by Katy Winter
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
After two days, as the combined Cynases’ army finally slowly disappeared from view, those in Baron/Kelt breathed more easily. They opened the gates and once more scoured churned up ground for any weaponry, small or large. Any bodies, hitherto unseen, were buried in huge pits dug for the purpose, the faces of those given the task of disposal of so many, grim. Retrieved weapons of any description were brought to the city to the arsenal where they were given to the Grohol to re-use or to cannibalise, their expertise with metals undisputed and admired.
It was now known that Harnath, injured, had been captured and brought into the city. It was Knellen who unexpectedly found him. He went to visit the dormitories of the injured, especially seeking any Varen. As he passed one mattress he happened to glance down, then he paused before he stooped to look more closely at the big man lying there. He saw that Harnath was indeed seriously wounded. He lay twitching, his limbs writhing as he moaned quietly. Knellen considered him then walked on until he sighted a junior Varen who seemed to be in charge of emtori trained to assist with nursing the injured. Knellen signalled to the Varen who stepped forward immediately. He accompanied Knellen back to Harnath.
“This man, brother. What ails him?”
The Varen stared down at Harnath then he gave the inimitable Varen shrug as he bent to more closely examine the twitching figure. He then lifted the sheet on the small box by the bed and perused it.
“He suffers burns and has internal and external injuries from shrapnel splinters. He has been treated to the best of our ability and given what pain relief is available.”
“And the prognosis?”
“He will die,” came the blunt reply. “The injuries are fatal.”
“How long has he got?”
“Probably a little while. His end will not be an easy one.”
“I see.”
Knellen considered Harnath for long minutes then he sighed and pursed his lips. The Varen watched him.
“Is there anything else in connection with him?” the younger Varen asked emotionlessly.
“No, brother, no. There is nothing more to be done for him, by anyone?”
“No. The man is dying.”
“Then I wish him removed to a chamber that will be prepared for him. Where are the recovering Arrain-Toh Varen and Cynas’s troops?”
“Two dormitories along. They are under Grohol guard.” The Varen thought, then added, “The Grohol may be small people but they are redoubtable and skilled fighters as well as unexpectedly fierce allies.”
Knellen nodded then strode away to find any survivors from Arrain-Toh. He found a number of elite Varen and even more from various Varen ranks. There were also significant numbers of city-state troopers who ranged from officers to ordinary ranks. He walked forward just inside the door and spoke clearly, his deep voice carrying.
“I know some of you are too hurt to respond,” he began, “but I ask those who are able to listen to what I have to say.” Knellen saw heads turn to him, some with eyes that spoke of pain and suffering. “Your Cynas, Harnath, lies within the city fatally hurt. I have given orders that he is to be moved to where he will die with a degree of dignity but he is, of necessity, still under strict guard. I am willing, however, to allow men from his personal troop to accompany him until his death as I am aware it is your duty to be with him at all times. Only a select few will be allowed to do this. Is there anyone among you who wishes to do this?”
A tall, older man with greying hair, came up painfully onto his elbows and spoke.
“I answer to Turan, Varen.”
“My nomen is Knellen, Turan.”
“I command the Cynas’ troops.”
“Then do you wish to be with him?” Turan gave a nod. “Do you choose any others?”
“Yes.”
“You may choose five to go with you. Like your Cynas you will appreciate you are under guard.”
Knellen saw Turan wearily and resignedly nod as he turned to his men. Knellen looked long at the injured Varen, aware several waited to speak. He forestalled them.
“I regret, brothers, you may not accompany them. No one with a writhling is free to be in Baron/Kelt.”
Two of the Varen fell back on their mattresses, their eyes closing. Four others stayed upright.
“Knellen, we do not carry writhlings.” The one who spoke did so with difficulty.
“How is this?” demanded Knellen surprised. “We were advised that all Varen from city-states other then Adon’s and Barok’s were recipients of enforced writhling insertions.”
“Not all,” croaked the Varen.
“How is this?”
“The writhlings were immature, Knellen. Weak and half-formed ones died within us quite soon after insertion. Their ends were extremely unpleasant for the hosts. We -,” the Varen paused and took another painful breath, “felt it in ways..” The voice trailed away and became weaker as the Varen sank back on the mattress. The Varen next to him spoke slowly.
“Many of us had to fight against them but we did.”
“Are you telling me,” asked Knellen, crossing to be beside the two Varen and staring down, “that among you are those who survived insertion?”
“Yes.”
“The demons!” said Knellen blankly. “Your courage and resilience is truly remarkable, brothers.” He looked at the second speaker. “What is your nomen?”
“I answer to Arish, brother.”
“Then, Arish, we of Baron/Kelt need to urgently distinguish between those like you and others who may have mature writhlings. Are you many?”
Arish nodded tiredly.
“Some even had no insertion, brother.” He indicated down along the dormitory. “The Red Councils ran out of supplies. They inserted into elites first then down the ranks until there were none left.”
“Was this situation only in Arrain-Toh?”
“No.” Arish shook his head. “We found this was so in all city-states.”
“Do you wish to accompany Turan?” Again there was a head shake. “Any of you?” Knellen saw more shaken heads other than for a handful and he knew those few Varen fought mature writhlings. He could smell and sense it. They needed help. He nodded at Turan. “Choose your men. I will arrange for an escort after your Cynas is moved to appropriate quarters.”
Harnath rested on a large bed, the man in and out of a semi-comatose state as his pain-filled cries and moans echoed about the chamber. He was badly burned from back-firing heavy weaponry he himself directed and his spine was injured. He also had metal splinters of varying sizes lacing his body that had penetrated vital organs. To remove them was impossible. Though the man was a depraved monster of cruelty and had tortured so many, including the Keeper of the Key, still it wasn’t possible not to feel horror at the Cynas’ prolonged and agonised death throes. He’d shown no mercy or pity to others. None could help him now. He was beyond relief.
Javen went to see him. Why, he didn’t know. He wondered if what Harnath experienced now may have altered him in some way. He stood, silent, looking down at the man who made him emtori and tortured and purged him. He’d mocked and humiliated him then banished him with a mutilated ear, to be condemned to a life of nothingness. Even his higher learning was ridiculed. Harnath had stripped him bare. Javen thought of how he struggled to survive and how becoming a slave trader enabled him to exist. His lips twisted. The Maenade beside him had a comforting arm about his shoulder as he continued to stand and watch a man he’d come to so bitterly hate. Javen took a deep wavering breath, his voice with a catch to it.
“You destroyed my world, Harnath. You mocked my beliefs and ridiculed my learning. I was a senior Acolyte of the Order but you stripped us bare and made us suffer for what we were and you set out to totally eliminate all associated with the Order. You were very thorough and you murdered our Dom Ashken. How can you expect me to show you pity now?” Javen paused. He was shaking. The grip round him firmed. “Maybe, in a way, I’m your nemesis. I wanted reve
nge for all the evil you committed and not just to me. I wanted to see justice done through retribution but I find, as I stand here and look at you, that my desire for revenge is gone because your end equals, in a small way, the pain you inflicted on so many.”
Javen went to turn then paused, because he saw Harnath’s eyes open directly up into his. In them he read contempt and derision before pain made the eyes cloud again. Javen and the Maenade left the room.
Harnath lingered for thirty days, each one worse than the preceding one, his cries and howls such they made any close to him shudder. His troopers stayed grimly close, his very few chosen Varen likewise, their faces masks as they cared for him as best they could. His final end was a tortured gasp before the husk of a body finally stilled.
Meanwhile Knellen, Lisle and other senior Varen went through the ranks of injured Varen from the attacking army trying to sort those without writhlings, those with dead writhlings still inside that had to be dealt with and those with active writhlings who required more drastic treatment. The Varen who needed medium sized writhlings removed were shifted to another dormitory where they endured removal that nearly killed some of them.
Outside the city became a tented infirmary because many fighters from the opposing army deserted and straggled back to Baron/Kelt where they begged for clemency and relief. Most were injured. Others were simply desperate to escape lives of unutterable misery and bondage. Among them, seriously hurt and probably unlikely to survive either the battle or the long trek back to Baron/Kelt, was a very big man of choleric disposition. His name was Mesmauve. He staggered into the makeshift camp where he collapsed, feverish and bleeding. He was helped to a mattress, dosed and his wound was attended to. Later, when he came to, he hazily saw that it was a Varen who stood over him.
“We are taking the name of all arrivals,” came the cold voice. “State your name, your city-state and your status if you have any.”
“Mesmauve, emtori, from Castelus.”
“Which emtori caste?”
“The second lowest caste.”
The Varen moved on.
It was Knellen, checking the lists for Varen, who was brought up sharply by seeing Mesmauve’s name. He paused. An eyebrow went up. He chewed his inner cheek thoughtfully before he continued reading. Then he rose, the list in his hand as he sought out the Doms. Each took and read the list.
“So,” commented Sapphire, a smile lilting on his lips, “he did come. Forced to, I suppose.”
“Presumably,” concurred Quon, frowning heavily.
“A meeting had to come sooner or later if Mesmauve survived a war,” observed Dancer. “After all, from what you tell us, Quon, the man was a brute to the child.”
“Brutalised himself,” reminded Ebon, looking across at Quon’s set face. “They go on to perpetuate the brutality, though I make no excuses for his treatment of a very small and innocent child.”
“No.” Quon’s frown deepened. “You didn’t see the child, any of you, nor did you feel the desolation at the heart of him. His little soul shrivelled daily. He was pitiful.”
“So what do you propose?” Sapphire glanced at the other Doms as he spoke and got a warning shake of the head from each.
“I’ll see the man myself and I’ll tell Jepaul, but in my own way.” Having decided, Quon rose, his mouth drawn tight.
Mesmauve watched a very old man approach but as he expected him to pass by, he was surprised and startled when he looked up to find the man stood at the end of his mattress surveying him. He stared up. His confused look changed to alarm.
“Who are you then?”
“Don’t you remember me, Mesmauve of Castelus? I remember you.”
“The old man,” muttered Mesmauve peering up, his eyes cloudy from drugs and pain, then they cleared. “You came to ask about that changeling of a son of mine, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did. You spat at mention of the child’s name.”
“Jepaul! Yes, I did. I never named him – his mother did before she died just after his birth. I’d rather he’d died than her because she had her uses. He had none.”
“You abandoned him, Mesmauve.”
“I discovered, after he was conceived, mind, that his mother and he came from a tainted line cursed through the ages. He showed the curse on his damned feet! And he had cursed hair and eyes. He was an abomination. I did Shalah a service by abandoning him.”
“You left a very small child to die, Mesmauve.”
“So I did.” Mesmauve smiled at Quon a little mockingly and stretched. “I wasn’t the first to leave an unwanted child to exposure and death, old man, nor was I the last.”
“You left him defenceless and to starve.”
“Or freeze. One or the other would have killed him.”
“That was cruel and corrupt, Mesmauve.”
Mesmauve studied the old man closely.
“I angered you then as I anger you now. Yes, maybe it was cruel but he had no future, none at all. His life would’ve been one of sheer misery and servitude so I guess it could be said I spared him that hell.”
“And placed him in another.”
“It would have been quicker than a life of slavish hell, old man. What do you want? Do you want me to show remorse. Is that it?”
“No,” came the curt reply. “I don’t expect the impossible, but you might at least have the honesty to admit that how you treated a small innocent child was wrong.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Have you no conscience, Mesmauve?”
Mesmauve considered for long moments then sighed wearily.
“Yes, old man, I have, but not necessarily about Jepaul as you would hope.”
Quon eyed him, then turned to go with a shrug of indifference. Mesmauve suddenly spoke.
“You said, syns ago, you rescued him and you asked about his history. I gave you honest answers.”
“But you refused to take him back.”
“What would you? He was weak, tainted and condemned to the very lowest emtori caste, an existence one even lower than me. I told him his future if he stayed.”
“Those stories of factories and mines stayed with him as terrifying nightmares.”
“Probably. They were meant to. He was always dreaming, even as a very small child. He needed to be thrashed to make him pay attention and live in the real world.”
“You never understood or appreciated your own child, Mesmauve.”
“I didn’t want to. He was tainted. I never had another after him – he was more than enough.”
“You told him so.”
“Yes.”
“That deeply hurt him.”
“Was he so puny then? Yes, I suppose he was.”
“Could you not see beyond his weakness of physique to the inner child, rich in imagination, creativity and extraordinary sensitivity?”
“They’d be no use to him in the world he’d have entered, old man. It was unforgiving and cruelly harsh. He was ill-equipped for such an existence.”
“That may well be true,” mused Quon, “but it doesn’t excuse your harshness or abandonment of a child.”
Mesmauve stayed silent, then he heaved a deep sigh.
“What now, old man? Am I to be punished for that?”
“No. What would be the point? The boy did survive. I saw to that though it wasn’t easy.”
“Did he?” asked Mesmauve, clearly startled. “He was such a queer, skinny little fellow, all bones and no flesh. He looked like a storm would put out his life.”
“It nearly did, often.”
“Frail, old man, too frail. He was even a sickly baby.” He coughed. “No use to anyone really. Sad, I suppose, but there it is.”
“Perhaps not.”
“When I thrashed him, dreamy boy he was, it was like beating at a shadow – no substance.”
“He matured, painfully, to an adult.”
“Well now, did he so?”
“And
he is in this city.”
Mesmauve stared up at Quon, a smile curling his upper lip.
“Still lowest caste emtori, is he?” There was a derisive note to the voice, almost jeering. “Is that what you saved him for, old man? I doubt he thanks you for a life of servitude to people who treat him as below contempt.”
“He’s not lowest ranked emtori, Mesmauve.”
“Gone up one, has he? What does he do rather then work in pits or factories? Does he now sweep streets shunned by all who pass him by? Maybe he’s even allowed to make beds, wash dishes, sweat it out in a laundry?”
“None of those things, Mesmauve.”
“What then, after all this time?”
“He has no rank. He isn’t emtori.”
Mesmauve looked a question, his head tilted and his expression curious.
“No?”
“No. Jepaul is a very powerful man, Mesmauve. You gave birth to someone rare. With the help of others I managed to get him to one who could train him and develop his very real gifts.”
Mesmauve’s eyes clouded then he slowly shook his head.
“I don’t believe you,” he stated flatly. “What do you mean gifts and training? He was just a Shalah boy, though a mighty strange one you could’ve called a changeling.”
“Have you ever, in your rather sad life, heard of the Order of the Island of Salaphon?”
Mesmauve shook his head, then paused uncertainly and licked his lips. Quon handed him a glass from which he sipped.
“No, old man, I don’t think I have, though..” Mesmauve’s voice trailed away as if he struggled with concentration and a thought that slipped away. He sank lower on the mattress.
“It’s very ancient and I doubt you went to school. You would have heard of it only through stories. I studied under the Order myself when I was very young.”
“So?”
“Jepaul is trained likewise.”
Mesmauve again stared at Quon, rather perplexed.
“He was a doomed emtori weakling without a future.”
“That was what you hoped.”
“It was what had to be,” came the retort.
“Then, Mesmauve, you’re in for a shock. I ask you to be patient. I’ve spoken with Jepaul who is prepared to see you. I’ll find your son.”
Mesmauve dozed. He woke to see a very tall man stood at the end of the mattress. He was a very broad-shouldered and well-filled out man of powerful physique, with an amazingly long curly mane of auburn/copper hair swept back and eyes of a colour unknown on Shalah with oddly shaped irises. The breath caught in Mesmauve’s throat as he stared, fascinated. He knew those eyes. The voice that came was deep.
“Mesmauve.”
“Yes.”
“You know who I am.”
“I know who you’ll say you are.”
“I’m Jepaul.”
“So you say.” Mesmauve peered up. “You have the hair and eyes of the child, I grant you that, but I find it hard to believe the child I knew could have grown so strong or tall.”
“I did.” Jepaul looked long at his father. “You said I was a changeling and shamed you, a tainted abomination because of my heritage and my feet. You said that you’d never father another child after producing me and my disgracing you.”
“That’s so. I don’t deny it.”
“You thrashed me so hard and knocked me about. I was often a walking bruise. You were cruel to me.”
“You were a dreamer. You needed to be brought into the world you’d be forced to inhabit. What I did to you was nothing compared with what faced you.”
“You badly frightened me.”
“True. You needed it.”
“I was only a very small child.”
“Not so young you couldn’t be taught what awaited the lowest caste emtori at a very young age.”
“You hated me, Mesmauve.”
“Hate? No, just loathed and despised you, Jepaul,” came the blunt answer. “I was a strong man with fire in my loins and then found I was mocked and sneered at for siring the ultimate weakling, a skinny wisp with a taint, queer eyes and one who lived a dream. After you were gone the taunts ceased.”
“I caused you disgrace as a social outcast.”
“Aye, you did.”
“So you punished me for that – for what I was and couldn’t help being.”
“I did, yes. Not,” added Mesmauve, “that I wanted you.”
“You were very cruel to me.”
Mesmauve eyed him consideringly, then he gave a slow, weary nod.
“Life’s cruel – as you found out.”
“You left me, terrified and lost, to starve.”
“Or to die of exposure, yes. You were too young to know it was a common practice for the weak, the under-sized, the unwanted – like you. There was another reason for your being treated so. You’re tainted, Jepaul, and you always will be, those of your line considered worthless.”
“And you?”
“Injured, Jepaul, and highly unlikely to survive,” came the slightly mocking answer. “It will end a life that’s been harsh.” Mesmauve again stared up at his son, a puzzled look in his clouded eyes. “How you escaped from being an emtori I don’t know but it’s strange to me you did. So many of us tried but failed, time and again.”
“Quon saved me.”
“The old man?”
“Yes. He told me he sought you out to find out about my origins and you told him then that I was the last of a cursed line from one called the Progenitor.”
Mesmauve moved and flinched. He eased himself onto a makeshift pillow.
“That’s what your mother finally admitted to me.”
“Did you care for her?”
“The truth about herself angered me. I felt she took me for a fool but she warmed my bed and gave me pleasure until she died soon after your birth.”
“Did you believe I caused her death?”
“Since she followed you so soon it was a logical conclusion her brat brought about her end, yes. I used whorehouses after her.”
“Did you care for her before I was born?”
“Oh, aye, in my way. She was a kind woman and kept a tidy house and fed her man well. I had no complaints, and she was comely to look at.” Mesmauve considered. He eyed Jepaul. “She was a good woman in her way, if that’s what you ask me. We were happy enough, as much as emtori can be.”
“I owe you nothing, Mesmauve.”
“Apart from your unfortunate conception, Jepaul, no, nothing at all. I’m surprised you even bothered to see me.”
Jepaul looked long at his father.
“Do you regret I survived?”
“No, just astonished.” Mesmauve looked his son up and down, his eyebrows raised. “You’ve changed somewhat from the thin, frail wisp of nothingness, haven’t you? You’re a very strong man by the looks of you - more in my mould than could ever have been believed possible though you’re very much taller.”
“I’m the image of the Progenitor, Mesmauve, even to his physique, hair and eyes.”
“You’re well and truly damned then, aren’t you? Are you shunned?”
“Not now. I also inherited his talent.”
Mesmauve’s eyes suddenly dilated, partly in astounded disbelief and partly from fear.
“Impossible!” he jerked out. “Emtori don’t have talent.”
“The Red Council found me out. They purged me ready for execution.”
Mesmauve cleared his throat and his voice was hoarse.
“A child?”
“Yes.”
“That’s worse than anything I did to you.”
“Yes.”
“It might have been better you died young, Jepaul, if that’s so. I’ve heard of purging followed by ritual death.” Mesmauve licked dry lips and coughed. “To do that to a child.” Mesmauve took a painful indrawn breath. “You thought me cruel, Jepaul, but the Red Council do things that are…”
“I know.”
“How di
d you survive that or can I guess – the old man?”
“Yes. We were exiled.”
“So, if you’re no longer caste, Jepaul, what are you now?”
“I’m at the highest level of the Order of the Island of Salaphon.”
“The old man said something about it but I can’t recall… What does that mean?”
“My talent is trained and I use it.”
Mesmauve was clearly trying to concentrate as he focused on his son and his eyes briefly cleared as he suddenly recalled something.
“Maquat Doms, Jepaul, I think. Long, long ago they walked Shalah when this world was a better place. They trained people. Even, I think, Cynases. Did they train them to be wicked oppressors?”
“No, Mesmauve, they trained them to be compassionate rulers with codes of conduct they chose to ignore.”
“Well, those Dom things are gone and this is the Shalah we’re left with.” Jepaul saw Mesmauve’s eyes cloud again and his breathing became suddenly shallower as the younger man knelt by the side of the mattress. The grey eyes opened hazily and tried to focus on Jepaul so close. “Have you actually got power from all this, Jepaul?”
Jepaul nodded slowly.
“Yes, Mesmauve, I’m one you spoke of as being long gone. They’re back. I’m one of them. I’m a Maquat Dom.”
“Well now,” murmured Mesmauve sleepily. “Ancient stories. Are you still a dreamer, Jepaul?”
“Yes and no. But know, Mesmauve, that the Maquat Doms are very real and they’re here now in Baron/Kelt. They’re the ones who helped me grow from childhood. Quon, the old man, is Maquat Dom Earth.”
Jepaul saw bewilderment but also an odd light of hope in the eyes of a dying man who found what he heard difficult to comprehend but was something he desperately wanted to believe could be true.
“Almost fairy stories, Jepaul, but not quite. What then,” Mesmauve whispered, “is my son, the frail boy of a cursed line?”
“I’m Maquat Dom Spirit, Mesmauve.”
Mesmauve nodded wearily, a slow smile coming to a white face.
“I know little of what you speak about, Jepaul, but if you have talent, which it seems you do, then try to use it to ease the lives of emtori. The last syns at Castelus were savage, the Cynas a monster aided and abetted by the Red Council and vicious Varen. So many died. So many. Others had forced insertions that left them helpless and in agony. Others, me too, were forced to come here to fight, all put in the front lines so we’d be the first to die because we have no value.” Mesmauve became steadily more breathless.” We were all flogged into obedience, one man after another, Jepaul, life in the city so hellish it was a relief to leave it for death elsewhere.” There was a long pause. “Ease the sufferings of others, as others did for you and I didn’t.”
“Your time passes, Mesmauve.”
“I know, Jepaul, I know.” Mesmauve gave a faint sigh. He offered a calloused and tentative hand, his expression showing he expected it to be ignored; he gave the flicker of a smile when he felt Jepaul clasp it. “A savage life, Jepaul, a savage cruel life of servitude and pain – slavery really. You avoided that.”
Jepaul stayed quiet. His eyes rested on the seamed, old face of a scarred and violent man, a quarrelsome drunkard who abandoned his son to a slow death. But all he saw was a survivor, a battler against hopeless and harsh odds who lay here dying, other than for the son who survived despite him, alone and friendless on foreign soil. The man drank to drown out a truly dreadful existence whereas Jepaul had sought sanctuary, instead, in his imagination. They were both victims.
“Yes,” Jepaul answered. “Quon saved me from that.”
“I wouldn’t have been able to.”
“No. Quon became my father.”
The hand holding Jepaul’s firmed.
“My time comes, Jepaul.”
“Yes, I can see it.”
“Then it’s goodbye, Jepaul, after all these syns.”
“Yes.”
“Can you forgive my abandoning you, son?”
“Not easily.”
“No. I understand that. You’ve become a fine man, Jepaul, a fine man indeed. Quon should be proud of you.”
“He is.”
The hand grip weakened and the eyes began to finally close. Jepaul bent to hear Mesmauve’s last whispered, halting words.
“So, son, am I.”
Jepaul was unaware Quon watched him as he stayed kneeling beside Mesmauve, before Jepaul carefully loosened his hand from his father’s, rose, took a long look at the now peaceful face and strode away, his head averted. Quon sadly followed him. Jepaul went inward for some days. He only related to Quon and Belika. Neither did he play the pipe that lay, untouched, in his quarters. Tactfully, the Doms and Companions left him alone.
