P - Patriarchy

“Patience and persecutions,” Draedon said. “The chorus has begun.” He rubbed at his temples and took a slow, deep breath. A woman that he had met at the bar a few weeks earlier had taught him how taking a moment to think of his breathing, to slow its cadence and concentrate on nothing but his heartbeat would reduce his anxiety. She had taught him other things as well that night, but this technique had proven to be the longest-lasting. “Silence, you beasties,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“They are babies, Draedon,” his assistant, Athel, said. She had two children in her arms, each one vibrating the glass on their one-room clinic with its screams. Three more lay in makeshift cribs where a third helper, not more than a child, attempted to shush them.

“They are the foul manifestation of all that is evil,” he said. “Demon-spawn, sent to our world to torment me in my wretchedness.”

“To what end?”

Draedon shook his head. The noise was deafening, but he could still hear the thumping of a knock at their door. “To drive me mad,” he said. “To consign my soul to an eternity of torment. To inflict a lifetime of pain. I was an evil person in a previous life, and this here is my penance.” He crossed the room and opened the door. The tavern owner, a huge man named Jayk, stood in the hallway holding a sputtering lantern. “Hey, Jayk,” Draedon said.

“Doc.” The landlord rumbled.

“They can hear me in the bar again?”

“Yep,” Jayk said, his voice rumbling. “It’s, uh . . .”

“Let me help you. The word I would use to describe the sound is ‘piercing.’ Or maybe ‘strident?’”

“Annoying,” Jayk said. “Noisy.”

Draedon nodded. “Yes. Those words and a few . . . less savory.”

“We’re trying,” Athel said with a smile, approaching the door. She had a way with Jayk, or maybe the big man just liked her smile. “Some warm porridge might help, maybe?”

Jayk nodded. “Sure.” He turned and walked away into the darkened hallway.

“Thank you, Jayk,” Draedon called at the landlord’s back and closed the door, returning to his own personal hell.

“Why do you do it, then?” Athel said. “Why do you take in these children?”

Draedon sighed, taking one of the howling infants from Athel. “Because I love them so,” he said in a tone that implied the opposite. He scratched the infant, a young boy only a few days old, under the chin. “Isn’t that right, you affliction on my spirit?”

“Draedon, stop,” she said, swatting him on the arm with a towel.

“I only say it because . . .” he was interrupted by another knock on the door. He opened it, expecting to find Jayk, but another man stood there. He was a few years older than Draedon, but had the whip-thin appearance of someone used to conflict, and had a thick, raw scar on the left side of his face, from lip to cheek. The man was shorter than Draedon, but somehow gave the impression of a much more imposing form. A pair of steely eyes looked at him from beneath unkempt black hair. Draedon instinctively took a step back and handed the baby to Athel.

“Are you the man called Draedon? Draedon Halborne?” The man had a voice that matched his bearing. He walked into the room unbidden and looked about. Draedon could not help but notice the short blade on his hip, the leather the wrapped the pommel black-stained and worn from excessive use, and the black cloth wound around the man’s arm. “You run this clinic?”

“Yes,” Draedon stammered. He suddenly felt very intimidated. “And you are?”

“You stay,” he said to Draedon in a voice that was accustomed to being obeyed. “Everyone else, leave. No harm will come to any of you. Leave the children and go.”

The two women paused. Draedon looked at Athel and nodded. “Take Mirana and wait for me downstairs,” he said. “Get yourself a drink and relax. I’ll deal with our guest.” They placed the infants carefully in their cribs and hurried from the room, leaving the door open behind them. The man eyed Draedon for a moment then stepped into the hall. He gestured into the darkness, and a moment later a hooded figure entered. To his relief, the man bowed slightly to the new arrival and left, closing the door behind him.

“This is a wretched sound,” the figure said.

A woman’s voice. Her cloak was a muted red, with fur trim and filigreed patterns of white and gold in intricate patterns at the edges. Draedon looked down at his own simple shirt, the white cleaned of stains so many times it appeared to have been dyed by a blind madman. She set a small satchel on the table beside her.

“I cannot understand how you can bear it.”

“It comes from practice, and patience,” Draedon said, feeling the irony in his words. “How may I help you?”
His guest lowered her hood, revealing a young woman, only a few years older than himself, with intelligent eyes and a stern demeanor. She wore golden earrings with black stones in them, and a thin necklace of similar design and matching stones. “You are the Lady Kane,” Draedon suddenly realized. “The wife of Marcas Kane.”

“Yes,” she said. “You may call me Myreine.” She walked past him, peering into the bassinets as she passed. “No one can ever know that I was here,” she said, glancing at him.

“Of course, my lady,” Draedon gave her a polite bow. “Myreine,” he added.

“If word of my visit gets out, and the council hears of it, I will have my helm Temond pay you another visit. A less . . . social visit. Do you understand?”

Draedon swallowed thickly. “I am a man of my word, my lady. A threat is not necessary.”

To his surprise, she smiled at him. “I offer no threat, Draedon. I am simply telling you what I must do so you understand the gravity of our conversation. You should know that I approve of your work here. I am . . . an admirer of yours.”

“Thank you,” Draedon said, though he still felt uneasy. Her man — Temond — was not a man that Draedon would ever care to meet again. Though he had never seen him before, Draedon knew, as every Hatran did, the legend that was Temond Keroda. And that his bloody legend was well earned on many battlefields.

“I’m sure you didn’t come here for the screaming. What is it you need from me?”

Myreine leaned over one of the cribs and removed the screaming baby that Draedon had been holding a few minutes earlier. “I need a child,” she said simply.

“You’re adopting one of my babies?” Draedon was dumbstruck. “Of course, my lady, but . . .”

“I am not adopting,” she said. “I am . . . exchanging. And this one will do nicely.”

Draedon was confused. “Exchanging?”

“Open the bag that I brought. Inside is something for you.” She held the baby boy up in the air, bouncing him in the light.
Draedon did as he was told. Inside the bag was a carved wooden dagger, as black as an empty well, though exquisitely carved. He removed the weapon and tested the blade with his thumb, feeling the keen edge of the wooden blade. “It is as sharp as a razor,” he said.

"And worth more than this building,” Myreine said. “It is my oath to you, Draedon Halborne.”

“An oath in Hatra is a binding thing,” he said, waving the dagger in front of him. “By tradition, if you give me this, and break your word . . .”

“Then that is the weapon that you are to use to kill me,” she said. “This is the gravity of my bond.”

Draedon whistled. “You take this . . . rather, exchange, this child, with what? And what are your terms?”

“I had a daughter,” Myreine said. “Though my husband requires a son to keep his place. I have failed in my duty as a wife and a mother. A son keeps him as the head of the council. A daughter? In two years this city will be ruled by the Lozou. The Tudhorans. Or, worse yet, by that foul Early. I need a son, Mr. Halborne.”

“And in return?”

“In return, you see that my daughter is raised in a good home. You never speak of this agreement again. And I give you enough coin to keep this clinic running for the rest of your natural life.”

“I have no choice,” Draedon realized. “For if I don’t take your bargain?”

“Temond will kill everyone in this room, in this bar, and in this neighborhood, if he must.”
Draedon nodded. “I thought as much.”

“There’s doses enough in the bag for the first year. Go downstairs, get drunk, and find a woman for the night. Then all you have to do is run your clinic.”

“What’s the boy’s name?”

Myreine lifted the boy into the air. “His name shall be Camryn.”

“And the daughter?”

Myreine shrugged. “I don’t care. Name her what you will.”

* * *

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