laneys.info Beware of Yankees, drunks, and loose women.

Brian Kandliss sat down heavily into the chair at the table and sighed.

“I don’t know what those priests of Arhus do all day, but I think they must stay up all night based on the number of candles they use.”

Dillon, now eight, smiled as he cleared up the last of the tools and bits of wick from the table and put them away.

“I think they just really like the difference between what we sell them and those smoky, smelly things they had before. When I delivered the last batch, Father Andrew showed me some of the old ones that he’d found stashed away in an old storeroom. He said there had to be a hundred of them in there that they just quit using as soon as they found ours. I know which ones I’d rather use.”

“Me too, but they’re going to start finding little bits of my fingers in the tapers if they increase their order again next month. I’m about to work them to the bone.”

Dillon stopped cleaning and said, “I could help make them.” He looked at his father and quickly added, “You’ve taught me everything about it, I could still put on the final glaze and trim the wicks for you…”

Brian just smiled and looked at his son.

“…or not,” Dillon finished. He hung his head and turned to the tool cabinet.

“Dillon,” his father said, “aren’t you even going to wait for me to say, ‘yes’?”

“No, I can tell from… what? Did you say yes?”

“I think it’s long overdue. I should have brought you in long ago.”

Dillon cheered, ran over, and hugged his dad.

Brian hugged his son back as the boy climbed up in his lap.

“You’re almost too big to fit in this chair with me.”

“Yeah, but I’ll fit for now.”

“Hey, want to take a break before we start on dinner?”

“You bet! You want me to get the book?”

Dillon scrambled down and dragged a chair over to rest beneath a shelf on the wall. Prominently displayed on the shelf, a worn, leather-bound book leaned against the wall so its cover faced the kitchen. Above that, an old sword hung on the wall.

“Where did we leave off,” Brian asked as Dillon pulled the book down.

“I’ll show you,” Dillon said. He climbed back up in his father’s lap and opened the book. He searched for a moment, and then pointed. “Here.”

“Are you sure? I thought we already read that part.”

“I want to hear it again. Please?”

“Alright, alright.” He cleared his throat and then shifted into a deeper, more lyrical tone. “Sir Lericanin Averitt was born into a farming family in the town of Anderslough…”

“Hey, Dillon!” The three boys came running over as Dillon entered the town square. “Hey, where have you been? We haven’t seen you for days.”

“My dad is letting me work with him on making the candles now. I’m not just stuck trimming wicks, I actually get to pour the wax and everything!”

“I’ll never understand why you like that so much. You had it made, before. All you had to do was cut some string, brush on some glaze and then you could play. It sounds like you really have to work, now.”

“It’s fun,” Dillon replied. “I do have to work at it, but when I’m done, I can see what I’ve done. And then, when we go to the market, or to church, or when I look at the windows of the baron’s keep at night, I see light from candles we made.”

“You’re nuts. Come on, we’re going to play army. I get to be the captain for the good guys!” The boy held up a stick and swished it through the air. A chorus of voices called out their own roles in the game.

Dillon pulled out a wooden mallet. “I want to be on the good guys, too.”

“What’s that,” the captain asked. “Are you going to kill bad guys or fix their cabinets?”

“This is my hammer,” Dillon said matter-of-factly. “Just like Sir Lericanin used in the Great War.”

“Sir Lericanin? You believe all that stuff still? My Dad told me that was all just a bunch of fairytales. There’s no way anybody could kill a god!” The boy turned to the others. “Check this out! Dillon here probably still believes in fairies, too!” Some of the boys snickered. One laughed out loud, prompting the rest to join in, too.

Dillon’s face grew red. He turned and ran out of the square.

Rose Kandliss looked up from her baking to find her son closing the door, sniffling as he entered. “Dillon, what’s wrong, honey?”

Finally, Dillon couldn’t hold it back any longer. He burst into tears and sobbed into his mother’s shoulder. Through the sobs, he told her the story.

“They’re lying, right Mom? They have to be lying. All those stories are true, they just have to be! Even the part about them killing Sater, it just has to be true.”

“Well, honey, I know that the gods really exist, and your father says there really were people by those names who fought in the Great War against the darkness. I trust your father. If he says it’s true, then it’s true.”

“What’s true,” Brian asked as he entered the kitchen.

“Dillon’s friends in the square told him that the stories in The Book aren’t true, they’re just a bunch of fairytales.”

“Oh, they’re true, alright,” Brian said, stroking his son’s head. He knelt down next to Dillon. “You see that sword, son? Your grandfather carried that sword into battle the day Sater died. He saw it all with his own eyes. He saw Sir Lericanin, Sir Sceva, and all the other Chosen as they drove through the enemy to the final showdown.” He stood, and his eyes got a far-away look. “He even saw the other gods as they stood on the field of battle at the end.” He turned back to his son. “Your friends can believe what they want, Dillon. But you know the truth. And the truth doesn’t change just because someone else doesn’t want to believe it’s the truth.”