Luther's Pride Part 28

The pyres burned through the sunrise. Folks from the valley arrived during the six-hour ceremony to say their goodbyes. No one from Luther's household slept. Criella and Wulfric worked diligently to send the messages and notices, drawing the locals here this morning. The servants left their duties to pay their respects to the honored dead. Luther and his spouses stood beside Branan and his partners before the pyres, watching the flames lick toward the sky in sparks that danced toward the sky. 

Sune and her fellow priestesses must have been tired, but their singing didn't show it. The ancient, bittersweet song of the rite filled the meadow as the bodies burned. The ancient words commended the spirits of the fallen to the gods above. Luther hoped they found peace in their ascent to heaven. 

These ceremonies always seemed to be for the living more than the dead. He hoped Eira and Rhosyn found comfort in the tradition. Their parents died in a way the empire told them to be proud of, even if Luther couldn’t help but feel sorrow at the loss. The constant cultural idolization of might over every other virtue had a heavy cost, paid in countless gallons of blood over the generations. 

Luther stood silent beside his partners, watching the flames, and meditating on his thoughts. When it was done, the embers of the fires glowed dimly in the early morning light. Luther, Jo, and Helena escorted Rhosyn and Eira inside. Their wedding night had been unusual, and the normal activities of such a night remained far from anyone's mind. 

The traditional departure of the guests left Luther and his household alone for the first time in days. Only his servants and Criella remained. Eira and Rhosyn’s exhaustion was plain on their faces. Their eyes were red and dry, having cried more tears than they possessed. 

Luther helped them prepare for bed, but the ritual was one of comfort and routine, not eroticism. The five bathed together in silence. He, Helena, and Jo led the proceedings. Eira and Rhosyn seemed too empty to do it themselves. Together, they scrubbed the night’s ash from their bodies, washed the smoke from their hair with fragrant shampoos, and climbed into bed after drying off just before noon. The heavy curtains blocked the world's light, so it might as well be dusk. Despite the time of day, they’d been awake for too long with arduous toil. Sleep took the marriage bed firmly in hand, and Luther didn’t wake again until it was dark. 

When he woke, Luther blinked in the darkness. The room's gray had turned to pitch, making him realize that true night had fallen outside. The fire in the bedroom’s grand fireplace was cold ash. They’d been left undisturbed by the maids and servants. No candle or clock indicated the time. He felt he’d slept for days but hoped that wasn’t true. There was much to do. 

The gentle breathing of the women on either side of him, and their gentle snores, mimicked the lazy rolling of waves at sea. The noise was surprisingly peaceful, and he’d likely fall back to sleep if he didn't move. Carefully, he dislodged himself from the pile of limbs crossing him and slunk from the foot of the bed to the floor below. He left a pillow in his wake, hoping it would keep his absence from waking anyone. Rhosyn and Jo, the women directly beside him, clutched it in his absence. 

Leaving the bedroom, he entered the apartment’s common room to see that the servants had erected a table and covered it with food. Wulfric must have sent dinner to their rooms, but the covered dishes were cold. The fire in this room, too, was ash and dust. Still, the fruits and pastries filled his stomach easily enough. He dressed in his training gear: trousers and a shirt, and left the apartment to find Will, his valet, asleep outside the door. 

The young man was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, where the door was. His feet were on the floor, so his knees were tucked close, and his arms hugged his legs to hold them in place. His head was bowed over his chest, his forehead against his knees, and his gentle breathing was quiet in the night. 

Leaving him, Luther continued along the hall until he came to the top of the stairs and hesitated. A mage-crystal light from further down the hallway suggested someone was still awake. He didn’t know if they were burning the midnight oil or if it was closer to sunset than he’d thought. Will had every right to sleep; he’d stayed awake through the pyres with the rest of them. 

Luther abandoned the stairs for the light, following it to his father’s office. The crystal lamps glowed, and he hesitated before pushing the door open and stepping inside. 

Startled, Criella looked up at him from the other side of the desk, sitting where his father must have sat. She had a quill hovering over an open booklet. She recovered her surprise and nodded at Luther with a bow of her head. With her horns curving over her skull, it was almost an intimidating gesture. 

“My lord.” She said, greeting him as formally as any employee might. 

Luther raised an eyebrow. “Are you angry with me?” 

“No.” Criella said, confused. “You just startled me, and I prefer to address you properly while I’m working.” 

Luther nodded, not understanding her insistence on using the title, but seeing nothing gained by protest. “What are you working on?” 

“Adjusting your household accounts for Eira’s and Rhosyn’s wedding presents from their parents.” Criella answered. “I filed the appropriate paperwork yesterday before the challenge, so everything’s above board, but the ledger needed updating.” 

“How did Branan react when he found out?” Luther asked, leaning against the doorframe. 

“As well as can be expected.” Criella answered. 

“So we should look out for thunderstorms destroying the property?” Luther asked. 

“No. He vented well enough to me.” Criella absent-mindedly touched her cheek. 

“What-what do you mean?” Luther asked, rising from the doorframe in alarm. “Did he strike you?” 

“Backhand, right across the face. Got me pretty good.” Criella said. She smiled slightly, but the smile made her wince, and she touched her cheek to steady it. 

Rage boiled in Luther’s veins. He strode forward so swiftly that he surprised Criella, who straightened and winced as he took her chin in his hand and turned her face so he could see. A dark bruise was forming beneath her right eye, the rose colored skin turning toward a more violet hue. His concern and touch flustered her, and for a moment, she did nothing but breathe. Then she grabbed his wrist and held his arm to keep him from touching her bruise. He kept his fingers clasped around her chin. 

“I’ll kill him.” Luther said. 

Criella lifted her chin from his grasp and turned away. She released his wrist, tucked her hair behind her ear, and lowered her quill against the ledger.

“He wasn't the first and won't be the last to insult me this way, my lord.” Criella said, her tone flat. “This is how they treat demihumans in this part of the empire.” 

Luther scoffed and stepped back from Criella. “No one treats me this way.” 

“You're a lord, and people forget you're demi.” Criella reminded him. “You can pass as human if you want to. I have fangs, a tail, red skin, horns, and nails that might as well be claws.” She spread her fingers to show off the long, black nails at the ends of each digit. “No one mistakes me for a human.” 

Luther frowned. “How did Branan ever work for my father? He disrespects you for being a demihuman, but my father wasn't even human at all.” 

Criella tidied her clothing, brushing her corseted blouse and smoothing her trousers. “Your father proved his might. That's all they respect here.” 

“I'll challenge him myself if he doesn't come for me in three days.” Luther said with determination in his words. “He'll answer for how he treats you. Anyone who hurts you will answer to me.” 

“Do not challenge him on my account, my lord.” Criella said. “I’m not your spouse, and his personal insult against me isn’t your business.” 

“But you could be, if you wish it. My invitation–” 

“No, my lord.” Criella said, turning away so as not to look at him as he stood beside her chair at the desk. 

“You still refuse to marry me?” Luther asked. “Why?” Luther moved around the desk until he stood within her gaze again. He stood at the opposite corner and leaned over the significant wooden barrier with his hands flat upon it. “I know you love me, Criella. You’ve always loved me, and I love you.” 

“Maybe. When we were young. But those days are behind us, My Lord.” Criella answered, her voice resolute, as if convincing herself. “But you left, and I had no idea if you were living or dead.” 

“You know why I–” 

“Yes.” Criella said. “And I don’t blame you, but I won’t marry you, Luther. Stop asking.” 

“Is that why? Because you’re angry with me for setting out on my own? I asked you to come with me, but–” 

“I chose to stay here. I know. I make my choices, and despite what you may think, I… I do not love you, Luther.” Criella said, but she refused to look at him as she said it and turned her face to the other corner of the desk. 

Luther moved again, placing himself in the way of her gaze. “What about the library?” Luther asked, as if catching her in a lie. “Why would you–” 

“A lapse in judgment on my part, and something that won’t happen again now that you’re married. I won’t sully your union.” Criella said. “Now go to your wives, my Lord. I’ll be leaving as soon as I finish the ledgers.” 

“I know you love me.” Luther said, his voice defiant. 

“You deceive yourself.” Criella said, her voice quiet, and the tears at the corners of her eyes threatening to spill over. 

“Why won't you admit it?” Luther asked, exasperated. 

“Because you are an idiot!” Criella’s remorse turned to anger instantly, and she stood from the desk. “You’re too focused on the rejection, on what you cannot have, to see the wisdom in my absence from your union.”

“What wisdom is there to deny happiness?” Luther asked, spreading his arms as he asked the question. 

“It would cost you your life, Luther!” Criella said, moving away from him and toward the window. She looked out over the grounds, speaking to Luther without looking at him. “I can’t believe I have to spell it out for you. If I married you, you'd lose all chances of adding others to your union. You need wives more than you need me. I can't help you survive. My arcana is useless to protect you. But you have a chance with them. Now go to them.” She turned away again, not letting him see her reflection in the window’s glass. 

Luther walked softly around the desk, standing a respectable distance behind her. Her tail drooped close to the floor, but swished from side to side, barring his approach from behind. 

“So you do love me, and that's why you won't marry me?” Luther asked. 

“Go to your wives, Luther.” Criella said. 

The determination in her voice had to be bravado, but Luther saw no point in trying to overpower her rejection. She was fixed on her path, and his attempts to dissuade her only hardened her resolve. He was beaten, and if he was to have any chance at convincing her that she deserved what little happiness they could have together, he needed the others in his union to support his decision. Maybe one of them could convince Criella. 

Luther sighed. He turned to walk away, but hesitated on his path to the door. The books on the desk had jogged something in his memory, something he’d lost track of with everything happening since his marriage to the twins. “Oh, I was told that Lucas stole one of my father’s journals. Do you know which is missing?” 

Criella spun and glared at him. “You tell me this now?” She asked, moving behind the desk once more. “I’ll have to check. Do you want an official complaint to the town guard, or would you prefer to handle this quietly?” 

“Let’s handle it quietly, if we can. If Lucas is obstinate, we’ll get the guard involved.” Luther answered. 

Criella sighed. “At least he didn’t get your father’s annotations on Annwyn.” She held up a small leather-bound book.

“His what?” Luther asked. 

“These are all of your father’s notes on Annwyn from various sources. He might have written a book of his own. As it is, it’s a series of quotations, excerpts, and notes that are extremely disorganized. I’m working to organize it, though.” Criella gestured to a second book on the desk, in her own handwriting. 

“You seriously think I have Annwyn’s arcana?” Luther asked. He took the book from Criella, flipping through its pages. The familiar scrawl of his late father’s handwriting gave him a pang of nostalgia. 

“Your father did. You won’t know until you try, right?” Criella asked. 

“I think sometimes, you’re a bit too like the others. You forget that I'm demihuman.” Luther said, his shoulders drooping. 

“What are you talking about?” Criella asked, her tone nearly offended that he’d suggest such a thing. 

“That's why I don't have an arcana.” Luther said. His words made it sound as though it should have been obvious. “Just because my mother was human doesn't mean that I am. She was only half of me. My father wasn't human at all, and Fey don't have arcanas. My father didn't have an arcana. But he was a powerful mage anyway. Their magic works differently. That's why I went to the Otherworld, to learn from them, hoping that my magic worked like my father's.” 

“And?” Criella asked, eager to hear what he’d learned. 

“And I spent three days there, which turned into three months here.” Luther said, as if that were a defeat of some kind. 

“But did you get an answer?” Criella asked, striding around the desk to approach him. 

“Not really.” Luther said. “I learned it'd take a century, maybe longer, if I proved slow at the task, to develop the baseline necessary to cultivate the skills my father had with magic. He had hundreds of years to develop his talents. I've had a decade or two.” 

“But you don't age in the Otherworld, why wouldn't you stay and learn?” Criella asked, curious. 

“Because it would cost me you, and everyone else I know and love, not to mention probably kill me.” Luther said. Again, he spoke as if the answer was obvious, as if she should know everything he knew. But she knew stories, while he had the experience of living some adventures like the ones she’d only read. “A hundred years there? The time difference accelerates the longer you spend there. I'd be three centuries old if I spent one there. And I've no idea if my half-fey parentage is enough to protect me from the dust curse.”

“Dust curse?” Criella asked, stepping close enough to Luther that she was within arm’s reach. She stopped, moving no closer. 

“Mortals from this realm who travel to the Otherworld and return, their bodies reacclimate to this world's frequency and time.” Luther said. “Time catches up to them the instant they touch the ground. The fey aren't affected because they're native to the Otherworld, but if a human spent three hundred years our time in the Otherworld, then returned…” He let her imagination fill in the unspoken result.

“They'd age three hundred the moment they touch the ground?” Criella asked. 

“Yes.” Luther confirmed. “I wasn't willing to risk that. So I spent a minuscule amount of time there. I'd hoped for a book, or manual, but the fey loathe the written word, remember? Especially the mages. So I had to settle for lectures, without notes, and then return.” 

“But you learned some of their methods, and they work for you?” Criella asked. “Is that why you were able to produce more powerful light than the typical trick?”

“Yes.” Luther nodded. “So you see? That's why I don't have an Arcana. Because I'm part fey.”

“But… if that's true–”

“It's true.” Luther said. 

“IF that's true, why didn't your father believe it?” Criella asked. “He would have known about the dust curse, and obviously he knew about fey magic. Why was he so sure you have an Arcana, and not his method of magic?” 

Luther shrugged. “I don't know. He wanted to believe I was more like my mother than I was him? Maybe he saw how people treated demihumans, or nonhumans, and wanted me to be as human as possible.”

“Why does Eira think you have an arcana then? If you don’t trust your father’s hopes, can’t you trust your wife’s predictions?” Criella asked. 

“I want to believe it.” Luther said. “I hope it’s true… but I’d resigned myself to the truth of my arcana long before you started with this Annwyn theory. After watching Branan in battle… It might be best if we accept my lack of arcana.” 

“Maybe… but I still think there’s hope.” Criella stroked her chin, then pointed to the book in his hand. “Read his notes on Annwyn. Let me know what you find.” She returned to her place behind the desk. “I'll handle Lucas’ theft.”

“Okay.” Luther said, as if she were the boss. 

“Now go to your wives. Training starts in the morning.” Criella gestured toward the door. “Close the door on your way out.” 

Luther smiled softly. “Thank you, Criella.” He kept the book, carrying it with him to read. He left her, closing the door behind him. 

“You’re welcome, my lord.” Criella said, her voice soft and tender, barely audible through the closed door. 

Luther gave a sad smile at the use of his title, but left her to her work. She befuddled him. She loved him, and he loved her, but she refused to marry him to protect him from union with a demihuman, which was nonsense. He was demihuman. Yes, he looked human, and the fey were pretty, while Asmodeans were devilish in their appearance. For people to think them evil because of their appearance was ludicrous. Evil lived in the heart, no matter what flesh clothed it. Luther could only hope people would see that. Then maybe Criella would join their union.