Self-Made Scoundrel by Tristan J. Tarwater Page A

do love my brother? And I do care for you. And Deril.” He gripped the back of his chair, his knuckles turning white as he thought of what to say. “And anything I do? It’s not just for selfish reasons. I am not a selfish person.” They stared at each other for a breath. He thought Jerila would say something but she didn’t. He wasn’t sure if she agreed with him or not but he knew what was true. Dershik grabbed his cloak from the peg beside the door and left. He had lamp oil to store in the abandoned stable.
    It was difficult to pick the person who would be his stand in, to realize his options. This part of the plan was the hardest. If he was to fake his own death, there would have to be a body, and obviously not his own. Bodies took hours to burn down to bones, so a pile of bones would look suspicious. He would need flesh. Dershik listened and asked questions of the servants he gambled with. Most had families, loved ones also working in the keep, people he had grown up with. But rumors were going around about one of the newer servants. A lamp keeper everyone called Fil had been jailed in the Tyeskin territory for violent behavior. He was quiet and kept to himself though he did frequent the card and dice games wherever they were held around the keep. Fil did like to drink and gamble. And he was of a height and build with Dershik, which sealed his fate.
    The day Dershik decided to enact his plan he finally went to see Cira. His mind went back and forth, regarding the wisdom of his decision, but if he followed through he would never see her again. His feet seemed heavy as he walked to the temple, memories he had made with her playing through his mind, conversations they’d shared. Dershik remembered all the disappointment he had revealed to her, all the secrets of his heart and how he held back these last few years. He wondered if she would miss him once she thought he was dead. Would she cry? But then he began thinking about the real man who would die and it turned his thoughts away from phantom pity. He took a deep breath before he put his hand on the door and pushed it open.
    Cira was praying in the pew, her hands over her heart, head bowed. Dershik walked as quietly as he could, running his hand over the smooth wood of the benches. He sat down beside her on the bench, the pew creaking in a familiar way. Her eyes fluttered open and she let her hands drop as she looked toward him.
    “I’d say I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m not,” he said. Dershik smiled wolfishly at her and she rolled her eyes eyes, rising from her seat. “What were you praying for?” he asked. His hand draped across the back of the bench, one leg crossed over a knee.
    “I was praying for myself, actually,” she said, folding her hands in front of her. Her long robes dragged along the floor but never seemed to get dirty. Maybe because they were grey. He thought about what it implied, the larger connotations of the grey garb and the priestesses. His own brother wore family colors under his priestly robes. He wondered what Cira wore.
    “I thought I might do the same,” he said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small blue coin. “Would you please get out the devotional incense?” He stood and placed the coin on the altar, the sound muffled against the fabric covering the sacred space.
    Cira turned to go but she stopped. “Which incense would be appropriate for your devotion?” she asked. She stepped behind the altar and lifted up the altar cloth hiding the tools they used for services. The chalice still sat on the altar, alabaster white with the whirls and designs accented with gold paint. How many times had he dipped his fingers into this chalice?
    “I think I could use some encouragement right now.” He left it at that. Cira just eyed him before she pulled out a box and opened it with a key she wore tied to her wrist, pulling out the lamp and the small vial of the appropriate oil. She poured a few drops before she put