by Bryan Davis
The sages always said that rain in the midst of sunshine foretold of a double blessing, a promise of good tidings that would be delivered in short order. The peasants celebrated with song and dance that lasted well past the sun’s disappearance below the horizon. At the age of nine, Marcelle had already become proficient with the pipes, so the adults always chose her to play for the dancers while Adrian pounded out a rhythm on a deerskin stretched over a barrel. With smiles, giggles, hugs, and kisses passing around the room like a fresh breeze, this celebration of peasants topped any party the nobles ever tried to manufacture.
Oh, yes, the peasants. Marcelle smiled at the term she had come to use herself, though never with the spitting punctuation most nobles added when speaking it. To her, the word would forever be a kiss, not a curse.
She grasped her father’s hand and rubbed a finger over the wedding ring he had never removed. “Father?” she whispered.
His eyelids twitched.
As her nine-year-old self reentered her mind, she reverted to the name she preferred during those days of joy, a name she still spoke from time to time when the occasion seemed appropriate. “Daddy? Can you hear me?”
This time his eyelids fluttered rapidly. Soon, he gazed at her, a weak smile emerging. “Marcelle. Is it time for the invocation?”
She shook her head. “But it’s time for me to tell you something. I have to go on a journey, perhaps a very long one.”
“Is that so?” His voice was low but distinct. He looked at her expectantly, as if wanting an answer to an unasked question.
Marcelle chewed on her lip for a moment. Father wouldn’t like the answer. “I … I am joining a company of soldiers, perhaps three or four, who are being sent to track someone in the forest.”
His brow lifted. “Soldiers? Palace guards, or rank and file?”
“The palace guards will be on duty for the invocation, so probably rank and file. Drexel will be arranging it. I don’t have details.”
“Drexel?” He shifted his body higher against the headboard. “Why would he send a woman into the forest with scoundrels? Is he out of his mind?”
“Daddy, they’re not scoundrels, they’re—”
“Soldiers, scoundrels,” he said, very nearly spitting. “The words are different only in their spellings.”
Marcelle averted her eyes from his reddening face. “I can take care of myself.”
“Against one, yes, and perhaps against two, but if three men decide to give in to their bestial lusts …” As his face flushed an even darker red, his voice trailed off.
“No one lusts after me. I have never given anyone reason to.”
“Reason?” His voice spiked. “A scoundrel needs no reason. Just because you cover your cleavage and decline to wear dresses, don’t think that stops a libertine from probing you with his mind. You are a desirable woman, and that’s all he cares to know. Your fiery spirit might be an exciting challenge rather than a repellant, and in his eyes your trousers would merely accentuate your posterior. He will view your willingness to traipse out into the woods with him as a handwritten invitation, sealed by a sensuous swagger. No virtuous woman would dare do such a thing.”
Marcelle looked down, unsure how to answer. Of course she had noticed how some of the trainees had looked at her, but a grasp of her sword instead of a batting of her eyelashes made their passions wilt in a hurry.
“So,” her father continued, his voice calming, “you will decline this assignment. I will speak to Prescott myself and—”
“No, Father.” As she looked at him, she clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. “You cannot trust Prescott. There is something else I have to tell you, something you will not like.”
“Not like? I have liked nothing you have said since you awakened me. Will this news be even more petulant?”
The word felt like a dagger reopening an old wound. “I am not petulant, Father. It is because of love and respect that I awakened you. I heard from an informant that someone might be poisoning your food.”
His brow lowered. “Poisoning me? Why?”
“To make you too sick to audit Mikon Industries. Prescott is skimming profits.”
“Nonsense. I have known their officers for years. They would never allow him to—”
“Daddy! Think about it. When did your sickness begin?”
“This is absurd. You know as well as I do when my sickness—”
“Almost six months ago. And when did you first schedule the audit?”
“A mere coincidence.” A deepening scowl bent his features. “I take my food from the plates that are passed around, just as you, the governor, and everyone else does. It cannot be poisoned. And my drink is poured from a common pitcher.”
Marcelle imagined a servant moving from place to place, pouring the wine into each vessel as he passed. Her mind’s eye focused on her father’s unique goblet, hand-carved with a rainbow on one side and the sun on the other. “Your cup is your own, Father.”
“Ah!” he said, raising a finger. “So now the cupbearer is my assassin. My suspicious daughter leaves no servant without accusation.”
“Better to be suspicious than dead.”
“Better to be dead than to be friendless because of the never-ending conspiracies you conjure in your brain.”
The two stared at each other. For a moment, his expression flashed with anger, but it soon settled into a wash of uncertainty and confusion.
She touched his knee tenderly. “Don’t you see? Who told you that ulcers are causing your problem and that you shouldn’t take on stressful projects? Prescott’s own doctor, that’s who.”
“But the medicine he gave me helps. It—”
“It masks your symptoms. Nothing more.”
Redness crept its way back into his cheeks. “So now you’re a doctor? Wearing a man’s sword and trousers wasn’t enough? Now you’re wielding a surgeon’s scalpel?” Looking away, he shook his head. “Your mother must be weeping with the angels.”
Marcelle winced. There was the dagger again, this time plunging directly into her heart. Years of experience had taught her that ignoring the stab was the only way to keep him from twisting the blade.
She let her tone rise to a desperate plea. “Daddy, just take your goblet with you after your meals and wash it yourself. Then watch for any attempts to give you food that isn’t from a community plate.” She enfolded his hand in both of hers. “Will you do that for me?”
Still looking away, he took in a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose, raising a quiet whistle. A tear spilled from one eye, and his voice fell to a whisper. “You are surely your mother’s daughter.”
Marcelle caressed his knuckles with her thumb. “No, Daddy. Mother was everything that I’m not. I am far more stubborn and colder and aggressive and—”
“And irresistible.” He turned toward her, both eyes now brimming with tears. “Your beautiful eyes and comely face make your entreaties impossible to refuse. I was never a match for her, either.”
She compressed his hand. “Then you’ll do it? You’ll wash your goblet and watch out for poisoned food?”
“Of course, my dear.” His expression hardened slightly. “If you will decline this absurd jaunt into the woods.”
She released his hand and pulled back. “But … but I cannot decline. It is my duty to—”
“Duty?” His voice grew to a shout. “Where is your duty to your father? Where is your respect for my experience? If I say that the scoundrels will rob you of your maidenhood, you pretend that you know better, that somehow these soldiers whom you have never met will be less vicious than the vile creature who pierced your mother with flesh and fangs.”
As she stared at her father’s enraged eyes, a sob tried to emerge from deep within her chest, forcing her to take a quick breath. “I …”
She couldn’t speak. Her throat had tightened far too much. She swallowed, but it didn’t help. It would have to loosen on its own.
Her f
ather turned away and looked at the wall, quiet, yet flushed redder than ever.
Marcelle sighed. At least he understood a woman’s need to ruminate. He didn’t mind gaps in conversation. In fact, he often caused them himself.
The comment about her mother’s death brought a new stabbing pain, this one worse than the others. She imagined the terror once again.
Sleeping with Mother in her bed while Father was away one night, a stranger intruded and set a sword blade across both their throats. His growling voice scraped her senses to this day. “If you stay quiet, I will let you both live.”
Little Marcelle stiffened. Even with a full moon casting a strong glow through an open window, the blade looked dark, and the intruder’s face stayed in shadows.
“What do you want?” Mother whispered.
“I have been at the battlefield for months, and I must return by dawn. I care not who provides what I need.” He said nothing more.
Marcelle swallowed, feeling the cold metal against her skin as it pressed closer. Mother glanced at her before answering. “Take me. But not here, I beg you.”
“Very well.” He lifted the sword and looked straight at Marcelle, his bright brown eyes clear in spite of the shadow over his face. “Stay quiet, or you will find your mother’s heart lying next to her body.” He clutched a handful of Mother’s hair and shoved her toward the window.
The moment they disappeared outside, Marcelle ran from the bedroom and dashed into the commune’s shared living area. Trying not to sob, she looked at the three corridors leading to the sleeping quarters of the other families. What could she do? All except the older men were off to war, and if she told anyone, that intruder might hurt Mother. But maybe he would hurt her anyway. She had to get help.
She ran into a room Adrian shared with his two brothers. Standing at his bedside, she whispered breathlessly. “A man … took my mother … and went out the window.”
Adrian, also nine years old, leaped from his bed. “We have to tell Grandfather!”
The vision faded away. Only scant snippets remained. After searching for nearly an hour, Adrian’s grandfather found Mother’s body in the forest, but he refused to report any details. When Father returned the next day and heard the news, his frame seemed to wither, as if every drop of blood drained from his body. Surely every shred of joy had been ripped from his heart.
And all the while, a terrified nine-year-old sat in stunned silence, watching a parade of mourners weeping and rending their garments. Nothing like this had happened in the region in anyone’s memory, and from that day for the next three years, the windows in the commune stayed closed and locked, no matter how hot the night. Although no similar attack had been reported since, the specter still lingered. The wars were over, so the killer had returned to his home, perhaps satisfying his violent urges with those who were too frightened to report his cruelty. Still, fear of the potential never eased. Whatever happened once could happen again. The village had lost its innocence forever.
No doubt life as she knew it had come to an end. Yet, a new purpose was born. That very day she swore that no one would ever take them by surprise again. No one would dare enter their abode with evil intent. When she became the greatest sword maiden in the land, even the male warriors would tremble when she drew her blade.
And she had marked that day in her mind. When she won the great tournament, she would be ready. She would begin hunting down that monster and have her revenge. Reliving that nightmare once again had left its mark. Now her mission would have a two-fold purpose—rescue the Lost Ones and pry information from soldiers. Someone, somewhere, knew the truth. She just had to find its hiding place.
Finally, as tears flowed, she whispered, “You know what I have vowed, the words I cry out with every nightmare that throttles my breath.”
He kept his eyes averted, saying nothing.
“Now I am able to seek Mother’s killer,” she continued, “and I cannot conduct that search while staying home, parading around the palace in silk dresses, exchanging pleasantries with tea sippers about how too cold or too rainy it is, about runs in their hosiery, or about how men have ruined their lives by not paying attention to their feminine pouts and puckers. And all the while I would not be listening to a word they say, nor they to my words, because our brains will have become numbed by superficial trivialities.
“If you want me to live a lie and be one of those pitiful caricatures of femininity, if you want me to continue waking up with a scream every night because the murderer’s blade has again fallen cold upon my throat, then by all means forbid me from infiltrating the ranks where the true scoundrel might still be hiding. Prevent me from stripping him of the disguise that makes others think he is a protector of the innocent. Turn me back from keeping that monster away from other mothers who lie peacefully in bed with their daughters, not suspecting that an evil madman is creeping into their window ready to ravage them with brutality and never-ending torture.
“Perhaps even now he oppresses daughters of his own, satisfying himself while they suffer under the weight of his dominating presence, silenced by threats of a fate worse than ultimate betrayal and humiliation.
“Yes, that is likely why we have heard no new reports of such crimes. With the wars at an end, this ravisher feeds his lusts in the laps of those who should sit protected in his, while their muffled cries reach only his deaf ears rather than those who are willing and able to disembowel the villain and hang his carcass in the public square.”
Shaking her head, Marcelle let out a loud sigh. “But I will not be able to rise up and protect these innocent ones. Why? Because of fear, fear of the dark woods, fear of a company of strangers, and fear that some foolish hens of nobility will cluck about a banker’s daughter cavorting with soldiers when she should be scratching in the dirt with them in search of reputations to besmear with their sharp claws.”
Father kept his stare on the wall, his chin shaking with his frail whisper. “Your speech is well practiced.”
“Passion has honed my prose, Father, but every word is from my heart.”
“I believe you.” He looked at her, his entire face trembling. “What can I do to help?”
“I need every detail. You told me Mother was stabbed, but how wide were the puncture wounds? How deep? Were there any suspects? Was anyone questioned? And did the fiend …” Her throat tightened again. Could she even utter the next question? After taking a breath, she continued. “Did he leave any … any genetic evidence?”
A tear dripped down Father’s cheek. “To answer your last question, yes, but not in the way you imagine. We believe your mother coerced him to go into the forest, hoping to ensure your safety, and then she fought the devil. Perhaps he was so badly hurt, he staggered away after killing her. We found a considerable amount of skin under her … well, under her nails. So we searched the soldiers for someone with a fresh wound.”
“Deep scratches?”
He nodded. “We thought it might be easy, considering the amount of skin your mother gouged. We saved a large sample for genetic testing, including a few hairs on her body that were not her own.”
He lowered his gaze to his lap, letting his tears fall into his open palms. Spasms interrupted his lament. “I still … see her face … her final expression … terrified, mortified. … She died in despair, perhaps knowing her murderer’s identity but unable to warn her loved ones so that they could defend themselves upon his return from the battlefield.”
Marcelle’s stomach knotted. As a sob erupted in her own chest, she had to swallow it down to speak. “You think she knew him?”
His lips trembling, he just nodded.
She looked at his handful of tears. How many similar handfuls had he wept through the countless lonely nights? The days of rainbow dances had surely ended forever. “So … so what did you do about the evidence?”
He took a cleansing breath before continuing. “When we searched the soldiers, we even stripped several down who could not prove their wher
eabouts during the night.”
“And?”
“We found three men with recent scratches, and all explained their wounds with clarity and precision. The seneschal ordered genetic testing just to be sure, but none of them matched. Whoever the beast is, he wasn’t among the soldiers we had access to.”
“Access? Didn’t you interview everyone?”
He shook his head sadly. “At the time, I had no influence with government officials, so getting a list of all the soldiers was impossible. The seneschal assured us that we had seen well over ninety percent of the men, so that should have been satisfactory. And since all were cleared, he refused to order any more genetic testing.
“I had no way of pursuing the matter any further except to look at every soldier who crossed my path. Did he have a scratch? Did he avert his gaze? Yet, I was unable to locate him. Even after becoming banker and having access to the list, many of the soldiers had died or were no longer in service, and his wounds would have become scars, and who could discern scars earned through courage on the battlefield from scars incurred while committing a crime? And who would take pity on me and order a genetic test on a war hero who had suffered a wound for the cause of keeping the peace for our good king?”
His voice pitched higher again and shook with emotion. “To this day I look for old scars on the faces of friends and foes alike, but it serves only to inflame my hatred and sink me deeper into despair.”
“Oh, Daddy!” Marcelle rocked up to her knees and threw her arms around his neck. They swayed in place, now no longer weeping, though their trembling continued. She cast away all the horrible thoughts from the past and just focused on her daddy. This poor, grieving man had lost so much, and the stab wounds from that day still festered in his heart, an infection that never stopped leaking poison into his mind. Somehow she would find this foul beast who had plunged his sword into their family’s bosom and excised their soul. Her father would never find peace until the day the murderer swung from Drexel’s noose.
