Samuel sucked in more air, his ribs aching. He’d failed, and all he could do was wait for the mayor’s judgment. He wasn’t sure if he’d be executed. How much did the mayor value his services with Zei? He continually spoke of her needing to be controlled, but so far, he’d never released her from the confines of the prison. Would he merely be content to unleash her? Would he try and unleash her on him and his father?
The foreigner yawned loudly before rising. He pointed the knife at Samuel’s father. “You’re the boy’s father, are you not?”
His father lowered his head.
“He’s a bastard,” Jax said matter-of-factly. He tossed the tongs aside and took up one of the hammers, examining the craftsmanship.
“How interesting.”
The furnace flames crackled. Samuel closed his eyes, wishing to slip away into the darkness. He listened to his father’s unsteady breaths, regretting everything. A part of him didn’t care if the mayor would have him killed. Maybe he could sleep in peace.
“I’d been ordained,” his father said feebly. “Stationed in the redlands by the high council. I worked in Charos. A small town near the outskirts of Vayler.”
Samuel opened his eyes, looking at his father through the cracked lens. Drool and blood leaked from the corners of his lips, and his face was so swollen it was hardly recognizable. What was he doing?
“A redlands town,” the foreigner repeated. He smiled. “Quaint little place along the coast. Clear ocean. Beautiful sand.”
His father craned his neck, his bloodshot eyes falling on Samuel.
“I was a man barely grown. A few years older than you. Charos was a quiet place. Small population, so death wasn’t a frequent visitor. My hut was a mile away from the town, in between a row of dunes. I spent many days alone in prayer.”
“Quiet,” Jax said. He playfully struck the hammer on the anvil. “Or I’ll gag you.”
“I first saw her,” his father continued, “when I was returning from the sea with my catch of fish. She stood by my hut, her hair flowing in the wind. She wore glasses, but you could still see the beauty in her dark eyes from a hundred meters away.”
Samuel pulled his bound hands farther into his gut. He’d fantasized this moment as long as he could remember, the day his father would explain the young woman in the photograph. He wanted to ask questions, but was afraid any interruption could halt the story. He remembered the last time they spoke. His father was a man of his word.
“She … had this little leather bag with her. She came up to me, unafraid. Told me she was a runaway. She needed a place to stay. She told me she would pay whatever I wanted. She also told me she kept a hidden blade with her at all times, that she’d already killed a man the day before, and she would gut me if I tried anything.”
“That’s enough,” Jax ordered. He slammed the hammer down harder, the sound of striking metal ricocheting across the walls. “No one wants to hear your sobbing love confession.”
“I told her I was a cleric. I showed her my mark. I told her I couldn’t help her. But she was relentless. ‘Are you a man of faith?’ she asked me. ‘If you are, what would your god have you do? Ignore the request of a young woman in need?’ She fascinated me.”
Jax draped the hammer over his shoulder as he leisurely moved to Samuel’s father. Samuel balled his hands into fists. He didn’t have much strength, but he wouldn’t allow his father to take another blow. He couldn’t.
“Let the man be,” the foreigner said. He lifted a knee to his chest, his fingers continuing to dance the knife between them. “I want to hear his story.”
Jax turned. “I don’t.”
“Then go outside. You really are an unpleasant fellow.”
Jax scrunched his large nose. His eyes reflected aggravation, but he didn’t care enough to do more. He tossed the hammer onto the table and toyed with the blacksmith’s handcrafted knives.
Samuel’s father coughed violently, his voice dry. The foreigner meandered over. He gave his father a drink from his thermos. His father coughed once more, but the liquid had cooled the itch.
The foreigner took his seat. “What was her name?”
Samuel knew the answer.
“Atia.”
“Lovely summer name.”
“We stayed together. We were alone. I lived far away from the citizens, and the town was small. I was rarely called to perform the rites.”
Samuel kept his face down. He couldn’t look at his father.
“She was a better fisherman than I was. I was a greenlands orphan. The clergy picked me when I was thirteen, said I had an aptitude for learning. But she … she was much smarter than I ever was. She knew politics and science and music. She was a wonderful singer. She’d come from a wealthy family, I could tell. But she refused to talk about it. ‘That is my old life,’ she’d tell me. She said she only wanted to stay in the present. With me.”
Samuel bit into his cheek. He shifted his bound wrists, the rope dragging across his tender skin.
“We were happy,” his father said. “I was happy. She wasn’t afraid of me. One day, when I’d snagged my hand on a fishhook, she cleaned the cut and bandaged it. She touched me as if it was natural. I loved her for it. I forsook my vows. I wanted only to be with her. To … not be alone. She became pregnant.”
Jax spat on the ground as he rummaged through more tools, the iron dinging.
“A citizen, someone near the town, must have seen her wandering the beaches. They followed her to our home. I was away. I was out … ” His father looked up, almost as if he was searching for the right words. He pursed his lips, his eyes going wet. “The sheriff of Charos came. He took her. Took the child. Hours later, a group of patrolmen found me, threw me in a cell with her. We were judged the next day.”
Samuel wanted to touch his father. But he couldn’t. His hands were tied, and he didn’t know how to embrace a man he’d always regarded as stone.
“All men are slaves,” the foreigner said, his tone compassionate. “Slaves to the law, the earth, their own hearts. No one is free.” He paused. “Please. Continue.”
Samuel’s father scratched his chin across his shirt. “Her father attended the hearing, Fernado Kuramo. He’d brought his younger daughter with him. She looked like a younger clone of her sister. She couldn’t have been older than six or seven.”
“Interesting,” the foreigner interjected. “I think I recall that name. Yes. General Kuramo. Famed swordsman and brilliant military strategist, if I’m not mistaken.”
His father nodded. “I listened to him advocate for the execution of his oldest daughter. By running away to escape her engagement to the son of a well-connected politician, she had disgraced her birthright. I remember him saying something like that to all the clergymen and politicians. He kept his younger daughter beside him the entire time. He made her sister watch.”
“Pride is a man’s legacy,” the foreigner said.