Assassin's Quest

I know that for a time I slept dreamlessly. Then I had one of those confusing dreams in which someone called my name, but I could not find who. A wind was blowing and it was rainy. I hated the sound of the blowing wind, so lonely. Then the door opened and Burrich stood in it. He was drunk. I felt both irritated and relieved. I had been waiting for him to come home since yesterday, and now he was here, he was drunk. How dared he be so?

A shivering ran over me, an almost-awakening. And I knew that these were Molly's thoughts, it was Molly I was Skilldreaming. I should not, I knew I should not, but in that edgeless dream state, I had not the will to resist. Molly stood up carefully. Our daughter was sleeping in her arms. I caught a glimpse of a small face, pink and plump, not the wrinkled red face of the newborn I'd seen before. To have already changed so much! Silently, Molly carried her to the bed and placed her gently on it. She turned up a corner of the blanket to keep the baby warm. Without turning around, she said in a low tight voice, "I was worried. You said you'd be back yesterday."

"I know. I'm sorry. I should have been, but …" Burrich's voice was hoarse. There was no spirit in it.

"But you stayed in town and got drunk," Molly filled in coldly.

I … yes. I got drunk." He shut the door and came into the room. He moved to the fire to warm his red hands before it. His cloak was dripping and so was his hair, as if he had not bothered to pull the hood up as he walked home. He set a carrysack down by the door. He took the soaked cloak off and sat down stiffly in the chair by the hearth. He leaned forward to rub his bad knee.

"Don't come in here when you're drunk," Molly told him flatly.

"I know that's how you feel. I was drunk yesterday. I had a bit, earlier today, but I'm not drunk. Not now. Now I'm just … tired. Very tired." He leaned forward and put his head in his hands.

"You can't even sit up straight." I could hear the anger rising in Molly's voice. "You don't even know when you're drunk."

Burrich looked up at her wearily. "Perhaps you're right," he conceded, shocking me. He sighed. "I'll go," he told her. He rose, wincing as he put weight on his leg, and Molly felt a pang of guilt. He was still cold, and the shed where he slept at night was drafty and damp. But he'd brought it on himself. He knew how she felt about drunkards. Let a man have a drink or two, that was fine, she had a cup herself now and then, but to come staggering home like this and try to tell her …

"Can I see the baby for a moment?" Burrich asked softly. He had paused at the door. I saw something in his eyes, something Molly did not know him well enough to recognize, and it cut me to the bone. He grieved.

"She's right there, on the bed. I just got her to sleep," Molly pointed out briskly.

"Can I hold her … just for a minute?"

"No. You're drunk and you're cold. If you touch her, she'll wake up. You know that. Why do you want to do that?"

Something in Burrich's face crumpled. His voice was hoarse as he said, "Because Fitz is dead, and she's all I have left of him or his father. And sometimes …" He lifted a wind-roughened hand to rub his face. "Sometimes it seems as if it's all my fault." His voice went very soft on those words. "I should never have let them take him from me. When he was a boy. When they first wanted to move him up to the keep, if I'd put him on a horse behind me and gone to Chivalry, maybe they'd both still be alive. I thought of that. I nearly did it. He didn't want to leave me, you know, and I made him. I nearly took him back to Chivalry instead. But I didn't. I let them have him, and they used him."

I felt the trembling that ran suddenly through Molly. Tears stung suddenly at her own eyes. She defended herself with anger. "Damn you, he's been dead for months. Don't try to get around me with drunkard's tears."

"I know," Burrich said. "I know. He's dead." He took a sudden deep breath, and straightened himself in that old familiar way. I saw him fold up his pains and weakness and hide them deep inside himself. I wanted to reach out and put a steadying hand on his shoulder. But that was truly me and not Molly. He started for the door, and then paused. "Oh. I have something." He fumbled inside his shirt. "This was his. I … took it from his body, after he died. You should keep it for her, so she has something of her father's. He had this from King Shrewd."

My heart turned over in my chest as Burrich stretched out his hand. There on his palm was my pin, with the ruby nestled in the silver. Molly just looked at it. Her lips were set in a flat line. Anger, or tight control of whatever she felt. So harsh a control even she did not know what she hid from. When she did not move toward him, Burrich set it carefully on the table.