Tears of a Heart

by Chase Blackwood

  “I never knew her, she passed into the arms of the Thirteen upon my birth,” Aeden said, having decided the truth was better than any lie he could fabricate.

  The air grew still and cold.

  “Is your father the kovor?”

  He hesitated in answering because in truth he no longer was, for he had died. Was this a trick question and they already knew the answer? Were they taunting him with the death of his father? He was suddenly unsure of himself. They hadn’t stipulated any rules. Was he allowed to answer with more than one word? Now he wished he had clarified their meaning before beginning.

  “Not anymore,” he replied as honestly as he could.

  “Do not play games with us Aeden of the Thane,” the second witch spat.

  “I don’t play games,” he said.

  Aeden stood waiting for death’s hand to grab him. It never came. Instead he waited for time’s slow step to march forward. Only one more question he realized and he’d either be free or killed.

  One of the witches startled him with their next question.

  “Is it your intent to seek the Isle of Galdor?” the second witch asked.

  “I don’t know of this place, how can I seek what I don’t know.”

  This seemed to startle the witches and stirred them into debate. Aeden listened for the tone of their voices, his grip tightening on his Templas sword. Had he answered incorrectly? He had never heard of the Isle of Galdor, for all he knew it was a city in Templas, or an island mountain in D’seart, or was once the Emperor of Heorte.

  “We have two more questions for you Aeden,” the first witch continued as if there had been no pause.

  “You’ve already asked your three questions,” he said.

  “There are no rules but those we make, unless you wish to answer no more.” The last words sounded more like a threat; one Aeden didn’t intend to see through.

  “I’ll answer.”

  “Of course you will,” it was the second witch. “Do you seek greater power?”

  Aeden was caught off guard and had to pause to think. He had never been excited about the prospect of taking over as the kovor. As a child he preferred to follow than lead. But now that his people were dead at the hands of a draccus fiend, he supposed he would have to become more powerful. He would need to be strong enough to kill a draccus fiend, to avenge his people and assure their ascension to the afterlife. The prospect was daunting but also gave his anger a sense of purpose.

  The image of charred bodies flashed through his mind and made him sick to his stomach. He took in a shaky breath and fought to stifle his emotions. Aeden took another calming breath before responding.

  “Yes, I seek greater power.”

  “Then we have one final question of you,” the third witch now spoke.

  Aeden turned as though he knew where the voice was coming from. It was a pointless gesture.

  “Will you retain your sense of honor once you become powerful and spare us witches of Agathon as we will spare you?”

  “Yes,” was his response.

  “Then before you leave we will need two things,” the first witch said. “Put away your sword for our imp will come to collect.”

  Aeden did as he was told. Once the Templas blade was sheathed the beautiful naked girl from earlier approached out of the shroud of fog. He let her get near. The smell of her, wild flowers and honey, overwhelmed him. He fought the urge to reach out and touch her, yet somehow he knew if he did the contract he had just made with the witches would be broken.

  She leaned forward pressing ever so gently against him and with the flick of a wrist produced a knife that sliced cleanly through a lock of his hair. He was startled but didn’t let it show.

  The imp regarded him for a moment before gently taking one of his hands in hers. Her hand felt small, delicate, and soft. In that moment he knew that if she wanted to reach forward and cut his throat he’d let her if he could just get a chance to grace those sweet lips with his own.

  She worked carefully and quickly at removing part of his fingernail. Her movements were precise and painless. The small rise and fall of her breathing had him transfixed. She could have cut off his finger and he would have been none the wiser.

  When she was done she stepped away wordlessly. He admired her small form before glancing about the small clearing.

  “You are free to go Aeden of the Thane. Remember your promise.”

  Chapter 13

  “The taste of something new is not always the most pleasing the first time around.” Canticle of Bodig 12:6

  On Aeden’s fourteenth birthday he arrived in Heorte. The passage of time had been nothing but a burden upon his young shoulders. Time had whittled away at his heart, casting memory to shadow. The anger that had fueled his steps finally simmered to a low, rolling boil, bubbling silently away deep within his tattered soul.

  Therefore it was of little surprise that the expansive valley was lost to his thoughts. Rolling hills were far to the north gently giving way to the sea. To the west the famous white-sand beaches of Heorte rested amidst the delta of the middle kingdoms. Aeden, however, saw nothing but the repeated pattern of self-doubt, fear, and guilt.

  It was on a warm Sumor day that he found himself on one of the many roads leading to the great city on the shores of the River Lif. Irrigation streams carved channels through the valley, sectioning off parcels of land for farming. Aeden had never seen farming on such a scale. The thoroughfares were made of crushed stone and were plied upon by thousands of groups. Travelers, troupers, farmers, merchants, and the nobility all made their way over the vast network of roads.

  The route he took led to the heart of Bodig. By the third day he could make out the great Red City. Massive walls of maroon-hued sunstone enshrouded the city. The early morning light graced the sunstone and cast it in luminescence, giving it the appearance of a giant gemstone. To his left the River Lif carved a wide slow moving channel. Its waters shimmered in the morning light, feeding the great vine of the central kingdom.

  There was almost too much for Aeden to process. He had grown accustomed to the quiet of the forest. The sights and sounds sparked lucid fragments of crumbling memory. A brief flash of him sitting about a campfire settled in his mind. He was back in his village sitting next to Devon after a long day of training. Their bellies were full and stories of faraway lands were told to amuse and to educate. He would purposefully position himself to watch the firelight play with Dannon’s delicate features. That night was the story of the Great Empire to the West. How one man set about uniting three massive kingdoms.

  Aeden blinked back tears and attempted to clear his throat of the constant lump of sadness that now resided there. He glanced down; surprised to see he was clutching the lock of Dannon’s hair. He tucked it back into his pocket and followed the movements of the boats plying the River Lif in an effort to distract himself.

  Brightly colored sails flapped in the subtle wind. Flags demarcating noble houses of trade snapped and fluttered. Dark-skinned men appeared as insects in the distance moving about the wooden decks. Aeden couldn’t help but wonder what Devon would think of it all.

  Thoughts consumed Aeden, swallowing the hours as the sun rose into the afternoon sky. He had followed a trouper’s caravan to the walls of the Red City. A series of piers stretched out to his left. Boats of various make and shape were docked. Men were busy casting lines, offloading cargo, or shouting orders. Smaller skiffs lay anchored awaiting their turn, sails folded and tucked away.

  Soldiers stood alert along the road leading to the huge gates. They had the solid look of pillars, sweating under the Sumor sun. The symbol of an oak tree with a single sword underneath emblazoned their red chest armor. Aeden quickly wrapped his bodark bow, quiver, and Templas sword within the folds of the great shroud cat’s skin that he carried upon his back.

  He huddled ever closer to the multi-colored wagon in front of him, its wheels creaking over the gravel and stone. Aeden was temporarily cast in shade as they squee
zed through the massive archway of one of the main entrances to the city. Huge metal gates stood open, the black bars stood in stark contrast to the differing shades of red brick that comprised the walls. The bricks themselves were partially transparent, as if they struggled to retain the color within. A shove from behind snapped him out of his fascination and forced him into the city. He was surprised at how many people were making their way into Bodig. It reminded him of the mass elk migrations he had seen back home.

  Once within the city walls he left the relative safety of the lumbering trouper caravan. The smells of spices, humanity, and rotting foods flooded his senses. A dizzying array of colorful stalls lined the great artery leading deeper into the capital. People shoved, shouted, and bargained as they clogged the streets. Small alleyways twisted off the main road like branches of some great tree. Smaller shops lined the alleys cast in shade by red canvas strung overhead. Bins of spice stretched into the twisting depths of each alley he saw. He never knew there were so many spices in all of Verold.

  Foreign words were uttered all about him. People pushed past him as he watched a small group of children beg for food. All the while the swelling tide of humanity pushed him ever deeper into the heart of the Red City. Hopefully toward a place of greater quiet he thought.

  Aeden passed another wall and another open gate. He paused briefly running a hand along the strange translucent red stone. This second section was nearly as busy as the first. People continued to push their way through the crowds like rain upon an open mountain.

  Almost immediately the stench of feces, blood, and death hit him like a fist to the stomach. A cacophony of squeaks, squeals, barks, and hollers trumped the haggling shouts of the populace. Live animals of every shape and size imaginable were chained, caged, or otherwise enclosed and for sale. The ground was a slippery mixture of dung, urine, and water all running in thin runnels over faded stone.

  Flies buzzed about in angry clusters. They droned around incessantly. They were attracted by the ever present metallic tinge of blood. Small rivulets of red ran from the stands where animals were killed. Impatient customers watched in agitated boredom swatting at flies as butchers worked their craft. The scene was fascinating, gruesome, and mundane.

  Aeden pushed his way past the throngs of people, moving as quickly as he could toward the next section of the city. His nostrils burned and his stomach was twisting into knots of nausea. People pushed into him as he passed others, funneling through one of the numerous choke points within the Red City. Again he found himself in a glowing red tunnel and a moment later he was in another section of Bodig.

  The main roadway was still full of people but surprisingly less than there had been in the previous two districts. The alleys here were nothing more than smaller streets lined with housing.

  In an attempt to leave behind the drum of humanity Aeden ducked down the next alley he saw. It weaved past tight doorways of multistory buildings. He had never seen buildings this tall. There were windows above windows above windows. It seemed strange to him to have so many people crowded into so little land. Where did they all work? How did they farm the lands? Was each building a massive family unit? Suddenly he yearned for some open sky and some fresh air.

  A fork in the alley presented itself. Aeden took the branch to the right. It crossed another street that was nearly as wide but less busy than the main artery he had used to enter the city. He crossed the street deciding to stick to the alley. It was quieter.

  Unobtrusive buildings sat huddled together in stony silence. He passed an open doorway and peered inside. An old woman was busy weaving as two children paused to look up at him quizzically. He must have struck quite a chord for they walked to the door and continued to watch him as he walked down the alley disappearing around a mild bend.

  It was beyond the bend that a small square rested. A few trees were planted and provided shade from the sweltering sun. The cobbled plaza showed signs of cracking and wear from the searching roots of the trees. There were a few benches situated in the shade beckoning him to rest. There were a scant few people in the plaza. Most were older folk sitting in quiet contemplation under the shade of the wide leaves. Aeden saw that one of the benches was free and decided to claim it.

  He removed the heavy burden from his back. His shirt stuck to him in sweaty discomfort. Aeden wiped at his brow and looked at the others nearby. They were staring at him as if he had just climbed out of the fiery pits of hell to enjoy the day. He stared right back. After a few moments they looked elsewhere, as if the mere act of staring was too much work in the heat of Sumor.

  Aeden took a swig from his dwindling pouch. His lips were cracked and the water stung at them painfully. His stomach rumbled in response reminding him of his hunger. He dug through his bag remembering he had a couple strips of dried meat. As he tore into the meat he watched a man set a small cushion down in the center of the plaza. The man then carefully placed a jug next to him and sat.

  Aeden’s attention was enraptured by the subtle grace of each movement. He sat stupidly, chewing slowly like some grazing animal as he watched the gray-robed man settle himself. Each action was taken with the care a mother would place on a newborn.

  The man’s shaved pate reflected dully in the afternoon sun. His face was calm and unlined as if age had yet to touch his features. It was his eyes that most captivated Aeden. There was something familiar, inviting, and peaceful about them. They spoke of an older soul peering out wisely upon the simple world, casting a light of compassion to those in need.

  A longing in his heart threatened to tear at the fragile fabric Aeden had stitched about himself in an effort to evade thought and feeling. He blinked back swelling emotion and looked about. Aeden realized he wasn’t the only one whose attention was fixed on the newcomer. The man seated in the center gazed slowly at everyone present. He brought his hands together and nodded his head to each in turn.

  More people filtered into the plaza as if an unseen energy beckoned them closer. He was briefly reminded of the lure he felt toward the imp in the Shroud Mountains. This was different however. He didn’t feel desire well up inside him; rather the feeling was more akin to the gentle peace of a still body of water.

  The man then reached into his robes and withdrew what appeared to be a dried and stretched animal skin. On the skin were carefully painted words. It wasn’t Sagaru, the language of the S’Velt, leaving Aeden ignorant of its meaning. The man then placed the skin before him so that the words faced those who wished to read them. Aeden glanced about at the reactions of the people to try and gauge the meaning of the words.

  A few people stood and left, their faces a mask of resigned frustration. A few of the newcomers nodded their heads as if in approval. Another group of robed men stood toward the back. Aeden noticed a bald-headed man with intense eyes and kind features. Beside him was a younger man with shortly cropped hair. The third man was taller than the other two with darker hair and paler skin and stood with fidgeting hands.

  Aeden was unsure what to make of the situation. He returned his attention to the man seated in the center of the plaza. His eyes were now closed. The figure appeared to be mumbling quiet words intended for unknown ears. The words were echoed by others in the crowd. It was a prayer.

  Aeden was so transfixed that he failed to notice as more people began to fill the plaza. Soon a small group of Bodig Guards arrived. Aeden caught their menacing glare. He glanced down at the swords swinging by their hips and the simple chain mail armor covered by red shirts. He decided it was time to leave.

  He looked back at the robed man as he gathered his pack. The man met his eye and smiled briefly and warmly. He extended a hand as if asking him to sit. Aeden sat without thought. The seated man nodded his head as if in respect. He then calmly poured the contents of the jar over his head and onto his robes. It would have seemed bizarre if the man hadn’t moved with such practiced ease.

  Glancing across the plaza he saw the guards begin to cross the square. A small group of b
ystanders attempted to slow them as the robed man struck two stones together. Each strike caused a shower of sparks to fall about him and a distinct crack to fill the still air. The sounds felt thick and heavy in the humidity of Sumor.

  On the third strike the guards were able to shove past the discontent crowd. Aeden watched them approach. They had drawn their swords and were rapidly moving toward the robed man. One final strike of the flint caused sparks to ignite the liquid on his robes. Within seconds his entire body was engulfed in flame. Aeden couldn’t have been more shocked if the sun had decided not to rise.

  A gentle breeze swept the hot burnt air across the plaza. The guards stopped their advance and simply stood transfixed with their swords hanging limply by their sides. The group of young robed men fell to their knees and began praying in the direction of the man aflame. Everyone else stood in silence and shock.

  Sacredness cast its weight upon the plaza and etched a place into each and every heart. All the while the flames licked at the sky as the man remained motionless. It was his silence that most astonished Aeden. His discipline in the face of incredible pain. His stillness in the final moments of his life.

  The flames seemed to leap ever higher as everyone stood quietly, reverently. A few people were now bowing their heads and a young girl wept soundlessly. The smell of the fire carried the scents of burnt skin, fabric, and the gentle note of geranium oil.

  The sounds of crackling as skin blistered and burst permeated the humidity. Thin wisps of smoke clung to the air and stung the eyes. Each second slower than the last.

  Finally, the robed man fell forward as the fire claimed him and extinguished the spark of life he once held.

  Imperial soldiers pushed their way into the plaza. The spell that bound the group together was broken. The guards seemed to remember themselves and raised their swords as they turned to face the crowd. The crowd sensed the impending danger and began to disperse. Aeden knew he too should leave, but felt an aching desire to support the burning man with his presence.