by Brian Fuller
“That’s not fair.”
“Oh, yes it is!” said Volney. “It is the very crux of the matter! I’ll tell you how you felt. Your whole soul rejoiced! Joy, pride, and satisfaction coursed through your veins! You felt honored to be his countryman. You counted yourself blessed to keep company with and wear the same uniform as such a man. You chided yourself for not taking the initiative in the matter before he did. You cursed your brother, Dason, for his weakness in not supporting him. Tell me it wasn’t so.”
Gerand rubbed his eyes. “You know I cannot.”
“Then how can you fault that same man, Ki’Hal notwithstanding, for confronting personal and despicable attacks from even the Ha’Ulrich himself? Should he have sought Chertanne’s life? No. But for pity’s sake, you must see that save for the Ha’Ulrich’s calling, Gen was entirely justified! That is enough for me. Chertanne’s destiny is holy, but his cause has yet to be just.”
Gerand kept whatever he felt to himself, and they settled in to wait until morning light. Following Maewen’s instructions, they had loaded their armor and their portion of food onto one of the horses and led it back to the holy city. They staked the horse behind the Hall of Three Moons and had tried to cross into the building, only to be met with a severe shock from Athan’s ward that addled their minds and set them on the verge of vomiting. They had called Gen’s name several times with no reply and then resigned themselves to watch, for the half-elven tracker feared that Chertanne or Athan would attempt to end Gen’s life.
The wind blew more frequently as the night deepened, and booms of thunder in the west portended more rain to come. Gerand and Volney backed further into the bushes until they encountered the outer wall of the building and sat on a small, rounded ledge at its base. Trees and bushes bent and swayed in the wind, boughs and limbs creaking and bending in sudden gusts.
“Do you think anyone will come?” Gerand quietly asked.
“Not really,” Volney yawned.
“You are wrong. Get low and be quiet.”
They slipped from the ledge and crouched among the pink and white blossoms, pushing them softly aside to gain a vantage point on the walk leading up to the entrance of the Hall. At first, Volney thought Gerand was mistaken; save for the weather, all was preternaturally still. But after several minutes of trying to tame his pounding heart, he heard and then saw a man approaching. His drawn sword glinted dully in the weak light, but despite the night’s obfuscation, they recognized him as one of the Aughmerian soldiers.
The soldier ascended the steps warily. In his surprise, Volney’s fingers slipped from the branch he had lowered and it snapped upward noisily. Gerand dug his fingers into Volney’s arm with one hand and placed the other on his own sword hilt. The Aughmerian stopped and squinted into the dark in their direction. Volney stiffened as a wind kicked up, noisily disturbing the trees nearby. The soldier surveyed the area around him for several long moments.
“Curse this darkness,” he muttered before planting his feet in front of the arched entryway and bowing his head. After a few moments, he stepped forward tentatively, sword pointing ahead of him, until he at last passed inside.
“The ward is down!” Volney whispered excitedly. “We have to get in there!”
“Take off your boots,” Gerand commanded, sitting on the wet ground and working at his own.
“What?!”
“Just do it! Quickly!”
Gerand led Volney out of the bushes and to the edge of the entryway. Water soaked into their woolen stockings, but as they neared the entry, Volney understood Gerand’s reasoning. The Aughmerian’s booted footsteps echoed loudly through the empty chamber.
Gerand pulled him back from the door. “Hug the edge of the entryway and pass inside quickly. We will be silhouetted against it momentarily. If he is looking this way, he may see us. Go!”
Without further explanation, Gerand slipped inside. Volney followed him, hugging the cold entry stones as he rounded the corner. Gerand touched Volney’s shoulder once inside to signal where he was. The darkness in the Hall was complete. For several seconds they listened to the soldier wandering aimlessly to and fro about the Hall, boot steps echoing through the dome. The blackness foiled an easy search, evincing a great deal of foul language from the searcher. All torches and lanterns had been lost in the giant’s attack, and the wet weather spoiled their ability to create new ones.
During one of the Aughmerian’s tirades, Gerand whispered, “Last I remember the Pontiff trapped him near the dais on this side, though he could have moved anywhere by now. Put your hand on the wall and let’s follow it. We should find the entrance to one of the side chambers before too long.”
Their socks allowed for silent walking, though both men struggled to keep their scabbards from banging into the wall. The sound of footsteps nearing their position brought them both to a standstill.
“Where are you, Gen?” the soldier called, feigning concern. “I am here to help you!” He approached a spot just behind where Gerand and Volney stood frozen and afraid to breathe. “Those side chambers were around here somewhere,” the soldier mumbled to himself.
Silently, Gerand pulled Volney away from the wall and out toward the middle of the chamber. To their left, the soldier passed by, scraping his sword along the wall to guide himself. The rustling of curtains signaled his entry into the nearest chamber. Volney exhaled, wondering how long it had been since he last took breath.
A soft glow in front of his face startled him. A firefly. In the profound darkness, the weak light illuminated Gerand’s face briefly. Volney cursed their luck. When they wanted light, the insects wouldn’t come. Now that they needed darkness, they appeared. But as they stood stock still, the firefly moved away and hovered ten feet from them. Gerand followed. Foot by foot it flew ahead of them, leading them across the expanse of the Hall.
Glow. Darkness. Glow. They were near the thrones. Darkness. Volney kept his hand on Gerand’s shoulder as they inched forward. Glow. Darkness. Glow. A waxy, pale face, eyes open, stared unblinking toward the Hall’s entrance. Darkness.
“Is he dead?” Volney asked quietly.
Glow. The eyes slowly turned toward them. Darkness.
“Gen,” Gerand whispered. “It’s Gerand and Volney. Stay still. We’ll get you out of here.” Darkness.
“Where’s that firefly now?” Volney muttered.
“Hey!” someone shouted. Volney gulped air, and went for his sword. “I’m tired of hunting in the dark! I am here to help you! All I need is a word and I can find you!”
Volney relaxed the grip on his hilt, and he and Gerand waited and listened, crouching by Gen. Legs cramped as the Aughmerian wandered seemingly at random around the dark room. At length, the footsteps faded toward the side chambers on the opposite side of the Hall.
“Grab Gen’s feet!” Gerand ordered. “We go now or not at all.” Volney felt around, hand knocking against Gen’s boots and socks which lay discarded by his feet. He’ll need those, he thought. Gathering them, he placed them on Gen’s chest.
He leaned close. “Can you hold these?” There was no response.
“Try shoving them under his shirt,” Gerand suggested. “Hurry!” Volney worked quickly, but the awkward task proved difficult despite its apparent simplicity.
“What about his sword?”
“Forget it, Volney. We’ll find another.”
With effort, they hoisted Gen’s flaccid body and half carried, half dragged him toward the entrance.
“I tire of this!” the Aughmerian’s voice abruptly split the silence, sending Volney’s heart to pounding. “You must help me find you!” They stopped, but as they bent to lay Gen gently on the ground, their scabbards clacked against the stones. “There you are! I am coming!”
Gerand and Volney drew steel, the echo multiplying the sound.
“No, no! I am here to help!” the voice was nervous, and Gerand grinned—the Aughmerian had no stomach for facing Gen, however sick he may be. “I can’t see a thing. Let
’s meet by the door.”
“Me first,” Gerand growled in his best Gen imitation.
“All right, I’ll walk over nice and slow. You go ahead of me.”
Replacing their swords in unison and hoisting Gen, they ambled as quickly as they could toward the entrance, but when they were ten feet from the opening, the gig was up.
“Mikkik’s Beard!” the soldier exclaimed.
Gerand carefully set Gen down and pulled his sword. “Drag him out, Volney!”
Volney pulled Gen out into the night as Gerand disappeared into the darkness, moving to the side to mask his location. Volney dragged Gen off to the side of the walk and took up position in front of the door in case the Aughmerian bolted.
Inside, the soldier had gone quiet.
He knows he is at a disadvantage, Gerand thought. If he can hide and stay alive, he can return to camp and report.
While ill at ease in the inky dark, Gerand thrilled at a chance to sink his blade into an Aughmerian; the list of his friends lost in Shadan Khairn’s invasion was long. He crouched and attuned his ears to the sounds around him, noticing Volney’s silhouette against the entrance.
Stand away from the door, idiot, Gerand remonstrated. What if he has a bow? After several agonizing minutes of absolute silence, Gerand stood. We’ll just guard the door and wait for morning. This is insane.
Glow. Darkness. Gerand stepped quietly toward the soft yellow light. Glow. Darkness. Glow. Darkness. To the right across the Hall it led him until it hovered in front of the thick curtains covering the side chamber where Gen had rested before the wedding. Gerand did not want to charge into the room, but as he watched, the firefly’s light dropped from eye level to chest level. Gerand lunged, blade passing through the curtain and plunging into the Aughmerian’s chest. The soldier slumped to the floor with only the intake of an unfinished scream to mark his passing. Glow. Blood ran under the curtain. Darkness.
“He’s down!” Gerand went through the curtain, and after fumbling around, removed the soldier’s sword and scabbard for Gen. That done, he sprinted for the door, feet pattering across the smooth tiles, damp blossoms sticking to his socks.
“Stop! Gerand! Stop!” Volney yelled. Gerand pulled up short, heart sinking. Volney stood well away from the entrance now.
“Is it. . . ?”
“Yes, the moment you yelled. ‘He’s down!’”
“Mikkik’s Beard!”
Athan marched inside the building, face burning with such lively anger that the groggy travelers immediately stopped packing and eating. “How could you do this, Mirelle?” he yelled, planting his feet in front of her. “We need those two to get home!”
“What do you mean by confronting me in this state?” Mirelle answered, face annoyed as she turned from a conversation she was having with Maewen. “What is it that you think I have done?”
“Don’t play games, Mirelle!” Athan raged. “This is not the time! We are in grave danger and need every sword available.”
“I still don’t comprehend your meaning.”
“Gerand and Volney! You ordered them back to help Gen!”
Mirelle folded her arms. “I most certainly did not.”
“And you expect me to believe that?”
“If you want to believe the truth. You seem to forget that Gerand and Volney were Gen’s best friends while he served in Rhugoth and were no doubt deeply concerned for his welfare. Besides, they are no longer mine to command.”
“They are mine to command,” Chertanne asserted, joining them. A clump of blond hair jutted away from his head and his eyes rested on the puffy bags beneath them. “And I gave no such order. They have committed treason in this abandonment and will be punished for it when they are caught.”
“Yes, Athan, he is the commander of everyone here,” Mirelle said with a dash of mockery. “And, hmm, let me count now . . . and . . . my goodness! We are missing an Aughmerian soldier as well! Now I wonder where he might have wandered off to? Surely he wasn’t a friend of Gen’s as Gerand and Volney were? Do you happen to know where that soldier is? Padra? Your Eminence?”
Chertanne scrunched his brow and started counting the soldiers.
Padra Athan ground his teeth. “Mirelle, it is imperative that Gen not be set free! He attempted to kill the Ha’Ulrich and is a threat to the redemption of Ki’Hal! You must see both the justice and the reason in holding him there!”
“Padra, why are you explaining this to me? Perhaps you should mount your horse, ride to Elde Luri Mora, and give your sermon to Gerand and Volney. Besides, you haven’t let your ward down, have you?”
“Of course not,” Athan growled. “But. . .”
“Then why the fuss? It seems we have nothing to worry about from Gen.”
Athan brought his hand to his face, covering his mouth and his chin as he debated with himself. A room full of silent people awaited the outcome of the spat.
“May I have a private word with you, Mirelle?” Padra Athan requested.
“Of course, Padra. Cadaen, stay here for a moment. I will return shortly.”
Cadaen nodded, leveling one of his warning stares at the Churchman.
Mirelle and Athan left the building through the rear entrance, walking a short distance into the woods. Musty, cool air assaulted their noses, and the sky still closed itself against the morning sun. It had rained in spurts throughout the night, letting up near dawn. Water dripped from branch and leaf, and the ground squished unsteadily beneath their feet. Padra Athan stared off into the forest, hand on a damp trunk, carefully thinking how to formulate his words. Mirelle folded her arms across her chest, warming herself as she waited in the early autumn chill.
The Padra, thoughts collected, lifted his eyes to meet Mirelle’s. Hers were ice blue, set in a stubborn, confident stare. Athan had never met her equal, in beauty or in exercise of will. A purpose, some mission she clung to with religious tenacity lurked behind those eyes and lent her iron. If he were ever to the control the woman, the Padra knew he needed to find what propped her up and put it into his own grasp.
“Mirelle, I need to tell you something. You will not believe it, but you must listen to me. It is the truth. Just before the old Pontiff died, he relayed a message to me that was most distressing and shocking. After we left the Hall of Three Moons following the ceremony, the Pontiff examined Gen. Now do not get angry when I say this. It is not baseless speculation. Chertanne and I did not collude to invent this fact as a wild rumor to discredit Gen. Hear me, Mirelle. The man Gen, the one you let into your house and appointed to guard the Chalaine, is the very Ilch.”
“Yes, he is.”
Padra Athan reeled, mouth unhinging for several seconds. “Wh-what!? You know? Merciful Eldaloth, Mirelle! How long have you known this? Did Chertanne tell you last night?”
“No. I’ve known since night of the betrothal, the one that succeeded, I mean.”
“How!?”
“Do keep your voice down, Padra. Ethris confirmed it the night the Chalaine tried to heal Gen of the demon’s poison.”
“You will be executed for this, the both of you!”
“We will deny everything.”
Athan stabbed a finger at her. “Our magic can force the truth from you.”
“Ethris has already made a provision for us against such an eventuality. Of course, any attempt to perform such an interrogation would be viewed with much disfavor. If only you and Chertanne hadn’t tried so hard to discredit Gen in the first place, maybe you could accuse him now with some success. I am afraid you’ve quite worn out your credit with Rhugothian and Tolnorian nobility.”
“Mirelle, I thought you were a sensible woman! How could you gamble your daughter’s life like this? Indeed, how could you gamble the safety of Ki’Hal?”
“Gamble?” Mirelle stepped close, eyes firm. “The real gamble stands inside that building dumbly counting his soldiers! I have ample proof that Gen has rejected his calling as the Ilch and now serves the interest of my daughter and the wo
rld. I have yet to see one shred of evidence that Chertanne is either competent or serves any interest but his own.
“Think about it, Athan. The only two questions Chertanne ever answers with any authority are ‘Do you hate Gen?’ and ‘Would you like another ale, your Grace?’ He can’t lead. He can’t fight. He loves nothing. As a Magician you know better than I do that he has no will to work magic of any potency. I’ll ride with Gen to the battlefield at doomsday. You go with Chertanne. We’ll see who is dead when the first arrows fly.”
“Where is your faith, Mirelle?" Athan countered. "The prophecy says Chertanne is to be Eldaloth’s instrument in fighting Mikkik! Are you saying that you don’t believe that anymore? Are you saying that Eldaloth will not use his power to bolster and protect Chertanne in that hour?”
“Padra, what I am saying is that I don’t believe in Chertanne. It is enough that I let my daughter marry that boor so that he could father the Child. Even so, every time I see the Chalaine I feel like falling to my knees and begging forgiveness for ever letting her take an oath to bind herself to that man. It is my dearest wish to give the Chalaine what compensation and relief that a mother can from such a dismal life.”
“Does the Chalaine know about, Gen?”
“No.”
“She will, Mirelle. It will be known. Someday, everyone will know. I will see it done.”
Much to Athan’s annoyance, Mirelle laughed out loud. “Very amusing, Athan. I do pity you. You are duty bound to return to the kingdoms and convince the people that Gen is the Ilch and that Chertanne is their competent, holy leader. I’m not sure which task will be more difficult. Perhaps you should practice by persuading people that white is black and a rat is a greyhound. At least you and Chertanne have had the good sense not to make such revelations to our little party. Go ahead and tell the world, if you think you’ll fare any better there than you would here.
“Nothing to say, Athan? Well, while we’re being forthright, I must inform you that your attempt on my life and Gen’s life the day we left Mikmir has not gone unnoticed by me. I confess it took me some time to sort out, but I did at last.”
