Robert Salvatore - The Spine of the World

"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 wished 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-being 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.

"Our 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 money, 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."