Self-Made Scoundrel

Self-Made Scoundrel

Copyright © 2012 Tristan J. Tarwater

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Book Design: Christopher Tarwater

Cover Artist: Amy Clare Learmonth

Editor: Annetta Ribken

ePub ISBN-13:978-0-9840089-2-6

Dedicated to Sopi.

The Sword and the Seat

When Dershik Cartaskin was twelve years of age he saw his father Baron Darix Cartaskin beat down a farmer with the hilt of his sword in full daylight. The apologies made by the man’s wife and son, cowering a few paces away did nothing to stay the Baron’s hand. The sound of finely crafted metal and wood smacked against bone and flesh reverberated in Dershik’s ears; the glint of metal shone not with light but with blood. Mother and son stood there, holding each other, frozen although their faces were pulled in horror. They didn’t shout “no,” or “stop.” They only sobbed “Please, mercy!” The wife called out the name of her husband, trying to pull away from her son as one last smack sent the man plummeting to the ground. He fell with a low thud, dust kicking up around him. The woman cried out again, but still the man didn’t move.

Dershik could only swallow and try to ignore the roll passing through his stomach, turning his face from the scene. He saw his father pull out a handkerchief, wiping the stained hilt of his sword with it before he let the square of fabric fall to the ground. He fastened his sword to his belt quickly and quietly; the sobs of the family were quieter. The Baron then turned and mounted his horse in one fluid movement and dug his heels into the beast’s side, spurring it on to continue their survey of the village. Dershik’s hands felt dead on the reins but still his horse managed to follow after the Baron, pulling up along the other horse with a smooth, steady pace.

“Don’t look back,” his father commanded, low and deep. Dershik managed to keep his eyes forward though he desperately wanted to disobey. He wanted to see if the man lived, to see if the family went to the man’s aid. The boy couldn’t even remember why his father had done it. First, the Baron and the farmer had exchanged words and then without a shout, without warning the sword had been pulled out. The landscape blurred before him and Dershik looked down at his hands. He and his father continued down the dusty road and turned at the bend. Out of the corner of his eye the boy thought he saw some movement, but his fear of the man riding beside him kept his eyes on the road, his view marred by the tears he tried to keep from falling.

“The sword and the seat,” his father said when they were back in their home, the large stone keep. The magistrates and scribes had all left in a bustle of activity. Dershik meant to leave with them but his father called his name loudly, freezing him in his seat. The boy squirmed in spite of the cushion. He placed his arms on the armrests, thinking it would feel more natural, but it didn’t so Dershik put his hands in his lap and waited. His father’s steps echoed in the large room. The boy heard his brother and other children playing in the yard, ignoring the priestess calling them indoors. He tried to keep his eyes focused on some detail of the room, the room he had been forced to sit in so many times. He felt his father’s cold blue eyes on him, drawing his own up to meet his.

“This is our lot in life,” his father continued, walking in front of the tapestries. Gold and azure, the Cartaskin colors. His father stood there, like a monument to the Cartaskin lineage. His blond hair shone in the lamplight and his face just barely showed the golden stubble of his beard. “It is my calling and yours. In order to hold both well, you must have a firm hand. I know it’s hard to keep interest. You’re young and wish to play in the yard with your brother and the other children, climb trees. But the time will come when you’ll have to take up the sword and the seat and you will be grateful for the training and instruction I have given you.” His father smiled and Dershik felt like he should smile back so he tried. His father placed his hands on the back of the Seat, the chair a symbol of his authority, ornately carved with the Cartaskin symbols and the moon.

Dershik leaned forward in his chair, momentarily not caring his posture was so relaxed. “But I don’t understand why you beat that…man earlier today. Why? How does that help us hold the Seat? Doesn’t that make people afraid?” His father smiled again though Dershik saw his grip on the chair tighten, his knuckles white against the deep brown.

“The farmer questioned the Seat. So he received the sword. He was reminded where there is one, there is the other. He won’t die,” his father said in a voice not meant to reassure Dershik. “You should remember the two go together.” He placed his hand on the pommel of his sword, his other hand still on the seat. Darix Cartaskin looked so natural there Dershik couldn’t help but wonder if he himself could ever stand there as his father did now. Would the magistrates all quiet when he entered a room? Or would they have to be asked and shouted at, like his friends?

Dershik heard his father take in a breath and then sigh quietly. “Dershik, when you are the Baron and not the Baron-to-be you will learn fear works better than love. If you are wise and take my lessons to heart now, it would make your life and your training much easier.” His father finally looked toward the window, hearing the sounds of the children as if for the first time and he let go of the chair, nodding his head to his son. “Go. Play. You have sparring at first watch and you won’t be late. Your proficiency is not an excuse for delinquency.” His father smiled wryly at him as the boy vaulted out of his seat, rushing from the room and into the hallways of the keep.

As he approached the yard the boy slowed his steps, placing one foot in front of the other, bending low so he wouldn’t be seen by the other children. He gazed over the scene and unfastened his cape, letting it fall to the ground. Dershik spied his brother, strawberry blond hair and blue eyes, his longer face from their mother’s side of the family. He watched his brother catch the leather ball and heard his triumphant whoop. His brother threw it in the direction of another child before he darted off again, like a longfly in summer. Dershik watched and waited till he was certain no one was looking his way before slinking behind the bales of hay piled in the yard for visiting horses.

The ball passed back and forth, the children all running about and shouting, too engrossed in their game to notice him. His brother, red cheeked from running, laughed and took a step away from where Dershik lay in hiding. He sucked in his breath thinking his little brother ran away but the little boy bolted toward him, unaware. Dershik felt his heart beat faster. As his brother rushed toward him Dershik scrambled up from the bale of hay. He shrieked as he leaped down upon his brother. The younger boy’s eyes went white and wide with fear. He screamed in response, throwing his hands in front of his face. They both tumbled to the ground in a mess of gangly limbs and high pitched curses, the other children rushing toward them.

“Derry, get off of me! Get off!” His brother struggled under him. Dershik felt his brother’s fist smack across his mouth, salt and metal flowing over his tongue. It made Dershik angry and he grabbed his brother’s wrists as he sat on top of him.

“What was that?” Dershik asked. He was a lot bigger than Ceric and hadn’t played all day, being confined to his saddle and then the meeting with his father. He was angry and jealous. Ceric had played all day. He remembered Ceric chatting happily to the priestess about the games he had planned, his happiness that the metal merchant was bringing his daughter. Dershik pulled back his fist for another punch.

“Get up off of him, Master Dershik, please!” said one of the other children. All the heat in Dershik’s body drained away and he felt cold. He saw Ceric’s face, afraid. His brother’s face was already starting to swell. He looked up and saw the faces of the other children. Some of them had their hands over their mouths. Shame yanked him off of his brother and he scrambled up, tripping over himself as he sped away from the other children, pushing past the servants who had come out to see what all the commotion was about.

The autumn evening air felt good against his skin as he ran, his boots clunking against the earth. The crisp air and the aroma from the kitchen mixed in his nostrils and he ducked into the kitchen through the back door. A quick glance showed all the servants were probably in the yard tending to Ceric. Alone, he pulled part of a cold roasted animal off of a plate and shoved it into a small loaf of bread. Two servants emerged from the pantry with braids of garlic and a bucket of whiteroots, nodding in greeting. Dershik nodded back and ducked out of the kitchen, ignoring the shouts from the yard as he continued on his path.

The temple was cold and quiet. Vespers were over for the day and most people were busy getting chores done before the last watch. The temple was smaller than most keep temples Dershik was told, but it was familiar so he loved it. The boy took a bite of his meal and chewed as quietly as he could, not wanting to disturb the sanctity of the holy place. It was only here people never yelled. Everyone sat as equals before the Goddess for one purpose. It was where every child born into the area was named, every child acknowledged as a man or a woman, every pair of lovers bound, every prayer for the dead recited. He gazed up at the life-sized statue of the Goddess, dressed in actual cloth garments which moved in the slight breeze from the window

Footsteps came from behind him but he didn’t bother to turn and look. He knew by the cadence and quietness to whom they belonged. The priestess walked toward him and sat beside him. She was of an age with his father with long, brown hair, eyes grey like mirrorstone, and a square face. Her robes were various shades of grey that both hid and revealed the female form beneath them. The boy and the priestess sat there for a moment regarding one another quietly in the temple. Dershik ripped his food in two pieces, and when he offered her half she took it. He heard her chew quietly and the low swallow of her mouthful before she drew in her breath and spoke.

“Fighting again?” she asked simply. Dershik wasn’t surprised she knew. Sister Kiyla had probably passed the commotion in the yard or at least heard it. His mouth was still bloody. He could taste it in his food. It wasn’t the first time he had shown up to temple bleeding. “I’m not surprised it came to blows. However, I did think you would want to play for a little while before you excused yourself by making yourself unwelcome.” She took another bite of her food, giving the boy some time to collect his thoughts before he finally spoke.

“I’m not welcome, anyway,” he said, his voice cracking. It was true. Dershik was older than most of the children of the keep, children of servants or visiting merchants or magistrates. The older children who visited all knew who he was. They wouldn’t spar or sneak with their future Baron, regardless of how much he asked and insisted. His own brother was four years younger and annoying. Ceric wasn’t quiet or brave, which meant he couldn’t participate in many of the activities Dershik was interested in. Dershik had tried to get him to explore the abandoned cellars one time, knowing Ceric’s bizarrely keen knowledge of Cartaskin history would reveal more, but he started crying actual tears when Dershik pushed him through the door and slammed it shut. Ceric was a baby. The friendships Dershik fostered with some of the servant’s children all dissolved once his father started ‘advising’ him to join in on his meetings, accompany him on his surveys. He
had tried to get a game of kick-the-ball going just last phase, but Gerik the baker’s boy and Arn the lamp minder had all quieted, saying they had too many things to do to play. He saw them playing later out by the old well. He had showed them where the well was in the first place.

Dershik gulped down his anger with the children and took another bite of his food, talking through it noisily. “Nobody wants to play with the Baron’s son. It’s the Sword and the Seat, not kick-the-ball for me.” He took another bite, cramming his mouth full.

Sister Kiyla brushed some crumbs off of her lap with a pale hand, a large moonstone ring on her finger flashing in the light. She nodded in agreement with him and Dershik’s face fell, wishing for a way out of his problem, not resignation. “It is true, your position in life means people will treat you a certain way. You have responsibilities many do not know or understand. People fear this, though the Goddess tries to offer comfort and wisdom. And there is an estrangement between those who rule and the ruled. Even in the clergy, this happens.”