Sci-Fi fantasy from an unknown author
Amaranth Rose 042
On Raznack, in Chapter 42, Yorgen’s love interest, Mellick’s trap detailed in full, Porthins’ mistake
Chapter 41 can be found here: https://medium.com/@gjsittler/amaranth-rose-041-5a0a67f00f0e
The entire series is listed here: https://gjsittler.medium.com/list/this-mortal-coil-081bdde292a6
Chapter 42: Yorgen’s love, Mellick’s trap described, another plot launched
“You’re keeping Doria tonight?” Griffendahl perched comfortably on a draftsman’s stool, watching Yorgen as he worked. It was three days after the last meeting of the insurgents.
Yorgen nodded. He’d been taking care of Doria for the past few months on nights when Mellick had business or meetings with the insurgents.
“I’ll take her with me to art class tonight. She’s a great model. The other students are quite jealous of me. One of the young women thought I was her father the first time I took her. She even asked me for a date.”
“Did you take her up on it?”
“Are you kidding, Lord Griffendahl? This is Raznack! When a gorgeous woman shows an interest in a young man, he’d be a fool not to encourage her!”
Griffendahl laughed. “What’s she like, this pretty young woman of yours?”
Yorgen’s eyes grew dreamy for a moment. “She has hair the color of a freshly turned furrow,” he said, closing his eyes as if to summon her to his mind’s eye, “and eyes like smoke. Her lips are soft and sweet and red as ripe tumbleberries. Her skin is warm as sunshine and soft and smoother than the finest silk, and she is round and sleek and full as a woman should be. She has a ripe, luscious body which begs to be filled with children. When she laughs the sky clears, and when she frowns the storm clouds gather. Her voice is like music on the wind, clear and tender.” He looked at Griffendahl then, his eyes lost and forlorn. “But her heart is lost to me.”
“You love her.”
Yorgen nodded. “Isabel seduced me. We were together for several weeks. We were planning to marry. That was before her parents sold her to another man. An old man with much wealth and little use for a warm, living woman. He keeps her as an ornament to his property and his pride. A pretty bauble, to show off to his friends.” He cursed under his breath. “Men who don’t want women shouldn’t have them. If I could I’d take Isabel from him.” He sighed and bent to his work.
The young man finished a drawing, removing it from his tablet with a flourish and handing it to the Inquisitor. It was Doria, asleep, her shabby little lion toy clutched in her pudgy little hand, a sweet smile on her face. It was very lifelike.
“It’s beautiful, Yorgen,” Griffendahl said approvingly. “It looks just like her.”
Yorgen grinned. “Felina Jezreal is an excellent teacher. I’ve learned an awful lot from her and the other students.”
Griffendahl glanced at the next page on Yorgen’s pad. He pointed to it.
“Who is this?”
“Someone I saw. His face struck me as interesting.”
“He looks familiar.”
“Here, let me finish it.” Yorgen sat down and rapidly penciled in the finishing touches. Bagrad’s face emerged under his precise, swift strokes, as Yorgen had seen it when he’d picked Doria up at Mellick’s apartment a few nights before.
“Ms. Jezreal pointed something out to me. There are two main types of faces on Raznack, if you know what to look for. This man is like you and Lord Nickolas and Lord Mellick.” He riffled through a drawing pad.
“Father and Teebah are the other type.” He showed Griffendahl a sketch of Garron Ayrielle. “Do you see it?”
Suddenly Griffendahl did see it. It smote him like a club between the eyes. He had known all along who the native Raznackai were, but it took the eye of an artist to show him how he knew. Bagrad had been so busy stirring up hatred against the native Raznackai that no one had realized he was one of them, not even himself.
“It can’t be,” he said involuntarily, though the incontrovertible evidence stared up at him from Yorgen’s sketchpad.
“What can’t be?” Yorgen asked, watching his face pale slightly.
“Um, never mind. So, to whom does this woman belong, the one who stirs your heart so?”
“Lord Porthins,” he said disgustedly. “He bought her from her parents a few weeks ago. They were very unwilling, but he threatened to invoke the law if they didn’t accept his offer. Now she’s his slave and he’s never even been with her.”
“I expect not.” It was that long since he’d seen Porthins. “I expect he’ll bring her to the banquet tonight. I doubt he’d miss the chance to show off such a prize.” He had avoided public dinners whenever possible, for Debbie’s sake, but this one tonight was unavoidable.
“Tell her hello for me when you see her,” Yorgen said, sounding disgusted. “She’s the one with the bruises doing the most groveling to his Lordship.”
“Were you involved with her before he made his offer for her?”
“Yes, quite. In every way,” Yorgen sighed. “We’d spoken with her parents, even, and they were favorable. But there was no way I could hope to counter his offer.”
“Hmm. Did your father and Teebah know about this?”
“Yes. I was more than a little upset with Father when Lord Porthins took Isabel. He’d counseled us to wait before getting married. We’d planned to marry next month, on her mother’s birthday. Father was as shocked as I was when Porthins bought her.”
“I can’t imagine how he thought to get away with it,” Griffendahl mused. “According to the law on Raznack, an agreement between free parties approved by the parents of both parties is binding and always takes precedence over a purchase offer in the eyes of the law. Did you not know this?”
Yorgen looked startled. His mouth opened and closed silently a few times; he gasped for breath. Griffendahl reached out and put his arm around Yorgen’s shoulders in a reassuring hug.
“I’ll see what I can do, Yorgen. Don’t give up hope.”
Griffendahl watched as Lord Porthins entered the reception room, Isabel on his arm. Yorgen was right, she was strikingly beautiful, with her long, glossy brown hair and fair complexion. When they drew near he noticed her eyes were a peculiar shade of dark gray. At the moment they were brimming with tears. Short, plump, ruddy-faced Lord Porthins was dragging her along by one arm as if she was a prize bull. She was looking at the floor, and her face was downcast. He made his way slowly across the room, showing her off to all and sundry. Griffendahl intercepted him.
“Lord Griffendahl! Where’s your lady tonight?”
“She’s with her father,” he gestured across the room. Debbie looked up at that moment; he caught her eye and smiled at her. She smiled, blushing slightly.
“I’d like you to meet Isabel,” Porthins said ostentatiously.
Griffendahl took her hand, raising it to his lips and kissing it gently. “I’ve heard a great deal about you, Isabel. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”
“You’ve heard about me?” she questioned.
He nodded slightly.
“From whom, may I ask?”
He still held onto her hand. Porthins was frowning at him.
“We have a mutual acquaintance. Yorgen Ayrielle told me about you.”
She grasped his hand tightly. “You know Yorgen?” she asked in a faint voice.
Griffendahl nodded. “Indeed I do. He’s one of my protégés. He’s a very talented artist. I expect him to go far one day.”
She shot a frightened glance at Porthins. She looked away, turning so he could not see her face. “Please, My Lord, you must help me. I must send him a message.”
Griffendahl reached out and gently turned her face to his. He turned to Porthins.
“Good heavens, man, don’t you know anything about taking care of a woman? Go and get her some wine, she’s about to faint!” He’d spoken loudly; a number of people looked in their direction. Porthins got very red faced. He started to pull Isabel away.
“I mean it, Lord Porthins. I’ll see that she stays right here until you get back. Hurry!” he ordered peremptorily.
Porthins hesitated a moment longer. Griffendahl glared at him, and he scurried away. He turned to her then. “What is it, Isabel?”
“Please, My Lord, you must tell Yorgen. I’m pregnant with his child!” She spoke softly, her eyes on his, shimmering with tears.
“I see.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small paper envelope. He tore it open and poured two small black capsules into his hand.
“When Porthins comes back, take these. Don’t let him see you. Go on with him as if nothing is wrong. Trust me. You’ll come to no harm. I’ll soon have you and Yorgen reunited.”
She hesitated a moment. Then she took them, slipping them into her pocket.
When Porthins returned with a glass of wine, Griffendahl took it from him and handed it to Isabel. He saw her jaw tremble; her hands were shaking.
“You’d better sit down soon, dear, you don’t look well,” he said in a concerned tone. His voice carried through the room. He turned to Porthins.
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“Really, My Lord, if you’re going to keep pets you should at least take care of them properly.” He maneuvered so that Porthins was between him and Isabel. He saw her hand slip into her pocket and pass to her mouth. She sipped her wine and gave him a slight nod. “You have to feed and water them regularly, Lord Porthins. I daresay she hasn’t eaten properly in days, has she?”
“I — I really have no idea, My Lord,” Porthins said, his large belly quivering in fear. “I hadn’t really been paying that much attention.”
Griffendahl snorted in disgust. “I figured as much. Now quit dragging her about and find her a place to sit down, before she falls down! Quickly, now, or I’ll arrest you for abuse!”
Porthins looked at him, alarmed. He led her off, and soon Griffendahl saw him taking her to a comfortable seat beside the fire.
“What is Lord Porthins doing with that woman?” Mellick asked him quietly. He’d observed the situation and his curiosity had gotten the best of him.
“Getting himself in a great deal of trouble, Lord Mellick.”
“Oh? How so?”
“Do you know what happened on Raznack the last time a man bought another man’s betrothed?”
“Would that be when Gilliam Arnush took Tolata Verdosh from her parents by subterfuge after they’d agreed to let her wed Jazor Kalbish?”
“The same.”
“If I recall, Jazor and Tolata’s parents and about half of the population of Raznack went to liberate Tolata. They killed Gilliam and set his head on a spike outside the gates of his property and laid waste to everything until there wasn’t a brick or stone left upon another,” Mellick said soberly. “They slaughtered Gilliam’s entire family, burned the valley and seeded it with a particularly resistant breed of snare vines. They’ve never been eradicated. Arnush Vale is still uninhabitable.”
“Exactly,” Griffendahl said, watching Isabel closely. “It was over two thousand years ago. It’s legendary now. There’s even a song about it. It goes something like this:”
“Its verdant pastures, leafy green
By human eyes are now unseen.
Its paths are trodden by wild beasts
Where lovers once shared secret feasts
“When young Lord Gilliam, dark and strong
Swam its rivers and strode along,
Young and proud, his father’s son;
The next Lord Arnush, well begun.
“Gilliam’s eye roved far and wide
Searching for a pretty bride.
They set upon Tolata Verdosh,
A beauty pretty as a thrush.
“Her voice was like the song of Dawn;
Her hair was forge-fire red and long;
Emeralds paled beside her eyes;
Lips of ruby told no lies.
“But a prior claim lay on heart
By Jazor Talbish, young upstart
Their parents knew the two were troth;
The match approved by families both.
“When Gilliam found his want denied
He vowed he’d take her to his side.
He kidnapped her in trait’rous ambush,
Dragged her home to Castle Arnush.
“She refused his rough advances;
Ignoring all his smoldering glances.
Angered, Gilliam drew his knife;
Cut her throat and took her life.
“Her blood baptized the flagstone floor
And caught the sunlight, glinting,
His dagger sparkled luridly;
Gilliam fled quite hurriedly.
“Jazor found her gone and cried,
‘Who will help rescue my bride?’
Their families and half a planet more
Beat their way to Gilliam’s door.
“Jazor Talbish, tall and golden,
By his rage and anger goaded,
Slew dark Gilliam and his kin,
Tumbled all his buildings in.
“The blood of Arnush gushed that day
For Tolata’s death Gilliam would pay.
Not a stone left on another
Not a child, nor a mother.
“All was destroyed in Jazor’s ire;
The valley scoured with such fire
That naught alive was left within.
Then Jazor sowed those fields again.
“He sowed them thick with poisoned fruit;
All waters there he did pollute;
And last of all to mark the deed,
He sowed the valley with snare weed.
“Now meadows grow verdant once more.
The water’s long since turned back pure.
In Arnush Vale men no more breed;
Now ’tis home to Jazor’s weed.”
“What’s that got to do with Porthins?”
“The woman he’s dragging around like a fang-dog pup on a tight leash was engaged to Dr. Ayrielle’s son Yorgen, until he intimidated her parents into selling her to him.”
Mellick shook his head. “The fool. Their families approved of the match, and he still managed to take her?”
Griffendahl nodded. “He claimed it wasn’t legal because they hadn’t registered it, and they believed him. They had no proof, it was only their word against his, he told them. They didn’t realize they could protest it.”
He’d spoken to both sets of parents. They’d confirmed Yorgen’s story.
“Isabel’s father told me Porthins threatened to destroy his business if he didn’t acquiesce. He was ready to kill Porthins when I told him he’d been had. I had to threaten to arrest him if he didn’t settle down. I told him I’d handle it another way.”
“There’s always another way,” Mellick muttered. Both men were silent for a time.
“How is Doria?” Griffendahl asked him after a moment.
“She’s fine. She’s with Yorgen tonight. I understand she’s quite the little model.” He smiled, and his face took on an animation and vitality which made a remarkable transformation in his appearance.
“He has a beautiful sketch of her with that lion toy,” Griffendahl remarked. “Speaking of which, what is Lord Bagrad up to?”
“No good, of course,” Mellick replied. “Didn’t Lord Nickolas tell you? He’s set out with a couple hundred men to raid the armory at Vansom. I doubt they’ll be able to do much damage.”
“Why is that?” Griffendahl asked.
“I drew the maps they used to plan their trip,” Mellick said with a self-satisfied smirk. “They think Arnush Vale is an open prairie. They’re planning to cross it and spend the night there.”
Griffendahl’s jaw dropped. He looked at the little man in horror for a long moment. He closed his mouth slowly. “You sent them through Arnush Vale? The single largest snare vine patch on Raznack?”
“They chose the path. I only suggested it.”
Griffendahl choked on his wine. It took a few second for him to recover his voice. “You sent two hundred men to their destruction deliberately?”
The scope of it made what he’d planned to do to Debbie, had done to Debbie, seem gentle and compassionate in comparison. The memory of her screams as she twisted in agony in his arms made him wince. Death by snare vine was infinitely more agonizing and took as long as two weeks, depending on how well fed the vine was.
Mellick nodded, his face an inscrutable mask. “As I see it, Lord Griffendahl, by the time they either turn back or reach the armory there will be so few of them left they won’t be able to do much damage.”
“How could you?” Griffendahl managed to say when he recovered his voice.
“Don’t waste your pity on them, My Lord,” Mellick said icily. “Many of them bragged about the things they’d done to women and children. They talked about doing those things to Doria and other babies when they thought I could not hear them. I merely saved the court’s time and effort. Consider it a public service, Lord Griffendahl. I have no regrets. It was in my power to see that they never had the chance to do those things again to any child, and I did it.” He was completely impenitent.
Griffendahl looked at him in awe. “But I thought you and Bagrad were… “
Mellick nodded. “At one time. At one time I hated the native Raznackai, too. But all the native Raznackai I know accept me, all of me, the way I am. They treat me like a human being. They respect me.” He paused before continuing in an icy, scathing tone. “The rebels sneer at me and deride me, call me ‘gimp’ and ‘shaky’ and ‘lame bones’ and worse. They think I am a pushover. They treat me like a doormat. All I am to them is a cripple, good for drawing maps and to use for their pleasure when they are bored.” He took a sip of his wine before continuing.
“I overheard several of them plotting ways to get Doria from me recently, to use for their sordid purposes. They thought I was asleep. Bagrad came to my quarters the other day. I thought he was trying to get Doria in his clutches. He kept staring at her like he wanted to use her. It made me feel rather ill, actually. I was very glad when Yorgen showed up. I was afraid Bagrad was going to try to coerce me into bringing her along. I was worried for her safety.”
“He said you were a bit late getting back that night. Did something happen?”
“Bagrad seduced me that night. He couldn’t stand to see or touch my arm. He wanted me, but he didn’t want it.” He looked at Griffendahl, an intense light in his eyes. “It made me long for Catherine even more, and I already dream about her every night. I want to be with her. I love her. I want us to be a whole family.” His voice caught. A desperate look came over his face. “Tell her that for me, please? You told me once she was safe, My Lord. Is that true?”
“She’s all right, Lord Mellick, I promise you. You do realize that she may not feel the same way about you?”
Mellick nodded. “I understand. But I’ll never have a chance to find out if I can’t see her.”
“I can’t risk having Bagrad find out she’s still alive.”
“Bagrad may not live through the week. If he does, he’ll come for me. He’ll know I betrayed him. I don’t have much time either way.”
“All right. I’ll take you there. Come to my quarters tomorrow evening. Bring Doria. Be prepared to travel. I can at least make sure you’re both safe. I certainly owe you that much for your help in breaking the rebellion.” He looked at Mellick, his lips pursed and his eyes narrowed. “Two hundred men? Remind me never to make you angry.”
Mellick had the good grace to blush. “Don’t threaten my daughter,” he murmured.
Griffendahl chuckled. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
There was a sudden commotion near the fireplace. They looked over. Isabel had slumped in her seat and appeared unconscious. Griffendahl smiled slightly.
“Right on time.”
Mellick looked at him with a curious frown on his thin features.
“Excuse me, Lord Mellick, I’ve got a war to prevent,” he said, heading toward the fireplace.
Chapter 43 is published here: https://gjsittler.medium.com/amaranth-rose-043-350e020c0d18
NOTE: Comments and claps are encouragement to publish more. Since the author is deceased, there won’t be any edits, other than spelling or punctuation correction.
