Kirt scanned the plain on either side of the road, the rock formations and the sweep and slope of the land as familiar as the streets of his home city. Twenty-five years he’d been riding this road, the approach to the Renquiéra estate. Nineteen, the first time; not much older than the boy – the young man – riding beside him.

Which reminded him of the explanation he’d have to make, or Audun, who was both observant and far from stupid, would have questions that he’d prefer to answer now, rather than in a place where the memories threatened to escape from where he’d buried them. The guards, hired in Occida, weren’t in easy hearing distance, one riding ahead, one a little behind. Not that he needed guards, but Audun was as untried in self-defense as he was in the skills of buying and selling. Cenric, Kirt thought wryly, would not be pleased to receive word of his son injured – or worse. So, the guards. A small expense.

But he was about to tell Audun something he had not revealed to the boy’s father, and hired guards had been known to sell information. Cenric was as much of a complication in Kirt’s life as his son, if in a different way. It had been the same twenty-five years since he’d shared a bed and his days with anyone for any length of time. Sometimes for a few nights, when travelling alone was unwise, or when weather-stayed in a port or aboard ship. Casual pairings, with no expectations.

Cenric, Kirt was beginning to admit, was not casual. One of the consequences of that realization – that disconcerting, reluctant realization – was a conversation to be had with the woman towards whose estate he was riding. He wanted her blessing, to hear her give him the permission he didn’t, by Berian or Ikorsani law, need.

Laws do not always rule a conscience. Or a heart.

“Audun.” The boy, riding easily beside him, turned his head.

“Kirt?”

“I need to explain something to you, before we reach the house of our host. Who they are.”

“The owners of the safran fields in which you and my father have invested, surely?”

“That is only part of it.” Audun’s horse was barely larger than a pony, and between that and the boy’s slighter frame, topped by a wide-brimmed hat, Kirt couldn’t see his face properly. He’d have preferred to be able to judge Audun’s reaction, but he could remember no place suitable to rest the horses, out here among the rocks and scrub and goats.

Regardless, Kirt wanted a promise from Audun, and for that, he needed to look the younger man in the eye. He held up a hand, signalling to the guard at the rear they were stopping. A whistle and another firm hand movement told both men not to approach. “Dismount,” he told Audun. “The horses should have at least that much of a rest.”

Both booted feet on the ground, Audun held the reins in one hand and took off his hat to run a hand through his hair, freeing the sweaty strands from his scalp to dry in the light breeze. Kirt did the same.

“You are an apprentice, and of rank,” Kirt began, hearing his own clipped words. Better to be brusque, businesslike. “When we arrive, I will not send you off with the steward to be housed with the servants, as I would a clerk. You will see how I am greeted by the mestressa Renquiéra. You will breathe no word of that to anyone, not even your father. I need a promise, Audun, or I will send you back to Occida with the guards, to wait for me there.”

Audun’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t look away. Nor did he speak immediately. “Shouldn’t you have told me this in Occida?” he asked, calmly. “And what is it my father does not know?”

“Have I your promise?”

“Does this affect the business we are here to do?”

“It does, yes.”

“Then you have my promise. But I want to know why you didn’t tell my father, in that case. He’s your partner.”

Partner. So many shades of meaning. But it was a fair question.

“Margit Renquiéra will greet me as a son,” Kirt said. “Which, by both Berian and Ikorsani tradition, if not law, I am.”

He watched first puzzlement and then understanding – of a sort – cross Audun’s face. “You are married to—?” A glance at Kirt’s wrist, a frown.

“I wed their son when I was little older than you are now. Twenty-five years ago. And I have not seen Lars for almost the same length of time.”

“Why?” The obvious question. Kirt turned to look out over the plain again.

“Do you see that line of dark hills, to the east? That is the beginning of the Renquiéra estate.” He didn’t turn back to Audun. “The year I turned nineteen, I was sent to buy olives and oil directly from the estate. A task designed to test my abilities both to judge quality and to negotiate a fair bargain. Buying a crop before it is harvested is a risk, as you must see. Weather, fire, insects – all these can damage or destroy an investment. A prudent merchant allocates only a portion of his funds to such gambles.” He couldn’t stop a sardonic tone creeping into his last words.

“The Renquiéra family welcomed me – they and my mother’s family had been doing business for years. And, as part of his own education, no doubt, they gave their side of the negotiations to their son, Laurenté. He was twenty.”

“Laurenté?”

“Ricar Renquiéra met his wife in the north, at Gira, in his own youthful travels. Lars was what she called her son. He preferred it to Laurenté, which was what his father had named him.”

“And you –” Audun hesitated. “Fell in love.”

Fell? No. We plunged heedlessly into a river in sudden spate, a river of lust and laughter, and, yes, love. It nearly drowned us.

The sun beat down. Kirt put his hat back on, shading his face. “Yes,” he said. “And since part of why you are with me is to learn from me, then hear this. Do not bind yourself to someone you have known for three weeks. It is unwise.”

“Can I ask what happened?” Politely put.The boy had been well educated. It was a story Kirt had told no one, bar his family and a certain chantore. But Audun needed an explanation, if he was to understand.

“We had ridden to a market town to see what local prices were for the various pressings of oil. It was too far to make the return trip in one day. There was an inn that Lars knew. We drank, and gambled at dice and cards, and drank some more, and at some point that night Lars suggested we should wed. The edil – the mayor – would do it, for a price.”

“Didn’t he know who Lars was?”

“He must have. But we were of age, and Lars had won a lot of money that night, so the bribe was substantial. And I am not sure the edil thought it binding.”

“Why not?”

“We both used our mother’s names, not our father’s: Lars Margitson, Kirthan il’Ikorsa. But our families, once they were over their initial shock, agreed we were wed, whether we had meant it seriously or not. A formal alliance between the families il’Ikorsa and Renquiéra was not a bad thing at all.”

His parents had been horrified, when he’d returned with the olive crop bought and a bracelet on his left arm. It had been his grandmother, Radné, who had seen the advantage, even though she’d berated him as a fool. That admonishment had been mild, compared to what had come later.

Audun had fallen silent. Kirt could hear the boy’s breathing, a little rapid, as if he was agitated. One foot scuffed the rocky soil.

“Ask,” Kirt said.

“You are married? And my father doesn’t know?”

“I am not. I said I hadn’t seen Lars in twenty-five years. When I returned to Beria, on one of the last ships of that autumn, he was gone.”

The foot stopped scraping the dirt. “Gone where? Why?”

“East. Somewhere. As to why?” Even now, the bitterness seeped through. “The night he won at cards was – not typical. Lars was a gambler, and in the weeks between when I left for Leste and when I returned, he had lost an enormous amount of money. He didn’t tell his parents. He just left, telling them he was riding to Occida to meet me.” He remembered their distress when he’d arrived without their son, and then the debt-collectors, demanding payment. A quarter of the value of the estate had been owed. “His family were honour-bound to pay that debt, and I was now his family. The share in the estate I own was in exchange for my grandmother settling the account.”

“You never saw Lars again? You didn’t go looking for him?” Disbelief shaded Audun’s voice.

He is still young enough to believe love can conquer anything, Kirt thought. There had been no letter, not even a few scribbled words. But there had also been no bracelet left behind. A message, but Kirt was no longer young. The motive, he’d believed now, hadn’t been what he’d wanted to think. By not making the symbolic gesture of divorce, Lars had bound Kirt to be the son he couldn’t be, with all the responsibilities to his family and the estate.

“No. By the time I had gone back and forth between Leste and Beria arranging the payments, that door had closed. We sent people, of course. They traced him to Selekosia, but he’d fled that city too, owing more money. I – we – chose to end the search. Seven years later, with no contact or sighting, he was declared legally dead.”

One of the horses snorted. A raven croaked, flying past in the cloudless sky. The guards squatted in the sun, waiting.

“We should ride,” Kirt said. They mounted in silence. Audun reined his horse around so he faced Kirt.

“It seems to me you have acted honourably for all these years. So why haven’t you told my father?”

He should have, of course; he should have told Cenric weeks before. That he hadn’t –

That he hadn’t spoke to a hope hidden deep in a secret room in his heart. A room whose door needed to be finally, irrevocably, closed and locked, so that the complication that was Cenric could be allowed to become – not a complication. Whatever that meant.

“I will,” Kirt said. “When we return. A promise for a promise, Audun.”

Image by WOKANDAPIX from Pixabay

Whatcha Doin’, Daddy?

CW: Suicide

“Daddy? Whatcha doin’, Daddy? Can I come in? Please?” A small, hesitant voice on the verge of tears.

“Jeremy, please open this door. We need to talk about what happened, what you did. Stop hiding.”

Jeremy shakes his head, whispers, “No, no, no,” to himself. He holds his head in his hands, stares down at his desk with blurry, unfocused eyes. On the desk are a half empty bottle of Angel’s Envy bourbon; a rock glass filled with bourbon and ice, condensing water dripping down the sides; a photo of his wife, Maria, and son, Kyle, that he took two years ago during a visit to the shore, in a Dollar Store frame; and a Ruger Blackhawk 9mm revolver.

He picks up the glass and drinks deeply. The bourbon slides down his throat like creamy vanilla fire while the fumes swirl into his nostrils. He sways dizzily. When he sets his glass down in a different place, he notices the wet ring it has left. Jeremy imagines that it is a mirror through which he can see himself as his wife sees him, but the prospect is distasteful, so he wipes it away with the side of his hand.

Jeremy picks up the frame, slides out the back panel that holds the easel, then the photo, and finally the glass. He rubs his left thumb (not the right, his right hand has an important job to do tonight) along the edge of the glass, exerting ever-increasing pressure until it bites into the meat of his thumb. Jeremy holds his hand up to the light, watches blood well up along the wound and run down his hand. As the first drops begin to fall, he holds his hand over the photo where it lays on his desk. He drowns Maria and Kyle in crimson spatter, the ghost of a smile briefly animating his face.

There’s a tentative knock at the door, as if from a tiny fist, then a louder, far more insistent one. The door knob rattles, but it’s a useless exercise—he locked it when he came in.

“Daddy, open the door. I want a hug.” The same small voice, ending in a quiet sob.

“Seriously, Jeremy, stop acting like a child. Can’t you see what you’re doing to Kyle?” Typical Maria, laying the guilt on thick, hitting below the belt.

Jeremy glares at the door, tries to pierce it with his eyes. “You’re not real,” he says in a voice somewhere between rage and exhaustion. “Go away, both of you. You’re not real, you are a figment of my own sadistic imagination and I will not let you become real. Go away, go away, go away!”

“Daddy, please!”

Jeremy lays his head down on the desk, cups his hands over his ears trying to shut out Kyle’s soft voice and softer knocking, Maria’s sharp, shrill entreaties.

It does no good. When Maria speaks again, it sounds as if she’s standing right next to him. “Don’t do it, Jeremy. Let’s talk this out. You’re just being cowardly and selfish, and you know who’s really going to be traumatized—Kyle. He’ll be marked for the rest of his life.”

She’s right, Jeremy thinks to himself, but not for the reason Maria said. You’re acting like a coward because you’re stalling. Pick up the fucking gun.

Two fists are pounding on the door, hard enough for it to rock in the frame. “You’re not real!” he screams, and picks up the Blackhawk. He opens the cylinder—four bullets left.

Jeremy closes the cylinder and slides the long barrel into his mouth, cradles the end against the roof. The taste of metal and gun oil lubricant is peculiar but not unpleasant. Jeremy runs his tongue along the bottom of the barrel, feeling for mars in the surface.

Really, his inner monologue continues, this is ridiculous. Get on with it. His finger tightens on the trigger.

“Daddy!” a strangled sob at the door.

Jeremy closes his eyes, cocks the hammer, pulls the trigger. The sharp crack is deafening in the room, and reverberates through the quiet, empty hallway.

In the United States and Canada, dial 988 for the Suicide Hotline.  In the UK, reach The Samaritans at 116 123.

Image: Shutterstock

In the Lobby

Joseph P. Garland (@JPGarlandAuthor)

Image by Dayron Villaverde from Pixabay

August Team Showcase

Marian L Thorpe‘s eighth and final book in her historically inspired speculative fiction series Empire’s Legacy, Empire’s Passing, is out in paperback and as an ebook. (Empire’s Daughter is the first part.) She has numerous titles available; they can be found at her aptly-named website, MarianLThorpe.com  or at Books2Read. Marian’s short story On Shining Wings is included in the anthology Historical Stories of Exile, published by Taw River Press.

Renée Gendron‘s Frontier Hearts is a Western historical romance set in the late 1800s in the District of Alberta, Canada. The series follows a variety of romantic leads as they arrive and thrive in Prosper, Alberta. Each book involves a different romantic pair, a mystery, and plenty of historical details to take you back in time to the Canadian Western frontier. Jaded Hearts. Golden Hearts. Silver Hearts

The Nearer Realm Tales is an epic fantasy romance series that combines humour, mystery, adventure, and romance. Each book features a strong cast with many recurring characters.  A Gift of Stars: Book 1 The Nearer Realm Tales is available for pre-order on Amazon.

Renée’s Heartened by Sport is a series of humorous amateur sports romances. Each novella features a new setting, sport, and romantic dynamic: Seven Points of Contact. Two Hearts on the Backspin:  Three Volleys to Love.

David M. Simon has published The Wild Hunt: Novella 2 of The Wild Hearts and Hunts Duology (Part 1 is Renée Gedron’s Ninth Star) as well as Trapped in Lunch Lady Land, a middle-grade fantasy adventure.

Joseph P. Garland, as J.P. Garland, has done some editing and republished his romance Coming to Terms. Several excerpts from the book have been included in prior issues of the review. His Becoming Catherine Bennet is available on KU and also on Audible.com.  (First Chapters.) He has also adapted his AMBR submission of a few months back involving Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy entitled “Mr. Darcy’s Regrets” from June 2023 into a novella entitled The Omen at Rosings Park, also available on Kindle Unlimited and as an Audiobook on Audible.com. He has also started a newsletter and those interested in getting on the mailing list can contact him at JPGarlandAuthor@DermodyHouse.com. He has also published the pieces from AMBR in something called A Compilation.