Shattered Dreams

by Ulff Lehmann

  There was a knock on the door; a servant opened it, and in strode the witch Ealisaid. She was still clothed in plain tunic and shirt. With all her possessions seized by the city to reimburse the victims of the destruction she’d caused, she didn’t have much of a choice.

  “Ah, there you are,” Duasonh said, sounding more jovial than Kildanor had heard him be in a few weeks. “Come on over and join us. Please.”

  Like the fare for everyone in Dunthiochagh, the supper was simple. Rationing had already begun, and Cumaill had placed the Palace’s pantry under firm control. Kildanor agreed with the command, his stomach, however, did not. Porridge was nourishing, certainly, but too much of a good thing was still too much. It had been decades since he had lived on warrior’s fare, and the only course he really appreciated was the fruit they were served for dessert.

  Duasonh’s reason for extending the invitation to Ealisaid was still for Nerran and himself to guess; the Baron hadn’t revealed it yet. Neither Paladin nor Chosen broached the subject, and it was obvious from the Baron’s precise questioning of the witch that Duasonh was equally uncertain about his motives.

  “Bugger this!” Nerran shoved away his plate and looked at Cumaill. “What’s all this business with her being here?” he asked, pointing at Ealisaid. Subtlety had never been one of his strengths, and his brusqueness now demonstrated this facet of his personality. Kildanor hid his smile behind a napkin.

  “As I said before,” the Baron began, “I want to use every weapon in my arsenal. Even with General Kerral’s warriors adding to our numbers, the Chanastardhian army is still at least thrice as the size of ours.”

  “That if not more, mate,” Nerran said. “Some scouts report Mireynh’s forces outnumber us six to one.”

  “I know the figures,” the Baron replied. “But I guessed this includes the supply train, camp followers, and such. If not, they still have to cross the walls.”

  “They just have to starve us out, Cumaill,” Kildanor said. He didn’t like being the cold voice of reality, but raising false hopes, he knew, never helped morale.

  “You want to surrender?” Duasonh growled. “Besides, as far as our scouts can tell Shadowpass is open.”

  “An error he will remedy soon,” Nerran said.

  “So far, the river remains a barrier, and the hinterland remains free. To cross the Dunth he would have to send his army either east through the hills, or build barges,” Kildanor added. “The river hasn’t turned to ice in almost a hundred years.”

  “I know, old friend. Winter is coming, and even if Mireynh has his siege fortresses up and running by the time the first snow falls, he still has to house his warriors, man the castles and barriers, dispatch troops to cut us off from the north, and keep his troops happy. I think he’s counting on a quick victory, possibly even open gates, or some such. Look at how Harail fell. He may expect resistance, but he still thinks there’s a traitor here. We can use that to our advantage.”

  “How?” Nerran asked, but Kildanor could guess what Cumaill had in mind.

  “I thought maybe we can get Mireynh to believe the doors are open to him,” Duasonh said. “Not during the day, of course, but…”

  “At night,” the Paladin finished the sentence. “Bloody brilliant, except for one or two tiny problems. First: how do we know the signal Jathain was supposed to give Mireynh? And second: once the gates are open how do we close them again?”

  “Your late cousin’s rooms were destroyed by fire,” Kildanor said. He paused and scratched his stubbly chin. An idea was forming, but as the thoughts tumbled through his mind he doubted the suggestion would be welcomed.

  “We know that,” said Nerran, “what’s on your mind?”

  His idea was beyond insane; no one would allow a priest of Jainagath to call back the traitor’s spirit. “Never mind.”

  “Come on, lad, spill it.”

  “I know this face you’re making, mate,” said Duasonh. “You have one of your harebrained ideas. Let’s hear it.”

  Kildanor grinned. “You know me too well, but if you think Nerran’s little cleansing of the Church of Eanaigh caused an uproar, I doubt you like what I have in mind.”

  “Now that sounds exciting,” the Baron replied.

  The Chosen looked over to Ealisaid. She had remained calm, but her face displayed various emotions. He thought he saw doubt, resolve, and fear. His gaze wandered over to Nerran, whose jovial manner had suddenly changed to confusion.

  “You can’t be serious,” the Paladin said.

  “Serious about what?” Duasonh demanded.

  “Lad, there’s a reason why the afterlife shouldn’t be trifled with.”

  He sighed. “I don’t see another way. We need to find out what the signal for Mireynh was.”

  “But to ask a Deathmask for help…”

  Kildanor looked at the Baron who sat back in his chair, deep in thought. “What do you think, Cumaill?”

  “Is there another way?”

  “Not that I know of,” the Chosen replied.

  “What about the taboo?” Nerran muttered.

  “It’s not like we would be asking one of the Deathmasks to turn the dead Jathain lose on the world.”

  “Deathmasks?” Ealisaid asked. The three men looked at her. “The order still exists?”

  “It’s not like they can die, eh?” Nerran said. “Yes, they still take care of burials and stuff, and they vowed not to raise a single person back to life again.”

  “Aside from their dead,” Duasonh added.

  Kildanor knew what bothered Nerran. “Don’t tell me you believe this nonsense!”

  “Of course not,” retorted the Paladin.

  “Then why so worried?”

  “Have any of you ever dealt with a Deathmask?”

  “Only when someone had to be buried,” Duasonh replied before the Chosen could. He nodded. Ealisaid did the same. “You take the corpse to a Deathmask and pay him… her… it.”

  “That’s not dealing with one of them, lads and lass. You pay the Deathmask and that’s that, but have you ever tried to speak with the dead?”

  Kildanor and the other two shook their heads. “Have you?” he asked.

  “Aye, I have. Cost me part of my sanity, but aye. And before you ask when, where, and why, I tell you to bugger off. It’s none of your business!”

  The Chosen realized Nerran had contacted his parents to find out who was responsible for their murder. “Well, it’s either that or try to guess the signal, so I say we talk to a Deathmask.”

  “You talk to one, sure, go ahead. The next time I see one is when I have to bury another lad,” said Nerran

  Duasonh looked at Kildanor. “Will you go?”

  Kildanor shrugged. “Guess I can ask for a favor. The Deathmasks should honor the request of one of the father’s servants.”

  “Well, lad, they honored mine as well.”

  “Not to be insulting, but you’re a servant of the Church, Nerran. There is a difference.”

  “Whatever,” the Paladin grumbled. “What are we going to do should our mighty Chosen manage to squeeze the necessary information from the traitor’s spirit?”

  “That depends on our Phoenix Wizardess,” said the Baron. “Lady Ealisaid, I’ve read about what your kind could do. First, will you fight on our side? And second, can you do as I’ll ask?”

  The witch had paled during the conversation. Obviously she had thought about such a proposal before, but the consequences still frightened her. “Lord Baron, of course I will fight for my home,” she replied. Then she cleared her throat several times, yet more proof of her nervousness. “I am not sure I can wield magic as effectively as a full-fledged Wizard, but I certainly will try.” She swallowed once then continued, “What do you want me to do, milord?”

  Kildanor had no idea what Cumaill had planned, but since his friend appeared as giddy as a schoolboy, he was certain it was something nasty for the Chanastardhians.

  “Well, let me ask a question first,” said
the Baron. “How well can you cast… images… illusions?”

  “Easily,” Ealisaid replied. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Oh, merely the entire southern wall devoid of warriors and the slow opening of the gate,” Duasonh said merrily, clapping his hands and giggling. The Chosen wondered if his friend knew what he was getting into.

  Nerran, having obviously recovered from whatever memories plagued him, gasped then slapped his hands onto the table and began to laugh. “Bloody brilliant! That’s really bloody brilliant, lad!”

  “If she can do it,” Kildanor said. He liked the plan, and hated to be the voice of caution, but somebody had to be. The witch had said she hadn’t completed her training and lacked confidence after the incident that had gotten her imprisoned in the first place.

  “Well, Wizardess, can you accomplish this?” Duasonh scrutinized her. There were only a few people in Cherkont and Boughaighr who could endure the Baron’s stare for long. The Chosen had seen established merchants cringe under this glare, a trait Cumaill had inherited from his father and grandfather. Kildanor had witnessed Bodhrein Duasonh, Cumaill’s grandfather, stare down a delegation of elves right after the Heir War, so he knew the Baron would not blink for a very long time.

  Ealisaid tried to reply, but her mouth merely opened and closed again and again. Kildanor caught a glance of Nerran shaking his head in delight. He shared the sentiment; this cat-and-mouse game was amusing.

  “I can try,” she finally said.

  “Trying is like emptying a chamber pot against a storm,” Nerran grumbled. “You get nothing but shit and piss.”

  “I will do it.”

  “Good…”

  “However, my Lord Baron, I need to prepare things, and for that I will have to use magic. Thus, for your plan to succeed, you need to lift your ban even before the enemy arrives.”

  Kildanor saw Duasonh’s face sag and couldn’t help but say, “Oh, don’t tell me you didn’t see that coming!”

  “Curious,” Nerran muttered. He turned and saw the Paladin gaze after the Wizardess.

  “What’s that?”

  “Oh, just that our lad over there seems to be quite smitten with her,” the other replied.

  “And she likes the attention.”

  “You’re serious?” Cumaill asked.

  “Aye.”

  “You, Culain,” Duasonh said, and the guard came running.

  “My Lord?” the man saluted.

  “Should she ask, I want you to assist the Lady Wizardess in whatever way she deems appropriate. If she doesn’t ask, you will guard her door nonetheless, understood?”

  The young man bobbed his head, grinning like an idiot.

  “I didn’t quite hear that, son.” Now Duasonh was being a right bastard; Kildanor couldn’t suppress a chuckle.

  “Yes, sir, my Lord Baron,” Culain said, saluting. At the door he almost stumbled over his feet.

  “Give the lad a break, you old bastard,” Nerran said, chuckling.

  CHAPTER 58

  “Thank you,” Drangar said and bowed to the cemetery’s Deathmask. “I think I’ll find the grave.”

  “She’ll rest easier now you’re here, sir,” the priest of Jainagath said, his voice muffled by the thin brass mask that hid his features and gave the priests their name.

  Would Hesmera really know he had been at her grave, he wondered. Had she forgiven him when he couldn’t? Was she in the Great Hall of the gods, feasting with the dead?

  “Yes,” the Deathmask said.

  Early in his life Drangar had learned not to question a priest’s ability to know, and the Deathmask’s answer reinforced this lesson. He turned to Rob. “Would you mind waiting here? I want to be alone with her.”

  The watchman shook his head. “Of course not.”

  The cemetery was not for villeins, and most freeborn. Nobles cared for their dead vassals with little more than a sack for a coffin and a few shovels of earth for a grave. Most freeborn could not afford more than an urn for their deceased’s ashes, which was put into a hole next to hundreds of older urns. If the allotted space in a cemetery was full, the remains were dug out, the ceramic reused, and the ashes given back to the earth, fertilizer for the fields.

  Here, however, things were quite different. Marble statues lined the paved walkways, grass and shrubs were well tended, and clearly marked flowerbeds occupied the spaces surrounding marble memorials. Next to the massive crypts, the final resting places for the rich and noble, were two-yard-long slabs of stone let into the earth, graves of valued but poor freeborn. Most of these stones, like the statues guarding the crypts, were chiseled into the likeness of the deceased, and Drangar couldn’t help but wonder what Hesmera’s marker would show. Oil-lamps lit the way, held by marble arms, if the statue was human, or teeth, if the sculpture represented an animal.

  The night was cold, as well it should be. Winter was coming, and he felt the chill more pronounced than he had in the past two years. Sure, his clothes were different, but although he could almost see frost forming on blades of grass, it couldn’t be as cold as the water he had washed in, even in the midst of winter. As he neared Hesmera’s grave, Drangar finally knew what it was to grieve, forgive, and let go.

  Before him a marble sarcophagus rested on a small mount decorated with flowerbeds. The hill was circular and the plot was divided into three parts by winding paths of yellow stone. Lesganagh’s symbol as Hesmera’s people knew it.

  Drangar looked at the tomb; one end of the coffin was engraved:

  Hesmera

  Warrior

  Woman

  Friend

  For a moment, he didn’t know what to say or do. Then he walked up one of the paths, his knees trembling, and as he neared the top he saw her likeness chiseled in minute detail into the marble lid. She lay there, unlike the other frescoes and statues, not in stately robes, but in plate and mail, sword pommel underneath her chin, hands clasped to the weapons hilt, eyes forward. Her hair seemed to blow in a breeze and her lips curved in the smile he loved.

  Drangar knelt, put one hand on the coffin’s lid, and waited. He wanted to remain here, close to her; he wanted to… “Love,” he whispered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I had no hand in it.” He shook his head. “It sounds stupid, I know, what with me wielding the sword and all, but I… I think I wasn’t even inside my body when it happened. I can’t really explain it. You were there; you saw me, you saw the sword. Gods, I swear I will find those responsible and make them pay.”

  Peace, he felt calmer than ever before, and knew he had been forgiven. It was as if Hesmera had heard him from the gods’ great abode in the heavens and told him she forgave. Drangar clasped the lid. “I miss you,” he whispered, but what he really meant was that he was ready to forgive himself as well. The guilt had stopped raging after the spirit had taken him into the past, but now it was gone. He stood, unsure what to do now. Bow? No, that didn’t feel right. His vow was made; he would find those behind the killing and make them pay. His tears had sealed this promise over the last two years.

  “Good bye,” he said, turned, and walked down the winding path. The trip back to the cemetery entrance went fast, and he didn’t feel as cold as before. Had he been afraid? He thought a few moments then nodded. Aye, he had been afraid. Afraid his heart would shatter, and join his already fraying mind in an even deeper abyss. Instead he was free. The past was the past, aye, but now he knew what it was, and could look back without ghosts rising up from the mists.

  Rob was standing a few paces away from the Deathmask. Drangar couldn’t blame him, the priests of Jainagath made everyone nervous. His business with the cleric wasn’t done. This man, if it was a man, would know who had paid for Hesmera’s grave.

  Hesmera’s grave. It came easier now, the thought she was dead. It no longer filled him with regret and self-loathing. He was not responsible for her death! He would find those who were, and make them pay.

  “It seems you have found what you were looking for,” the
Deathmask said. “To find peace one must face the past. Loved ones gone ahead to the Bailey Majestic, they’re waiting, they’re patient, and give us peace when we need it most.”

  “Aye,” he replied. “I have one last question.”

  “Yes?”

  “Who gave her the burial she deserved?”

  “The Ladies Neena and Leonore Cahill, sir.”

  He turned to Rob. “Know them?”

  The watchman nodded. “I’ll take you there tomorrow.”

  Drangar turned back to the Deathmask and bowed. “Thank you, kind sir. I wish I had money to donate, but, alas, my purse is lost. When I recover it…” He fell silent, unsure what to say. Even the apology that came to mind sounded empty.

  The priest shook his head, “You don’t have to donate anything, ever, sir.”

  Arching an eyebrow, he shrugged then bowed again. “Nonetheless, you have my thanks.”

  “Very well, sir. Good night.”

  They left the graveyard, and Drangar had to hurry to keep up with Rob. After they had rounded another corner, Rob finally slowed his pace to a walk. The former mercenary felt different, not carefree, but certainly freer than he had in ages, and he was famished. They found a tavern, the Citadel, and sat at an unoccupied table.

  “I hope you don’t mind paying. I’m really broke.” He didn’t like to ask for charity, never had but the alternative would have been to return to the Palace, and for the moment he preferred the company of an old comrade.

  Rob chuckled and said, “Mate, that’s what friends are for. Today it’s fish for supper at home, and you’re the perfect excuse for my not being there.”

  “Married?” Drangar asked, surprised. “When? Who?”

  “About a year ago. The lass who did laundry for us.”

  He thought for a moment; it was hard to recall names from a time he had tried to forget. “Meghan? That’s the only name I can remember.”