Dawn of Swords(The Breaking World)

CHAPTER


17


The liquid burned as it flowed down his throat, but it was better than the pain in his chest. He welcomed the calming numbness that followed, and even the nausea the liquor caused as it worked its way through his veins. In the end, though, it was no real comfort. Nothing was. Vulfram knew that the drunkenness would subside as it always did, and his thoughts would return to Lyana.

He dropped his head into his palms and worked at his eyes as if trying to pry them from his skull. He couldn’t sleep, could barely eat. It had been this way ever since that fateful day two weeks ago, when his lashings had stripped the flesh from his daughter’s back. On the rare moments he did stumble into unconsciousness, he was plagued with nightmares of Lyana’s future life as a Sister of the Cloth, of the abuses she would endure at the hands of the men who purchased her services, especially the young and nubile. More than anything he wanted to seek out the Sisters who had scurried away with her, perhaps even storm into their large vicarage in Felwood and free her. But he wouldn’t—couldn’t. Lyana’s punishment had been Karak’s decree, a decree given to him personally the evening before that fateful day. He could never turn his back on the word of his god.

Even if it killed him inside.

It was destroying his relationship with Yenge as well. When he was away, all he did was dream of home, and now that he was here, there was no happiness, no comfort. Yenge blamed him for their daughter’s penalty—him!—as if he were responsible for her wild behavior. “She was a girl in need of a father,” she said, “and you weren’t here.” Even Alexander and Caleigh grew distant, acting as if they were afraid to speak with him. His children meant everything to him, and seeing their wary glances tore at his heart. Every night he listened as Yenge wailed herself to sleep in the chamber down the hall, and every night he thought to go to her, to comfort her, but he never did. He stayed in his study, using the fireplace to warm his hands on each progressively chillier fall evening, wallowing in self-revulsion.

And it wasn’t only Lyana’s fate that inflicted him with guilt. Broward Renson was never far from his thoughts; Vulfram was haunted by the image of his oldest friend’s head rolling away from the executioner’s stone. He often cursed Broward’s name, but that was always followed by a moment of doubt. Why would his friend have partaken in an act that hovered between irresponsible and outwardly evil? And why hadn’t Vulfram possessed the patience to stop and ask? His friend’s cries haunted him. What might Broward have said if he’d stayed Vulfram’s blade? But Karak himself had ordered that the judgment be swift, meaning that Vulfram’s questions were a sign of doubt and cowardice, a lack of faith in his deity.

It was a destructive cycle of self-hate that saw no end.

He tipped back the jug of brandy and took another hard swallow. This time he choked on the bitter juice while pounding the table with his fist. His lips formed Yenge’s name, wanting to call out to her, but his throat remained still. He stumbled to the door of their bedchamber, pressed his ear against it, and heard his wife sobbing again. His fingers brushed the polished ivory door handle but stopped short of lifting it. Instead, he wandered back to his desk and slumped behind it. He pulled out a piece of parchment and then dabbed the tip of his quill into a tub of ink, but in his drunkenness all that came out was an illegible smear when the tip touched the page. He stared at the paper, hardly aware of what he was trying to write or whom he even planned to write to.

It is all my fault.

He tossed the quill across the room, crumpled the parchment, and cried. He only had one more day left before he had to head back to Veldaren and reclaim his position as Lord Commander. More than anything, he wished someone could heal his troubled mind before then.

Perhaps Karak will visit again in the night, he thought. Perhaps he will tell me what to do.

It was the lie he told himself every night, the way he calmed himself enough for sleep. Rising from his chair, nearly knocking it over in his tipsiness, he proceeded to the cot in the corner of the room and collapsed on it. He didn’t bother to extinguish the candles or close the flue to the hearth. Eyelids half-open, he stared at the flickering light until it sent him off to another drunken and restless sleep.





He was awakened by a foreign scent and something soft touching his face. The shocking revulsion he felt snapped his eyes open with a start. He lashed out with his fist, striking nothing but air.

“Please be calm, Lord Commander,” a voice spoke from the darkness. “I mean you no harm, but we must speak.”

Vulfram recognized the voice, but distantly. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, the blood pounding in his head a reminder of how much he had drunk. The throbbing across the front of his face was almost as bad. He groaned and leaned over, searching for his waterskin on the ground and not finding it.

“You wish for some water, sir?” the familiar voice asked.

A figure stepped forward in the darkness, and for the first time Vulfram understood that it was dark.

“How long have I been sleeping?” he asked, snatching the proffered jug from the stranger and taking a long pull from it.

“I don’t know, sir. I just arrived.”

“Has the worship bell rung?”


“Um, no sir. That isn’t until tomorrow evening.”

“Good,” he said. He scanned the darkened room, lit only by the still glowing embers within the hearth, but he couldn’t find his sword. Instead, he reached beneath his mattress and wrapped his fingers around the handle of his spare dagger.

“Sir, I assure you there is no need for that. I mean you no harm.”

A flame was struck in the darkness, momentarily blinding him. Vulfram covered his eyes with his arm, almost cutting himself with his dagger in the process. Silently he cursed his carelessness. His sight adjusted to the new light, that of a lantern. When he lowered his arm, he recognized his visitor as Weston, one of the Renson’s elderly family servants. The old man tilted his head and gave Vulfram a queer look.

“Are you all right, sir?”

“I am. Why do you ask?”

A curved, slender finger pointed at him. “You have blood all over your mouth and beard, sir.”

Vulfram wiped at the area and sure enough, there was blood there, mostly dried. The ache in his nose…he must have struck it somehow while collapsing onto his cot. He took the jug Weston had given him and splashed water over his face, which served to fully rouse him, and then wiped his face with yesterday’s tunic. He felt a cold breeze and looked over to see that the outside door to the study, which opened onto the rear court of Mori Manor, had been left ajar. Rising from the cot, he paced to the door, closed it, and headed back to his desk. The candle there had dribbled wax all over his meager supply of parchment. Sighing, he began peeling the bits of dried wax off, dropping them into an empty cup.

“Weston,” he said while he performed his mindless duties, “I’m tired and irritated. Tell me why you snuck into my quarters in the middle of the night. Come to avenge your master’s death, perhaps?”

The last part had been said in jest, but the old servant seemed to take it seriously. “Absolutely not, sir. To me, the Lord Commander’s decree is as good as Karak’s. I would never do such a thing.”

“So why are you here?”

“My new master sent me, sir.”

“Bracken?”

“Yes.”

“Then out with it,” Vulfram said. “What does he want?”

“He wishes to speak with you immediately.”

Vulfram chuckled. “Two weeks go by, but now is when he wants to see me immediately? I supposed he needed time to work up the nerve. I take it he will be the one who takes revenge for Broward’s death, eh? Better him than a crooked-backed old servant.”

Weston didn’t laugh; he simply stared at him with a dire expression.

“I apologize,” said Vulfram, feeling like an ass. “Please, Weston, what does Master Renson want with me?”

“I do not know, sir. He has been searching the house for days, and this very evening he emerged from the library in hysterics. He told me to find you immediately or he would cut off my head.” Weston licked his dry lips. “I hope you do not wish me beheaded, sir.”

Vulfram shook his head. That a man who had served his friend so faithfully for decades might doubt him filled him with shame.

“Of course not, Weston. I do not punish the innocent, only the guilty. Please, let me put on clothes that do not smell like a brewery. Wait in the front courtyard. I will join you in a few moments.”

“Yes, sir,” Weston said with a bow and left the room.

Twenty minutes later, under the faint light of a half moon, Vulfram followed Weston down the winding dirt path that led from Mori Manor to the quaint manse that the Renson family called home. The home was solidly built, two stories high, with a garret protruding from the top like a dunce cap. Vulfram remembered the days of his childhood when he and Broward would play in that garret, fooling around with wooden swords in the vast open space. Humanity had only been around for a tad more than thirty years at that time, and the garret had been virtually empty of belongings and knickknacks. He was sure it had filled up now, with four subsequent generations of memories added to the place.

They approached the front entrance to find Bracken standing there. His body was shaking, his eyes frantic. Instinctively, Vulfram reached for Darkfall, which he had strapped to his back. The new housemaster did not seem to notice.

“Good, you brought him,” Bracken said, his voice cracking. He didn’t look at Vulfram, instead shouting, “Follow me!” and storming back into the manse.

Weston stepped aside so that Vulfram could enter the abode, then turned and began to walk away.

“Where are you going?” asked Vulfram.

“I cannot enter,” the old man said. “My master gave strict orders in that regard. All servants have been sent to stay with other households. Even the master’s other children have been sent away. You two will be alone. That is what he wanted.”

“Why?” Vulfram asked, suspicious.

Weston shrugged. “I do not know, Lord Commander. ‘Prying eyes,’ was all the master told me.”

With that the old man limped away down the dirt path. Vulfram patted his sword’s handle for comfort and then walked inside, hoping for the best.

He followed the trail of burning candles, which led him to the library at the far end of the home. Bracken sat behind a table, frantically scanning line after line of whatever document lay before him. The man looked as if his sanity had fled him, and Vulfram took a quick inventory of the room to see whether any weapons were hidden there. He didn’t notice any save the great axe that Bracken’s grandfather Brutus had used to fell the trees with which he had built this very home.

“It’s funny how things work sometimes,” said Bracken, still not looking up from the table. “Despite the many vile, lawless men of this world, it is men of good heart who often commit the greatest crimes. Orders, orders, always orders!”

“What madness do you speak of?” asked Vulfram, slowly making his way through the library.

Bracken slammed his fist on the table. “It is not madness!” he shouted, looking at the Lord Commander for the first time that evening. Vulfram could see the lunacy shining through in his clenched-lipped gaze. “It is reality! We are guided by forces greater than us, forces that manipulate us, and we will never understand what it is that they seek!”

“Forget manipulators,” said Vulfram. “You don’t understand what you are saying.” He put his hand on Darkfall’s hilt. “I think you may have lost your mind.”

Bracken cackled, a sound so mad that the very air seemed to vibrate. He shot up and stormed around the table, making Vulfram brace for conflict. But instead of assailing him, Bracken fell to his knees, gazing up at him with crazy, pleading eyes.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Kill me like you killed my son and father. Kill me because you were instructed to do so. Because that is why you kill, is it not? Because you are told to?”

“Bracken, man, stand up.”

“You kill because it is Karak’s will. But why would Karak wish the murder of his own creations? He is a god that walks among us! Any faults we possess, he gave to us! Can no one else see that? Any criminal, any blasphemer, he could counsel with a snap of his holy fingers. So why, I ask you again, would he order us dead?”

“Because we are to make our own way in the world.”

“A fool’s errand. Would you set your infant alone in the woods with wolves so he could do the same?”


Vulfram backed away a step. “What are you getting at?”

Bracken stumbled to his feet, moving like a drunk himself. Now that Vulfram got a good look at the man, he could tell that he hadn’t slept for days. Whatever it was that afflicted him, be it grief or anger or doubt, it was degrading his body along with his mind.

He shuddered, for he felt as though the same thing were happening to him.

“I am saying we are all puppets,” said Bracken. “Puppets in a game much larger than any we could ever understand. My father was tricked, as were my son and your daughter. As were you.”

Vulfram dropped Darkfall to his side. “These accusations are not to be made lightly, Bracken. Son of my old friend or not, you will not be saved from the executioner’s stone should I find you guilty of blasphemy.”

Bracken cackled again, his insane grin spreading wider.

“Of course not, Lord Commander. I think you proved that when you beheaded the people I love most.”

The words sent a knife twisting through Vulfram’s heart. He grimaced and nodded for Bracken to continue. Bracken’s demeanor shifted when he realized that Vulfram would give him an audience. He took a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his fists. When he spoke again, it seemed as though a measure of control had taken hold.

“I was in abject misery, as you might expect, having lost both Kristof and my father on that dreadful afternoon. Penelope was as well, of course, and she left Erznia to rejoin her parents in Brent. She left me because I was a shell of a man. And it did not take long, in my loneliness, for my sadness to turn to hate. Hatred for you, Vulfram. I wanted you dead. I went so far as to prepare Weston to venture out on the Gods’ Road in search of bandits or sellswords who might take what meager coin I have in exchange for your head. It never came to that, of course—Weston would never have done it, and besides, I knew asking any standard thug to cleave your skull was akin to asking him to commit suicide. Instead, I ventured into the garret and sat there for days, shunning food and sleep while I wept. Many of my parents’ things are stored there, and I took to combing through their old chests. For the first time I truly missed Mother. She died six years ago, stabbing herself through the heart. It took Father many moons to become anything close to himself again. Did you know that?”

Vulfram shook his head. All the while a new river of guilt overflowed the levees of his soul. He hadn’t known, and given the duress he’d been under, it hadn’t occurred to him to ask his old friend about Katherine’s whereabouts.

Bracken waved his hand. “It doesn’t matter. But though old wounds heal, they are always tender, always ready to break anew. My father once said to me, ‘It is not her fault. There is always a reason when people act against their nature.’ Mother had been suffering with the Wasting, you see. The pain that mounted each day became too much for her to bear, no matter what medicines or herbs or treatments we gave her. The only recourse she could find in the end, the only way to stop the pain, was to take her own life.

“When I thought of that, I knew,” Bracken continued, pacing around the library with his head down and brow furrowed in deep concentration. “Something was wrong. Father was a man of responsibility, of dignity and honor. He loved his god more than any other. None of us dared contradict him, and we passed those lessons on to our own. And Father adored his grandchildren. He strove for nothing but the best for them. He was as much a teacher of morality and decency as I am, perhaps more so.

“Do you see? I am no fool. I can understand my son surrendering to his urges and bedding your sweet Lyana, but what my father did? I couldn’t believe that a man of morality and religious fervor would choose to contradict our god’s decrees in such a heinous way. I thought it a lie, a ploy, a falsehood. I tore through the garret in search of clues that might explain why he was foolish enough to offer crim oil to that frightened pair. By Karak, I didn’t even know what I was looking for.”

Bracken looked up then, and his eyes were utterly sane now. The new Master Renson circled back around and picked up a curling parchment off the desk.

“I nearly gave up. I nearly believed that I didn’t know my father as well as I’d thought. But it’s when you stop looking that the answers come to you. Three days ago, I started to feel better, more like myself. I gave up any mad thoughts of attempting to end your life and instead decided to used my solitude to read. The first tome I lifted was a collection of poems compiled by Eveningstar. The First Man had traveled here, to Erznia, during one of the first harvest festivals. He wrote down every word of every poem spoken by the townsfolk that night. Do you remember hearing stories of that?”

“I was there. Young, but there.”

“That’s right,” said Bracken with a shrug. “I tend to forget that you are much older than you appear. Well, Father was there too, and Eveningstar handed him the tome when he was finished, as a gift.”

“I remember that.”

“It was Father’s favorite book. He would often sit for hours and pour over every verse of all two hundred and seventy couplets. He loved poetry, even though his own was rather…lackluster.” He shook his head. “I’m getting distracted. That night three days ago…I came to the library. I’d begun to hate my father, to believe him a liar and a hypocrite, and that’s why I wanted that tome. I wanted to remember who he really was, remember the man who raised me and taught me how to live with decency and honor. But when I opened the cover, I found something strange inside. I found this.…”

Bracken extended the parchment, which Vulfram hesitantly took. The paper was thin yet sturdy, the tender of vintage used for royal documents. It was face down, and he could plainly see the waxen seal, split in half, that decorated the top and bottom edges. He folded the parchment over and connected the two halves, revealing the image of a snake wrapped around a lion, the sigil of House Crestwell.

Vulfram’s eyes widened. He peered up at Bracken, whose expression managed to convey both horror and victory.

“Read it,” he said.

Feeling nervous, Vulfram flipped the parchment over and read. The message was a thank-you note, the final link in a chain of unknown correspondences, the words simple yet menacing in their ambiguity.

It is the mark of the faithful that we accept our roles without question, and yours is perhaps the most important one of all. Now that you have seen the seed planted, it is time to offer a choice. Whatever choice is made, find peace in the knowledge that the Divinity will hold you in his highest regard when he returns and will ensure that no ill befalls you.

The letter was dated three months ago. There was no personal mark on the bottom of the page, but Vulfram didn’t need to see one to know who had written the letter. His eyes had scanned many a decree from Clovis Crestwell over the last eight years. There was no mistaking that loose, frantic scrawl.

He let the letter dangle in his hand, dread clamping down on his stomach.

“What does this mean?” he asked.

“You tell me,” Bracken replied.

He couldn’t. His head began to feel dizzy with the possibilities, and his knees grew weak. Amazingly, it was Bracken Renson, who had just admitted to wanting him dead, who now stopped him from falling. Vulfram accepted his help, leaning on the man as he stumbled across the room. Bracken guided him into the chair behind the library desk and handed him a jug.


“Drink some wine,” he said. “You will feel better.”

Vulfram tipped back the jug and felt the fruity liquid pour down his throat. It didn’t do the trick.

“Stronger,” he gasped. “Do you have any rum?”

Bracken shook his head.

Sighing, Vulfram eyed the jug once more, then downed the rest. Liquid seeped out the corners of his mouth and ran down his bare chest, red as blood. When he was finished, he tossed the jug aside, its rounded wooden shape bouncing on the stone floor before rolling beneath a table in the corner.

“Better?” asked Bracken.

“Not in the slightest,” he replied.

“Now do you understand my madness?”

“I do, Bracken. I do indeed.”

For whatever reason, he had been entrapped by the very people he served. If the letter were to be believed—and he saw no reason why it should not be—Clovis had been in communication with Broward. The vague pieces grouped themselves together in Vulfram’s mind. Broward had been instructed to lure Lyana and Kristof into a clandestine relationship, giving them ample opportunity to fornicate. When Lyana was with child, Broward passed along the crim oil, neglecting to mention the side effects, thereby ensuring they would be caught. And all of this had been ordered with the promise that it was the will of Karak himself.

It was nothing but a guess on his part, but it made perfect sense. Why else would his old friend have so fearlessly admitted to his crime? Why else would he have looked on with anything but horror as his own grandson was executed? And why would he have protested so much at the moment of his own death if not because he had thought himself exempt?

This wasn’t supposed to happen! I was pro—

Promised was to be that last word. Vulfram clenched his fist, crinkling the parchment as he did so. He almost tossed it into the hearth but thought better of it—instead, he flattened it, folded it neatly, and tucked it into his satchel. By itself the letter proved nothing. The words were carefully crafted and studiously vague, just as Vulfram would have expected from a weasel such as Clovis. But it was something—a weapon to be used. He needed answers, needed to get back to Veldaren as quickly as he could to confront the Highest about his role in this mess, to pry out—by force if necessary—the reason why such torment had been heaped on him. What, in all his life, had Vulfram done to deserve such a punishment?

Broward came over and knelt down beside him.

“Do you see now how you have been used?” he said.

The wine was finally beginning to work its magic, flowing through Vulfram’s bloodstream.

“I see betrayal,” he growled. “I see innocence lost. And I see blasphemy in the Highest.”

Bracken’s eyes widened.

“I am heading back to the castle,” Vulfram said. “With Karak back in our fold, it will be easy to discern who performed this treachery. However, if this is a trick, Master Renson, if this is your way to force me to sign my own death warrant, let me assure you I won’t die so easily. And if I find out you are lying, I will storm back here so that you may join your beloved son and father in the afterlife.”

Bracken didn’t seem at all taken aback by his tone.

“I understand,” the man said, and that was all.

“And you’re wrong, Renson. Our god is not to blame for this. Our god is perfect in every way. It is humankind that is flawed…one man in particular.”

Without another word, Vulfram rose from the chair. He swayed on his feet for a moment, but the woozy feeling passed soon enough. He left the Renson manse a moment later and hurried home. The sky was brightening and the roosters were cawing. He needed to get back to the Manor and must depart quickly if he were to avoid any dangerous questions from his family. There’d be no good-byes, no promises or false hopes. Nothing to delay him further. If there were any way to save Lyana from a life in the Sisters of the Cloth, he would seek it out, even if it killed him.

The least he could do, as a husband and a father, was to try.