Solomon's Journey

by James Maxstadt

  “Of course. But stay long enough to break your fast with us, Gan-Solomon. My daughter will brew a tea that will fortify you on your journey, and it will be easier to show you the landmarks in the full light of day.”

  Part of Solomon felt like leaping up and running from the wagon, making it to Celia before anything could happen to her. Another part, a larger one, recognized the wisdom of Gan-Rowes suggestion. Traveling in a strange land by dark could be done, but it would be slower. Rested, well-fed, directed, and able to see, he’d make much better time.

  “Thank you again for your hospitality, Gan-Rowe.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Solomon turned to help Gan-Rowe down the steps of his wagon, but the large creature needed no assistance. He stepped down gracefully and with a surety that belied his sightlessness. The camp was starting to come into focus in the dim light of predawn.

  They were walking toward a fire that was being kindled in the center of the camp when a noise came from another wagon. High-pitched and wavering, it was like nothing that Solomon had heard before.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  Gan-Rowe was already moving toward the sound. “Trouble,” he said. “Someone is in distress.”

  Solomon didn’t wait to hear any more. He ran toward the keening wail, loosening his sword.

  The wagon that the noise was coming from was large as all of the Mar-trollids’ were, with steps up the back leading to a sturdy door. Only this one’s door was shattered, the remnants hanging from twisted iron hinges. From inside came the sounds of a struggle, the scream of someone in pain again and a strange whistling noise.

  Bounding up the stairs, Solomon paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dimmer light inside, but there was no need.

  A figure dressed all in white, larger than Solomon but not nearly the size of the Mar-trollid, had a hold of the wagon’s occupant and was attempting to drag her toward the door. The Mar-trollid pulled back and screamed again when the figure in white lashed out, slamming its fist into the creature’s side, silencing her by stealing her breath.

  Solomon jumped forward, punching at the back of the thing’s head. A blow that should have stunned it and let Solomon get between it and the Mar-trollid. From there, Solomon could force it back out the door, where he could draw his sword and fight it without danger to the Mar-trollid female.

  His blow had almost no effect. The figure in white’s head snapped forward an inch or so, and Solomon’s hand blazed in agony. It was like punching a slab of old, hard wood and made the same type of sound.

  It was enough to get the thing’s attention, though. It turned a featureless white mask to Solomon. He couldn’t see any string that tied it to the head, or any other way it was attached. There were no eye holes, no openings for the mouth or nose for the figure to breath from. Yet, Solomon felt that it saw him perfectly clearly.

  It was disorienting, but Solomon rallied quickly. Whatever this thing was, it wasn’t going to take the Mar-trollid woman anywhere.

  Instead of trying for another punch, Solomon leapt forward and wrapped his arms around the large thing, squeezing tightly. There was very little give to it, again reminding Solomon of the texture of wood. But he wasn’t trying to squeeze the breath from it.

  He planted his feet, and with a grunt of effort, lifted it, turning and slamming it to the floor of wagon. A brief whistle came from inside the mask, then it was climbing to its feet while Solomon got between it and its victim.

  The figure in white barely gained its footing before Solomon charged, plowing into it as fast and hard as he was able. The thing lost its footing, stumbling and reeling, the whistling cutting through the air again. Solomon kept pushing, not giving it a chance to catch its balance, until they both tumbled from the back of the wagon and down the steps.

  The fall took the breath from Solomon, but he rolled over, moving away from the thing, and staggered to his feet. He drew his sword as the thing in white surged upright and came for him.

  Solomon jumped back, barely escaping a vicious swing aimed at his head. He stepped inside the blow, his sword moving to cut at its chest. The masked figure didn’t even bother to block. Solomon’s sword tip sliced through the white outfit, parting it, but no blood flowed from the wound. The figure did send up another whistle and back away, however.

  “Ah, you can be hurt,” Solomon said, smiling at his opponent. “That’s good to know.”

  He advanced again, his sword moving in a blur. The masked figure used its arms to block the blows, but each time, Solomon’s sword bit like an axe going into a thick log, and each time a whistle of pain exploded from the thing.

  Finally, it had enough and turned tail and ran. It loped off into the dawn’s light, moving rapidly. Moments later, it was gone from sight, and Solomon lowered his sword, panting.

  “What was that?” he asked Gan-Rowe when the elder Mar-trollid approached.

  “I don’t know,” Gan-Rowe said. “Something I’ve never seen before.”

  “Which way was it heading when it ran off?” Solomon knew the answer even as he asked the question.

  “Toward Dunfield, I’m afraid.”

  “Thought so. I think I might have to skip that breakfast,” Solomon said.

  Chapter 16

  “Then now is not the time, after all.” Lord Childress closed his eyes, absorbing the news that Jocasta had just given him.

  “Or is it?” Darius said.

  Childress’s eyes snapped open and he sat forward. “What are you talking about? Who are you anyway?”

  “I’ve told you,” Jocasta said. “This is Darius. He’s my aide and as such needs to be privy to what’s going on.”

  Childress continued to eye the other man with obvious disdain. “A mere commoner, apparently. What exactly qualifies him to be your aide? And please don’t tell me there’s truth to those salacious rumors floating around.”

  Ah, so there was something that could get under the old man’s skin after all. “Whether there is or not is no concern of yours, or anyone else’s.” There, let him chew on that one for a while. “As for what qualifies him, I do. And that’s the end of it.”

  Childress scowled and sat back in his chair.

  “And what I’m talking about,” Darius said, “is that maybe now is the perfect time to move.”

  “You would move against House Glittering Birch without the support of Solomon and Towering Oaks? You know they won’t commit to such an act without him around. And the other Houses won’t support us without them.”

  “No,” Darius said, “I’m certain you’re right. Or you would be. If we were to move against Glittering Birch.”

  He glanced at Jocasta, who inclined her head, giving him permission to continue.

  “Glittering Birch is on the way out anyway, if what you’ve told us is true.”

  Jocasta watched Childress’s reaction to Darius’s use of the word “we”. Childress had told Jocasta, and Jocasta only, about Jamshir’s bizarre actions and Bragnold’s ineffectiveness. This was news to him that she had shared that information.

  The old man was an expert at these games, though. His face revealed no reaction whatsoever.

  “Do you doubt me?” he asked, his question directed at her.

  “No, not at all.” That was nothing more than truth. She never doubted that what he told her was real, she simply doubted that he told her everything he knew.

  “Then what is it that we’re talking about?”

  Darius opened his mouth to speak, and Childress rounded on him. “Not you, boy. If this is heading where I think it is, I want it from her.”

  For a moment, Darius looked as if he were about to argue, but then shut his mouth and turned away from the old man’s glare.

  Childress turned back to her.

  “The time isn’t right to strike at Glittering Birch, that’s true.” Jocasta stood and walked to a window that looked out over the carefully tended gardens of House Whispering Pines. “But it might be the perfect time to st
rike Towering Oaks.”

  He was laughing before she even turned around.

  “If this is what passes for advice from your new ‘aide’ than I’m afraid you’ve sorely misjudged his usefulness. And if you’re taking it seriously, perhaps I’ve done the same with you.”

  He climbed to his feet. His laughter stopped but his eyes never left hers. “You need to think more with your head, dear. Towering Oaks may be bereft of Solomon at the moment, but he will return. Probably right in the middle of any action against them, as he is wont to do. And do you think them helpless, merely because he is not there? I think not. And one more point to consider. We have no one inside there. We have no information about them other than what you’ve been told.”

  He turned and began to leave the room, ignoring Darius.

  “There’s a way,” Jocasta said, stopping him in his tracks. “We use Glittering Birch. Let them attack, while we ‘support.’ With Towering Oaks already depleted, the two Houses will destroy each other, or near enough. Even if Solomon does come back, what can one man do? Then we’ll remove Jamshir and his House, and no one will thwart us.”

  Childress slowly turned. “You would align us with the House that nearly destroyed us as well? That brought that evil into our land? That caused the death of your cousin? What is wrong with you?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with her!” Darius blurted, then sank back again at the fury in the old man’s eyes.

  “I see your ambitions have grown, Jocasta. From not wanting to return to the Greenweald at all, to ruling over it.” He turned away again.

  “Oh, and there is one more thing,” he said, turning back around when he reached the door. “If what you say is true, you’re overlooking a vital fact. When Solomon returns, there is the very real possibility that he won’t be alone.”

  He shook his head and Jocasta felt a surge of embarrassment run through her. It was the same look he used to give her when she failed thinking through a problem as a young girl.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “Well, that didn’t go as planned,” Darius said after the old man left the room.

  Jocasta returned to her seat. “He’s not wrong.”

  “He’s old. And afraid to change the status quo.”

  “No, he’s not. He’s right. I didn’t even think of it.”

  “What?”

  “Solomon,” she said. “When he comes back he won’t be alone. He’ll have Celia, Florian’s true heir, with him.”

  “That’s assuming she’s still alive.”

  Jocasta said nothing. Of course the girl was still alive. That’s the way these things worked. And she would take over as Head of House, which was the same as giving Solomon control, if the stories of their relationship were to be believed.

  Maybe that was good. Then she could go back to her ship, back to the salt-spray and the wind. Leave all this intrigue and politicking behind.

  “I still think we have an opportunity,” Darius said. “Perhaps not an outright strike. But what if we could put someone in Towering Oaks? Find out what’s really going on, perhaps plant the seeds of discontent. By the time Solomon does return, the House will be unstable, and while he is trying to put things right, we could take advantage.”

  “And Celia?”

  “Well, I’m sure she’ll return here, leaving Solomon to tend to his own House. And then... accidents happen. Tragic ones, at times.”

  Jocasta considered her aide. He was ambitious and, she now say, ruthless. Not bad qualities in times such as these. But he would need to be tempered.

  “Agreed,” she finally said. “We do need someone to give us an edge over there. You’ll go.”

  Darius paled. “Me? I’m not a spy, my Lady. I don’t have the temperament for it.”

  “Not as a spy. You’ll go as my emissary. The same way this Shireen sent Orlando to me, you’ll go to her. Extend my greetings, our renewal of the ties between our Houses, that sort of thing. And while you’re there, you’ll watch for opportunities. Do this well and you’ll be rewarded.”

  Darius nodded. He looked slightly sick, Jocasta noticed. Good.

  “Do it poorly, and you’ll be back answering doors. At best.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The library was quickly becoming her place of refuge, as it had been for Florian. Childress’s words shook her. Did she have ambitions to rule the Greenweald?

  No, her aims remained true. House Whispering Pines would be a force unto itself, answerable to no one. No longer used by Towering Oaks or Glittering Birch to meet their own ends.

  If the only way to ensure that was to remove the current ruling House and take its place, then that was what needed to happen. It wouldn’t be the first time, after all. History was full of instances of regime change.

  And Celia? She was incapable of ruling one House, let alone the whole Greenweald. No, perhaps Darius was right after all. Let him cause a little chaos over there in Towering Oaks, give Solomon something to occupy him when he returned. Then, Celia could be taken care of in such a fashion that it wouldn’t arouse his suspicions.

  The last thing they needed was a fully functioning Solomon against them. Done right, perhaps they could break him at the same time.

  Yes. The only question was how, but she had time to work on that.

  There was another piece in this game that neither Childress nor Darius mentioned. Mostly forgotten, Florian had another heir who was unaccounted for. Where was Thaddeus?

  Chapter 17

  The home Celia was led to matched the rest of the city: run-down and shabby. Inside, it was slightly better. The people who lived there obviously made an effort to make it a home.

  “Thank you for your kindness,” she said again.

  The man snorted and moved off, entering another room through a ratty curtain hung as a door.

  “I should be thanking you,” the woman said. “No one tries to help anyone in this place anymore. Let alone goes out of their way to try to ease someone else’s pain. Please, sit.”

  She indicated a table and chairs placed in the center of the floor, near a rusted cast-iron stove and water pump. Celia sat, her knees coming up further than they would have in furniture made for one of the Folk’s stature.

  “My name is Celia,” she said, breaking the silence, forgetting that she had already told them.

  The woman smiled at her as she moved to fill a battered kettle with water and put it on the stove. “I remember. And I’m Greta. My husband is Friedrich.”

  “Have you lived here long?” Celia was making polite conversation, but really wanted to ask why? Why would anyone live in this place if they didn’t have to?

  “All my life. It’s where I was born, where I went to school and met Friedrich, and where we had our Lyssa. It’s all we know.”

  Celia said nothing, her finger tracing an idle pattern on the tabletop.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Greta said. “Why live in such a miserable place?”

  “Because it’s our home,” a gruff voice said.

  Celia turned to see that Friedrich had emerged from the other room and now stood behind her, scowling.

  “It’s our home and if it’s not good enough for the likes of you, then you’re welcome to leave.”

  “No, it’s wonderful—" Celia began.

  “Enough of that, husband.” Greta cut her off before she could go any further. “Think how you would feel if you were a stranger to this place.”

  Friedrich continued to glare at Celia for a moment longer, then his expression softened. “You’re right,” he said. “My apologies. I’ve allowed what this place has become to get inside me. I used to have better manners and hospitality.”

  “It’s fine,” Celia said. “I understand. You’ve been through so much.”

  He patted her shoulder gently as he went past, joining his wife in the small kitchen area. Pulling a loaf from a cloth sack, he took a sharp knife from a block on the counter and began to slice it. “We don’t have much,” he said, “but what we
do have you’re welcome to share.”

  “May I help?” Celia asked.

  “No, you sit,” Greta said.

  “Actually, you can,” Friedrich said, “and you don’t have to get up to do it.” He glanced at his wife, then continued slowly slicing the bread. “Tell us what you saw. All of it.”

  Greta didn’t look at her, but her silence made it clear that she too wanted to know. Celia sighed and told them the tale. When she finished there was a soft sniffle from Greta and Friedrich wiped his eyes on his shirttail.

  “You actually hit one of the bastards?” he said, turning to the table with the sliced bread on a wooden platter. He set it down in front of her, then walked back to a cupboard and opened it. Inside was a dusty bottle that he removed and pulled the cork from. He took three empty cups and poured a measure of liquid from the bottle into each one.

  “Here’s to you, girl. And to your kindness and bravery. You’ve done more than most of us.”

  He raised his cup and drank, and Celia followed suit. The liquid was bitter, with a sharp bite in the back of her throat. She coughed once as she set the empty cup back on the table.

  “Really, I didn’t do much. I wanted to save her.”

  Greta set a cup of tea in front of her and hugged her quickly. Then she disappeared through the same curtain that Friedrich had earlier. From the other room, Celia heard her weeping quietly.

  Friedrich held the bottle toward her, but Celia shook her head. He poured a bit more into his cup, recorked the bottle, and put it back into the cabinet. Then he sat across from her and took a slice of bread. “Eat”, he said, his eyes wandering to the curtained doorway.

  “I don’t mind if you go to her,” Celia said, taking a slice herself. Unlike the liquid, the bread was delicious.

  Friedrich shook his head. “She needs a few minutes alone. I know my Greta.”

  Celia smiled at that small bright spot in an otherwise gloomy atmosphere. If the love that was plain between these two, and between them and their daughter, survived, perhaps there was hope for this place after all.