by Ulff Lehmann
What was right and what was wrong, the eternal debate, even among Lliania’s followers. Ralgon wasn’t self-righteous, and in his situation, Rhea might have reacted the same way. Still, those who felt drawn to be judge and jury usually ended up in Lliania’s priesthood. Was it possible that…? A fragment of a memory clawed its way to the surface. She remembered the Justiciar having done the same. He had not prayed to Lliania on occasions, had judged by merely listening to people’s statements. For her, for Coimharrin, the priesthood, prayer was needed before they could discern lies. But now that she thought of it, she had rarely seen Amhlaidh Ralchanh pray before passing judgment. Had Cat possessed the same gift? And if so, had she passed it on to her son?
“You look concerned.” Drangar’s voice broke her reverie.
“No… yes… I’m not sure.”
“Tell me of my mother, please.”
“There’s not much more to say than what I’ve already told you. She was older than me and was off studying with the Librarians most of the time, I think. Though we both lived at Court, her world was separate from mine.” It wasn’t a satisfying answer, she knew, but it was the only one she could give. There was no point in fabricating something; if Drangar had inherited this trait of his grandfather’s, he would have known a lie for what it was.
“What about my grandda?”
“I love you,” Gwen suddenly said.
Drangar’s gaze drifted away from Rhea. “I know” was all he said. Then he sighed. “Dearheart, I don’t want to hurt you.” Rhea needed no prayer to tell this was the truth. “It’s just that I don’t know what the Scales is going on, the seizures frighten me, and I do not want to lose control again. I’m afraid that your presence might not be enough to rein me in. I need to finish this first.”
“We need to finish this first,” Gwen corrected.
“She’s right. We’re all in this together.” His troubled look loosed a thought she had harbored for a while now but never truly considered. Was it possible? “You never trusted anyone?”
Ralgon’s face answered before he said a word. How could this be? How could he claim he had loved Hesmera and felt something for Gwen now when he had never trusted a soul? Had he trusted himself? Did he trust himself? She doubted it. Things weren’t bright to begin with where Drangar was concerned, but the pressure of the murder and the raging demons struggling for control would’ve done sufficient damage to even a strong self-confidence. Now, she realized with a start, the wall-breaking Scythe made sense. It was anger mixed with a tremendous lack of self-preservation that had turned Cat’s son into the bane of the battlefields. He most likely had only begun to care about anything after the village, and certainly after he had met Hesmera. Rhea caught Gwen’s expression and knew she understood as well.
And still Drangar hadn’t voiced what his face was screaming. She wanted to tell him he could trust her, and wondered how. And even if she did, would he believe her? Would he believe Gwen? He barely trusted himself, and with past events, at least those she knew of, she couldn’t blame him. Did he even realize what a sad life he led? What she realized though, was that there was precious little time to let trust grow.
It was Gwen who broke the silence. “You have to say it.”
“And mean it,” Rhea added, nodding her thanks to the woman from Chanastardh.
Like an animal cornered Drangar’s eyes darted this way and that. He had to tell them, had to bring it out in the open, otherwise none of them could truly help. And he was smart enough to realize it. After all he’d had two years of introspection. “I trusted this,” he finally said, patting his sword. “How sad is that? Not much to show for a life, is it?”
It was out, though now they had to find a way for him to trust in himself. He looked as if he wanted to say more, but something off to the east had caught his attention. Rhea saw him squint, scanning the woods. “Let’s finish this!” he growled, spurring his charger toward the trees. “Kildanor, our shadow has shown itself!” Then he was off the road, between the oaks, and gone from her immediate sight.
“He’s running away again, right?” Gwen asked with a sigh.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“But this shadow is a convenient distraction.”
“Give him time,” Rhea replied, but silently she wondered if Gwen was right.
Kildanor was with them in a moment, followed by Ealisaid, who still struggled on her mare. The Chosen frowned. “Think he’s going to catch it today?”
“We won’t have many other opportunities,” she said. “Once we reach the Eye the journey is over.”
“I’ll help,” the Wizardess said. In an instant her face acquired the blank look they had all come to associate with her entering the spiritworld.
“As if that’ll work,” Kildanor snorted. He then turned Dawntreader and followed Drangar into the forest.
A resigned sigh escaped Gwen.
CHAPTER 45
It was out, finally. How many times had he thought about it? He couldn’t remember. It had always lingered there, near the surface, but he had always been afraid to actually consider it. With the forest closing in around him, Drangar tried to focus on the task at hand. For not more than an instant had their pursuer shown himself. Was it just another way of avoiding the issue, he wondered? Was he running away from the fact that he had never really trusted anyone, including himself, for most of his life? And who could blame him, shunned as he had been during all of his childhood. Even the adults had avoided his company. Then, after he had run away, life hadn’t been much different, really. There were comrades, yes, but his violence had frightened most into keeping their distance. Sure, when he had been drunk his temper had cooled, and there had been Kerral and Hesmera, but had either of them truly helped him gain confidence?
He caught sight of his prey. There! Behind the thornleaf! Now it darted for a thicket. Hiljarr, sensing his confusing thoughts, hesitated. No, Drangar decided firmly, whoever it was that followed them had to be in league with the Sons, had probably been tracking their movements, and now was off to warn them of his coming. If they knew, they would be prepared, and he had a good idea of what his reception would look like. Dalgor’s attack had made the situation quite obvious.
The scout had to be taken. There was a time for being introspective and thoughtful, but it was not now. He spurred Hiljarr into a canter, and even that much speed was dangerous, considering the roots and ferns riddling the ground. He was of half a mind to dismount and follow the bastard on foot, but past attempts had already shown how fleet the scout was; their only chance lay in riding him down.
Nothing moved in the thicket. From behind he heard the hoof beat of another horse, Kildanor’s Dawntreader most like. The Chosen, the only person who seemingly believed him, was as keen on catching their shadow, but where Drangar merely wanted to eliminate the threat it posed, Kildanor wanted to strangle information out of him. Not such a bad idea, really, but whenever he pondered the issue all he could think of was what Dalgor had done in Cahill Manor, and the poisoning and stabbing in Shadowpass. He still didn’t know how he had survived, or how he had been returned to life, and that worried him as well. One always heard about nonsense like that, people returning from the grave to fulfill some duty or another, but those stories were usually bullshit tales made up by a lunatic to gather fools for a cause. No one had ever truly come back from the dead. No one, except him. Drangar banished the thought; the scout had to be taken. That was important, the answers to all the questions were with the Sons of Traksor, only a few miles away now, and if they wandered into an ambush, he would never get them.
“Sure it wasn’t a trick of light?”
He turned and saw Kildanor reining his charger to a halt. The Chosen certainly was the better horseman, which suited him fine. On the occasions he had been forced to do battle from horseback he had managed fairly well, though Hiljarr had saved his neck several times. He preferred to fight afoot. “No trick,” he said, eyes scanning his surroundings. Asking Kildanor
to trust him right after they had established he hardly trusted himself was the pinnacle of stupidity, so he said no more.
There! The budding leaves on one of the shrubs next to a pillar-like steeloak moved. Drangar thought he saw a shadowy outline of a figure crouched behind the twigs. “Let’s end this,” he growled. His sword was unsheathed before his feet touched the ground. A reassuring pat on Hiljarr’s flank, and then he sprinted for the hidden scout. Silent, the figure remained still. Had his eyes betrayed him? No, there the bastard was!
Despite the fact that the Eye was only a few more miles down the road, Drangar felt calm. Nervousness, he knew, should have flooded him. It didn’t. Instead he was comforted by the presence of his friends. Yes, they were his friends; only the recent conversation with Eluned, Rheanna, and Gwen had made him realize how foolish he had been. For his sake they all wanted to help him finish this, even Kildanor, although the Chosen had admitted that he was also in it for knowledge about his wayward brothers. He smiled. “Wayward brothers” was a curious way to describe the two fallen Chosen. Of course he knew of Ethain and Ganaedor, there wasn’t a single soul in the Sons of Traksor who hadn’t heard their tale of woe. He couldn’t remember more than a few tidbits, but the pair was known as “the demonic brothers.” That they were Kildanor’s by blood, however, had been a revelation.
His head throbbed, as if he was hung over.
He looked at Eluned and Gwen riding side by side, talking, grateful the older woman accompanied them. In matters of the heart, it seemed, she knew more than any of the others. Ealisaid, hunched on her horse like a sack of turnips, looked as if her scars were troubling her again. No wonder, and though Eluned had tended to the Wizardess’s ailments throughout the journey, he wondered if he was demanding too much of her.
Kildanor, as always, rode point, but now Rhea was with him. Maybe they were discussing his past again. Ralchanh—how he had despised the name, his name, when he had lived in the Eye. “Throw Ralchanh to the falcons” the other children had chanted more than once. Back then, and still today, he did not understand their reasons. He had been the Priest High’s child, yes, but despite what the others might have thought, it had never been a privileged position. Far from it, Darlontor had put more pressure on him, demanded more of him than had been expected of anyone. How many times had he stood in the courtyard practicing swordplay? He barely remembered. It wasn’t the kind of thing necessarily used in a shield wall, and the Sons had never been a warband. Instead they clung to ideals most people only read about in books.
The headache returned.
He wasn’t afraid to face them. Not anymore. With Gwen at his side, Drangar felt as if he could face the world and still walk away from the conflict.
Ralchanh—maybe being a part of that family wasn’t such a bad thing. His grandfather had been like Coimharrin, even though the old coot pretended to be absentminded half the time. Amhlaidh Ralchanh, Justiciar at the Royal Court of Haldain, the thought filled him with pride. Rhea and Eluned were right; it was a proud heritage.
Maybe underneath the mountain that weighed on his conscience he was a decent man. Decent, good, both attributes he never would have attached to himself. Scales, he had killed so many people. But so had others, Eluned had told him more than once, always supported by the rest of the group. Even the episode at Dragoncrest hadn’t shaken their faith in him. Someone believed in him, as a person. They didn’t see the Scythe, the one man insane enough to charge every godsdamned opposing shield wall. Now that he thought of it, Drangar still found it hard to believe he had survived at all. Training with House Cirrain’s warband had shown him how effective a wall was. It had made him realize that what he had done time and again was impossible. No single man should have been able to shatter a barrier of shields like he had. Back then he had used bloodmagic without even knowing it.
Gods, he needed to lie down and close his eyes. Maybe then the throbbing would stop.
Ealisaid and Eluned had spoken about it in detail, argued the issue until the solution left was that he was gifted in magic, “innate talent” they had called it. And as angry as he had always been, he had, of course, resorted to forcing reality to alter things to be the way he wanted them to be. Bloodmagic, forced magic, they had flung so many words at him he barely understood what the Scales they were talking about. What all this had to do with the demons was something they would find out at the Eye of Traksor.
He was glad to have met Eluned at Cahill manor. She had nurtured him back to health after Dalgor’s attack. Yes, she knew much about magic, but anyone willing to waste their life away in a Library could read up on it. And despite her…
“Bloody headache,” he grunted, bunching his lids shut.
The Eye was what mattered, and the answers hidden behind its walls. Friends, the thought made him smile despite his throbbing head. He patted Hiljarr, for a long time the stallion had been his only friend. Now he had five more, and he trusted all of them.
Something white glittered through the trees. Actually, the way he remembered the Eye, its walls glowed white no matter what time of day. Drangar looked up. The days had been getting longer once more, yet his body told him it was time for supper. His stomach grumbled.
The sun was setting, slowly descending in the west. Soon the Kumeens would hide it. How often had he stood on the battlement of the Eye and watched the needle-like spires of those mountains impale Lesganagh’s Glowing Orb? If they lived through this, he would have to show the spectacle to Gwen, maybe even Rhea. He doubted Kildanor, or the other two women would enjoy such a sunset. Ealisaid always complained about light hurting her eyes. And Eluned seemed more interested in stories and history than the world around her. No, he decided, it was best just to share it only with Gwen. Once all of this was over.
Gloom had spread over Gathran as they halted one last time. Eluned said it was best to be prepared, and though Drangar was loath to delay their arrival even longer, he agreed. He would have liked a bath, to wash hair and body, and shave the beard that was once more covering half his face. Not that he looked any different from Kildanor, who was just as unkempt. The women weren’t much better off, and for that he was grateful. At least he did not stick out as the vagabond amidst those of nobler blood. Not that the grandson of a Justiciar, even a bastard, was anything to be ashamed of. He wondered who his father was. Darlontor had made it quite clear that he wasn’t, so who had gotten Caitrin Ralchanh pregnant? Though knowing who it was would change little, nothing at all actually. That his mother was dead was fairly evident. How else could her spirit have taken him to the past, or ask Rhea and Eluned to look after him?
Eluned came toward him as he slipped into his leather tunic. She always seemed to know when his thoughts drifted off into the darkness. He regarded her calm, unblinking face, adjusting the fabric so the chain would fall properly. It was as if she knew what went on in his mind. Gwen still guarded his sleep but had given up her position as the person he confided in most of the time.
“What’s bothering you?” Eluned asked. The throbbing, it had almost gone a moment earlier, returned.
Drangar shook his head to clear his thoughts, and then said, “I was wondering who my father was.”
In reply she yawned, stretched shoulders tense from the long ride, and answered, “It matters little. The past is the past and cannot be changed.” The words sounded familiar, but he couldn’t recall where he had heard them and who had said them. “Stay focused, understand? You can beat this thing in your head, I know it.” She slapped his shoulder, closed her eyes, and stretched again. “You are strong, otherwise you would never have made it this far. And you have us to watch your back. Don’t worry.”
He tried to give a courageous nod and must have succeeded for Eluned smiled toothily. “While you’re here, will you help me with this?” Drangar unfurled the length of cloth that held his chain armor. A bit of rust had settled on the steel. “Should’ve paid more attention,” he muttered, giving Eluned an apologetic smile.
For
a moment it seemed as if she would detest the task, and he was about to withdraw the request when Gwen, already in her leathers and chain, came to a halt beside Eluned. “I’ll do it,” she said, somewhat distractedly.
“Something wrong?” he asked as he slipped his arms into the chain.
“Nothing, just a headache,” Gwen muttered, tightening the straps on his back. “Got some rust here.”
“Yeah I know, was too busy not thinking about fighting and killing.” He turned, wanted to thank Eluned for her advice, but she already stood with Rhea and Kildanor who were helping each other with their armor. “Headache, you say? Must’ve been the food, gone bad I think.”
“Yeah, moldy bread’s a bitch.” He chuckled. A last tug and Gwen let go. “There you go.”
“Thank you.” He turned around, eyes searching her face. “For everything. I know I’m a mess, but I do care for you, a lot. It’s just that I need to sort this out…”
She silenced him with a hand. “You talk too much. I understand, why else would I be here?” Then she proceeded to strap the bracers to his arms. “Just don’t do anything stupid, will you?”
“Like what?” he asked, thinking he had a good idea what she meant. They had indeed grown close.
“Oh, the sort of thing that earned you your title,” Gwen muttered, retrieving the leg guards from his pack.
“I doubt they will form a shield wall against me.” Actually, he wasn’t sure how they would greet him. “I just will not let them imprison me again.” Ealisaid, he saw, stood apart from the others, holding her head. “What’s wrong with her?” he asked, tightening the armor straps.
Gwen glanced over her shoulder the direction he was looking and shrugged. “She says she’s feeling dizzy.”
