by David Estes
I won’t.
His thoughts felt empty, meaningless, devoid of passion or feeling.
I even lie to myself. I am nothing, I am nothing, I am…
He closed his eyes, which were blurring again. His lips quivered. His legs shook.
I am weak. I am broken. I am lost.
The truths spoken in his mind were knives, cutting, carving, removing pieces of him on the butcher’s block of fate.
Though he hadn’t eaten breakfast, the thought of knives and blood made his stomach heave. He vomited a stream of bitter, brown liquid onto his fancy boots. The onlookers parted around him, muttering in disgust.
An announcement was being made, a list of the charges his mother had been found guilty of. It was a long list. Henry had heard it all before, more times than he could count, and he didn’t want to hear it again.
Nor could he watch his mother burn.
He turned away, pushing through the crowd. He could barely see through the tears in his eyes and the curtain of black curly hair that fell over his face. My hair is too long; it needs to be cut. The mundaneness of the thought sent a sharp jab of fear through his gut, because, of course, his mother had always cut his hair. Who will cut it now?
He jammed the heel of his hand into his forehead, chastising himself for his stupidity. His mother, the only person he had in the entire world, was about to be executed, and he was thinking about his hair?
Cheers rose up and the acrid smell of smoke bit at his nostrils.
Tears dripped from his chin.
He could feel the thick pages of parchment tucked under his shirt, scratching his skin. His mother’s life work. Hide them across the kingdoms…
More cheers, the bloodlust of the crowd pushing in from all sides.
He choked on a sob, hiccupping.
Stumbling, bouncing off of shoulders and elbows, jostled around.
Alone amongst thousands.
So alone.
Alone.
Three years earlier
“The Words have opened my mind,” Henry’s mother said.
“What words?”
She shook her head. She wouldn’t tell him either. Carona and Mother have secrets between them, Henry thought bitterly. Mother used to tell me everything.
“They are not—”
Henry cut her off. “Meant for my ears. I know.”
She sighed. “I’m only trying to protect you, sweetness.”
“Aye, because I’m too small, too weak, a coward—”
“You are none of those things!” his mother snapped, and the power of her response made him flinch back.
“I’m not?”
“No. You are the future.”
“What future?”
“Our future.”
His ears swallowed her words, relishing them. What had he been angry about a moment earlier? What had he been sad about? Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. Because he had her, and that was enough.
“I need you to help me again,” his mother said, roping an arm around him and pulling him close.
“Anything, Mother,” Henry whispered.
“I need you to write down my words again tonight. Don’t miss a single one.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Three years later
Henry sat in the dirt, staring at a pile of ash and timber, broken stone and crumbling mortar.
Not his mother—no, he was far too cowardly to go back to where she had been burned.
No, this was his home. Someone had torched it while he was meandering aimlessly through the streets of Knight’s End. Everything he owned was inside. All of the coin his mother had left him, too, save for the few Stallions that jangled around in his pockets. They wouldn’t last long.
I have no mother. I have no home. I have no wealth.
Our future, his mother had said three years ago.
“You lied!” he screamed now. They had no future, not together at least. The truth bit into his legs, arms, chest.
And yet his tears were gone, long dried by the heat of the smoldering rubble, tracks of salt on his smoke-darkened face. He felt like he should continue crying, continue mourning, until the sun exploded in the seventh heaven and the dueling moons crashed into each other in the night sky, surrounded by the flaming paths of falling stars.
I should mourn forever. I should go back to Teragon, to that hole, to Absence, and throw myself into it.
No.
His head jerked up. The last word was not his own. It wasn’t even a thought, but a voice in his head, as clear as the ringing of a church bell. His mother’s voice.
“Mother?” he said aloud.
Henry was dimly aware of people staring at him, pointing. They’d been watching him for a long time, wondering what he would do. And now he was talking to himself. They probably loved that. But he didn’t care anymore, because his mother had spoken to him.
Yes, sweetness, she said.
He gasped. It was her!
“I…I miss you.”
You don’t have to, because I am with you. Always.
“How is this possible?”
I don’t know. Much of what I did in my life, and afterwards, I don’t fully understand. But I was chosen for this purpose the moment I accepted the Words. And what I did before I died was important. I must believe that.
“Chosen by who? Wrath?”
Maybe. Or Absence perhaps, I do not know. The One who showed me the Way never gave me a name. It is All Seeing, All Hearing, the Creator of the Land, the Sea, the Air we breathe. It despises war and eschews evil. And The One will have Peace again. It showed me the Way.
“What did you do?”
You don’t have to speak out loud, child. I can hear you.
“Oh. I mean…” Oh.
Yes. That’s it. Speak to me where only I can hear.
Yes, Mother.
Before I was taken, I performed a final spell.
What spell?
The rest of the Words came to me in the dark, the Words the fools said were false prophecies, the ravings of a dark sorceress. But they were not false nor prophecies. They were promises. I cast the Words across the land. The Words were not only for the west, but for the entirety of the Four Kingdoms. The fatemarked shall come, and they shall bring death and chaos and then…peace.
At the final word, cool air blew across Henry’s face and he sighed. A smile creased his lips. Suddenly, he felt so happy. Everything was going to be fine. Somehow. Some way.
I have your notes, I saved them from the fire. What do I need to do, Mother? he asked.
Trust yourself. Trust me. You have a role to play, as we all do.
I don’t understand.
No response.
Mother?
Silence.
“Mother!”
Three years earlier
His mother’s words scared Henry, but he dutifully scrawled them down as quickly as she spoke them, only the whites of her eyes showing, gleaming in her head like full, pale moons. They were words of disaster and destruction and fear and violence. There was no hope in them, not tonight. But what scared him more was what she did when he finished writing and her eyes rolled forward in her head.
She looked not at him but at the sheaves of parchment covered in Henry’s handwriting and grabbed them, crumpling them in her fist. Then she threw them into the fire, watching them burn to ash. “Wrong. All wrong,” she said. “I am deaf. I am blind. I need to get closer. I need to stay longer.”
Shocked, his hand throbbing from writing for hours on end, Henry could do nothing but watch as she paced back and forth under the glow of the lantern light, which was growing dimmer as dawn beckoned from outside the opening in their conical hut. She’d spoken, and he’d written, all night. And she’d just destroyed every last word.
“Mother?” Henry said, but it was as if he didn’t exist. Not to his mother, at least. She continued pacing, back and forth, back and forth. Then, with swiftness that made Henry rock back in his chair, toppling ove
r, she dashed for the opening in the hut, rushing outside.
Exhausted, sore from writing and being hunched over a table all night, Henry wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep the day away.
But he didn’t. No, this time he followed his mother, keeping his distance so she wouldn’t see him. He wasn’t certain such stealth was necessary—she probably wouldn’t even notice him if he sprang in front of her naked with his tongue out—but he thought it better to be cautious given her current state of mind.
Eventually, she reached her destination, the circle of temple huts, and slipped inside the ring. Henry crept forward, hugging the shadowy side of one of the huts, which faced away from the rising sun.
The thin, red-skinned priest, Carona, was waiting for her with a rope. His hair was free of bindings today, fanning out down his back. “I warned you,” he said.
“I’m sorry. I thought I was ready. I thought I knew the Words.”
“The Words are not yours to know. Nor mine. They are Absence’s, and even those who listen in the darkness for years find themselves lacking.”
“Lacking?”
“Yes. Your entire soul must be open before you can receive your deepest desire.”
“Please. I need the darkness. I need to listen again.”
“As you wish,” Carona said. He bent down and tied one end of the rope firmly to a metal hoop pounded into the ground. Then he approached Henry’s mother, who raised her hands over her head. To Henry’s surprise, the priest tied the other end of the rope around her chest, under her armpits. She lowered her arms.
No, Henry thought. Mother, what are you doing? He took a step forward but she moved too quickly, stepping over the edge of the dark hole without a sound.
Henry stopped, still in the shadows, watching as the coils of rope unwound, dropping into the pit. He held his breath…
The tether went taut, reaching its limit, pulling on the hook, which tilted slightly in the direction of the hole. And held.
A snake of uneasiness wormed its way into Henry’s stomach as he thought about his mother down there all alone in the dark. It’s just a hole, he thought, trying to convince himself. When she’s finished…doing whatever it is she’s doing—listening to the Words—Carona will pull her back up and she’ll be the same eccentric woman she has always been. My mother.
He sat down to wait.
Hours passed, the sun creeping across the sky, stealing Henry’s shadow, bit by bit, until he was forced to move to remain hidden. Carona sat by the hole, his legs dangling over the edge, staring silently into the darkness. He didn’t seem to mind the heat beating down upon his head and shoulders.
After what seemed like an eternity, the man stood up and began walking circles around the hole, muttering something under his breath. Henry cupped a hand to his ear and leaned forward, trying to make out the words, catching a few.
“Too long…no one is above…have no choice…my duty…my duty…my duty…”
The priest repeated the last two words several times before stopping suddenly, racing to one of the temple huts, his hair streaming like a windblown cape behind him, and emerging a moment later with a small but sharp-looking knife.
Henry jolted, watching as the man strode back toward the hole, a look of determination on his arrowhead-shaped face.
He’s going to cut the rope, Henry realized with a start.
He sprang to his feet, flying from hiding, moving so fast his feet barely seemed to touch the ground. The priest’s back was to him, and he was already bending over the rope, touching the edge of the knife to the braided twine, starting to saw back and forth…
“Noooo!” Henry shouted, lowering his shoulder just as the man turned toward him, an oh of surprise forming on his lips. Carona’s positioning was such that he was off balance when Henry collided with him, his feet tangling as he was shoved backward. The knife flew from his hands, soaring end over end, its blade glinting in the sunlight. It vanished into the hole, and a terrifying image of his mother with a knife stuck into her head burst through Henry’s mind.
But that dark thought was quickly washed away by a very real image: Carona rolling, a mess of arms and legs, sliding over the edge of the hole, reaching out desperately, his eyes huge and white and full of fear…
Henry dove, his hand outstretched, grabbing for the priest’s fingers—
And catching them, squeezing as tightly as he could, his joints popping under the man’s weight and the pull of gravity into the hole.
Henry gritted his teeth as he stared down at the man who’d just tried to kill his mother.
The man stared back…and then smiled. His hair was dangling into the hole, half-swallowed by the darkness. “My time here is finished. And you, child, have passed the test. May Absence bless the fate of the Four Kingdoms while Teragon falls into squalor.”
Henry realized too late what the man was planning to do.
Carona yanked his sweaty hand from Henry’s gasp and seemed to hang in the air for an impossible moment, that strangely peaceful smile plastered across his face.
And then he fell into darkness without a sound.
Henry toppled backward, clutching his arm, gasping for breath. Wrath, he thought. Did that really just happen? His world, which had always been an unusual one, now seemed sheathed in a thick armor of madness.
Then he remembered: the rope! Ignoring the pain shooting through his shoulder and arm, he launched himself at the only thing saving his mother from the same fate that befell the priest. Before Henry had tackled Carona, the priest had managed to slice through a good portion of the rope, and now, thread by thread, it was snapping free of the hook, gaining momentum with each passing second.
It sprang free and once more Henry had to dive, grabbing the end with his uninjured hand, holding tight, digging his feet into the dirt as he was dragged toward the hole. I’m going to die, he thought, but then one of his feet hooked on the metal implement stuck in the ground. He dug his toes into the iron circle, refusing to let them slip free.
On the other end of the rope, he felt a tug. Then another. His mother, asking to be pulled up.
I don’t have the strength, Mother, he tried to say, but his voice and his heart were both trapped in his throat, throbbing through his skin.
All he could do was hang on, even as the rope burned his fingers and the metal hook bit into his toes, threatening to break them one by one.
He hung on while the sun fell from the sky, vanishing from sight, and the dueling moons—one red, one green—rose on each side, glowing chariots charging toward each other in the dark. Countless stars of red, green, and gold, burst into being, surrounding the two moons, seeming to spur them on.
One of Henry’s fingers lost all strength and released its hold, adding to the burden of the others. Another finger gave out. Then a third. Numb, his thumb and forefinger held on for as long as they could, far longer than Henry would’ve ever thought possible.
They, too, however, ran out of strength. I’m sorry, Mother. I have failed you.
Henry released the rope, which immediately darted away from him like an injured snake.
He watched it slide into the hole and disappear—
Before being replaced by a hand with pale, spindly fingers, curling over the edge, finding purchase on the rocky ground.
Henry stared, unbelieving.
Another hand, then a set of arms, and then his mother’s face, blazing with an unnatural light as if lit from within, bursting with an inhumanly radiance usually only seen in the moon or the stars.
“Mother?” Henry rasped. “How?”
“Sweetness,” she said, kneeling over him. “You saved me. You saved us all.”
“I—I was too weak.”
“You were stronger than anyone else could’ve been. You gave me the time I needed. It spoke to me.”
Henry was bone-weary and just wanted to sleep, but curiosity got the better of him. “Who?” he asked.
“Absence. Wrath. The God of Many N
ames. The One. I know the Words. The Words are me and I am the Words. My greatest desire has been fulfilled. I am going to change everything.”
Three days after his mother’s death
Henry was changing.
At first the changes were subtle: a few whiskers sprouted from his chin, dark and thick. Camped to the east of Knight’s End, he played with them with his fingers. I am a man, he thought, and then laughed. If a few scraggly chin hairs made him a man, then a donkey was the same as a stallion.
Still, there was no mistaking the way his arms and legs had changed, too. Only a few days earlier they were as straight and narrow as beanpoles; now, if the sunlight hit his skin just right, there was a shape to them.
Muscle, he thought, flexing his bicep, all shiny and new. If the boys back home saw him, they would still mock him, but he didn’t care. He might never see them again.
After speaking with his mother—his dead mother—he’d known what to do. He’d taken his only possession of value—his boots—back to Vaughn’s shop. He traded them in for a much more modest pair and collected the difference in value in silver Stallions.
As he’d walked through Knight’s End, people stared at him—he was almost as notorious as his mother, by association. He’d given them no mind, however, ignoring their jeers and attempts to trip him. Thankfully, none had directly assaulted him, and now he wondered if it was fear of his mother—even in death—that stayed their hands.
There was nothing left for him in Knight’s End, and he wouldn’t go back. He didn’t know where he would go, only that he needed to get as far away as possible, and make his own way in the world. He was small and underdeveloped for his age, yes, but his mother had taught him much, and he wouldn’t waste that knowledge. So he’d collected supplies using what coin he had, and set off from the city.
That was three days ago. He’d avoided the busy Western Road, instead cutting a path across the empty countryside, sleeping under the red, green, and gold stars and enjoying the mild spring weather. Wrath’s Tears, the fortnight-long rainy season, was well behind him. Each night he tried to make contact with his mother again, to no avail. He didn’t let it get him down, not yet. Instead, he took it as a sign that he was making the right choices and no longer in need of her guidance.
