He stared at the narrow stairs leading to the loft for a long time. Footprints marred the dust, coming and going, layers on layers of decades of young lovers sneaking to the loft. Why hadn’t I looked for Gilby here? he asked himself. Was I too afraid of what I might find? Keeping Fyn away from Gilby had been like forbidding a moth to fly to a flame, Sarea and I had talked about it so many times, had tried everything we could think of...
“No, Goddess, no,” he whispered, stepping onto the first tread. “Not my baby. Not with Gilby.”
He climbed the stairs like a thief, his heart thudding somewhere in his throat, his hands clenched into fists at his side, and his eyes staring straight ahead. He heard the all too familiar sounds of love and tasted bitter bile in the back of his mouth but continued to climb anyway. The loft was as warm as a summer day, dim and not quite dark, indirect sunlight coming from under the eaves with the promise of lust and love, and the musty grain smell was tainted with the scent of sweat and dust and spent young men. He followed the sound, past a bin of corn, and startled a swine-herder and a milkmaid as he let his breath out in a rush.
“Go,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper as they gathered their clothes and scuttled away, nervous, embarrassed, and bare-assed naked. “Just go.”
They went while Dien continued on, checking behind the bins and past the piles of grain as he worked his way across the loft.
He stopped, as did his heart, and the red gauze slid over his vision again. Fyn and Gilby lay together, sleeping, covered with Gilby’s cloak, their clothes wadded into pillows, and their bare legs entwined.
Snarling, unable to control the red beast pounding within him, Dien reached down and grabbed the little bastard by the throat and threw him.
“Daddy no!” Fyn cried from out there in the seething rage and the redness shifted, just a little, just enough to let him see. “You’ll kill him!”
“Yes I will,” Dien snarled, throwing Gilby again, down the stairs this time, blood flecking the scuffed and dusty footprints of sneaky children toying with things better left to adults.
He stomped down the stairs after the little bastard, barely wondering how he crossed the length of the loft so quickly or how Gilby had become so battered. Musta been lost to the haze, he thought as he yanked the naked boy from the floor.
Gilby flailed weakly, more a loose shift of broken limbs than an attempt at self preservation, and coughed through a mouthful of blood, “Sir, I never meant—”
“Shut the peg up!” Dien snarled, shoving the hunk of skin-covered-meat against the wall. “You’re not fit to shine my boots let alone bed my daughter, you shit!” He backhanded Gilby across the face and his head snapped back and slammed hard against the wall.
“But, Daddy!” Fyn tugged at his arm and Dien shoved her away.
“Let Daddy handle this,” he snarled, lifting Gilby by the armpits and throwing him like a rag doll against a nearby pile of grain bags. Gilby landed with a groan and slumped to the floor, leaving a bloody streak on the sacks.
As Dien stomped back to the situation at hand, Fyn leapt in front of Gilby, shielding him with her naked little body. “No, Daddy! Please! You can’t!” she pleaded.
“Yes, I can,” Dien snarled, yanking her away by the arm and reaching for Gilby again. Lifting the boy upright and holding him by the hair with one hand, he punched with the other, flattening an already flat nose and cracking a rib or two before tossing the whole mess again. Behind him, from somewhere in the red haze, he heard a door creak open, but he didn’t care. Snarling, he reached for the bastard that dared to molest his daughter and he screamed his rage as something dragged him away.
Dien stared at the floor of Dubric’s office, his breathing hoarse, hard, and angry. He’d been shackled to the chair, his arms, legs, and chest, and the red rage had long since retreated, leaving his rabid anger seething at a job unfinished.
After a long time—Minutes? Bells? Days?—the door opened and Dubric strode in, physician’s notes in hand. “You are damn lucky,” he said walking to his desk and flipping through the notes. “Rolle tells me the boy is going to live.”
“Not long he won’t,” Dien snarled.
“Um hmm,” Dubric said, leaning a hip against his desk. “Would you like to explain what happened?”
“My daughter isn’t even thirteen summers old!”
Dubric nodded and pointed to the physician’s notes. “I see that. Rolle mentioned her age specifically in his report along with a dislocated shoulder and a variety of bruises she acquired trying to protect Gilby from being slaughtered. According to this, she will be thirteen summers next moon.” He flipped back a few pages and said, “Gilby is seventeen. They are young, true, but we have pulled younger people from the loft.”
Dien hissed out a breath. “I don’t give a peg about other children, just my own!”
Dubric sighed. “I thought you were tracking Jelke’s killer. How did that lead you to beating a page nearly to death in the grain shed?”
“I have a witness to the murder,” Dien said, panting and relaxing back in the chair. “He saw a page visit Jelke the night he died. I eliminated all the other pages. Except Gilby.”
“I see, and when you saw your daughter and a possible murderer together you snapped?”
“Something like that,” Dien muttered staring at Dubric.
“What if it was Lars?” Fyn asked from beside the door and Dien turned his head to look at his daughter. “What if you found me with Lars instead of Gilby?” Her fine, thin face shone with bruises and she wiped at a tear. “Tell me the truth, Daddy.”
Dien ground his teeth. “Doesn’t matter who it was. You’re too young.”
“I see,” Fyn said, biting her lip. “Jess has liked Lars since she was little, we all know that, and not once have you ever tried to keep them apart.” She sniffled and stared at her father. “I’ve heard you and Mam talk about it, how nice a boy Lars is and how rotten...” She wiped at her eyes and shook her head. “If you had found Jess and Lars in the loft, what would you have done? He’s about the same age as Gilby and Jess is less than a summer older than me. What would you have done, Daddy? Would you have beat Lars until he bled? Would you have thrown him down the stairs?”
“Lars wouldn’t have done that! Can’t you see, Fyn? Lars isn’t that way.”
“And neither is Jess. Right? She’s more interested in books than boys, and Lars, he’s too busy and hard-working to notice girls, so it’s all right for Jess to pine for him. Is that what you’re telling me?”
“No, it’s not what I’m telling you. No boy is good enough for my daughter, especially when she’s twelve summers old!”
Fyn raised her chin. “I’m marrying age in Klandan and Gattol and Fisske and I don’t know how many other places.”
“Too bad. This is Faldorrah and you’re not even courting age yet.”
“I love him, Daddy.”
No! “Don’t be silly, Fyn. He’s not worth your trouble. This is just a passing thing.”
“He’s not a passing thing, Daddy! I’ve loved him for as long as I can remember! Why don’t you like him? Why? What’s he ever done that was so horrible?”