by Megan Derr
And yet—
Something, one of those damned shadows, moved restlessly in his mind. He tried to grab it, but the damned thing got away yet again. Snarling in frustration, he stalked back to the house. Halfway there, he missed something in the dark and fell, crashing hard to the ground with a cry of startled dismay and pain.
He lay unmoving on the ground, breathless from the pain and humiliation and little soothed by the fact he had fallen alone in the dark. When he thought he could move again, he slowly levered himself up to hands and knees, then even more slowly to his feet. A few minutes later, he began to walk stiffly back to the house, Mutt whining at his side the whole time.
He stopped in the hallway to pet Mutt until the whining eased, then returned to the study to fetch his book and bank the fire. That accomplished, he headed for the stairs—a painful trial all their own—and down the hall to his room.
Mutt pushed past and through his legs to get into the room first, ignoring Alcor's grumbling—
Alcor stopped. His belongings. With one thing and another, he had never gotten the chance to put his own new room to rights. He had left the clothes heaped on the bed, and the bed itself had needed to be properly made.
Yet the room had been set to rights. His clothes were put away, the bed made and the covers drawn invitingly. Even his discarded knapsack was lying upon the chest at the foot of the bed. Meir had readied his room for him? Why? It seemed more in keeping with Meir to knock him upside the head and tell him to stop being lazy. Alcor wandered the room briefly then finally just shook his head in bemusement. He set his book down and fetched night clothes from the wardrobe, casting his own clothes into the corner for lack of anything else to do with them.
Crawling into bed and lighting the lamp on the side table, he pulled his book close—and was prevented from reading by forlorn whining. Leaning over the edge of the bed, he glared at Mutt. "No, you damned dog, you are not—" He broke off as Mutt leapt onto the bed and draped himself over at least a third of it.
Alcor scowled and pointed to the floor. "Down." Mutt chuffed at him in reprimand and gave him a wide-eyed, wounded look.
"Fine," Alcor muttered, not in the mood to deal with it. His mother would have suffered an apoplexy to see such a thing. Turning over slowly, Alcor settled on his stomach and propped his book on his pillow, turning to the last page he remembered reading.
It was, oddly enough, a history book. Some of it was vaguely familiar, though he had only ever minded his lessons enough to avoid both a beating and looking less than impressive amongst his fellows.
The book was strangely fascinating. It was primarily a history of the royal family, which had ruled the country from its inception, and those families closest to it. Alcor's family had been one of those, at least distantly. The direct line had died off five generations ago; Alcor was now the very last leaf on the very last branch.
He had expected thinking that to hurt, but the only pang he felt was one of mourning for the dead—and the way they had died. His family had not been much in the way of affectionate, but they had been family.
Sighing softly, he read on, until his head began to nod, and he could just hear the hallway clock downstairs chime two in the morning. Closing the book, he set it aside and blew out the lamp. He drew up the blankets and thumped his pillow a few times to get it just right, then lay down in the dark, listening to the stillness and silence, hearing the sounds that would never again be heard in this house, until he at last fell asleep.
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Part Two
"I hate you," Alcor said flatly and threw the block of charcoal that should have been bread out the kitchen door for some animal desperate enough to try eating it.
Meir laughed. "You're definitely no baker, lad, no matter how hard we try. At least that soup smells good."
Alcor rolled his eye and went to check on said soup, trying a small sip of the broth before tossing in a few more bits of herbs. Satisfied, he set the soup spoon aside and went to find a rag to clean up. He felt as though he were wearing more flour than had actually been used to make the damned bread.
"Shall we have another go?" Meir asked.
"You want bread, you make it," Alcor retorted. "I think if, after a year of trying, all I get nine times out of ten is charcoal, then we are safe in saying that bread making is your job. I am officially retired from baking." Meir snickered, but let it go.
Alcor strode out of the kitchen and down the hall to the study, settling down in the leather chair and pulling out the books to catch up on the week's bookkeeping. Of all the problems they had faced upon settling in, money and supplies had been the greatest obstacles.
Their boon had been the money his father had tucked away in a strongbox. It had provided more than enough to obtain what they needed from a village a few hours away. Well, for Meir to obtain, since Alcor did not dare show his face for fear of ruining any chance at establishing relations. The money had also been sufficient in allowing them to set up various investments that currently kept them comfortably situated.
Bookkeeping took no time at all, mostly because it was something that he had found he enjoyed doing. When that was finished, he wrote out two letters—one to the solicitor through whom he maintained his investments, and the other to the bookshop clerk he dealt with to obtain more volumes. Already he was having to make numerous changes to the study to accommodate the expansion of his book collection.
Letters finished, he closed them and sealed them with a rose crest he'd had made a few months before. Just as he finished, he heard the familiar sound of a horse racing up the drive and Meir's steps as he went to the door to greet the boy—the book clerk's son, in fact—who ran errands for them.
He grimaced, reluctant as always to face anyone, but it was dark and though it had taken a good three months, the boy had grown accustomed to the horrific sight of him. Anyway, his new books should have come that day, and he wanted them. Tidying up the desk, Alcor left it and went to join Meir outside.
Sure enough, the boy, Thomas, was near to falling over with packages. Foodstuffs, a few clothing bundles, and a paper-wrapped package that could only be Alcor's books. Thomas darted a look at Alcor, then quickly looked away, but he smiled brightly enough as he deposited the goods, and he handed the books directly to Alcor, instead of leaving them for him to pick up himself."Good afternoon!"
"Good afternoon, Thomas," Meir greeted. "How is your father?"
"Well," Thomas said. "He says snow will come soon, so you'd best get in any further requests soon before travel makes getting them impossible."
Alcor laughed, a deep, rough sound, but much improved from the fact that once he had not been able to laugh at all without coughing. He handed over the just-penned letters and a couple of coins. "That will be all for the rest of the year, I promise. Would you like some soup?"
Thomas immediately nodded and followed them through the house to the kitchen. Meir fixed him up with soup and bread and a cup of tea. Then he made up a bowl of his own and shot Alcor a look when he would have nothing more than tea.
Ignoring him, Alcor focused on the tea, mind wandering over the chores left for the day before he could retire to read and rest.
"Um…" Thomas started to speak, then fell silent, bottom lip caught between his teeth.
Alcor shared a look with Meir, who gently prodded, "What is it boy?"
"Ah—well—I was wondering… See, some people came into town today to go up the mountain. Well, come up the mountain near here, you see. To see the healer, I mean. And I wondered, why don't you ever go to see the healer?" The last was spoken to the soup bowl, with a brief, nervous glance at Alcor.
"Healer?" Alcor asked blankly.
Thomas' head shot up, face bright with eagerness. "Yeah! The healer. He's famous, you know. The best one for miles around. They say there's no illness or wound he can't fix. I'm sure he could—um—well—you know. Help."
Alcor smiled briefly and took another sip of tea
. "I'm beyond helping, I'm afraid."
"He can fix anything," Thomas said stubbornly, then took another swallow of soup. "This is really good."
"Thank you," Alcor murmured over the rim of his teacup. It smelled good, and he knew the broth was excellent—that was the most past tea he could keep down, even after all this time. Meir liked to say the inability to eat was all in his head, but if so, that was also where the memories of burning flesh resided, which only made sense so far as Alcor was concerned. "I believe there is still a slice or two of pumpkin pie, if you are inclined."
"Am I ever!" Thomas said, and finished his soup with enthusiasm, then bolted off to find the pie for himself.
Meir chuckled and went to refill his bowl, grabbing a couple more pieces of bread as well. "So what books did you get this time?"
"A few more history tomes," Alcor said, unwrapping the package to examine the contents, not even certain himself he remembered which ones he had sought. "Ah. An accounting of when the royal family nearly died out, a history of the first faerie wars." He picked up a small book bound in green leather and held it out. "An herbal."
Meir looked surprised then took the book with a smile. "Thank you."
Alcor shrugged and continued to examine the last two books in the set, both general histories of the country. It had, for whatever reason, become an interest. Though his next order was mostly going to be scientific and medical books; history was his primary interest, not his sole.
"Maybe you should seek out this healer, if there really is one," Meir said thoughtfully. "The lotions and creams ease the pain somewhat, aye, but perhaps a healer could offer a few more ideas. There is no stipulation in the curse that you be completely and totally miserable."
"I'm fine," Alcor said shortly. He was. The pain was not fun, but it was much better than it had been upon his first waking, even than it had been a little over a year ago when they'd first arrived at the lodge. No doubt, as the years passed, it would improve of its own accord. Gallivanting off to see a healer was pointless, and he had no desire to inflict himself upon society anyway.
"Stubborn," Meir muttered, but let it go as Thomas returned to enthusiastically devour the remains of the pie Meir had made just the other day. "You'd best be getting back," he said after a time. "Your father will worry if you're not back before dark, and dark comes early this time of year."
Thomas heaved an aggrieved sigh, but obediently carried his dishes to the washing pail and double checked he still had the letters given to him by Alcor. "Anything else you need before I leave?"
"No," Alcor said. "Don't dawdle."
"I won't," Thomas said with a grimace. "Not with those creepy soldiers come to town, hunting out something."
Meir lifted a brow at that. "Oh?"
"They won't say nothing," Thomas said. "Just stay in the inn and walk around the town all scary like." He shrugged. "Papa says they're probably just tax collectors, and someone hasn't paid. They'll be gone soon, he says." He glanced at Alcor, then away again. "You really should go to the healer, he's nice."
Alcor almost laughed, but instead only shrugged. "I'll think about it. Run along home now."
"Yes, sir," Thomas said and bolted from the kitchen with a final wave and farewell.
"Soldiers?" Meir said softly after they heard him leave. "Do you suppose…"
"I doubt it," Alcor said dismissively. "That was more than a year ago; how would they track us all the way out here? That aside, only Thomas and his father have ever seen me, and they will not just hand us over even if they do put two and two together."
Meir nodded, though he still looked troubled. "Your soup really is good. I do not understand how you can cook so splendidly, but bake so terribly."
Alcor rolled his eye, but said nothing, merely moved to wash the few dishes in the pail. He looked out the window over the washing tubs, eying the sky critically. "You may want to bring in more firewood."
"Aye," Meir said and drained his tea before moving to the back door, grabbing the cloak hanging there before slipping outside.
Dishes washed, Alcor put away the remaining soup, carefully storing it in the larder for Meir to steal later. He put away the bread and fetched a rag to wash down the table. Finished, he threw it in the wash basin and blew out the lights in the kitchen, minus one for Meir to see by.
Then he went upstairs and washed down with the water in a wash bowl, tossing the used water out the window. Slipping into older, softer clothes, he went back downstairs in time to help Meir disperse firewood throughout the house—study, kitchen, and their respective bedrooms. He looked at Meir in question as they finished.
"I'm going to lie here a bit and do some reading," Meir said, motioning to his bed. "My old bones like the soft."
Alcor rolled his eye, but nodded and motioned out the door before heading that way. Meir rumbled an absent agreement, knowing Alcor meant he was going down to the study and to come find him if anything was needed. Though his voice was repaired enough to speak as often as he liked, Alcor had grown used to being brief and, most often, silent.
Downstairs, he fetched the books he'd left in the kitchen, put out the light, and moved to the study. Sitting down, he added the new books to the catalogue he had created while bored one rainy day then shelved them in their appropriate places, minus the one he wanted to read.
Moving to the reading chair he had moved to rest beside the windows, he pulled up a lap blanket and began to read. He'd been reading for perhaps an hour when the sound of hooves on the drive broke the silence. Alcor looked up with a frown, immediately setting his book aside and shoving aside the blanket. Realizing belatedly he had not put on his boots, he nevertheless strode to the door and threw it open.
Thomas was racing toward the house and barely stopped in time to avoid crashing into the steps. He threw himself off of the horse and dashed up the steps even as Meir appeared in the doorway.
"Men—soldiers—looking—" He gasped for breath, doubled over with hands on his knees. "For you," he finally managed. "Soldiers looking for—" He hesitated then finished, "a beast."
Alcor's mouth tightened. "Where are they?"
"Coming this way, don't know—saw them and came—" Even as he said it, the sound of more horses reached them. Behind him, Meir swore softly and vanished—no doubt to get his sword.
"Get in the house," Alcor said sharply. "Go to the kitchen; do not leave it until we say so. If something happens, you sneak out into the woods and get home as quickly as you can. Understand me?"
"Y-yes," Thomas stuttered then obediently vanished into the house as well.
Alcor watched as the men reached him, detesting the growing dark that shortly would make it nearly impossible for him to see. There were three of them, all dressed in the blue and red of the royal army. One appeared to be a captain, the others he could not discern rank, but they were young enough they could not be much. The captain was an older man, his dark beard touched with gray. His eyes were sharp, dark even in the limited light. As almost one, the soldiers dismounted.
Not wanting them in the house, or any closer to it than necessary, Alcor strode down the stairs to meet them. They all looked at him and flinched, the two younger ones looking away. Only the captain held his gaze, the barest of grimaces flicking across his features before he mastered them.
Before he could speak, Meir returned with sword in hand, striding down the steps to stand beside Alcor. "Can we help you?" he asked coldly.
The captain reached into his jacket and withdrew what looked like the sort of case Alcor's sister had once carried to hold her makeup powder for the occasional touch up. It was ornate and heavy looking, but the light was too lacking for Alcor to tell the design. He said something in a low tone, and Alcor swore it flashed some sort of bluish light.
After a moment, the captain closed the case with a snap and returned it to the inner pocket of his jacket. "You are under arrest for murder," he said and rattled off the names of the men they had killed more than a year ago in a field so
me weeks away.
Beside him, Meir gave a barely audible sigh, sounding more tired than Alcor could ever remember him being. "You've no proof we did such a thing," Meir said. "We're only humble scholars, living here and doing no one any harm at all. Why are you coming with accusations of murder?"
The captain looked pointedly at the sword then slowly moved his eyes up to stare at them with hard eyes. "Scholars?" He spat. "We have that thing's description well enough," he said, pointing to Alcor. "Peasants witnessed it, said there was an altercation between a man, a beast, and three peers of the realm. You murdered the three men and ran for your lives." He reached into his jacket and withdrew the silver case again, muttering as he opened it. "My mirror shows you crystal clear and here at last I find you. Come peacefully, or come dead."
Meir drew a sharp breath. "Mirror? You have a Mirror of Seeing? Where—" He cut himself off, mouth drawn down in a tight frown.
Alcor felt as though he had lost track of the conversation. What was a mirror of seeing? He'd never heard of such a thing, but he had a sneaking suspicion it had been made by faeries. "You still have no evidence we did anything. There most certainly was no altercation with nobles. Do we look as though nobles would see fit to talk to us?"
The captain laughed. "Certainly I do not speak to vile beasts that should have been left to finish burning."
"Shut your mouth," Meir said softly, but with an edge to his voice Alcor had never heard before. He drew his sword from its sheath, the sound of the steel ringing in the growing dark. Tossing the sheath aside, he stepped forward to stand between Alcor and the captain. "We live here quietly, causing no harm and disturbing no one. If you have proof we did something, by all means present it, but do not malign my friends."
Alcor stepped forward, wrapping his hand around Meir's upper arm and trying to get him to calm down. "Meir, that's enough, I don't care what they say. Stop letting your temper get the best of you."
Meir shrugged his arm off. "No. Even supposing we had killed them, the law says a man may kill in self-defense—of himself or others. That mirror would have told you they were high on dragonweed and perfectly willing to rape, steal, and even kill. If they died, it was because others fought for their lives."
