She opened the largest book on her desk, one about wyverns, and held her face as close to it as possible for one to believe she might be reading as opposed to hiding. It was too late to keep from crying, but she could at least keep them from seeing it.
It was for the best that Master Annan had refused to add this book to the curriculum. The others did not deserve it.
TALLOS
Nearly dead with exhaustion from a night spent walking in the moonlight, straining to see, Tallos staggered through the harsh landscape like a man possessed. His every step was labored as he fought to maintain the concentration required to prevent a fall that would harm his precious cargo. He’d found that it was easier to carry the bloody bundle of fur that lay across his arms if he reached with his hands toward the collar of his shirt and took hold. So it was with a collar stretched halfway down his chest that Tallos stumbled toward home, hoping desperately to find the fire still lit.
As he trudged, he’d had more time to think than was wanted. He recalled a story his mother had told him when he was a child. She had died when he was young, but he remembered her well. She spoke of a cursed man, Nekasr. Everywhere this man went, everyone this man knew, and everything this man touched, eventually withered and died. It did not happen immediately, she said. Nekasr did not believe in curses, and every time misfortune befell him, he would move to another place, making new friends, and sometimes even starting a family. Each time Nekasr would grow to find himself contented, so much so that he would forget all that he and those he’d loved had suffered in his past lives. And it was then, just as he forgot, that the gods sought to remind him. The God of the River would flood his home and drown his livestock, the God of the Mountain would crush his loved ones with landslides and boulders, and the God of the Dawnstar would bring forth brilliant rays of early light to illuminate the destruction in all its glory. Nekasr always survived, unscathed, so that he could witness it all without distraction. The Mighty Three, his mother said, did not like a man who forgot that all he had was precious, all he had was fragile, and all he had could be taken away. A man is not a god, and a man who foolishly sought to gain and protect a godly amount of happiness would reap a godly amount of misery and despair in its stead.
“Stay with me, girl,” he spoke to his limp companion that lay across his arms. Each step must have been torture for Lia as the wound in her side was twisted and stretched. Tallos had thought many times about stopping and making a fire so that he could scorch her wound shut the best way he knew how, but having dropped his bags prior to running, he no longer had the necessary implements to make one quickly enough to justify not heading straight home. Nor did he have a needle with which to stitch her shut; their only needle was kept in a box on the clothes chest. Would it even be enough at this point, he worried, looking at her dangling head.
“Lia,” he said to her with a whispered shout, and her head moved toward him somewhat, enough to make weak eye contact for a moment. “Good girl, we are almost there.”
But he could not look down at her without seeing just how soaked his shirt was with her blood. It had climbed and spread throughout his clothing, infusing every fiber with its metallic-smelling crimson.
He had determined during his trek home that he had not sustained any injuries, which only served to make him feel more guilty about the multiple wounds now sapping the life from Lia. His sleepless mind chased tangents at a frenzied pace, refusing to allow him to plan the series of tasks he would have to perform in order to patch Lia and catch up to his wife.
Leona.
Fear ripped through him as he considered what he may find upon coming to their home. He imagined approaching the wooden steps that led up to the door. Leona had carved his name on the topmost step, a thing he’d weakly protested out of embarrassment. “Stomp your feet and cover it with dirt as you walk in, then, so you will not cover the floors instead,” she’d said, somewhat hurt. Not wanting to sully the carving she must have spent hours on, Tallos had always stomped his feet on the two preceding steps.
Those memories would not preclude his thoughts of doom. He imagined that topmost step caked with mud—mud from a Northman’s boot. The door slowly creaked open in his mind, revealing a scene of utter destruction. The items of the house were strewn about as if wild animals had been trapped inside. The air was pungent with the smell of sweat from dirty, desperate men. A trail of clothing, Leona’s clothing or the remnants of them, led to the door of their bedroom. Torn strips of her delicate blue dress lay on the floor, covered with spots of blood that had flowed from her nose. Her undergarments peeked from beneath the partially closed door, and as it swung open, Tallos could see the scene in all its brutality.
He shook his head violently as if to be rid of the images and bring himself back to alertness. It took all his effort to be able to focus.
Gods, let there be embers with which to make a fire. And see that Leona is safe, alone in the southern woods.
“There will be a fire, girl,” Tallos said. “It will hurt, but we will get you better.”
Lia whimpered in what sounded like weak approval. She likes me talking to her, thought Tallos.
“You remember helping to build that giant stove don’t you? All those stones we moved?” Lia was not content merely accompanying Tallos on his errands. She loved to help him pull the sled whether it was piled with wood or stone or iron.
“It will go for almost two days with a full load of wood in it. That was your idea to make it only burn a few logs on one side while others dropped down one by one?” Lia’s tail may have wagged, but it was hard to tell.
“We will have to work quickly when we do get home. We do not want your mother alone in the woods for long or she’ll get lost. I will have to leave you after you are patched up and go look for her, but I won’t be gone for long. Don’t worry.”
Tallos was more concerned about leaving Lia at home alone than going after Leona. His wife would be easy enough for him to track once she hit the muddy riverbank, but Lia might hurt herself if she tried to follow when he was away.
“You have to promise to wait for us though,” Tallos continued. “I will leave you with enough food and water that you will have no excuses for doing otherwise.”
He thought it best not to tell Lia what his plans were then, after they came back for her; she was no city dog. But once Lia was healthy enough to walk, they would all head south again, possibly as far as Rivervale. Leona was content in their home in the woods, but he knew she might wish, even if she did not admit it, not even to herself, to visit the city, to see the sights and taste the foods. Tallos could take up a trade easily enough. Things would be difficult at first, but he would be able to make enough coin to support them if any man could.
His home came into view in the distance, and as he feared, no smoke rose from the small flue. He resisted the urge to run, as it would only cause more pain for Lia, and walked the remaining way with anxiety burning in his every bone, spurring him to move faster.
His name was clear to see on the top step; there was no more dirt on them than usual, and the front door was closed. Tallos struggled for a moment with the latch, finding it unlocked, and was greeted with a sight not far from what he’d expected. The home was in complete disarray, but he was relieved to see no blood, nor a trail of clothing, heading toward their bedroom door.
He gently placed Lia down near the hearth, which was warm but no longer contained flame or ember. Before starting the fire, however, Tallos ran to their bedroom and swung open the door, eyes focused to see any horror splayed out before him, should it be there. Relief washed over him as he saw only the same ransacked mess that greeted him in the main room. It gutted him to see the stones he and Leona had collected at the river strewn aimlessly around the room, along with the clothing from their drawers, but he reminded himself it was of little consequence so long as his wife was safe. The bed had been overturned and some of the flooring ripped out, but Tallos was not a rich enough man to have anything hidden beneath.
He returned to the main room and was troubled to realize his flint that normally rested upon the hearth’s mantle was nowhere to be seen. It was a common item of little worth, but he felt the loss of it horribly. Without it, starting a fire became a skill that he was not thoroughly adept at.
Fecking Northmen! Tallos flung some debris across the room in a rage, cursing his luck.
Deciding to search the rest of his home for the flint in the case they had merely thrown it down elsewhere, Tallos made his way into the kitchen. And there he stopped.
Standing in the doorway, Tallos’s head swam with dizzy regret. This was the room where he had last seen Leona, the room in which she’d begged him not to leave. He remembered it clearly: his anger, his unkind words in response to her questioning his wisdom, and his leaving her, sad and alone.
Bent over the wooden table of the kitchen, skirts torn, was Leona’s lifeless body.
RED
Red stared at her visage in her mother’s silvered glass. Such a piece was quite rare among Galatai, as they were only found in the South and had to be pilfered from the Dogmen or traded for with the sea merchants of the eastern coast. Furthermore, it was a heavy and cumbersome thing to carry back over such difficult terrain. Red was grateful for it, as it was her intention to be every bit as beautiful and sought after as her mother. This, Kilandra was dutiful in teaching her, was due as much to work as it was luck and breeding.
Her hair, it seemed, grew darker with each passing year. The vibrant red of her youth had transformed into a deep auburn, so deep in fact that the red was near imperceptible. She was careful to follow her mother’s instruction and brush it to a shine each day so that it would not be the frizzy mess had by most Galatai girls her age, but she was unlike the other girls her age in many ways. Her womanly curves and pouty lips contrasted with her more youthful features such as her button nose and doe-like eyes. Much to her delight, these features had not gone unnoticed by the boys her age and older. She reveled in the attention received from all, but she was particularly interested in one such boy—a certain prodigious son of their clan’s leader.
It seemed ever since the incident where Decker had so foolishly punched Titon in the face, both boys had avoided her. No matter what she did, they either shied away or ignored her altogether. In time, however, one of them came around. Titon had begun to once again show an interest.
Titon was quick to defend her when the jealousy of other girls got the better of them, and his wit was sharp. He had embarrassed one poor girl, Maridith, quite thoroughly after she had suggested that Red’s mother was a trollop. Red did not know what sort of creature was a trollop, nor did she remember exactly what Titon had said in retort—something to do with Maridith’s father riding a goat—but the merciless laughter it elicited from those in earshot was not unimpressive. Titon had also begun to give her slips of paper containing short verses that were well written and very complimentary. Red was intensely flattered by all the time and thought he put into the most important task of appreciating her grace and beauty.
A gentle rapping at the front door interrupted her grooming. Red hurried to answer it, then calmed herself before opening. The handsome Titon stood before her. Short by Galatai standards, he was still a good many inches taller than her. His muscularity was beginning to show, and his dark, scholarly brow gave him the appearance of one who possessed knowledge beyond his years. She shivered as his silver-flecked blue eyes seemed to penetrate her inner thoughts.
“Hello,” she greeted him politely.
“Red,” he said with a swollen chest. “In the morning we depart for the Dogmen villages. I wanted to say my farewells in case I do not return.”
Not knowing how to respond, Red let the silence linger. She fidgeted with her skirts and hoped he would say something else and end her discomfort.
“I have for you two gifts.”
With the exception of having said three, she could not have imagined a better way for him to have broken the silence.
“What are they?” she asked, trying to mask her excitement while still peering around to see where he may have hidden them.
“This is the first.” From behind his back he produced a snow lily, tall and perfect. These were the rarest of flowers, made even more difficult to find given how they blended so well with the white powder that surrounded them. He must have searched high and low for days to find it—a tiresome task to be put to when preparations for a raid were necessary, but Red was too consumed with wondering what the other gift would be to give that a second thought.
“It is very beautiful,” she said. But what else did you bring?
Titon looked as if he wanted to say something but had changed his mind.
“What is the second?” She knew she shouldn’t ask, but self-control was not among her many virtues.
“The second is for you to determine. As you know, it is ever difficult to bring things of value back from the Dogmen, and we must first think to bring that which will help us through the winter. But I would also like to secure for you a gift of conquest. I ask that you would tell me what might please you most for me to return with and bestow upon you.” Titon asked with all the chivalry of a knight vowed to celibacy.
Red had to think a moment to decipher what he had said. He did not speak as plainly as most, and the subject of presents was not one she would forgive herself if botched. She racked her mind for what he could bring that would have the most value for its weight.
“Jewelry,” she blurted, quite satisfied with her decision.
Titon also looked pleased. “Very well. I will acquire for you all the jewelry I can find in the homes of the richest, fattest Dogmen,” he declared with confidence.
Red thought such a promise would have deserved a kiss, but Titon did not move to claim his earned reward. He was too much of a gentleman. He simply said goodnight, turned on his heel, and left.
Red returned to her chair and plopped herself down. Sighing, she glared at her reflection, demanding an explanation for her apparent inadequacies.
Why couldn’t it have been Decker?
CASSEN
“Grace, prosperity, health, and wealth.” Cassen sat at his vanity, staring into its oval of silvered glass as he repeated his morning affirmation. He scowled at the plump-bodied reflection and moved his face closer until their two noses almost touched, then pinched a bit of raised, reddened skin on his cheek with a look of contempt. “But not clarity.” His expression shifted theatrically to sadness, and he pouted with his twin visage, comforted by the thought that he did not suffer alone.
Into Cassen’s outstretched hand, a servant boy placed a small glass container. Cassen noted with a feeling of accomplishment the fear on the servant’s face, seen unbeknownst to the boy in his reflection. With a finger Cassen dabbed a bit of the minty cream upon his blemish, refreshed by both the scent and coolness of it.
Layer upon layer of long silk flowed around Cassen as he stood, enough to adorn a palatial suite with curtaining. He may have felt light and airy under such delicate fabric, but the appearance was anything but…and it was something of which he was well aware. Nonetheless, his servants were acquainted with the haste with which he was able to strike them when the need arose, a fact evidenced by how quickly the fair-skinned boy moved to retrieve the glass of ointment from Cassen’s bent-wrist hand.
“Now run along, my little keepers. I require my daily self time.” His servants bowed with obedience and left the room as fast as one may walk. Yes, run along and tell everyone what a horrible mood a pimple put Her Highness in. Cassen allowed his demeanor to change upon their departure, exhaling a deep breath through loose lips and letting his body relax as he sunk back into his chair.
How many decades will you allow to pass without advancement? Cassen looked again upon his disappointing reflection, unsure of whether he should continue his deserved berating or instead remind himself of just how far he had risen. Determining that both acts were a form of wasteful self-indulgence, he
decided instead to evaluate once again whom it was most responsible for impeding his ascent.
Cassen was the Duchess of Eastport, and as such, answered only to King Lyell of House Redrivers, ruler of Rivervale and Adeltia. By custom he should have answered also to the King’s First, Derudin the Wise—Derudin the Charlatan—but Cassen had managed to escape the need to so much as speak with the old wizard in a way in which only he could.
Cassen’s insistence on being addressed as Duchess was particularly disagreeable to Derudin. Years past, in a High Council meeting, Derudin had referred to Cassen as “Duke Cassen” prompting Cassen to interrupt and correct him. Derudin could have simply grunted his disapproval, as was his wont, but had instead proclaimed, “I am Derudin, born of Erober, tempered in the fiery mouth of a mountain broken by dragon’s breath. Over one hundred years ago, I alone crossed the Devil’s Mouth. I and all other men with reverence for the Ancient Laws will call a man by a man’s title and no other.”
“My dear Derudin,” Cassen had said with a coy look. “I never thought you so brazen as to hatch a scheme to get me to remove my underclothes for you with so many witnesses. I am quite sure I would not match the definition of what you nor your Ancient Laws consider a man.” Cassen did not need to shift his gaze to know the looks on the faces of the other council members would have mostly been those of poorly hidden amusement. A bit of fear may have been mixed in as well—fear of what Derudin the Wise might do in reprisal. A conflagration that would fill the room perhaps, scorching all in attendance to death merely to be rid of the fat man and his silks. Cassen had no such fear, however. He’d dealt with worse men—far worse. Derudin did not frighten him, nor did he believe there to be any truth to the tales of his ability to conjure lightning or flames, or that he could do any form of magic save for amusing children and dolts with some sleight of hand. Derudin was a fraud, a man elevated to greatness by wizardly garb and a white beard, a man not so different from himself if he were to be quite honest. But not as clever, not by half.
The Axe and the Throne (Bounds of Redemption Book 1) Page 7
