Even if it killed him inside.
It was destroying his relationship with Yenge as well. When he was away, all he did was dream of home, and now that he was here, there was no happiness, no comfort. Yenge blamed him for their daughter’s penalty-him! — as if he were responsible for her wild behavior. “She was a girl in need of a father,” she said, “and you weren’t here.” Even Alexander and Caleigh grew distant, acting as if they were afraid to speak with him. His children meant everything to him, and seeing their wary glances tore at his heart. Every night he listened as Yenge wailed herself to sleep in the chamber down the hall, and every night he thought to go to her, to comfort her, but he never did. He stayed in his study, using the fireplace to warm his hands on each progressively chillier fall evening, wallowing in self-revulsion.
And it wasn’t only Lyana’s fate that inflicted him with guilt. Broward Renson was never far from his thoughts; Vulfram was haunted by the image of his oldest friend’s head rolling away from the executioner’s stone. He often cursed Broward’s name, but that was always followed by a moment of doubt. Why would his friend have partaken in an act that hovered between irresponsible and outwardly evil? And why hadn’t Vulfram possessed the patience to stop and ask? His friend’s cries haunted him. What might Broward have said if he’d stayed Vulfram’s blade? But Karak himself had ordered that the judgment be swift, meaning that Vulfram’s questions were a sign of doubt and cowardice, a lack of faith in his deity.
It was a destructive cycle of self-hate that saw no end.
He tipped back the jug of brandy and took another hard swallow. This time he choked on the bitter juice while pounding the table with his fist. His lips formed Yenge’s name, wanting to call out to her, but his throat remained still. He stumbled to the door of their bedchamber, pressed his ear against it, and heard his wife sobbing again. His fingers brushed the polished ivory door handle but stopped short of lifting it. Instead, he wandered back to his desk and slumped behind it. He pulled out a piece of parchment and then dabbed the tip of his quill into a tub of ink, but in his drunkenness all that came out was an illegible smear when the tip touched the page. He stared at the paper, hardly aware of what he was trying to write or whom he even planned to write to.
It is all my fault.
He tossed the quill across the room, crumpled the parchment, and cried. He only had one more day left before he had to head back to Veldaren and reclaim his position as Lord Commander. More than anything, he wished someone could heal his troubled mind before then.
Perhaps Karak will visit again in the night, he thought. Perhaps he will tell me what to do.
It was the lie he told himself every night, the way he calmed himself enough for sleep. Rising from his chair, nearly knocking it over in his tipsiness, he proceeded to the cot in the corner of the room and collapsed on it. He didn’t bother to extinguish the candles or close the flue to the hearth. Eyelids half-open, he stared at the flickering light until it sent him off to another drunken and restless sleep.
He was awakened by a foreign scent and something soft touching his face. The shocking revulsion he felt snapped his eyes open with a start. He lashed out with his fist, striking nothing but air.
“Please be calm, Lord Commander,” a voice spoke from the darkness. “I mean you no harm, but we must speak.”
Vulfram recognized the voice, but distantly. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, the blood pounding in his head a reminder of how much he had drunk. The throbbing across the front of his face was almost as bad. He groaned and leaned over, searching for his waterskin on the ground and not finding it.
“You wish for some water, sir?” the familiar voice asked.
A figure stepped forward in the darkness, and for the first time Vulfram understood that it was dark.
“How long have I been sleeping?” he asked, snatching the proffered jug from the stranger and taking a long pull from it.
“I don’t know, sir. I just arrived.”
“Has the worship bell rung?”
“Um, no sir. That isn’t until tomorrow evening.”
“Good,” he said. He scanned the darkened room, lit only by the still glowing embers within the hearth, but he couldn’t find his sword. Instead, he reached beneath his mattress and wrapped his fingers around the handle of his spare dagger.
“Sir, I assure you there is no need for that. I mean you no harm.”
A flame was struck in the darkness, momentarily blinding him. Vulfram covered his eyes with his arm, almost cutting himself with his dagger in the process. Silently he cursed his carelessness. His sight adjusted to the new light, that of a lantern. When he lowered his arm, he recognized his visitor as Weston, one of the Renson’s elderly family servants. The old man tilted his head and gave Vulfram a queer look.
“Are you all right, sir?”
“I am. Why do you ask?”
A curved, slender finger pointed at him. “You have blood all over your mouth and beard, sir.”
Vulfram wiped at the area and sure enough, there was blood there, mostly dried. The ache in his nose…he must have struck it somehow while collapsing onto his cot. He took the jug Weston had given him and splashed water over his face, which served to fully rouse him, and then wiped his face with yesterday’s tunic. He felt a cold breeze and looked over to see that the outside door to the study, which opened onto the rear court of Mori Manor, had been left ajar. Rising from the cot, he paced to the door, closed it, and headed back to his desk. The candle there had dribbled wax all over his meager supply of parchment. Sighing, he began peeling the bits of dried wax off, dropping them into an empty cup.
“Weston,” he said while he performed his mindless duties, “I’m tired and irritated. Tell me why you snuck into my quarters in the middle of the night. Come to avenge your master’s death, perhaps?”
The last part had been said in jest, but the old servant seemed to take it seriously. “Absolutely not, sir. To me, the Lord Commander’s decree is as good as Karak’s. I would never do such a thing.”
“So why are you here?”
“My new master sent me, sir.”
“Bracken?”
“Yes.”
“Then out with it,” Vulfram said. “What does he want?”
“He wishes to speak with you immediately.”
Vulfram chuckled. “Two weeks go by, but now is when he wants to see me immediately? I supposed he needed time to work up the nerve. I take it he will be the one who takes revenge for Broward’s death, eh? Better him than a crooked-backed old servant.”
Weston didn’t laugh; he simply stared at him with a dire expression.
“I apologize,” said Vulfram, feeling like an ass. “Please, Weston, what does Master Renson want with me?”
“I do not know, sir. He has been searching the house for days, and this very evening he emerged from the library in hysterics. He told me to find you immediately or he would cut off my head.” Weston licked his dry lips. “I hope you do not wish me beheaded, sir.”
Vulfram shook his head. That a man who had served his friend so faithfully for decades might doubt him filled him with shame.
“Of course not, Weston. I do not punish the innocent, only the guilty. Please, let me put on clothes that do not smell like a brewery. Wait in the front courtyard. I will join you in a few moments.”