by Brian Fuller
Gen laughed, grabbing her hand and kissing it. This felt more like old times. “I understand. Where do we begin?”
Time passed surprisingly quickly for Gen as he and Mirelle spent almost every hour together plotting and planning or speaking of their mutual concern for the Chalaine. Cadaen kept busy following them around the strange confines of the cave, and Gerand and Mena passed the time quite pleasurably, as well. Only Volney and Udan suffered from a persistent case of boredom after the initial infatuation with their unusual surroundings wore off.
The elves and dwarves remained aloof of them, all save Falael who found Gen often and conversed with him in Elvish. He had never seen humans or the wonders of Ki’Hal, and only he and his father seemed possessed of some life among the dull stares of his race. The few dwarves they saw walked bent over, ancient beards dragging upon the ground.
One morning, while Gen and Mirelle walked among the fruit trees, an excited Volney sprinted up to them. “I think it is time. They are all marching this way.”
“Gather everyone,” Mirelled ordered.
“There’s no need,” Gen told her. “It looks as if Devlis has brought them.”
Moments later, the elves descended with the humans in tow. All wore cloaks, and Devlis and Al’Handra carried others, offering them to Mirelle and Gen.
“Give these to your people. It is time to leave this place.”
“What of the dwarves?” Gen asked.
“They wish to remain. Come.”
Devlis led them to the shard edge. “Al’Handra, if you will?”
She spoke a word, and a section of the low wall crumbled and fell into space.
“Each of you put your cloak on,” Devlis continued. “They are imbued with a power that will let you fall from any height and land unharmed. Simply follow our lead. What you know as the Rhugothian shard cluster will pass below us soon. My people and I will await there for Unification and seek out our masters, the Millim Eri. We may yet cross paths. I leave Falael with you. He is curious about your kind, and his lore will serve you well. Ah, here it comes.”
They leaned close to the edge, watching as the large shards that formed Rhugoth appeared a dizzying distance below, sliding slowly beneath them.
“He can’t be serious,” Volney and Udan said in unison, but in that moment, Devlis jumped, and his people streamed through the gap, falling in a pack to the distant ground below. Gen swallowed hard. Heights did not frighten him, but falling great distances did.
“Is there any way to tell if they all just died?” Volney asked.
“No, it’s too far down,” Gerand answered.
“Faith, gentlemen,” Gen encouraged them. Mirelle shrieked as Gen grabbed her by the waist and pulled her over with him, Falael close behind. The rest followed suit.
Wind howled in their ears as they fell, the shard below rushing up to greet them. Gen glanced at Mirelle, whose eyes were wide and face pale. The closer they came to the ground, the greater the sensation of danger and speed. Swiftly, individual trees and houses resolved into view, hurtling toward them. The sight of the elves already milling around on the ground gave them confidence that a deadly impact was not to be the end of their journey, but Volney yelled in terror anyway.
The magic worked. A few yards before impact, their descent slowed and they touched lightly on the grass of a verdant field bracketed by sun-bathed hills.
“That was exciting,” Mirelle commented, face flushed.
Volney wiped the vomit from his mouth and grumbled something unintelligible that sounded a lot like he disagreed.
Chapter 68 – Reunification
The Church’s augurs predicted that the beginning of the fifth watch on the first day of spring would be Unification, the day when all the shards that now swirled close and in unfamiliar patterns would lock together like puzzle pieces and bring wholeness to a world whose parts had long been estranged from one another. That day, Trys would throw off its cloak completely and shine down upon them as a sign of hope and looming trouble. The Chalaine stole glimpses of the sky whenever she could, the movements in the sky and within her belly connected and purposeful.
She reclined in a rocking chair next to her still-sleeping husband with her hand on her protruding abdomen. The small kicks and jabs within her always elicited a smile from her lips, although in those moments she missed her mother the most and wished more than anything for at least one of her beloved companions with whom she could share her wonder.
She could easily imagine Fenna’s delight, Mena’s instructive comments, and her mother’s comforting wisdom. In her mind’s eye Jaron stood behind her like an expectant grandfather, proud and protective, and she often thought of Gen’s hand on her swollen belly, patiently waiting for an unpredictable and barely perceptible movement to provide tactile evidence of the tiny inhabitant’s burgeoning life.
But what would Gen’s reaction be? She often wondered. Would one so learned and unsurprisable simply nod in stoic confirmation? Would he raise his eyebrow and smile? Act giddy? Embrace her in congratulations? Kiss her cheek or perhaps her pregnant belly? And there she had to stop herself before she carelessly trod the well-worn path to guilt and self-recrimination. Chertanne needed her desperately, and in his desperation she had hoped that love—both from him and for him—might find a chance to sneak past the black specter of their unpleasant history that haunted every attempt at mutual trust and civility.
True, Chertanne had changed, but he was not entirely transformed. His experience in the Abyss had taught him consequence and accountability, but also terror and insecurity. His stupid, ill-founded confidence had gone. His selfishness, now colored by paranoia and fear rather than arrogance, sometimes came across as a strange blend of surliness and neediness, an obsequious peevishness. But his low condition, his dependence upon her for security and sanity, and his attempts at making amends had inspired her tenderness and pity and reminded her of Aldemar’s counsel to try to heal her husband’s diseased soul. Such a healing, which had been set as far out of reach as the moons before his death, hung closer after his revival, close enough for her to attempt it.
And so she threw herself into his service. He still needed to see her unveiled face regularly to stave off nightmares and the sudden fits of anxiety and panic during the day. Even three months after his revival, sudden noises or movements unnerved him, and it required two solid months of persuasion to convince him that nothing but sunshine or starlight awaited him on the other side of the window shutters. The Chalaine read to him daily, insisted on serving him all his meals, and held his hand unveiled in the evenings to help him sleep. She calmed his night terrors, sang songs to soothe his nervousness, and rose early so that her face might be the first he saw when he awoke.
Of course, Athan rejoiced to see these services done, often remarking to her privately that he saw Eldaloth’s hand in all the events that had transpired, even Jaron’s regicide. The Chalaine could agree, though one thing still eluded her—love for her husband. Thoughts of Gen plagued her constantly. Her pregnancy amplified the vividness of her dreams, whether scary, pleasant, or passionate, and Chertanne never figured as a player in the latter two. At times she wished she would receive a letter from her mother announcing that she had used her considerable feminine arts to convince Gen to marry her. At least then, the Chalaine thought, she and Chertanne could coexist with some parity as utter wretches.
But to her heart, Gen’s love was as omnipresent and inescapable as water in the sea or sand in the desert, a golden gift always before her emotional eyes that she could not open but that still warmed her heart for having been given. It didn’t help that the Training Stones and his Ial stone hung against her chest, both evidences of his thoughtful care, and the animon in her pocket never wanted for her touch. While she knew she should at least put the Ial stone aside—for she suspected its calming, enticing scent was the source of her more inappropriate dreams—she absolutely could not bring herself to do it. Samian’s rigorous training helped calm her and
provide a sane shelter from her guilty dreaming.
Chertanne stirred, and the Chalaine looked up, noticing the sweat on his forehead and the uneasy expression on his sleeping face. She hauled herself out of the rocking chair and sat on the bed at his side, grasping his slowly clenched hand and rubbing his arm until his indisposition passed. A soft tapping at the door pulled her away. She cracked the door, finding Athan waiting for her, and she stepped out and closed the door quietly behind her. Seeing the man who had imprisoned her mother and Mena in the horrible dungeons of Mikmir brought her pain and disgust, but she worked up her most tolerable demeanor before conversing with him.
“How fare you, Chalaine?” he asked, face kind.
“I am well, as always.”
“I have come to ask your opinion. I have had it circulated that Chertanne will show himself this evening just after Unification. I have stressed that he will not linger or celebrate, but simply be seen and leave. Do you think he can manage that much on his own if you are with him? I can be there to help with magic, but I would like for him and you to stand alone to help the assembly view you as in power and in charge.”
“I think it best if you are nearby,” the Chalaine opined. “He is not strong, and I cannot guess how he will react to the noise and celebration. If we aren’t careful you will achieve the exact opposite of what you want.”
“Very well,” Athan accepted. “We should get word back from our eastern scouts before much longer to see if Mikkik indeed already prepares some horde for battle. When Chertanne wakes, I need you to bring him to me. There is a mystery which we have withheld until this moment that he needs to know. I realize he is worthless for war planning, but there is one strike we must prepare him to make on his own.”
“If you mean swordplay,” the Chalaine said, “he knows nothing of it! You have kept it from him. I should have been pleased if you had done so well with the brothels and concubines.”
“We have long understood that he would wage war with magic,”Athan explained, brushing aside her barb. “He will have allies for the mundane. What he needs to know, we can teach him in a few weeks’ time, and I have hope it will help him to gain some sense of his own strength.”
“As you wish. I will bring him.”
“Thank you, your Grace. A pleasure, as always.” Athan bowed and left, two Eldephaere in tow.
The Chalaine bit her lip. From the vision that Aldemar had shared with her, she knew that Mikkik’s physical appearance was far from the terrifying monster she had conjured up for herself, but anything out of the ordinary spooked Chertanne. How could he stand in the same arena as Mikkik, companies of Uyumaak, and whatever monstrosities Mikkik had invented in the meantime when a metal goblet inadvertently dropped to the stones unmanned him?
“Chalaine!” Chertanne’s terrified voice called from within. She entered and walked as quickly as she could to his bedside where he had risen to his elbows. His eyes flashed fear and anger. “How could you leave me? You know I need you! Veil off, so I know it is you and not some impostor.” She complied, and his face relaxed. “What were you doing out there? What’s out there that would take you from me?”
“Athan called and wished for a word with me. He has a request he wished me to pass on to you.”
“Hang Athan! Do not leave me when I sleep! The only way I know whether I am dreaming or not is if you are here. You are never in my dreams of that . . . place.”
She came to his side. “Do forgive me, Chertanne. I thought you would sleep for some time yet. I promise I will not leave you here alone again. Do you wish to hear his request?”
“Later. I must eat. Tell me while I eat. Where is the food?”
“You have arisen early, Chertanne. The food is not ready, but it should come soon.”
“The request, then,” he said, stepping out of the bed and moving to a chair by the fire, “to pass the time.”
Coaxing Chertanne to sit by the fire was another of the Chalaine’s hard won victories. He had shunned the flames for weeks, regardless of the temperature of the room.
“Athan wished to speak with you about some part of the prophecy that they have kept in secret,” she explained. “It is vital for you to know, he said. He also suggested that you may start to learn a bit of the sword.”
“Oh, so now they let me learn it. Ridiculous. I face Mikkik in three months. Oh, help me! Three months! I will be killed and end up back in the Abyss! I’ll be back, and they’ll wait for me and tear my soul to shreds and spit the pieces into the fire!”
The Chalaine knelt by him as he clawed the chair with rigid fingers. “Be at peace, Chertanne. Do not forget your faith! You have a chance for redemption from that fate! Do you think Eldaloth would consign you to the Abyss, win or lose, if you stand against Mikkik for his sake? Facing Mikkik is the very act that will free you from the Abyss.”
The Chalaine had told him this many times before, but she had yet to convince him of it. He relaxed, however, and stared at the coals, face uncertain.
“You always make it sound so easy. It can’t be so simple.”
“Perhaps our visit to Athan will give us more information and more cause for hope. You can find your strength, Chertanne.”
The food arrived, and they talked a little as they ate. Afterward, serving women attended them to prepare them for the day. The Chalaine dressed simply to lend the preeminence to Chertanne, who, thanks to Athan, was attired as a mighty king in deep reds, golds, and blacks.
Athan waited for them in his study, a scroll of ancient appearance sprawled across his desk. He stood and bowed as they entered, waving his hand toward two comfortable chairs scooted close to the parchment. The Chalaine sat, and to her surprise spied Gen’s sword, the sword of Alradan Mikmir, laying across the mantle of the fireplace. She felt like exclaiming, but fought down the urge.
“May I open the shutters, your Grace?” Athan offered. “It is yet cool, but the day is bright and pleasant.”
Chertanne gripped his chair and nodded in the affirmative, unable to watch as Athan unbarred the shutters and threw them open to invite in the brilliant light and fresh scent of approaching of spring. After Chertanne was sure something horrible would not burst through the opening, he relaxed. The sky, now clear of shards, seemed foreign save for the moons, and the Chalaine wished she could go bask in the tender, emergent life outside. But Athan, plopping into his seat with an anticipatory smile on his face, drew her attention. If he could smile, then perhaps the secret would be a positive one after all.
“Chertanne,” he began, “I have something to reveal to you that you may find shocking, but it should bolster you confidence. There is a portion of the prophecy that the Church has kept hidden for centuries, as instructed by the Ministrant, hidden from the enemy so that he could not use it or prepare for it. It is merely one stanza, but it—combined with the information given us by the Mikkik Dun Aldemar—reveals more about your nature and the way in which you will annihilate Mikkik forever. Chalaine, if you would care to read this part just before the last stanza.”
The Chalaine scooted forward, text clear in the pure sunshine.
In his veins burns the blood
of him whom Mikkik slew,
and the sword bathed
from red to white blazes
stokes the assassin’s terror,
His magic now his end.
The Chalaine read the words again at Athan’s request before returning to her seat. Chertanne, forehead creased, appeared nonplussed while Athan waited expectantly for a student to work through a problem and emerge with a glorious answer. His patience, however, lost out to his eagerness.
“So you see, Chertanne, in some way we do not understand, within you flows the blood of Eldaloth himself! Now, you were taught that Mikkik used the ‘Great Secret’ to slay Eldaloth. You know that the three moons hold the key to power in their individual domains of magic. The power in blood can be used to create and destroy, and Mikkik knew this secret magic could bring the utter annihilation, b
ody and soul, of another creature. Mikkik infused a sword with the power of sixty-nine Mikkik Dun and slew Eldaloth with it, and I believe Aldemar’s last minute defection saved our God from complete destruction.
“Now, understand that the power of human blood is weak, the blood of elves stronger, and that of the Millim Eri—or Mikkik Dun—stronger still. Within you is Eldaloth’s blood, the strongest of all, more powerful than Mikkik’s, we believe. This fact alone is why we hid this section of the prophecy for centuries. We think that our common enemy is completely unaware of the nature of your blood.”
The Chalaine saw where this was going. “So you want to bathe Aldradan Mikmir’s sword in Chertanne’s blood to create a weapon to kill Mikkik?”
“Yes, though there is more to it than that. It requires Trysmagic and Mikkik’s ‘secret,’ and—thanks to Aldemar’s writings—we have it. We have kept it hidden, even from ourselves, for Eldaloth prohibited the use of blood as a source of magic. As for Aldradan’s sword, we found it fitting and appropriate for the task.”
“But first Chertanne has to survive long enough to get close to Mikkik to use the sword,” the Chalaine pointed out. “That task is the hardest.”
That was the task that her love was supposed to provide for, she remembered bitterly. From her heart to his hand protective healing was to flow.
“Are you well, Ha’Ulrich?” Athan asked concernedly. The Chalaine turned to find her husband pale and crushing the arm rests of the chair again.
“Bathed in my blood?” he choked. You both seem to have wandered past that part as if it were as easy as picking daises.”
Athan smiled. “Be at ease. It is rather the easy part. Only a single bleeding is needed. With my magic you will not feel a thing, and with the Chalaine’s, you will bear no injury for it. You will perform the magic to turn the blade into a weapon when the time is close to confront Mikkik. We cannot risk a weapon of such power to fall into anyone else’s hands.”
