Silver Blades: Prize Fight

Part 2, Section 1 - Debts

L.E.Y. 3252

Riposte.

Pulse racing, I hurried into my foyer, clicked the door shut and turned the key. I hurried into my study, a forgotten sanctuary for affairs of politics and business. I frowned at my fingers as I sat. The thick coating of dust that came away at my touch spoke to a recent lack of attention to such matters.

No matter, I told myself, and swept my sleeve across the leather writing pad. Its sacrifice to the detritus of my life cut an arc of dark clarity into the gray sediment of neglect and opened a window into my past. I knew such windows of clarity could induce melancholia, but I was pleased beyond words to be holding another. It had taken a very long time to win Pertuli's wager. The accomplishment of finally holding Tyella's letter in my trembling fingers was like distilled euphoria.

I reached for the new bottle on a dust-free cart near my chair. Only after unstoppering and pouring a glass of sparkling golden faewine did I realize what I was doing, and I cringed. I had been trying to wean myself off hard drink for the better part of two weeks, and finding it more of a challenge than expected.

The thirst was unbearable. My mouth watered just holding the dark amber bottle, the honeyed scent of its contents wafting out and around me in a seductive embrace. Just as I could smell the wine's alluring fragrance, I imagined that I could taste it, too. I sighed, feeling phantom effervescence play over my tongue and my throat longed for the anticipated warmth.

Was it possible that I was addicted? Although I had never heard of a tilwen made slave to the habit of alcohol, it wasn't physically impossible. In theory.

I liked to think I was above such flaws. I had been disciplined, once; drilling daily, maintaining peak physical fitness, and responsible for the military readiness of more than a thousand of the king's Wandeers. My uniform was always clean and brushed, my skill at arms the pride of Dollif's military machine, and my social graces unmatched.

I glared across the study at my captain's coat, caked in dust and lanced by straight pins where it had been hung on a tailor's form for repair perhaps five Flowerings since? Seven? How long had it been since I had worn it as a part of my daily duties? A decade or more, I guessed. Another melancholy window.

Decades of sinking into the very dregs of the Amber City's vices had virtually ruined me. I found myself entirely dependent on a brittle piece of parchment to show me the way out.

Another proud benchmark for the First Wandeer.

I frowned at the enchanted wine in my hands, took a quick nip and put the empty glass on my desk. I sighed in pleasure as the liquid burned down my throat. Mmm. Small steps.

Slowly, I reopened the thin parchment, yellow and brittle with age. I was very careful. Rolled and properly preserved in a dry climate, the sheepskin would have lasted indefinitely, but folded and stuffed irreverently into that contraption 'Tuli called a desk? I was lucky the letter didn't crumble at my touch.

I read, my eyes brushed over the words to caress my favorite parts the way sensitive fingers love fine silk. Each word scourged me with sorrow, but I had waited so long to see them—longed for her for so long—that they were a balm, too, burning into my wounds as they healed. Not so different from faewine on a parched throat, I observed.

"...Pertuli,

"Tonight you mentioned how distracted I have been but I could not tell you of my resolve. Not while Kor was in the room.