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Aden’s Quest
Chapter 3
The Queen of Squirrels- I’m glad you liked it. It took me a long time to get that chapter done partly because I had a ton of schoolwork and partly because I wasn’t sure how to proceed. But I’m glad it came out okay. As to Aden’s size, he’s not huge. He’s about ten feet tall and about twice that long. The centaur was pretty big, but he was only about seven feet tall. And Aden is not the fire breathing type. He has various other skills at his disposal in place of fire. Oh, I’ll take into account your advice for the lunch packing, thanks!
A/N- So yea, this chapter really surprised me. It just rolled out of my pen like it couldn’t wait to be written. Anyway, just a reminder, I completely changed subplots here. Don’t get too mad at me, we’ll get back to Aden unconscious in the woods here soon. But in the meantime, here are some new characters! Enjoy!
The day had started out normally enough; he had opened his father’s shop in the heart of the Merchant’s District in the city of Lambair and gotten to work. When his father had shown up, two hours late as usual, things began to snowball. Immediately he started in on his oldest, and only son, about how the shop wasn’t “tidy enough” and that “if he was going to take over the family business he was going to have to learn to run it properly”. Maren had borne the lecture, which was now quite old, with all the patience expected of a merchant’s son. And as a reward, his father sent him on errands.
Grumbling, he had left the shop with his list in hand. For all his talk of Maren taking over the shop, his father never once made the effort to teach him what was needed to run it effectively. Not that he particularly wanted it anyway. He was sick of being his father’s errand boy. And what was worse, was that at twenty-one, Maren did not know what it was he did want to do. He only knew that he wanted out of Lambair; he hated crowds, and the close proximity of the tall buildings created crushing confines that smothered and suffocated him. And all that aside, he was growing quite tired of all the attention he was receiving lately.
As he passed a fountain in the square, he paused for a moment and glanced at his reflection. With his close-cropped dark hair, expressive blue-gray eyes, and slightly muscled physique, it seemed he was the current favorite of all the eligible young maidens who frequented the Merchant’s District. He knew the girls goggled at him for his looks, but he was not so naïve to not know that the mothers who appraised him in the streets looked his way for a different reason; the fact that he was the son of a wealthy merchant made him a nice marriage prospect. Maren scowled at himself and continued on his way.
All had gone smoothly for him, and he had been on his way back to the shop when the first incident occurred, furthering his foul mood.
Samri, the most persistent of his admirers, had managed to corner him a few streets away from the shop. She toyed with a ribbon on her elaborate dress as she stepped toward him, forcing him back against a door.
“Oh, Maren! I was just thinking of you, “ she had said in that high-pitched and breathy voice of hers that grated on his ears.
“Morning Samri,” he had replied guardedly, while juggling many packages.
Upon hearing her name, she dropped the ribbon and clapped her hands together excitedly, managing to make no more than the faintest patting sound. “You know, Maren, next week is the annual Midsummer’s Festival and I’m just dying to go. But I have been desperately hoping someone would ask me to go with them. I was hoping to have an escort. It’s just not fun to go by yourself, you know? And I was wondering if you were going next week? I was wondering if you wanted to ask me to go?” She had leaned forward a bit, showing a bit more of her front than was deemed proper of a young girl her age, and batted her eyelashes at him in a manner she apparently thought was becoming.
Maren only stood there, too shocked to speak. “I…uh…well.” He hoped she would just go away, but she stayed, just looking up at him expectantly. Finally, someone inside the shop, of which he was blocking the door to, attempted to leave and banged into him with the heavy wooden door. Maren lost his balance and he and the packages landed in an ungraceful heap on the cobblestones. The patron mumbled something rude about not standing in front of doorways and stalked off.
Maren quickly picked himself and his goods up off the ground and hurried away. Samri protested his departure and he called back to her, “I’ll think about it.” He did not stop or slow until he reached the relative safety of his father’s shop. But even there he found no respite.
As soon as he heard the door open, his father had hurried out from the back room, assuming it was a patron. Seeing his own son seemingly lounging against the door without even bothering to put down his spoils, he inquired irritably as to what took him so long.
Maren had replied exasperatedly that he had been delayed, by Samri. That, of course, was a mistake, for his father then asked when he was going to settle down and have children. But a family was the last thing Maren wanted at the moment, and he made his second mistake in saying so.
Maren’s father had only frowned and informed him stiffly that they were merchant people, who did not go off and have gallant adventures. He also added reprovingly that at twenty-one his father had already been married and that he, Maren, was already born.
Maren was determined not to start and argument. But when his father commented coldly that whatever was good enough for him was good enough for his oldest, and only son, even if he thought himself so high and mighty Maren lost his patience and blurted out that he did not want a family just yet and that he would like it if the subject were dropped.
The resulting argument was so loud and heated that they scared off quite a few potential customers, though neither of them noticed. That was a good thing, for if Maren’s father knew it would have infuriated him even more. The argument ended abruptly when his father stormed out, saying something about being late and his mother needing him home early. Before the door was slammed shut, Maren was informed that he was expected for dinner tonight and that they would continue this conversation later.
Maren would have been happy to see his father leave him in peace for a while, if it didn’t mean another four hours of managing the shop all on his own. As it were, he’d have been just as well to have his father stay and pointedly ignore him for the remainder of the afternoon. Maren could manage, but he was no good with customers.
Now, as he sulked slowly towards his parent’s cottage, he dreaded arriving. The row from earlier would only continue. His mother would not come to his aid, but only stand there, stirring whatever was in her large black pot, and look mildly worried. His three younger sisters would snigger at him for they found it immensely entertaining when he and his father got into it. Even Duke, the old hunting hound, disliked him and ignored him.
Maren pulled himself out of his thoughts and put a smile on his lips; he was within sight of the cottage and wanted to at least give the impression that he was going to enjoy the evening. As he approached the front door Duke gave a warning bark and the sound of little feet pattering quickly to the door followed. Then Lahiri, Maren’s youngest sister flung open the door.
“Mama! Mama!” she screeched. “Maren’s here!” The seven-year-old threw herself at her brother, who obligingly bent down and picked her up. Of all of his sisters, it was Lahiri with whom he got on the best.
“Oh, Maren! Come in, dinners almost ready,” his mother, a short, plump, good-natured woman, shuffled into view. She waved him inside with her ladle and wiped her hands off on her apron before disappearing back into the kitchen again.
Maren went into the cottage, Lahiri settled on his hip, and his nostrils were assailed by the delicious aroma of him mother’s famous “Big Stew”. He sighed. It didn’t matter how high the tempers ran, his mother could always be counted on to provide only the best food.
Turning a corner, Maren walked into the kitchen. There he found his other two sisters, Larcy and Leni, and his father all sitting at a set table, waiting for him.
“You’re late,” his father scowled. He set Lahiri down in her chair.
“Sorry. I had a patron who couldn’t make up her mind. She took forever deciding, and then decided she didn’t really want what she was looking at. And after I closed up, I went home and got cleaned up,” Maren lied.
His father frowned, but said nothing.
At that moment his mother declared the stew done. “It’s ready,” she said and heaved the large cauldron of stew up off its stand and rested it against her hip. For all that she looked soft, his mother was quite strong. Many years of hauling that cauldron around the dinner table had lent her quite a bit of arm strength.
Maren took a seat next to Lahiri and waited for his mother to reach him. She winked at him as she ladled his bowl near to brimming with huge chunks of potato, beef, carrots, celery, tomato, and peas in a thick brown broth. The smell alone was enough to make him salivate, and he tucked in heartily the moment his mother had served herself and had taken her seat.
The only sounds to be heard for a few minutes were those of zealous eating. Then Larcy, Maren’s seventeen-year-old sister, who had been staring at him frostily since he had arrived, broke the silence.
“So, I heard you blew off Samri today, again,” she accused. Maren had to finish the bite in his mouth before he could respond, but his mother beat him to it.
“Maren, is that true? That’s not very gentlemanly of you,” she scolded.
Maren put down his spoon and wiped his mouth. “Ma, it’s not what you think,” he started. Larcy’s eyes flashed angrily and she cut him off.
“It is too and you know it. You don’t have to be so horrid to her just because she likes you,” Larcy yelled. “I don’t know why any of them like you at all, you’re terrible!”
Maren pushed his bowl away from him, no longer hungry. “What do you know about it? You only know what your gossip friends tell you. I know that Samri is your friend, but I’m certain that she didn’t tell you the whole story. She starts it every time.”
Larcy folded her arms over her chest and threw him a haughty look. “Well then, inform me as to what transpired, and then I shall no longer be in the dark,” she suggested mock sweetly. Maren rolled his eyes; she was always so certain that she was in the right that it made him sick.
“Fine,” Maren sighed. “Did she tell you how it started? She cornered me in front of the Schumann shop, she had me pushed up against the door, my arms full of packages father sent me to get, and she practically demanded that I ask her to go to the Midsummer festival next week. She flounced up to me, leaned forward, showing much more than is proper, and wasn’t going to let me leave until I answered her in some way. Thanks to someone inside the shop, I got knocked down before she could make me say something I didn’t want to.”
Larcy frowned at him; apparently she hadn’t known who had asked who what. “Well, did you answer her?”
“Yes, I did. I told her I would think about it.”
She sighed. “Would it kill you to go with her for one night to the stupid festival?” she asked.
Maren rubbed at his temples. “That wouldn’t be fair to her. Contrary to what you might believe, I do not want to hurt her. I would be giving her exactly what she wants only to take it away the next day. I’d be lying to her if I went with her. She doesn’t want just a date, she wants me, and I don’t want her. I won’t do that to her. I may not like her much, but she doesn’t deserve that.”
Larcy opened her mouth to argue, but found that he was right, and shut it again. Maren gave the barest smile of self-satisfaction; he finally had one up on her.
“If you are so adverse to going with Samri,” his father started, entering the argument. “Why not pick a different girl and go with her instead?” Maren looked at his father, who was carefully keeping his face blank of all expression.
“Because, Father, I don’t want to go with a different girl. I don’t want to go with any of them. I don’t even want to go to the stupid festival. I don’t want to get married tomorrow and have a family by the end of next week!” Maren’s voice had steadily risen to the point where he had shouted the last part. All eating had ceased, and the whole family was looking at him. Surprisingly his father was keeping calm.
“Then what do you want?” he asked, even his voice remained calm.
Maren stood up. “I certainly don’t want any of those girls. I don’t want someone who will throw herself at me. I don’t want to be the boy toy of town. I don’t even want to be here!”
“What do you want?” his father repeated, getting impatient.
“I don’t know what I want. I want away from Lambair. I want someone I have to win over, someone with personality. I don’t know what I want to do, but I want out of here. I hate the city!” Maren began pacing in front of the hearth. He wished he could understand how his father was able to incite him so. It made him angry that his father was able to make him angry so easily.
He glanced at his family. His mother was watching him worriedly. Larcy was looking down at her food, not eating, and wore a troubled expression. Leni and Lahiri were glancing from him to his parents and back again. And his father was leaning back in his chair with his arms folded over his chest; a slight frown touched his lips.
“I daresay you want to go off on a grand adventure then?” he sneered.
His mother’s eyes flashed. “Clemens!” she gasped.
It was the last straw; Maren blew up. “No, Father, I do not want to go off ‘gallivanting’ and adventuring and getting into seven types of trouble! I do not have any desire to go join the next band of robbers I pass on the street and go pillage the next village down the road! I just don’t want to get married! I do not want to take over the shop! I do not want to be a merchant for the rest of my life! And I want out of Lambair! I do not want to become you!” he bellowed. Maren stormed out of the kitchen without a backward glance at any of them.
“Where are you going?” his mother called, rushing after him.
“Home, to pack!” Maren slammed to door behind him and stalked off toward home.
Inside he could hear Lahiri crying and his mother trying to quiet her. He heard his father slam the door to the back, and Larcy and Leni arguing about something. He ignored it all and kept going. Between previous fights and arguments, the morning’s row, and the latest incident, Maren had had enough. He was leaving; he did not know where he was going or what he would do when he got there, but just as long as he was away from here.
Upon arriving at his room in town, he hastily threw a few spare outfits, all his savings, his old camping gear, an old wool blanket, a loaf of bread and other non-perishables, a hunting knife, and a bar of soap into a few packs. Then he stomped back out into the cool night air.
On the way to town he had decided where he would go. He was sick of people, so he would go where there were few of them, north. At the city gates he picked up the North Road.
He nodded to the night guard on duty and headed northwest. He didn’t bother spare a glance back at the city, but instead looked eagerly up the road before him. He was finally free of Lambair.
