Interlude: Part Three

Solana: Melrhos has established himself as the leader of the rebellion against the throne. He is, however, still an enigmatic figure. To the best of our knowledge, he just wants to bring some form of equality to his people. I think I can appreciate that, though I do not know that I would have the courage to stand in the face of tyranny.

“Fucking shape changers…” Melrhos rolled the cigar between his teeth as he held the cowl out in front of him. “Who’da thought.” He glanced over at Freya, legs crossed in an overstuffed crimson upholstered chair.

“Shape changing druids are quite common in Misthaven.” She said with a shrug. “We’ve been getting reports of the ones in the wildlands attacking Gifted acquisition teams for years. It doesn’t seem too strange.”

Melrhos bobbed his head as he stared at the cowl again. “S’pose you’re right. We heard back from the kid yet?”

“Fletcher?” Freya breathed out a chuckle and shook her head. “No, but I am certain he will be alright. He is a resourceful man, of whom I should remind you, is nearly as old as you.”

“Sure, but my life is nearly over. He’s got another hundred years or so.” Melrhos shrugged. “Still got that life behind his eyes. World hasn’t stolen enough from him yet.”

“I assure you it has.” Freya commented.

“What’s that…” he started to ask the question, but when Freya raised her brows at him he cut it short. He knew better than to ask her about the things she’d learned from delving into the minds of people. “Sorry. He’s just an odd one. Don’t get a lot of fresh faces like his around here.”

“I know. Perhaps you should address your questions to him?”

Melrhos nodded slowly, laying the cowl out on the table in front of him. “S’pose so.” He sighed, not looking up from the cloth. Never had something so valuable fell into their hands. The Hearth Horn was one thing. Blowing a hole in a castle wall was useful. The Shroud of Eldrath, though…

He flopped back into his own chair, gnawing at the end of the cigar and using his tongue to flick tiny bits of tobacco from between his teeth. He’d been at this game for nearly fifty years. His silent battle with the Crown had done almost nothing, but persistence and tenacity had finally rewarded him. Not only did he have powerful new assets in the druids, but a mysterious infiltrator in Fletcher Lightfoot.

As much he thought he understood the halfling, as open as the kid was, Fletch was still a bit of a conundrum to him. The easy question was why. What did he actually get out of helping them? No one did something that could get them killed out of the kindness of their heart. Even he, whom these people put up on a pedastool. Maybe when he was younger, but now his virtue had been stained with the hatred he felt for those across the strait. Even those that didn’t deserve it.

“What do you think he gets out of this?”

Freya lifted her gaze from her wine and raised an eyebrow at him. “He, being Fletcher Lightfoot?” Melrhos nodded to her, and she continued. “I told you already. He doesn’t expect anything from us.”

“I know, I know.” Melrhos grumbled. “That’s not what I mean. Why is he helping us? I had his finances dug up. Did you know he owns fourteen taverns in Ashoria? Doesn’t take a cent from them. All the money he would make goes to the business and out to charities.”

“I was aware.” Freya nodded.

“Right…” Melrhos tapped his temple with the end of his cigar and sighed. “I just don’t get it.”

Freya smiled over at him and leaned toward him, over the cowl he’d laid across the table. “I understand your suspicion, but when I tell you ‘I’ve seen the man’s soul, and it’s as pure a soul as I’ve ever seen’ this is not hyperbole. On the scale of genuinely good people on this planet, Fletcher Sterling Lightfoot would give you a challenge.

Melrhos shook his head. “You give me too much credit.”

Freya lifted one thin brow and smiled at him. “I owe you my life, dearest brother. I give you the perfect amount of credit.”