Tranquility's Grief, Page 2

  Oh Apexia, sober me up.

  The wind let out a groan.

  Bethany scowled. Typical, Mother. Just typical.

  “She always cuts her hair like that in battle,” Drea said flatly.

  “That’s right. I’m a soldier. Long hair gets in the way.” Bethany jutted out her chin. She did give Lendra a small smile, though. “They don’t make helmets big enough to have a woman’s hair all curled and sculpted.”

  Lendra’s honest, lively giggle stabbed at Bethany. She had not heard true laughter in months. Drea, however, scowled. “Sarissa used to say it was because the human soldiers treated you differently when you looked like a woman.”

  Red hot rage boiled inside Bethany. Her heart thudded in her chest, but she managed to growl, “Leave her out of it.”

  “Um,” Lendra said, looking between her sisters. She turned to Drea and, in a low voice, said, “Kiner’s letter said we’re not supposed to talk about Sarissa.”

  “Who is Kiner to me?” Drea snapped, not bothering to reduce her volume like Lendra.

  “The man who risked his life to save yours!” Bethany roared. “If it wasn’t for him, you’d still be nothing but a dungeon whore!”

  She stepped forward, hand outstretched to grab Drea by the front of her cloak. Bethany froze. This was still her sister. She could not hurt her own sister.

  Except, if you’re angry. Except, if you need to.

  Bethany twitched and struggled to trample her mind’s voice into the dust. She took a steadying deep breath, blew it out, and started again. This time, her voice was lowered, if not less hard. “Don’t speak of her. Not when you look around and see what she’s done.”

  “I can say what I want,” Drea said, crossing her arms. “You are not my Lady Champion.”

  “Cassandrea, you will hold your tongue!” Aneese ordered.

  Drea glared at the old elf, but obeyed.

  Bethany turned and was surprised to see Aneese still behind her. She’d forgotten all about the old priestess. “You said Allric wanted to see me.” Then, she turned back to Drea long enough to say, “No, I’m not your Lady Champion. I’m just the person who risks her life to save ungrateful children.”

  ****

  In the pre-war days, Bethany would have charged into Allric’s study, slammed the door hard enough to make the hinges weep, and shouted until she got her own way.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t have a door these days. Or a study. He didn’t even have four real walls. Instead, tattered horse blankets hung from the stable rafters, providing the illusion of privacy. One wall consisted of stacked wooden boxes, taller than an elf stood.

  Lord Defender Allric, the highest ranking Knight in the Elven Service, controlled the world’s most powerful military from a stable.

  Bethany blew out a breath, a calming tick she’d picked up in her childhood after Jovan said it annoyed him. It was the little things in life that kept her sane.

  Allric looked up from his desk, piles of paperwork neatly stacked. “Morning, Bethany.”

  He didn’t smile at her the way he normally did. He did, however, glance at the elven stranger sitting across from his desk. At least she’d looked before yelling. She’d had enough embarrassment for the day. Being chased out of an outhouse by an aged elf hadn’t exactly started the day off on the right note. Bethany pushed the anger over her sisters aside long enough to see what was going on.

  Allric looked at his visitor, who made no attempt to move. Instead, the Lord Defender sighed and stood, motioning for Bethany to take his own seat. Normally, he wouldn’t have offered and she wouldn’t have accepted, but the sloshing liquor was playing tricks with the lantern lighting. She needed to sit before she face-planted on the dirt floor.

  Allric was huge, even by elven standards. The man was built like an oak tree, the massive old ones used for shipbuilding. Bethany was tall, and Allric loomed a full hand’s length taller yet, and was twice as broad as her lean figure. He’d been on duty the night the attack happened; he was one of the very few who still possessed his original Silver Knight armor. Though most of it hung from its cross-stand behind his desk, he was still imposing. His single Blessed Blade, nearly twice as long as her own pair that sat on her back, rested across his desk in its scabbard within easy reach. None of them were more than a step away from their weapons.

  Bethany thanked him and sank onto the hard chair. To focus on something besides her stomach, she glanced up at Allric, taking in his shadowed eyes and hollow cheeks. He’d also been growing out his beard.

  “You really need to scrape off that chin moss,” she said, forcing a smile as she sat. “You look like an old tree.”

  The elven stranger cleared his throat and gave Allric a reproachful look. Bethany ignored him. She was third in the command of the Elven Service; whoever he was, he was beneath her.

  “Aneese said there’s a meeting going on in here.”

  Just as she spoke, Aneese entered the room with Torius, the High Priest of the faith. He was around Aneese’s age, give or take five decades.

  Bethany jumped to her feet too quickly, and the rafters above her tipped and weaved. She swallowed down the rising bile. “Torius, have my seat.”

  “Thank you, child,” he said and gave her a weary, but wide smile.

  Bethany stared at the stranger, who busied himself picking dirt from under his fingernails. He looked average for an elf; lean, tall, pointy-eared with lobes attached to his jawline, as opposed to dangling. The usual. He was tanned and his armor gleamed as though he took a brush to each of the rings of mail. Even his white tabard shone.

  Then she noticed the Blessed Blade across his lap, the lilac emblem engraved into the hilt by Apexia herself.

  “You, Knight! Up. Have respect for the right-hand of the Apexian Faith.”

  He scowled. “Lady Bethany, kindly control your tone while speaking to me.”

  This time, it was Allric who cleared his throat. “Jud, Mother Aneese was injured in the attack and the healers cannot fix all of the damage. Please,” he said, motioning for him to rise.

  Jud stood and offered his seat to Aneese, who frowned at him.

  “It is a sad state of affairs when Lady Bethany is more mannerly than those around her,” Aneese said after collapsing into the wicker chair. It creaked under her weight.

  “Jud,” Bethany said, her arms crossed. “Captain of the Wyllow guard, correct?”

  He inclined his head.

  Bethany grunted and leaned against the stack of wooden crates pretending to be a wall. Most were labeled “Allric” or “Knights”. The crate nearest her head was labeled with the name of a dead knight.

  “Can anyone tell me why I’m awake before dawn?”

  A wide grin formed on Bethany’s face and she turned to the blanket-door to see Jovan enter. He returned her smile and said, “Apexia’s whoring ass, it’s early.”

  Jud bristled. Bethany disguised her laughter as a cough, which turned into a real cough, followed by gagging on the bile that rose in her throat.

  I solemnly promise to give up the bottle.

  Jovan sauntered into the room and leaned against a wooden post. He sported loose, worn leather trousers and a mail tunic covered by a leather vest. The one thing Bethany was thankful for was that Jovan’s beaded, garish outfits were under half a mountain’s worth of rubble. He had to dress like a normal person now.

  “Jud,” Jovan said, his tone turning cold.

  “Lord Jovan, it is a pleasure to see you again.”

  “Not really,” Jovan replied and turned to Allric. “Why am I out of bed?”

  Allric opened his mouth but Jud cut him off. “I’m here to relieve Lord Allric of his command.”

  Chapter Two

  The loving embrace of peace will be forgotten. There will be neither peace nor comfort. The world will know only war.

  -Aleu’s “The Agony of the Diamond”

  Arrago stared at the opened financial ledger taking up a substantial amount of his wooden desk. What
in Apexia’s sacred name had his patron been thinking? How in Her kind and holy name would Beachcomber Manor recover financially from the latest royal visit? If any more members of Taftlin’s royalty descended upon them for tea and a week of lodgings, his patron’s family would be eating bread soup for the next decade.

  8 swine, including butchering costs - 2 gold, 60 silver, 4 copper

  Arrago ran his left hand through his hair, while marking an X next to the swine costs, noting that they were correct.

  25 pigeons - 3 silver, 1 copper

  1 barrel (small) elven black walnuts - 14 gold, 45 copper

  Another X confirmed the costs. Arrago ran through mental calculations to reduce household expenditures to buffer the cost of hosting Her Grace Celeste Clover, favorite niece of the late King Richard himself. For such a thin woman, she certainly demanded an excessive amount of food—none of which she ate and all of which was out of season. Perhaps that was how she stayed so thin: insisting upon being server food she hated.

  3 standard barrels (oak) Spring Wine - 15 gold, 3 silver

  Why would anyone expect Spring Wine to be available in the early autumn? Just because the snow and cold was late arriving didn’t mean it wasn’t going to come. Spring Wine is only ever made in the spring. Stupid woman. He’d managed to find the wine at a southern monastery and paid a pretty premium for it, too.

  Idiot duchess.

  On the list went. Three pages as long as his arm detailed the expenses of the six day visit of Her Grace and her thirty-member entourage. The total damage done to Sir Eli’s coffers? One hundred forty-seven gold, two silver, and ninety-six copper.

  Arrago put the quill in its place and leaned back in his chair. As assistant steward to his good friend’s father, Arrago had a responsibility to control spending to ensure that Sir Eli Greyfeather departed the world richer than he’d entered it. Arrago had only been in the position for two months and already he feared dismissal due to poor service.

  If only he still had all of his gambling winnings. He could have bought himself a farm, and lived in obscurity. Less stress. Of course, most of his money was buried under a crumbled temple, covered in rubble and the bodies…Arrago shook his head. He needed to get a handle of those memories. He had to live in the present. Reliving the past would not make those images disappear from his mind.

  A woman, comfortably plump in her old age, entered the study. Her oversized skirts swept across the floor when she curtsied, creating a puddle of grey fabric. “Sorry to disturb, but Sir Eli has been looking for you. May I tell him you are in the study?”

  “Of course, Miss...” Arrago’s voiced trailed off, trying to remember the servant’s name. Beachcomber Manor had over seventy permanent servants for the house alone. “I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “Hannah Storm, Sir,” she said with another curtsey.

  “Right,” he said, “Miss Hannah. Please let him know I’m working on the accounts.”

  After another genteel curtsey, she disappeared back through the opened door, her skirts swishing as she walked. Arrago wondered how anyone could work in that get-up.

  Bethany’s grey outfits were far more sensible.

  Arrago cursed. The sooner he forgot about her, the better. Work. He needed to work.

  He turned back to the ledger, confirming and double checking costs. If Her Grace had thought to provide even a week’s notice, he could have reduced the impact by at least fifteen gold - his annual income!

  Arrago gritted his teeth. He retrieved a sheet of writing paper from the top drawer of his desk and began scribbling down means of economy. Sir Eli, of course, would never directly agree to any such ideas of reduction; a man of his stature did not stress himself with such worries. Neither did a full steward. However, an assistant steward did worry about those things. Perhaps if Arrago could introduce some modest changes, Sir Eli would be pleased enough to keep Arrago employed.

  Arrago scratched out a number of minor adjustments to their daily menus, adding more pheasant and smoked fish to their diet. He’d speak to Cook about it later. That tip alone would save several silver pieces over the course of a week.

  Bethany would have laughed at his fretting and frugality.

  He closed his eyes. Absence had not dulled his love for the most unattainable woman in creation. Instead, time took his affection and massaged it, making it linger, grow, morph. He couldn’t even close his eyes without seeing her red hair, wicked smile, long legs draped over his body...

  “Apexia’s tits, Arrago! You’re dripping ink all over my ledger!”

  The deep voice snapped him awake. Arrago grabbed the pounce shaker to soak up the excess ink. A short, stout man darkened his doorway.

  “I apologize, Sir Eli. I was lost in thought.”

  His patron smiled, then let out a hearty, jolly laugh. “You’ve been lost in thought ever since you arrived. I’d have wagered traveling with my scoundrel of a son would have cured anyone of thinking.”

  Arrago forced out a small chuckle. No one had mentioned Bethany since he’d arrived back home in Taftlin. Even Sir Eli’s youngest son, Edmund, who had become his close friend during training at the temple, never brought up her name. Arrago assumed it was because no one knew what to say. They’d be right. The woman he loved had turned out to be the daughter of Apexia herself. He’d defiled a sacred gift of the Gentle Goddess with his base needs.

  In the face of that, what was left to say? He deserved eternal separation from Her loving embrace. One day, perhaps, he could atone for his transgressions.

  “What’s this, boy?” Sir Eli snatched the sheet of paper. “No beef except on Tuesdays? Reduce the amount of white flour used in the kitchen by a quarter!” Sir Eli gasped. “Only purchase local beer and not Butcher Pass brandy?”

  Arrago flushed. “We need to economize after Her Grace’s visit.”

  “How bad is it?” Sir Eli asked, his voice hushed.

  Arrago gulped. “The visit cost you over one hundred and thirty-seven gold, Sir,” he scrambled to add, “but I will economize.”

  Sir Eli’s eyes widened. “That’s it?”

  “Huh?”

  “Apexia’s farting ass, well done!” Sir Eli slammed his fist triumphantly on the desk’s corner edge. Arrago flinched, both at the bang and the oath. “Her Grace’s last visit cost me nearly three hundred gold and she was only here for two days. How much am I paying you again?”

  “Fifteen gold annually, Sir,” Arrago stammered, perplexed by his patron’s exuberance. Also, what kind of idiot assistant steward would spend three hundred gold for a two-day visit? “Lodgings kindly included.”

  “Double it! Mark it in the ledger and give yourself an advance. There is hope for you yet, my boy.”

  Arrago stared at his patron. “Sir?”

  Sir Eli slowed his words, as one would speak to a toddler. “You saved me a fortune, boy. I’m rewarding you. Now, you can do your economizing if you insist, but no one is touching my brandy and I insist on beef twice a week.” He sighed. “I’ll consent to salt beef in the off-season,” he added in a painful tone, as though Arrago had asked him to donate his entire fortune to the Sisters of Apexia. “Not when we have company, though.”

  The sinking feeling lifted from Arrago and relief made him light-headed. He’d done things right after all. “Yes, Sir.”

  A timid knock on the door drew their attention. A middle-aged woman, her tanned face etched in worry stood wringing her hands. “Sir Eli, the king’s men are outside. They request an audience with Mr. Arrago.”

  The eggs from breakfast churned in Arrago’s stomach. He knew why they were here and his only surprise was it had taken so long. He shot Sir Eli a worried glance.

  The servant cleared her throat and looked at Arrago, her face drained of color. “They are armed, Sir.”

  ****

  Arrago excused himself from Sir Eli and followed the servant out of the room and into the corridor. His mind raced through a dozen harmless reasons why the local mili
tia would be keen on speaking to him. A misunderstanding or mistaken identity. Maybe King Daniel was sending Sir Eli a message concerning court business and they were delivering it to him, a servant and assistant steward. Perhaps they wanted to ensure Arrago wasn’t a spy for the elves and came to issue him a warning.

  They were here because of the war.

  Arrago’s limbs turned to pudding, but he kept his head high and forced his legs to march toward the front door.

  “Arrago, wait,” Sir Eli called out behind him. Boots clumped against the wooden floor. Arrago paused to let his patron catch up. “Son, you have the longest stride of any man I’ve met. You’re not part elf, now, are you?”

  Arrago resumed walking in slower steps, even if he wanted to run as part away as his legs could take him. “I only carry their name.” He failed to smile. He was never any good at making jokes in the fray. Jovan could. Kiner could.

  Bethany could.

  In silence, patron and servant made their way through the winding corridors, dark and bleak in this part of the house. Arrago eyed the rich tapestries and foul tallow candles burning in their wall sconces as they approached the front entrance. They reminded him of his time at the temple. A sinking feeling in his gut hinted that the Temple of Tranquil Mercies and that world he’d left behind was the reason the soldiers were here.

  “I’m sure it will be fine,” Arrago said, more for his own comfort than for Sir Eli’s.

  Sir Eli, however, grunted disapprovingly. “Whenever the king’s men show up at a noble’s house, things will not be fine.” He stopped to speak with one of the ink servants, whose job was to stand in hallways with a platter of ink, quill, pounce, and paper—just in case someone needed to make a note and couldn’t rely on their memory to make it back to a study. Opulence.

  Arrago kept walking, but moments later, his patron jogged to catch up, followed by the clatter of silver and footsteps. Arrago looked over his shoulder. The corridor servants deposited their writing platters on chairs, tables, and even the floor and were rushing to join him. He stared at them in confusion, then back at Sir Eli. “Sir, I –”