by A J Dalton
‘Don’t worry, lad. We’ll have it set to rights in no time, you’ll see. Look, there’s wood piled there. I’ll get the place warmed up. You go get us a bucket of water from outside. Jillan! Come on, lad. Do as I tell you. Put me down here. Go on now.’
Jillan blinked, standing stupidly with a full bucket of water in front of Samnir. He didn’t remember having gone outside to get it, but he’d apparently done so. Hadn’t he had to break through a layer of ice? There were grazes on the knuckles of one hand, which stung.
‘Fill the kettle there and we’ll get it on the fire. Give me a beaker of the cold stuff first though. I’m dying of thirst.’ Samnir was slumped in the chair nearest the hearth: it seemed that just getting a few weak flames going had taken everything out of him.
Jillan did as Samnir told him and then went to the cupboards, most of which stood open. It seemed that some of his neighbours had been in and picked over his mother’s winter stores before she was even properly … His sightless hands closed on a couple of pieces of hard bread that the thieves had missed, or didn’t have the teeth to tackle. The bread had a pale mould covering it but would have to do. He dunked the pieces in water to soften then, skewered them on a toasting fork and then balanced them next to the kettle.
He breathed, watching the bread turn a darker green and then black. It smoked and popped. He didn’t see it any more. He rested his forehead against the warm bricks of the chimney and closed his eyes for a moment, a blessed moment. You know what you have to do, he told himself.
His eyes came open and he pulled the bread out of the fire before it was completely lost. Soft snores came from Samnir’s chair. Jillan was not about to disturb him, instead placing the bread on the corner of the table so that it would be within reach of the soldier when he awoke.
Then Jillan went outside and pulled the door gently closed behind him. He went to the nearest house with a white cross on its door and smoke coming from its chimney. He knocked several times and waited.
The Peculiar sat in the middle of the crossroads, one minute a picture of beatific contemplation, the next a brooding gargoyle. He’d been away from the world for too long, he knew that now. Time was as much a place as features of the landscape and its ridiculously short-lived people. It was incredible to think that the people of this world ever achieved anything, to be honest. How did they even manage to survive? Why did they bother? Probably because they didn’t know any different, and because the elseworlders kept them blissfully ignorant of where everything was heading. If the people were to know, of course, they’d want to undo themselves rather than suffer the alternative. And that would be that: no more people, no more world and no more Geas. The elseworlders would suffer a moment of annoyance, but then be free to move on to the next realm and Geas, immediately forgetting the loss. For the loss would mean nothing to them; unless every realm they visited started to undo itself in the same way, meaning the elseworlders never recouped the energy they’d spent in spreading through the realms of the Geas, such that they became overstretched and thinned to the point of non-existence. But the odds of that happening were so remote as to be … well, non-existent, which just proved his point anyway.
He’d withdrawn from the world because he had expected the elseworlders to have it all over and done with quite quickly. Yet the stubborn and wilful nature of this people and Geas meant everything had become tediously drawn out. The world had remained in limbo, balancing between succumbing to the elseworlders on the one hand and tipping into suicidal oblivion on the other. Much to his surprise, neither had yet occurred. The world would teeter one way and look like it was about to fall, but then something unexpected would catch them all out and the world would rock back the other way. How long could it remain so unstable and still survive?
Was it chance that the world still survived? The elseworlders didn’t believe in chance, of course, only complexity. The Peculiar differed from them in that, naturally, for was he not the Lord of Mayhem? For him there were no absolutes, although he conceded there were many near certainties, such as the way the formidably manipulative elseworlders had made particular eventualities inescapable. And the apparent certainty that nothing on this world could contend with the cosmic force that was the elseworlders, nor redirect their intent. Yet, just as the gods could not be omnipotent, so there could be no absolutes. Just as there were gods, there was sun-metal. Just as there was control, order and civilisation, there was himself, the Peculiar.
It was curious – no, telling – that he had been drawn back into the affairs of the world. He was still bound to this world and essential to it, it would seem. Either this signalled nothing was about to end or all the competing powers were finally colliding and about to settle things once and for all. All he knew was that he would either be bound here forever and lack the power to break free unless he secured sufficient amounts of sun-metal or, alternatively, he might manage to claim the Geas for himself, which wasn’t entirely outside the realms of possibility, especially if he could keep the fragile Freda and unreliable Jillan alive long enough to do so.
He sighed. And so he crouched here at the crossroads. He pondered the dust patterns on the road. The raindrops that had formed the patterns were transitory, and yet they also left signs of their passing, signs that could interrupt the flow of that which came after. He was about to drag a nail through the dust when the ground trembled. At last.
Freda pulled herself up out of the ground and blinked as she looked around.
‘Ah, there you are, my little mole.’ The Peculiar smiled in welcome. ‘I began to worry when you weren’t there to help our friends at the gates.’
Freda’s face remained as blank as stone, but he knew she’d be feeling a pang of guilt at his words. ‘Is friend Jillan all right?’ she asked. ‘All the heavy men have marched out of the city. Where are they going? Chasing friend Jillan?’
‘Precisely so. We should go to help him, yes?’
‘I promised to take him to Haven.’
‘Did you now? That’s nice of you, dear one. Pretty stones around your neck, by the way. Very becoming. They bring out the colour of your eyes. Your boyfriend gave them to you, did he?’
Freda looked at her feet, kicking the road. He watched her for a moment and sighed.
‘What’s wrong? If I’m to take you and Jillan to – how many more temples is it? – then we’re going to be together for quite a while. We shouldn’t be keeping secrets from each other. Otherwise, it will be difficult to be friends, won’t it? I presume you were going to mention to me that you found the temple of Wayfar, weren’t you? That’s where you were, wasn’t it, while the rest of us were risking our lives helping Jillan? So come, dear one, tell me what’s wrong. I promise I won’t be mad.’
She looked up at him from under her brows, judging him, something he really didn’t appreciate but had no choice but to tolerate on this occasion. ‘You will want to kill all the heavy men, won’t you? You like killing, Anupal.’
He raised an eyebrow, noting she no longer termed him friend. ‘Dear one, you understand something of my nature, do you not? I have always been consistent and true to myself. I have been honest with you throughout. I have saved you from capture twice, and I saved Jillan at Hyvan’s Cross, with a little help. Yes, my temper gets the better of me sometimes, and I get carried away, but none of us is perfect. I usually end up killing bad people or those that particularly irk me. I do not kill my friends. And I have already told you, I only try and do good things to make good friends. I am the same person as when we first became friends. I have not changed … but I sense you have, have you not, Freda? Perhaps you should be angry with yourself, therefore, rather than with me. Now shall we g—’
‘But when someone disagrees with the things you do and you get irked, it does not make them bad. It does not mean you can just kill them,’ she said slowly as she thought things through. ‘I want you to promise not to kill so many people any more.’
‘You what?’ he exclaimed, barely keeping his
pique and physical appearance under control. ‘May I remind you I am the god of such things. You’re asking me to change my fundamental principles, not to mention nature, just because of your squeamishness. It’s going to be hard enough to help Jillan without you imposing childish restrictions like that. There are at least five thousand Heroes marching on Godsend, not to mention that lunatic Saint. For your information, I barely got away intact last time we met, not that you bothered to ask, thank you very much. Too selfishly interested in your own ends all of a sudden, eh? Got a bit big for our boots, have we? Shame on you, Freda! I thought you were better than this.’
‘Promise me.’
‘Woman, you’re as stubborn as a rock!’ The Peculiar glared at her, but it was clear she was not about to budge. Cursing under his breath, he finally came back: ‘Look, I cannot offer you a binding agreement on this matter, but I can promise to try my best not to kill people unnecessarily. In return, when I do have to kill people, you’ll just have to trust my judgement that it was necessary. As a god, I know and can foresee things you cannot. All right? Now, are we friends again?’
She beamed gratefully at him. ‘Yes, friend Anupal. Thank you!’
‘Good. Now can we please get going before we miss out on all the fun?’
‘Race you to the next horizon!’ she shouted and dived back into the earth.
‘Hey! I wasn’t ready. Look, I’m in charge here. Come back!’ He smiled as he began to scheme his revenge on her.
Jillan’s hands shook as if he had the palsy, and he saw double for a few moments. He could hardly stay upright on the stool by the bedside. So tired. But it was another life saved, and mercifully the nagging, insistent voice of the taint had now faded to less than a whisper.
‘Saviours be praised! It’s a miracle! Not even the Saint has done this for us,’ sobbed the old man’s granddaughter as she witnessed the dark blooms of the plague disappearing from her grandfather’s skin. The man’s eyes were now clear instead of rheumy and he smiled up at her.
‘Nor will he,’ Jillan said exhaustedly.
The man reverently touched Jillan’s arm. ‘How can I ever thank you? I feel so strange. My head is clear, clearer than it’s ever been. I see everything differently now. It’s as if I’d lived my whole life in a dream but never really known it. I will never hear a word said against you again, Jillan Hunterson. I know your parents too. They are good people, no matter what others say.’
Jillan smiled sadly. ‘The Saint killed them.’
The man and his granddaughter gasped. ‘Do not say so!’ Shocked silence. Then: ‘But our Saint has been known to kill innocents before. All know what went on in New Sanctuary. I am deeply sorry for your loss, lad.’
‘Hush, Grandfather. People will hear you. And the Saint always knows.’
‘I don’t give a wet fart who hears! You weren’t there, girl. You didn’t see innocent throats cut as they pleaded for mercy, and the innards of your friends and family drawn out of them while they still breathed. So still your tongue! Saint Azual did those things or my name’s not Den Arnesson.’
The eyes of the chastised girl were full of fear, but she bit her lip and kept obediently quiet.
Den turned back to Jillan. ‘But you don’t look too well yourself, lad. You have shadows round your eyes and your pallor is worse than Helga’s day-old porridge. Takes its toll on you this healing, I can tell. Be sure you care for yourself first, else where will we all end up, eh?’
‘I’ll be all right,’ Jillan said, putting on a brave face. ‘Besides, there are still a lot of people waiting outside, some of whom are sure to die if they don’t get attention soon.’
Den pulled a face. ‘Well, I cannot argue with their having healing when I’ve had it ahead of them, I suppose. But you have a waxy look about you, so please be cautious with what you give or I’ll never forgive myself for what I’ve already had from you. No, don’t rise, master Jillan. Helga here will help me up so that we can be out and not be the cause of any overdue petitioner’s death. I’ll send Helga back with whatever victuals we can provide. That’s my girl! Up we go.’
Jillan tried to watch them depart, but they were blurs by the time they got to the door. He had no idea what time of day it was or even where he was in the town. At first he’d gone from house to house, but as word had spread of the healing, more and more had come to him. He’d started in some abandoned house or other and a line of people had quickly formed outside. There was no end to them, no end. But he would keep going until he had nothing left to give. How could he not, when he was the cause of the plague and the death of so many? Still, he’d moved beyond the point of pain now and hardly felt anything any more.
‘Come in,’ he said blindly. ‘Please, on the bed.’
There were heavy steps. ‘J-Jillan, it’s me.’
He knew that voice almost as well as his own. It had taunted and bullied him for years, although it seemed a little deeper now than he remembered. He looked up and met Haal’s eyes. ‘You.’
Haal raised his hands.
He’s going to hit me. He’s come for his revenge at last.
‘I-I know what you must think of me. Please, just let me say this and then I’ll go,’ the hefty youth rushed. ‘I’m sorry for the things I used to say to you, Jillan, and for that time when I … with Silus and Karl, you know.’ He took a breath to slow and steady his voice. ‘What happened was my fault, I know, and everything that happened to you after that. Pa was very angry with me – never seen him so angry – and told me I should apologise to your folks, but I didn’t get the chance before they were taken away. So I’m apologising to you now. Not just because it was the last thing my father told me to do before he got the plague, and not because of anything Hella said neither, but because I know I did wrong and I really am sorry.’ He looked down at his hands and fidgeted. ‘Don’t know what made me do it. I’ve never been as smart as you, have I, and that means when I get angry I do stupid things, see? Wish I wasn’t so dumb. Pa said I’d never be smart enough to be an elder like him. I sure miss him. Wish I’d made him proud.’
Tears in his eyes, Haal fell silent. Jillan didn’t know what to say. He’d never heard Haal say so much in one go before, and certainly never heard him say sorry for anything. The Haal he’d known before had always spoken with sneers, glowers and fists, but this boy was completely different. Jillan realised that in all probability, like Haal, he too must have changed. There’d been a time when he would have enjoyed nothing more than mocking his burly classmate, but now he couldn’t understand why he would want to. They shared the silence for a while, and then Jillan finally said, ‘’Sall right, Haal. I was sorry about what happened to Karl. Didn’t mean for it to happen.’ He paused. ‘Is your pa …?’
Haal nodded. ‘They took him out of the southern gate, with the other dead elders. Not many people went to the service. At the time we had no Minister to make ’em pay their respects, see, and everyone was right afeared of the plague.’
‘Sorry I didn’t get back sooner. I liked your pa. I could have tried to help. I dunno. My folks died too.’
Haal met his eyes and a sort of understanding passed between them. ‘What’re we gonna do, Jillan? Some townsfolk have been sneaking away now that there are no Heroes to stop ’em. Pagans don’t seem to care. But it’s not safe out there, is it?’
Jillan shrugged. ‘It’s no safer in here than out there, I reckon. I’ll stay though, to save who I can from the plague.’
‘I’ll stay too then,’ Haal replied. ‘If you’ll have me?’
Jillan frowned, not sure what to make of that. ‘Sure, if you want. They told you the Saint’s marching here with an army, right?’
Haal nodded. ‘One of the pagans had been showing me how they fight. I en’t afraid.’
Jillan nodded and waited. ‘What?’
‘It’s my ma.’
‘Bring her here then, Haal Corinson, and tell the next person waiting to come in.’
Haal actually ducked his head and tugg
ed at a lock of his hair as he backed out of the room.
Too tired to make sense of it all, Jillan just sat and waited for a minute. This time it was Samnir, freshly shaved and wearing leather armour.
‘Look at the state of you, lad! When did you last eat and sleep, eh?’
‘I-I …’ He struggled for an answer.
‘Thought so,’ Samnir replied as he put fresh bread, cheese and a bottle of water on the table. He folded his arms. ‘You’re not seeing anyone else till you’ve had that and I’ve seen you sleep for an hour. Don’t speak. Eat! That’s an order.’
Jillan didn’t have the strength to argue.
After a brief sleep he was allowed to start healing again, all the while under Samnir’s watchful, steely gaze. The soldier wouldn’t let him see more than one patient every fifteen minutes, which, Jillan had to admit, seemed to be just about enough to spare him keeling over with fatigue. After a few hours Jillan managed to persuade Samnir to leave his post.
‘I want you to find the blacksmith Thomas and a young mountain warrior called Aspin. They’re friends of mine. They’ll be helping Chief Braggar and Aspin’s father, Slavin, to organise the defence. You’ll probably find them near the inn. It occurs to me that the mountain men will not know much about scouting in forests in order to watch for the Saint’s army. And they will not know much about how the armies of the Empire go about laying a siege and fighting a battle.’
Samnir nodded. ‘And they won’t know how to fight against an army equipped with sun-metal. The pagans captured a few sun-metal weapons when they took Godsend, but I doubt they know one end of such a weapon from another, let alone how to use one to best effect in a battle. Very well, I will seek them out, but you will need to swear to me you will pace yourself sensibly here.’
‘I so swear as the Saviours and the gods are my witness,’ Jillian replied with a smile.
