Free Self-Made Scoundrel by Tristan J. Tarwater

sighed quietly and blessed the baby again, the baby wincing as he felt more water sprinkled onto his forehead. “Deril Cartaskin, we welcome you to the Valley and into the grace of the Holy Mother. May you find love and peace in your life. May Her Black Hand guide us all.” The congregation applauded and Dershik held the baby up once more for the people to see, careful with Deril.
    Once the child had been presented, Dershik handed the baby back to Jerila before they all left to rejoin the temple attenders for the liturgy. As was the custom they sang “We Are Your Children,” with his father leading the hymn for once. Dershik tried to ignore the intense look his father gave him from the altar. When he looked to Ceric, his brother looked as if he might leap from the front of the temple and strangle him. Dershik gulped and looked to Deril, strawberry blond hair starting to curl gently around his small, pink head. Skinny, long feet kicked out of the blue and yellow blanket. Ceric’s features, both of them. But Deril had his mother’s nose. What had Dershik given him? What would he leave him? For the Cartaskins? Dershik felt like he didn’t have anything to give. And it didn’t bother him one bit.
     
    Dershik didn’t like the feeling in the room. He sat in the first seat, on the right side of his father. Jerila’s father sat across from him, grey bearded, older than his own father, eyes a steely, intense grey. Beside Dershik sat one of the magistrates, Gedrix of Clefthill, one of the biggest towns in the barony. Across from him was the magistrate of the next biggest town, Kersen of Pines-Below-Water. Opposite his father, Ceric sat, still in his grey and brown robes. A book and ink and pen sat in front of him. As soon as the door was closed his father looked to Ceric.
    “No need to record any of this yet, son,” Darix Cartaskin said. Ceric blushed and closed the book, putting his hands in his lap as the men all looked up at their Baron. “Deril has survived the phase. For that we are thankful.” Dershik waited for his father to thank the Goddess but the Baron just looked down to the table, as if collecting his thoughts before he looked up again. “Dershik and Jerila are a good match both in attitude and body. Perhaps they will be as lucky as I was and have another child.”
    Dershik’s face grew hot and he concentrated on the grain of the table and not the words his father said. He could feel Ceric staring at him. His father started talking about allegiance and transformation and legacy. He gestured to Dershik when he said it. Dershik was sitting where he was because as the next Baron it was his place. He had been put there. Fine. He listened lazily, sitting without attention in his chair.
    “The time to mint our own coins and remove the Baronies from the grip of the Church has come.”
    What? Dershik sat up in his chair, suddenly interested in what his father had to say. What? He looked to Ceric. His brother looked like a ghost.
    “With our households joined, we now have enough metal. Both of your towns have priestesses we can trust to be on our side. With Ceric as the spiritual adviser of Dershik we will have the discretion needed to undertake this project.” His father looked to him, his eyes bright and keen, stifling all of the questions Dershik wanted to ask. What about Kiyla? And Cira? Coinage? The Church controlled the coin as a way to relieve the Barons of the burden and keep balance within the region. The Church didn’t pay taxes. They were an objective third party when it came to the economy of the Valley. And now his father wanted to remove them.
    Dershik felt sick. He listened as his father gave figures, named locations and listed the order in which the other Barons would be approached. “Ceric is our man on the inside, able to ascertain who among the clergy will work with us. They keep it under their beds but there are factions within the clergy. We can use this to our gain.” Dershik glanced to