by Paul Barrett
They had soon cleared the bodies and settled in the grass on the opposite side of the road to wait for Elissia.
“Have you ever killed anybody?” Corby asked.
Erick shook his head. “I can’t.” He paused. “Well, I can, but it would be dangerous for me to do so.”
“But Blink can?”
“He can if necessary, but he shouldn’t when at all possible.”
“I don’t understand why he can and you can’t, when, from the way you’ve explained it, he’s a part of you.”
Erick shrugged. “It was a bargain made by gods, dealing with a power of evil difficult to comprehend. I don’t understand all of it either.”
They were quiet for a moment, when Erick asked, “What’s it like? Killing someone.”
Corby didn’t speak immediately, and Erick thought maybe his friend wasn’t going to answer. “I honestly don’t remember much of what happened. I saw him about to attack Elissia, and then everything went black. When I came back, I had done-” He waved his hand in the vague direction where they had left the smashed bandit, “that. It’s...” he paused and shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”
Erick nodded. Remembering what his mother did for him when he was upset, he put his arm around Corby’s shoulders. The scholar tensed for a moment then relaxed and laid his head against Erick. They sat in silence, Erick unsure what he could do to help Corby, as the sun disappeared.
Elissia returned an hour later, as the last light disappeared from the sky. Corby had fallen asleep against Erick’s shoulder. She had a strange expression as she emptied the bag she carried, revealing clothing, scissors, and a shearing razor. Corby awoke at the noise, then jumped up and moved away as if Erick had caught fire.
“You okay?” Erick asked.
Corby nodded, walked over to Geran, and studied the undead soldier.
Nonplussed, Erick turned back to Elissia. “What are those for?” he asked, even though he already knew.
“We can’t do anything about your height or the color of your eyes, which leaves your hair as your most distinguishing feature. At least they don’t know about the gash in your neck, so that’s to our advantage too.” She reached back in and pulled out a dirt brown robe with long, flared sleeves. “We can disguise you as an acolyte to Krinnik. They shave their heads upon acceptance into the order.”
“I don’t know anything about Krinnik’s doctrine,” Erick said.
“Acolytes aren’t expected to know much, and I’m sure Corby could give you enough tidbits about their dogma to let you pass.”
Erick sighed. So many changes, and now another one. It was a small thing, but his mother had been the only one who ever cut his hair. It seemed to Erick that letting someone else cut it insulted her, a way of saying he no longer cared about her.
I think she would understand, Blink thought. To save your life, you do what you have to do.
Erick considered a moment. You’re right. “Okay,” he said. “I guess we all have to get used to changes from now on, don’t we?”
That we do, Elissia thought as she glanced at Corby, who studied Geran like a fisherman might examine his latest catch. The change in her cousin today had frightened her, and she hoped it wasn’t permanent. The viciousness Corby unleashed on the mercenary went beyond anything she had ever witnessed. Corby had always been the stoic one, the solid one. She was counting on that during this journey. For any number of reasons, she didn’t even want to consider the prospect that he might come unhinged,.
“I’m afraid so,” she said. She laid the brown houppelande on the ground and pointed at one of the roadside boulders. “Let’s get our hair cut so we can go to town.”
“Our hair?”
“Yes, I’m going to trim mine, too. Not as drastically as yours, of course, but it’s gotten too long for running around and fighting thugs. As my wretched father says, ‘Shortest is safest.’ Come on.”
As Erick took a seat, Blink reached into the bag, pulled out a hooded cloak, and put it on.
“What’s that for?” Erick asked.
“It’s my disguise.”
“If he has to walk with us instead of flying,” Elissia said, “he can keep this wrapped around him, and he’ll look like a young child. It’s not great, but it’s better than nothing.” She held up the scissors, tilted Erick’s head forward, and set to work. She noticed him wince during the first few clips. “Stay still.”
“Sorry,” he answered, voice tight. Elissia wished she could feel as deeply about her parents as Erick did about his. Different lives. Erick had parents who had cared for him, something Elissia could only dream about. She pushed the self-pity back into its bottomless pit and concentrated on changing his appearance.
An hour later, four travelers walked into the lamp-lit streets of Keyport, their passage seen by few. Those who noticed them paid little heed to the unremarkable group. It was merely a young acolyte to the earth god Krinnik, a soldier, a scholar’s apprentice, and a young girl, either sister or concubine to one of the others.
Had they paid more attention, they might have glanced up to see the winged creature that followed the quartet, flitting from rooftop to rooftop, a wadded cape and bulky sack in its talons. But people were either heading home or to the alehouse, and neither destination lay in the sky. They kept their eyes forward and their minds on their own concerns. The travelers made it to an inn—The Eel’s Gills—unscathed.
13
Harken all who would love Caros. The Father of All resides in his house in heaven, watchful over his children. The strength of Caros shall be your strength. The wisdom of Caros shall be your wisdom. The words of Caros shall be your word. Attend then, to the passages within, so that they may fill you for all your life.
-Opening of Testament of Caros: The Tome of the Father and Mother
Unable to sleep, Fathen walked through Draymed, past the homes of the slumbering villagers. He had changed into a plain yellow cotton robe, bereft of any ornamentation save crimson cuffs. A breeze blew through the hamlet, carrying lingering smells of baked fish and warm bread. Fireflies gleamed and a dog barked in the distance. It was the sort of summer night Fathen would enjoy if he could escape his sullen thoughts.
His dark mood had begun as soon as he spoke with Erick and learned the fate of his book, burned by the Caros-cursed boy. To make matters worse, Erick’s father had returned as a ghost, a perversion of Caros’s will. Shame burned in Fathen that the spectral figure had frightened him away. He asked forgiveness for his cowardice. As usual, he received no answer.
He brooded through the day, roaming aimlessly, much as he did at this late hour. He remembered nodding absently at the townspeople he passed, his practiced blank face concealing his contempt for Draymed ’s inhabitants. A face he had worn ever since Perius Oerus exiled him to the island twenty years ago as punishment for his vision, a vision the timid elders of the Temple didn’t share.
Caros ruled the other gods. Why then, Fathen reasoned, did the Temple of Caros not reign as sovereign lord over the other faiths? It had been so in the past when clergymen with courage and strength kept the minor temples in their place. But the leaders grew complacent, and, bit by tiny bit, the other faiths slipped from beneath the Temple of Strength, growing in power, challenging the might of Caros’s priests. It happened so subtly few noticed it and grew so prevalent no one questioned it.
Faith is faith, the elders told him. Except for the unrepentant Melteth and the insane Vadali, it didn’t matter which power people revered as long as they worshipped. So what if Talan’s Luminary had more power in Starrasen? Who cared that few thought of Caros in the northern mountain ranges of Amelan, where the clerics of Krinnik held sway, placing the sun god as a pawn to the earth god’s will?
The idea of other gods venerated above Caros offended Fathen to his core. He had grown up steeped in the belief. Faith had been drilled into him by a father who reinforced his dogma with a backhand, and a stern-willed mother who punished less than t
otal devotion by withholding food and love. Fathen entered the priesthood as soon as possible and never left, his life devoted to the only True Temple.
Unable to suppress his anger at the sublimation of his deity, Fathen espoused his views to any who listened. Some agreed, but few admitted it openly. Those who opposed him did not hesitate to share their condemnation.
When words no longer worked, he grew militant and preached that all faithful followers of Caros must take up arms and fight to reclaim their god’s just position. If the other faiths would not capitulate peacefully, then forceful subjugation became a necessity.
Within two weeks of his first such speech, Fathen found himself on a boat, exiled to Draymed, where his combative leanings would go unfulfilled.
Fathen’s nocturnal wandering brought him to the guardhouse. He stared at the lamplight shining beneath the door. The prisoner who’d burned Erick’s manor and tried to kill the Necromancer rested inside. As the aggrieved, Erick had the right to name the prisoner’s punishment. But when Brannon had sought Erick out, the captain had discovered him missing.
In due order, it came to light that Elissia and Corby had also left. Good riddance to them all, Fathen thought, but Beatru had been outraged. She had demanded Brannon send guards after them, certain Erick had enthralled her niece and the scholar, and they now traveled as his slaves. Fathen knew Erick’s powers didn’t work in such a manner but did nothing to dissuade the incensed woman. With any luck, the two guards would bring him back in irons. Better yet, maybe Erick would resist, and they would kill him.
If the man inside the guardhouse had succeeded, Fathen would be in bed, slumbering soundly, feeling avenged for Darric’s insult. The Necromancer had dared to lay hands on a priest of Caros, an affront that should not stand. But bereft of the Temple’s support, and knowing the futility of any attempt to persuade the apathetic town, which had let the immoral family reside unmolested for years, Fathen could do nothing but let the offense fester in his heart.
As he stood outside the door, he wondered why someone would seek to kill Erick now.
Ask, a voice whispered. Fathen whirled around. The bright moonlight allowed for few shadows, but Fathen peered into those and found nothing. Draymed lay silent except for the muffled crash of the waves and the chirruping insects that sang through the night.
He opened the guardhouse door and walked inside. The guard on duty—Bereman—glanced up from his whittling on a piece of oak and nodded. He wore a long-sleeved brown shirt and gray pants but had not bothered with armor or weapons. His thin gray hair reflected silver in the lantern light. Old and withered, Bereman had retired his commission half a decade ago, but the recent death of one Royal Guardian and injury of another left the unit short-handed. Brannon had re-commissioned the aging soldier for light duty until replacements arrived from Kalador. Bereman was not talkative, which suited Fathen. He grabbed one of the chairs and dragged it in front of the cell. The unnamed man sat awake on the bed.
“Has he slept?” Fathen asked.
“Not a wink,” Bereman answered, eyebrows twitching as he squinted to better see the priest in the dim light. “Nor eaten. Only took a sip of water this evening and then spit it out.”
Fathen lowered his lanky body into the chair and studied the prisoner. Nothing at all imposing about the man. Light bronze skin, black hair, muddy brown eyes. He could easily have been any one of the thousands of Zakerin farmers and spicers that inhabited the island. He had an instantly forgettable face. That trait alone made him an ideal assassin. His clothing, all black cloth, was the only thing that marked him different. Black was the color of Melteth, the Night God, worn only by thieves and apostates. Zakerin law declared such clothing illegal except for a strip of silk or dyed cotton worn about the neck for those in mourning.
“Why did you try to kill the Necromancer?” Fathen asked.
“I am Eligoi. I serve the will of Eligos.” The prisoner answered in a flat voice
Fathen started at the man’s pronouncement. The Eligoi were a cabal of mythical assassin-priests loyal to the Master of Shadows. The man lied. Indeed Eligos once existed, and maybe the Eligoi had been real, but that had been over a thousand years ago. Eligos was not a god. Even if he somehow survived the betrayal of the Necromancers, he would still be long dead.
“Are you a cultist?” Fathen asked. Perhaps the prisoner belonged to a secret order, worshipping a forgotten master, much as covens existed that prayed to the Festering Demons, and sects that revered Alaisanatha, she who fled from Heaven. The Paladins of Caros hunted such factions, so it stood to reason groups existed that sought to put the Necromancers to death. It was the only reason to explain why three assassins—a rare breed found only in the larger cities—would travel five days across the ocean to attack a seventeen-year-old boy.
“I am Eligoi. I serve the will of Eligos,”
“Eligos is a thousand years dead. How can you serve him?”
“I am Eligoi. I serve the will of Eligos.”
Fathen continued for five minutes, trying different questions but getting the same response. Frustrated, he decided on a more direct method. Turning to Bereman, he said, “You must be hungry. Go get something to eat.”
“I’m not supposed to leave the prisoner alone.”
“He won’t be alone; I’ll be here. Now leave us be.”
“But Brannon said-”
“Brannon is not here. Depart,” Fathen demanded.
Bereman hesitated, then turned and hobbled out, closing the door quietly. With the exception of that willful child Elissia, and Brannon, who split his spiritual loyalties between Caros and Sangara, the people of Draymed behaved as a true flock.
Fathen lowered his head, resting it in his palms. His black hair, unbraided, hung almost to the floor. He hoped the prisoner understood the significance of the guard’s departure. “Why did you try to kill the boy?”
“I am Eligoi. I serve the will of Eligos.”
“Eligos is dead,” Fathen snapped
The guardhouse turned cold. Fathen shivered as the chill blew through his thin yellow robe. For the briefest moment, his breath fogged before him, but no sooner had the frigid air appeared than it left. His heart thudded. The tiny room had changed. All the lanterns still burned, but darkness crowded the chamber, the air oppressive. Claustrophobia pushed in on him. If the prisoner noticed any change, he gave no sign.
Not dead, a voice whispered, and Fathen whirled in the chair, a shout lodged in his tightened throat.
He noticed the darkness beside one of the beds. A deeper shadow that pulsed and danced in the corner, murkier and more solid than the flickering lanterns should allow. Fathen stood.
Stay, priest.
The voice whispered in his head with such force that Fathen stumbled back to his seat, all thoughts of approaching the shadow gone. “What...what are you?” he asked, his voice little more than a raspy croak.
I am a fragment of He That is Served, and I want the Necromancer dead for the same reasons you do.
Fathen’s eyes narrowed as he tried to discern a form in the shadow, a person hiding behind some evil-inspired cloak of night. But the pulsating mass held no shape, and to gaze at it more than a few seconds made Fathen’s head throb. Some inner voice begged him to depart and speak no more to this formless shade, but curiosity rooted him. Curiosity and not a little fear at what the shadow might do if he tried to leave. “I don’t want him dead.”
You lie, the whisper stated. This very day you spoke a wish to kill him.
“I spoke out of anger.”
You spoke the truth of your heart, without fear, as you once did. Why do you wish the boy dead?
“I don’t,” Fathen said.
Why were you angry?
“If you know about this afternoon, then you know why I was angry.”
The shadow, though still pulsing and shapeless, grew taller. Do not be smug, cleric. You have no right. Tell me why you were angry.
Fathen shuffled in his chair, chagrined
rather than angered by the reprimand. “He destroyed something that belonged to me.”
What?
“A book.”
The Teloc Sapah? The Dark Words?
“Yes,” Fathen answered.
That is a book of great and terrible might, with the energy to conquer a continent. How did it come to be in the hands of a lowly cleric of Caros?
Fathen bristled at the insult. He prepared to claim the book as an inheritance, but the belief that this strange entity knew the truth stopped him. “I took it.”
Stole it? From whom?
“From the Temple. It angered me to be sent to this island, so I decided to take something they held dear. They tried to study the book to learn how to defeat its creator, should he return. A waste, since the book’s author was long dead and would never return.” Fathen wondered if his rigid belief in Eligos’s death had been misplaced. “The scholars had scant success in deciphering the book, but I decided they would study it no longer.”
He should stop, but now that he had started, something inside him broke, like a dam holding back a lake of putrescent water. It spewed forth, pouring over the gates of his tainted soul and spilling from his mouth.
“They kept in the archives, under lock and key, with a constant guard, but I did not care. I wanted to make the Temple pay for their weakness.
“Getting the key from the archives master was as simple as walking. He was an old monk, half-deaf, who slept like the dead.”
Fathen shivered at his choice of words and then continued. “I snuck into his chamber and retrieved the key from his dresser. The door guard was not so easy. I had to catch him by surprise and subdue him. I took the book, returned the key, and boarded the ship the next morning, the book hidden deep in my trunk.”
Relief came to Fathen, and he only now realized how much he had wanted to tell the story. He had no one in town with whom he could have shared this, not even his faithful acolytes. But this blot of shadow, this shapeless darkness, would not judge his actions.
