by Ulff Lehmann
“Thaw is… what?”
“Two months from now. The time to travel safely that is.”
“Well, I hope my wounds have healed by then.”
“You can’t do it now?” the Chosen asked.
Again, her laugh turned into a cough. “I need to be calm, and with half my bones broken and all of my body in pain you really think I can be calm? Sure, I could drink some ophain, but that would make me too calm.” She stifled a yawn, afraid it would tear the scars in her face. “Speaking of which, I’m tired. But I wouldn’t mind talking with you sometime later.”
He gave her a brief, understanding nod, and then left. She was grateful that he didn’t mention the way her face looked; sooner or later she would have to gaze into a mirror, but until then the illusion that she was merely ill was a good one. The moment the door fell shut behind Kildanor, it opened again. “You must be exhausted,” Mella said. “The High Priest has other business to attend to, but he asked me to give you your medicines.” A cup was lifted to her lips. “Here, drink.” She swallowed the bitter liquid, and moments later her eyes fluttered shut.
CHAPTER 33
“You can’t go,” Cumaill insisted. “The Chanastardhians will return come spring, and I need you here to fight.”
They had danced this dance several times now, and Kildanor was more determined than ever to accompany Drangar when he left. He still didn’t know what the shared vision of demons manipulating the mercenary meant, but was certain it wasn’t a good portent. He didn’t need Ealisaid’s help to know what he had seen, and even if the rent bodies could have been explained in another way, the blood hissing into vapor to heal Ralgon only reinforced the notion that demons had somehow gained a foothold in the man’s mind. Worst of all, the struggles were still going on. Both Gwennaith Keelan and the guardswoman Jasseira had confirmed Ralgon’s reoccurring, sweat-soaked nightmares and his single-minded pursuit of retaining his calm. He hadn’t seen the man in days, but the women were deeply troubled. Aside from supporting Drangar, the trip south might help him shed light on why his brothers had become slaves to the demons. Maybe he would even get the chance to complete the Chosen once again. “I have to,” he finally told Duasonh.
“Bullshit! What good will you do for him?”
He had no ready answer. How could one explain instinct? He knew in his gut that going to Kalduuhn was the right thing, didn’t even bother to contact the other Chosen at Dragoncrest. Should he remind Cumaill that his gut feeling had revealed Jathain as a traitor? If he hadn’t hired Jesgar Garinad in the first place, Dunthiochagh would surely have been in Chanastardhian hands by now. He looked at Duasonh and for the first time saw there was uncertainty in the Baron’s eyes. This, he realized, had nothing to do with his leaving as much as Cumaill needing someone to share the burden with. “I’m not your wife, mate,” he said. “So why don’t you just tell me what the Scales you really want from me.”
“I don’t need a new wife! It’s just that…”
“What? Kerral giving you trouble?” The rogue general had proven himself remarkably well, a disciplined warlord, even if he was pigheaded on occasion.
“No,” the Baron replied sullenly.
Kildanor sighed. He had feared that this moment would come. Cumaill was tired, had pushed himself far too hard over the past weeks. This whining was his weariness talking. By now the damage done by enemy slingthrowers had been repaired to the point where the houses were habitable once more; the dead had been burned. Scales, even the publicans and innkeepers had finally accepted the billeting of Kerral’s warriors, and still Cumaill kept pushing himself. He had assumed control without any emissaries to rely on, had basically dismissed Kildanor from his duties, and with Braigh busy with church matters and Nerran still looking for solace at the bottom of a mug, there was no one to shoulder part of the burden.
“Don’t worry,” he said soothingly. “I’ll see what can be done.”
Duasonh was too tired to answer. He left the Baron slumped in his chair, and went to search any of the surviving Riders. With luck, one of them would know where their leader was drinking himself senseless. That Nerran had fallen so far still confused him. Sure, the Riders had suffered casualties, but it wasn’t the first time the group had lost more than half their number. He couldn’t fathom what had driven the jovial, determined Paladin to hide in a bottle.
He found Fynbar in a heated argument with one of the stable hands. “No, these boxes are reserved for us, and even if we lack the numbers right now, this is our space, the Riders’ space, so get those horses out of here,” said Fynbar.
“The General Kerral ordered them stabled here, and until the Baron countermands this…”
“He gave this place to us,” the Rider interrupted. At times Kildanor wondered whether the other Eanaighist priests should take the Caretaker-Riders as an example. “So, get those animals out of here now!” Fynbar’s hand wandered to his sword’s hilt, and the readiness for violence convinced Kildanor such an example was not that wise. He intervened.
“Sunsword!” Fynbar exclaimed when he approached. “Great! Talk some sense into this man, please.”
“No, I talk some sense into you, Caretaker.” He stressed the title.
“What?” stuttered Fynbar. The stable hand gave a sigh of relief.
“How many horses do you have right now?” Kildanor asked.
“Fifteen, but…”
“No buts! How many Riders?” This was Nerran’s job, and he had come to find him, not haggle with one of the Paladin’s followers.
“A dozen.”
“Good, so you don’t need all that space anyway, do you?”
“No,” Fynbar agreed. “But…”
“Again a ’but,’” Kildanor interrupted. “I don’t like the word when it’s used to question my authority. Do you understand or shall I express myself more simply?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Now, is there any chance you will have more Riders in the foreseeable future?”
“I don’t know, sir.” The fighting had beaten the youthful spirit out of Fynbar, and now it showed. He looked as weary as anyone who had fought on the walls. Kildanor understood he was merely trying to maintain some semblance of order, to keep the illusion of brotherhood that surrounded the Riders. With Nerran in his cups and Upholder Rheanna busy with other things, Fynbar was the one attempting to keep up the morale of his crew. He understood the importance of what the young man was trying to achieve, it was commendable, but the heart of the matter was that horses needed to be stabled. With some of the places on the other side of the Dunth in ruins, Horse and Lance needed to shelter their steeds, and this was as good a place as any. Maybe Fynbar saw the validity of the argument, maybe he didn’t. It hardly mattered. The Riders’ pride would suffer no great blow by relinquishing their stables; Nerran’s drunkenness was an entirely different issue.
“The horses stay,” Kildanor decided. Then he pulled the Rider to the side. “A word,” he said. When he thought they were out of earshot, he spoke anew. “Listen, son, I understand what you are doing, and why you’re doing it. The thing of it is that you aren’t a senior Rider; barely blooded, that’s what you are. Where’s Briog?”
“I don’t know,” Fynbar answered. “Most of them stabled their horses and then went off.”
“I saw some of them here yesterday.”
“Oh, they do return, but the spirit’s gone.” Kildanor wasn’t sure the young man meant general morale, or Nerran.
“So, you had casualties; it’s war.”
“That’s what we kept telling Nerran, but when he saw Gail’s corpse, he lost it.” His face must have shown his unvoiced question, and Fynbar added, “They were lovers. She was pregnant.”
“Oh, fuck me!” Now he understood the Paladin’s grief. Nerran had lost his family during the Dawnslaughter three decades ago, the night when Eanaigh’s priesthood in Danastaer had hunted and killed every priest or follower of Lesganagh they could safely lay hands on. Nerran had barely
come of age and had witnessed his parents’ death. None had known that he and Caretaker Gail had been lovers. It surely explained the priestess’s easygoing nature, and the ferocity of Nerran’s reaction. “Why did she fight?” he asked.
“She refused to be excluded, said she was a Rider and had her duty to us.”
“And the others?”
“They’re fed up with everything right now, too many dead, Nerran’s spirit is broken.” Fynbar’s voice trailed off.
“Where is he?”
“Some dive. No idea.”
“You gather the others, who was Nerran’s second?”
The young Rider gave a sad laugh. “Gail.”
“And who else, of those still alive?”
“Rhea.”
“Good, I fetch the Princess, and you gather the rest, and then get Nerran, understood?”
“Whatever for?”
“Has Gail received a proper burial?”
“No.”
“Then we start from there,” the Chosen said, and turned around, calling for Dawntreader.
Recently he had heard Lliania’s Court was now called Coimharrin’s Court, but Kildanor doubted the old Upholder enjoyed his new celebrity. The new, unofficial name did nothing to improve the temple’s appearance. While the lingering snow-covered thatched roofs with a coat of white, and poured off the shingled ones on occasion, the prevailing unkemptness of Coimharrin’s Court seeped into the snow as well. It looked grey, and he would have bet money that the priest would claim it fitting, since justice was neither black nor white, only was.
He found Rhea passing judgments in the temple’s only chamber of note. Coimharrin was nowhere to be seen, which suited him fine. Even from a distance she looked impressive, regal, and the ruling she was passing as he entered was as cold and impartial as any he had ever seen. Cumaill wouldn’t like it, he was certain of that. The Baron hadn’t liked what Ralgon had done to Danaissan, saying it was unwise to alienate the Eanaighists, and what Rheanna did was just as painful as nails driven through a man’s knees.
“Rigall of Camlanh, for the rape and murder of two women you are sentenced to death by gelding. The execution will take place on Old Bridge, today,” she said.
Someone near him whispered, “I still can’t believe he is being punished at all.”
“Wouldn’t have happened back home, aye, but then again, our Lawspeaker receives sacks of money to turn a blind eye on some things,” another replied.
“Think it’s true what they say? That his son is pleading with the Baron right now?” a woman added.
“Heard Lord Duasonh is a decent man, won’t let a bastard like Rigall off the hook, even if it means he’ll lose the support of someone as wealthy as him.”
Kildanor was certain Cumaill wouldn’t pardon the crime, but since his friend was swamped with work there was little risk of him hearing of the case. Money, he regretfully admitted, motivated many people to go against their beliefs, and with so many more mouths to feed, and warriors rightfully demanding their pay, who could blame any ruler for turning a blind eye? The terrible howl rising from the front showed that at least one person was not tempted by money. Rhea was an Upholder to his liking.
She must have seen him, for she adjourned, and approached when the throng of people had left. “Come to see Coimharrin?” she asked. “Caught a cold last week, and is still in bed.”
“No, I came to speak with you.”
“Then speak.” To the four guardsmen dragging away a screaming and protesting Rigall of Camlanh, she said, “Proceed now, no point in waiting. Let it be a warning to others.”
“The Riders need you,” he began.
“The Riders need someone who looks after them, even in battle. I failed.”
“Nerran is drunk most of the time, and the others are spread all across town. You did what was necessary, and no one blames you.”
“No, but whenever they look at me, I’m reminded of the deaths I caused.”
“You did what was necessary, and that isn’t pretty most of the time. Your actions helped us keep the wall.”
“How do you know what my orders did?” she snapped. “You weren’t there. And the Chanastardhians retook that portion fast enough afterwards.”
“Did you know of Gail’s pregnancy?”
She shook her head. “Only Nerran knew.”
“So why do you hide from your responsibility?”
“I don’t…” she trailed off. “My work here…”
“So, you think doing Coimharrin’s job will make up for a correct decision that you deem a mistake? Bullshit!”
“I got people under my command killed!”
“You don’t want people to die in war? Don’t go to war then.” He knew how she felt, had felt the same when his brothers had deserted the Chosen, and though he cared little about their betrayal now, he understood what Rhea was going through. “Listen, you did well. Your actions saved the city. If you hadn’t led the Riders into that shield wall, the enemy would have taken the south.”
“But…”
“All of you know the danger of riding into a shield wall, right?” She nodded. “And still they followed you.” Again, a nod. Survivor’s guilt, he thought. There was nothing he could do about that. Only time would heal this wound. Rhea had buried herself in someone else’s work and tried to work through the pain in her own way, he realized that. He also knew Nerran and she had to honor Gail and the other dead with a proper funeral. The bodies had already been burned, but they still could show their respect.
“We will meet at the cemetery east of here, and you will come,” he told her. In a way he was reluctant to visit the place again, the Deathmask there had taken his anger at Ethain’s and Ganaedor’s betrayal. From what Jesgar had told him about the older Garinad’s funeral, or at least the time the spy had spent alone in front of the fireplace, he had been able to leave his grief behind. It would help the surviving Riders, of that he was certain.
“When?” Rhea asked.
“Now, the others are being gathered.”
“What about Nerran?”
Of all of them, the Paladin needed to attend the most. “He’ll be there, even if I have to drag him by the ears.” That made her smile, and reminded him of the carefree girl he had met years and years ago. Not much of the young Princess was left now, and if he lived, he would see her grow old and attend her funeral. How old was she, he wondered, did the math and was once more reminded of all the people he had known who were already so many ashes. In a few decades she would join those who had gone to the Bailey Majestic before her.
“Have you heard of Ralgon?”
He was grateful for the change in topic, and told her what he knew. “At least he is reining this Fiend in,” he finished the small report.
“He’s no priest, so what good does all this meditation do a warrior? He needs to fight this, not contemplate it.”
“You mean he should not wallow in self-pity?” Kildanor asked, forcing his mischievous smirk off his face. Thankfully, Rhea was looking the other way, inspecting the metal Scales dominating the hall.
“Aye, dwelling on things past rarely helps one living in the pre…” she trailed off, turned, and glared at him. “You bastard!” The insult was accompanied by a chuckle. “Guess I needed that.”
“Sometimes we all need a kick in the head,” Kildanor admitted. “Now, let’s look for Nerran and kick him too.”
They found the Paladin in the Tankard. By now the surviving Riders had been rounded up and accompanied them. With not much to do, many off-duty warriors were flocking to the taprooms. Most of them drank peacefully, but on more than one occasion in the past two weeks the Watch had been called to break up serious brawls. The Tankard, courtesy of its proximity to the western slums, was one of the worse dives, and Kildanor expected to find the place packed with drunks flinging insults and the sporadic mug. Instead the place seemed peaceful, almost deserted when they arrived.
The reason for this calm sat hunched over a table ne
ar the fireplace. Nerran looked up when the door opened. His face was puffy from mead and tears, and for a moment he appeared oblivious to who they were. Then, with a shuddering sigh, he turned his attention back to the bottle he was nursing. “Stay away,” he grumbled.
He had never seen his friend so desolate. Then again, he had never heard the Paladin talk of raising children either. So much of Nerran’s time had been dedicated to the Riders and the return of Lesganagh’s faith to Danastaer, and gruffly advising Cumaill Duasonh on whatever matter struck his fancy. Maybe, he thought, Nerran had talked about a family, just not to him.
“No, we won’t,” Rhea said. She approached the Paladin, the other Riders following her. Some of them looked as haunted as she had, but no one had fallen as far as Nerran. Sure, they had lost friends, but it had always been Nerran who had spurred them on and kept the flame alive. Now this pillar had crumbled, and although Briog and Rhea were decent leaders, none of them could replace the man who sat drunkenly and forlornly before them.
“Piss off!” Nerran snarled.
“No, we all will go and honor the dead,” Fynbar said.
“No bloody Deathmasks, they steal your thoughts.”
“You need to…” Briog began.
“To what? All I need is to die.”
They were too gentle with him, Kildanor realized. Nerran was not the kind of person who sugarcoated words; rather, he was as straightforward as an arrow. He made his way through the semicircle of Riders and took the bottle from Nerran’s hands. “You will come with us, if not for yourself, do it to honor the dead. If Gail deserves anything, she deserves respect, and you bloody well aren’t showing it by drinking yourself sillier than usual.”
“Fuck you, Chosen! What do you know of loss? Oh, I forgot, you forgot what you felt, didn’t you?” Nerran snorted. “I forgot you forgot, we all forget, don’t we? If we go to the godsdamned Deathmasks, we forget. I don’t want to forget. Buggers just take your memories.”
