by Ulff Lehmann
“What about us? Are we prisoners?” she asked.
“Aren’t we all? It’s winter and we are all trapped, but you are free to travel home if you want to try.”
“So, what shall we do?”
The Baron opened his mouth to reply, when Kildanor rose and stepped to his side. Whispered words were passed back and forth, and finally the Baron said, “You know the customs of Herascor, do you not?”
“A little, milord.”
“And you know how to dance, right?”
Where were these questions going? “Aye.”
“Are you also familiar with the goings-on at the Royal Court?”
“Somewhat.”
“Good, then I have a favor to ask you in return for my hospitality,” Duasonh said.
CHAPTER 32
Fifteenth of Cold, 1475 K.C.
The last thing Ealisaid recalled with all its painful clarity was plummeting down and hitting a shingled roof. Everything else was a haze of agony, dulled but not relieved by colorful dreams in which knives and needles and blood red arms had entered her body. She opened her eyes, expecting to find herself in the Bailey Majestic before Lliania’s Scales surrounded by hundreds of other souls awaiting or dreading judgment.
The light was dim, not what she had thought it would be. The goddess’s priests always said the light of truth shone into everyone’s heart before they were admitted to the Scales, but if the light of truth was this gloomy, what good was it?
“She’s waking,” someone said.
Waking in the Bailey Majestic seemed wrong. No one woke there, one just stepped off Jainagath’s Chariot. No, she decided, this was not the afterlife. A shape blocked out the vestiges of illumination and it took her a moment to realize it was a man. Or woman? She wasn’t sure.
“Praise Eanaigh,” the shape said.
Ealisaid blinked, tried to focus on the speaker. Slowly the shadow coalesced into a person. Judging by the symbol that hung about the man’s neck, he was a Caretaker, a healer. She tried to speak, but no word escaped her lips. Her throat was parched, aching, and the only sound she brought forth was a croak. Someone else held cold metal to her lips. She drank, greedily, not tasting the liquid, only partly aware that it was bittersweet. The ache in her throat lessened. Her eyes grew heavy. The light dimmed even further.
The next time she woke the gloom had been replaced by slightly brighter light. Somewhere outside her vision two people spoke. One, a man, said, “Don’t go starting with this being another miracle.” His voice seemed familiar, but when she tried to remember whose it was, the room began to spin.
“What else could it be?” the other man asked.
A derisive snort. “Why then do we have so many dead?”
“The goddess wanted her to live.”
“Bullshit! Think, man! You attended her for an entire day; the others had their hands full with scores of wounded and dying. If you want a miracle, fine, then consider your focus on her at the exclusion of everyone else the miracle.” A short pause followed. Then the man—somewhere in the blur of her mind a name drifted to the surface—said, “You did good here, Braigh, and certainly with Eanaigh’s blessings, but it’s still your work that saved her.”
“Yes, yes, whatever. Oh, she’s awake.”
“About bloody time, too, I need her to poke around someone’s head.”
An exasperated exhale. “What? Kildanor you can’t be serious! She is in no condition to do anything. The wounds are still mending. Any strenuous activity would kill her. You know that, so why the Scales do you propose such a thing? She almost died here!” The last was whispered in a false pretense of confidentiality.
“I can hear you,” she said. Her voice sounded raw, unused, and not like hers at all. Ealisaid wanted to say more, but the pain in her throat returned, not as strong as before, though it spread into her chest. She whimpered.
“Drink, Lady Wizard,” Caretaker Braigh said. Or was he High Priest now? She couldn’t remember. A cool-rimmed mug was put to her lips, and her mouth filled with the same taste as before. Again the light dimmed, and before she drifted off into darkness, she wondered how they kept her fed.
The pain in her throat and chest had gone. Breathing was easier now, although she hazily recalled it had been quite painful. Light, the room she lay in was bright, glaring. She opened her eyes, blinked to clear her vision, and beheld a small chapel. Corn motifs adorned the walls; this chamber was dedicated to Eanaigh. Better than a cell, she mused; the thought made her smile, but only briefly. Her muscles moved sluggishly and felt leathery, as if her face was glued into place.
“Don’t move too much, it’s still healing,” a woman said from somewhere in the room.
“What happened?” Ealisaid asked. This time, her voice sounded a little better. Shingles, she recalled them closing in on her, and crossbow bolts speeding toward her before that, piercing her while she cleared the wall of the enemy.
“You’re lucky to be alive,” the woman said. “High Priest Braigh was able to save you.” She sensed a slight pause, as if the speaker wanted to say more but stopped herself.
“But?” She tried to move her head toward the speaker, already dreading what she might say. A fraction of an inch was all she managed before being restrained.
“Don’t, not everything is yet healed.” The speaker stepped into view, dimming the light. It was another Caretaker, which made sense considering where she was.
“You said I was lucky to be alive. What’s wrong?”
“Don’t excite yourself, you must stay calm,” urged the priestess. “Please.”
As if she could remain calm without knowing what had happened. Her first anxious impulse was to sit up and glare at the Caretaker. Restraints and the pain surging through her body stopped her. “What the Scales is wrong with me?” she growled, fighting against her rising dizziness.
“You mustn’t excite yourself!”
“The more you tell me to calm down and the less you tell me about my condition,” she spat at the Caretaker, “the more upset I will become, and trust me, you don’t want to piss me off. Understood?”
Now, as the Caretaker nodded fearfully, she saw her companion was barely of age, a novice of Eanaigh, nothing more, and she regretted losing her temper. The pain in her chest and neck reinforced that regret. She wanted to apologize, but the girl spoke first. “You fell; scraped down the shingles, face first. High Priest Braigh was able to restore your body, but not your appearance, I’m afraid.”
Had the pain not been threatening to drag her back into darkness, Ealisaid would have despaired. Now, with the agony coursing through her body like molten lead, she realized her need to look good was as immature as her old belief that the Phoenix Wizards would last forever. So, she would not find a companion who would be drawn to her attractive face. It didn’t matter. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Mella.” The novice still looked concerned, came closer and inspected something beyond Ealisaid’s line of sight. Her young face had grown graver when she came back into view. Immediately she left her field of vision, heading away. A bell rang. A moment later footsteps approached.
“What is it?” Ealisaid asked, worried her outburst had worsened her condition.
Mella didn’t reply. Instead the girl addressed whoever had arrived. “Send for the High Priest!” she ordered. Then the footsteps hurried off. Again, Mella came into view, concern plain on her young face. “I’m just a learner, and the High Priest tended your injuries. He knows what to do.”
“Is it bad?” she asked, worried that her own temper had reopened her wounds.
“I… I’m not sure.”
The girl’s hesitation did not sound promising, and even though the pain felt no different, she reined in her emotions. There was nothing to do anyway, so she waited.
The High Priest’s arrival roused her from the half-dazed slumber. She opened her eyes, saw him inspecting her, and feared the frown on his face meant her condition had worsened. Before she could as
k, Braigh spoke. Had she met him before? Ealisaid did not remember. “You were lucky.”
“I don’t feel lucky,” she replied.
He launched into an explanation she barely understood, and somewhere in the middle she realized this was how non-Wizards must feel whenever she told them about magic. There was a puncture somewhere, and ophain had been poured into her veins, for she had been unable to swallow. She had slept for two weeks; they had worried she’d never wake again. It was a—Braigh visibly refrained from using the word “miracle”—marvel she had survived at all. Her wounds had been numerous, and just how they had managed to sew her shut had surely been under the auspicious blessing of Eanaigh herself. Why the goddess had wanted her to live was something Ealisaid pondered while the High Priest spoke. She had brought death to so many, and wouldn’t have begrudged the Lady of Health and Fertility had she deemed her unworthy of living. Yet here she was, listening to the babble of a priest who was obviously overwhelmed by her recovery. Briefly she remembered Drangar Ralgon who had returned from the dead. Was he the reason that Braigh refused to speak of a miracle? What had the Caretaker just said? She dragged her mind back to the chapel and asked.
“I said that you will walk with a limp, and that the break in your shoulder has healed, but you will never again have the full range of motion with that arm,” Braigh replied.
“Which arm?”
“You landed on the right side. Collarbones, shoulder joint, most of the bones in that section were shattered. I had to open you to set them.”
Thankfully she was already lying; otherwise Ealisaid would have slumped back in shock. “How much have I lost?” she asked. Then added, “Of my motion, of course.”
“That remains to be seen, I suggest you stay in bed another week or so before we check your capabilities.”
“A week? What about the Chanastardhians?”
“They’ve retreated for now; winter has come at last and they lost the taste for the escalade.”
“I heard you speak to the Chosen.”
“Ah, yes, that would have been earlier this morning.”
“What did he want from me?”
“I honestly don’t know, milady. Things are still rather busy, and my new duties keep me occupied.” He didn’t look as sad as he sounded. Weary, certainly, but High Priest Braigh seemed to be at peace with himself.
She looked at Mella. “Can you send for the Chosen?” The acolyte waited until her superior approved then hurried out.
“You must not put too much strain on yourself. It will slow the healing.”
The pain in her neck prevented her from nodding. “I understand, but if the Chosen needs my help it has to be important.”
Braigh gave her a wry grin. “I guess you are right.” After having observed her from a distance, he now stooped closer, gently poking and prodding. It hurt, which, he explained, was a sign that the body was healing. When he touched her shoulder, she whimpered. He nodded sagely. “You’ll be short of breath, maybe forever. I don’t rightly know. It was the first time I ever operated on a lung.” His monologue was interrupted by a knock on the door. “Enter,” he said.
In came a woman clad in a heavy, oversized winter cloak. Ealisaid made out few features. Her face looked as if black paint was running down, forming an uneven mask of rivulets. The smell that accompanied the arrival was a mixture of wet wool and fire. “This is as thin as I can make it, your grace,” the woman said, producing a wooden box from beneath the folds of her cloak. “If you want them any thinner, I suggest you try a glassblower, though I don’t know if one could manage.”
Braigh took the container and pried open the lid. His face lit up when he looked at the contents. “This work is worthy of the Garinad name,” he exclaimed, smiling broadly. Then his face saddened. “Again, I want to express my regret at your husband’s death.”
The smith shrugged. “People die in war; there is nothing to feel sorry about. It happened.” Was she related to the Baron’s spy? “How will you get liquid through it? I tried, but more spilled than went the way it was supposed.” Then Braigh must have looked at her skeptically, for she added, “I had to see if it worked, didn’t I? Wouldn’t want this just to be a fancy looking wire. My husband’s good name would be smeared if I didn’t deliver the promised item.”
“I have some ideas,” the High Priest replied. “You can make more of these, if needed?”
“Certainly.”
“I’ll send the money as soon as I return to the temple. Eanaigh’s blessings with you.”
“And with you.” The reply seemed more of a reflex than an honest courtesy, at least to her ears, but when Braigh’s face came into view again, she saw the priest hadn’t noticed. He was far too excited about the hollow needle in his hand.
“This,” he proclaimed proudly, “will make things so much easier.” He then launched into a passionate explanation, of which she again understood very little, and finished by saying, “Cases like yours can be treated now without poking massive holes into one’s veins to administer the ophain. Maybe the elves knew of this, but like most of their knowledge, they took it with them.”
She wondered if the elves had bothered with this type of healing, and recalled something she had picked up once from one of the old Wizards. “Elves,” he had said with a rheumy voice, “are curious buggers. They value life, but only until they tire of it and find something new to play with.” The quote had stuck. Thankfully the pain in her face prevented a smile at the Eanaighist. In all likelihood no elf would have come to help her, as broken as she was.
The door opened. “You wanted to see me?” the newcomer asked. She recognized the Chosen, though she barely saw him.
“Aye, well, actually it was the Lady Ealisaid. She’s awake now, but I doubt she is in any shape to help you.”
“She can talk?”
“Yes,” Ealisaid answered, sparing herself a new rush of the healer’s speech, into which the High Priest would have otherwise launched. The pain in her throat and jaw forced her to add, “Although it is difficult.”
“Great,” Kildanor said. “Braigh, may I speak to her in private?” Since the priest had his back to her, she couldn’t see the Eanaighist’s reaction. The Chosen however, had, and added, “I will call you should something divine or miraculous happen, all right? Good! Now go.” He gripped Braigh by the shoulders and steered him out. When the door was firmly locked, he muttered, “Little bugger worries I’ll desecrate his precious chapel.” He chuckled. “Idiot.”
“He did heal me,” she interjected.
“Aye, that he did.” He stepped into view, and she saw he had changed since the last time they had met. His cheeks seemed narrower, he had grown a beard, and the dark smudges beneath his eyes told of long nights and little sleep. “Cumaill demanded that you be fixed. A whole bunch of others died while he poked knives and needles into you.”
“Spare me the details,” she said.
He regarded her.
“So, what do you want me to do?”
“Things have come up, really strange things and I need to know what they mean.”
She tried to squint at him but abandoned the effort because of the pain. “You’re aware of my condition, are you not?” Now she saw how worried the Chosen looked. The last time he had looked like this was in the aftermath of the events at Cahill Manor. “There’s been another magical attack on Ralgon?” she guessed.
“In a way.”
She wondered if she still had brows she could raise in mock surprise, not that the pain allowed it. “You want the help of a bedridden woman and the best you can come up with is ‘in a way’? Boatload of help that is.”
“It’s complicated.”
Instead of laughing, she coughed. “Isn’t it always?”
The Chosen’s tale of what had happened in Ondalan sounded very much like the fiery tales she had heard as a child. Of outside forces trying to gain control over an innocent to further their needs. Kildanor relayed to her how he had slipped into spirit
form to observe what was happening, and that he had seen Ralgon’s struggle against these demons. “He has good days and bad, and his nights are plagued by dreams filled with demons chasing him. Sometimes the girl’s presence helps; sometimes even she can barely calm him.”
Ealisaid felt drowsy, and only the past vision’s horror they had shared when entering the spiritworld in what seemed ages ago kept her awake. She also remembered the overlapping images of Ralgon’s dog and the woman, and wondered if they were all connected. “So, what do you want me to do? Dig into his mind?”
“Aye, maybe you can figure out what is going on inside of him. Gwen told me that every day is a struggle. He tries not to let his temper flare, is afraid that ‘the Fiend,’ as he calls it, will surge forward and take over again.”
“He defeated it in Ondalan, didn’t he?”
“He did.”
“So, what prevents him from doing it again?”
“I think his mind is so buggered up, with no real foe to fight he is simply lost.”
“And you think that if we know what is going on it will help him? I might be able to tell if this Fiend is truly a different entity, but even if that is so, it won’t help him much.”
Kildanor sighed, nodded, and said, “Aye, and with us being snowed in, we can’t head south until Thaw.”
“Why south?”
“Because,” he explained, “that is where the bastard who cast the spells in Cahill Manor came from. He hopes to get answers and his revenge there.”
“Revenge?”
“Justice maybe, not that it matters right now. He had enough unpleasant memories of his dead lover; now he has seen his hands tear apart enemies.”
“I thought you were speaking figuratively!”
“No, quite literally, in two deaths his sword wasn’t used. He just tore through the poor bastards.”
“He must feel terrible.”
“Only when he isn’t knitting,” Kildanor said, a smile playing around his lips.
“Knitting?”
“Scarves mainly, or one long scarf. He made everyone nervous sharpening his weapons all the time. Looked like a madman sitting there all grim and calm, whetstone in one hand, blade in the other. It was meant as a joke, but the lass, Gwen, had taken a liking to him and actually showed him how to knit. I’m told he barely sharpens his weapons anymore, but knits stitch after stitch. Next, they’ll teach him how to sew, I reckon.”
