by Mark Eller
"But you don't love him," Aaron protested.
"I don't know if I love you," she said cruelly. "I almost do. I thought I did last summer, but I don't know for sure if it was love or only a chance to escape from my mistakes. I won't know until we further explore the matter--only there won't be more exploration because I'm a married woman. I was once less than honest with you. There was a time when I saw you as a way to ensure a life for me and Missy and Doyle. I liked you, and I led you on. I hurt you." Her eyes were misty. "I'm still hurting you."
"I love you," Aaron repeated in a whisper.
"I know," she answered. "Forgive me, but I will not allow myself to love you back. You taught me too well. You taught me of honor and integrity. You taught me that a person's word is their life, and you taught me that we go on, and we do the right thing no matter how painful the cost to ourselves." She handed the package back to him. "I can't take it. To do so will mean I'm spiritually dishonoring my vows. To do so will mean that my honesty and integrity will always be compromised. To do so will mean that I'll continuously hurt you for decades because you're waiting for the day when I'll be free to love you."
She touched the back of his hand. Tears trickled down her cheeks, but her voice was flat and calm and far too reasonable.
"I am not the person for you. I'll only bring you pain. You need--you need someone who can love you unconditionally." Her hand rose, and her fingers caressed the bruised-looking imprint of Heralda's lips. "Maybe someone like her."
Aaron pushed her hand away from his face. He dropped the Talent Stone at his feet.
And then he flickered away.
* * *
Aaron lay on the couch in his new apartment. At his side the coffee table held his half-filled wineglass, a book with only three pages read, and an envelope that simply had 'Aaron Turner' scribbled across its front.
Aaron's eyes were distant, reflective as he planned the next location for another Turner House. The taste of wine was sweet on his lips and light in his head. Thoughts of a lost love and an almost-murdered friend had been pushed away by the first bottle of the night. This last half-bottle had given him safer thoughts and feelings.
One of those feelings was relief. A chapter in his life had ended. Recent events had been ugly but were now finished. With that finishing, almost the last of his connections to Jefferson, to Field's Militia, and to the life of deception he had once lived were forever severed. Only Helmet remained, and Helmet had never wished Aaron anything but good. From this point forward, nothing from Aaron's past could haunt him again.
Sighing, he leaned and reached. His fingers brushed against the half-filled wineglass but did not pause. He had his fill of that for now. After all, he was not becoming an alcoholic. He could leave drink alone whenever he wanted.
Closing his eyes, Aaron thought of Celine. His present plans for her were not what she had originally accepted. She no longer worked for him or Amanda. Instead, she was now a new recruit in the IFBIS. She and Joliet Ransom were the agency's decoys and bait, and so far their efforts had found and closed two more workhouses. Celine was not happy with this switch, but she was driven, and that drive seemed to give her some satisfaction. Joliet Ransom, on the other hand, was more than satisfied. During the few times Aaron had talked to her about her new job, she had smiled while rattling off the names of all the children she had helped save. Not only did she know their names, she knew exactly what happened to them after they were freed. She once told him she regretted her advanced age of fourteen because in another year she would be too old to be a decoy.
Several of the saved children ended up in one of the Turner Houses. The shear number of children in need would have forced Aaron to open yet one more House if the Ransoms had not beaten him to it. Apparently, Aaron had gained competition in the orphanage business.
He did not mind that kind of competition at all.
Sighing, he opened his eyes and lifted the envelope. The writing was the same as before. His name. No postmarks. It had been hand delivered to Amanda Bivins.
Opening the envelope, he pulled out the folded slip of paper and shook it open.
His vision was a little blurry so he had to squint to make out the words.
Aaron, son,
I have been away for a long time. I went back to Jefferson thinking I could obtain new supplies to replace those I had worn out. It was a mistake. I was struck by a hypodermic dart and taken prisoner along with General Field and some others.
My captors, of course, were members of the Jefferson Government. While in their tender care I learned of a matter that concerns us both, but is more closely connected to you. Field escaped. He might have transferred over to our new home by using a machine that was developed from the tests given both of us. My immediate concern is that most of those tests were done on you. Because of this, I fear his machine sent him to your area. Be careful and keep alert.
The good news is that nobody else will follow him. The memory and settings on the machine were destroyed when a timed fuse set off an explosion, so the government was unable to duplicate any of the software. That is why they still wanted me. They needed somebody on whom to experiment.
I repeat, don't ever go back to Jefferson.
I escaped with the help of an agent by the name of Samuel Aybarra. He claims to know you, and he seems rather disillusioned with Jefferson.
Matters are progressing well here. My empire grows slowly, but it is growing.
Son, I miss you and have always loved you. I want you to know that if you ever have need, you have a place with me. You know where to go.
Your father in heart,
Helmet Klein
The letter fluttered to the floor.
Aaron reached for his glass, took two small sips.
The letter did more than a little to explain the dearth of news about Helmet during the past year, except for that one article about Klein asking for international recognition of Chin.
Taking another sip, Aaron wished the man well in his life, if not in his empire building. At heart, Helmet was a good man. He was also the closest thing Aaron had to a father.
He would have to remember to send Helmet a letter. Nothing elaborate. Basically it would only have to say that the Field matter had been resolved.
Picking up the book, Aaron set the wine glass down and settled in for his first good read in almost two years. Relearning to relax over a book would take time. Learning how to push away self-doubt and grief and recriminations for things he did not control would take longer. Felicity had started him on the path, and he had time.
He had time, time to heal and to learn and to begin a new life. He would learn how to move beyond past mistakes. He would learn how to hold the good memories and put the bad ones away. He would learn how to live with the knowledge that Sarah and Ernest were dead. He would even learn to live with the knowledge that, though he did love his remaining children and his wife, he was forever parted from them.
He would learn because from this day onward he would live a new life. According to Heralda, he had some years of freedom from a higher manipulation. The Gods had promised. That meant only he was responsible for his actions. The decisions were his. The results would be his. He would do it right.
Aaron reached over for his wineglass once more. He took another slow sip and contemplated the possible paths before him. He could do almost anything within the borders of Isabella. In little more than seven years, he could even leave his adopted land and not void the new agreement with Isabella and the Thirty Clans.
Hell, he might even look up Helmet. Not today. Not tomorrow, but someday. When he could. If he wanted to.
Someday.
Aaron took another sip.
Pawn
The Turner Chronicles
Mark Eller
Copyright © 2012 by Mark Eller
White Wolf Press, LLC
Rutherfordton, NC 28139
Smashwords Edition
Prologue
"Make the stra
ps tighter."
"But the sores are worse," Mu Lei protested. "You need time to heal."
Helmet Klein scowled, and Mu Lei knew why. A man of pride, he had learned to accept his worthless body years earlier but refused to look the fool. According to Helmet, arms and legs that flopped loose or fell free were signs begging for pity. A pitied emperor soon lost control of his empire.
"Take care of your body," Samuel Aybarra reprimanded. "It won't last forever."
"It won't last a year," Klein snapped. "Probably less than half that. I'm under a deadline, so tell me what you've got."
"Not much," Aybarra admitted. "He's disappeared."
Mu Lei rubbed Helmet's neck gently, knowing he appreciated the gesture, one sign of caring he could still feel. She was the only person allowed to sooth him. Such was her privilege as the emperor's only wife. True, her attachment to a cripple was onerous, but it was a chore she gladly accepted. Being the wife of Helmet Klein was more honor than she had expected in this life. She sometimes regretted the lack of children, but some honors were worth any price.
"Your son has not answered your letters," she said. "He never answers. Are you sure of his love?"
"Aaron knows if I want to see him, it's because I want to use him."
"So he won't answer, and he won't come," Aybarra supplied. "Makes me wonder why you're chasing him down."
Mu Lei smiled. This strange black man was a late addition from her husband's birth world but a welcome and loyal one. Several years earlier she had thought Helmet lost to them when he did not return from a journey to his home world. When all hope seemed lost, Samuel Aybarra walked into their camp with Helmet's body in his arms. Since that day, Aybarra had been Helmet's head of security and her friend.
"Aaron Turner will come," Klein said. "We just have to work it another way. The invitation has to come from somebody else, and it has to work on his conscience."
Mu Lei dug her fingers into his neck. She sometimes found it alarming how tight his muscles became. Klein groaned. She lessened the pressure but did not stop. As her husband and the savior of her people, she would not pity him. Even so, she prayed for the day when he could lay down his burdens and die. Soon after, she would join him. An eternity with Helmet in death would be sweeter than a day of life without him.
"Your son will resent it," she said. "He will fight you when he discovers what you have done."
Helmet grimaced. "I don't care what he resents or how hard he fights. Once I get my hooks in the boy, he won't escape. I know him well enough for that. I know him well enough to twist him in any direction I desire."
"So you don't want me to write him again?" Aybarra asked.
"No. I've another plan. It'll take time, but it'll draw him in. He'll answer if I threaten to throw half the world into war."
Not liking what she heard, Mu Lei shifted her fingers to his scalp. Aybarra's expression appeared wary as he fastened Klein's arms and legs to the throne.
"Tighter," Klein ordered. "Pull until the flesh bulges. I won't look the fool on my throne. Make me bleed if you have to. "
Chapter 1
Amanda Bivins was a dead woman.
Standing before Billowby's rust pitted gate, Aaron Turner's gaze followed the long line of ill-kept fence. At least three hundred and fifty feet, he figured, with an equal length behind him. In all, about seven hundred feet of fencing fronted a poorly maintained yard liberally speckled with towering oak and walnut trees. Here, near the gate, the grounds were better tended where smaller trees made an arching roof over the graveled path. Pieces of a building's roofline peeked through a few open spots in the leaves. From the distance between those open spaces, he knew the building was huge.
"Perteet," Zisst rumbled from beside Aaron's right ear. It shifted a bit, rearranging its perch across his shoulders.
"Looks a bit rundown," his cabdriver observed. "With a bit of cleaning and a little paint you could have yourself the best looking fence in Galesward."
"Yes," Aaron replied, turning to look at her. A matronly fortyish, she sat comfortably on her cab's high seat. They had spent the best part of two days together while she drove him from Londonary, the capital city of Jutland. During that time, Aaron had not bothered learning her name. Not learning names was a habit he had grown comfortable with during the last decade and more while living in N'Ark, Isabella's capital. Still, Isabella, with all its bustle, politics, and crime, was more than an ocean away so maybe he should change his habits. In this new land, he looked for a new life as the unassuming owner of a simple men's clothing store. Such a life would be a welcome change from being a rich industrialist possessing far too much power, both political and financial, for Isabella's comfort.
Aaron frowned and rubbed Zisst behind its ear. A quick flick of Zisst's tongue dampened his fingers.
Too much power indeed, Aaron thought as Zisst lay its head down. The parting of ways had been welcome on both sides. In fact, the only person vehemently opposed to his escape was Amanda Bivins, his personal lawyer, the soon to be dead woman.
Looking beyond the cabby, the other side of the street was populated by modest, well-maintained homes. A few houses down, an older woman planted flowers before a white picket fence. Farther along, four grinning people jogged.
Aaron looked back toward the manor. All he had wanted was a little obscurity. Not likely he could get that now, not while living in a massive mansion located smack dab in the center of Galesward. Never mind Galesward was only a small city. It was still a city.
A thump sounded beside him, followed by another, and then a third. The driver had thrown his luggage down from the cab. Three black bags, weighing more than fifty pounds each, had gotten him over an ocean, into Jutland, and now here. The rest of his belongings had been sent before him, supposedly delivered to a quaint little cottage he'd ordered Amanda to buy for him during her recent trip to Jutland. Something quaint, she promised, but not too quaint. Something in line with his intended stature as the successful owner of a small business. She had told him this while he was drunk, but not drunk enough to forget that after years of trying, she finally managed to get him into her bed.
More manipulation. Amanda had not been interested in sex or love. She had decided she was financially settled enough to have a child. The only father she would accept for said child was Aaron, because with two living sons he had a proven record.
Aaron frowned at the memory of his weakness. He had drunk a bit too much. Amanda struck. Aaron fell, and it would never happen again.
Mentally brushing the memory away, he took another look. The gate was still there, guarding the largest grounds in the city, holding what had to be the biggest house.
"My money?" the cabby said.
"Huh. " Aaron peered back at her.
"You owe me. For the fare."
"Oh yeah. Right. " After fumbling in his pocket, Aaron tossed her a few coins. He didn't notice specifically what they were, but one flashed silver in the late afternoon sun. He figured it was enough. In a land where gold was plentiful, the more rare silver was king.
She grinned when the coins landed on the seat beside her. "Thankee sir. "
"Welcome," Aaron replied as she released the cab's brake and encouraged her horses to move on. Sighing, he turned back to the gate and grabbed the bell pull. Hopefully, there had been a mistake. Hopefully, there was another sixteen Bakerfield somewhere in the city. Perhaps a Bakerfield Avenue instead of Bakerfield Street.
Hopefully. If not, Amanda Bivins would soon wish she really was dead. Grimacing, he pulled the bell and waited.
The woman who finally answered his call appeared to be an ill preserved ninety. Wearing an impeccable light blue uniform that would have appeared sharp on someone even ten years younger, her features were buried in carefully tended wrinkles surrounded by snow white hair. Small collections of dried pus gathered at the corners of her faded eyes.
"Can I help you?" she asked in a thin voice.
"Yes," Aaron replied. "I'm Mister Turner, the
new owner. Let me in please."
She peered at him suspiciously. "How do I know you are the Mister? You are too young to be the Mister."
Aaron grunted. He was close to thirty-eight, but he looked to be in his mid-twenties. One aspect of his Talent Stone--the rare amplifying device that enhanced a person's natural Talents--was its ability to slow the deteriorating effects of time. As best he figured, he was aging about one tenth as quickly as normal.
Sighing, he pulled out his wallet and passed it through the bars. She took it with a shaking hand, opened it, and shuffled through his papers. Her hands shook so badly the papers rattled. Despite her meticulous care, Aaron doubted she could read a word through her faded blue eyes.
Eventually, the old woman stuffed the papers back into his wallet and handed the crumpled mess back. Her fingers fumbled at the gate's latch for almost a full minute before it clicked. Aaron winced when rusty hinges squealed.
"Welcome to Billowby Manor. I am Mistress Willow, your gatekeeper. Would you like me to show you to your new home or would you prefer I remain at my station?"
Aaron spent a moment contemplating just how long it would take him to reach the house if he followed her. "Remain here. I'll find my own way. However, if you get a free moment you could perhaps see to oiling the noisy hinges."
She seemed perplexed. "The hinges are as smooth and quiet as ever. I haven't heard a rumble from them in years. The house is this way. " She started down the only path leading from the gate.
"Excuse me," Aaron called, wondering what part of 'he would find his own way' she had not understood.
She continued her slow hobble.
"Excuse me!"
Pausing, she turned to face him. "Sir?"
"I have luggage on the walkway."
She nodded. "I will attend to that. " She started hobbling back towards the gate. Aaron's mind instantly filled with visions of the old woman suffering a stroke or a heart attack while struggling with his belongings. He waved for her to remain still while he brought his own luggage onto the property. Mistress Willow remained exactly where she had stopped, humming quietly. Zisst stirred and shoved its head into the arch of Aaron's neck, apparently upset by the jostling.
