“Meridian cloaks aren’t supposed to be clean.” Meedryk’s voice had no inflections. He stroked his right cheek. It was hot and swollen and agonizing to the touch. Shanks would have been flogged but he claimed that Meedryk started the fight and Meedryk couldn’t deny it. He didn’t mention the pages. Forbidden pages. A forbidden future, burned on the pyre.
Aramaesia seemed to sense his thoughts. “I am terribly sorry about the book Meedryk. What he did hurts my heart.”
Meedryk stared at his scarred hands, clenched them into fists. Aramaesia stood and hugged him clumsily, keeping her soiled hands away from him.
“How many… how many pages were you able to read?” he asked after a time.
“Only those first four pages, Meedryk. I wish I had kept the stack of them with me.”
“Me too,” whispered Meedryk. “The one thing that could have given meaning to my life. Burned to ashes.”
“Life’s meaning does not lie with objects, or even with knowledge, Meedryk.”
“I spent my youth dreaming of magic, Aramaesia. I’ve chased that dream my entire life.”
“Perhaps you follow the wrong dream,” she whispered. She stared at him for a long while before speaking again. “This Transcendence. If it exists, it is difficult to believe that there is not mention of it anywhere else.”
“It’s mentioned,” said Meedryk. “Some exercises. Some philosophy. Our masters tell us that when a student has learned all there is to know about magic using chemics, then they are ready to advance to Transcendence. Rubbish.”
“Perhaps you merely have to wait until you are ready. Until you have learned all that you are meant to learn.”
Meedryk took a deep breath. He pointed to a tree behind Aramaesia. “That’s a Fueryk. You can mix tallow and tromis with the bark of that tree to get Galvitreous Particulate.” He pointed to a mushroom. “Greycap fungus. Grind it with setter’s milk, add an infusion of laudinated potash and you get Froriam Gelid. I know more about chemics than most of my masters. I’ve read every scrap of information about Transcendence I could find. I practice every exercise that I’ve ever read about. Breathing. Relaxing. Even doing the silly stuff. ‘Tapping into the Furnace of Creation.’ I have no idea what that means, but I’ve tried it. How much more ready can I be? That book Shanks burned was about nothing but Transcendence.” He stood slowly. “Maybe it was a fake. Evidence created to support a hoax. But it was my last chance Aramaesia.” He rubbed at his face with both hands. “I will die mixing chemicals and looking for the truth. I’ll never know if Transcendence exists.”
Aramaesia sat down next to him. “Perhaps you already know,” she said. “Perhaps you should talk with yourself in an honest fashion.”
Meedryk’s voice was raw. “I want to believe, Aramaesia! I want it to be real!” Another silence settled on them. Meedryk traced the scars on one hand with a forefinger.
“There is magic in the world, Meedryk. But it may not show itself in the way you expect it to. Your mind can create magic. If your mind is trained and disciplined, you can accomplish things that are amazing. Perhaps that is why the book talked of esereult.”
“Esereult. Is that about breathing deeply? Breathing and relaxing?”
“Yes, some of that,” said Aramaesia. “But there is much more.”
“Probably the same rubbish I’ve read about.” He wiped at his eyes angrily and stood. “Why didn’t you read some of it last night?”
“I fell asleep, Meedryk,” Aramaesia’s voice rose and a few of the soldiers looked her way. She spoke more quietly. “Esereult is not rubbish Meedryk. It is preparing your mind and your body to achieve the unachievable.” She paused, thinking about what she had just said.
“I’m sure it’s wonderful,” he said. “But it won’t do me a bit—“
“Sit down.” She said it so sharply that he sat down immediately. From a pouch at her side she drew out a bracelet with dangling charms, handed it to him.
“What’s—“
“Close your eyes,” she said.
He hesitated, then closed them
“Now, let your fingers run over each charm of the orison bracelet, one at a time. And as you do this, push everything out of your awareness. Listen with your mind.”
“What?”
“I can’t read any more of that book,” she said. “But I can teach you what it talked about. Esereult. Something I know very well.”
He opened his eyes, looked at the bracelet for a long time, then shrugged.
“Good. Now breathe deeply and forget all that you know.”
Chapter 15
Some say Maug Maurai is the gateway to The Dark Place. But they are wrong. It is the gateway to Eleyria. Because so many of Nuldryn’s finest warriors have ascended from the floor of the wretched wood.
—Kethryn Whitewind, Count of Tyftinshire
Black Murrogar dropped to one knee when the very last of the maurg had fallen, for the very last time. His breath came in great gulps. He placed one hand on the ground to steady himself. The bodies of six maurg lay piled in front of him, like the carcass of a many-armed beast.
Lokk Lurius cleaned his short swords on a dead woman’s wimple, his shoulders rising and falling with deep breaths. Eleven dead maurg had fallen at his feet.
Drissdie dropped his sword and sobbed; short, barking sobs. He fell to his knees and covered his bloody face with even bloodier gauntlets, drew in a deep breath and let out a series of long, loud cries. He had killed three maurg in the short battle.
Murrogar tried to stand, lost his balance and fell to one knee again. Blood leaked along the bottom edge of his mail, dribbling down from the wounds on his belly and back.
Lokk took off his helm and wiped an arm across his forehead, smearing blood. “Lojen can’t keep you alive, spouting like that. Drissdie help him with the mail. I’ll have a look.”
Drissdie didn’t move. His muffled cries sounded from behind his gauntlets.
“Hannish!” Lokk barked. “I told you—”
“Leave him be,” Murrogar said, panting. “Blood’ll stop soon.”
The Eridian shrugged and rose to his feet. Murrogar watched him walk to an abandoned pack and rummage through it.
“You ain’t bad with the swords.” Murrogar said.
“I’m the best you’ve seen,” Lokk called without looking back.
Murrogar chuckled. “You ain’t even the best I’ve seen this week, Plague.”
Lokk turned around and held up Sage’s hunting horn.
Murrogar nodded. “Would have been more useful four hours ago.”
Drissdie lowered his hands, his breaths coming fast and shallow, tears making his face glisten. “Blow it! The squad’ll come, d’you suppose?”
Lokk tossed the curved horn to Murrogar, who looped it through his belt. “Don’t want to blow a horn deep in the night,” the old hero said. “It’d be rude to wake some poor sleeping maurg. Or some poor, sleeping worse things.”
Drissdie gazed out into the forest and shoved himself back, closer to Murrogar.
Lokk nodded to the old hero. “You gonna do a watch? Old men like you don’t need much sleep, do they?”
Murrogar grinned. “Your Galadane is good for an Eridian slave.”
Lokk froze.
“You try to hide that mark,” Murrogar said. “Wrapping those cords around your arms. But I caught a glimpse.”
Lokk didn’t reply. Didn’t move.
“So tell me, how does an Eridian slave learn to fight like you do? And talk Galadane like you do? And how does an Eridian slave get a pair of swords like that? Fancy things. I’ve seen one just like them before. A thane had the thing in his collection. Tried to impress me by showing it. He said special warriors used them in Eridia. Rich warriors. Not slaves. Said that in Eridia one of those swords costs more than a small castle. Told me he paid five thousand drakes for his. I didn’t believe him. Who would pay that for a sword?”
Lokk folded his arms. “They’re theiyras. And they’re worth
twice that.”
Murrogar stared intently at the Eridian. “Tell me who are you, Plague.”
Lokk glanced into the forest, then back at the old hero. “I’m you,” he replied. “Only, better.”
Murrogar laughed, spurring a wave of coughing and more blood. He groaned and pulled his arm tight against his abdomen. He had felt alright for a time. A surge of strength from Lojen. But Lojen was gone now, and Murrogar was dying. “I slit the throat of the last Eridian I met,” He replied. “And I liked him. What do you think I’ll do to you?”
Lokk shrugged. “Bleed on my mail.”
Murrogar chuckled again. “Gonna make you sob an apology for that when I’ve had a rest.”
Lokk watched the blood drip from Murrogar’s mail. “What got you? Tore you up like that?”
Murrogar smiled. “Demon snot.”
“The gut,” Lokk said. “What ripped your belly?”
Murrogar opened the torn mail coat and gambeson, stared at his stitched flesh and shook his head. He thought of the Beast, leaning from a bridge, its howl making the water ripple.
“I stuck my sword into that creature,” Murrogar said. “Almost to the hilt. Right into the soft buttery middle.”
“The Beast?”
Murrogar nodded. “I might have made it sneeze. Not much else. The thing came back and did everything but somersaults to show I hadn’t hurt it.” He shook his head again. “Don’t try to kill it, Plague. Find your squad, and get out.”
“Not a beast alive I can’t kill,” Lokk replied.
“Seen many beasts have you?”
Lokk sat down with his back facing Murrogar’s back. “More than any man should.”
They sat in silence while Drissdie darted to his pack and dragged it back.
“Did the Beast sting you?” Lokk asked.
“It barely touched me,” Murrogar replied. “Unstitched my food sack and bolted off.”
“You shouldn’t be alive. Not with those wounds.”
“I’m Lojen’s chosen one. I’ll put in a word for you when I get up to Eleyria.”
“You didn’t get stung?”
Murrogar glanced back at Lokk. “I’d say it in Eridian if I knew how. I didn’t get stung. You want me to say it slower?”
“I hear something,’ Drissdie whispered. “Something’s moving out there!”
Lokk and Murrogar looked into the forest. Faint glowing orbs.
“No,” Drissdie brought a trembling hand to his forehead. “No. No more. Please. No more.”
Lokk rose to his feet and glanced at Murrogar. “Why don’t you sit this one out, old man.”
Murrogar held a hand out to Lokk. “Just get me up and pointed the right way.”
Lokk took the old hero’s hand.
Chapter 16
“Landscrubbers are like clinc coins,” Murrogar said. “Commoners—merchants and craftsmen—they’re the hawk coins. And the nobility are drakes. You see?”
“So I’m a drake.” Ulrean replied.
“No, Ulrean. You’re to be a duke. You are a jewel.”
A smile painted Ulrean’s resplendent features. “I am worth thousands of barons and nobles! Hundreds of thousands of landscrubbers!”
“No,” Murrogar said with a scowl. “You ain’t worth a clinc more than any of them. Those hundreds of thousands of landscrubbers make up your worth. Without them, you’re nothing but a shiny stone.”
—from “The Headsman of Laraytia,” by Jurn Hallion
Morning brought a nasty chill, and a thick, wet fog. Shafts of sunlight fought through the canopy and lit the writhing webs of mist. Aramaesia sat outside the officer’s canopy, singing softly. Sage, limping by to fetch firewood, gave the archer a look. “A little cold and early for so much sunshine, Sunshine. Shouldn’t you be in the tent?”
Aramaesia gestured toward the boy, whose head was once again on her lap. “Look,” she beamed. “He is awake!”
Sage knelt with wide eyes and looked into the boy’s face. “Awake?” he asked. “Impossible. No sensible person is awake at this hour.”
The boy nodded. A hint of a nod. Sage noted the brooch on the child’s chest. It bore the sigil of Black Murrogar. “The gods have touched you, little lord. Aramaesia will have you up and dancing in no time.”
Maribrae pushed through the tent flap, rubbing at her eyes with one hand and clutching a bouquet of ribbons in the other. “Awake!” She knelt beside him. “Morning ends our mourning. He is awake!”
Aramaesia laughed. “He is a miracle, this child.”
Sage squinted, studying the boy closely. His voice was low when he spoke. “He is, at the very least, a mystery.”
“Tell us everything, little lord!” Maribrae said. “I will write every word of your adventures down. I will make songs of it!”
Aramaesia caught Maribrae’s eye and shook her head softly.
Maribrae squinted at the archer, then nodded softly. “But first, I need to brighten this canopy if it is to be our home, and perhaps, in turn, the brig’s mood will follow. We shall speak, you and I, little Cobblethrie.” She curtsied again and looped around behind the officer’s tent.
“Watch yourself, Master Cobblethrie,” Sage said to the child. “She’ll bury you in ribbons if you’re not careful.”
The boy’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. A whisper of raspy words. “Is my …” he licked his lips and tried again. “Is my mother dead?”
Sage clamped his lips together, rubbed at his forehead. “Dead? Well, ah... dead is a very... general sort of a word...”
“You must not speak, little master,” said Aramaesia. “You will tire.”
Sage’s eyes flashed thanks. “We’ll need more wood if we want warmth,” he said. “Fires need wood. And wood, to be gotten, needs people. Me, I’m one of those people who... who get the...” He cleared his throat and smiled at the child. “You two should go and sit by the fire pit. It’ll be warmer momentarily. By your leave, little lord.” He patted the boy’s shoulder, bowed, then walked toward the edge of the clearing.
The child watched Sage depart. He looked at Aramaesia with eyes that did not belong on a child. “Is my father dead too, then?”
She took his hands in hers. “I cannot adequately express my sorrow. I am so terribly sorry.”
His eyes overflowed and thick tears rolled down his face. Aramaesia lifted another square of Maribrae’s old dresses and wiped his cheeks. She stared into his eyes, and his hand found hers.
“Ulrean,” he said quietly. “My name is Ulrean.”
“Ulrean,” she repeated, and hugged him tightly to her breast.
†††
Grae woke and left camp, to shave at a nearby brook. He splashed water on his face before returning, then walked to his canopy. He hadn’t slept in it, but it was still a symbol of his authority. The squad mates were all awake now, starting the fire, wrapping up the spears and what little other equipment they had left. Aramaesia sat by the fire, the child’s head in her lap again. Grae watched them as he laced the cuffs of his dropshirt.
Hammer walked over and yawned. “The boy woke this morning.”
Grae was silent for a long time. “Woke? Again?” He watched the child, saw him speak to Aramaesia.
“Aye,” said Hammer. “’e’s talkin’ again and everything.”
“Sterling,” said Grae, rubbing a hand over his face.
“Guess we’ll have one more member of the squad, eh?”
“Is he going to make it?”
“Aye. Looks like ‘e might pull through.”
“Aramaesia will be pleased,” said Grae.
Hammer studied Grae. “Good thing we didn’t leave him in the forest, eh?”
Grae nodded. “Looks like the archer was right.”
“Aye,” said Hammer. “She’s got you in the soft spot.”
Grae eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“You didn’t even shout at ‘er when she was defying you. Took her off to your pavilion to soothe ‘er ruffles.”
He grinned. “All that stuff about dying alone and such. You’re quite the senti when it comes to pretty Gracidmarians.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” Grae replied. “She’s an efficient archer. You have to lead without alienating, Hammer.”
Hammer looked at the woven circlet of grass that Grae wore on his wrist. The one Aramaesia had given him back at the bridge on the Typtaenai. “You’re being nice to ‘er because she’s an efficient archer.” He chuckled.
Grae tucked his arms behind his back. “I watched her curve an arrow around a line of hedges. She’s a damned fine archer.”
“Course she is, sir.”
Grae waved his hand dismissively. “Let’s get the men together. We need to find Lokk and Drissdie.”
“Lokk, Drissdie and Black Murrogar,” Hammer said.
Grae stole a glance at Hammer, who was watching the men, and thought carefully about his next words. “Hammer, this will upset you.”
The old soldier didn’t look at Grae. “Murrogar’s dead, ain’t ‘e?”
Grae didn’t speak.
“Ever since you told them ‘e was alive, you flinch at the sound of ‘is name.”
Neither spoke for a time.
“Did you see it?” Hammer said finally. “Are you certain?”
The old soldier’s eyes were a plea. Hammer wanted there to be a chance. He wanted to imagine that Murrogar could still be alive. But Grae needed him to know the truth. Needed an accomplice in his lie. “One of those tree-pods hit him. Shattered his back. I watched the life leave his body. Watched his eyes become stone.”
Hammer looked into the forest. One of his hands clenched into a tight fist, then unclenched. “Well, tha...” his voice broke, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “Well, that’s that.”
“I’m sorry, Hammer. He was my hero, too.”
Hammer nodded over and over, still staring out into the forest. “We should...” He took a deep quivering breath. “We should go to the camp. Give him a farewell. Can get our packs too.”
“The others can’t know, Hammer. You saw them. They’re ready to abandon the mission. Murrogar gives them hope. And we need to keep that hope alive.”
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