He stopped blocking as he sat down in a chair near the fireplace and cuddled his daughter, the simple joy of feeling his baby’s love a balm to his heart—especially with the ache of his father’s death so fresh.
Some time later, Aleta breezed in. Being half asleep, with his block down, Alcandhor sensed her without forethought; she was drunk, and—glowing with sated sensuality. The knowledge did not strike him—but rather settled in his stomach, a sinking weight.
He had lately suspected—no; honesty to his own heart: he had indeed known, even if he lacked proof, that she was unfaithful. But always he closed his eyes—and his empathic ability—not wanting to believe, not wanting to admit to himself…what? That he had chosen badly? That his wife acted with such shame, and brought dishonor to him, his children, his clan? That he had been a fool to let beauty sway him in the gardens and grand chambers of Estan Hall all those years ago? Aye to all, yet the last was closest to the mark. He was a fool.
Fool or not, he was now weary. He had given her all he had, all he was, until he felt drained, void, empty. She gave nothing back. Not love, not compassion—even at his father’s death. Her surface charms had worn thin. Trysts such as the one in his Thane’s chamber earlier were rare, and empty. She refused to participate in any intimacy if she felt emotion from him, so long ago, he learned to chop off his feelings and block, making their bed a cold place despite the heat of passion.
A chill settled in his heart, and his weariness gave way to finality—he was through pretending and turning away from her conduct. An almost frightening calm descended on him as he tore his gaze away from the sleeping baby in his arms to regard his wife. She looked smug.
“Where have you been?” He kept his voice soft to keep from waking Amara.
“Oh, just keeping warm against the cold winter. Have we a bottle in the suite? We could have a little drink together, and perhaps…” She trailed off, giving him a seductive smile.
“Nay.” Alcandhor returned his stare to the fire. “I have work to do after I put Amara to bed.”
“Suit yourself.” She swept through the curtained archway into the bedchamber, humming to herself.
Aye. I have work to do…and so does Haladhon.
~*~
Alcandhor paced across the Thane’s chamber, feeling his cousin’s eyes on him. He could not bring himself to talk about his suspicions concerning his wife to his best friend, even though—or perhaps, especially since—the two always despised each other.
“Shall I wait until I turn to stone from boredom, Thane, or do you tell me why you called me here so late?”
Alcandhor spun and regarded his Third at Table by the flickering light of the sconces, chewing the inside of his cheek. Haladhon, as usual, perched on the edge of the table. He wore an expression of wary amusement.
“I…I have a task for you as an Elite that…might be regarded as personal, but since it impinges on the reputation of the Thane and his family…” He stopped, unable to continue.
Haladhon leaned forward, his eyes glinting. “Aye?”
“I…” Bells above how can this be so difficult? “I suspect Aleta…” Alcandhor grimaced, shaking his head.
“You suspect her…of infidelity.” Haladhon did not ask a question, but merely finished Alcandhor’s statement. He crossed his arms. “It is quite past time you opened your eyes.”
Alcandhor’s mouth dropped open. “How long have you had suspicions?”
His cousin’s back arched. “Had suspicions? For many years. Known—I have gathered proof, going back over two years. Farther back than that, I cannot verify.”
A whirl of emotion and thought almost staggered Alcandhor. He rubbed his forehead. “Years…” He glared at his cousin. “My children. My heirs…”
“I have found nothing to indicate your sons are not your blood, or I would have approached you at once.”
His insides chilled, froze. “Amara?” he whispered.
Haladhon tipped his head with a hesitant shrug. “I cannot say for certainty.”
Alcandhor slowly walked to his chair and dropped into it. “Two years…” His precious girl, his baby… His head snapped up, and he spat, “You did not tell me?”
“I tried. You would not listen. I knew not if you were still so love-struck with her, or merely being an obstinate fool. You do not take meddling in personal matters well, and when it concerns her, you have never given me one moment’s heed.”
Alcandhor blew out his breath, slumping in the seat. He could not deny the truth of Haladhon’s charge. He did not answer right away, and his cousin, wisely, remained silent. Finally, Alcandhor said, “I want to see all the evidence you have documented on Aleta.”
~*~
The sun streamed in the windows at an angle marking mid-morning, and still, Aleta slept. Alcandhor watched her, wondering, as he had many times, why he had fallen for her. His youth, he supposed, and his naïveté; and her open admiration, which had played on his insecurities. Most of all though, he had succumbed, as had many men throughout the ages with similar women, to her overt sexuality.
His rage upon reading of Aleta’s indiscretions had lowered to a manageable simmer—with Haladhon’s forceful assistance. Now, a sense of what was best for the clan and his children rose to the fore. If he put her out, Sedhral could make the claim Alcandhor had broken a vow. But he had other choices.
Before he could decide on whether to wake his wife by snatching the bedcovers off, or by tossing water on her, she rolled over and her eyes fluttered open. She frowned, stretching. “It’s late. Why aren’t you at the Training Hall?” In her sleepy state, she reverted to her family’s accent.
Alcandhor had gone over what he would say to Aleta, but now he found his words spilled forth without preamble. “I will not put the reputation of the Thane at risk, or for the children’s sake, put our lives on display, so in public we shall be as a couple. However, from this moment on, in private, you are estranged to me. I would fain move to the Thane’s suite in the Chief’s range, however, that would distance me from my children, so—”
“What are you blather—”
He raised his voice slightly and cut her off. “Although we shall share a bed, there will be no intimacy between us. You had best use discretion in your affairs, because any future children you bear will not be mine.”
She rose up onto her knees in the bed—no shame, guilt, or alarm crossed her face, but instead a snarl. “How dare you!” Aleta scrambled out of the bed, and began dressing. “If you think I’m going to stay here and listen to this—”
“You will listen—and obey me—in this!” Alcandhor did not bellow, but the forcefulness of his declaration stopped her, underbodice dangling from her fingers, and she stared at him in amazement. He stepped closer, his teeth gritted. “Do you understand?”
To his confusion, a smile slid onto her face. “Yes, my Thane. I do.”
He had expected any variety of reactions, but not this. And he was not going to stay to see what she might be conniving. He spun on his heel and left.
He strode down the hall, his thoughts on Amara. Was she truly his child? He thought of the beautiful little girl with her soft curls, and arms that wrapped around his neck as she snuggled into him. Nay, it mattered not—no matter her blood, she was his daughter. No one would ever know; no one need ever know of doubts about her parentage. Alcandhor would not let the stain of her mother’s transgressions taint that little girl!
Clan Law focused on bloodlines, aye, but in the end, love made family.
~*~
Alcandhor entered and saw the chamber full. The Rangers that wished to call Question on him sat in the back; more than one judgment would take place today.
Displaying more confidence than he felt, he strode to the front of the chamber and to the arbiter’s table, wishing desperately for his father’s guidance.
“Are the parties who petitioned for arbitration present?” he asked formally.
“They are all here, Thane,” Haladhon replied.
Alcandhor sat. “Let them stand forward.”
Two women and a stripling male stood and bowed before Alcandhor. Their faces all shared despair.
Inwardly, he ached for them, but kept his face from any emotion. “Clan, sept, family, and name.”
The woman with reddish-blonde hair curtsied and lifted her chin. “Tonshill. Clan Shenalt, sept Denvra, family Terrin. I made petition, Thane, for the life of Dengar.”
The boy bowed again, his dark eyes haunted. “Dengar, family and sept Clemin, clan Bentara.” He nodded at the dark-haired woman. “This is my mother, Onara.”
Alcandhor met the mother’s eyes, hoping his words and tone were as kindly as they were firm. “You are not the petitioner or the accused, Onara. You may sit on the front bench.”
Onara hesitated, glancing at her son and Tonshill, before curtsying and returning to her seat.
Alcandhor let his gaze rest on Tonshill. “Your clan thane is not here, and you have no person knowledgeable of the law standing with you as advisor. Do you wish me to provide you with counsel before we continue?”
“No, Thane. I am advised I have no legal recourse. This is a petition of emotion.” She bowed her head. “I know it’s—it is very likely futile, but since the law does allow for a petition of emotion, I grasped it as our last hope.”
Alcandhor caught her correction of the contraction—was she trying to sound less like a commoner, thinking it would gain her footing? Stars. What do commoners think of us?
He tapped the sheaf of papers on the table. “I have read the account of the accident, the trial, and your petition. I forego the formality of reviewing the facts, but do wish to ask one question of you, Dengar.” He caught and held the boy’s eyes. “Why should I even consider any mercy toward you considering your past behavior?”
Dengar shook his head. “I don’t want mercy, Thane. My best friend is dead, by my hand. But I couldn’t say no when Tonshill—” He broke off, and looked at the floor. After a moment, he continued, “I don’t deserve mercy.”
Some few considered arbiters who had Enaisi blood, as Alcandhor did, to be cheating for being able to feel the emotions of others. Only his clan had the ability, and granted, it was limited, but still, as with all the Thanes before him, it did often give Alcandhor direction—as it did now. The boy’s grief was genuine and appeared to cut deep. The emptiness in his eyes mirrored what was in his heart.
Alcandhor pulled back and focused on the murdered boy’s mother, taking a breath to ease the painful emotions he had experienced. “Now to aim for the heart of the matter.” He folded his hands and leaned toward Tonshill. “Why do you beg for the life of the person who killed your son?”
Tears filled Tonshill’s eyes, and Alcandhor could sense her grief and desperation—echoing his own recent loss too deeply. No respite for him unless he blocked. He focused on the woman, not thoughts of his father in that cold crypt.
“Our families are neighbors,” Tonshill said. “Onara and I are like sisters, and our sons as siblings. We both lost our husbands young, and help each other to survive. It’s bad enough we lost my son Virnor, but to lose Dengar too—” She gasped to stop herself from bursting into tears.
Alcandhor bit his lip to keep himself composed. Feeling her raw emotions tore at his heart. She really loved this other woman’s son as her own. Amara flitted through his thoughts, the daughter of his heart, regardless… Love makes family. A revelation dawned on him. He took a breath, a scheme growing in his mind. All he knew of Clan Law and the Maker’s Law…he could think of nothing that barred him from this course. Dare he do this?
He cleared his throat and shook his head. “I can offer you no hope. The law is the law, and I cannot abrogate it. I brought you here to hear the judgment personally from me. You are owed that.”
Dengar trembled and put an arm around Tonshill’s shoulders. Onara covered her face, and Tonshill pressed her lips together, tears rolling down her cheeks, clinging to the boy.
Alcandhor met Dengar’s eyes. “The law states, ‘A life for a life.’ I must, by law, sentence you to death.” His finger pointed at the lad. “It shall be entered in your clan’s book of records that on this day, you died. From this time onward, you are dead to your family, sept, clan. Your life is forfeit—to replace the one you took. You are now of Tonshill’s family. You are her son, and owe your life, your breath, to her. You will work her land, be the hands of a son to her. Any children you sire will be counted as her family and clan’s.”
He paused, watching as comprehension lit their faces. “I have spoken.”
As he rose, he gauged the emotions of those in attendance. Some were stunned, others confused. His uncle Lamadhel puckered his lips, but his eyes shone with pride, and he gave a slight nod. Several of his detractors murmured among themselves, but the two spokesmen crossed the chamber toward him with purposeful strides, faces red.
He straightened, hoping he hid the fear in his heart with icy authority.
“Alcandhor, this is most inappropriate!” Sedhral spat.
“Are you mad?” shouted Fandhrel.
Alcandhor jabbed a finger at them. “Take care how you speak to your Thane,” he said, his voice low but deadly earnest.
Both Rangers halted in their protests, blinking.
“Your pardon, Thane,” Sedhral said, with a look on his face as if drinking sour wine. “But this is unprecedented.”
“And did not my father promote breaking precedents when they hobble us as one does a dray beast? Neither of you openly opposed his reformations when he lived, do you do so now when he lies in the crypt, unable to face you?”
Fandhrel stared at the floor, and Sedhral glared, his jaw muscles working.
“I—have—spoken,” Alcandhor repeated through gritted teeth. He nodded toward Lamadhel. “You are free to discuss the matter with our chief law keeper, but I fain wager you will not find a point in the law with which to call Question—on me, or my decision.”
Head high, he stared them down—as he had that day in the snow. They bowed, then slunk away.
Let them rail; he had not broken their laws, and more importantly, he had preserved life, and family. Perhaps…perhaps his father would be proud.
Copyright 2010 by L.S. King
L.S. King has racked up many credits since diving into writing full-time over a decade ago. To date, she has published one novel, Deuces Wild: Beginners’ Luck, as well as many short stories; authors a column for writers; teaches fiction writing online; has worked as a submissions editor and a copy editor on several magazines; and is managing editor of the online magazine, Ray Gun Revival. Her next novel, Deuces Wild: Stacking the Deck, is slated to be released in 2011.
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THE FLUTTERING FLIES
by Gary Raven
THE BRISTOL BUGLE
Local Lorry Driver Still Missing
Italian and British police are entering their third week of investigations into the disappearance of local lorry driver, Douglass Barnes. Barnes’ truck was found abandoned on a roadside in the northern Italian city of Ventimiglia on May 28th this year. A spokesman for the Italian police has told reporters that Barnes’ disappearance is not being treated as suspicious, but Superintendent John Aldridge—officer in charge of the British investigations into the case—has “not ruled out” foul play at this stage…
~*~
The images crept into Douglass’ view again as he sat in the optician’s waiting room. They were shapeless at first, nothing more than translucent specks floating around the periphery of his vision. He refused to focus on them, staring instead at the “This Season’s Colours” article in the six-month-old copy of Vogue draped across his lap. The specks multiplied and began to spill over the words, gathering a greenish hue as they tumbled off the page.
Douglass closed his eyes and watched the green blobs dance in the darkness as their shapes became more spherical beneath his eyelids. When he opened his eyes again, the blobs scattered in front of him, spre
ading into the room until they faded to invisibility. He waited a moment, staring straight ahead to see whether they would return. The woman in the yellow dress sitting opposite him returned his stare, and he quickly looked back down to his magazine as his cheeks flushed red.
“Douglass Barnes?” The optician’s voice sounded muffled by the dense air in the room.
Douglass dropped the magazine onto the coffee table in front of him and attempted a smile of acknowledgement. The optician beamed back, as though to show him how it was done, and then held open the door to the treatment room.
The room was small and gloomy. The optician took his seat behind an untidy desk and began thumbing through a brown cardboard folder. Four bright yellow orbs bloomed around his head. Douglass watched as their luminescence intensified and slowly began orbiting around the optician’s bald scalp.
“So, Douglass, we last saw you back in February according to your notes.”
“Yeah.”
“And from what my colleague has written here,”—the orbs were spinning faster, stretching into brilliant stars—“you were suffering with some blurred vision?”
Douglass pulled his stare away from the optician’s head to his white jacket. The name badge on the lapel read Dr. Guidon.
“Not really blurred vision—it’s more like shapes.” When Douglass looked back at Dr Guidon’s face, the orbs had disappeared.
“Okay. Can you describe what these shapes are like?”
“I don’t know. They’re different every time. Sometimes they’re just bits of colour I can see from the corner of my eye. Other times I can actually see objects.”
“Objects?”
A straight vertical line of purple flashed into existence on the desk between the two men, then disappeared just as quickly.
“The other day,” Douglass pulled nervously on the edge of his moustache as he began, “I was driving back from Dover along the M20. I got as far as the third junction, and then it started to happen again.” He paused as though he expected the optician to say something, but Dr. Guidon simply sat with his chin resting on his knuckles as six luminous orange tentacles grew from the right side of his coat.
“When it started, it was just patches of bright blue in the corner of my eyes, so I rubbed them, which sometimes helps, but that seemed to make the patches bigger this time. Eventually I could only see the road through these bright blue shapes. Every time I blinked, the shapes would dart a little to the left, and then settle back to their original position.”
Residential Aliens - Issue 4.11 Page 2
