The False Martyr (7 page)

He laughed bitterly. “It
is what I deserve, locked out of the house I have built on the
backs of those I now wish to save? If I’d wanted to save them, I
should have started a long time ago.”

Eia rubbed a tear from his
cheek with a cool finger and then ran it down his chin. “Among my
order, we have a saying about the freewill given to us by Hilaal,
‘it is a blessing to be able to make our own choices and a curse to
have to live with them.’ However, my mother used to tell me
something that may be of more use to you, ‘you can stop making bad
choices anytime you want.’ That is the center of my beliefs. Hilaal
gave us the ability to make our own choices. It is our
responsibility to live with the consequences, good and bad. But you
cannot allow yourself to think that bad choices in the past have
locked you into making them in the future. That is the very
definition of freewill. The blessing of Hilaal is that we never
need be locked into a course. We can always choose.”

Ipid stared into Eia’s
eyes a few inches from his own, seemed to get lost in their dark
depths until he barely heard her. He felt her soft, cool hand on
his cheek. The other rubbing the side of his arm. Her body so close
that he could almost feel her pressed against him. He had not been
this close to a woman since . . . . He cleared his throat and
backed away. “Thank you for that. I think our counselors would
disagree, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

“
Not yet a convert? Well,
a girl has to try.” She laughed, a small, high twitter, then ran
down the steps from the door to the cobblestone carriageway that
led to it. She bent and pried a hand-sized stone from the ground,
hefted it with some effort, and returned to the door. “Let us
reclaim your glory,” she said as she threw the rock through the
thick glass next to the door. It shattered with a startling crash.
Glass flew in, leaving a ragged hole surrounded by
daggers.

As Ipid stood stunned, she
reached her hand into the gap until it had taken her entire arm.
She fumbled for a moment, then with a click, the door swung open.
“Not very subtle but effective,” she declared as she drew her hand
from the window.

Ipid gawked. “Why didn’t
you use your magic? You can transport thousands of men thousands of
miles, you can destroy an entire city, but you can’t open a
door?”

Eia laughed. “It does seem
an irony, doesn’t it? Perhaps later I can explain it all, but at
the moment, I am powerless. The energy I draw upon to use my gift
is dependent upon human emotion. Here, where there are no people,
there is no power. My gift is worthless. If you wanted to be rid of
me, now would be the perfect time.” On that disturbing note, she
walked past him through the door.

Inside, the house was
every bit as empty as it had seemed. Silence greeted them. Dust
hung in the air, shimmering in the morning sun that shone through
the windows to either side. The walls were bare where great
landscape paintings from one of Thoren’s most renowned artists had
hung. The delicate painted vases on either side of the entranceway
were missing as well, only the pillars that supported them
remained. No flowers greeted their entrance, springing fresh and
full of fragrance from those vessels. No servant waited to greet
them, take their hats, and make them welcome. At least they left
the rug, Ipid thought as he looked down the hall to the interior of
the house. Certainly, he had meant what he said in his letter, but
he also had not expected to be returning to this house, had not
expected the shock of seeing it empty.

Eia wrapped her cool hand
around his, moved in close so that her shoulder bumped against his
arm. “Welcome home,” she said with a sly smile.

“
It barely feels like it.
I’ve never known this house without the servants that make it run.
It doesn’t feel right without them.” He thought. “I barely even
know where the kitchen is? Who knows if they left us any food?”
Suddenly, his own house seemed a daunting burden. How would he
provide for them for seven days without his servants? Where did the
food even come from? Ever since he had moved in, it just magically
appeared. Surely, someone purchased the meat, selected the
vegetables, baked the bread. But he had only the slightest idea who
those people were, let alone how they did all those
things.

“
It’s a good thing I
brought some then,” Eia said as she pulled a small bag from a
pocket in her voluminous robe. “Do you think you can manage water
and a fire before we eat?”

Ipid thought. Water. There
must be a well somewhere . . . or a pump like the ones in the
upstairs rooms. As regards fire, there were fireplaces in nearly
every room, and even in this month, they should be stocked with
wood. Now, he just had to remember where the kitchen was. He
guessed that it must be near the dining room, probably through the
door the servers used to bring his food. “I am ashamed to admit how
helpless I am in my own house, but I think we’ll find what we need
this way.”

Still holding Eia’s hand,
feeling his palm grow sweaty, his breath and heart quicken, he led
her down the hall, past an empty sitting room, along a barren hall,
to the third door. Inside, the long, polished table and chairs
remained – twenty feet long it had probably been too large to
remove – but the crystal chandelier did not loom over the table,
the side boards, china cabinets, wall-sized paintings were missing.
Only the slightest outlines on the cream-colored walls showed where
those items had adorned the room. But somehow, those absences
allowed Ipid to see the swinging door at the far end of the room
that he had previously managed to ignore. It was painted and
paneled to match the walls, was nearly invisible and set behind the
table’s head. He allowed himself that excuse for not having
considered it before.

He led Eia through the
door, past a small staging area, and into a part of his house he
had never entered. The kitchen was far larger than he would have
guessed – bigger even than the dining room it served. Two long,
sturdy tables with thick blocks of scarred, blood-stained wood for
their tops consumed most of the space. A great cast iron stove
nearly as long as Ipid was tall stood at one end. The dark metal
was cold. The doors to the firebox stood open. Heavy lids covered
the burners. Likewise, the mammoth fireplace and oven were
lifeless, but Ipid could imagine the heat that must radiate from
this room when all those sources were engaged. In the already
stifling heat, the very thought left him queasy.

Releasing his hand, Eia
walked past the tables to a small windows that looked out over rows
of vegetables that had been walled off from the formal gardens.
“That will help,” she said then turned to a great basin with a pump
above it. In a few short strokes, she had water pouring from the
bronze spigot. She ducked her head under the stream and drank in a
very unladylike way. When she came back up, her face sparkled with
moisture and a few of her curls were plastered in place. She took a
deep breath and wiped her face on her robe with a smile. “Ahhh, I
was dying of thirst.”

She smiled again as Ipid
plucked a wooden cup from a nearby counter and pumped the handle.
“Are cups too much a part of the Order for you?” he asked when he
had drained it.

Eia slapped the back of
her hand into his chest. “I am not constrained by your need for
such formalities.” She blushed slightly and turned away. “Now, if
we can find something to heat it in, we can have
bathes.”

Ipid looked around the
kitchen. Other than the few crude dishes and utensils meant for the
servants, it was barren. The hooks along the walls hung empty. The
blocks held no knives. To his right, a series of painted doors
stood open, the cabinets they protected dark, empty caverns. Ipid
began to wonder how many wagons they had used. There must have been
a veritable caravan leaving his estate. “I am at a loss,” he
admitted. “I never even stopped to think about all the people, all
the effort that went into maintaining this house. I would have no
idea where the pots were if they were still here to
find.”

“
That will do,” Eia said,
pointing out the window. She led him through a door to a great
copper watering can sitting on a stump. “We can fill it and hang it
over the fire. Can you bring it inside?”

Thinking to finally be
useful, Ipid tried to lift the can. It barely budged. He looked at
it again. It was full of water. “I’ll have to dump the water,” he
said and began tilting the great vessel.

“
No don’t! We’ll just have
to fill it again.”

“
It’s not clean. There are
bugs in it.”

“
I suspect the boiling
will take care of them. Can you carry it?”

Ipid looked at the can. It
must be five gallons, forty pounds. It didn’t sound like a lot, but
he hadn’t lifted anything heavier than a ledger in years. He put
both hands on the heavy wooden handle and eased it off the stump.
Then huffing and puffing in a most embarrassing display, he waddled
into the kitchen and dropped the can with a splash before the
fireplace. Panting, he wiped his brow with his sleeve and cursed
his deficiencies.

Eia smiled, suppressing a
laugh. “It needs to go on the hook. Do you need some
help?”

“
No, I’ll manage,” Ipid
snapped. He stared at her, but it only seemed to increase her
amusement, so he wiped his sweat-soaked hands on his pants and,
with a grunt, lifted the can and placed it on the heavy hook that
swung out over the fireplace. He shook his arms – they were
trembling from the effort – and rubbed his aching hands together.
But Eia was still looking at him, smile slowly growing.
“What?”

“
We need wood for the
fire. There is some stacked along the wall outside.”

Ipid felt foolish having
to be ordered to complete simple, obvious tasks. Had he really
become so dependent upon the labor of others that he could not even
think for himself? He returned to the garden and found the split
logs stacked under a great tarp along the side of the house.
Conveniently, a square of leather with two handles rested on top of
the stack. He took it down and loaded logs across the leather. When
he had enough to fill the square with a jagged pyramid, he pulled
up the handles. The logs barely moved from the ground. After
another minute unloading, he made another shambling journey to the
fireplace.

Eia waited with the same
amused expression. “Are you alright?”

Ipid realized that he was
dripping with sweat as he stretched his back like the old man he
must appear to be. “I’m . . . well . . . I haven’t had to do this
sort of thing in a number of years.”

“
I can tell.” Eia lifted
logs from the pile and stacked them in the iron grate of the
fireplace.

“
I used to work the
caravans, you know.” Ipid felt a strange need to justify himself.
“I could throw fifty pound bag ten feet to the top of the wagon.
Not that I was a laborer. I negotiated the sales and kept the
accounts, but I could toss cargo when I needed to.”

“
I’m sure it was an
impressive display.” Eia smirked. She had created a stack of logs
but had left no space between them for air, had no kindling to
start them. Even Ipid knew that would never work.

“
How are you expecting to
get a fire out of that? The logs are too . . . .”

That was as far as he got.
Eia rose, grabbed his shirt, and kissed him. She held him close and
would not let him go. She took the very breath from him, filled his
mind with thoughts he had not allowed himself in twelve years, made
his entire body tingle. He was just starting to accept her, to wrap
his arm around her, to surrender to her passion, to grow
comfortable with the movement of their lips and tongues.

Eia pushed him violently
away. He slammed into the heavy table, felt pain stabbing through
his back. She slapped him. “You fucking bastard!” she yelled and
hit him again on the other side.

Ipid stood for a long
moment, stunned. He stared into Eia’s eyes. And she laughed. She
threw her head back and laughed, full and deep. Ipid’s shock turn
to anger. He clenched his fists, felt the blood rise in his face.
He came forward, prepared to scream.

Eia turned to the fire.
Ipid felt his anger sucked away. A second later, fire erupted from
the logs in a roar then settled into a blaze that rose up the can
of water, turning the ruddy copper green. Ipid stared and
stammered.

“
Don’t look at me like
that.” Eia caught his hand in hers, held it gently. Ipid tried to
shake it away, sputtered to form his accusations. “I’m sorry, but
wasn't that better than throwing sparks at tinder for an
hour?”

Ipid felt his anger
fading, replaced by confusion. “So all that . . . all that was just
to . . . ?”

“
Not all of it,” Eia
smiled and took his hand again. “Part of it was real. But I won’t
tell you which part.” She laughed. “Now, do you think you could
find some wine to go with what I’ve brought? Or do you not know
where that comes from either?

#

Ipid’s eyes drifted to
slits as he laid in a barely tepid bath. The breeze stirring the
curtains to his side evaporated just enough of the water on his
bald head and naked shoulders to make him wish the water were
warmer. But he had nowhere near the energy that would be required
to fulfill that desire.