Shattered Fears

by Ulff Lehmann

  “Don’t, mate,” said Kerral from the door. “I understand.”

  He looked up and saw him smile as the door closed behind him. Into his view stepped Gwen. “You’re lucky to have such friends,” she said, leaned down and kissed his cheek.

  CHAPTER 38

  Tenth of Ice, 1475 K.C.

  Who would have thought healing took such a long time? Ealisaid certainly had not, and although a servant had washed her daily and changed the sheets regularly, the bed had grown quite rank. She did not know why High Priest Braigh and not one of the other Caretakers was the one dressing her wounds and caring for her, nor did it matter. In a way it made her feel special, even when every other sense in her screamed she was anything but. The Baron visited her on occasion, and even Kildanor attended her at least once a week. But instead of merely sitting and chatting, Lesganagh’s Chosen had prodded her with questions about forced magic, obviously thinking her an expert on the matter. Among the blind the lame was king. It had something to do with Drangar Ralgon, not that this revelation had been of any help. She had suggested that Ralgon was mentally ill, that two distinct personalities vied for control. And Braigh had thwarted even that theory when he had witnessed the brainstorming.

  Over the past few days her strength had returned. So far, she had managed to sit up, had even walked to the privy, aided by Culain who spent every free moment with her to the point that she had ordered him to get some rest. Yesterday she had taken the first few unaided steps, only as far as the door, which wasn’t far at all, but the three yards had felt like a mile. Thankfully Ysold had arrived in time to help her stumble back to bed. The girl had a knack for appearing just at the right moment, and Ealisaid suspected her pupil was learning much more on her own than she herself would have been able to teach. Maybe the Baron was right when he claimed that the lass was not tied down by years of conventional learning and could therefore start afresh. Upon returning from the Shadowpeaks she had been so confident, brimming with willful energy. Taking on the enemy had seemed so easy, until it hadn’t been, until the bolts had shredded her flesh and the fall had broken almost every bone in her body. That Braigh had been able to save her at all, even though the term had been abused a lot lately, was nothing short of a miracle. To her surprise, even the Chosen agreed, though his exact description of her salvation had been more reminiscent of a butcher’s shop, but still, it seemed as if Eanaigh wanted her to live.

  She struggled to an upright position, and her body ached from the newly healed wounds. Braigh claimed she was as good as new except for the scarring, and Culain it seemed, was attending her more out of pity than desire. How bad was it? How badly disfigured was her face? Her limbs looked like cloths haphazardly sown together by a seizure-stricken seamstress; there was barely an inch that had not been lacerated or pierced by either bone or bolt. So far no one had allowed her a mirror, all claiming she had to remain calm in order to heal.

  The last time she had seen her face it had been bandaged to the point that barely enough room remained for her eyes, nostrils, and mouth. Three days ago, a servant whom she had not seen before had entered and for the barest of moments the young man’s gait had faltered. Judging by that reaction, she feared the worst.

  Now she had her right leg over the rim of the bed, her foot dangling in the air. That motion alone caused pain to surge through her entire body, but she wanted, needed to make the trip to the door and back on her own. She refused to be an invalid for the rest of her life. The other foot swung next to the first. Her breath hissed through clenched teeth. Arms propped against the mattress, she began to push, every inch tripling her pain. The pampered side of her wanted to call for help, to curl up and cry until someone came, but the independent side hollered on, forcing her delicateness into submission. No one would help her if she did not help herself first.

  Another inch, and another, she didn’t care about the nightgown riding up her legs, had seen the network of scars so many times by now the sight did not stun her into immobility. Naked feet touched the ground, rushes pricking her soles. She was glad she felt anything, glad to be alive to feel. With a grunt she heaved out of bed.

  Did Culain really just stay because of pity? The talk about character being more important than looks was nothing more than a threadbare curtain, because upon meeting someone a person was immediately judged by their appearance. And she and Culain had never had the chance to truly get to know each other. It had started with passion, had maybe grown into attachment, but since her fall this attachment seemed to be fraying, severing.

  She reached the low shelf with the mirror on top and saw the reason why Culain and supposedly everyone else pitied her. Had she cuddled with a pair of scissors, the result might have looked the same. Gone was everything that had made it into her face. A mass of red and white scars turned her countenance into a relief of wind-torn dunes. She would have wept for the loss of her beauty only a few months ago. Now, having lived with the scars covering the rest of her body, she would have been surprised had she retained her looks. That she lived put things into perspective. She could have died, should have died, and yet survived. Maybe that was her destiny, to live. The Heir War had raged while she had slept—the last of the Phoenix Wizards gone. Maybe this was a sign that she had to carry on to rebuild the order.

  Or maybe it was all just a tremendous joke the gods were giving form through her.

  “You could use magic to cover it,” someone said.

  Ealisaid looked to her left, a slow process due to the scarring on her neck. It felt as if part of her cheek, of her face, had melted into her neck’s skin, forming an inflexible leathery surface. The lean man she saw bore little resemblance to the broken wreck he had been in Cahill manor. “Ralgon,” she said. “This is a surprise.”

  He nodded his head. “Heard about your problem. Caretaker said you weren’t to be disturbed whenever I came to see you.”

  “I expect you didn’t come to see how I was faring,” she stated. There was no reason for the mercenary to look in on her because of gratitude. She hadn’t done anything for him, except that one journey into the spiritworld.

  Ralgon smiled wryly. “No, not really. I’ve seen enough broken bodies to last ten lifetimes; I avoid them when I can.”

  “Well, with that out of the way, what do you want?”

  He scrutinized her, most likely trying to figure out how well she really was. Then he said, “If I had the money, I’d hire you.” Money? What was he talking about? Her confusion must have shown despite the scars because he hurried on. “As soon as the worst of the frost’s gone I intend to ride south and finish this business with the Sons of Traksor once and for all. They obviously are magic-users, at least some of them, and I’d like to even the battlefield, somewhat.”

  “You think I could help? I barely survived my first real battle,” Ealisaid replied.

  Ralgon took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a few heartbeats. Before his lids were completely shut, she thought she saw a glimmer. “I don’t want you to fight, I just want you to be there to remind the bastards to play fair.” He looked at her, his eyes plain once more. “I’m past the vengeance thing; it won’t bring Hesmera back. Lliania will judge them when they enter the Bailey Majestic, and I don’t need to hasten their crossing over. I just want this to be finished one way or another. I want answers, nothing more, nothing less, so I can start living again.” He scoffed, looking at the ceiling. “Gods, who knows, I might even return and bash in a few Chanastardhian heads to help defend the city.”

  “Why me?” she asked.

  His gaze caught hers. “That should be bloody obvious. I can’t take the girl, she’s a bit young for that sort of thing, and I can’t think of anyone else capable of leveling a house or three. Can you?”

  She found no fault in his reasoning, except, “I have to be here to help in the defense when they return.”

  Amusement turned to bemusement. “You’re that eager to play pincushion again?” And before she could reply, he went on. “Mi
reynh is a canny bastard, he knows your weakness now, and you can be damned sure he’ll use that knowledge next time around. So once his troops see you swooping at them, he will bring you down.” He paused for a moment, and then said, “Unless…”

  “Unless what?” The mercenary displayed the annoying habit of luring others to beg him to continue.

  “Well, maybe—and there’s no guaranteeing this—the Sons will be able to teach you some of their tricks so you won’t get shot out of the sky again.” He must have realized how eager she was to be of service to Dunthiochagh. Initially her fighting alongside the Baron’s troops was nothing more than serving out a sentence, but now she wanted to fight. That and being tied to the bed for the better part of two months was enough to make her yearn for any morsel of knowledge others might have to share.

  “Who says they will teach me?” she demanded. He shrugged, prompting her to keep talking. “And while we’re at it, who says the Chanastardhians won’t be back before whatever you plan to do in Kalduuhn is over?”

  Again, a shrug. “There are no guarantees in life. But you’ve studied what remains of whatever that bastard summoned to cage me, and you damn well know he wasn’t just another goon. That alone should suffice as argument for you to accompany me. Next time wouldn’t you be better off knowing that when you fly above the enemy, they won’t shoot you down?”

  He could drive a point home; she had to give him that. And he knew he was right; his entire pose spoke of confidence. “How long have you thought on this?” Ealisaid asked.

  Ralgon pointed to the window. “It’s fucking cold outside, so there’s not much else a body can do but think, eh?”

  “Who else will accompany you?” She doubted he would travel alone, already suspected that Kildanor would travel south with the man. Now that she thought about it, she was certain the Chosen had a part in the venture. His reply verified her thought.

  “The Chosen, one of Lliania’s Upholders, Gwen,” he said.

  “Who’s she?”

  Now Ralgon’s eyes glowed with emotion. “My anchor,” he answered as if this explained everything. And maybe it did, Ealisaid wasn’t sure. “Think on it, we’ll ride mid-Thaw, maybe earlier, depending on the weather.” He was halfway out when he turned to face her once more. “And I guess I don’t have to tell you that all that counts is one’s personality.” Was that an attempt at humor? If so, his look told her he realized just how badly it had come out. “Sorry,” he said, almost meekly.

  He looked so distressed she almost laughed, but earlier attempts had made her face hurt so bad that she forced the mirth down. “You’re no jester, that’s for sure,” Ealisaid said instead. “But I will consider your request.”

  “That’s all I can ask for.” And a moment later he added, “Thank you.” The look on his face betrayed the struggle he must have fought to utter even this pleasantry.

  Undisturbed, Ealisaid worked through the pain. At first, she merely paced, and then, when her legs stopped aching, she began work on her arms. She had never considered herself much of an athlete, scorning physical activity when magic could achieve the same result, but now, with scarred tissue hampering even the slightest of movement, she was forced to give her body the workout it needed.

  How long she went about stretching her arms, lifting first small items and then larger ones, she didn’t know. Time had no meaning for her. She hardly allowed herself to rest.

  When she was convinced her hands could grasp blocky objects once again, she started working on the fine manipulation of things. To an observer, she thought, her tapping fingers on the mattress or against the thumb of each hand probably looked ridiculous. The exercise was strangely relaxing. It bore similarities to meditation, a mantra of motion.

  “Need some help?” She would have recognized Culain’s voice amidst hundreds of others, and looked up, pleasantly surprised. A pained look crossed his face for the briefest of moments. “Caught you walking earlier,” he said. “Didn’t wanna disturb you, figured I’d come back later.” The smile he gave her now was faltering but sincere.

  “You don’t have to do this,” she said, realizing her speech was slurring.

  “Do what?” Culain arched an eyebrow and entered.

  “Come here because of pity.” The change in his expression surprised her.

  He stopped by the cupboard, arms folded across his chest, glaring. “And what, by Lliania’s Scales, do you mean with that?” His voice quavered with barely suppressed anger.

  “I…” She took a deep breath and began anew, “I look hideous; you don’t have to comfort me.”

  Now he scoffed. “You’re so full of shit, you know that?”

  “What?” Pain lancing through her jaw at the exclamation. Holding her cheeks with both hands, she scrutinized his rough features and saw no disgust there.

  “You heard me,” he replied, almost gently.

  “I understand if you want to leave me.”

  “Who said anything about that?”

  Why would he stay? There was no reason now that she was ugly. She had never considered lying with someone as scarred as she was. Would she have wanted to be with him, had he taken such a fall? Until now she had never considered the alternative. The thought alone made her shiver. Would she still love him, if he were as deformed as she?

  Ealisaid straightened. What was that? Had she just admitted she loved him? Did she?

  “What’s wrong? Shall I fetch a Caretaker?” Culain misjudged her reaction, probably thought she was in pain. Silently, with her eyes still fixed on her… lover, she shook her head. She loved him, and to her it would matter not had he been the one to suffer the injuries. Her expression must have caused him to worry even more. “What’s wrong?” he urged again.

  “I love you,” she whispered.

  “You do?” He looked both relieved and confused.

  “Aye. And you?” Somehow, even though he hadn’t replied yet, she felt certain she knew the answer. Still, she was afraid, wondering once more if he stayed only because of pity.

  “You think I jump into bed with every pretty skirt?” he asked, scoffing. “You think I spend all my off-duty time here to watch over you just for fun?” He took a deep breath, and she feared he would still dismiss her. Instead, he raked his hands through his hair and smiled. “I was afraid to tell you how crazy I am about you; you were always so distant, even when we were together. I thought you merely used me to steady your spellcasting.” There were tears running down his cheeks. “What the Scales do you think, eh?”

  Before she was able to reply someone else entered, shattering the soul-sharing moment of intimacy. Kildanor stomped in, clearing his throat as if to announce himself, something his heavy footsteps had already accomplished. Culain stiffened, wiped the tears from his face and turned toward the Chosen. Ealisaid remained seated.

  “A rare guest,” she remarked.

  Kildanor nodded a curt greeting then said, “I take it Ralgon’s already asked you.” He waited for a reply, and when she kept her silence, he went on. “I’m not in favor of you coming, not with your injuries, but it turns out we need you with us.”

  She scrutinized him. His usually calm demeanor wavered, as if something was troubling him. “What brought up this urgency?”

  Closing his eyes, he briefly shook his head as if to dismiss a troubling thought. Then he said, “Dragoncrest is still under siege. The bastards reinforced the troops there, and the Chosen outside can’t get past them.”

  “The Chosen outside?” It was Culain who raised the same question she was about to ask.

  Kildanor glanced at him as if ready to dismiss a mere guardsman. Then, after a moment of consideration, he shrugged, muttering, “As if it really matters.” More loudly he replied, “During our sortie in Harail some of us were killed and not replaced as quickly as we would have liked.”

  “I thought you were immortal,” Culain stated.

  “Not as such, no. We can die, by violence. There’ve been twenty-four since the Choosing, and w
hen one dies, he is replaced; Lesganagh chooses someone new.”

  “And those who were chosen now cannot get to those inside Dragoncrest,” Ealisaid said.

  “Indeed, so before we cross into Kalduuhn we will send the Chanastardhians packing, reinforce Dragoncrest, and allow those outside to join up.”

  “Why Dragoncrest?” Again, her lover took the thought from her mind. Maybe this was what others spoke of when saying they formed a bond.

  “Why not?” he said dismissively. He added, “What say you? Will you come and help clear the way?”

  CHAPTER 39

  Twelfth of Ice, 1475 K.C.

  Nothing was eternal; time took its toll on everything. Mountains were worn down by rain and wind, the same wind toppled trees that in turn killed whatever was in their path at its moment of death. A circle as steady and as erratic as the world’s movement around the sun. Had Lesganagh always intended it to be like this, Lightbringer wondered. No. She shook her head; he had not. Her kind was as close to the gods and immortality as the firelings and the dwarves, and all of them could be killed. Then again, the sunargh were Lesganagh’s creatures while the other two had been here from the beginning.

  She stared at the ruins of Honas Graigh, and remembered the time that she had helped build and strengthen the Aerant C’lain, thought-ward and prison to the elven work concerned with breaching the Veil of Shadows and opening a portal to her people’s prison. Everything failed, but just like tree or mountain it had taken her a while to realize she had to abandon the old way. Teaching something different was easy; it only became difficult when one had to follow one’s own lessons. Her journey had taken as long as the elven race had been around; it had begun long before she had freed them. Elsewhere their kingdoms still thrived, the ancient buildings and roads in good repair or being replaced by improved ones.

  Here in Honas Graigh, the idiots had taken the easy way out, choosing exile over the struggle that accompanies change. The road bisecting Gathran Forest was in as good a state as the buildings here. Overgrown ruins dotted the landscape in every direction, barely resembling the splendor and achievements of a people not so different from her own. The human’s wizard war had taken its toll on every country, but whereas the other nations had struggled on Gathran had hidden in the vastness behind the Veils. And by doing so, had left the door open for others to unearth what should have stayed buried.