he rain tapped softly on the window panes of his bedroom but it did not help Tristan fall asleep. Instead of soothing him as it often did, the rain only served to remind him that he was a prisoner in his own home. The whole afternoon he had wandered around the house afraid to go near the windows or out into the garden for fear of exposing his father’s story that he had run away to Elona for a lie. After pacing the corridors for the hundredth time, his sister Isabeau ordered him to lie down and try to take a nap. Despite his exhaustion, sleep refused to come to him as he tossed and turned in the bed.

Now he paid for his past excesses at the alehouse. He threw aside his dank sweat-soaked pillow angrily and stared at the flames dancing in the fireplace until they were etched upon his retinas. How was he supposed to sleep with this splitting headache and his stomach boiling over with nausea? He cursed and rolled over on his back, staring at the ceiling while his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the curtained bedchamber. Slowly the ceiling mural emerged as if he were staring up into a forest canopy. Dragonflies, butterflies and exotic flowers were entwined by an ornate vine, each detail and glimmer of dew lovingly reproduced. He had commissioned it for his wife, Monique, for she had missed the dappled shadows of the Jade Sea forests and the play of sunlight through the swaying branches. The painter, having never seen the grand old ruins of Monique’s homeland, ornamented it with the flora and fauna of Kryta. Tristan recognized the sky blue flare of the native butterflies and the metallic green of the dragonflies he had captured in his childhood. He could still hear the sweet sounds of Monique’s voice with her exotic Luxon accent asking the painter to make sky flowers and other details the poor man had never seen in his life. The result was magical.

He missed her so. Without wine he could no longer escape the feeling of emptiness that now dwelt in her place. They had made love on this bed, expending their passions and then lying in one another’s arms to gaze up at the magical sky until sleep found them. Such sweet contentment and warmth he would never know again.

Tristan clenched his jaw and looked away, the sharp movement of his head making him groan with pain. He remembered why he spent so much time away; every accursed thing in this house reminded him of her. Now there was no escape. The wine cellar was locked and his mother had informed the servants that they were to remove every drop of liquor found in his possession. With a warrant drawn up for his arrest, he would be a fool to leave the house and so he abided by the rules of his parents even though he was a grown man.

Lightning flared beyond the heavy curtains that enshrouded his bedroom. He ground his teeth at the furious boom that followed. Taking a deep breath he rubbed his temples, trying to focus, but the pain split his skull in two and made it impossible to think clearly. He rolled over with a sigh, lurching to his feet to begin pacing anew. Instead, he staggered against the nearest wall, the strength having left his legs. The pain was blinding and he slid down the wall and sat on the carpet, his hand touching something cold. It was his sword, sharp and always ready for battle. Unlike him.

The blade felt heavy in his hands, heavier than he remembered it in the days when he had been meticulous about practicing his fencing. It turned red with blood as he ran a careless finger along its perfectly honed edge. Morbidly he wondered how quickly he would die were he to run its edge along his throat. How much would it hurt? Could it possibly hurt as much as he did now, forever parted from the only woman he had ever loved? But he could not commit suicide. That would turn his son into an orphan and he felt ashamed of himself for even considering it. How could he be such a cowardly selfish bastard?

“What are you doing?” came Isabeau’s voice, angry and started. His sister rushed into his bed chamber, her green eyes blazing with fury and grief as she saw the bloodied blade. Her silvery velvet gown and golden hair fluttered around her like the plumage of an exotic bird. She slapped his hand away and the weapon clattered to the floor, pointing accusingly at him, “I thought I told you to rest, not play with your stupid sword.”

Shame colored his cheeks and he looked away from her. They were both mesmers and their natural sibling bond had only grown stronger and more magical over the years. The patina of tragedy had not tarnished their love for one another and she had no doubt sensed his dark thoughts and come running to his side.

Tristan felt guilty about her undeserved attention to him. A stupid accident had caused her firstborn to die in her womb and the man who had sired that child would not even speak to her. In return for her love and care, he could only offer her more pain. She was a stronger, better person than he and he hated himself for that.

“I can’t relax, not with this headache,” he replied lamely, embarrassed that she had found him in this state.

“You’re pale as a ghost. When was the last time you slept?”

He could not look at her as she knelt beside him and stroked his face apologetically. Tristan ached inside to feel her regret over being harsh to him. It was no more than he deserved.

“Don’t know, don’t remember,” he groaned and buried his face in his hands.

“The servants say you are not eating.”

“Not hungry.”

“Well, barring another visit by the White Mantle, you will be expected at supper tonight. I will not take no for an answer.”

He sighed as she sat down beside him and wrapped her arms around him as if he were a child. Embarassed, he made a frail attempt to rise, but his legs were still uncooperative and eventually he gave in and rested his head on her shoulder, the smell of her perfume reminiscent of honeysuckle on a warm summer night. He relaxed then, grateful for the closeness of another human being and the arms of someone he trusted implicitly.

“Is it true what I have heard, Brother? Did you really give father’s weapons to the Shining Blade?” she whispered.

“I’m going mad here Izzy, I need to get out.”

“Do you want to be arrested? Do you want to be taken away from Micah and me?”

“You know I don’t.”

“Then stop acting like a caged animal and find something to focus upon.”

“If I see another scroll or piece of parchment I really will go mad.”

“When was the last time you meditated?”

He sat up and turned his head away in shame.

“Too long,” he replied. In truth, he had not been able to find sanctuary in his mind since Monique’s death.

“I am about to meditate, why not join me,” she asked gently, stroking his sweat-soaked hair from his face.

“I can’t focus. Not here. I can’t even go near the window.”

“Get dressed.”

To his shame, he was still in his linen shirt and the loose pantaloons he wore to bed on chilly nights. She rose to give him privacy and he somehow managed to find his feet again and stumble to the washstand to cleanse the sickly-sweet musky odor of sweat from his body before donning the clothes the servant had set out for him. Once more he donned the form-fitting doublet and hose of a nobleman. How he hated his life.

Isabeau returned soon after he pulled on his supple thigh-length boots. His son, Micah, was in her arms, and when she set the boy down he waddled joyously toward Tristan, pudgy arms wide to grasp his knees with an exuberant giggle.

“Hello there,” Tristan said and smiled, although he was ashamed to realize that during the last few days as the taint of drinking left his body, he had not given a thought to his child. He sat down on the edge of his bed and the toddler made a bold effort to climb up beside him. Tristan grasped the boy around his ribs and hauled him up even though this small effort made him giddy and queasy. Micah was overcome with delighted belly laughter, a sound that brought unwelcome tears to Tristan’s eyes for it was so sweet and innocent.

“I’ll carry him, you look weak,” Isabeau offered, “I want to show you where I like to meditate.”

He sighed, relinquishing his son into Isabeau’s care before following her through the labyrinth of hallways and rooms. He had lived here all of his life and it was strange to see it again and be baffled by all the twists and turns. He remembered playing hide and go seek through the warren of servant’s quarters and rooms reserved for various grown-up occasions. At last they came to a place he had forgotten in his rush to become a man. On rainy days it had served as the backdrop for childhood adventures in the misty terrifying depths of the Maguuma jungle. The jewel-colored light pouring through the stained-glass windows warmed his spirit. Pure, untrammeled sunlight filtered through the clouds overhead as rain sleeted over the transparent glass panels of the ceiling. For a moment he could imagine he was outside, freed from the confines of the stuffy old manor house

“The solarium,.” he murmured, smiling as Micah reached out to touch one of the pale pink roses that his mother kept there. The air was warm and smelled of citrus from the glossy-leaved lemon trees that lined one wall and screened off a pair of wicker chairs.

“Will you meditate here with me?” Isabeau asked.

“I’ll try,” he said earnestly, grateful to her for taking him away from his terrible mood. For a moment he had forgotten the complaints of his body and basked in the natural beauty around him. He could tell he would be spending a great deal more time here, “Thank you for this wonderful gift.”