The Alterator's Light

by Dan Brigman

  “Thank you, Saen.”

  “Yes, well, you can thank me later when we find your family,” Saen replied. “Sit back down. We have much to discuss.” After removing his hands from Saen’s shoulder, Einar went to his seat.

  “So where do you think they went, Einar? I’d say that they would travel to an extended family member, but you don’t have any that I know of. None you want to talk to anyway.” She paused, tapping the table with a finger. “What about Ellia? I have never heard either of you speak of her family.” Saen glanced at Einar and noticed distaste covered his face. Concerned, Saen asked, “What is the matter?”

  Einar reached for his glass and lifted it before realizing again that the tankard had no ale. Saen smiled, worry lining the edges of her lips, and grabbed his tankard before standing. While going to refill it, she thought, His mind is elsewhere. What is plaguing his thoughts? She moved behind the bar and refilled the tankard from a cool pitcher of ale.

  Einar’s handiwork glowed almost imperceptibly at the lip of the pitcher. A string of runes etched into the rim of the pitcher started at one side of the handle and wrapped around to the other side. While Saen had stared at the runes over the years, she could not understand their meaning, except to know they had never failed to keep the pitcher cool to the touch. Einar had told her when he had given it to her that his masters at the university would not appreciate Alteration’s use in such a way. Over the course of a day, each rune would glow in turn, yellow then white, yet Einar never explained this, nor did she ask for the knowledge. She had merely been grateful to receive such a wondrous gift.

  After refilling the glass nearly to its brim, Saen placed the drink before Einar. He nodded thanks before taking a small sip of the cool ale. While sitting, Saen barely caught a slight smile of recognition pass over Einar’s lips. Then, suddenly Einar said, his voice rising in frustration, “The reason you have never heard us talking about our families is because of me.”

  Saen replied, “That can’t be true.”

  Einar turned his head, his brown eyes boring into her. His voice became deep and displeased in perfect imitation of his father. “You’re not going to take over after I’m gone?” Einar paused after clearing his throat, then said, “Oh, yes. My father disowned me after he could not dissuade me from taking up my profession. He told me it was a dead art and filled with nothing but ‘superstition and nonsense.’ He pleaded—no—begged me up until the moment I walked out the door. It didn’t help that father knew I’d use the ‘dead art’ in the war which was brewing.”

  “And as for Ellia’s family, her mother died many years ago giving birth to one of Ellia’s sisters. An Alterator or even physicar could have saved the woman’s life, as Ellia explains it, but her village did not allow ‘those people’ to do such things. Her father has not spoken to her in nearly ten years because she married me. He thought the nonsense I practiced would never allow me to support a family. Even he tried to convince me to follow a different path.”

  Einar laughed bitterly and took another sip from the tankard. He set it back down and continued, “He wanted me to train horses or take over his place in the merchant’s guild; I can still barely understand why he proposed that route. Did he think I’d be like our friend Kirian? I suppose desperation and foresight guided his advice. I suppose all parents have that ability.” Another sharp laugh escaped his lips before he uttered, “All parents, except me of course.”

  “I can see why you would want to hide that information, Einar.” Sympathy came out without difficulty as memories of her parents flashed through her own mind. “Parents are not the most forgiving of individuals. Fathers, especially, don’t want to see their daughters fail, whether it is something that they perceive through reason or raw instinct.”

  “Yes, yes.” Einar swept his hand in a derogatory manner. “I know of your parents, Saen. They have supported you without fail, so please do not lecture me on the nature of unforgiving parents.” Taking a drink from the tankard, he stood and moved closer to the fire. He faced his palms toward the flames and rubbed them vigorously in turn.

  “Not always, Einar.” Saen’s sudden rage-filled voice caused Einar to turn his head while still rubbing his hands. Glowering, Saen’s knuckles whitened as she gripped the tankard on the table. Einar’s eyebrows rose slightly, as he noticed the tankard trembled. I’ve never seen her angry before. Frustrated, yes, but not truly angry, he thought, curiosity tickling the back of his mind.

  The fireplace popped occasionally as they stared at each other. Einar stood waiting with his hands clasped before him. With his gaze affixed upon the tankard, Einar waited for several long moments until it rested upon the tabletop. Only then did he ask, “What do you mean? You’ve never mentioned anything.” Holding his breath in anticipation of some terrible news, his friend did not answer the question. Einar shifted his gaze from the glass tankard to Saen’s eyes—she stared outward her focus on nothing. After a few breaths, no answer had come from her. Thinking she had not heard him, Einar asked the question again, “What do—”

  “I heard you the first time,” Saen interrupted, her voice a hollow monotone. Still seemingly focused on nothing, she stated, “Einar, don’t be so quick to think that you are the only one to suffer.” As she pressed on, Einar could hear heat in her voice. “Do you really think that my parents liked that I turned down their trade to run an inn? Have you ever stopped to consider that perhaps they did not initially support my decision?” She turned to Einar, and he noticed a single tear forming. She brushed it away with a deft swipe of her right hand almost as soon as it fell from her eye. “I’m not going to sit here and explain the particulars of my situation since we do not have the time to do so. Just remember you are not the only human being to feel pain and loss.”

  Raising the edge of her apron, Saen wiped her eyes and nose. She placed the apron back hastily and smoothed out any wrinkles that may have formed. Nodding in apparent satisfaction, she glanced back at Einar. Confusion lined his face, forcing a slight chuckle from Saen’s lips. Einar stood, wringing his hands, with his mouth half open and bewilderment in his eyes. Forestalling him, she said, “Come and sit, my friend. We must discuss what we are going to do.”

  Einar clamped his lips shut, moved to the table, and sat in the span of a breath. Saen knew by the fierce set of his face and posture his attention laid solely upon her. “I think she went to my father,” Einar stated.

  “Good, we have a starting point. She always spoke fondly about him.” She paused, embarrassment flushing her cheeks. “At least around me.”

  “Well. That’s something at least,” Einar replied, then exhaled deeply. He turned to face the fireplace and focused on the dying flames. “Years ago, she told me late at night after the children had gone to sleep, that she was free to go to my father’s house at any time. This was during a rough patch when I wasn’t even able to bind any books.”

  “I remember that time,” Saen interjected, a fond smile coming to her lips. “You nearly cried when you received another contract. I did not think your situation had gotten that bad.”

  “Because I hid the worst part of it from you. I knew how you’d react to Ellia, especially if you knew I detected a hint of a threat in her voice. She was not merely informing me of the knowledge; she wanted me to know she could leave at any time. I had forgotten about that conversation until yesterday because I had convinced myself that she would never leave with the children under any circumstance. What mother would take her children from their father?”

  “She knows you love them, Einar. Everyone who has seen you with them should realize that simple truth. But there is something underlying here. Even if she did go to your father’s home, why did she do this so suddenly? Did you have any inkling of this possibility?”

  Saen noticed Einar staring into the fire, except now his elbows lay upon his knees as he bent over with his hands clasped. A single vein protruded from his forehead like a ridgeline and disappeared into his hair. As she waited for an answer, E
inar’s closed his eyes and put his forehead into his hands.

  Saen strained her ears as Einar spoke. “Looking back on the past few years, I suppose I should’ve seen it coming. I suppose I could have been more attentive to her and the children.” He paused for a moment then grunted dismissively. “It doesn’t matter now, Saen. What matters is making sure they are safe. Keltan’s conversation with me leads me to believe that he had something to do with what has happened. How he executed it, I don’t know.” He raised his head from his hands and peered at Saen. She noticed tightness around his eyes and lips, which she knew to be a fierce determination. “One day I’ll find out the truth.”

  Saen waited long enough to ensure Einar had finished then said, “Then you have me to help you find them.” The fierceness in Einar’s stare lessened slightly into an appreciative smile. “You know that we should speak to someone else first, before we leave.” The smile disappeared from Einar’s face and a look of dread fell upon his countenance.

  “You don’t mean?!” Einar scoffed while he grasped his pendant.

  A quick laugh escaped her lips as she nodded. “Yes.”

  “Oh, gods. Anyone, but him, Saen. Anyone but Valen Kendach.”

  “We have no choice.” Saen continued when his eyes narrowed, “Considering who you spoke with...”

  4 — Recoveries and Realizations

  To Loken’s eyes, Melek seemed to come out of a trance when his ears heard the stranger’s soft groaning. His brows lifted as a sudden fire lit in Melek’s eyes. In one swift movement, Melek jumped from his place next to the fire over to the man. The quick movement initially concerned Loken, then relief washed over him as he did not feel the need to move.

  “Is he alright, Melek?” Loken asked gently as smoke rolled from his mouth and nose, intermixing with the smoke of the fire. He lazily waved wisps of the smoke around his face with his right hand.

  Loken looked askance at Melek when no answer was given. The light had grown low over the past few minutes so Melek’s smaller movements were nearly lost to his focus. “Melek, is he—” Loken began to repeat with more vigor until Melek stopped what he was doing and gradually turned his head; he held an index finger over his lips. In the growing darkness, Loken could not discern his expression, but he could imagine the exasperation on Melek’s face. Melek turned back and covered the stranger completely with a gray woolen blanket; the stranger had tossed it off in his ragged sleep.

  Loken wondered at the extent of Melek’s troubling himself with the man, but Melek was a traditional clansman. The mere mention of Arstle spooked Melek in a way Loken had never witnessed. Melek’s actions since that moment did not bode well in Loken’s mind. Deep thought had narrowed Melek’s eyes; he had been unshaken until the fallen man had groaned. What could possibly be the matter with him? Loken thought, curiosity prickling his mind.

  Deep in thought himself, Loken had not heard Melek’s movement back to the campfire. Loken glanced skyward and noted the stars had already taken their natural place. Loken could hear the clinking of the wooden spoon against the pot, bringing a smile to his lips. Melek is never one to waste a moment. Loken brought his eyes back down to the cook fire. The distant look had returned to Melek’s eyes, as he stirred the pot mechanically. Loken took a deep draught from his pipe, sighed contently, and asked, “How is he?”

  “He’s fine,” Melek replied. “His breathing is no longer shallow. He seems troubled by something.” Firelight flickered off Melek’s lightly scarred face, highlighting a frown. Loken felt a tinge of concern tickling the back of his mind. He had never seen Melek so serious, no matter the circumstances. Almost always lighthearted, Melek had many friends throughout the clan.

  “What’s the matter with you tonight, Melek? You’re somewhere else, that’s no mistake.”

  “There’s nothing wrong. I just need to think.”

  “That’s fine, but I need you here with me. Your body may be here, but your mind certainly isn’t. What if your ‘thinking’ gets us captured or worse on your watch?” Loken immediately felt sorry for saying that because he knew how sensitive the man could be when someone questioned his thinking. Damn! I need his thoughts here.

  “Loken, if you don’t leave me be—”

  The very air around Loken felt oppressive, as he witnessed a side of Melek he never would have imagined, even this morning. An open threat to Loken caused his jaw to drop, and the pipe stem slipped from his lips. Instinctively, Loken grabbed it and placed it back in his mouth, as he could not respond to Melek. Loken stared numbly ahead until he dropped his gaze. Melek grabbed a bowl next to the fire and ladled soup into it. He placed a wooden spoon in the soup and walked to Loken. Loken stared at him for a moment and hesitantly grabbed the bowl.

  “Thanks,” Loken muttered. He put the pipe down next to him, careful to not spill any of the tobacco. Now that the soup’s fragrance hit him, the rumbling of Loken’s stomach reminded him of his ravenous hunger. The men had not eaten anything since before sunrise, and his stomach growled in protest at the prolonged fast. “We can eat this soup. Then we need to talk about what is going on with you, Melek.”

  Melek moved back to the pot and grabbed another cracked wooden bowl lying next to the fire. The cracks had come from years of constant use, yet he filled the bowl nearly to the brim, careful that none of the soup would leak through the crack. Grasping another wooden spoon for himself, Melek sat back on his haunches. All the while, Loken watched his methodical movements, as Melek blew his soup to cool it.

  To their hungry stomachs the soup’s intoxicating sweetness wore down their patience. Loken controlled his urge to gulp the soup because he had already burned his tongue with the first spoonful. Melek patiently blew on his own soup through pursed lips. Steam rose from the bowls toward the men’s faces like a wraith’s hands reaching for pieces of their souls. A few moments passed and Melek dipped his spoon into the soup. He tested it with his tongue; with a grin, Melek began eating heartedly. In a matter of moments, he had devoured the late dinner. When Melek stood to get a second helping, he sat back and pulled something from his own pouch.

  Loken finished his second helping next to the fire. Melek had pulled out a pipe and filled it with tobacco from his private stock. Melek’s oak pipe stem reached several inches longer than his companion’s. He has always carried that pipe with him. And he always picks the best tobacco. Never shares any with me, though, Loken thought with a grin on his face.

  “Why don’t you share some of that fine tobacco with me?”

  Melek peered coolly up at Loken while he lit the pipe. Puffing a few times, the tobacco became bright red in the pipe bowl. He inhaled a deep breath and visibly relaxed. Loken realized his friend’s shoulders had lost the tension they carried since Melek saw the stranger earlier today. The flickering firelight had not allowed him to discern Melek’s disposition. An owl hooted several times in the distance, a few hundred feet away by Loken’s guess. Swift movement caught Loken’s ear; he turned to see Melek grasping a dagger at his belt.

  “Melek, what’s wrong with you? You’ve been acting like a babe afraid of the dark.”

  With a quick flick of the wrist, the dagger came unsheathed. Melek tossed it faster than Loken’s eyes could follow. Loken felt the brush of the perfectly honed blade slide past his cheek. He heard the blade hit something behind him with a solid thwunk. A grunt came from the darkness just outside the firelight. A breath later, Loken jumped to his feet and drew his greatsword in a wide arc to stop whatever tried to attack him. As his stout body blocked most of the firelight, Loken could not make out the squat figure standing a few feet in front of him. I don’t care what it is. It is soon to be dead. Loken stepped quickly and thrust his blade forward.

  The blade pierced through the figure’s chest like an old worn-thin blanket. Loken’s momentum carried the massive blade through its torso. When a full foot of steel erupted out of his back, the figure grunted in deep, shocked pain. Loken felt blood spray on his hands as the figure coughed roughly
in a doglike bark. The figure slumped to its knees and fell to its side. As it fell, it slid off the blade with a slurping noise. That noise always makes me want to wretch, thought Loken, bile lining his throat. The spilled blood conjoined with a strong stench of urine and feces. He is dead, as he should be for tryin’ to sneak up on me. I can’t take any chances though. Loken raised the sword with the blade pointed directly down and moved over the dying figure. He thrust the blade down into the chest with little resistance.

  Loken drew the blade from the body. With the hilt in both hands, he listened and briefly closed his eyes—they held little use in the almost complete darkness—and sniffed the air. He stalked away from the body and raised his head. A few more quick sniffs brought no new odors to his nose other than the dead fellow not too far away. A few moments passed, and he heard no movement nor smelled anything else that would offer danger. Abruptly, Loken heard a recognizable deep laughter that brought his guard down.

  “That dead chap is what was wrong with me,” Melek said between deep resounding laughs. A breath later Loken joined in the laughter echoing throughout the small valley they camped within.

  “That wasn’t a good way to inform me of the brigand’s presence, you lout,” Loken stated with little fervor. His good mood fled, as quickly as it had appeared. “What if he would’ve got to me before you noticed him?” Loken asked with a disapproving look.

  “Well, then I guess I’d be tending to two fallen chaps, now wouldn’t I,” Melek responded. His gaze dropped back to the fire; staring at the flames, he puffed on his pipe. Loken observed Melek’s anxiety replace the humor. His haunted eyes, shadowed by the pale scars, returned with a vengeance that unnerved Loken. Without a second thought, Loken moved closer to the fire and sat down. He picked the pipe up from where it had fallen and tapped out the spent tobacco. I won’t be able to smoke anymore tonight, Loken thought. Sudden exhaustion washed over him like a wave, and his movements felt slow and deliberate where he sat.