Self-Made Scoundrel (9 page)

Cira was praying in the pew, her hands over her heart, head bowed. Dershik walked as quietly as he could, running his hand over the smooth wood of the benches. He sat down beside her on the bench, the pew creaking in a familiar way. Her eyes fluttered open and she let her hands drop as she looked toward him.

“I’d say I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m not,” he said. Dershik smiled wolfishly at her and she rolled her eyes eyes, rising from her seat. “What were you praying for?” he asked. His hand draped across the back of the bench, one leg crossed over a knee.

“I was praying for myself, actually,” she said, folding her hands in front of her. Her long robes dragged along the floor but never seemed to get dirty. Maybe because they were grey. He thought about what it implied, the larger connotations of the grey garb and the priestesses. His own brother wore family colors under his priestly robes. He wondered what Cira wore.

“I thought I might do the same,” he said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small blue coin. “Would you please get out the devotional incense?” He stood and placed the coin on the altar, the sound muffled against the fabric covering the sacred space.

Cira turned to go but she stopped. “Which incense would be appropriate for your devotion?” she asked. She stepped behind the altar and lifted up the altar cloth hiding the tools they used for services. The chalice still sat on the altar, alabaster white with the whirls and designs accented with gold paint. How many times had he dipped his fingers into this chalice?

“I think I could use some encouragement right now.” He left it at that. Cira just eyed him before she pulled out a box and opened it with a key she wore tied to her wrist, pulling out the lamp and the small vial of the appropriate oil. She poured a few drops before she put the lamp on a stand, lighting it with a match. The oil in the lamp burned and the scent of rich woods and night blooming flowers wafted through the temple.

Dershik thought of the dagger in his boot, the lamp oil in the stable, the hollow under the tree. The hole he would leave when he was gone, that he hoped Ceric would be able to fill. Even if his brother wasn’t the Baron, he could still be with Jerila. And with Dershik gone, would his father’s plan to usurp the Church and become a king hold? It was an act of defiance against his father, leaving, the only one that would stick. Dershik’s protests were worthless to his father. The idea of killing a man rose in his mind and the scent of the devotional incense seemed too heavy in his nose, almost suffocating. Would Fil be missed? They would assume Fil killed him, wouldn’t they? In a drunken rage, if it made any difference. They’d bury Fil’s body in Derk’s grave, beside his mother. He wondered if his father would cry at his wake or if he would immediately start making new plans.

“Do you need prayer, Dershik?” Cira asked finally, interrupting his dark thoughts. Dershik jerked his head toward her before staring back at the floor, shaking his head.

“No,” he sighed. He put his hands on his thighs and stood up, walking over to her. Dershik took both her hands in his, their eyes meeting. His heart thumped in his chest but when he leaned over, he kissed her on the cheek. It was a kiss full of restraint. His mouth lingered on the side of her face and when he pulled his lips off of her skin, he rested his forehead on her temple, smelling the unique scent of her skin and hair, feeling her hands gripping his.

Then she kissed him on the mouth. Dershik pulled away from her but still held her hands in his, not sure if he should let go. He looked toward the door and then back to her, biting his bottom lip in anticipation. The look on her face told him she wanted more than a kiss. Dershik remembered the night in his room when he had chased her away, too drunk to make good decisions. He was sober now and tomorrow, he would be gone. Would sleeping with Cira make leaving more difficult or easier? They both looked to the door, not surprised to find they were still alone. Dershik took her in his arms and kissed her, letting her pull him out of the temple through the side door. They walked through the shadow of the keep, the sun already setting. Cira led him into her room and locked the door behind him, throwing him down onto the bed.

When they were done, Dershik watched as she dressed quickly, pulling on her skirts and robes over her pale skin. She had a birthmark on her stomach he had never seen before, and he sat up in her bed, realizing he’d probably never see it again. Not unless he came back to her room before tomorrow night. Cira smiled at him as she plaited her thick, dark hair with long, slender fingers. Before he got too comfortable in the bed he was up, looking for his clothes.

As he walked back to the keep he thought not about Cira but tomorrow night and what he would have to do. A part of him wondered if having Cira would make life more bearable at the keep, and what it would mean for Jerila. Priestesses were allowed to take as lovers whomever they wished and did occasionally marry but he and Cira could obviously never be. And when his father found out, he would send Cira away sooner rather than later.

Dershik knew what he wanted. He had to put all this behind him and move forward. But first, there would have to be blood. Blood and fire.

Dershik sat in the abandoned stable, holding his breath. Fil sat across from him, eyes barely open. The cards were strewn on straw-littered ground and the pitcher of spirits he had brought was empty. The lamp gave off a feeble light, low and hidden behind a barrel. Fil had come easily enough, already in his cups when Dershik had put the question to him and offering something he didn’t think Fil would refuse. He’d brought up a bottle of ten year old barley wine from the stores, an excellent vintage noted for being subtle with its fruit and smooth in the mouth. It probably helped Dershik drugged it with a sleeping aid given to him by the midwife to help him through the night and through Deril’s evening wakings. Dershik preferred to walk off his anxiety and so he mixed the herbs into the wine. It was a waste of the wine. Fil had drank all of it.

The man leaned in his chair, his eyes rolling back in his head before he keeled over, too drunk and drugged to stay upright. He landed on the floor with a thump that seemed too loud and Dershik waited to see if he had roused him. Instead a low snore emitted from the man’s nose, his mouth open.

Dershik had to kill him. This was the body which would be buried in his grave, the body his family would mourn and watch over till the next new moon. But he couldn’t burn him alive. Dershik took up a rock in his hand and stood over the man, as if waiting for him to wake up and fight back or at least scream. But his eyes were closed. Maybe he had broken his neck falling off the stool. Dershik shook his head and brought his hand to his hair, pulling at it. He snored. Fil was alive.

The rock was large and bulky but he wrapped his hand around it and knelt at Fil’s side. His mouth was dry as parchment, and sweat popped on his forehead, despite the coolness of the night. Fil just lay there, unmoving except for his chest. Dershik couldn’t help but reach out with his free hand and poke him, to see if he could get a reaction. The man just breathed. Dershik licked his lips and moved Fil’s head so it lay against the ground, giving him a clear shot at his temple.

Dershik grit his teeth and held in a scream as he brought the rock down on the man’s head, feeling the bones give way under the force. He lifted the rock again. Blood and something else dripped from it and he bashed the man’s head in again. The bones of Fil’s face buckled and folded into something unrecognizable. Dershik let the stone drop from his hand and he fell back. His stomach heaved and he vomited on the floor, adrenaline and disgust emptying his stomach. He couldn’t believe he had done it. But he had. His father had struck down a peasant for speaking out against him and what had Fil done?

Dershik wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He hated himself. What he had done? He was worse than his father. His father had at least had a reason for striking the farmer down years ago and the man probably survived. Fil…he couldn’t look at him but he forced himself. His plan was unfolding and he had to follow it through.

First he exchanged their boots and belts. The fabric would probably burn but he wasn’t sure if the metal would and Dershik’s boots always had buckles, his belt pressed with the house standard. He cringed as he put on Fil’s boots, old things which didn’t fit and were wet and warm inside. Dershik pulled his rings off and put them on Fil’s fingers, removing the chain Jerila had given him on their wedding day and fastened it around Fil’s neck. As he did, the misshapen eyes of the man seemed to stare at him and blood pooled on the floor, crawling toward him. Dershik took a step back and forced himself to look at the man who was taking his place, who would take the seeds out of his father’s soil. Who would help Ceric and Jerila be together. He retrieved the lamp oil.

He poured the lamp oil all over the body, putting a few handfuls of straw on the face so something would burn there. Hay was stacked on one side of the body so anyone at the keep wouldn’t see the light and come inspect too soon, before the body had properly burned. How long did it take a body to burn? He had heard about barns burning and homes burning. Animals escaping but screaming in pain as chunks of their flesh sloughed off, gnarled, blackened bodies unidentifiable. At least Fil was dead. He had killed him. Dershik poured the last of the lamp oil on hay stacked against a wall and picked up the lamp, catching a handful of hay on fire. It licked at his hand and he threw it on the body, smacking his hand against his leg to make sure his own skin wasn’t on fire.

The small tongues of fire took to the lamp oil and became hungry mouths, catching the clothes and floor on fire. Fil’s face burned, the hair catching first and Dershik watched, partially to make sure the body was burning and partially out of a morbid fascination. Dershik took apart another bale of hay, tipping it into the flames to fuel its burn. Smoke started to fill the barn, black and thick. Dershik coughed, looking around to find the door. He panicked as he spun around, trying to orient himself in the smoke but then remembered the barrel hiding the lamp light had been across from the door and he ran toward it.

Dershik fled from the barn toward the riding trail, the stream, and then the tree. The moon was a sliver tonight, like a bowl in the sky and the smoke from the barn barely showed against the dark night. The walls of the barn hid most of the light, giving him time to escape. Dershik ran, the boots ill fitting and his heart racing but still he found his way.

The hollow of the tree held his now meager belongings. He changed his boots and wondered what he to do with the dead man’s, deciding to carry them for a spell and leave them in the forest somewhere. He changed his shirt and rolled it up, throwing it in his pack before he slung it over his shoulder, making sure his lucky dagger was in its hilt before he looked back at the keep and the barn.

The barn was aflame now and he heard bells in the keep. The fire had been seen. Everyone was awake now, he was sure, required to safely abandon whatever they were doing in order to combat the fire. They would wet the grass around the barn, remove debris and try to keep the fire contained to the stables. The fire would just have to consume itself and they would try to mitigate the damage. It was far enough away from the keep to not put the main building in jeopardy.

Dershik took one last look, wondering where the people he loved were during all this. Ceric was in Whitfield. Cira was probably leading a prayer with Kiyla, for mercy. His father was probably trying to run the count, trying to account for everyone in the household. Dershik would be missing. Fil would be as well. He had to get gone. Taking one last look at the flames, he turned and ran down the path, not able to keep a triumphant grin from breaking across his smoke stained face. He had done it. He was free from the life of Dershik, son of Darix Cartaskin. He was Derk now. Despite the dark, he ran, the light from the Goddess enough for him to safely maneuver away from this life and into the next.

A Contract of Devotion

“Then, she turns to me and says I owe her five blueies!” Derk set his tankard down on the bar top with a thump, the foam leaping out of cup and spilling onto the wooden surface. “If I’d known she was still filling her purse, I’da left her on the street corner, I would’ve.” He shook his head and took in a deep breath, trying to ignore the laughter coming from the woman sitting beside him. Its volume and intensity hinted she wouldn’t be done laughing soon and Derk felt a hand come down on his shoulder as she steadied herself on her stool. If it wasn’t such a pleasant sound, he could have stayed angrier longer, but Celeel had an annoying way of putting people in good spirits just by being in their presence. He took a gulp of his beer, waiting for her to finish laughing, running a hand over his stubbled cheek. He needed a shave sooner than later. Did he still have his razor?

“I say, for someone who swims with fish, you come up for air quite often,” she said, wrapping her fingers around her cup, still giggling at his story. She drank the same thing as Derk, just a smaller serving. Celeel wasn’t a bad looking woman. She was more pretty than beautiful. Her long, brown curly hair framed her heart shaped face and hung down to her waist. Her hazel eyes glittered merrily when she was in good spirits, which was most of the time. The terrible scar on her leg didn’t put him off either.

What made Derk stick by Old Gam wasn’t her looks, which were fair, but her wits. She was smart and funny and conversed with him, even argued. They met at a dance where she had stolen his purse. He stole it back and threatened to call the the brown cloaks after pretending to find it missing. She primly replied it was in his possession and therefore there was nothing he could accuse her of as he had no proof. He introduced himself to her as Derk and she had hesitated before introducing herself as Celeel, but more often called Old Gam. She added with a smirk, if he was lucky, he’d find out why. She could turn a phrase and knew a hundred sayings he never heard before, most of which he didn’t understand. He caught the meaning of this one though. Derk glared at her, eyes glinting with annoyance. She was unfazed and took a drink before speaking to him again.