by Brian Fuller
“We thank you for coming, High Queen,” Athan said. “I trust your needs have been adequately met these past few weeks?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Athan sat and the council followed suit. “Very well. Let’s get to the matter at hand. So you know, we have warded this room against prying ears so that we may speak freely. I have spent the last two days informing the Council of every detail of our journey, including my feelings about Gen, your actions, and the actions of your mother. I have also informed them frankly about Chertanne’s death, and we have spent the greater part of the last day discussing what options are available to remedy this.”
“Remedy?” the Chalaine exclaimed. “We must tell the people the truth! I know it will cause panic, but you cannot hope to carry on this ruse indefinitely. I know you trust your Eldephaere and the Churchmen under your control to guard this secret, but it will get out, if it hasn’t already.”
“We agree,” Athan answered. “Rumor and suspicion already ply their corrosive trade within Ironkeep, and with Ethris and Torbrand loose, I fear what weeds of dissent they may be sowing. Perhaps you know where they have run off to?”
“I am afraid not,” she answered truthfully.
“I didn’t think so. I will have to pay a visit to your mother for that, I suspect. At any rate, we have brought you here to inform you that we believe there is a way to restore your husband to life and set the prophecy back on course.”
“What? No one has had power to raise the dead since Eldaloth! Do you think I could do it? If you do, you are mistaken!”
Athan stood and paced around the table. “There are a great many mysteries that were forbidden to be spoken after the death of Eldaloth, knowledge dark and evil that would only serve to foment corruption and strife if it were known. What I am going to tell you now only those who are accepted into this Council are permitted to know. We have had some debate about whether to tell you at all, but I believe it important that you understand so that you can help us. Before I do, I wish to have your word that you will not spread what I tell you to anyone beyond this room.”
“As you wish.”
“Very well. In public Church doctrine, we teach that Mikkik slew Eldaloth after killing Owena and Haldir, the gods over Myn and Duam. We do not preach the particulars of these murders under the guise of ignorance or the scantiness of the ancient record. In truth, however, we have precise information on how Mikkik planned and implemented these evil deeds, thanks to a dissenter in Mikkik’s ranks who refused at the last to participate in Eldaloth’s death.”
“Aldemar,” the Chalaine said quietly, but not quietly enough. The Padras near her gasped in shock.
“How do you know that name, Chalaine?” Athan said, eyes wide. “It is the deepest secret.”
“I have spoken to him,” she said. “I do not care to share the particulars at this time other than to say that he showed me the manner of Eldaloth’s death.”
“Fascinating! But you must tell us more! That he still lives and would show himself to you after all this time is extraordinary and may lend us some knowledge we can use.”
“He did not choose to see me. Please ask me no more, for I will say nothing more of it.”
“Will you at least share with us what he showed you?”
The Chalaine acquiesced and related the vision to them. Quills dashed over hastily shuffled parchments as she spoke. “What I sensed that he wished me to learn was the difference between the wholeness and virtue of Ki’Hal before Eldaloth’s death in contrast to what it is now,” the Chalaine continued. “He also wanted to impress upon me the horror of what Mikkik had done to a being who was kind, just, and divine. It is something I will not forget.”
“Thank you, Highness, for this favor,” Athan said, “and we urge you to reconsider telling us the rest, though I will not press you now. What you have seen is the key to the first secret. The world knows that there are three great powers: Trys, Myn, and Duam. What Mikkik knew was that there is a fourth: blood. After Aldemar forsook his master, he sank into despair. In an attempt to atone for what he had done, he wrote every detail of the magic worked by his master in pursuit of his twisted ambition. That book lies in the chest against the wall, there, under some of the strongest magical protections placed upon any object in this world.
“The second secret, and the one that most particularly is of concern to us, is that blood holds the power to both utterly destroy—what we would call annihilation—and to revive, or unite soul and body together again. Of course, Mikkik was interested in the former while we are concerned with the latter.
“The third secret Aldemar revealed was that the blood of the several races was not of equal strength. The blood of Gods held more power than that of the Millim Eri, the Millim Eri, more than the elves, the elves more than dwarves, the dwarves more than the race of men.
“Lastly was the principle of seven. To utterly destroy another being or to return a soul to the body requires the blood of seven willing victims of the same race or seventy of the next lower race in power of blood. Thus, Mikkik brought seventy of the Mikik Dun to the glade that day for his spell. It is Aldemar’s dissension, we believe, that prevented Eldaloth from total annihilation that day.”
“So will you petition for seven willing victims to die so that Chertanne might live? Perhaps the Eldephaere?” the Chalaine asked, a knot forming in her stomach.
“Not precisely, for there is a complication. Chertanne, while in race a human, has unique blood that lends him the ability to manipulate Trysmagic. If we wish to revive him to his body with that ability, we have to find humans who also possess that gift. There is only one of those we know of, and you know well who that is.”
“Gen.” The Chalaine felt a sudden shiver.
“Precisely.”
“But there is only one!” the Chalaine said. “You need seven! And not only that, you need a willing victim! I doubt Gen would qualify.”
“We need the blood of seven, or in this case, one bled seven times. As for his willingness, I expect you to aid us there. You will heal him so that he may be bled, and you will speak with him to gain his consent.”
She shook her head. “This is madness! You don’t even know if this will work, do you? Did I not make my regard for Gen plain? How could I in good conscience ask him to submit to this?”
Athan strode straight for her chair, pulled it roughly around, and forced his gaze upon her.
“How can you not? I am not asking him to die. I need his blood. The rest of our bargain will remain as you stipulated it. The prophecy is teetering on the brink of failure, and if you care about this world at all, you must lend us your support! If the prophecy is true, then the Child in your belly will need its father to survive the coming battle, whenever it falls upon us.
“There is another complication, as well. Gen escaped from his captors two weeks ago. While I believe he will seek you out anyway, we must ensure that he will. I apologize, your Grace, for the need to do what we are about to. It grieves us, but he must hasten here. Every day Chertanne is absent only causes more unrest and doubt. We must have an end to this.”
What thrill the Chalaine felt at learning of Gen’s freedom evaporated at Athan’s unexplained solution to drive him to her. “Are you saying you are to do something to me to goad him onward?”
“Yes, Chalaine. We know that the bond between you allows him to know where you are and what pains you may be suffering. While we could not let you suffer and endanger the Child, we have a way to let your body feel the pain but in way that you will not sense it. I’m sure that sounds strange, but you must trust me. I will not let harm come to Gen if you aid us in bringing him here to attempt to raise Chertanne.”
She squirmed uncomfortably. “I doubt I have much choice, though I do not think it wise of you to let him think that you have harmed me. He will seek me out without your intervention. If you value your lives, leave me alone. Where did he escape?”
“At the Portal gate to Tenswater on his
way Mur Eldaloth,” Athan reported. “We were taking him there for detention and interrogation. The column fell prey to some powerful magic, no doubt worked by some of your mother’s associates. The Council of Padras agreed that he would be a fool to attempt to come to you here, thus our recommendation to add some incentive to convince him to make the attempt. While I understand you objections to the plan, even you would admit that you cannot guarantee his arrival, and we must, therefore, create our own insurance.”
Before she could object, Athan closed his eyes momentarily and incanted. At once, her mind seemed to disconnect from her body and float on a pleasant breeze outside of the dark room. Dimly, she recognized Padra Nolan standing and beginning his spell. Somewhere outside the euphoric haze of her mind, she was aware that every nerve of her body shot through with staggering pain. It lasted only a few seconds, and, almost as soon as it had started, it ended. Her capacities returned, and she stood, taking stock of herself.
“I object to being used in this way! How dare you work your magic upon me without my permission! And what of the Child?”
“I apologize for the necessity, Highness,” Athan said unapologetically. “You must see that it is for the greater good. We took precautions not to harm the Child. You need not fear.”
“I will not do this again,” she stated firmly. “When Gen arrives, I must be permitted to talk with him alone if you wish me to convince him to go along with your plan. I don’t wish to see any of you before that time.”
She left the Council muttering and whispering behind her. She would not be their tool. Fuming, she made short work of the walk back to her quarters where a pacing Mena bit her lip in anticipation of her return.
“What news, Chalaine?” her handmaiden asked once the door was shut.
“Much. But first, I need to get a message to my mother. Can you do that?”
“It will be difficult, but I will try.”
“Good.”
Chapter 62 – Trap
For two weeks they holed up in the sewer, healing, talking, and dodging the incessant patrols that hunted low and high for the escaped fugitives. Only Torbrand wandered above ground to gather news. The Church militia allowed no one onto or off of Tenswater, and grumpy soldiers searched and scoured every structure at any time of the day or night without warning.
After the fight, a diligent search of the sewers yielded another opening into a small cavern that afforded some relief from the choking stench and damp sewage. Torbrand nearly exhausted himself healing them all, but within hours they felt fit and anxious to move. Unfortunately, the continual presence of marching feet above and sloshing trackers below pinned them underground.
All save Maewen grew accustomed to the smell, and while she strove not to show it, their confinement below ground wore visibly upon her countenance. What light they had filtered in weakly through a small moss-covered street drain, and they did not have enough fresh water to wash away the black muck that stiffened their clothing and rotted their boots. Torbrand’s near daily excursions brought fresh food, drink, and bedrolls, but the news remained stale: Portals closed, soldiers everywhere.
Gen and his companions looked little better than street beggars, uneven beards and ungroomed hair roughening their appearance. White streaks shot through Gen’s beard where hair sprouted from scars along his cheeks. The clothes they had worn through the hardships of Elde Luri Mora still hung from their bodies, tattered, stained, and rigid. Only their bearing and fit bodies betrayed that the wearers might be more than they appeared. Gen busied himself by trying to work himself back into shape after lying prone for days in a potion induced stupor.
“How long will they keep this up?” Volney whined after another evening patrol passed overhead. “If they haven’t found us by now, surely they realize they won’t.”
“They will give up,” Torbrand asserted from where he sat on the ground, back against the wall. “Thanks to Joranne, they will assume we have magical help, therefore it stands to reason that we could have used one of the Portals to get off the shard. They can’t be sure they have rounded up every Portal Mage in the city.”
Thunder boomed outside, and they looked at each other hopefully in the weak light. They had waited for rain for days.
“I’m first under the grate if it rains,” Maewen pronounced forcefully, moving in the direction of the opening. The rest busied themselves claiming positions and moving their bedrolls away from the probable path of the deluge. To their delight, the rain fell, fresh water roiling down the opening. By the time the storm abated an hour later, they were all clean and cold, wrapping themselves in their bedrolls for warmth.
Sleep came quickly and pleasantly as darkness enveloped them. “A good omen,” Volney yawned as he settled in. Gen hoped so. The feeling that he had let down everyone he cared about ran like a dark river through his heart, reminding him of Mikkik’s persuasions when the demon’s poison took him. Were there not a hundred before? Will there not be thousands after? He needed to get clear of the sewer, get his bearings again, and put himself to whatever good use he could.
Two more days passed before a herald on the street above announced that the Portals had reopened and that the watch had ended the lockdown of the city. The herald’s message proffered no excuse, but the citizens of Tenswater asked few questions, rejoicing at the end of constant patrols and raids. To the six sewer-weary fugitives straining to hear the proclamation through the slender grate, the news was the key to open their proverbial cell, and after Torbrand procured decent clothing for the young men, they waited until full dark before ascending into the city again.
“We don’t want to be caught wandering the streets at night,” Torbrand informed them. “The militia take an unkind view of those with business in the dark. We’ll sleep in the first inn we find and leave in the evening of the next day. Gen, Maewen, and Hardman will need to stay out of sight, as you are easily recognizable. Volney and Gerand will help me gather what we need to return to Mikmir.”
The young men barely heard anything after mention of the inn. The idea of sleeping in an actual bed with a belly full of warm food, bathing in water actually warmed for that purpose, and inhaling the smell of anything other than raw sewage pushed aside all thought for purpose or the future. Creature comforts had appeared with increasing scarcity in their journeyings, and all intended to wring every last pleasure from whatever inn they stumbled upon.
The inn that fell across their path first was the Barrel Cork, more of a drinking establishment than an inn, raucous laughter and juvenile bantering flowing from slurring tongues and out into the street. Maewen scowled at the noise as they walked forward while Hardman daydreamed about a common room brawl.
Torbrand turned toward the rest. “Are you content with this establishment, or would you prefer to chance looking further on? Gen?”
At first the party mistook Torbrand’s meaning in addressing Gen, and only when he repeated it with more surprise did they turn to regard their companion who stood stock-still in the street, eyes unfocused, and fists clenched. Maewen crossed to him hurriedly and took his face in her hands, forcing his eyes to hers.
“Look at me, Gen,” she intoned softly in Elvish.
Gen blinked several times, and breathed out sharply, face full of worry.
“She is in pain! Awful pain! Who would do that to her?”
“The Chalaine?” Maewen prodded. “What did you feel?”
“I’ve got to get to her! Something is wrong. It felt like she was burning in a fire! We must go to her!”
“Does she live? Is she still in pain?”
“She lives.” He paused, a quizzical expression replacing the alarmed look of moments before. “She seems fine now.”
Torbrand strode forward, eying several people who walked nearby, regarding them with curiosity. “We need to have this conversation in a more private place,” he admonished.
He led them into a dark alley between the stable and the inn while he went to negotiate with the keeper. Master
Rabin provided three empty rooms and promised plenty of food and drink for Torbrand’s party. After slinking through the common area, they congregated in one of the plain rooms, closing the creaky door behind them and taking seats on two beds of dubious quality.
Maewen spoke first. “Have you felt anything further?”
“No, she seems perfectly fine now. There was no pain leading up to the burning sensation, either. It is strange.”
“What do you want to do?” Maewen asked.
“I don’t know. My instinct is to go to her, but I know it would not be wise.”
“You should wait, Gen,” Maewen opined. “Mirelle wanted you safe in Mikmir, and that really is the best course you could take. This may just be a fluke or an accident of some kind.”
The others nodded and murmured in agreement. Gerand stood and placed his hand on Gen’s shoulder. “If the Chalaine is in danger, I will gladly go with you to the Abyss and back to help her. But we should wait for a clearer sign before we undertake that journey.”
Gen nodded and everyone relaxed, the arrival of hot food and ale stifling all conversation as they savored every bite, ordering a second helping of everything.
“You know,” Volney commented as he leaned back and set his plate to the side, “I can still smell that sewer.”
“It is still on some of our clothes and gear,” Maewen lamented. “Torbrand, do you think Master Rabin could find someone to launder our clothes tomorrow?”
Torbrand rubbed his beard. “With enough money, I think Master Rabin could find a fish swimming in a sand dune. Since Tenswater seems to relish its own cleanliness, I think the request an easy one. We may want to wait to shave until later. Our unkempt appearance helps conceal our identity.”
That settled, Torbrand called out and a serving girl nervously gathered their dinnerware and left them to themselves. Before long, the party broke up to sleep, rejoicing in the scant comfort provided by straw mattresses, which, by the smell, most often found use as places to “sleep it off.”
