The Innkeeper's Son

by Jeremy Brooks

  “I can’t be the Collora. I can’t.” She was speaking in panicked tones. Her sleepy brown eyes implored him for help and assurances.

  “We haven’t had a chance to talk yet, have we?” he asked. She shook her head, confused by the question. “Did you know that only a week ago I worked for my parents at an inn in Caramour? Have you ever heard of Caramour?”

  “I’ve heard of it,” she replied, listening intently.

  “My whole life, all I ever wanted was to get away from that inn. Sail away on a merchant vessel, or join the army; anything to get away from Caramour. I had never heard of Nal‘Dahara, or King Desirmor, or trevlocs. I had never even seen a mountain.”

  “Do you have a point?” she asked him skeptically.

  “You’re traveling with us now Nehrea so you need to know who I am.”

  “I heard the Dahara call you Harven.”

  “Do you know what that means?” he asked, watching her closely.

  “I have heard the word, but I’m afraid I don’t know what that means.”

  “The Harvens were a people. Very powerful people. A long time ago Desirmor killed all of them, save for one. One escaped and the blood endured. I am the last living descendant of that bloodline, prophesized to kill Desirmor and return the Creator’s light to the world.” Nehrea regarded him with sheer disbelief. “The point, Nehrea, is that a week ago, I was just another guy, working at an inn in the middle of nowhere. Now I have the hope of the whole world riding on my shoulders, and I have to carry that burden whether I like it or not. When I found out who I was, I didn’t believe it either. But not believing doesn’t make it any less true.”

  Nehrea thought about what he said and smiled. She took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “Perhaps that is why I find myself drawn to you, Sim. In many ways we are the same.”

  “The Dahara have named you their Collora, Nehrea. I still don’t know what that really means, but I can tell you this -- accept your fate and embrace it. Find the courage to face your destiny, as I must find the courage to face my own.”

  “You are perhaps, the most courageous man I have ever known,” Nehrea said, softly. Her eyes looked away shyly.

  Sim smiled at the compliment though he was sure she was being facetious.

  “There must be something, some memory or moment from your past that connects you to this. Can you think of anything?” Sim asked.

  She shook her head unsurely. “Nothing that would seem obvious. My father used to tell me stories of the Dahara and…,” she stopped herself and looked at the ground shamefully.

  “What is it?” Sim asked.

  “Nothing. It’s nothing really.”

  “Look, if you want some help figuring this out, then any detail that links you to the Dahara could be the one.” He watched her face, noting the flushness in her tan cheeks. “Oh…It’s something personal?”

  She stared at him as though she was considering to what degree he could be trusted. Or was it that she was afraid it would shame her in his eyes?

  “You don’t have to say anything, Nehrea.” Sim didn’t want to push her.

  The Dahara were gathered in ranks down at the bottom of the hill. Sim guessed that there were nearly one thousand. Each horse was different. Though nearly the entire clan had white coats and all had the same smooth golden bump between the eyes, the colors of their manes and tails was what set them apart. There were reds, blues, greens and oranges, browns, blacks and every color that could be imagined. Some were taller than others, though every horse was at the very least, nearly ten feet in height. Sim felt small standing in their presence.

  At the head of the clan, stood the Mierentheon and the Uellade, silently watching their approach. They stood tall with their heads held high, and if Sim had to guess, he would have said that they were expressing pride.

  Two large tents, made of the skin of an animal with tufts of brown and gray fur covering large swaths of space, were waiting a distance away to their left. Sim couldn’t help but wonder if there was something to eat and drink waiting for them in the tents. He was starving.

  “Welcome Nehrea Alla’Dushura. Long have the Dahara awaited your arrival. May the blood of the land give strength to the bonds we weave this night,” the Mierentheon said.

  “May we have your name, Harven?” the Uellade asked.

  “Siminus Kelmor Harvencott,” Sim announced, deciding the situation called for the formality of his true name.

  “Welcome Siminus Kelmor Harvencott,” the Uellade called out. “May the blood of your kin give strength to the bonds we weave this night.”

  Nehrea and Sim bowed their heads in unison. Nehrea slipped her hand into his, intertwining their fingers, then giving him a nervous squeeze.

  “The hour of dusk approaches. It is time, Nehrea Alla'Dushura, to go to your tent and prepare,” the Mierentheon said. “To proceed with the ritual, you must remove your clothing and bathe your skin. Wash away your doubts, your fears, and your weakness. Face yourself and become one with your inner spirit. Then come back to us reborn, and face the world with no pride, no shame, and no envy. Only then can the ritual begin.”

  Nehrea looked up at Sim trying to find the courage to take the first step. The fear and uncertainty that clouded her sleepy eyes, impressed upon his doubts and insecurities. He pulled her into his chest and tightly embraced her.

  “Have the courage to face your destiny,” he whispered into her ear.

  When she released him, Sim saw firm determination set in her gaze. She turned and walked toward the tents, led by the Uellade. Sim watched her go, feeling nervous for her. He had no idea what was coming next, but he hoped she was strong enough to meet the challenges. When she reached the tent, she turned and looked back at him one last time then took a deep breath and entered.

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

  Inside the tent, Nehrea found a kettle of water simmering over a low fire. In the back of the tent she saw a soft fur blanket and a fur lined pillow. The air in the tent had a strange smell, almost floral, but also oddly bitter. She realized right away that it was coming from the water simmering in the kettle.

  The Uellade had instructed her to waste no time in undressing and beginning her bath. The ritual could only be performed in the first hour after dusk, and the Uellade was certain that the time was fast approaching.

  She moved toward the blankets first, removing her clothing and placing them neatly on the blanket. For a moment she stared at the black coat Sim had given her to wear. She had come to enjoy the smell of his subtle musk, and the way the over-sized coat had felt, so warm and comforting, like a friendly hug.

  Since her father was taken away when she was a child, Nehrea had developed a distrust of men. Governor Cantor was largely to blame. Five years of his abusive dominance had taught her that men weren’t capable of gentleness and valor. Even the guardsmen and soldiers she had observed during her time in the palace were mean and callous, treating their women like servile dogs, expecting obedience rather than companionship. She had come to accept that the stories her father had read to her, of hero’s rescuing maidens in distress, and of love that knew no boundaries, would never be her reality. Life had taught her that love was simply a word and heroes didn’t exist.

  Still, Sim's words had given her both comfort and inspiration. She had watched him closely since their meeting in the dungeon beneath the palace. He was confident and self-assured. When he spoke, he commanded attention, and his words carried weight. She wanted to be strong, to be worthy of his friendship. Staring down upon the coat he had so unselfishly given her, she felt compelled to face her doubts and complete the Ritual, if not for herself, then for him.

  She took a deep breath and steeled her thoughts, trying to convince herself that she was ready. Then she walked over to the kettle and peered down at the wooden ladle and the gently steaming water.

  Her mind was still full of doubt. She knew what the Dahara expected her to do, but the weight of the situati
on was still too much to bear. The Collora was supposed to be a trival, but she had never wielded the trivarial power. People who could had always frightened her. She had seen Governor Cantor’s seer perform her trick of making images appear over that black rock she carried. It had always made her blood turn cold.

  She tentatively reached for the ladle. Once she began to bathe, there would be no turning back. Nehrea raised the ladle up and slowly let the water pour over her head. The water saturated her long black hair and slid over her curves to the grass at her feet. She took a deep breath and waited for something to happen. For a few moments she looked around not knowing what to expect.

  She dipped the ladle again and poured on more water. Over and over she repeated the process until her whole body had been soaked in the peculiar smelling water.

  Perhaps her fears had been unfounded. Maybe it truly was just a bath to cleanse her skin after a long travel.

  “Hello, Nehrea,” a familiar voice whispered from the door of the tent.

  Her body went stiff and fear caught a scream and trapped it in her throat. She turned to face Governor Cantor, unable to believe that he had found her. For the briefest of moments she wondered if Sim and the others were still alive, before her own fears brought her crashing back to reality.

  “Your Excellency,” she heard herself say. The trembling of her body would only entice him, so she concentrated as much as she could on remaining still and unaffected.

  ` He slowly stepped toward her. The flickering light of the small fire created shadows that made his face seem savage and feral. “How long did you think you could elude me, Nehrea?”

  “I never…,” she tried to respond, but he covered her mouth with his hand and forced her head back.

  “Silence!” he hissed. “You are mine, Nehrea. You belong to me.” His free hand slid down her body, roughly grabbing her bosom. “You must be punished for your insolence. Punished!” He led her to the bed and threw her down, then fell heavily on top of her. He forced her legs apart and grabbed a handful of her hair. “I’m going to make you scream for mercy every night for the rest of your miserable life. Do you hear me? Every night!”

  He began to remove his pants, awkwardly forcing her down with one hand, as he worked at his belt strap with the other. Nehrea wanted to scream and run, but fear held her in place, an unwilling slave to his desires. Tears bled from her eyes as she waited, helplessly, for him to begin the rape.

  Then she noticed something sticking in her back, uncomfortably digging at her lower spine. At first she tried to ignore it, more concerned with preparing herself for the pain Governor Cantor would soon inflict. But as he fumbled with his pants, clumsily trying to pull them down and hold her at the same time, she realized what was beneath her. Sim kept a dagger in a small sheath on the inside of the coat that she was laying upon. It was a small blade, maybe two inches in length, more a last line of defense than an actual weapon, but it gave her a sudden wave of hope.

  She reached for it, struggling to get a grasp on the handle as Governor Cantor held her down. Then he lifted her legs up, preparing to enter her, and it inadvertently provided just the right angle to get the dagger free. She pulled it out and gripped it tightly, reaching her arm to the side. Then she drove the blade into his side, feeling it twist in her grip, as it cut between his ribs.

  For a second, Cantor became still, looking surprised that he had just been stabbed. He sat back on his knees and regarded the knife sticking through his rib cage, just beneath his left arm. Nehrea pulled it out and stabbed again, driving him back. She leapt on top of him, and stabbed at his chest over and over again, lost in the moment, unleashing five years of pent up fury with every life taking stroke. When she was certain he was dead she backed away from him and dropped the blade, hugging her knees to her chest and staring tearfully at his bloody corpse. Then she erupted into a fit of tearful sobbing, feeling horrified at the savage way she had killed her tormentor, but relieved that it was over. She closed her eyes and let the tidal wave of emotions pour out.

  When she opened her eyes everything had changed. She was sitting against a building, fully clothed, near the docks of Nal’Dahara in the last light of the evening sun. Faceless people walked about, some working to load ships, others simply passing along the cobblestone street.

  She looked around in confusion, trying to understand how only a moment ago she had been sitting naked in a tent beside the body of the slain Governor. Was it some trick? Some sudden dream, a figment of her imagination? Had the strangely scented water caused her to hallucinate? Everything seemed so real, so vivid, so familiar. The way the harbor smelled of spoiled fish, the coat of grime that covered the face of the cobblestones, even the bustle of conversation and shouted commands amongst the dockworkers and ship bosses, had a certain intrusive cognizance that she identified but couldn’t place.

  “Nehrea?” a startled voice, weakly asked.

  She looked up and saw her father, carrying a large bundle, standing several feet away. He was old and frail, a skeleton covered in loose pale skin. She stood in disbelief, wanting to cry out but unable to understand what was happening to her. Was he real or part of this sick dream? She was afraid that if she accepted the dream and ran to his embrace, it would all fade away to nothing.

  “It is you,” he said, dropping his burdens and running to her.

  When he took her in his arms, she forgot her fears that she was dreaming and burst into tears of joy. Though his arms felt like brittle bones, she sank into his embrace, becoming, if only for the moment, the little girl who wanted nothing more in life than to please her father.

  “Is this real?” she whispered, unsurely, not willing to let go of him for fear that he might disappear.

  He took her head in his hands and looked at her face, smiling tenderly as he gazed upon her. “My what a beautiful woman you’ve become.”

  Reality suddenly hit her. It had to be a dream, some effect of the water she had bathed in. She knew time was short; a single thought entered her mind. Something she had always wanted to say to her father but had never been given the chance.

  “I’m sorry, father,” she blurted tearfully. He shook his head, not understanding. “It was my fault. All of it was my fault.”

  “What are you saying, Nehrea?” he asked, in confusion.

  “The jewel from the chalice. I took it. It was my fault. I didn’t think anyone would notice. I’m so sorry. So sorry,” she sobbed. “Please forgive me.”

  Her father took a step back and firmly held her by the shoulders. He looked at her with tender brown eyes. His tired, aged face held sympathy and compassion. “My daughter,” he said in a voice as gentle as a drizzling spring rain, “this wasn’t your fault. How could you ever think that you were to blame? We live in a world where honest men are taken from their families and forced into slavery over the simplest of circumstances. Do you believe my punishment equal to my misjudgment? The world is full of darkness. Don’t let doubt and regret darken you.”

  “But I took the jewel. If I had never taken it, then you would never have become a slave,” she argued.

  “Nehrea, I knew you had taken the jewel,” he said regretfully. “It was my fault and my fault alone. I could have asked for it back, but I could see the way you had looked at those gemstones, and I only wanted to please you. I didn’t think anyone would notice one missing stone. There were so many.”

  “But…”

  “Do you believe in the Creator?” her father asked, cutting her off.

  “I don’t know what to believe,” she shook her head sadly.

  “Believe in the Creator, my daughter. Believe in the divine plan. Everything happens for a reason, both good and bad. You can spend your life asking ‘What if?’ and miss what’s happening right in front of you. Live your life. Every moment without regret.”

  “I don’t know if I can,” she said doubtfully.

  “Of course you can,” he told her. “But first you have to forgive yourself. If you can do that, anything i
s possible.”

  “How do I forgive myself? I’ve blamed myself for so long, I don’t even know how to begin trying.”

  “Let yourself be loved, my darling. If you can’t allow a man to love you, how will you ever learn to love yourself? Find a man who accepts you as you are, always. Then you can truly begin to move forward.”

  He leaned in close and kissed her forehead. She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms tightly around him, hoping she would never have to let go.

  When she opened her eyes, he was gone.

  She stood alone in a small, four-walled hut with rotted wooden frames holding up a patched sheet of canvas lining. Holes and tears dotted the fabric walls and roof, allowing lambent trickles of daylight to slice through the irremediable gloom of her former home. The dirt floor of the hut was soft and damp, just as she remembered, with the fetid smell of mold that perpetually hung in the air.

  For a moment, as nothing changed, Nehrea began to believe that she had somehow dreamed her entire life as a palace courtesan and had only now awoken from that nightmare into the odious reality of her life, surviving day by day in the Cortella. She thought of those last moments of hope, running with the Dahara, holding Sim’s hand as they walked to meet her calling, and lamented as one would a dream that began to slip into the lost recesses of the mind upon awakening.

  Then her mother entered the hut with the same unremitting look of contempt etched into the aged lines of her face that she had carried since the day her husband had been taken away. She was older than Nehrea remembered. Her once raven black hair was now a wiry unkempt thicket of gray and white. She was thin and tired, bent over at the waist and walking with a noticeable limp. Nehrea should have been staring into the face of a woman in her middle years, but her mother looked as though she were just passing the days in the final years of her life, impatiently waiting for the supreme mercy of death to end her suffering.

  She carried a small canvas satchel which she threw in the corner. Without bothering to say a word to her daughter, she ambled over to the lone piece of furniture in the hut, a small wooden chair, and took a seat.