Solace Lost

by Michael Sliter

  The well-dressed noblewoman had inquired about Merigold’s powers and abilities also, subtly and not without kindness. Had Merigold not already been suspicious and on-guard, she may not have noticed. But Meri had given nothing away, and managed to learn that she had committed some acts of great violence against the mercenaries. She still didn’t have any details, but she’d gleaned enough to know that she was capable. Capable of taking care of herself.

  And maybe capable of helping her father after all.

  She just needed to figure out how this damn magic worked. It had the power to destroy her home and her family, but clearly, it might also have the power to give her revenge.

  Since then, Merigold had begun trying to rediscover her powers, to figure out how to manipulate them to some extent. Early in her life, drawing had just been something that she could do, like breathing or laughing. She could focus, almost without thinking, and see the power—the maenen, Cryden called it—residing within everyone near her. Meri could then tap into it with a touch and a thought, instinctively knowing that drawing more than a thimble’s-worth, so to speak, would attract attention. Of course, she had occasionally drawn a little too much in the past, with her target flinching or looking around, confused. But she had never before drawn so much as she had from Fenrir that night at the Duckling, and her experience with the mercenaries was too hazy for her to remember.

  Something that had been so simple and effortless had grown so difficult. What had Cryden said? That her ability to sense maenen in others may have been obscured by her trauma? The moment she’d needed the power the most, when Saren had bore down upon her, it had failed her. Since then, she had only accessed her power once—again when she was in great danger. Merigold understood neither how she had tapped into her magic on the latter occasion, nor why she had been entirely unable to access the magic once and then found it so effortless the other time.

  So, she worked at it. Merigold would peek out from her covered wagon, seeing the loosely-packed men marching behind her, dust rising to obscure the sweltering summer sun like a hazy fog. The nearest soldiers were maybe ten feet away, their crimson apple tabards showing the dirt of the road more and more, especially since the storms had come. With great concentration and a throbbing focus, Merigold could manage to sense their maenen intermittently, flickering like an oil lamp running low on fuel, though the efforts left her with a splitting headache behind her eyes and a feeling of nausea that was unrelated to her blasted pregnancy.

  Meri had even managed to draw some maenen, just a sliver, from soldiers helping her in and out of the wagon at mealtimes. But, so unlike before, it filled her with a disconcerting feeling of dread, leaving her weak and shivering. It offered an unnerving juxtaposition against the rejuvenating effect the maenen had previously had. Every instinct told Meri to stop drawing, but she persisted, continuing to push through these awful feelings, continuing to practice.

  She would need to master this talent before she could seek escape, and then vengeance.

  ---

  “I’m supposed to stay with you for now,” said a young, short-haired girl, vaulting into the moving wagon with little ceremony and a great deal of dexterity. Merigold was startled from her seat, hitting her head against one of the bows suspending the tarp as she leapt up. The girl ignored her, immediately hunkering down onto a bench.

  “Who in the name of Yetra are you?” asked Merigold.

  “Morgyn Coldwater,” the girl said abruptly, glancing toward the opening.

  “And what are you doing in here?”

  Morgyn said nothing, and just continued to watch outside, askance. She was soaking wet, her white maid’s dress clinging to her lithe, adolescent form. The summer storms had been raging unabated for days now, turning the fields to muck. The army was marching cross-country at this point, having crossed the border into the duchy of Florens, and making far worse time than expected. Merigold had overheard the soldiers complaining of extreme chafing, and some men were marching much as sailors were rumored to walk, legs bowed to avoid their thighs rubbing together. It seemed altogether unpleasant.

  Today had been the first day where the sun had poked through the clouds in a week, giving the soldiers hope that they would dry out. But that hope had been smashed like raindrops upon the rocks as renewed sheets of water had begun falling an hour ago, making up for the few hours of relative dryness.

  “Excuse me, Miss Coldwater. I would ask that you—”

  “There you are! Gods, Ignatius. You were supposed to be watching her!” Two more people were suddenly pulling themselves into the wagon, the space seeming suddenly cramped. The speaker, a woman of maybe thirty, had trouble navigating the hatch, her crippled hand awkwardly gripping the wooden support. Her gorgeous red hair was flattened to her face, probably blinding her completely. The last person to board Meri’s previously-empty wagon was a rather overweight older man, balding, who also struggled to enter the slowly-moving wagon, his left leg moving stiffly. He wore orange robes and a green stole, as well as a great, golden Ascension medallion, which spun wildly as he finally managed to heave himself fully into the wagon.

  “Morgyn, this isn’t a game! I was just trying to talk to you!” said the red-haired woman. Merigold remembered her; Emma, it was. She had hung in the background when that Lady Escamilla had interrogated her.

  “And I told you that I didn’t want to talk!” shouted Morgyn, folding her arms and dropping her head into the go-to pose of a teenager. Meri remembered striking that pose quite a few times with Ragen. But Merigold’s own long platinum hair had covered her face like a security blanket in those situations, while Morgyn’s short hair did little to obscure her features.

  Emma sighed with exasperation and gave Merigold a wan smile. “Hi again, Meri. I’m Emma. I was going to come by and see how you’re doing, too. I work for Lady Escamilla. I’m her… I’m not even sure right now.”

  Merigold had immediately felt drawn to Emma. The woman seemed to be in over her head, just like Meri. And, she was stunningly beautiful, which always helped. She had a lot of features in common with Sandra. That hair… curly where Sandra’s was straight, and Sandra’s had been noticeably lighter and blonder, but both had some red. And both had green eyes, another rare feature. Put them together and, well, Emma just made her think of Sandra, of home, and of happier and simpler times.

  “Hi Emma—it’s nice to see you again. It seems like you’re having a pleasant day,” said Merigold, her voice hinting at irony.

  “Indeed! This little one is a runner,” Emma said, gesturing at Morgyn, who was continuing to sulk. “Oh, I am remiss. This is Ignatius Pender, the Chaplain of the Army of Brockmore.”

  Meri might have imagined it, but there seemed to be some tension between Emma and the religious man. The high-ranking Yetranian official gave a quick nod, though, and flopped down across from Morgyn, rubbing his thigh.

  “Apologies, my girl. This weather really wears at my old leg.” His voice was hoarse, and he coughed wetly for a few seconds. “And this preaching has my throat as raw as the uncooked meat they feed the soldiers. So many, however, are seeing the light of Yetra and the glory for which we march. The glory of her, and her ideals. ‘For it is faith that truly feeds the bellies of the masses, not meat or bread or wine. And the satiation of faith endures, though renewal is required,’” Ignatius quoted.

  “Fowles?” Merigold blurted out despite her best efforts to forget The Book of Amorum.

  “Oh, you are familiar with The Book, my girl? You must be very much so, as ‘the Filling of Faith’ is a relatively obscure reference. Where did you learn of The Book?” asked Ignatius, continuing to massage his thigh but now looking at Merigold.

  “I am from Dunmore, a small—”

  “Dunmore, with the duck eggs! I have visited, though you were probably only an egg at the time, yourself. Does Taneo Marsh still lead the congregation?”

  “No. He… passed away recently.” Meri looked at her feet, unwilling to meet the eyes of the ch
aplain lest she lose control of her emotions.

  “That old chunk of granite? We overlapped at Rosewan together. Might I ask how he passed?”

  Merigold remembered Florence Marsh, Taneo Marsh’s wife, leaning over the hedges, wearing the flowered gardening dress that she was so proud of. Dead, seemingly untouched. Not far from her had been a body that had been torn to bloody bits—clothes, skin, flesh, and organs shredded beyond recognition. Taneo Marsh had rarely strayed far from his wife’s side.

  When she had been picking her way through Dunmore, so soon after her own escape, Merigold had felt numb, stunned at the sight of things. Then, she was bound with depression, a cancerous growth infecting her every move, her every thought. Now, reflecting on it, she was angry. Filled with rage, fingernails digging into her palms, drawing blood. How dare something like that happen to good people? How dare Yetra let that happen to good people?

  “He is dead. His wife is dead. The entire village of Dunmore is dead, murdered by dark magic,” Merigold’s voice had become more rapid as she spoke, more strangled as her anger bubbled forth at this simpering, pious man. “Most every man, woman, and child left for the buzzards. Some seemingly untouched, some torn beyond identification. Good men and women, and all children are innocents? Tell me, Chaplain. You are a man of Yetra. Tell me why these people were allowed to be killed. Tell me!” She was breathing heavily, on the precipice of tears, glaring at the chaplain through blurry eyes.

  Aside from the omnipresent sounds of a marching army and the clatter of the rain on the cover, the interior of the wagon had gone silent. Painfully silent. Emma fell onto the bench next to Morgyn, while Morgyn stared openly at Merigold. The chaplain ran his hands through his damp, thinning hair and took a deep breath.

  “Please, sit, my girl. Meri.” Merigold hesitated, but let herself lose her balance when the wagon hit a particularly rough bump, landing heavily on the bench.

  “I am truly, truly sorry for your loss, my girl. I will pray for you, every night, and the people of Dunmore, taken according to Yetra’s plan. For Yetra does, indeed, have a plan for all of us.” Ignatius had spoken in a calming voice, as if he were delivering a sermon. This was obviously not the first time that he had discussed the topic of death.

  “And Yetra’s plan was to allow everyone to be murdered? Good people? Children, even?” Meri could not fully contain the anger in her voice.

  “This is a classic philosophical debate; why do bad things happen to good people? Thinking men, religious men, great men, and small men have spent their lives in pursuit of the answer. I cannot presume to know better than all of those who have come before me. However, I am reminded of Yetra’s own story. I imagine that we are all familiar with her origins?”

  “Of course,” said Meri, half-scoffing. She had most of The Book of Amorum memorized at this point. There’d been a copy in every room of the Duckling, including her bedroom.

  “You others?” the chaplain asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Well, my duties at the Plateau had typically precluded my attendance to your ceremonies,” muttered Emma. It was poor form, in Ardia, to miss services.

  Morgyn was now hugging her knees on the bench. “No,” she said simply.

  “Well, I suppose a quick education is in order so that we can relate to our sister here. As we all know, the world was formed at the crux of Harmony and Pandemonium, two unstoppable forces that ever have, and ever will, wander the Cosmos, drawn to each other like iron and a lodestone. Early images showed Harmony and Pandemonium as having human characteristics, great beings inevitably warring with whatever great powers were at hand. Many now conceptualize Harmony and Pandemonium to be more forces of nature, realities of existence, that seek to impose their aspects upon their surroundings without will. Others still believe that there is a consciousness behind the forces, a powerful desire to shape reality. I suppose that we shall never know the truth. Regardless, I digress.”

  Merigold was sitting and listening closely, just like she would have during her weekly service. Her anger was fading in the face of this man’s soothing and authoritative—though slightly sore—voice. Emma was working at her fingernails with a small file. Morgan, still clinging to her knees, was watching Ignatius from beneath lowered eyelids.

  “The world was initially created as a battleground between Harmony and Pandemonium, and life was created to serve as the soldiers in that battle. No creature on earth was beholden to either of the warring forces; rather, these forces influenced innate, subconscious motivations and needs. Each of us have a touch of Harmony and Pandemonium within ourselves, each vying for dominion. These feelings, of course, are not as strong as when the great forces were present, before the battle had been won on this world, before they left for other worlds. During this time, humans evolved from primitives, living in small groups and tribes, into societal people, gathering in greater numbers, building villages and towns and cities. Learning more about how the world works and harnessing powers of magic and science.”

  Ignatius paused, coughing into his sleeve. He cleared his throat.

  “With technology, with the rise of magic, comes violence. Wars were waged on an unimaginable scale; the loss of precious life, extreme. Pandemonium reigned for a time, and the scales tilted toward the destruction of Harmony and peace, at least in this world. Truly, these warring forces could never be destroyed. The—”

  “Chaplain, could you please reach the moral of your story? There is a war to be fought, strategies to be determined, and I’m certain that these girls have more important things to do,” said Emma. Ignatius frowned, an expression that seemed unusual on his jovial face.

  “Girl, perhaps you should focus on this story and care more about your salvation into Yetra’s loving embrace. Lest people begin to think you a heathen.” The two glared at each other. Emma clutched her disfigured hand with the other, while Ignatius held his medallion, perhaps as a not so gentle reminder of his station.

  The tension was too much for Meri.

  “Yes, with the world out of balance, a personification of the power of Harmony was born upon the planet. Yetra,” said Meri, finishing the story.

  Ignatius shot one last withering look at Emma and then smiled at Meri.

  “Exactly. Yetra was born human, however, not an all-powerful goddess—the Champion of Harmony, as we know her. She was shaped by her life and experiences, and her childhood was integral in her development to be a proper host. With Pandemonium reigning in the world, danger was omnipresent. Yetra was born in a place called Auqine, a town that had the capability to protect itself from the chaos that raged elsewhere. A stout wall, many skilled soldiers who defended it in the name of peace and concord. Yetra was born to loving parents and average prosperity. That did not last.”

  Morgyn was no longer feigning indifference. Her head rested in her crossed arms, and her brown-flecked eyes didn’t leave the chaplain.

  “When Pandemonium holds sway, all are at risk. Even good people could become corrupted. And that is exactly what happened. Auqine rotted from the inside, with several men and women conspiring to open the gates at night to the forces of Pandemonium, warriors who sought to sow chaos and attain equilibrium through subjugation.” Ignatius again cleared his throat. Merigold offered him her canteen, from which he gratefully sipped.

  “Yetra was outside the town with a small group of soldiers and women, gathering ingredients in the forest for medicine and foodstuffs. When they returned, the village had been destroyed. Her mother had been savaged and her father had been tortured and killed, his body nailed to his home’s doorframe like so many others. Many bodies were not found—survivors were made slaves to serve in the armies of Pandemonium.

  “Without this terrible event, the goddess that we now revere, Yetra, would have remained living in this peaceful town, likely happy and ignorant to the ways of the world, dying before achieving godhood. However, this event tempered her, forged her into the hardest steel. She learned the difference between fighting for peace and
fighting for subjugation, spreading harmony versus discord. She led a small group of survivors to recover the slaves and soon built up an army, ultimately defeating the fractured forces of Pandemonium. You see, the suffering of many was required in order for Yetra to achieve her potential and to save the world. The suffering allowed her to ascend and become the goddess who now guides us.” Ignatius finally took a breath.

  “I am not likely to become a goddess, Chaplain. What could the suffering of Dunmore be worth?” asked Meri with sincerity. Please, let him have an answer. She needed an answer.

  “No, my girl. There is one goddess who directs our lives. But perhaps you are meant for another purpose, and these events were meant to forge you, as well. The goddess has altered our reality so that the lessons learned in her mortal life apply to our world. Suffering does not occur without purpose. For Yetra knows, as do we all, that there is a balance to be maintained. Perhaps you were chosen to fight Pandemonium, and this was an effort to strengthen you. Perhaps you are meant to provide unflinching support to others who wage this same war. It is beyond us to understand.”

  Merigold Hinter, chosen to fight Pandemonium. It was nearly laughable, viewed from most angles. Even before her trauma, Meri was nothing more than a fixture in the lives of travelers, living a life that had little impact aside from filling the bellies of those moving between big cities. Afterward, having visited such a large city, Meri could see just how miniscule any individual person could be. How could any one person, particularly a serving girl from an out-of-the-way village, be chosen for anything of importance?

  Yes, the idea of being “chosen” should be laughable to Meri. But, as Ignatius spoke, she felt something warm building in her stomach, a forgotten feeling. Hope, maybe? She had forced a sort of balance into the world. Meri had killed at least four people, bad people, who had sinned in some way. Saren, Chad, and—if Fenrir had been accurate—two unnamed mercenaries. Perhaps she had been chosen to be one of Yetra’s hands on earth, destroying those who committed crimes against Harmony (as all four men surely had), restoring balance. Yetra had to work through those on earth, as she had ascended beyond the physical plane.