The unsettling thing about the strange young man was his eyes. They shone a bright green color, one so unnatural that Dormael didn’t think he had seen it anywhere besides an artist’s brush, if he had ever seen it before. The man didn’t look to have eyes at all, in fact, just swirling green light beneath his eyelids.
“Who are you?” Dormael said.
The question escaped his lips, but Dormael knew whom he was facing even as the words hit the air. In the chaos of the past few days, he had forgotten about the unusual presence that had found him in the dark, the strange voice that had acted to help him in the tunnels beneath Ishamael. Part of him had hoped that it was some anomaly, that he would never hear from it again. The being, whatever it was, had somehow found him in his dreams.
“Who?” the man repeated, his face doing an odd dance through expressions. “Who. Whom. Yes. That is the primary question. Yes?”
“Aye,” Dormael said. “Though I could conjure a few more while we’re asking them.”
“Please,” the man said, smiling with something like exaggerated enthusiasm. “I would like to feel the process.”
Feel the process? What is this thing talking about?
“Are you just a figment of my imagination?” Dormael asked. “Are you some manifestation of my fears, or fatigue?”
“I am not,” the man said. “I am a self. My self is…broken, though.”
“You are a self,” Dormael repeated. “You mean you’re not a part of me.”
“Yes,” the man smiled. Then, his face suddenly changed to an expression of confusion. “And no. Nay. Negative.”
Dormael sighed and looked around.
I’m going crazy, he thought.
“Crazy,” the man repeated. “Crazy. A word meant to describe…insanity? Your mind is a twisted cavern. Your vernacular…limited.”
“You’re reading my thoughts,” Dormael said, a cold feeling seeping into his bones.
“Reading implies action, intention,” he replied. “Concentration? Absorption is better. More…accurate.”
“Well, can you stop absorbing, then? I don’t like the thought of you crawling through my mind. Who are you? What are you?” Dormael said, feeling somehow violated. He ran his hands though his hair, as if he could brush the strange man from his head. He was struck with the sensation of insects crawling inside his skull, and a shiver ran down his spine.
“Again, crawling is not an accurate…representation,” the man said, his expression blank. “Your language lacks the breadth to explain. Your mind, the depth to…comprehend? Understand? You are a vulgar beast, doomed to suffer the march of the firmament—of time.”
“I’m not sure how I’m supposed to take that, or what in the Six bloody Hells it means.”
“That seems fitting.”
“Are you going to say anything that makes gods-damned sense?”
“I am trying,” the man said, an apologetic smile snapping onto his face, “though I admit to difficulty. This method of communion—communication—is peculiar. A series of grunts and gestures, noises made with the appendages of your face—it is primitive. I will learn.”
“How about why—why are you here?” Dormael asked, his frustration bubbling to the surface.
“Complicated,” the man replied, turning to look over the windswept hills. “A question I am currently…pondering. Upon which I am currently pondering. That’s something I’m thinking on. I am searching for the answer to that question.”
“You don’t know?”
“I do not,” the man replied, his face going stony for a bare moment. “Though when I think on it…”
The pause in the man’s words was filled with simmering anger. It coursed through Dormael as if it was his own emotion, like there was some form of bleed-over between his consciousness, and the entity’s. Before Dormael realized what was happening, he had clenched his jaw and vowed to follow that question to its root. The feeling passed in a few seconds, leaving Dormael with the queer sensation of being a stranger in his own head.
“I think I get the point,” Dormael said, trying to clear the feeling from his mind. He thought about asking further questions, but the man’s lack of ability to express himself clearly would probably make that a futile exercise, in any case.
“True,” the man said, “but I will learn your method of communication with time. I will grow…familiar.”
“You’ve got to stop reading my thoughts,” Dormael grumbled. “I don’t like it.”
The man smiled. “I know. I can feel your displeasure. It is a wonderful sensation.”
Dormael stared at him, then filled the silence with his own irritation.
“I see—or I know,” the man said, his smile deepening. “What an odd way to express your awareness of a sensation or thought. To say ‘I see,’ rather than ‘I know.’ See? I am learning.”
“If you’re not going to stop listening to my thoughts—”
“Again, listening is not—”
“I know,” Dormael interrupted. “It’s not a good description. In any case, though—can you cease doing that?”
The man’s expression became almost comical in its disappointment. “I will attempt. I cannot promise a satisfactory result.”
“Very well,” Dormael sighed. “I suppose it’s better than nothing.” He opened his mouth to ask another question, but stopped himself before he could utter it. What would be the point? Dormael turned to gaze into the distance, at the deep blue above the horizon, and the swashes of color beneath. At the very moment he noticed the pleasantness of the scene, a warm breeze caressed him as if it was answering his appreciation.
“How did you find me?” Dormael asked, unable to keep the question from his lips. “Why me, specifically?”
“It is you who found me,” the man replied. “There is a…resonance…about you, some vibration that drew me near. It feels familiar to me, as if I should know its signature. When I search my memories for an explanation, though, there is only silence. You are a key. You are my key to answering these questions—of that, I am certain.”
A resonance? He must mean my magic, Dormael thought.
“Not your…magic,” the man said. “But something similar.”
“I thought you were going to stop reading my thoughts.”
“Ah,” the man said, disappointment on his face again. “Apologies.”
Dormael let out an all-suffering sigh and turned to face the man. If the fellow—whomever he was—could find him in the depths of his dreams and hear his thoughts, Dormael had no idea how he might prevent him from doing so again. Something about his manner felt benign, though. It could have been that the entity was choosing to present himself in such a way, but though Dormael was suspicious, his gut told him that the creature meant him no immediate harm. It had worked to help him, after all, and acted almost childlike. His manner was without malice, even when he had let Dormael feel his anger.
“What is your name?” Dormael asked.
“I do not have a series of noises which I use to describe myself. I simply am.”
“Of course,” Dormael muttered under his breath before realizing the futility of lowering his voice. “In any case, you need a name.”
“Why? What purpose would such a thing serve?”
“I can’t go on calling you ‘alien presence,’ or ‘strange entity.’ You need a name.”
“Why?”
“For my bloody gods-damned convenience,” Dormael grumbled, a smile coming to his face. “Names are important. If you’re going to be haunting my dreams, I need to name you.”
“My very own series of primitive noises? I am excited.”
“I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic, or not.”
“Sarcastic? No.”
“Very well. What should we name you, then?” Dormael thought for a while, going over various names in his head. At first he tried to think of something meaningful, something deep. His mind, though, kept returning to the name of a puppy he’d had as a child. The pup
had died of gut disease soon after Dormael had become attached to it, but he had never forgotten its name.
“Tamasis,” Dormael said, giving up on trying to think of something better. “Your name can be Tamasis.”
“Tamasis,” the man repeated. “Yes. Tamasis. I believe I enjoy the sound of that.”
“Good. Well, then, since we never formally met,” Dormael said, sweeping into the customary Sevenlander bow, “let’s get the pleasantries out of the way. Well met, Tamasis.”
“Well met, Dormael Harlun,” Tamasis said, mimicking the bow. “We will speak much in the future.”
With that, the strange man dissolved into a fine, black mist. The rest of the scene began to follow suit, though Dormael tried to hold onto it. He had so many questions for Tamasis, even though the man—or whatever he was—had uttered nothing even resembling a satisfactory answer. He screamed the name into the swirling vortex of blackness that the dream had become, but nothing answered him.
The dream pulled him down into the darkness with the remnants of the beautiful field.
***
By the time D’Jenn had prepared Mataez’s pyre, the sun was just falling below the horizon. Deep shadows stretched in the twilight, and the fading sun painted orange and red streaks across the sky. D’Jenn built the platform in the spot where Mataez had expired, hoping to put a bittersweet tone into the magic that was slowly seeping into the trees around them. Perhaps if he offered the man’s soul a bit of respect, it would rest easy on its voyage.
D’Jenn could feel Mataez’s magic seeping into the woods around his body, and there was no doubt in D’Jenn’s mind that the nature of the resonance it would leave on this place would be unpleasant. Mataez had drowned in his own blood, writhing in agony. That sort of pain could spawn nothing but darkness from the ether, and that darkness would fester over time. If there was anything D’Jenn could do before it crystallized, he would try.
The effort of building the pyre had left D’Jenn covered in sweat, nursing a throbbing headache. He had used his magic to acquire and haul the wood, but had situated Mataez on the pyre with his own hands. His nose was bleeding from the effort with his power, his feet sore from the hike. Guilt roiled in his guts as he stared at Mataez’s body, though anger followed on its heels.
“You bastard,” D’Jenn said to the shadows in the gloom. “Part of me hates you. Part of me wishes for nothing more than to pull your body apart at the joints and scatter the pieces. Maybe spell them to float back down the river to your master. I want him to know that I killed you. I want him to know that I’m going to come back for him.”
D’Jenn bit his tongue and looked away, wincing at the coppery taste of blood that filled his mouth. His face was no better than it had been upon waking, and it was difficult to speak. He felt the ghost of a sob rush to the top of his chest, but he forced it down.
“Part of me believes—really believes—that you deserve this for what you and the others have done. My mother always told me that the gods abhor those who turn on their loved ones, that the deepest of the Six Hells is reserved for betrayers. She told me that they’re eaten alive over and over for eternity. That’s what you did, Mataez. You, Jarek, the others—all of you are traitors. That little part of me smiles at the thought of you being devoured alive—but then, I don’t even know if I believe in the gods, really. Who knows what’s out there in the Void?”
D’Jenn paused to spit blood into the dirt.
“Why couldn’t you have told me who it was? Not only do you help to rip Vera from my life, but you deny me the truth of her murder. I need to know—do you understand? I need to know.”
D’Jenn sighed and rose from where he’d been crouching. He walked over to the pyre and looked over the body of his former friend, his former brother. His mind tried to import dignity onto the corpse, an unconscious lie to assuage some of the guilt that he felt. The angry red marks on Mataez’s face were darker in the twilight, the ugly rent in his throat a shadowed ruin. The contrast amplified the vulgarity, and D’Jenn let out a long sigh.
“I hope you don’t hold this against me—at least, no more than you should. You and I both know that you came here to finish me off. I got you first, mate. I got you first.”
D’Jenn smiled, though it felt bitter on his lips.
“I wish to the gods that none of this had ever happened. This…well it’s ruined everything, hasn’t it? So many are dead, Mataez, and I know you had something to do with it. I know. The saddest thing, though—you want to know what the saddest thing is, old friend? The truth you should carry with you on your journey into the Void?”
D’Jenn pulled the axe from his belt and stared at the blade, holding it up to silhouette against the fading twilight.
“So many more will follow you, mate. I’ll be sending you company.”
He dipped the blade down to pluck at a cord around Mataez’s neck, and pulled it out from under the man’s shirt. A silver pair of rings were threaded onto it, twisted together in a lover’s knot. D’Jenn felt bile rise to the back of his throat as he snapped the cord with the axe blade, and picked up the pair of rings in his other hand.
There was an old betrothal custom in Runeme of threading two rings together. Somewhere a woman wore the twin to this talisman. D’Jenn wondered if he knew her, if she was another Warlock. Mataez had kept his personal life quiet. D’Jenn had never even heard a rumor about the man’s love life, though he had never listened for such things. On the day that they would have been married, the two rings would have been joined together into a single piece of jewelry to be worn on the right hand. This ring would never see its joining, and neither would its twin, wherever it was. D’Jenn pushed the axe into his belt, and threaded the ring onto the cord around his own neck.
“We ended as enemies,” D’Jenn said, feeling a lump rise to the back of his throat, “but we began as friends. We lived as brothers. I will carry this ring for you, old friend. This guilt will now be my burden to bear. I’ll carry it with me until I am unable. I hope it helps you on your journey, and that I’ll see you again in our travels. Goodbye, old friend. So mote it be.”
D’Jenn sat and watched as the pyre burned. He knew he should move, but all he could do was stare at the flames. Magic sank into the old courtyard as Mataez’s leftover energy finally fled him for good, and D’Jenn hummed a dirge as the shadows danced in the gloom. He stayed until the flames were sated.
When there was nothing left but glowing embers, D’Jenn used his magic to kill the fire. He shoved the axe into his belt, and stretched his sore muscles. Wrapping his hand around the infused coin, he let his magic read its low, humming tone. He spared one last glance for the ruined homestead, and the pile of charred wood and ashes that had once been his friend.
Then, with the taste of blood in his mouth, he set out into the night.
The Kissing Disease
The day was warmer than Dormael had expected. He had doffed his cloak and laid it over Horse’s saddle, opting to let his body breathe. Bethany rode while he walked beside them, enjoying the sun on his back. He kept his spear balanced over his shoulder, and lost himself in the constant movement.
He needed the physical activity to clear his mind.
They traveled northward, following signals left by Allen, who ranged ahead. The area was dotted with sparse tree cover, though signs of habitation began to appear. The party took a few shortcuts through orderly fields, hopping low stone fences, or makeshift palisades. A shepherd appeared in the distance at one point in the day, but disappeared over a rounded hill as they moved on. No one raised a greeting.
Dormael brooded in silence, offering only single word replies when anyone tried to speak with him. His thoughts were centered on Tamasis, and what the man—thing, he reminded himself—could do. Was it possible that it could absorb his thoughts even when Dormael was awake, and couldn’t sense its presence? Where did it come from, and what did its arrival mean? There had to be more to its appearance than simple chance. Given the forces to
which Dormael had exposed himself in the recent past, he was skeptical that Tamasis wasn’t somehow connected.
What could I do about it, anyway, even if I knew? Is he listening to me right now?
He spent the entire morning thinking in furious circles.
“Are we going to eat soon?” Bethany asked. Dormael pulled himself from his own head.
“Getting hungry, little one?”
“I’m always hungry,” she replied with a smile. “But it is getting to be lunch time.”
“You know, I’ve never asked what your favorite food was,” Dormael said. “I just assumed it was somewhere between everything and anything.”
“The sweetbreads from the Conclave kitchens were good,” Bethany said. “I think those are my favorite.”
Dormael was seized with curiosity.
“What about before we met?” he asked. “Did someone used to cook something for you?”
Bethany’s eyes clouded, and she gazed into the distance. Her only answer was to shrug her shoulders. Dormael wanted to push her, to find out if the girl was willing to share anything about her past. From the look on her face, though, he would get nothing from her. The last thing he wished to do was upset her, so he let the matter lie.
“What do you think about Lacelle’s lessons?” he asked. “What has she been teaching you?”
Bethany smiled and looked back to where the former Deacon of Philosophers rode. She and Lilliane were having a muted discussion, but Lacelle smiled and waved at the young girl. Bethany waved back.
“She makes me hold rocks with my power while she asks me a lot of questions,” Bethany said. “Then she makes me listen to things with my Kai for hours and hours. I guess it’s alright, though. I guess.”
“Is that so?”
“Well, I don’t know the answer to most of the stupid questions, and when I get one wrong, she adds a rock for me to hold. If I get it wrong the next time, she adds two rocks.” She took a deep breath, and let it out in an irritated sigh. “I get them wrong a lot.”
The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection Page 96
