Brian Anderson - Shadow of the Gods

Dina reached out and placed her hand on Millet's knee. “You did what had to be done.”

Millet nodded. “I know. But I didn't want this.” He looked around the room; the walls were decorated with a lifetime of adventures. “Any of it. I was never meant to be a lord.”

“I don't know,” said Dina. “It seems to me that you are a very good lord. To do things against your own character in order to protect those you love is a very noble thing. It's what a lord should be.”

Millet rose to his feet and looked at Dina. His face was filled with contempt. Not for her, but for himself. “And I may never forgive myself for it.” Then he whispered, “Or Lee, either.” He took out the blade that had ended the life of Sherone and stared at it. “Once I poisoned a man who was conspiring to kill a sword-master Lee was studying under in Dantory. I watched him writhe and twist on the floor, until the life left his body. This was a thousand times worse.”

“Do you regret your actions?” asked Dina.

“My heart does. But my mind tells me that it was foolish to even let Devon live.” He put the knife away. “I'm an old man, Dina. I've traveled far, and seen many things. But until now, I've always had the luxury of viewing from the outside.” He knelt in front of the blood stain on the floor. “Now, I'm in the midst of it. Now, it is me who needs to hear the voice of reason. I was that voice for Lee Starfinder. Who will be that voice for me?”

Dina stood beside him. “Let me be that voice.” She gently lifted him to his feet. “Though I doubt I am as wise as you.”

“Before I was made Lord of the Nal'Thain family, that was possibly true.” He turned to her and shook his head. “Now I am as Lee once was. The responsibility rests with me, and that responsibility can drive away the person you are, in favor of the person you need to be.” He took a long, deep breath. “And I know this is only the beginning. More blood is to come.”

“True,” said Dina. “But for now we need to wash this blood away.” She headed toward the kitchen. “Get some rest,” she called back. “I will attend to this and leave for Helenia in the morning.”

Millet didn't protest. He went to his chambers and dressed for bed. As he lay in the dark, he could still see the knife sliding across Sherone's throat. He could see his victim's eyes open in terror, then close forever. The vision filled him with anger and sorrow. Millet Gristall was no more. That man died the moment Sherone gasped his final breath. Lord Millet Nal'Thain had been left in his stead. And that man was at war. And with a troubled mind, he drifted off to sleep.

The next morning there was a loud banging at the manor’s front door. Millet donned a robe and went to answer it, but could hear that Dina had gotten there first. Angry voices echoed through the house from outside. When he finally arrived at the door, Dina was in the center of the doorway, her hands firmly planted on her hips.

“Who is it?” asked Millet.

“Mayor Freidly,” came a voice from just outside. “I'm here with members of the faithful. We need to speak with you.”

“Show them in, Dina,” said Millet. “I need to dress, then I will join you.” He turned and headed back to the bedroom. His heart pounded in his chest. He wondered if Barty and Randson had returned. He dressed in a casual pair of white cotton trousers and shirt and slipped on a fine pair of soft leather shoes. He knew he didn't exactly look like the richest man in Sharpstone, but it would have to do.

When he arrived in the main hall, Mayor Freidly was standing at the far end of the room. His bald head, short, round features and wide-set blue eyes, were just as Millet remembered. However, he was wearing a red silk waistcoat, and fine linen pants and shirt, which was unusual for the mayor, being a man of modest means. Three black-cloaked men stood beside him. Their hoods were pushed back, revealing their dark hair, pale skin, and angry expressions. Millet thought they had the look of Baltrian nobles.

“Mayor Freidly,” said Millet, bowing his head ever so slightly. “It's good to see you again. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

The mayor looked flushed and nervous. “It's good to see you too, Millet. Though I wish it was under better circumstances.”

“I don't understand,” said Millet, feigning ignorance. “What is the trouble?”

“You know what the trouble is!” roared the faithful farthest from the mayor.

The mayor held up his hand. “Please, Master Troungo. Let me handle this.” He turned back to Millet. “These men claim that two of their brethren disappeared last night.”

“I'm sorry to hear it,” said Millet. “Still, I fail to see why you have come to me. I only just arrived back in Sharpstone, and have had little time to get to know the newcomers.” He looked at each of the faithful in turn. “Though, I must admit, their reputation has preceded them. Why would you think to find them here?”

“They claim that two of their order came here last night to welcome you home, and never returned.”

“I'm afraid I can't help you,” said Millet. “I swear by the Gods, no one other than myself, Dina and those that live here passed through the door last night.”

“Enough of this,” said the faithful nearest the mayor. “You know they came here. And you know where they are.”

Millet smiled. “And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

The man glared daggers, but didn't answer.

The mayor cleared his throat. “This is Toliver Hall, and the men with him are Henris Longshadow, and Alex Troungo.”

“Baltrian nobles, from the sound of them,” remarked Millet. “You are very far from home, and dressed…oddly…for a noble.”

“We are the faithful of the Reborn King,” said Toliver. “And I'll ask you again. Where are our people?”

“Yes, I know all about the faithful,” said Millet. His tone hardened. “And I already know what you've been up to here in Sharpstone. And as I said, no one called on me last night.” He shrugged. “Perhaps they longed for home, and returned to Baltria rather than come here. It would seem a sensible course. I hear that there are plenty of the faithful in Baltria. At least for now.”

Toliver's hand began to slip beneath his robe.

“Gentlemen,” said the mayor, stepping in front of Toliver. “Clearly, your companions are not here. We should leave.”

The front door opened. Barty and Randson entered. The moment they saw the three faithful, they moved to Millet's side.

“Mayor Freidly, I'm sure you know Barty and his son Randson,” said Millet. “They were here last night, and can certainly attest to the fact that no one came to welcome me home.”

“Nope,” said Barty. His eyes drilling holes through the black-cloaked men. “We saw no one.”

Millet grinned at Barty. “Is all in order?”

“Indeed it is,” Barty replied.

“Then if there is nothing further,” said Millet, stepping aside to let the men pass. “I have much to attend to.”

The mayor herded the faithful to the door, bowing as he passed.

“This isn't over,” said Toliver. He then turned on his heels and stormed out.

The door slammed shut.

“No, it isn't,” muttered Millet.

About half an hour before Gewey, Kaylia, and Linis had reached the Chamber of the Maker, the sun broke through the clouds and brilliant rays of light pierced the pine needles and danced on the forest floor. The sweet song of birds hidden in the high treetops echoed and the earthy scent of pine and moss carried on a gentle breeze. Kaylia insisted they slow their pace to a leisurely stroll. Holding Gewey's hand, she merrily hummed a tune that Linis recognized and soon joined in, harmonizing in a deep baritone.