Page 60 of Swords of Soul and Shadow
Harlan’s headache intensified, as it was wont to do when he thought of his brother. He rubbed his right temple with one hand. It’d been at least a month since his last migraine. He guessed that the lack of dying men requiring complicated surgeries had broken whatever dam had been holding them back in the interim.
He tried not to dwell on the fact that headaches such as this were the first sign of the Fogs, or—as Harlan had learned in the years since—Zuprium Neurotoxitosis, as those trained in modern medical practices called it. He could only hope that the advanced symptoms never made an appearance. Sure, if he’d stayed in Ravenhelm and kept working in the mines, he’d be much worse off than he was at thirty, but this proved that any time spent in the mines at all was dangerous.
But Jayde still required Zuprium, and now Stoneset and a few other outlying villages even smaller than Ravenhelm were being crushed under the demand for more and more.
He just hoped this episode was short-lived, as he was due at the Fairchild’s in half an hour for dinner, cigars, and—if Ezekiel followed through with his threat—a few rounds of cards.
Why had Harlan agreed to the charade, again? His friend clearly thought too much of him. How could he be expected to make nice with Ezekiel’s wife and sister—a sister Harlan was supposed to believe was a good match for him—after so long with no one but dying men and Ezekiel himself for company?
Ridiculous. Especially since Harlan never planned on marrying, much to Aurelia’s dismay.
He only felt moderately bad about it, and only because Aurelia Shackley was barren. She and Carleton had no children of their own.
It was up to Harlan to continue the line he wasn’t a member of by blood, yet he had no urge to do so. Bringing children into such a world would be a disservice to them. They would only face a world rife with war, disease, and suffering.
He smoothed his hand over his mustache again. At tea with his mother that afternoon, she’d said the newest facial hair fashion only made him more handsome, that it was probably good he decided to wear it, that it would make him even more appealing to the marriageable ladies of high society.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about her approval. It was nice, he guessed. But at thirty, did he really care what she thought? He should. She’d raised him in a loving home since he was twelve. Still, he’d almost shaved before leaving.
Another three turns, several bumps, and an intensifying headache later, Harlan arrived at his friend’s modest residence. A façade, really. The Fairchild family was one of the oldest and wealthiest families in all of Jayde—even older than the Shackleys. Both families had estates out in the country, but Aurelia said the Shackleys had decided to make Kyvena their main residence. The Fairchilds had chosen to spend most of their time and money on a sprawling mansion outside of Crystalfell. Ezekiel had spoken highly of the extensive grounds of his childhood home—something about the perfect place to hunt.
However, Ezekiel’s Kyvena home had been his inheritance from his father. While not as extravagant as the city manors, the townhome was sequestered in one of the more picturesque lanes in the upper city. Sitting on a winding lane dotted with benchesand mature oak trees, the home had a serenity about it that immediately put Harlan at ease.
The carriage pulled to a soft stop courtesy of a highly trained mare. After a moment, a liveried footman appeared and opened the carriage door with a bow.
“Lieutenant Colonel Shackley, it is an honor.”
Grabbing his top hat from the seat beside him, Harlan exited the carriage and followed a second footman up the front steps. They’d been crafted from the finest white stone—probably from out west in the Lenara canyon. Lacy filigree decorated the panes in the gas lanterns hanging from hooks on either side of a cheerful red door.
A butler greeted him with a short bow as he opened it after the footman’s knock. “Welcome to Fairlight House, Lieutenant Colonel. Mister Plinth will take your hat and outer coat.”
The footman held out his hand as Harlan gave him his effects. Childlike laughter echoed in the foyer, and the butler smiled and strode off toward the noise.
Harlan followed the man through an archway under the stairs, passing a painting of a sunset in the Nardens. He wanted to inspect it further, but the butler hadn’t stopped, and Harlan didn’t want to be rude.
A moment later, the butler gestured Harlan to the parlor. The room was smaller than the one at Shackley Manor, but tall portraits of breathtaking scenery along the nearest wall and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the rest of the city on the far side compensated for its size. Stylized gas lanterns hung from the ceiling in the place of a standard chandelier.
Two boys with dark curly hair ran amuck, chasing one another around the settee. A plump woman with hair like spun gold laughed as they ran by her place on said settee. The Lady Fairchild, Harlan guessed. Her pale blue eyes and rosy cheeksmade her look as if she had a vivaciousness for life that Harlan lacked.
Ezekiel swirled a scotch glass in one hand and argued good-naturedly with a woman sitting in one of the green upholstered chairs. Facing away from the door, the woman in question threw up her hands in exasperation. “I’m perfectly capable of running the estate, and you know it.”
Taking a drink, Ezekiel held his silence for a moment. He seemed to be buying time to come up with a response when he spotted Harlan standing in the doorway. He coughed and sputtered, the drink going down the wrong way, and set his glass aside.
The twin boys stopped their chase and looked up, as did their mother. Ezekiel’s face broke into a smile. “So glad you’ve made it, my friend.”
Striding forward, he shook Harlan’s hand vigorously and pulled him in to clasp his shoulder. He looked striking in his own dinner tails, like a man born to wear them…unlike Harlan, who felt like an imposter. Ezekiel’s grin never left his face as he said, “I’m impressed you didn’t come in your uniform.”
Harlan fought the urge to roll his eyes. “You invited me to dinner, not to battle.”
The darkness in his friend’s eyes was fleeting. “Of course, you might think differently by the end of the night.” He let go of Harlan’s shoulder and hand and turned. “Boys, please come and shake the gentleman’s hand.”
The two chaotic beings that were Ezekiel’s twin sons fought each other for precedence, but after a waspish look from their mother as she rose from the settee, the taller one stepped forward, having won the honor.
Ezekiel beamed as the boy stuck out his hand. Harlan gave it a quick shake. The boy nodded. “Randall Fairchild, my lord.”
He spoke it with such an air of elegance that Harlan nearly questioned whether or not he had imagined the children running feral only moments before. However, the other one took one look at Harlan’s outstretched hand and crossed his arms instead. He harrumphed for good measure.
“Sullivan Ezra Fairchild!” his mother hissed.
