Robert Salvatore - The Spine of the World

"Wulfgar?" The call came from far away, not a throaty, demonic voice like Errtu's, but gentle and soft.

Wulfgar knew the trap, the false hopes, the feigned friendship. Errtu had played this one on him countless times, finding him in his moments of despair, lifting him from the emotional valleys, then dropping him even deeper into the pit of black hopelessness.

"I have spoken with Morik," the voice went on, but Wulfgar was no longer listening.

"He claims innocence," Captain Deudermont stubbornly continued, despite Robillard's huffing doubts at his side. "Yet the dog Sharky has implicated you both."

Trying to ignore the words, Wulfgar let out a low growl, certain that it was Errtu come again to torment him.

"Wulfgar?" Deudermont asked.

"It is useless," Robillard said flatly.

"Give me something, my friend," Deudermont went on, leaning heavily on a cane for support, for his strength had far from returned. "Some word that you are innocent so that I might tell Magistrate Jharkheld to release you."

No response came back other than the continued growl.

"Just tell me the truth," Deudermont prodded. "I don't believe that you were involved, but I must hear it from you if I am to demand a proper trial."

"He can't answer you, Captain," Robillard said, "because I here is no truth to tell that will exonerate him."

"You heard Morik," Deudermont replied, for the two had just come from Morik's cell, where the little thief had vehemently proclaimed his and Wulfgar's innocence. He explained that Creeps Sharky had offered quite a treasure for Deudermont's head, but that he and Wulfgar had flatly refused.

"I heard a desperate man weave a desperate tale," Robillard replied.

"We could find a priest to interrogate him," Deudermont said. "Many of them have spells to detect such lies."

"Not allowed by Luskan law," Robillard replied. "Too many priests bring their own agendas to the interrogation. The magistrate handles his questioning in his own rather successful manner."

"He tortures them until they admit guilt, whether or not the admission is true," Deudermont supplied.

Robillard shrugged. "He gets results."

"He fills his carnival."

"How many of those in the carnival do you believe to be innocent, Captain?" Robillard asked bluntly. "Even those innocent, of the particular crime for which they are being punished have no doubt committed many other atrocities."

"That is a rather cynical view of justice, my friend," Deudermont said.

That is reality," Robillard answered.

Deudermont sighed and looked back to Wulfgar, hanging and growling, not proclaiming his innocence, not proclaiming anything at all. Deudermont called to the man again, even moved over and tapped him on the side. "You must give me a reason to believe Morik," he said.

Wulfgar felt the gentle touch of a succubus luring him into emotional hell. With a roar, he swung his hips and kicked out, just grazing the surprised captain, but clipping him hard enough to send him staggering backward to the floor.

Robillard sent a ball of sticky goo from his wand, aiming low to pin Wulfgar's legs against the wall. The big man thrashed wildly, but with his wrists firmly chained and his legs stuck fast to the wall, the movement did little but reinvigorate the agony in his shoulders.

Robillard was before him, hissing and sneering, whispering some chant. The wizard reached up, grabbed Wulfgar's groin, and sent a shock of electricity surging into the big man that brought a howl of pain.

"No!" said Deudermont, struggling to his feet. "No more."

Robillard gave a sharp twist and spun away, his face contorted with outrage. "Do you need more proof, Captain?" he demanded.

Deudermont wanted to offer a retort but found none. "Let us leave this place," he said.

"Better that we had never come," Robillard muttered.

Wulfgar was alone again, hanging easier until Robillard's wand material dissipated, for the goo supported his weight. Soon enough, though, he was hanging by just the shackles again, his muscles bunching in renewed pain. He fell away, deeper and darker than ever before.

He wanted a bottle to crawl into, needed the burning liquid to release his mind from the torments.

"Merchant Band to speak with you," Steward Temigast announced as he stepped into the garden. Lord Feringal and Meralda had been standing quiet, enjoying the smells and the pretty sights, the flowers and the glowing orange sunset over the dark waters.

"Bring him out," the young man replied, happy to show off his newest trophy.

"Better that you come to him," Temigast said. "Banci is a nervous one, and he's in a rush. He'll not be much company to dear Meralda. I suspect he will ruin the mood of the garden."

"Well, we cannot allow that," Lord Feringal conceded. With a smile to Meralda and a pat of her hand, he started toward Temigast.

Feringal walked past the steward, and Temigast offered Meralda a wink to let her know he had just saved her from a long tenure of tedium. The young woman was far from insulted at being excluded. Also, the ease with which Feringal had agreed to go along surprised her.

Now she was free to enjoy the fabulous gardens alone, free to touch the; flowers and take in their silky texture, to bask in their aromas without the constant pressure of having an adoring man following her every movement with his eyes and hands. She savored the moment and vowed that after she was lady of the castle she would spend many such moments out in this garden alone.

But she was not alone. She spun around to find Priscilla watching her.

"It is my garden, after all," the woman said coldly, moving to water a row of bright blue bachelor buttons.

"So Steward Temigast telled me," Meralda replied.

Priscilla didn't respond, didn't even look up from her watering.

"It surprised me to learn of it," Meralda went on, her eyes narrowing. "It's so beautiful, after all."

That brought Priscilla's eyes up in a flash. The woman was very aware of insults. Scowling mightily, she strode toward Meralda. For a moment the younger woman thought Priscilla might try to strike her, or douse her, perhaps, with the bucket of water.

"My, aren't you the pretty one?" Priscilla remarked. "And only a pretty one like you could make so beautiful a garden, of course."

"Pretty inside," Meralda replied, not backing down an inch. She recognized that her posture had, indeed, caught the imposing Priscilla off guard. "And yes, I'm knowing enough about flowers to understand that the way you talk to them and the way you're touching them is what makes them grow. Begging your pardon, Lady Priscilla, but you're not for showing me any side of yourself that's favoring to flowers."

"Begging my pardon?" Priscilla echoed. She stood straight, her eyes wide, stunned by the peasant woman's bluntness. She stammered over a couple of replies before Meralda cut her off.

"By my own eyes, it's the most beautiful garden in all of Auckney," she said, breaking eye contact with Priscilla to take in the view of the flowers, emphasizing her words with a wondrous look of approval. "I thought you hateful and all."

She turned back to face the woman directly, but Meralda was not scowling. Priscilla's frown, too, had somewhat abated. "Now I'm knowing better, for anyone who could make a garden so delightful is hiding delights of her own." She ended with a disarming grin that even Priscilla could not easily dismiss.

"I have been working on this garden for years," the older woman explained. "Planting and tending, finding flowers to come to color every week of every summer."

"And the work's showing," Meralda sincerely congratulated her. "I'll wager there's not a garden to match it in Luskan or even Waterdeep."