Self-Made Scoundrel by Tristan J. Tarwater Read Free Book Online Page A

big and their mouths dropped open.
    He had lingered at the temple and prayed before the statue of the Goddess as he always did. Dershik prayed for revelation. He prayed for guidance. He prayed for a feeling of contentment deep within his soul, something he hadn’t felt since the night he stole the dagger from that boy. The statue of the Goddess held a sword, two of her fingers on the snout of the maned bear, keeping its jaws shut. It was a symbol of strength, like the Cartaskin words: Strength from Within. Dershik needed strength. He felt powerless. Powerless and alone.
    “Well, have food brought up. Dershik will have to keep up his strength as he keeps vigil. And cushions.” His father gave the orders and servants ducked their heads and scurried down the stairs. Dershik sat down, not waiting for his father to say anything else.
    “Ceric, can we have a prayer?” he asked, feeling nervous, He didn’t know why he was nervous. It wasn’t his child, or his love. He considered Jerila a friend though, and the child would be his son by law and his nephew by blood. It was a woman he was close with giving birth. The threat of death lingered on the outskirt of his thoughts, and he worried for the mother and child in the room and the lives outside connected to them. His own mother had been affected by Ceric’s birth, never regaining her strength and dying because of it.
    Dershik looked at his father and then to Ceric, wondering at how time had caused them to trade places, and how they were unaware of their common bond. Ceric finally realized what Dershik had asked and nodded, motioning for Dershik to stand up. Those in the room surrounded Dershik for the prayer and it made him anxious and self-conscious, trying to ignore them as they all placed their hands over their hearts to pray.
    “Holy Mother, Blessed Woman, Ever-Changing and-Ever Loving, hear the words of your grateful children,” Ceric began the prayer. “Extend your gracious hand toward Jerila and the other women in the room. Grant them wisdom and give Jerila the strength she will need to give us this child. What is hidden shall be brought forth into your gentle light.
    “Comfort the husband and the father in his time of need. Grant him patience and put strength in his arm so he might protect the family you have given him. Help him in this next stage of his life and give him discernment, that he would make righteous decisions for his life and the lives of those he loves. May your Black Hand guide us all.”
    Dershik lifted his head and his eyes met Ceric’s. There was a hardness there he couldn’t mistake and he couldn’t tell what it meant. The men around them repeated the end of the prayer and broke away just as several servants brought in cushions and pitchers. Dershik sat back down, arms over his chest. A servant offered him a glass of something and he took it, draining it when he found it was alcohol. His father ordered someone to bring his house clothes to a nearby room so he could change without straying too far from the birthing room and more people trickled in and out. Some of them said something to Dershik as they left but he didn’t hear them, though he nodded in reply.
    “You should have seen your father at your birth, Dershik,” Kera the baker said. Dershik raised his eyes to her and smirked. Her apron was still covered with flour. He remembered when her son was born several years ago. Now he was four and played under the large table where Kera kneaded and mixed and rolled. He was a happy little boy with curly brown hair who always had flour or dough in his hair or on his clothes.. “We thought he would break the door down when your mother started screaming. He gave Big Hilik a black eye and broke Garn’s nose.”
    Dershik looked over at Ceric. He remembered Ceric’s birth. He remembered his father holding Dershik too tight, almost crushing him and Dershik finally breaking away and hiding in the bramble bushes. By the time the servants found him