The Godseeker Duet

by David A Willson

  Nara held her breath. The powerful pain came as metal pierced flesh, in one side of her hand and out the other. Her heart pounded with the anticipation as she waited for the horrible magic to follow. But other than the pain, there was nothing. Not like she expected. Not like Bylo had feared. Then, she began to notice the ceppit's energy. Through the pain, it was warm and familiar to her, its energy comforting. Even with her eyes closed, she could see the glow and feel its warmth leaking into her, returning to her spirit as if returning home.

  "Open your eyes, girl."

  Nara shook herself from the sudden calm that came over her, and Father Taylor looked at her straight on.

  Quietly, he whispered, "Do you notice anything? Any change at all?"

  "Um, nothing," she said, hoping to hide the truth of her magic. As the priest looked into her eyes, she wondered what training he'd had in the discovery of gifted. Was he sincerely looking for a change in her or merely performing a charade for the villagers? Could he see through her lie? Should she tell him? That she had magic, and that she could help? Or could gifts still come to the others on stage, gifts that would bring food to this town and allow her to keep her secret hidden? She wanted Father Taylor to see. She wanted him to know. Then it wouldn't be her fault at all, and Bylo's efforts would not have been unraveled by her, but instead by Dei's will, right?

  Look deeper, Father Taylor. Can you see that I'm different? Can you tell?

  But after a moment, he looked away, and she exhaled in both relief and disappointment. She scanned the crowd again for Bylo, but her attention was jolted when Taylor removed the blade and a fresh stab of pain lanced up her arm.

  Far from the stage, Bylo watched. A pack and knapsacks rested on the grass near his feet, stuffed full of food, blankets, and travel gear for what he expected would be a necessary escape from Dimmitt. Now that Nara had been announced without incident, he exhaled a sigh, the tight ball of stress in his mind uncoiling. He should have trusted her.

  A skiff was ready in a cove on the other side of the island, and he'd made plans to sail far away. The newly-inked strength tattoo on his left thigh throbbed, ready to power him for miles, even bearing heavy packs and his little girl on a shoulder. He now felt silly for the preparations, and as many of the crowd turned to him, expecting him to rush up and care for Nara's injury, he realized just how poor his judgment had been.

  He reached inside one of the packs, grabbing an old shirt and chiding himself for having no suitable bandages. As he ran toward the stage to help Nara, Elden Sack's sister passed in front of him, grabbing Nara's injured hand and catching it up in a bandage. Bylo followed them both as they moved around the back of the stage to wash and dress the wound. Shame overcame him as several in the crowd snickered in his direction.

  Mykel was relieved. Worry about the day melted away as he realized that his anxiety had been focused on Nara, not himself. Her announcement was safely past, no gift was apparent, and there was no danger of losing her. He took a cleansing breath and his heart rate slowed, shoulders relaxing.

  The priest gestured for Mykel to step forward, and as he did so, Mykel noticed Nara pull away from the aid station, squeezing the bandage in her right hand to staunch the bleeding. She moved toward the side of the stage, eyes fixed on him.

  As he offered his palm, Mykel looked briefly over at his friend and duplicated her small, brave smile. Would he be gifted today? Would he be able to take Nara and Sammy away from this place, leaving Dimmitt behind? Even if he received no gift, they would leave Dimmitt. He'd take his brother and his friend, and they would find a place to live in peace. Away from Pop.

  He looked out at the audience to find Sammy there, sitting next to Lina, his eyes full of expectation and hope, as if he agreed with Mykel's plan. Mykel smiled. They would soon be free.

  Then the pain came.

  The pain jarred Mykel—not for its intensity but for its nature. It was different from what he'd expected—a pulling sensation. It wasn't just a knife, it was a living thing, tugging at him.

  It began to grow, the intensity increasing. It sucked at his essence, becoming a dark pit that drew him in, a leech that now clamped onto his whole arm. That drained him of life. A wave of cold rose to his shoulder, and panic struck him like a mule kick to the chest. What was happening? Something was wrong! He tried to pull away, but the wave moved higher, freezing him in place. He couldn't move at all. It flowed up to his torso, to his neck, and then to his head. The wave was not just cold, it was alive, it was famished, and it was angry.

  His vision faded, his legs went rubbery, and he dropped to the stage. Then the fearful cold disappeared in an instant, replaced by physical pain of incredible power throughout his whole body, active and tortuous. Streaks of fire lanced across his skin as if he were being attacked with a hundred knives. He could feel his muscles tear and his bones weaken, preparing to shatter.

  Mykel tried to scream, but his lungs held no air, already stolen by the demon that was this ceppit, the knife that now consumed him. His mind felt dizzy, then dark.

  Like a candle blown by a gust from an open window, Mykel Aragos' spark winked out.

  As sympathy pains racked her whole body, Nara sprinted for the stage on stumbling legs, the bandage on her hand coming loose and dropping onto the grass of the field as she launched herself toward her friend with reckless abandon. The world seemed to darken as the panic in her heart narrowed her vision, allowing her to see only Mykel. She launched herself upon him even as Bylo, Father Taylor, and the other villagers froze in place, recognition of the threat now apparent on their faces.

  Mykel Aragos was cursed, and he was dying right in front of them.

  Nara kneeled and hugged Mykel tightly, covering him in a protective embrace, willing his wounds to heal and his light to brighten, even as she pressed against his cold skin with her warm hands. He was fading quickly.

  "Hang on, Mykel," she said. "I'm here."

  Defiance surged inside her, and as she had done with the ceppit last night, she reached inside herself, drawing upon the reserve of energy within, and poured herself into Mykel.

  At first, nothing happened. Then she noticed the flow begin, some warmth returning to his skin under her hands, and she realized it was working. Hope sprang up inside her as she poured more and more of herself into him, even as a weakness grew in her own legs. Then panic came over her as the warmth under her hands disappeared, Mykel's spirit fading with it. A dark fog engulfed her, obscuring her vision of the stage and the world around her. Looking only with her special sight, she saw her energy pouring into him like a river, flowing down his arm, and disappearing into the ceppit that still impaled his palm.

  Of course! The ceppit was draining him, and through him, it was draining her too!

  She willed her arm to move with what little strength remained and reached for the glowing ceppit, then extracted it from his limp, cold hand and tossed it as far away as she could. Then she reached inside herself again to pour more strength into Mykel, to rekindle his flame once again, but there wasn't enough of her. She had wasted too much. She was failing, and her friend was dying because of it.

  Straining, her vision faded and her head pounded with each painful heartbeat, yet the only things she saw were her own light and his weak spark, flickering and fading out. Dizziness overcame her, and she lost the ability to think, focused only on this task, this effort to save him, even if it cost everything.

  In mindless desperation, she reached out for help, looking through the fog to find thousands of little bits of light around her. The blades of grass. Energy. Life. She gathered them up, pouring all of them into Mykel. When those were gone, she looked again, and another light caught her eye. It wasn't bright, but it was close.

  She reached out with her mind and tried to tap it but found it to be enclosed in something hard like glass that repelled her efforts to reach it. But this light carried a strength that might save them. With desperation and focus, she reached out and broke the hard covering, cracking
it. The energy flared in her vision like a sun, unleashing a torrent of warmth and power and strength. She called, and it responded, pouring down through her arm, across her body, and into her fallen friend.

  The light's power had immediate effect, and she saw Mykel's flame rekindle and grow stronger. As she pulled more of the strange, comforting energy, she fed it to him and Mykel shuddered beneath her hand. She kept some for herself, just enough to stay conscious, and poured all the rest into him. When she looked at the light source again, it was gone; the glass-like shell that once held it was blackened and dead. She tried to pull her mind out of the fog, but didn't have the energy.

  She looked at Mykel's still form, wanting to talk to him, whisper words of encouragement or perhaps to scream for him to wake, but her tongue was heavy, her strength gone, and her vision fading. She collapsed upon him in an awkward position, and the last thing she saw was her right palm, absent its dressing, dripping blood onto the announcement stage.

  A prayer escaped her lips, thanking Dei for sending the source of strength that had saved them both, then consciousness left her like the last ray of light at sundown.

  9

  Aftermath

  Father Taylor tried to pick up the pieces of what had become a disaster. Sure, he'd received training on how to manage the grief and chaos following the announcement of a cursed, but he never expected to preside over one.

  How could this have happened? The ceppit wasn't imbued, no more than a bone-handled knife. How could Mykel Aragos have been announced by it? Remembering back to the ceremony, he realized the blade had felt lighter, and he then realized what must have happened. It must have been imbued, and he had missed the signs. But by whom?

  Amos Dak now lay dead upon the stage, his skin shriveled, blackened, and bloody as if he had been the unholy one rather than the Aragos boy. Perplexing.

  As if that wasn't enough, Taylor now had to tangle with Gretchen Wipp. When Bylo Dall had scooped up the fallen kids and ran into the woods, Wipp had stepped forward, screaming that someone murdered her husband.

  A throng of villagers had soon after rushed to her side.

  "What?"

  "Who?"

  "How?"

  Taylor saw Wipp looking about, wide-eyed and apparently dizzy in confusion with the sudden attention.

  "Did you see?"

  "A cursed, could you believe it?"

  "Oh, honey, I—"

  "Which way? I'll chase them down!"

  Their fearful quips soon became jeers as their confusion turned to anger, directed at the villager they had chosen to blame.

  Bylo Dall.

  The betrayal spread through the mob faster than a well-fueled fire, and many townsfolk began to demand answers. And justice.

  It was all too much for a tired priest to manage, so he had locked himself in his office and set his head upon the desk. Eyes closed, he shut out the sounds of angry townsfolk in the sanctuary who screamed at each other and took the Lord's name in vain.

  Taylor replayed the scene in his mind, trying to make sense of the events that had unfolded too rapidly to understand. Mykel had fallen, writhing in agony. Then, Nara Dall had launched herself on the stage to embrace him. After a moment, the boy's condition had improved, color coming back to his face. Then, Amos Dak leaned down to offer help and Nara reached up and gripped Dak's arm, who then fell down like Mykel Aragos, his portly shape striking the wood planking of the stage with an audible thud. Amos' face went pale, mouth open in shock and pain, his skin shriveling up, blackening, and cracking. Taylor recalled the guttural scream that came from Dak just before he died. Horrible.

  A few moments later, when Taylor descended the steps of the stage, he saw that much of the grass in the field below, once green, was now blackened and dead. Closer inspection revealed the grass to be brittle and shriveled as if burned by a great fire. Harvested.

  Villagers now milled about the field in confusion. The window was ajar, and he heard talk of Kai's demons, others planning to alert the constable's office in Junn, and still others griping about the church. Several wanted to form a posse to apprehend Bylo Dall.

  Still, some youths remained to be announced, and while Taylor didn't feel the strength to do so, it was expected that he would manage things somehow.

  A deep breath filled his lungs as he opened the office door, resolving to calm the chaos with a comforting scripture. Perhaps something from the Book of Joy would help. He stepped out of his hiding place with a smile on his lips, but despair in his heart.

  Bylo ran. His feet pounded the forest floor, avoiding the main paths, breaking twigs and leaving deep footprints as he flew from the village. The unconscious bodies of Nara and Mykel weighed him down, and he occasionally misplaced a foot and sank deeply into wet ground. After what seemed like an hour, he slowed and set the youths down in a grassy clearing, the fading sun providing barely enough light to check on them.

  Although unconscious, they were still breathing. Both were pallid and weak, and a glance at Mykel confirmed Bylo's fears. The boy's skin was hard and dry, with cracks apparent all over his face, arms, and chest. The fissures oozed dark blood, and his breath was shallow and erratic. Being carried over the last few miles had surely not improved his condition.

  Bylo thought to use a rag as a bandage but then had a better idea. He dropped his packs on the ground and opened a side pocket to retrieve ink and a stylus. He pulled up Mykel's sleeve, exposing an upper arm. Using spittle and a rag, he wiped away the blood and fluid from an area of skin. Carefully, Bylo drew a rune of health on the surface.

  His eyes strained in the growing darkness, but the wounds near the rune stopped oozing and closed slightly. Not enough. As if to emphasize Bylo's failure, Mykel seemed to stop breathing altogether for a moment, then moved again, letting out a low raspy noise. His airway was closing.

  Bylo turned the boy on his side, hoping it would help move air more easily. He checked Nara and was grateful to find her faring better, with steady breaths, although still unconscious. Bylo pulled a blanket out of his pack and laid it over her gently, then turned back to Mykel.

  The sun was almost over the horizon and along with it would go his ability to see. Bylo considered his remaining options. If he stayed here and cared for them, avoiding the trauma associated with movement, villagers might find them and prevent their escape. The clumsy run through the woods had surely left signs that would be easy to follow.

  As he had feared, Nara had imbued the ceppit. There could be no other explanation. The chaos of the ceremony and the fall of the innkeeper had likely ushered in the truth about Nara. Consequences would be paid. Add to this that Mykel was cursed, an altogether unforeseen event, and Bylo's anxiety was palpable. The boy's nature bore religious implications. Even if his condition improved, he would eventually be imprisoned and executed by the church. The cursed did not survive announcements, and that Mykel still lived was an affront to everything holy.

  This was all Nara's fault, wasn't it? No, of course not. She wanted to help her neighbors, nothing more. Bylo should have expected her to imbue the ceppit, and he bore the true guilt for this catastrophe.

  But there was little time for such thoughts. The strength rune he had inscribed into his own thigh earlier in the day was large, but its power was not infinite. The size of the tattoo was intended to extend the duration of the magic, but Bylo was sure that precious little remained. He needed the power to finish the trip across the island, but if he moved Mykel again, he would surely perish. The health rune on the surface of the boy's skin did little more than stop the bleeding on nearby eruptions before running dry, evaporating into the air. The tug of war in his mind between the urgency of moving Mykel and the need for him to rest gave birth to an idea that was both bold and stupid. A health tattoo?

  He turned to Mykel and pulled his trousers down slightly over his hip, exposing an area with no open wounds. He wiped a portion of skin clean with a rag, then went into his pack to retrieve his tattoo needle. Experiments showed th
at while a rune painted on the skin gave minimal effect, a tattoo under the skin carried the magic for hours. A health tattoo would be the best hope for Mykel's medical condition and might help him survive the rest of the violent journey.

  As he inked Mykel's skin, he squinted ever harder in the failing light, pausing periodically. Doubts emerged in his mind. Inscribing a magical tattoo onto an unconscious person without their permission was a bold plan that could not be undone. When he first attempted this on himself, the power faded later that day and left no lasting side effects. But he was in uncharted territory here, performing magic on a wounded, barely breathing young man.

  He lifted the needle away from Mykel's skin. He had planned to finish the tattoo and carry the boy away, but if the tattoo failed to heal him, the rest of the journey would surely kill him. Maybe it would be better to leave him here and let the villagers do what they would? Mykel might live a while longer, or at least wouldn't die because of some madness Bylo had concocted.

  But how would such an act be seen by Nara? Considering this, all doubt left his mind. Nara would not be able to bear the death of her childhood friend, and success was imperative. He would save this boy. It was all or nothing, and if he didn't finish soon, he would be inking a magical tattoo onto a dying, cursed boy in complete darkness. He hurried.

  As he finished, the last of the ambient light departed, and he could no longer see to check if Mykel's wounds were healing. He fumbled about with his packs, replacing ink, stylus, needle, and blanket, then strapped it all onto his back. He gingerly hefted the youths onto his shoulders and walked through the darkness in what he hoped was the right direction. The inking of the tattoo had been hasty and misguided in the half-light and surely wouldn't work. Mykel would die on his shoulder, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  He bit his lip in frustration at his poor planning. Dimmitt should have been a haven for him and Nara, but he had botched everything. Where would they go, and what would they do? How might he explain Mykel's death to his dear girl? What excuses could he fashion, and would she ever forgive him?