The Spine of the World Page 25

  Priscilla turned to leave with a frustrated huff.

  “We have news,” Lord Feringal said suddenly, stopping the woman short. Meralda’s head shot up, her face flush with surprise and more than a little anger. She wanted to choke her intended’s words back at that moment. The time for the announcement had not yet come.

  “We have decided that we cannot wait until the spring to marry,” the oblivious Feringal went on. “The wedding shall be on the day of the autumn equinox.”

  As expected, Priscilla’s face turned bright red. It was obviously taking all of the woman’s willpower to keep her from shaking. “Indeed,” she said through clenched teeth. “And have you shared your news with Steward Temigast?”

  “You’re the first,” Lord Feringal replied. “Out of courtesy, and since you are the one making the wedding preparations.”

  “Indeed,” Priscilla said again with ice in her voice. “Do go tell him, Feri,” she bade. “He is in the library. I will see that Meralda is escorted home.”

  That brought Lord Feringal rushing back to Meralda. “Not so long now, my love,” he said. Gently kissing her knuckles, he strode away eagerly to find the steward.

  “What did you do to him out there?” Priscilla snapped at Meralda as soon as her brother was gone.

  Meralda pursed her lips. “Do?”

  “You, uh, worked your charms upon him, didn’t you?”

  Meralda laughed out loud at Priscilla’s efforts to avoid coarse language, a response the imposing Priscilla certainly did not expect. “Perhaps I should have,” she replied. “Put a calming on the beast, we call it, but no, I didn’t. I love him, you know, but my ma didn’t raise a slut. Your brother’s to marry me, and so we’ll wait. Until the autumn equinox, by his own words.”

  Priscilla narrowed her eyes threateningly.

  “You hate me for it,” Meralda accused her bluntly. Priscilla was not prepared for that. Her eyes widened, and she fell back a step. “You hate me for taking your brother and disrupting the life you had set out for yourself, but I’m finding that to be a bit selfish, if I might be saying so. Your brother loves me and I him, and so we’re to marry, with or without your blessings.”

  “How dare you—”

  “I dare tell the truth,” cut in Meralda, surprised at her own forwardness but knowing she could not back down. “My ma won’t live the winter in our freezing house, and I’ll not let her die. Not for the sake of what’s proper, and not for your own troubles. I know you’re doing the planning, and so I’m grateful to you, but do it faster.”

  “That is what this is all about, then?” Priscilla asked, thinking she had found a weakness here. “Your mother?”

  “’Tis about your brother,” Meralda replied, standing straight, shoulders squared. “About Feringal and not about Priscilla, and that’s what’s got you so bound up.”

  Priscilla was so overwrought and surprised that she couldn’t even force an argument out of her mouth. Flustered, she turned and fled, leaving Meralda alone in the foyer.

  The young woman spent a long moment considering her own words, hardly able to believe that she had stood her ground with Priscilla. She considered her next move and thought it prudent to be leaving. She’d spotted Liam with the coach out front when she and Feringal had returned, so she went to him and bade him to take her home.

  He watched the coach travel down the road from the castle, as he did every time Meralda returned from another of her meetings with the lord of Auckney.

  Jaka Sculi didn’t know what to make of his own feelings. He kept thinking back to the moment when Meralda had told him about the child, about his child. He had rebuffed her, allowing his guard to slip so that his honest feelings showed clearly on his face. Now this was his punishment, watching her come back down the road from Castle Auck, from him.

  What might Jaka have done differently? He surely didn’t want the life Meralda had offered. Never that! The thought of marrying the woman, of her growing fat and ugly with a crying baby about, horrified him, but perhaps not as much as the thought of Lord Feringal having her.

  That was it, Jaka understood now, though the rationalization did little to change what he felt in his heart. He couldn’t bear the notion of Meralda lying down for the man, of Lord Feringal raising Jaka’s child as if it were his own. It felt as if the man were stealing from him outright, as every lord in every town did to the peasants in more subtle ways. Yes, they always took from the peasants, from honest folk like Jaka. They lived in comfort, surrounded by luxury, while honest folk like Jaka broke their fingernails in the dirt and ate rotten food. They took the women of their choice, offering nothing of character, only wealth against which peasants like Jaka could not compete. Feringal took his woman, and now he would take Jaka’s child.

  Trembling with rage, Jaka impulsively ran down to the road waving his arms, bidding the coach to stop.

  “Be gone!” Liam Woodgate called down from above, not slowing one bit.

  “I must speak with Meralda,” Jaka cried. “It is about her ma.”

  That made Liam slow the coach enough so that he could glance down and get Meralda’s thoughts. The young woman poked her head out the coach window to learn the source of the commotion. Spotting an obviously agitated Jaka, she blanched but did not retreat.

  “He wants me to stop so he can speak with you. Something about your ma,” the coachman explained.

  Meralda eyed Jaka warily. “I’ll speak with him,” she agreed. “You can stop and let me out here, Liam.”

  “Still a mile to your home,” the gnome driver observed, none too happy about the disturbance. “I could be taking you both there,” he offered.

  Meralda thanked him and waved him away. “A mile I’ll walk easy,” she answered and was out the door before the coach had even stopped rolling, leaving her alone on the dark road with Jaka.

  “You’re a fool to be out here,” Meralda scolded as soon as Liam had turned the coach around and rambled off. “What are you about?”

  “I had no choice,” Jaka replied, moving to hug her. She pushed him away.

  “You know what I’m carrying,” the woman went on, “and so will Lord Feringal soon enough. If he puts you together with my child he’ll kill us both.”

  “I’m not afraid of him,” Jaka said, pressing toward her. “I know only how I feel, Meralda. I had no choice but to come to you tonight.”

  “You’ve made your feelings clear enough,” the woman replied coldly.

  “What a fool I was,” Jaka protested. “You must understand what a shock the news was, but I’m over that. Forgive me, Meralda. I cannot live without your charity.”

  Meralda closed her eyes, her body swaying as she tried to digest it all. “What’re you about, Jaka Sculi?” she asked again quietly. “Where’s your heart?”

  “With you,” he answered softly, coming closer.

  “And?” she prompted, opening her eyes to stare hard at him. He didn’t seem to understand. “Have you forgotten the little one already then?” she asked.

  “No,” he blurted, catching on. “I’ll love the child, too, of course.”

  Meralda found that she did not believe him, and her expression told him so.

  “Meralda,” he said, taking her hands and shaking his head. “I can’t bear the thought of Lord Feringal raising my—our child as his own.”

  Wrong answer. All of Meralda’s sensibilities, her eyes still wide open from her previous encounter with this boy, screamed the truth at her. It wasn’t about his love for the child, or even his love for her. No, she realized, Jaka didn’t have the capacity for such emotions. He was here now, pleading his love, because he couldn’t stand the thought of being bested by Lord Feringal.

  Meralda took a deep and steadying breath. Here was the man she thought she had loved saying all the things she’d once longed to hear. The two of them would be halfway to Luskan by now if Jaka had taken this course when she’d come to him. Meralda Ganderlay was a wiser woman now, a woman thinking of her own well-bei
ng and the welfare of her child. Jaka would never give them a good life. In her heart she knew he’d come to resent her and the child soon enough, when the trap of poverty held them in its inescapable grip. This was a competition, not love. Meralda deserved better.

  “Be gone,” she said to Jaka. “Far away, and don’t you come back.”

  The man stood as if thunderstruck. “But—”

  “There are no answers you can give that I’ll believe,” the woman went on. “There’s no life for us that would keep you happy.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “No, I’m not, and you know it, too,” Meralda said. “We had a moment, and I’ll hold it dear for all of my life. Another moment revealed the truth of it all. You’ve no room in your life for me or the babe. You never will.” What she really wanted to tell him was to go away and grow up, but he didn’t need to hear that from her.

  “You expect me to stand around quietly and watch Lord Feringal—”

  Clapping her hands to her ears, Meralda cut him off. “Every word you speak takes away from my good memories. You’ve made your heart plain to me.”

  “I was a fool,” Jaka pleaded.

  “And so you still are,” Meralda said coldly. She turned and walked away.

  Jaka called after her, his cries piercing her as surely as an arrow, but she held her course and didn’t look back, reminding herself every step of the truth of this man, this boy. She broke into a run and didn’t stop until she reached her home.

  A single candle burned in the common room. To her relief, her parents and Tori were all asleep, a merciful bit of news for her because she didn’t want to talk to anyone at that time. She had resolved her feelings about Jaka at last, could accept the pain of the loss. She tried hard to remember the night of passion and not the disappointments that had followed, but those disappointments, the revelations about who this boy truly was, were the thing of harsh reality, not the dreamy fantasies of young lovers. She really did want him to just go away.

  Meralda knew that she had another more pressing problem. The autumn equinox was too far away, but she understood that she would never convince Lord Feringal, let alone Priscilla and Temigast, to move the wedding up closer than that.

  Perhaps she wouldn’t have to, she thought as an idea came to her. The fiefdom would forgive them if they were married in the fall and it was somehow revealed that they had been making love beforehand. Auckney was filled with “seven month babies.”

  Lying in her dark room, Meralda nodded her head, knowing what she had to do. She would seduce Feringal again, and very soon. She knew his desires and knew, too, that she could blow them into flame with a simple kiss or brush of her hand.

  Meralda’s smile dissipated almost immediately. She hated herself for even thinking such a thing. If she did soon seduce Feringal he would think the child his own, the worst of all lies, for Feringal and for the child.

  She hated the plan and herself for devising it, but then, in the other chamber, her mother coughed. Meralda knew what she had to do.

  ur first customers,” Morik announced. He and Wulfgar stood on a high ridge overlooking the pass into Icewind Dale. A pair of wagons rolled down the trail, headed for the break in the mountains, their pace steady but not frantic.

  “Travelers or merchants?” Wulfgar asked, unconvinced.

  “Merchants, and with wealth aboard,” the rogue replied. “Their pace reveals them, and their lack of flanking guardsmen invites our presence.”

  It seemed foolish to Wulfgar that merchants would make such a dangerous trek as this without a heavy escort of soldiers, but he didn’t doubt Morik’s words. On his own last journey from the dale beside his former friends, they had come upon a single merchant wagon, riding alone and vulnerable.

  “Surprised?” Morik asked, noting his expression.

  “Idiots always surprise me,” Wulfgar replied.

  “They cannot afford the guards,” Morik explained. “Few who make the run to Icewind Dale can, and those who can usually take the safer, western pass. These are minor merchants, you see, trading pittances. Mostly they rely on good fortune, either in finding able warriors looking for a ride or an open trail to get them through.”

  “This seems too easy.”

  “It is easy!” Morik replied enthusiastically. “You understand, of course, that we are doing this caravan a favor.” Wulfgar didn’t appear convinced of that.

  “Think of it,” prompted the rogue. “Had we not killed the giants, these merchants would likely have found boulders raining down on them,” Morik explained. “Not only would they be stripped of their wealth, but their skin would be stripped from their bones in a giant’s cooking pot.” He grinned. “So do not fret, my large friend,” he went on. “All we want is their coin, fair payment for the work we have done for them.”

  Strangely, it made a bit of sense to Wulfgar. In that respect, the work to which Morik referred was no different than Wulfgar had been doing for many years with Drizzt and the others, the work of bringing justice to a wild land. The difference was that never before had he asked for payment, as Morik was obviously thinking to do now.

  “Our easiest course would be to show them our power without engaging,” the rogue explained. “Demand a tithe in payment for our efforts, some supplies and a perhaps a bit of gold, then let them go on their way. With only two wagons, though, and no other guards evident, we might be able to just knock them off completely, a fine haul, if done right, with no witnesses.” His smile as he explained that latter course disappeared when he noted Wulfgar’s frown.

  “A tithe then, no more,” Morik compromised. “Rightful payment for our work on the road.”

  Even that sat badly with the barbarian, but he nodded his head in agreement.

  He picked a section of trail littered with rocks where the wagons would have to slow considerably or risk losing a wheel or a horse. A single tree on the left side of the trail provided Wulfgar with the prop he would need to carry out his part of the attack, if it came to that.

  Morik waited in clear view along the trail as the pair of wagons came bouncing along.

  “Greetings !” he called, moving to the center of the trail, his arms held high. Morik shrank back just a bit, seeing the man on the bench seat beside the driver lifting a rather large crossbow his way. Still, he couldn’t back up too much, for he had to get the wagon to stop on the appropriate mark.

  “Out o’ the road, or I’ll shoot ye dead!” the crossbowman yelled.

  In response, Morik reached down and lifted a huge head, the head of a slain giant, into the air. “That would be ill-advised,” he replied, “both morally and physically.”

  The wagon bounced to a stop, forcing the one behind it to stop as well.

  Morik used his foot, nearly straining his knee in the process, to move a second severed giant head out from behind a rock. “I am happy to inform you that the trail ahead is now clear.”

  “Then get outta me way,” the driver of the first wagon replied, “or he’ll shoot ye down, and I’ll run ye into ruts.”

  Morik chuckled and moved aside the pack he had lain on the trail, revealing the third giant head. Despite their bravado, he saw that those witnessing the spectacle of the heads were more than a little impressed—and afraid. Any man who could defeat three giants was not one to take lightly.

  “My friends and I have worked hard all the tenday to clear the trail,” Morik explained.

  “Friends?”

  “You think I did this alone?” Morik said with a laugh. “You flatter me. No, I had the help of many friends.” Morik cast his gaze around the rocky outcroppings of the pass as if acknowledging his countless “friends.” “You must forgive them, for they are shy.”

  “Ride on!” came a cry from inside the wagon, and the two men on the bench seat looked at each other.

  “Yer friends hide like thieves,” the driver yelled at Morik. “Clear the way!”

  “Thieves?” Morik echoed incredulously. “You would be dead already, sq
uashed flat under a giant’s boulder, were it not for us.”

  The wagon door creaked open and an older man leaned out, standing with one foot inside and the other on the running board. “You’re demanding payment for your actions,” he remarked, obviously knowing this routine all too well—as did most merchants of the northern stretches of Faerûn.

  “Demand is such a nasty word,” Morik replied.

  “Nasty as your game, little thief,” the merchant replied.

  Morik narrowed his eyes threateningly and glanced pointedly down at the three giant heads.

  “Very well, then,” the merchant conceded. “What is the price of your heroism?”

  “We need supplies that we might maintain our vigil and keep the pass safe,” Morik explained reasonably. “And a bit of gold, perhaps, as a reward for our efforts.” It was the merchant’s turn to scowl. “To pay the widows of those who did not survive our raid on the giant clan,” Morik improvised.

  “I’d hardly call three a clan,” the merchant replied dryly, “but I’ll not diminish your efforts. I offer you and your hiding friends a fine meal, and if you agree to accompany us to Luskan as guards, I will pay each of you a gold piece a day,” the merchant added, proud of his largesse and obviously pleased with himself for having turned the situation to his advantage.

  Morik’s eyes narrowed at the weak offer. “We have no desire to return to Luskan at this time.”

  “Then take your meal and be happy with that,” came the curt response.

  “Idiot,” Morik remarked under his breath. Aloud he countered the merchant’s offer. “We will accept no less than fifty gold pieces and enough food for three fine meals for seven men.”

  The merchant laughed. “You will accept our willingness to let you walk away with your life,” he said. He snapped his fingers, and a pair of men leaped from the second wagon, swords drawn. The driver of that wagon drew his as well.

  “Now be gone!” he finished, and he disappeared back into the coach. “Run him down,” he cried to his driver.