The Innkeeper's Son

by Jeremy Brooks

  “I will consider it,” she lied.

  He leaned across the table toward her. The cold, emotionless exterior dissolved into a wild-eyed man with bared teeth. “You have one day. At dinner tomorrow night I will present you with the petition. If you don’t sign it, your friend is dead.”

  Enaya gave it right back, staring daggers at him. “If she dies, I will never sign. Do you hear me? Never!”

  Cantor processed her remark, then smoothed his face back to its customary unreadable mask. He leaned back in his chair. “Nehrea, I believe our guest has had enough to eat this evening. Please show her to her room.”

  The alluring consort stepped toward Enaya. “This way, my Lady,” she commanded.

  Enaya glared at the Governor, then stood. “I won’t sign, Errick,” she growled, then began to follow Nehrea out of the dining room.

  “Tomorrow night, Enaya, you will make the choice to become my bride. Remember this as you lay awake tonight searching for some way out of your situation. That woman I have tied up down there is not the only means I have to force your hand. There is no course of action I will not use, to get what I want. You just remember that.”

  She stood in the doorway watching him for a moment or two longer, but as soon as he spoke his last word, he turned back to his dinner and began to eat as if she was no longer there. What could have blackened his soul, she wondered?

  Nehrea led her back through the palace to her room. As they entered, Enaya decided to try making an impassioned plea to the woman.

  “How did you end up here, Nehrea?” she asked.

  Nehrea glided across the room to the dressing area. From a large chest she removed a pristine white night gown. “Will this be acceptable?” she asked, holding it up for Enaya to inspect.

  Enaya moved toward her. “Please Nehrea. Please talk to me. I need someone to talk to. Anyone.”

  Nehrea stared at her blankly, either unswayed by Enaya’s plea or emotionally unaffected. “Will this do?” she asked again, more firmly.

  Enaya gazed at the woman with eyes filled with despair. She felt the weight of her situation stretching the limits of her inherent resolve. Anger twisted her stomach, fear froze her heart. Tears forced their way out of her eyes despite the straining effort she made to control herself in front of a servant. No longer able to maintain the swirling storm of emotion, she ran for the bed, throwing herself down among the satin sheets, and embraced the finality of her break in composure. Would her mother have broken so easily, she wondered?

  The soft tapping of footsteps told her that Nehrea was standing at the foot of the bed. Did she enjoy it? Was she taking pleasure in watching Enaya, a Lady of Fandrian nobility, sniveling like a common gutter snipe?

  “I know what you want,” Nehrea whispered. “There is nothing I can do for you. If he suspects, even for a moment, that I have spoken he will have me tortured and killed. He is merciless.” Enaya wiped away her tears and looked up into a terror-stricken face. Nehrea appeared to be verging on tears of her own. Her once seductive, sleepy eyes, were panicked and raging with desperation. “He has men that sweep the Cortellas for beautiful women. I was taken five years ago and made a slave. For the first few months, he raped me every night, delighting in my screams and tears. Once I began to accept my fate and submit to his desires, he moved on to another woman, one who would fulfill his taste for resistance. I survive by doing exactly as I am commanded. Exactly. If you wish to survive, you must do the same. You cannot oppose him. There is no hope for escape. Submit, my Lady. It is your only means for survival.”

  Enaya’s heart wept for her plight. It was easy to see this woman, barely dressed, and assume her a scandalous tart. Deep down, however, was another example of atrocity and injustice. Their respective troubles were hardly different. Enaya just came from a higher class.

  Instead of arguing with Nehrea, Enaya reached out and gently squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry, Nehrea. I didn’t know.”

  Nehrea forced a small smile and straightened up. She nodded her head, ever so slightly in gratitude for the shared compassion.

  “I know you long for escape, but understand, if I bear witness I am bound to stop you. If I don’t, I will be killed.” Enaya nodded sadly. “Your friend is being held in the torture room. It's in the dungeons on the castle's lowest level. I can assure you of only one thing.” Nehrea’s eyes became painfully sympathetic. “Even if you sign your consent, they will kill her.”

  She placed the night gown on the bed beside Enaya then quietly left the room. After several minutes of reflection, Enaya got up to check the door. As she expected, Nehrea had locked it behind her. Her room may have been drenched in opulence, but it was still just a prison cell.

  *******************************************************************

  Errick Cantor, Governor of Nal’Dahara, stood looking out the window of his lavish bedroom, dreaming of his future estates and holdings in the province of Merrame on Fandrall’s southeastern coast. He was dressed comfortably in a black satin robe, a glass of fine wine in his hand. His heart swelled with pride as he thought about how far he had come in his life, and the places he would someday go. As the head of the largest noble house in Fandrall’s richest province, it was virtually assured that he would one day sit on the Council of Nine. One day, whole countries would shake at the mere mention of his name. King Desirmor himself, would name him a friend and invite him into his inner circle. His power would know no boundaries. History would remember his name…

  “Your Excellency?” A feminine voice interrupted his grand visions. It was Nehrea. Nehrea was by far one of his most sumptuous beauties. Such a shame she had come to enjoy his touch.

  “Come in and report, Nehrea.” he commanded. “Did she attempt to speak to you?”

  “She did, Excellency,” Nehrea said. “As you suspected, she begged me to aid in her escape. She begged on her knees for my help.”

  At this, Cantor raised an eyebrow. She actually got on her knees and begged? From what little he knew of Enaya Relador, she was alleged to be difficult and stubborn, a prideful woman with a fierce temper. He had expected some resistance from her, but begging? Well, if nothing else, he thought, at least she should be easy to break.

  “What did you tell her?”

  “Nothing, Excellency. I told her that resisting your wishes would only bring her pain. I believe she will sign.”

  Cantor smiled and put down his glass of wine. He waved Nehrea to come to him, and when she did, he wrapped his long arms around her and kissed her forehead. Her eyes filled with gratitude and adulation.

  “You may share my bed tonight Nehrea.” He could feel her trembling with appreciation. “Go to your quarters and prepare yourself. On the way, tell Karin and Alda to prepare themselves for me as well. Return in one hour.”

  Nehrea looked hurt that she would have to share him with two others, but she nodded and ran off.

  Just after she left the room, Cantor turned back to the window and was momentarily stunned to see a small man standing there. He was built like a ten year old boy, short and thin, and dressed in a hooded black cloak. The pronounced bald spot on his tiny head reflected the flickering flames of the sconces that lined the walls of the room. As always, his left hand reflexively clenched and relaxed.

  “Baneur, it’s nice to see you. What brings you here so late?” Cantor had always hated the Turk's penchant for surprise visits. In fact he hated nearly everything about him. Baneur was creepy and unpredictable. Still his political ambitions warranted their association. As much as it galled him, he needed Baneur Deuseau.

  The little Turk yawned casually then walked over to the decanter of wine and poured himself a glass.

  “Your informant appears to be correct,” he said slowly, stopping to greedily drink the entire glass of wine. Turks were known for their love of spirits, and Baneur was never one to turn down a drink. “She has two more guards staying at the Blue Trellis.” He filled his glass again.

  “I’ll have some men pick th
em up tonight,” Cantor said, unmoved by the information. His informant at the tailor had told him that afternoon about the two guardsmen, though he hadn’t known by whom they were employed. Learning that they had come with Lady Relador was hardly a surprise.

  “You may want to take a moment and put some planning into it,” Baneur said.

  Cantor raised an interested brow. “You know something else?”

  “One of them is a trival. Probably unregistered.” The coy smile on the little man’s face showed how much he enjoyed playing the information game with Cantor.

  “How did you find out?” Cantor asked. “Did you see him?”

  “I fought him,” the Turk told him fiercely.

  “Tell me what happened,” Cantor said, taking a seat in a plush embroidered chair near the window.

  “They were watching the palace, I can’t say why. When I left earlier on foot, they followed me. Again I’m not sure why. I led them to a quiet alley to question them and conjured illusions to test their prowess. I determined then that they could cause you trouble, so I sent a fireball at them. The younger one put up a wall of water to shield them. It was instinctive and showed remarkable ability. If you plan to take them in, you’ll need at least two trivals.”

  This was unsettling news. With Lady Relador secure in his palace and her guardian locked up in his dungeon, his cunning plan to gain a seat in Fandrian nobility was virtually complete. A rogue trival was an unwanted distraction, a variable that could unravel his near perfect plan.

  “Are you willing to aid a team, Baneur?” Cantor only had two trivals among his guards. Neither was considered strong.

  The Turk crooked an insidious smile. With Baneur, everything was a negotiation. Everything had a price. “I would be happy to help bring them in. But I will require something in return.”

  “As always Baneur. What do you want?”

  “The young lovely that you were speaking to when I entered the room. What’s her name?” His little dark eyes looked fervent and greedy. His hand twitched rapidly.

  “Nehrea?” Cantor answered unsurely.

  “Yes, Nehrea.” The Turk closed his eyes when he spoke the name, as though to hear it gave him pleasure. “I want her.”

  “What do you mean, you want her?” Cantor questioned. He had known Baneur for several years and never before had the little man shown any interest in women. Every time they had bartered a price for his services, it had been for money or jewelry.

  “I want her,” he spat, as though Cantor was attacking him personally. “She will come with me and serve me. That’s all you need to know. If the price is too high, I wish you luck apprehending the trival.”

  Cantor considered the little man. The truth was that he needed him. Baneur was considered one of the strongest trivals in the world. He had a direct relationship with King Desirmor, though he was loathe to elaborate on its true nature. Cantor had long suspected that he was some kind of spy, but it seemed strange that he worked in a bank. Why would Desirmor place a high level spy with extraordinary powers in a bank?

  He thought of Nehrea. During the course of her enslavement, she had grown intensely loyal to him. Most of his courtesans did eventually, but Nehrea had become one of his most trusted. That’s specifically why he had assigned her to Lady Relador. She was his best consort, and he was unwilling to take any chances that a woman of lesser loyalties and will might be swayed by some impassioned plea for clemency.

  “You may have her, Baneur.” The little man’s eyes lit with delight. He began to repetitively lick his thin lips with the same unnerving habitualness as his hand-clenching. Cantor held up a long slim finger to caution him. “But you will have to wait a few days.” Baneur started to object, but he cut him off. “I need her to watch Lady Relador until the papers are signed. Once I have her firmly in my grasp, I’ll release Nehrea into your care.”

  The Turk looked upset, but after a moment of deliberation, he nodded a reluctant concession.

  “Very well then. Be here in the morning. I’ll have Davold put a squadron together. I’ll have some men keep an eye on the inn tonight. We’ll use the tailor’s apprentice. He said they purchased some clothes today. He can go in first to get a read on the situation, then we’ll move in and take them. Try to keep them in the inn. I don’t want this to spill out onto the street. Let’s try to keep the gossip to a minimum. Yes?”

  Baneur seemed to be ignoring him. He produced a small, flat black stone from his pocket and looked down at it with alarm. For an instant he looked up at Cantor unsurely, then made an irritated grimace and fished a tiny dagger out of his belt loop. Using the dagger, he cut the thumb on his left hand and smeared the ensuing blood on the surface of the rock. Then he looked again at Cantor with murder in his tiny dark eyes.

  “Speak of what you are about to see to anyone, and I will kill you,” he said harshly. “Do you understand!?”

  Cantor nodded timorously. He fully believed the threat.

  “Desirmor. Desirmor. Desirmor,” Baneur repeated quickly.

  The light in the room suddenly seemed to dim around them. A faint light, followed by a thin tendril of green smoke, plumed from the surface of the rock, rising up in a coiled line, then forming into a bigger cloud. Cantor had witnessed his seer perform a similar ritual in front of him numerous times, but this was different. Something about the green cloud of smoke, so unnatural and strangely malevolent, made Cantor want to cover his eyes or look away. But he could not. He was mesmerized by the visual.

  The smoke suddenly began to form into a solid shape. A man’s head. Cantor had seen this man only twice in his life. He dropped to his knees in deference as though he were in the presence of a god. In his mind, Desirmor was a god.

  “Baneur,” Desirmor said.

  “Master,” Baneur responded, averting his eyes to the floor.

  “Baneur, you are still in Nal’Dahara? Yes?” Desirmor asked.

  “Yes Master.”

  “Go to Carleton and get Navan. Bring him back to Nal’Dahara. He has pressing business.”

  “I will leave immediately, Master,” Baneur replied breathlessly.

  Desirmor’s head, pallid and green, spun around and regarded Cantor. For a brief instance, Cantor dared to look up and found himself trapped in Desirmor’s deep black-eyed gaze. He was entranced, snared by his king’s virulent splendor, unable to look away, sweating and shaking under the massive weight of Desirmor’s stare.

  “Who is this Baneur?” Desirmor asked. His black eyes bore holes of compulsion into Cantor’s soul.

  “This is Errick Cantor, Governor of Nal’Dahara, Master,” Baneur answered, still looking down at the floor.

  “Governor Cantor,” Desirmor intoned, the slightest quirk of a smile parted his thin pale lips.

  “My king,” Cantor whispered in a strained breathless utterance.

  “Navan Prianhe will stay in your palace. Give him anything he needs. Am I clear?” Cantor felt his head nodding obsequiously. “The importance of his mission should be your top priority. Your cooperation in his success will not go unrewarded.”

  “Navan is in charge, Baneur,” Desirmor said, turning his floating head back to the little man. “I will not tolerate dissention.”

  The head slowly dissolved back into a vaporous smoke that dissipated into the air. Baneur put the stone back in his pocket and turned a nefarious glare toward the Governor.

  Cantor still rested on his knees, breathing heavily as though he had just exerted his body to the limits of its potential. His mind held onto the visage of Desirmor’s black-eyed stare, both haunting and exhilarating, a thrill beyond description. He knows my name, Cantor thought joyously! He closed his eyes to savor the moment.

  “You have just been given a great gift.” Cantor opened his eyes to see Baneur standing before him, his left hand clenching furiously. “I promise you this, Errick. If you speak of this, the last days of your miserable life will be filled with pain beyond your imagination.”

  Cantor rose to his feet, t
owering over the diminutive Turk. “Are you a spy then?”

  An invisible force pulled him from his feet and projected him up to the ceiling. With his back resting against the cool granite, he looked fearfully down at the Turk. Baneur was wild-eyed and snarling.

  “I don’t make threats Errick,” he growled in his disconcertingly low baritone. “I make promises.”

  “Very well, Baneur,” Cantor groaned hoarsely. He felt as if something was pressing heavily against his chest and abdomen.

  The Turk glared up at him for several moments longer, then slowly let him drift back down to the floor.

  “When I return with Navan Prianhe, I expect one of your finest rooms awaiting his arrival. I know nothing about his purpose. The less I know the better. There is no political advantage to be gained here. Just do as you’re told -- only as you’re told.”

  Cantor nodded submissively. Baneur turned and took several steps away from him across the room. A loud crack, like a door slamming shut, echoed throughout the chamber, as Baneur suddenly disappeared.

  Alone at last, Errick Cantor, Governor of Nal’Dahara, slumped into a chair and stared out the window. The soft glow of streetlights, lit all over the city, created a lambent energy that gave the gray stone structures that dotted the metropolis a living pulse. It was his city. His city for now, anyways.

  He poured a glass of wine and sipped it thoughtfully. The intoxicating pull of Desirmor’s gaze still compelled him, demanding his indenture. There had to be a play here, he thought. The thought continued to plague him even when Nehrea arrived with the other girls and shared his bed. As he lay awake sometime after he had told them to leave, Errick Cantor imagined his future, bright and glorious, in a land far away from the gray monotony of Nal’Dahara. It all led back to Enaya Relador. She would sign her consent, or she would experience pain that would make the palace walls tremble with her screams for mercy.

  Chapter Nineteen: Swordforms

  Sim sat at a table in the common room of the Blue Trellis anxiously watching the door. Farrus sat on the other side of the table, and if he was feeling the same apprehension, he wasn’t showing it. His face was passive, almost sleepy. On occasion, he would glance over at the door, but for the most part, he looked down at his hand, rhythmically tapping the wooden table.