Darkness Falling: Soldiers and Slaves (12 page)

“It is not what I had envisioned for the Empire,” Garinsith agreed in his roundabout way, already engrossed in the pages of the file.

Lethel sighed. “I doubt he's the Counter Balance. These Dreave can barely even swat a fly. They don't even try to resist having their mind's turned.”

“Being the Counter Balance is not about raw power,” Garinsith said quietly. “If it were, Kevie or Tyn could be the Counter Balance. You could be the Balance,” the Master Keeper paused, “but you are far too cruel.”

“Kindness makes you weak,” Lethel scoffed.

“Perhaps, but it is a quality that Syerset has always demanded in the Chosen.” Garinsith frowned.

She sighed, it didn’t make sense to her how an inanimate object could demand anything. Ancient artifacts were not her area of expertise, however; and Garinsith had been studying the mysterious talisman since his youth. Lethel did not understand his obsession with the thing. He was powerful in his own right. There should be no need for trinkets to bolster his strength. Sometimes she feared his obsession with the thing bordered on madness.

“Ah,” Garinsith's voice rose in surprise. “This is most intriguing.” Lethel raised an eyebrow. “Brosen was born in the early spring of 1027,” Garinsith continued, “a mere eight months after I was banished form Sa'Toret-Ekar. That alone would be coincidental. However, his mother's name is Lasha,” Garinsith pointed at the page. “His father is listed as Norsten,” he continued.

“So what?” Lethel frowned.

“I know for a fact that Norsten was killed in battle with the Tiffaran's early in the spring of 1026, it is impossible for him to have fathered a child to have been born the following spring.”

Lethel was skeptical. “How can you remember the death of one Enforcer in the middle of a war? That was over twenty years ago.”

“Very true, I wouldn't remember him except that I was acquainted with Lasha,” Garinsith smiled.

“Don't tell me you're Brosen's father,” Lethel groaned.

“No,” Garinsith shook his head slowly, “But I may know who could be his father.” He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. “In those days my cousin Fredrick acted as my assistant. He was quite taken with the young Dreave woman.”

“Winifred's brother?” Lethel sucked in her breath.

Garinsith nodded, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Along with Dreger telling me that Brosen was atypical in his strengths that would be a reasonable explanation.”

Lethel was skeptical. “Isn’t it possible she was matched with another Enforcer around the same time?”

“Perhaps,” Garinsith shrugged. “Fredrick would have mentioned it. He was attempting to convince Ka Elta to allow him to purchase her from the Empire.” That bolstered the theory.

The idea of being raised in the Enforcer army with atypical skill turned her stomach. “Do you think he's aware that he's different?” She asked.

“Possibly,” Garinsith stood and paced the room. “It does give plausibility to him being the Counter Balance, so long as his soul resonates at the correct frequency.”

The door of the room opened and Tyn entered, seating himself in a chair across from Lethel. She could see in his eyes that he was tired from his journey. The energy within the city was not rejuvenating, making it difficult to work magic for long without fatigue.

“Did you learn anything?” Garinsith asked.

“Winifred had a hospital of sorts set up in South Gate, and she wrapped it in a strong ward. She's heading south as far as I could tell, as you predicted.” Tyn shrugged.

Garinsith slowly turned toward his lieutenant, intrigued. “A hospital,” he shook his head, a small chuckle escaping him. “She always had a bleeding heart.”

Tyn continued his report. “The escaped Enforcer's energy was all over the place, too. He must have gone there often.” He paused. “The girl had been there, too. Her imprint is even stronger than Winifred's but it was pretty clear she wasn't there for long.”

Lethel was surprised by this information. “Do you think Winifred knows Brosen might be her nephew?” She asked.

“That is an interesting question,” Garinsith frowned. “I don't believe Fredrick knows he fathered a child from his tryst. I doubt he would have gone peacefully without Lasha were that the case.”

Fredrick had abandoned Garinsith early after the start of the Mutilator project. Lethel had vague memories of him from her childhood. The Master Keeper never shared the secret of why the separation occurred. Lethel believed it was a rare instance where Garinsith felt true sorrow.

“Winifred must have seen her potential,” Tyn said. “But they did not leave together. I don't know why she would have let her go.”

Garinsith sighed. “Winifred believes in minimal interference. We should offer our help and support but not be the driving force that shapes the world’s history. She never agreed with my designs for the Ekar.”

“There's also a sword down in the Gallery that may be worth looking at,” Tyn continued. “I know you wanted a weapon with potential.”

“White Energy guns will not be effective to deal with the girl. Besides, the little prince might prove useful if we make him feel special. Retrieve the blade while everyone is preoccupied with the celebration tonight.” Garinsith ordered.

“Yes, sir,” Tyn smiled. If there was one thing he enjoyed, it was magical toys.

The Master Keeper caught Lethel's eye and gave her a reassuring look. “You’ve done well,” he smiled. She felt pride bubble to the surface, drinking in his approval. “I do believe we will be departing from this tedious place very soon.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

The clock on the low Tower of Ro'Awnor-Clee chimed the hour. Standing at the bottom of the gangplank that led up to 
The Water Skipper
; Sheyra was sad that her friends were leaving, but she also knew they wouldn't be convinced to stay.

“Thanks for your help,” Brosen rubbed the back of his neck. “Try not to get killed if a war starts.”

Sheyra leapt forward and hugged him. “That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me,” she said, fighting back tears. “You need to stay alive, too. Maybe we'll meet again when the Empire is free.”

Brosen patted her arm awkwardly, “Yeah, maybe.”

Sheyra turned to Impyra, who tensed instinctively in preparation for an embrace.

“I'm sorry,” the words came out before Sheyra could pounce. “It's my fault you lost your home and I want you to know that I didn't mean for it to happen.”

Sheyra took her by the shoulders and looked deep into her eyes. “Remember this: it's not your fault.” She pulled her forward into a hug. “If you ever want to fight back I'll be watching for you.” After a moment she released her, and Impyra stepped back toward the ship.

Impyra waved one last time and followed Brosen up to the deck. Captain Dei'Brenen stood at the top eyeing them suspiciously. Sheyra watched as they were lead away by a hulking bald man and vanished from view. Although she had only known them a few days she suddenly felt very alone.

Sitting on the hood of the car, Sheyra waited until the ship pulled away from the pier and chugged its way out into the harbor. The wind lifted her hair. It was colder than it had been only a few minutes before, motivating her to return to the car and being her search for a likely place to hear rumors.

Her plan was simple. Exaggerated information was usually derived from a single fact, which would lead her into the arms of the establishing army. The only difficult part would be discovering what was false, and what was not. It may take some time, but she believed she was capable of discovering the truth within the lies.

A few blocks from the pier she spotted a tavern, The Seafarer's Lodge. Knowing that those who drink also like to talk, Sheyra parked her vehicle and went inside.

The tavern was both familiar and completely different from where she had grown up. On the outside the building was neglected. The concrete walls had been white at one time but the paint was chipping away. The wooden sign above the door was warped by the sea air. A broken window hastily taped back together was shaded by an awning full of holes, and the entry was poorly shielded by a battered aluminum screen door that screeched on its hinges.

The inside was worse. A combined odor of ale, stew, and urine greeted her. The floor looked as if it hadn't been moped and a layer of brown filth coated the tile. There was a collection of tables at the center of the room, all in varying states of disrepair. On the far wall a neon sign flickered; a happy man with a bottle of ale. Sheyra thought she saw a rat race across the floor as the screen door banged shut.

At the bar stood four mismatched stools, one of which was too short, but the bar itself was clean. A small screen sat above the bar, the color was faded and the volume turned down, the news was showing Empire Tower and images of Princess Gleyth. She was glad it wasn't a story about her friends.

The patrons of The Seafarer's Lodge were as she expected; five ruff men hunched around a table, half empty pints in their hands. They were reminiscent of the crew on 
The Water Skipper, 
most likely they were a crew on leave for the night. They watched her walk past with a glitter in their eyes that she knew too well. One of them muttered something foul to his fellow, guttural laughter bubbled through their ranks. She pretended not to notice as she approached the bar, behind which stood a balding man cleaning glasses.

He eyed her cautiously with the “trust no one” look that she had given all of her customers. “A bit early t'be prowling fer customers,” the man said as he set down the glass.

Sheyra noticed the faded tattoo of a snake wrapped around his left wrist. For a moment she was reminded of Brosen and Impyra. In the rare instances when a slave was granted freedom they often put ink over the ownership marks.

“I’m not that kind of girl,” she said, trying not to take offense. “I'd like a drink, barman.” She wouldn't be intimidated by anyone.

The men in the corner snickered to each other, content to stare at what had walked through the door. “Right, all we’ve got is ale,” he said, and poured her a glass.

She balanced herself on a precariously teetering stool.

The workday would be ending soon, bringing more customers into the tavern. That would increase her chance to overhear something worthwhile.

“You’re new in town,” the barman said as he picked up another glass to clean. “If you weren’t you wouldn’t be here right now.”

“Why is that?”

His eyes darted toward the sailors, “They’re pretty drunk, you see. And things get pretty ugly in here sometimes.”

Sheyra smiled, lifting the glass to her lips. She was surprised; the ale was cold and smooth. “It takes more than five sailors to worry me. Besides, I’m waiting for someone.”

He nodded. For a long time, he inspected his work on the glass, then slowly set it down.

“Anyone form 'round here? I’ve lived here fer several years now.” 

Unwilling to give up too much information Sheyra merely shrugged. “I’d rather wait, if you don’t mind.” She took another drink.

Just then, four more ugly men entered the bar.

“A round of the best!” one of them shouted to the barman as they took residence at an empty table.

“Bring us food!” shouted another, which was met by cheers from his mates.

The barman looked displeased by this new group. He rang a small bell under the bar twice before pouring four pints and carrying them to the table. Sheyra observed them from the corner of her eye, pretending to watch the screen. The group was jubilant, but their attitude was irritating to the previous group. Sheyra was starting to think this might not be the right place after all.

A young girl of about fourteen years appeared from behind the curtain, carrying a tray with four steaming bowls of stew. She made her way cautiously across the tile floor, the tray threatening to tip with every step. Sheyra was reminded of herself and smiled sadly.

“Food! Food! Food!” The men began to chant, banging their fists on the table. Ale sloshed from their glasses.

The girl's face twisted anxiously as she drew closer. The longer Sheyra watched her the more the scene changed. The girl's dress was faded and stained. She wasn't wearing shoes. Her hair was stringy and her skin ashen. Dark circles shadowed her brown eyes.

Unable to balance the tray and serve the food, the men reached over to grab the bowls themselves as she walked around the table. One of the men reached out to tug at the hem of her dress.

“Keep yer hand off my girl!” the barman growled, and the men sat back in their seats, their boisterous behavior silenced. The girl scurried back to the safety of the kitchen.

Sheyra glanced at the barman, who was staring stone faced at the table. He looked at her, then leaned forward and said in a low voice, “Ever since she started showin’ signs o'womanhood, the sailors started lookin' her over.”

Sheyra frowned. He was big, but his girth was the effect of being tall and broad. He was gaunt and also appeared unwell. One man was enough to silence them when they were sober, but a small army of angry drunkards was something else. How long would it be before he couldn't protect the girl or himself?

“This is not good, barman,” Sheyra said, keeping her voice low.

“I know,” he said, his eyes distant. “I'd go into the kitchen and bring the tray myself, but if I leave post the men start fights, steal ale, and break up all our good glasses.”

“There is no need to explain,” she said, knowing full well what was expected of an innkeeper’s daughter.

“Things were better before the plague. It took my wife and our two older girls. Lineya almost died as well. Thankfully the vaccine,” his voice trembled, nodding toward the kitchen. “I spent every last credit I had on medicine, but it wasn't enough. I had t'get a loan. We're working here t'pay it off.”

Sheyra nodded. “I lost my father, two weeks before they announced the vaccine was found,” she said. “Then I lost our tavern only a few days ago.”

She wouldn't elaborate and she didn't have to. It didn't matter that her home was destroyed rather than lost to debt. The shared experience pressed his willingness to talk.

“I’m starting t'be afraid for my little girl. The man who owns the place has been making mention that Lineya could earn more money if she would...” he paused, swallowing hard. His face darkened as he glanced at the filthy patrons. “I won’t allow it, but I’m terrified that it won’t matter what I think for much longer.”

Sheyra understood. The girl was in no condition to run away, and what consolation would that be for her father? A girl on the streets was worse off than one working in a tavern. With the winter quickly turning harsh, Lineya could easily be dead in a single night.

The barman changed the subject, picking up another glass to clean. “I’ve never seen anyone in here who would resemble a friend of yours.”

Sheyra thought for a minute and decided to take a risk, “Maybe this friend doesn't know I'm looking for them.”

She turned her pint in her hands, keeping her eyes locked on the swirling liquid. He worked silently, mulling over her statement. Sheyra finished her ale, watching the nobility parading across the screen in their finery. Anger swelled within her, and she looked away.

Very gently, the barman placed the glass he was holding onto the bar. “Do you have a place t'stay?” He asked.

She shrugged, believing she knew what he was going to ask.

“Maybe you could help me out while you wait around.”

He looked around, lowering his voice. The drunks were cracking jokes about the noble ladies and laughing loudly. They weren't paying attention to the barman.

“I can't pay you,” he said. “It wouldn't be official. But you could stay with us in the kitchen and take Lineya's place.” Desperation filled his dark eyes. “And,” his voice quavered, “When you find what you're looking for you take us with you.”

Sheyra looked over her shoulder at the rowdy men. Her father had always protected her, teaching her to be strong. His advantage came from owning the tavern. The helplessness that the barman felt was clearly written across his face. She wouldn't allow herself to be defiled, but she couldn't allow a child to suffer the same fate.

“It's a deal,” Sheyra said.

“My name's Lorsen Nei'Roth,” he said.

“Sheyra Gei'Dessa,” she shook his proffered hand, his grip was firm as relief washed over him. “Here,” she handed him her ID, “for the ale.”

He ran the card and she walked back to the kitchen. Lineya was sitting in a wooden chair near the stove. The back door was worse than the front, hanging crooked on its hinges, allowing in the cold air. The girl raised her tired eyes. Sheyra wondered how long ago she had been given the vaccine for the plague. Was it possible for her to become sick again?

“Go and lay down,” Sheyra said gently. “I'm going to serve the food now.”

Lineya didn't hesitate, hurrying over to a low cot against the wall, she lay on her side and pulled a thin blanket around her frail form. Sheyra peered into the cooking pot and the greasy brown stew bubbling at the bottom. She didn't care. It was the first step and that was all she needed.