The Fecund's Melancholy Daughter by Brent Hayward Page A
Authors: Brent Hayward
Tags: Horror
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They saw me. And now I can’t move.”
She had begun to weep.
Against the dawn’s light, Pan Renik slowly raised the mace above his head. Too many words, he thought. Just like a padre. Too many words, spinning around. For an instant, the briefest of hesitations, while he tried to consider options, he paused. But he came up with no options. There were never options. He felt only vague remorse as he brought his weapon down, with all his might and frustration, trying to destroy what was left of his fear, smashing the woman between her shocked eyes. A little remorse, but not much.
Looking down through the parchment, shacks and cluttered markets appeared heaped, as if thrown from the window and abandoned before the slightest logic and pattern could be imposed. Beyond them, the River Crane seemed blurry and a more uniform sepia than usual, most likely due to her hangover and the dampness that sprung to her eyes.
Outside, there had been rain.
The chatelaine waited for Octavia to return. Her bedchambers felt colder than usual. Because she had not yet ordered it cleaned, the air was still rank with scents: stale wine gone acrid from half-full cups left in the corners of the room and on the few available surfaces; bodily fluids from countless bodies, passing through, essences of which rose above the heaped bedclothes and the strange, scattered devices like spirits of her lost evenings; decaying crusts of food, desiccated and rotting on plates forgotten under the bed. She felt quite ill. Buried like this, in her own city, as most of the palace was—quite literally—allowed the standard brew of city smells to infiltrate from outside, and at times penetrate her room, but the chatelaine had added her own contributions to the mix from within. These combinations nauseated her now.
Most pungent of all was the smell of fright, from her menagerie.
Her poor, poor pets, traumatized by the intruder during the night. Now they were tired from their displays of fear and merely quivered, silently.
What was left of her menagerie, anyhow.
The chatelaine knew she was a leader wont to excesses and, as such, existed in a world filled with the residues of her indulgences. She lived with this knowledge every day. Could the kholic help her change? She imagined scenarios of the two of them together, sharing absurdly mundane domesticities.
Rustles from a rat or other vermin caused the chatelaine to turn from the hazy cityscape: a beast ran across the reeds that carpeted the central part of her timber floor. Not a rat. A faster creature, on two legs. Reddish. Long tail. A jinn, perhaps? Too fast for her to be sure. Some new, unclassified beast, escaped from the dungeon, or even created up there?
The creature vanished behind a curtain.
She sighed.
Just like she had told the pretty kholic, the chamber’s big fires were nearly out. The fireplace itself, which was as tall as a person and two such lengths in width, held but a few sad, smoldering logs. No wonder the pervasive chill. During the previous evening—flushed, eager, much too drunk—she had dismissed her servants, including the fire-tenders. (To their great relief, no doubt.) Though this was a usual call, it was also a stupid one; often these fires expired; often her chambers became cold. All the stone, she imagined. But did it seem strange that, beyond, the city sweltered? Perhaps it was she who radiated this chill?
Regardless, she was a bad mother.
When Octavia returned, she would tell the girl how she felt.
And then visit her father.
Turn over a new leaf.
Be forgiven.
She put her fingers together, raised them to her lips.
Surprising, sometimes, that servants ever returned. Then again, what choice did they have? They surely must be afraid of what they might see.
The chatelaine nearly smiled.
A void had been left when the cherub was abducted. Out in the city, there would be suffering: the void must be filled.
Even from where she stood she saw, in the large mirror against the
She had begun to weep.
Against the dawn’s light, Pan Renik slowly raised the mace above his head. Too many words, he thought. Just like a padre. Too many words, spinning around. For an instant, the briefest of hesitations, while he tried to consider options, he paused. But he came up with no options. There were never options. He felt only vague remorse as he brought his weapon down, with all his might and frustration, trying to destroy what was left of his fear, smashing the woman between her shocked eyes. A little remorse, but not much.
Looking down through the parchment, shacks and cluttered markets appeared heaped, as if thrown from the window and abandoned before the slightest logic and pattern could be imposed. Beyond them, the River Crane seemed blurry and a more uniform sepia than usual, most likely due to her hangover and the dampness that sprung to her eyes.
Outside, there had been rain.
The chatelaine waited for Octavia to return. Her bedchambers felt colder than usual. Because she had not yet ordered it cleaned, the air was still rank with scents: stale wine gone acrid from half-full cups left in the corners of the room and on the few available surfaces; bodily fluids from countless bodies, passing through, essences of which rose above the heaped bedclothes and the strange, scattered devices like spirits of her lost evenings; decaying crusts of food, desiccated and rotting on plates forgotten under the bed. She felt quite ill. Buried like this, in her own city, as most of the palace was—quite literally—allowed the standard brew of city smells to infiltrate from outside, and at times penetrate her room, but the chatelaine had added her own contributions to the mix from within. These combinations nauseated her now.
Most pungent of all was the smell of fright, from her menagerie.
Her poor, poor pets, traumatized by the intruder during the night. Now they were tired from their displays of fear and merely quivered, silently.
What was left of her menagerie, anyhow.
The chatelaine knew she was a leader wont to excesses and, as such, existed in a world filled with the residues of her indulgences. She lived with this knowledge every day. Could the kholic help her change? She imagined scenarios of the two of them together, sharing absurdly mundane domesticities.
Rustles from a rat or other vermin caused the chatelaine to turn from the hazy cityscape: a beast ran across the reeds that carpeted the central part of her timber floor. Not a rat. A faster creature, on two legs. Reddish. Long tail. A jinn, perhaps? Too fast for her to be sure. Some new, unclassified beast, escaped from the dungeon, or even created up there?
The creature vanished behind a curtain.
She sighed.
Just like she had told the pretty kholic, the chamber’s big fires were nearly out. The fireplace itself, which was as tall as a person and two such lengths in width, held but a few sad, smoldering logs. No wonder the pervasive chill. During the previous evening—flushed, eager, much too drunk—she had dismissed her servants, including the fire-tenders. (To their great relief, no doubt.) Though this was a usual call, it was also a stupid one; often these fires expired; often her chambers became cold. All the stone, she imagined. But did it seem strange that, beyond, the city sweltered? Perhaps it was she who radiated this chill?
Regardless, she was a bad mother.
When Octavia returned, she would tell the girl how she felt.
And then visit her father.
Turn over a new leaf.
Be forgiven.
She put her fingers together, raised them to her lips.
Surprising, sometimes, that servants ever returned. Then again, what choice did they have? They surely must be afraid of what they might see.
The chatelaine nearly smiled.
A void had been left when the cherub was abducted. Out in the city, there would be suffering: the void must be filled.
Even from where she stood she saw, in the large mirror against the
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