Fire And Steel (The Merryweather Chronicles Book 2) (37 page)

Chapter 36

      Brandon opened his eyes and saw his father's face looking at him from a chipped and warped mirror. Stephen was young, younger than Brandon was now, and his hair hung down over his eyes, curly and dark. Brandon floated inside his father's head, as with his grandfather before, and all he could do was watch and listen.

      Stephen stood in a room of plain dressed stone. There was one window, tightly shuttered, and a small fireplace in the corner, throwing off a little warmth. The room smelled of smoke and spiced wine. Against one wall was a narrow bed, with what looked like a straw mattress. One thin blanket and no pillows. A cloudy lamp stood on a plain wooden table beside the bed. There was a leather bundle beside the table. It looked like a duffel bag, only made different. Other than Stephen(and Brandon) there was nobody else in the room.

      The mirror hung on one of the stone walls, off of a steel bolt screwed into the rough stone. The room was the most simple and enchanting room that Brandon had ever seen. Stephen had seen much better, though. Sighing, he walked over to the bed and tossed his cloak on top of the lumpy mattress. The straw wouldn't bother him too badly under the heavy wool, he hoped.

      There was knock on the room's door and it opened, letting in a tall man that Brandon didn't immediately recognize. He was a big man, broad in the chest, with a bluff, square jawed face. Iron gray hair was clipped short on his head and his eyes were like stormclouds, little chips of gray ice. He smiled when he saw Stephen. It was an engaging smile. Intelligent and just a little bit mischievous. When he spoke, his voice was hauntingly familiar. "Well, lad, it looks that I've finally caught up with you. Are you finished running? Your mother is sick with worry."

      Had he been in control of the body his mind rested in, Brandon might have fallen in shock. As it was, Stephen went stiff and his head turned, as if seeking some sort of escape route. When he found no way to go but forward, he squared his shoulders and said. "I had no wish to worry mother, but you cannot stop me becoming a man, father. Not now. I've lain with a woman and, come tomorrow, I'll have fought my first duel."

      Brandon's grandfather chuckled and closed the door behind him. "If you lay with one of those wenches downstairs, I hope you threw your seed onto her belly. Otherwise, there'll be a gray eyed bastard cleaning the floors of this inn after you’re dead and gone. A whore's embrace doesn't make you a man, my son. No more than putting your sword through some braggart's gut. Now, sit down before I knock you down." He pointed at the bed. Though his tone was jovial, his face could have broken rocks. And the anger wasn't the worst part. It was the disappointment that Brandon saw in the man's eyes. It cut him as much as it did Stephen.

      Stephen hesitated for only a moment before sitting. He looked at his father and said. "Why do you hold me back, father? Why do you keep me from my birthright?" His hands barely shook as he adjusted the sword digging at his hip. The sword he'd never had a chance to use.

      "Do you think that I'll think less of you if you never kill a man?" The King crossed the room and sat on the bed beside his son. He was a big man, much bigger from the outside than in, Brandon thought wearily. He was older than the last time Brandon saw him, when he taught him about the gods in a dream. Gone was the long red beard. Brandon was as riveted by his grandfather's hawk-eyed gaze as his father was. "That I love your brother more, for the blood he's spilled?"

      "Don't you?" Stephen said, his voice pained. He looked down, staring at his hands, resting in his lap. Brandon couldn't help but be amazed at how smooth his father's hands looked, compared to his own. They were a child's hands. Stephen said. "Thomas is the better son. He is the warrior."

      The older man squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. He looked pained and sounded it as he said. "If I could create a world where one man could live his life without killing a single soul, I would do it." There was something in his voice when he said this. Had he emphasized world? "But that's not the world we live in, son. Men do as they do and one old man cannot change them. But I can change my son. It's your heart that makes you a man, not killing some fool or bedding a wench. In my eyes, at least."

      Stephen was silent for a moment. He stood and walked across the room, then turned back to his father. He said. "What would you have me do, father? Hide behind mother's skirt? What kind of man would that make me? What kind of king?"

      The king stood, wincing a bit. Perhaps an ache in his joints? Maybe an old wound? Walking across the room, he stopped in front of Stephen and placed his hands on the younger man's shoulders. His face softened. He said. "It would make you a king of peace. The first true king that this land has ever known." His eyes became stone once more. "Now, on your oath, I want you to promise that you will give up this idea of dueling to earn your sword. You will work at honing your mind, not your muscles. Give it now, or leave my sight forever, for no true son will disobey the will of his father." His grip on Stephen's shoulders had become painful, almost crushing. Brandon felt like crying out. So did Stephen.

      But, instead, Brandon's father simply took a knee and bowed his head. He spoke, his voice as hard and uncompromising as Brandon had ever heard it. "On my oath and my blood, and my hope of salvation from the gods, I swear to raise no hand in violence. Whether in the defense of my life or the life of my loved ones. In the god's names, I swear it."

      After the words were spoken, Stephen tried to meet his father's eyes but couldn't. Instead, he looked at his feet and said. "Father.."

      "Ask not why, my son." The king said, pulling Stephen to his feet. He looked at Stephen with sad eyes. Lost eyes. He pursed his lips and looked around the small room. "Gather your things. You have ten minutes, then we're leaving." Turning, the older man left the room.

      Before the door could swing shut behind the king, Thomas came inside and used a boot to kick it closed. Before Stephen could react, his older brother grabbed him by the throat and tossed him across the room, slamming him into the wall. The mirror crashed to the floor, the glass exploding around Stephen. Brandon felt Stephen's pain. His shoulder was wrenched and a lump was forming on the back of his head. He could also feel Stephen's fear. He had never before seen Thomas so angry.

      Thomas looked much like their father, only with reddish brown hair, instead of gray. He had a thick beard that left his upper lip bare. He was 10 years older than Stephen. Of the king's 4 sons, he and Stephen were they only ones still living. They had two younger sisters, even younger than Stephen, both married into houses that were strong for their father.

      Stephen attempted to push up off of the floor, but Thomas used the toe of his boot to push him back into the wall, bouncing his head off of the stone wall. Kneeling in front of the younger man, Thomas peered into his frightened face. His eyes were chips of blue gray ice. When he spoke, his voice was calm, though, almost thoughtful. "Did he tell you why?" When Stephen didn't answer right away, Thomas shook his head and twisted his mouth like he wanted to spit. "I don't see as I should tell you then. Not if he didn't see the need. Besides, I don't think you deserve to know."

      "Please, Thomas." Stephen said, unable to keep the pleading note from his voice. "Tell me."

      Riding inside of his father's head, Brandon knew what the bearded man was going to say before the words left the his mouth. "Our house is cursed, little brother. As bad a curse as ever conjured by man or devil."

      "What? What sort of curse?" But he didn't really have to ask. Stephen knew, Brandon realized. He could already feel the icy fingers of the curse, wrapping around his soul, settling into his bones. He'd felt it for days, not knowing what it was, a growing feeling of dread, filling his chest. He knew, but he still had to hear the words.

      "Sha'ha'Zel." Thomas said. His words were as cold as forged iron, his eyes were ice. Standing to his full height, he loomed over his little brother. For a heartbeat, his eyes looked a little less hard. Almost uneasy. He blinked and his face hardened. "Already, word is reaching the keep at Fal'Mara. Cousins have died. Found dead in their bedchambers. Hacked to pieces. All men grown. All with the Merryweather name. Our line is dead, Stephen. As dead as the rest of the Storm Lords." He almost sounded resigned to it. Dying.

      Stephen got to his feet. He met Thomas's gaze, stare for stare. Thomas eyed Stephen wearily, as if he was afraid Brandon's father would go against their father's wishes and attack him. Stephen said. "We can fight the Curse, Thomas." Stephen brushed dust from his pants and met Thomas's gaze evenly. He wasn't going to back down on this. Not when he was in the right. And he was in the right. Brandon knew it. When Stephen spoke, his voice echoed Brandon's thoughts. "Just because nobody has ever survived a Walking Curse, doesn't mean it isn't possible. But only if we fight. And not lay down and die like superstitious peasants. Not for some wrongheaded belief in old magic."

      Thomas's smile was sharp, full of teeth. "No, little brother." He said, his voice cold. "Not we. You aren't fighting anybody. Not you and not the bastard you might have whelped tonight."

      Stephen wanted to smash the smile from Thomas's face. Brandon felt the same urge. Instead, Stephen gathered his belongings. He threw his cloak around his shoulders and started to adjust the sword at his hip, then stopped. He met his brother's gaze and said. "You can give up, brother. But I choose to fight."

      Moving faster than Stephen believed possible(even faster than Gerrick could move, Brandon realized with a sick feeling), Thomas lunged at Stephen, grabbing him by the throat and lifting him up off of his feet. Pulling the younger man's face closer to his own, Thomas snarled. "You'll do as you swore. You will do as our father ordered. You will live. Or I'll kill you myself."

      Stephen shoved his brother backwards, using strength that he hadn't realized he had, and dropped his hand to the pommel of his sword. Thomas's eyes went wide and his own hand dropped. But Stephen only shook his head. He said, his tone cool. "I'm braver than you, Thomas. I always have been. And you couldn't stand it." Unbuckling his sword belt, he tossed belt, sword, and all onto the bed. "Maybe somebody will find a use for it. I sure as hell didn't." He left the room without looking back.

Chapter 37

      The sun slanted into Brandon's room through his half open window blinds, painting his bedroom gold and warming him where he lay. He opened his eyes slowly and stared up at his ceiling for a long time, thinking of the dreams and visions of his father and all that had happened since Christmas Eve. Highgarden was quiet. Even the tiny ever present sounds every house have were muted, the creak of warming wood and the hum of appliances.

      Sitting up, he looked at the clock on his bedside table and blinked. Half past 9. He'd slept longer than he intended. Getting out of bed, he ran through his morning routine of 100 pushups and sit-ups. Even with Gerrick gone, it never occurred to him to stop. Even with the Curse defeated and Gerrick gone, he knew that he wasn’t finished fighting. Not until he’d hunted down every last grohlm infesting Matheson. Besides, he liked how he felt after working out. It was too late to go out back and work the sword, so he contented himself with the sit-ups and push-ups. Once he was pleasantly worn out, he took a long hot shower.

      As he showered, Brandon’s mind drifted back to Christmas Eve. After he passed out, Claire drug him inside. She claimed it wasn't hard, but Brandon thought she was just trying to make him feel better. After getting him into the living room, she stretched him out on the living room floor and got him out of his wet clothes. She then bundled him up on the couch, wrapped in every blanket that she could find.

      She didn't know what he did, exactly, but Highgarden felt safer than ever, so she didn’t worry about another attack from the grohlm. Later, when she was less freaked out and had time to reflect on all that happened, she would question her own involvement in the battle and what happened after. But, until then, she wanted to stay with him until he woke.

      He awoke after almost 4 hours of death-like sleep to find Claire curled up in one of the living room chairs, snoring softly. He didn't wake her. Moving through the house, he made sure every door was locked, and every window, before going back into the living room. Gently, he carried Claire upstairs and put her into his bed. Then he put on pajamas, before getting in beside her.

      Romance had been the furthest thing from his mind, but at some point, they had both awakened and began kissing. They made love slowly, holding each other tight, and then went back to sleep. When Brandon woke up next, Claire was gone.

      He found her in the downstairs den, sitting in front of a fire. She was wrapped in a blanket and drinking a cup of hot chocolate. The chocolate made Brandon think of his uncle and he felt a pang of loss. When he sat down beside her, she leaned her head against his shoulder and said. "Merry Christmas."

      He put his arm around her and pulled her against his chest. "Can you believe I forgot?  Merry Christmas. How bad do you think your parents are going to freak out when they find out we’re engaged?”

      She pulled away and stared at him, her green eye as wide and as shocked as he'd ever seen it. Then she laughed and fell against him. "I think one battle a night is more than enough, thank you.” She giggled and snuggled against his chest. “I also think it might be a little early for marriage, but I'm going to consider that a proposal. Let's wait until after we've graduated, okay?"

      Brandon smiled and kissed the top of her head. Watching the fire flicker in front of him, he felt an answering flame burning within himself. It was always there now. Instead of the emptiness, there was the smoldering presence of the Phoenix. He was never truly alone, not anymore. But it didn’t feel creepy or intrusive, like you’d think. It was actually comforting. And not just because of the nigh invulnerability and super powers that came from the God’s protection. It was the sense of security he felt knowing that somebody was watching his back, even if that somebody was a trio of ancient magical deities.

      Claire called her parents, assuring them that she was okay, and her father insisted on coming to pick her up. But cooler heads prevailed and her mother came instead. She stayed out in the car while Claire and Brandon hugged and said their goodbyes on the front porch. Both were fully dressed by this time.

      Pulling back from a kiss, Claire looked over at her mom's car and sighed. "I'll probably be grounded until after we go back to school. Do you think you can live without me for a few days?"

      "It'll be hard, but I'll manage." Brandon squeezed her hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing her palm. "I love you, Claire. I'll see you at school?"

      "Yes, you will." She said, smiling. "And maybe before then, if I can sweet talk my mom and dad. I love you, Bran." Turning she ran to the car and was gone.

      Chief Derek Teague was sitting in his squad car, waiting for the light to change, when his cell phone rang. It was a number he didn’t recognize, but he picked it up anyway. He used to ignore strange numbers, but, as Chief of police, he no longer had that luxury. He answered on the second ring. “Chief Derek Teague here?”

      “Don’t you mean acting chief?” A familiar voice said with a chuckle.

      “Not since before Christmas.” Teague said with a smile. He drove through the intersection, found a spot to turn off the road, and parked. Once settled down, he said to the man on the other end of the line. “How goes life in the F.B.I., Special Agent Faux? Fight any monsters, lately?”

      “More than you might think.” Faux said. His voice had the same hollow quality that Teague’s did. He was sitting in a car somewhere in much the same way that the Chief was. “About to kick a monster’s door in, actually. Just waiting for the warrant. How about you? How are things in your neck of the woods? Any better?”

      “Hard to believe, but yeah.” Teague said, watching the traffic moving down Main Street. The town was quiet in a way that he hadn’t felt in a long time. It felt peaceful. He knew that the feeling wasn’t completely justified. There were still far too many grohlm left, hiding and lurking in the woods and in hidden dens, but something had happened on Christmas Eve to knock them down a peg or three. Something that had to do with the Merryweathers. He wasn’t sure what happened out there, but Gerrick Merryweather hadn’t been seen since. He planned to go out and check on Brandon before school started back up, but he was still working out how to go about it.

      After an awkward pause, Faux said. “I still feel like shit for leaving the way I did. I shouldn’t have left you guys hanging like that.”

      “You didn’t have much choice.” Teague watched the people on the streets, moving about the town, running errands, and generally acting like normal happy citizens. So different than the terrified people from the week before. He said. “Besides, we’re starting to regain control of the town. It won’t be long before we’ve wiped the little bastards out.”

      Faux laughed. “I like your confidence. We could use some of that around here. If you ever get tired of being the boss, I could put a good word in? There’s no shortage of monsters where I’m sitting and I could definitely use some people I trust.”

      “That bad?”

      “Nah.” Faux said, sighing. “Just ranting. I actually called for a reason other than whining about my troubles. I called in some markers and may have found out a little more about your town’s mysterious asset.”

      “Do tell?” Teague said, suddenly more alert. “Any clue who it is?”

      “Does the name Velvet Jones mean anything to you?”

      Teague couldn’t stop himself. He laughed out loud and said. “I think you need to re-check your sources. Velvet Jones can barely walk down the street without tripping over his own feet. If you’d have said Tuesday Jones, I might’ve believed it. But Velvet is about as unremarkable as it gets in the Jones family.”

      “If you say so, my friend.” Faux sounded dubious. He said. “You may want to keep  an eye on your friend Velvet, anyway. Just in case. My guy seemed pretty adamant.”

      Teague relented and said. “You’ve convinced me. I’ll keep an eye on him, just to be safe. What about you? You sound like you could really use some help? Is there anything I can do?”

      Faux said. “There’s some monsters you have to slay yourself, Derek. I gotta get off here, I see my guy coming. You stay safe out there. And remember what I said.”

      “You do the same.” Teague said. “Good luck.”

      “Thanks.” Faux hung up.

      Teague sat for a long time, thinking about what Faux said, before putting the car in gear and pulling a U-turn on Main Street. It might be a good time to reacquaint himself with Velvet Jones.

      After showering and getting dressed, Brandon went downstairs and fixed himself a pot of coffee. The house seemed warmer than before, more homey. As if the Curse dying had freed it somehow. Brandon felt different, as well. His heart felt lighter, knowing the truth about his parents. The truth was ugly and he hated that they had kept so much from him, but he was finally able to forgive and begin the process of moving on. He stood at the window, sipping his coffee and looking out at the backyard. He'd spent all of yesterday cleaning up the yard. It took most of the daylight hours to drag off all the dead grohlm. He stopped counting after 100. He took them out past the magical barrier surrounding Highgarden and left them. He wasn't sure, but it seemed like the barrier extended further out by at least 50 yards. And the feeling of stepping through was more pronounced. Highgarden was more alive than ever and felt like hallowed ground, bringing a feeling of peace and contentment to any who came within the spell enshrouding it.

      Drinking his coffee, he thought of going out and checking to see if the bodies were where he left them, but decided against it. He suspected the surviving grohlm had already begun filling their cook pots with their fallen brethren. He tried to push away the gruesome image, but was only half successful. Whatever appetite he might have had was gone. The coffee would have to do for breakfast.

      Moving through the house, he stopped in his uncle's office (his office now) and sat at the desk. The letter lay where he left it, unfolded and flattened on the big planner sitting in the center of the desk. Picking it up, he read it once more, probably for the hundredth time since finding it.

      Bran,

      If you're reading this, I am dead and you have faced the Curse and won. I knew that you would do well. I apologize for the terrible things I said and did, but know that it was all part of the plan. A plan that your father and I made, years ago. When we knew that you were the one who would face the Curse and destroy it.

      I'm more proud of you then you'll ever know. I've prepared you as best I could, but now you are truly on your own. Highgarden is yours, as is the rest of your inheritance, and nothing inside the house is barred to you. Explore and you will find many things that can show you the world your father and I left, so long ago.

      Peace be on your sword and in your heart, nephew. And know that you and I will meet again. In this world, or the next.

      Gerrick Talemane

      Last Knight of the Towers

      Folding the letter, Brandon leaned back in his chair and sighed. Outside, a car horn beeped once. Brandon got up and looked out of the office window. A white Lexus was pulling up the driveway. He didn't recognize the car.

      Stepping outside, Brandon left the front door open as he walked out to the edge of the porch and watched the car stop. The driver's side door opened and Lawyer Dagget got out, looking around himself with the air of a man who was amazed at what he saw. Or was it what he felt? Highgarden had that effect on people. Dagget looked little different than the last time Brandon saw him. His hair was cut a little different. His tan was a little darker.

      Noticing Brandon on the porch, Dagget smiled and closed his door. "It's been a long time since I was out here. I don't remember feeling this at peace the last time I was here."

      "It's the magic." Brandon said, stepping down and walking out to the car. The trunk lid popped open at a touch of the remote on the key chain and Dagget walked around to the rear of the car. Pulling a couple of suitcases out of the trunk, he shut the lid and shook his head, smiling. Brandon met him halfway, taking one of the bags from him and saying. "I didn't expect you till noon, or so?"

      "I caught an earlier flight." Dagget said, clapping Brandon on the shoulder. "Probably shouldn't have. The in-flight movie was animated and the only people watching were a dozen or so twelve year olds on their way to a little league tournament. It was atrocious. How are you, Bran?"

      "I'm fine." Brandon said and meant it. What did Dagget see when he looked at him now? Certainly not the sad eyed boy he packed off from Washington so long ago. That boy was gone. Now, a young man faced him, with eyes like gray shards of polished stone and the wisdom of someone far beyond his years. Those eyes, like an overcast sky, seemed to see everything at once. Brandon led the lawyer into the house, setting his bags down in the entry hall, and took him into the living room. Taking a seat, he gestured for Dagget to sit and said. "You're here. Have you thought about the things we talked about?"

      Dagget sat down, adjusting the hem of his pants, and nodded. He met Brandon's gaze and nodded. "The terms of your uncle's living will are pretty clear. You receive your full inheritance, from your parents and from himself, in the event he is unable to continue his custodianship of you. Whether through death or any other unforeseen circumstances. I suppose disappearing fits that criteria." Dagget let that statement hang for a moment. When he saw that Brandon wasn't going to answer the implied question, he went on. "With the amount of your income, there shouldn't be any trouble getting you legally emancipated, so long as you’re right about your Aunt Katie being willing to step aside as your guardian? Of course, I’ll be looking in on you every now and then."