In the Shadow of the Rook

4. The Bone Hut

Erik hadn't meant to enter his father's house. He had a sack of his meager possessions thrown over one shoulder, his cloak wrapped close about him, and he'd been headed for the Fost'Fluum River. But instead of passing by the door, Erik found himself bringing out the key, putting his hand to the handle, and stepping inside as naturally and unthinking as breathing. Just as he'd done nearly every day since he and his father had come to Zauhn sixteen years ago.

He stepped carefully in the house, but the floorboards still creaked beneath his boots. The paintings lining the walls were cast in shadows, but Erik knew their visages. Vestorian princes, kings, heroes—the same meaningless drivel you could find in any well-to-do artisan's home. Erik had always resented their presence, but he let them stay hanging, unscathed, even now.

He made his way slowly, inevitably towards the stairs up to the study. The way was narrow, and they curved up like a snake wound about a man's neck. His Sudenian ancestors were mad for that sort of thing, if the commonfolk in Zauhn were to be believed. Erik never had asked his father about it.

Then Erik creaked open the door, and there the man stood, facing the window, his back to him. Erik had his belt knife on his hip. He always kept it sharp.

But he left it sheathed and took another step in, and his father spoke without turning. "Erik," he said in his deep, accented voice. "You have come." His accent had always made even common words flow out as smooth as honeyed wine.

Erik didn't say anything. He didn't know what to say. Blighted world, he didn't know what to feel.

"When did you awake?" his father asked quietly.

Erik answered reflexively. He'd had the habit of obedience to his father once, and in the absence of anything else, it took up the old yoke. "Just now. Tonight."

His father sighed, audible even facing away. "I..." His words trailed off, deadened in the small, comfortable space. His father's entryway may have been as devoid of essence as any merchant's, but he'd always belonged in his study.

"There are not words in this tongue," his father said. "None to convey what I feel for you, right now. My son."

"I must leave, Tacitus. Will you help me?" The coldness, the firmness of his own words surprised Erik. The address of his father by his given name, rather than the name Erik had always known him by, the name of the man who had given him strength when he felt weak. Father, he yearned to say. Fafa. But he held the words back.

"So little time," his father murmured. "And still the time has not yet come."

"Will you help me?" Erik asked again, an edge of anger to the words now. He knew no hard truth of his father's guilt, but he had suspicions, and they were enough. "I need to go, but I don't know where. Who can help me if not you?"

"Vodrun might, if he were willing... But no. You would not be standing here if he could."

"You left me there." Erik's eyes burned now, and his throat tightened. "You knew I was up there, tortured back into life, and you left me there." He wouldn't call this man his father, not again. He didn't deserve the word.

"There is so much more he needs to know," his father whispered as if to himself. "So much to prepare for. But can he be ready, now? Can he ever be ready?"

"Listen to me!" Erik hissed, taking a step forward, and a book tumbled from a shelf. His father flinched, half-turning back as it clunked to the floor, its pages splayed out like a lurcher's spilled guts. He had turned as if afraid. Afraid of his own son.