Darkness Descending

By then, Cornelu had already crossed the street--quite safely. Had the Algarvians been able to see his smile through the darkness and murk, they would not have enjoyed it. The streets got steep in the direction they were going. Maybe one of them really would break his neck. Cornelu hoped so.

He went on another couple of blocks, then turned left onto his own street and hurried toward his own house, the house in which he hadn’t lived, in which he hadn’t even set foot, since the Algarvian invasion. Costache and Brindza lived there still. So did the three Algarvian officers quartered on them.

All the houses on his block, like the houses and shops and taverns in the rest of Tirgoviste, were dark, for the same reason street lamps were: dragons from Lagoas could reach Sibiu. Cornelu understood why the Algarvians wanted to make it hard for them to drop their eggs accurately. Here as elsewhere, understanding failed to bring sympathy.

Here was his walk, leading up to his front porch. As he strode along the walk, he reached under his jacket and pulled out a short stick, one of the sort a constable might carry. The stick had cost him most of the silver he’d brought down from the hills, but he didn’t care. Even if it wasn’t such a powerful weapon as a foot-soldier’s stick, it ought to be good enough to dispose of the officers who’d settled down here. Then Cornelu could take Costache and Brindza away to the southern side of the island or maybe back up into the hills.

“And then,” Cornelu muttered under his breath, “then, by the powers above, I can be alone with my wife.” He ached for her, sometimes literally.

As quietly as he could, he stepped up onto the porch. He must have been quiet enough; no one inside called out in alarm. Once up there, he could tell lamps were lit within, though black curtains--new since he’d last seen the house--swallowed almost all the glare.

Cornelu paused a moment, pondering his next step. Did he knock? Would he do better to sneak in through a window? Could he break down the door, slay all of Mezentio’s men, and get Costache and Brindza away before the commotion drew neighbors or more Algarvians? That was what he most wanted to do, but he knew the risks.

While he pondered, Costache’s voice, bright and cheerful, came out through the window undimmed by the curtains: “Wait there, darling. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Rather than Brindza’s childish prattle, which Cornelu had expected, an Algarvian doing his best to speak Sibian answered, “All right, sweetheart, but you’d better not keep me waiting long.”

“Don’t worry,” Costache said archly. “I won’t be long, I promise. And you’ll be glad when I get there.” The Algarvian laughed.

Sick at heart, Cornelu turned away. He looked at his stick. If he blazed himself through the head, if he left his body lying on the walk, would Costache shed a tear? Or would she just laugh?

“I should have known,” Cornelu said to himself in a sort of whispered groan. “Oh, by the powers above, I should have known.” She hadn’t wanted to see him, not really; she hadn’t wanted to be alone with him. He’d wondered, he’d worried, but he hadn’t believed, not deep in his heart. He hadn’t wanted to believe.

He stared back toward his house--no, toward the house that had been his. He stared back toward the life that had been his, too. Things would never be the same now.

Looking at the stick, he shook his head. Costache had betrayed him. Why should he give her the satisfaction of finding him dead? What he really wanted was revenge. He started to swing back toward the house. If he killed not only the Algarvians but his wife, his faithless wife, as well. . .

What would he do with Brindza then? Kill her, too? She hadn’t done anything to him. She hadn’t even kept him from sleeping with Costache, as he’d thought before--Costache hadn’t wanted to sleep with him anyhow. Take Brindza with him? He had no idea how to care for a toddler; he’d never had a chance to learn.

He slammed his forehead, hard, with the heel of his hand. He’d just found the last thing he wanted: a reason to let his wife live.

With a muffled curse, he hurried down the street, running as much from his fury as from his former home. He let his feet carry him; his mind was empty of anything even resembling thought. He’d gone several blocks before realizing he was heading down toward the harbor, not back up into the hills. He’d worked as a woodcutter in the hope of rejoining Costache and Brindza. His feet had realized before his head that that wouldn’t happen, now. And if it wouldn’t, what point to going back to the hills and to work he despised anyhow? Mezentio’s men would still be looking for him there, too.