FIFTY-NINE
Folken Lacour stalked through the corridors of the sorcerer's tower, all the anger and rage that he felt clearly visible on his face. Those that he encountered quickly moved out of his way and dropped their eyes from the intensity of his dark gaze. The pale-haired man paid no notice, as he made his way towards the apprentice quarters.
The young man had remained in the park clearing for sometime riding out the waves of despair and anger that had almost drowned him. In one afternoon he had watched his new marriage crumble away, lost the woman that he loved and been betrayed by a man he thought was a friend whom he could trust. The look on Jindra's face and the coldness of her words as she had thrown her marriage ring at his feet still haunted Folken as he made his way through the shadowed halls. The pain and despair that he had felt after Jindra had run away from him had slowly given way to a deep-seated anger and rage; and it was those same feelings that had followed him all the way back to the sorcerer's tower.
Despite his pledge not to give up his wife to Anton Lefebvre without a fight, the former cadet had managed to slip away before there had been any chance for a confrontation. Folken wondered if the man was at that very moment with Jindra – offering whatever comfort he thought might turn the young woman's affections towards him. Lacour growled in his throat as he thought about Jindra in Lefebvre's arms and he felt a surge of jealousy that made him grit his teeth in anger. Folken wanted nothing more than to lash out and hit something – or more specifically, someone. Lefebvre . . . Marco . . . it didn't matter to him; even Jindra had been an object of his wrath for a short time.
Jin. The young man clenched his fists as her distraught and weeping face once again swam before his eyes. A mournful sigh escaped from Folken's throat and he blinked back tears that he felt forming in his dark eyes. After all the two of them had been through – all the heartache that had threatened to separate them time and again – it looked as if they had finally met with the one thing that their love could not overcome. Although he had not resigned himself completely to believing that Jindra would never forgive him and take him back, Folken found that he didn't hold out much hope of the two of them reconciling either. He believed that his time he had hurt her too much – caused her too much pain and disappointment – for her to ever forgive him. I've got no one to blame but myself . . .
I should have told her . . . I should have told her everything from the very beginning. Damn them – damn them all! Lefebvre . . . Marco . . . this whole godforsaken place . . .
When Folken reached the stairs that would have taken him to his own rooms, he instead turned and continued on. Stopping in front of Marco Dimetra's door, Lacour pounded on it. "Dimetra!" He pounded once again. "I know you're in there you bastard," the young man tried the doorknob, but it was locked. "I swear I'll break it down . . ."
After waiting a few moments, Folken swung his metal hand against the door, above the knob; but it remained closed. With a frustrated growl in his throat, the young man kicked at the dark wood with everything he had and was rewarded when the force of his kick broke the lock and the door swung inward.
His left hand tightly gripping the hilt of his sword, Folken strode into Marco Dimetra's quarters and slammed the door.
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With a slightly shaking hand, Marco Dimetra raised the wine glass to his lips and quickly drained its dark contents in one deep swallow. Reaching for the cut-glass decanter, he poured himself another generous glassful. Sitting there staring at the dark maroon liquid before him, the apprentice let out a small cry and buried his face in his arms on the tabletop.
After leaving Folken Lacour, the dark-haired man had returned to his quarters and quickly gathered together some clothing and other items and had left the sorcerer's tower. Marco didn't want to be around when Folken returned and he definitely didn't want to be anywhere nearby when Garufo learned that his puppet had been unable to complete his betrayal of the young outlander.
The only two people in the whole world who ever gave a damn about me, and what did I do to them? Marco let out another mournful cry as he recalled the look on Folken's face when Anton Lefebvre had stepped out of the hedge so gleefully. They didn't deserve that – gods above and below, no one deserved that. Lifting his head, he stared at the wineglass once again. The dark-haired apprentice recalled Folken's words, "And you're so perfect and selfless?"
No . . . I'm just a coward – a gutless coward. Lifting the glass to his lips, Marco titled his head back and once again quickly drained the glass. Always have been . . . always will be. Marco Dimetra blinked his dark brown eyes against the tears that threatened to fall as he reached to refill his empty glass.
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Folken left Marco's empty bedroom and went back out into the front room. Where are you – you bastard? He looked around the room again, and his eyes fell on Dimetra's worktable. Lying on top of the brown wrapping paper that had encased it, was the watercolor that Jindra had painted for Marco as a thank-you gift from the young couple; Folken had never seen the painting, in fact he wasn't even sure what the gift had been when he had delivered it to the dark-haired man.
Looking down at his wife's work, the young man once again felt the rage well up and a growl escaped from his throat as he swept the watercolor off the table with his metal hand. Clenching his fists, he looked down at the painting – its dark wooden frame now broken by the impact when it had hit the wall before falling to the floor. Damn you Dimetra – you coward! You will tell me who did this . . .
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Anton Lefebvre sat at a table in the shadowy back of the tavern, a half-finished bottle of Egzardian liquor in front of him. The young man was still reeling from the events of earlier that afternoon. With a curse, he reached for the bottle and took a swig – he had not even bothered with the small glass that the barmaid had brought – and closed his eyes as the strong dark amber liquid burned down his throat. Ungrateful little bitch . . . with yet another curse, Lefebvre slammed his fist down on the tabletop; oblivious to the curious glances that were cast his way.
After Jindra had run away from him in the park, Anton had been so filled with rage that he had taken his sword and hacked away at the shrubs and trees; leaving a swath of destruction that looked as if a small battle had taken place. He still couldn't believe that Jindra had actually married Folken Lacour; and he could not rid himself of the visions that plagued him of her in the sorcerer's arms, while the two consummated their union. Why? Why did you do it? You let him ruin you . . . you were mine Jindra – mine! It should have been me – me! Damn you, you whoring little bitch!
Lefebvre took a deep breath as he felt the rage start to rise once more; he didn't want to lose control again – the girl had already driven him to the edge of reason and he could not allow her to do so again. Since leaving the park, the young man had thought more and more about the chain of events that had led up to this afternoon's finale and the more he thought – the more he pieced together – Anton began to see the truth of what Garufo had done. In his quest to ruin the outlander, Garufo had used Anton as a pawn, gleaning information from him and manipulating him – all the while using Lefebvre's desire for Jindra Roh against him. All his sly little remarks – the looks; damn the hateful bastard – he knew it; somehow he knew what they had done.
Taking another deep draught from the near empty bottle, Anton swore silently to himself. He's probably sitting in that godforsaken tower like a fat bloated spider, rubbing his hands gleefully – not only did he break Lacour, but he played me for a love-sick fool as well. Damn you Garufo – damn you to the nine hells! Lefebvre drained what was left of the bottle and then signaled the barmaid to bring him another.
The serving girl had just departed when a shadow fell across the table. Anton looked up into the face of the man he had just been cursing and he felt his anger rise. But before he had a chance to speak or act, Garufo slid into the seat across from him. "Tsk, tsk Sergeant. You look like you're drowning your sorrows instead of celebrating your good fortune."
"Good fortune is it? I should gut you here and now, you patronizing bastard." Anton's eyes flared with anger, his voice a low growl.
Garufo smiled at him, "Go right ahead and try Lefebvre; you'll be dead before you even draw your sword."
Lefebvre glared at him and took a drink to steady his temper. "You knew it, didn't you? You knew that the two of them had married. Was that part of your plan, too – to make me look like a complete fool?"
The other man spread his hands wide, "I assure you Sergeant, I only learned of it this morning. I was just as shocked as you by it – Lacour went against every oath of the tower by wedding the girl . . . "
"Demons take your oaths and your precious tower . . ."
Garufo's eyes narrowed, "I'd watch my words if I were you Lefebvre . . ."
"Why? What are you going to do? Kill me – make me disappear?" Anton's voice was as cold as the look in his dark blue eyes, "I don't think so; and you know why? Because I bet that Folken Lacour would give anything to know who orchestrated this whole scheme – to know the name of the man who was responsible for the destruction of his life. I saw the look on his face Garufo – and it was the look of a man who had nothing left to lose . . . a man out for blood."
The sorcerer laughed, "Well done my dear Lefebvre, well done." He gave the young man a cold smile, "Ah, would that you had come to the tower long ago . . . yes, well done indeed." He reached for the bottle of liquor and poured some into Anton's unused glass. Lifting it, Garufo toasted the man in front of him. "Truly I have not enjoyed myself so much . . . this has indeed been a merry game." He quickly downed his drink.
"Game . . . is that what this was to you? Playing with people's lives – destroying them . . . "
"Lacour had to learn his place . . . unfortunately, a few bystanders had to be expended – but it couldn't be helped."
Anton put his hand on the hilt of his sword; but before he could draw it, Garufo's voice stopped him cold. "I wouldn't if I were you Lefebvre . . . not unless you want to die where you sit. After all of your hard work, it would be a shame to have to kill you before you get your reward."
The young man slowly removed his hand and put it back on the table in front of him. "What are you talking about – what reward?"
"Jindra Roh of course; you do still want the girl don't you?" Garufo smiled to himself as he saw the lust and anger that burned in the young man's eyes. "True, she's far from being an innocent young lady now," he heard the growl that escaped from Anton's throat and inwardly he smiled once again. "But that doesn't mean that you still can't have what you've desired for so long, does it?"
"I couldn't dishonor my family by marrying a divorced woman." Anton replied as if he were trying to convince himself of his words as well.
"Marry – who said anything about marrying the girl?"
Lefebvre's eyes narrowed, "You sick . . ."
"Temper, temper Lefebvre . . . always so quick to judge others – especially when you are far from innocent yourself." Garufo leaned across the table, his voice falling to a whisper. "What if I were to tell you that the sweet Miss Roh had in fact given herself to Lacour long before the two of them had married? That she had been his little bed-mate for some months past?"
"Liar – I don't believe you! I know her – she would never do such a thing!"
"Still defending her to the end I see – how virtuous;" he gave Anton a cold smile. "Such a pity she isn't as well."
"Damn you – you bastard! Haven't you done enough already – haven't you had your fill of sick amusement yet?"
"I'm only trying to help you Lefebvre – I do so much want to keep my end of our agreement; or don't you want what you have coming to you?"
Anton took a deep drink and looked at the half-empty bottle in front of him. "My honor will not allow me to take a divorced woman as my wife."
Garufo laughed and the sound made Lefebvre's skin crawl. "Your honor – and just where has your precious honor gotten you Lefebvre? It left your family heavily in debt and poverty-stricken . . . it got you expelled from the best military academy in Zaibach and left you to find employment as a lowly guard . . . and finally, scorned by a woman who instead chose to take some upstart outlander freak to her bed like a common streetwalker – oh yes Sergeant, your honor has given you so much."
Anton growled deep in his throat and he instinctively reached out and grabbed the sorcerer by the neck, "Shut up you bastard – " Anton felt the prick of the knife blade in his back and he caught his breath. With a poisonous glare, he let Garufo go. It was several long seconds before the feeling of the knife in his back disappeared.
"Did you think I was joking Lefebvre?" Garufo readjusted his collar and his cloak. He poured out a glass and pushed it towards the young man, "Now why you don't you have another drink, you and I still have a few things left to discuss."
Anton Lefebvre lifted the glass to his lips and downed the dark amber liquor in one deep swallow. This is all your fault Jindra – how could you do this to me? I would have done anything for you – I would have gone down on my knees and begged you . . . why? Why did you do it?
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Jindra Roh Lacour lay on her bed, her face pressed into the pillow. It had been some time since she had ceased crying, but she still couldn't find the strength to lift her head or move her body. Still crying on her father's shoulder, Erich Roh had carried his daughter up the stairs and put her to bed. He had stayed with her, holding her hand, while she cried herself out. After a while, the young woman had drifted off to sleep – exhausted from her emotional ordeal. Smoothing his daughter's hair with a gentle hand, Erich had kissed the top of her head and quietly left the room. Deeply troubled and on the verge of tears himself, he had once again retreated to the quiet solace of his study.
Jindra had haltingly told her father that she and Folken had fought – that was why she had been crying when the constables had found her. She had lied and told him that Folken had told her that he had no intention of leaving Zaibach and that he had made a mistake in marrying her and now wanted to sever their union. It had hurt her to lie to her father, but she couldn't find the courage to tell him the truth – and she wasn't sure that she ever would. When Erich had questioned her about the bruise on her cheek, she had only said that she had been so upset that she had run into a tree by accident. Jindra could see the doubt in her father's eyes, but she swore that it was the truth and that Folken had never laid a hand on her. She had pleaded with her father not to press charges against the outlander and Erich had reluctantly agreed. Jindra insisted that she never wanted to see Folken Lacour again and that he could rot in the nine hells for all she cared. Her father had been taken aback by the vehement anger in his daughter's voice and he felt his own heart breaking as she begged him to forgive her for making such a terrible mistake.
Sitting in his study, Erich Roh clenched his fists in anger. Folken Lacour had hurt his daughter – perhaps not physically, although that still remained to be seen as far as Erich was concerned; but the outlander had broken Jindra's heart and along with it, her spirit. The haunting sadness in his daughter's eyes when she had told him what happened had almost been more than Erich had been able bear, and he was damned if he would allow Folken Lacour to go unpunished for ruining his daughter's life. As he thought about the various ways to make the outlander pay for what he had done, Erich heard his wife's voice in the hallway and he closed his eyes and sighed. Although Doreena had not approved of their daughter's marriage, she had been more willing than he to try to accept Lacour into their family; and Erich was not looking forward to telling her what had happened.
Taking a deep breath to steel himself, Erich Roh rose from his seat and slowly made his way to the door; I swear that bastard will pay for what he's done to my daughter – he'll be sorry he ever set a foot in Zaibach before I'm through with him.
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Wrenching open the door, Folken Lacour left Marco's empty rooms; leaving the door open behind him. He had fumed and paced about the front room for over two hours waiting for the older apprentice to return; all the while, playing over in his mind what he would do to Marco when he finally did return. He would make Dimetra tell him who had set him up, if it wasn't Lefebvre, although the young outlander still believed that Anton was the main culprit. Folken could think of no one else who would have gone through so much trouble to separate he and Jindra – Lefebvre had practically told him that he would do everything in his power to take the young woman away from him. But how the hell did he get Marco to help him? What did he have on him?
Folken thought about the terrified look on Marco's face when the outlander had demanded that he tell him who had set him up. Lacour couldn't ever remember seeing such fear in anyone's eyes and he wondered once again just what Lefebvre had done to Marco in order to get the dark-haired man to help him. As he made his way to his own quarters, Folken found that some of his anger at Dimetra had started to dissipate – only to be replaced with a sense of foreboding and pity.
Opening the door to his rooms, the young apprentice found his feelings about Marco Dimetra to be quite confused. Marco had betrayed him to Anton Lefebvre, but in the end he had told Folken to go to Jindra – and more importantly, where to find the young woman. Almost as if he couldn't go through with it . . .
Slamming the door behind him, Folken threw himself down in one of the side chairs and let his tears flow once more. Damn you Marco . . . where are you? I need to talk to you – you might be the only one who can help me now.