by C. M. Lind
“Hey.” Randolph touched her hand with the back of his.
She turned to him, but the look of melancholy lingered in her eyes.
“Well, sweetheart, there is one nice side to all of this.” The corner of his lips gave a slight, smug smile.
“Oh, no. What is that?”
“You finally called me Randolph.”
Chapter 14
Randolph and Soli made it back to the estate without any issue. Randolph told her not to worry about the bodies left in the alley, and he himself didn’t seem concerned about them either. Soli offered to stay and help in any way that she could, but Randolph insisted that it was more important for her to be back at the estate for breakfast with Etienne. He claimed the last thing they needed was her getting into trouble on her first day living at the estate—and him being blamed for it.
Randolph carried her bag until they got to her room, and then he left saying he was overdue for a long nap. Soli let him leave, promising to fetch him once the breakfast was over.
She was alone in her room with her bags on her bed.
She bent over and untied the laces to her boots in unison, one hand for each boot. She had done this many times before, and the alacrity she did this with was astounding. Her fingers worked without thought. Instead her mind was preoccupied by Randolph. His behavior perplexed her. He seemed to love to spend time with her, to talk to her, to steal what touches he could—but that conversation earlier? He made it clear to her his behavior was insincere. Perhaps this was how Randolph treated his friends? Perhaps he couldn’t help himself but flirt with women. Soli hadn’t seen him with other women. She thought, in that moment, that she was obviously one of many women that Randolph pawed after. But, she did have to admit to herself, he was handy in a fight. His style seemed unorthodox to her. The way he moved and how he handled himself was unfamiliar, but she thought perhaps she could learn something from him.
What she found the most odd of all was his manner. He seemed completely unfazed from earlier. Soli did not feel guilt or remorse for her actions. Perhaps she felt a touch of shame but only because Randolph got pulled into her mess. No, it was that he seemed jovial and flirtatious immediately after the encounter. The whole walk back to the estate Randolph was begging her to say his name again, and again—and when she indulged him? He cooed and smirked.
Those men deserved to die, but Soli was not happy about it. She did not feel like it was the appropriate time to joke. Death, even of an enemy, was a grave affair—not a moment for lightheartedness.
When Randolph stood unmoved, while the blood in the men’s bodies was still hot, she asked Sjalkys to notice the men’s death. That her attention be called to their souls. Only Sjalkys, the mute, black winged woman of ashen flesh, could release a soul. If she did not notice Justino and Arn, their souls would suffocate—they would cease to exist. More often than not though, if Sjalkys decided not to draw out a soul it was intentional. The cowardly, the childless, the slothful—those people were found wanting and deemed unacceptable according to the tales. Soli did not desire the men to reach paradise necessarily, but to have one’s soul destroyed was the worse fate imaginable to a Northerner. To never meet one’s ancestors, to never meet their descendants, to never see the gods, to have their life be deemed meaningless—was an unfathomable tragedy. No honorable man would wish such a thing on an enemy. Roed had told her to always ask for Sjalkys’ attention when one died, since, as he said, “No man deserves the fate of being denied Sjalkys’ kiss.”
The Avelinians did not believe in Sjalkys—or any of the gods or Valkins from the north. The Valkins, such as Sjalkys, were demigods and legendary creatures. They were too numerous to name. Every area had their tales, but there were several that were revered throughout the Northern land, such as Sjalkys. Instead, the Avelinians had their Anker for death. Soli did not know if the Northern beliefs were real or if the Avelinian beliefs were true. Perhaps somehow they both were true—the same gods with different names and faces. Or perhaps there were no gods—only stories. She wasn’t sure what thought was better.
She snapped herself out of her thoughts. Far too often Randolph was distracting her, although the reason that time was far different than before when they were alone in the parlor. She untied her waist cincher. It was made of heavy, dark green brocade with accents of yellow the color of fall wheat near the brass eyelets, weaving around them like a serpent. Her finger traced over the yellow, feeling the raised bumps of thick embroidery thread.
It reminded her of Cragmar. The tales her mother would tell her were full of excitement. Long ago, Cragmar ruled more than just the mountain; he ruled the land she was born on: Cragmar’s Mouth. It was the entryway into the mountains. It was the land her mother and father loved so dearly. It was the land she missed so much.
“Are you watching me now, mother?” she asked the yellow thread. There was no way she could know if the stories were true—if her ancestors attentively were watching her actions and listening to her words. Her finger continued around the yellow serpent, which looped indefinitely around the eyelets. Her mother looked so much like her. She didn’t think that when she was a child, but, every time she looked in the mirror, she swore she saw the reflection of her own mother. “I like to think so.”
Hurry, she chastised herself, you are taking too long. But Soli, for once, ignored the logical voice inside of her. She knew she was taking too long, but she didn’t care. In that moment all she wanted was a few minutes. The men she killed were rotting in an alley, and she was ashamed to find herself worried over a breakfast engagement. She was ashamed to have Randolph inside of her head again—her only consolation being that it wasn’t the childish thoughts of romance that plagued her before.
Soli sat on the edge of the plush bed and dropped the cincher to the floor. She sank a few inches into the softness of the down stuffed mattress. Normally, such a bed would have felt inviting. It was easily the finest, coziest mattress she had over laid upon, but it felt instead like sinking a few inches into a cold bog. With her right foot she pulled the left boot off. Loose dirt scattered off of it as it fell to the carpet, and then with her left foot she removed the right boot.
Her mother and father had wanted her to marry Halvor. She could remember a little about him but not his last name. He was just Halvor to her. The boy was nice, but she remembered that he always smelled like fish. Always. Even when he would play in the rain or bathe in the hot springs, he always smelled like he had been gutting fish all day. Perhaps it was in his skin, just part of who he was. She had told her mother that she would run away before marrying a boy who smelled like fish, that her parents would never see her again.
She untied the front of her pants, hooked her thumbs into them, and slowly slid them down. They passed over the soft, pale flesh of her toned thighs, then over her knees, and then her fit calves that were covered by tattered socks. She stopped at her ankle and drew her hands back, leaving the pants slumped around her feet.
Embarrassed, her skin suddenly became too hot for her, as if she dropped into a hot spring. The Northern stories said that her ancestors watched her every action and listened to her every word, but could they know her thoughts? If her family could hear them (she prayed they couldn’t), they would be ashamed. She was infatuated, even though she admitted it wasn’t anything serious, with a low born mercenary. Randolph was a man who felt no severity when killing, who flirted (and probably bedded) indiscriminately, who fought for coin instead of family and honor, and was a not only an outsider—he was a mix of foreigners.
She thanked the gods in that moment that Etienne had interrupted the two when they were drinking and dining together. She would have broken her mother’s heart with a single kiss.
She pulled her right foot free from the crumpled pants, and with that foot she pushed the pants off of her left. They slumped onto the floor in a pile. Her legs were bare, except for her sweaty, tall socks.
She was supposed to marry Halvor, she thought again. She would h
ave been married for years by then, instead of being in Aveline, if the gods hadn’t changed her fate. Randolph would have never existed to her, and she would have never had such enflamed thoughts. Would she, in time, have felt so excited and intrigued by Halvor?
Once, her older brother, Ravel, went missing for two days. When he returned, he was with a strange looking woman. Her irises were like molten gold, her skin a dark tan, and her thick hair was as black and shiny as hot pitch. Later, her mother told her that was how people looked in the west that came from the islands—the Venari Republic. They were foreigners, her mother said with tepid disgust.
Soli looked away from her feet. In front of her was a large, oval, standing mirror. The reflection was flawless and without distortion, something that Soli rarely saw. Even her mother’s large mirror contained slight ripples. She pulled her shirt off and flung it on top of the pants. It was damp and sweaty, and it dropped heavily to the pile. Her eyes flickered down. There were drops of red upon that shirt that she hadn’t seen until then—the fruits of her and Randolph’s labor.
She remembered how furious her parents were with Ravel. He claimed to be in love with the woman—even though Ravel was promised to another woman (all of Soli’s siblings had been promised at birth). Soli’s mother explained later that the fact that Ravel had disappeared with another woman—especially a foreigner—was an insult to his betrothed and an insult to his own family. That Ravel felt that he knew better than his own mother and father was the worst part of his offence.
Rona, Soli’s personal caretaker, took her away before she saw what happened between her father and Ravel, but Soli heard whispers. All the eyes and ears of a large keep were always open and eager for news. Soli’s father challenged the boy to combat, that if he was in the right that Volunder would side with him. Many offences were solved that way, but Soli had never known of a father fighting his own son in such a manner. Ravel was kept away from Soli and the rest of her siblings for a week after that, confined to his chambers with no one allowed access to him but the healer and seer, Gerloch. If Volunder gave an answer that day, it was a resounding denial of Ravel’s love. Soli learned that day that her parents did know what was best for all of them.
Soli looked back at the mirror. Her skin was without so many marks like that of her mother and father. Each scar told a story. One on her mother’s arm told the tale of how she defended her beloved Torsten, Soli’s father, in battle. A coward had played dead on the field of battle and then rose to sneakily attack Torsten. Thora, Soli’s mother, threw herself against the man, splitting his ribcage with her axe, but not without the man slashing her arm open.
She ran her finger over her forearm, recalling how the scar went from wrist to elbow. Her father had one on his breast. She remembered how frightened she was of it, thinking that it must have hurt long after it had healed. An arrow took him close to the heart before she could walk. He said he was happy to have it because it meant that it was one less arrow meant for his family. Her hand lingered on her breast and she tapped the spot where she recalled it. She was sure it was right there.
She lowered her right hand to her feet and peeled the sock off, rolling it down her foot. At her ankle there were a few hard, red specks no larger than a cinder. Her instep had more than a few, and they were large blotches of raised, hard skin. Her soles were covered in red, tough scar tissue. She stood on the plush carpet and stretched her toes. A few of them popped, excited with their release from the tight, hard boots. She pressed her splayed toes into the plushy floor, but it brought her no delight. She knew it was soft, but she could only sense the pressure of her feet touching the ground. The lush, soft sensation was lost to her tough, hardened feet.
Nostalgia was something that Soli hated, and in that moment she reprimanded herself for falling into its suffocating grasp. Too often she found herself fighting it off, and lately it had been penetrating her defenses, bogging her down with histrionic reflection. She let her toes stretch for a few moments longer but then grabbed her shirt that had been waiting so patiently for her. She threw it on followed by the waist cincher that was on the floor (after she inspected it for any blood). She took a deep breath. She wanted a few moments by herself, and she had them. It was time for her to move on though, to resume the mask of the interested and pleasant performer for Etienne.
She locked the door to her quarters before she left and slid the key into a small pocket inside her cincher. While she was convinced no one would dare steal anything from her, she couldn’t bear the idea of leaving the temptation. Of course she knew that Etienne had a key, and possibly some of the maids, but it made her feel better to hear the click of the lock.
On the way to the dining room she forced herself to smile. She passed a few of the house staff and made sure to wish each one a pleasant morning. Surprised, they returned the sentiment to her before they hurried onto their work. She ran through the plan in her head: she would thank him for the quarters, she would say how comfortable the accommodations were, she would inquire how Etienne was doing, she would smile, and she would laugh at his quips (that he was fond of making every so often with a dry chuckle). The worst part of all would be to pretend to be hungry. It would have been insulting to not eat and to not praise the cook’s work—but she found herself dreading food. The idea of eating made her feel nauseous. While Etienne had slept that morning, she killed a man while Randolph (a man she was conflicted about) killed another. All she wanted to do was clean up her mess from that morning, but she found herself walking to breakfast.
Etienne was waiting for her as she entered the dining room. He had a brown leather bound book in his hand that he immediately set down the moment he saw her. “I was afraid you might have overslept, but I didn’t have the heart to wake you.”
She was already smiling. “I’m afraid the bed is far more comfortable than anything I am used to. Thank you so much for it. Please, forgive my tardiness.”
He smiled back. “Of course. Think nothing of it, mistress.” He motioned for her to take a seat across from him. “There is still plenty to eat. Help yourself. I was just occupying myself with a bit of poetry. I know you don’t care for the local poets, but, every now and then, they’re acceptable.”
“Please, don’t let me keep you from your book.” She took the seat offered. In front of her were several types of pastries adorned with all manner of berries and jams. She took one covered with sliced almonds and a sugary butter glaze—thinking it to be the easiest on her stomach.
“Not at all; it is merely a distraction, but now that you are here I’d much rather prefer conversation.” He pushed the book farther to the side to dramatize the point.
“How is business going?” she asked while setting a red, cloth napkin on her lap.
“Slow and boring—so the usual I suppose.” He gave a curt, dry chuckle.
Soli forced herself to laugh in return. That laugh never really bothered her before, but she was tired, and it suddenly struck her as the most irrationally annoying thing she had ever endured.
A servant came from the kitchen. She looked young, possibly no older than fourteen, and somehow incredibly attractive in her bland uniform of white and beige—despite the fact that it didn’t fit right. It was too tight around her abdomen. She walked over to Soli and curtsied. “Miss?” she asked while her hands gestured to the few carafes and pots on the table.
“Yes?” Soli raised an eyebrow to the girl, but quickly realized what she was asking. “Yes! I’m sorry. I am tired and I didn’t realize—some water, please.”
The servant seemed amused by Soli’s confusion for a split second, but she regained her composure quickly. She poured the carafe of cool water into Soli’s tall, crystal glass. There were juices, tea, and coffee available, but, with her stomach the way it was, they sounded too strong for her. Simple, clear, cool water was the only thing that would agree with her stomach.
Etienne gave another chuckle, and Soli took a long drink of water to hide her instant revulsion.
/> “I suppose you’ll have to get used to someone pouring your drinks, mistress,” Etienne teased.
Soli finished her gulp. “Thank you.” She nodded at the maid, completely ignoring Etienne’s comment.
The maid looked surprised. It took her a few moments before she could stammer a quiet reply. “You’re welcome.”
“That is all, Marguerite,” said Etienne. His voice was warm and gentle towards the girl.
The servant, Marguerite, curtsied before she headed back to the kitchen.
“Such a pleasant girl. She grew up here practically. Her mother is the one who makes these fine pastries.” He picked up one covered with raspberry jam and took a smile bite, clearly savoring the warm, flaky bread. “I apologize for her behavior though. She has been a bit shy in the past few months.”
“There is nothing to apologize for; I assure you.” Soli didn’t believe that shyness called for any apologies, and, in that moment, she felt ashamed that she had made the girl uncomfortable. Soli was beginning to feel exhausted from shame, and she made a note to not engage Marguerite in front of Etienne again.
“It’s probably her age. A girl like that must be fighting off suitors now,” mused Etienne quietly. His eyes were still intent on the pastry in his right hand, and he took another small, timid bite.
“She is too young for such things,” muttered Soli. She instantly regretted it, telling herself that it wasn’t her place to comment on the subject. She knew that the Avelinians married young, and she found it repulsive, but it didn’t mean that she wanted to debate Etienne about Avelinian marriage practices.
He laughed. It wasn’t his curt, dry laugh from before, but a full bellied laugh. He set the pastry down, clearly worried he might drop it amid such a bout of levity. “Mistress, do tell, are you married by chance?”
