  "Where?"

  Aaron said nothing. Thren, tired and wounded, had no time for his younger son's nonsense. While other children grew up babbling nonstop, a good day for Aaron involved nine words, and rarely would they be used in one sentence.

  "Tell me where he is, or you'll taste blood on your tongue," Randith said, sensing his father's exasperation.

  "He went away," Aaron said, his voice barely above a whisper. "He's a fool."

  "A fool or not, he's my fool, and damn good at keeping us alive," Thren said. "Go bring him here. If he argues, slash your finger across your neck. He'll understand."

  Aaron bowed and did as he was told.

  "I wonder if he is practicing for a vow of silence," Randith said as he watched his brother leave without any sense of hurry.

  "Was he smart enough to shut the hidden door?" Thren asked. Randith checked.

  "Shut and latched," he said. "At least he can do that much."

  "We have bigger concerns," Thren said. "If Gemcroft is firing at our men, that means he knew what would happen tonight at Connington's. The Trifect have turned their backs on peace. They want blood, our blood, and unless we act fast they are going to get it."

  "Perhaps if we up our offer?" Randith suggested.

  Thren shook his head.

  "They've tired of the game. We rob them until they are red with rage, then pay bribes with their own wealth. You've seen how much they've invested in mercenaries. They want us exterminated. No bribe, no offer, and no threat will change that. Their minds are set."

  "Give me a few of your best men," Randith said as his fingers touched the hilt of his rapier. "When Leon Connington bleeds out in his giant bed, the rest will learn that accepting our bribes is far better than accepting our mercy."

  "You are still a young man," Thren said. "You are not ready for what Connington has prepared."

  "I am seventeen," Randith said. "A man grown, and I have more kills to my name than years."

  "And I've more than you've drawn breaths," Thren said, a hard edge entering his voice. "But even I will not return to that mansion. They are eager for this. Entire guilds will be wiped out in days. Those who survive will inherit this city, and I will not have my heir run off and die in the opening hours."

  Thren placed one of his shortswords on the table with his uninjured hand. Although old for a guildmaster, he was still full of strength and vitality, a fact proven by Aaron's birth so late in his marriage to Marion. He dared his son to meet his eyes and challenge him. For once, he was wrong about his elder son.

  "I may leave the mansion be," Randith said. "But I will not cower and hide. You are right, father. These are the opening hours. Our actions here will decide the course of months of fighting. Let the merchants and nobles hide. We rule the night."

  He pulled his gray cloak over his head and turned to the hidden door. Thren watched him go, his hands shaking, but not from the toxin.

  "Be careful," Thren said.

  "I'll get Senke," said Randith. "He'll watch over you until Aaron returns with the mage."

  Then he was gone. Thren struck the table and swore. He thought of all the hours invested in Randith, all the training, teaching, and lecturing in an attempt to cultivate a worthy heir. Wasted, he thought. Wasted.

  He heard the click of the latch, and then the door creaked open. Thren expected the mage, or perhaps his son returning to smooth over his abrupt exit, but instead a short man with a black cloth wrapped around his face stepped inside.

  "Don't run," the intruder said. Thren snapped up his shortsword and blocked the first two blows from the man's dagger. He tried to counter, but his vision was blurred and his speed a pathetic remnant of his finely honed reflexes. A savage chop knocked the sword from his hand. Thren fell back, using his chair to force a stumble out of his pursuer. The best he could do was limp, however, and when a heel kicked his knee, he fell. He spun, refusing to die with a dagger in his back.

  "Connington sends his greetings," the man said, his dagger aimed for a final, lethal blow.

  He suddenly jerked forward. His eyes widened. The dagger fell from his limp hand as the would-be assassin collapsed. Behind him stood Aaron, holding a bloody shortsword. Thren's eyes widened as his younger son knelt, presenting the sword. The flat edge rested on his palms, blood running down his wrists.

  "Your sword," Aaron said.

  "How…why did you return?" he asked.

  "The man was hiding," the boy said, his voice still quiet. He didn't sound the least bit upset. "Waiting for us to go. So I waited for him."

  Thren felt the corner's of his mouth twitch. He took the sword from a boy who spent his days reading underneath his bed and skulking within closets. A boy who never threw a punch when forced into a fight. A boy who had killed a man at the age of eight.

  "I know you're bright," Thren said. "But can you read a man's meaning from his words? Not from what he says, but what he doesn't say. Can you, my son?"

  "I can," Aaron said.

  "Good," said Thren. "Wait with me. Randith will return soon."

  Ten minutes later the door crept open.

  "Father?" Randith asked as he stepped inside. Senke was with him. He looked slightly older than Randith, with a trimmed blonde beard and a thick mace held in hand. They both startled at the bloody body lying on the floor, a gaping wound in its back.

  "He waited until you left," Thren said from his chair facing the entrance.

  "Where?" his son asked. He pointed to Aaron. "And why is he here?"

  Thren shook his head. "You don't understand. One too many, Randith. One fatal mistake too many."

  Then he waited. And hoped.

  Aaron stepped toward his older brother. His blue eyes were calm, unworried. In a single smooth motion, he yanked Randith's dagger from his belt, flipped it around, and thrust it to the hilt in his brother's chest. Senke stepped back but wisely held his tongue. Aaron withdrew the dagger, spun around, and presented it as a gift to his father.

  Thren's eyes twinkled as he rose from his seat and placed a hand on Aaron's shoulder.

  "You did well, my son," he said. "My heir."

  Aaron only smiled and bowed as the body of his brother bled out on the floor.