by Mel Odom
The ashes roiled from the bucket in a dense black cloud that paused in midair. The long stream of ash twisted like a snake on a hot road as it floated on the mild breeze wafting through the clearing. Abruptly, the ash thinned and shot forward, creating whorls and loops that dropped over the ground. In places, the lines of ash crossed over other lines, but the lines didn’t touch. Instead, the loops and whorls stayed ten feet away, creating enough distance that a man might walk under.
The sight of the thin line of ash hanging in the air caught the attention of the audience. Perhaps a mage might be able to do something like that, but not a typical priest. Enough curiosity was created that most people wanted to see what Cholik would do next.
When the line of ash ended its run, it glowed with deep violet fire, competing just for a moment with the deepening twilight darkening the eastern sky and the embers of the sunset west over the Gulf of Westmarch.
Cholik faced the audience, his eyes meeting theirs. “I bring you power,” he said. “A path that will carry you to the dreams you’ve always had but were denied by misfortune and outdated dogma.”
An undercurrent of conversation started around the clearing. Several voices rose in anger. The populace of Bramwell clung to their belief in Zakarum.
“There is another way to the Light,” Cholik said. “That path lies along the Way of Dreams. Dien-Ap-Sten, Prophet of the Light, created this path for his children, so that they might have their needs met and their secret wishes answered.”
“I’ve never heard of yer prophet,” a crusty old fisherman in the front shouted back. “An’ ain’t none of us come here to hear the way of the Light maligned.”
“I will not malign the way of the Light,” Cholik responded. “I came here to show you a clearer way into the beneficence of the Light.”
“The Zakarum Church already does that,” a grizzled old man in a patched priest’s robe stated. “We don’t need a pretender here digging into our vaults.”
“I didn’t come here looking for your gold,” Cholik said. “I didn’t come here to take.” He was conscious of Kabraxis watching him from inside the coach. “In fact, I will not allow the gathering of a single copper coin this night or any other that we may camp in your city.”
“The Duke of Bramwell will have something to say to you if you try staying,” an elderly farmer said. “The duke don’t put up with much in the way of grifters and thieves.”
Cholik pushed aside his stung pride. That chore was made even harder by the knowledge that he could have blasted the life from the man with one of the spells he’d learned from Kabraxis. After he’d become one of Zakarum’s priests and even while he was wearing the robe of a novice, no one had dared challenge him in such a manner.
Crossing the clearing, Cholik stopped in front of a large family with a young boy so crippled and wasted by disease that he looked like a stumbling corpse.
The father stepped up in front of Cholik protectively. The man gripped the knife sheathed at his waist.
“Good sir,” Cholik said, “I see that your son is afflicted.”
The farmer gazed around self-consciously. “By the fever that come through Bramwell eight years ago. My boy ain’t the only one that was hurt by it.”
“He hasn’t been right since the fever.”
Nervously, the farmer shook his head. “None of them has. Most died within a week of getting it.”
“What would you give to have one more healthy son to help you work your farm?” Cholik asked.
“I ain’t going to have my boy hurt or made fun of,” the farmer warned.
“I will do neither,” Cholik promised. “Please trust me.”
Confusion filled the man’s face. He looked at the short, stocky woman who had to be the mother of the nine children who sat in their wagon.
“Boy,” Cholik said, addressing the young boy, “would you stay a burden to your family?”
“Hey,” the farmer protested. “He ain’t no burden, and I’ll fight the man that says he is.”
Cholik waited. As an ordained priest of the Zakarum Church, he’d have had the father penalized at once for daring to speak to him in such a manner.
Wait, Kabraxis whispered in Cholik’s mind.
Cholik waited, knowing the audience’s full attention was upon him. It would be decided here, he told himself, whether the audience stayed or went.
Something lit the boy’s eyes. His head, looking bulbous on his thin shoulders and narrow chest, swiveled toward his father. Reaching up with an arthritic hand with fingers that had to have been painful to him all the time and could barely be expected to enable him to feed himself, the boy tugged on his father’s arm.
“Father,” the boy said, “let me go with the priest.”
The farmer started to shake his head. “Effirn, I don’t know if this is right for you. I don’t want you to get your hopes up. The healers at the Zakarum Church haven’t been able to cure you.”
“I know,” the boy said. “But I believe in this man. Let me try.”
The farmer glanced at his wife. She nodded, tears flashing diamondlike in her eyes. Looking up at Cholik, the farmer said, “I hold you accountable for what happens to my son, priest.”
“You may,” Cholik said politely, “but I assure you the healing that young Effirn will shortly enjoy shall be the blessing of Dien-Ap-Sten. I am not skilled enough to answer this boy’s wish to be healed and whole.” He glanced at the boy and offered his hand.
The boy tried to stand, but his withered legs wouldn’t hold him. He folded his hand with its twisted and crooked fingers inside Cholik’s hand.
Cholik marveled at the weakness of the boy. It was hard to remember when he’d been so weak himself, but it had been only scant months ago. He helped the boy to his feet. Around the clearing almost every voice was stilled.
“Come, boy,” Cholik said. “Place your faith in me.”
“I do,” Effirn replied.
Together, they walked across the clearing. Not quite to the nearest end of the long rope of black ash that still sparked with violent fire, the boy’s legs gave out. Cholik caught Effirn before he could fall, overcoming his own discomfort at handling the disease-ridden child.
Cholik knew that every eye in the clearing was upon him and the child. Doubt touched Cholik as he gazed up at the tall trees around the clearing. If the boy died along the path of the Black Road, perhaps he could hold the townspeople off long enough to get away. If he didn’t get away, he was certain he’d be swinging by a noose from one of those branches overhead. He’d heard about the justice meted out by the people of Bramwell to bandits and murderers among their community.
And Cholik intended to help them suckle a serpent to their breasts.
At the beginning of the black ash trail, Cholik helped the boy stand on his own two feet.
“What do I do?” Effirn whispered.
“Walk,” Cholik told him. “Follow the trail, and think about nothing but being healed.”
The boy took a deep, shuddering breath, obviously rethinking his decision to follow a path so obviously filled with magic. Then, tentatively, the boy released his grip on Cholik’s hands. His first steps were trembling, tottering things that had Cholik’s breath catching at the back of his throat.
With agonizing slowness, the boy walked. Then his steps came a little smoother, although the swaying gait he managed threatened to tear him from the path.
No sound was made in the clearing as the audience watched the crippled boy make his way around the black ash trail. His feet kicked violet sparks from the black ash with every step he took, but it didn’t take long for the steps to start coming more sure, then faster. The boy’s shoulders straightened, and his carriage became more erect. His thin legs, then his arms, then his body swelled with increased muscle mass. No longer did his head look bulbous atop his skeletal frame.
And when the black ash trail rose up in the air to pass over a past section, the boy stepped up into the air after it. Before, even omitting
the impossibility of following such a thin line of ash into the air, the boy would not have been able to meet the challenge of the climb.
Conversations buzzed around Cholik, and he gloried in the amazement the audience had for what was taking place. While serving at the Zakarum Church, he would never have been allowed to take credit for such a spell. He turned to face the audience, moving so that he faced them all.
“This is the power of the Way of Dreams,” Cholik crowed, “and of the generous and giving prophet I choose to serve. May Dien-Ap-Sten’s name and works be praised. Join me in praising his name, brothers and sisters.” He raised his arms. “Glory to Dien-Ap-Sten!”
Only a few followed his example at first, but others joined. Within a moment, the tumultuous shout rose above the clearing, drowning out the commonplace noise that droned from the city downriver.
Buyard Cholik!
The voiceless address exploded in Cholik’s mind with such harshness that he momentarily went blind with the pain and was nauseated.
Beware, Kabraxis said. The spell is becoming unraveled.
Gathering himself, Cholik glanced back at the maze created by the line he’d cast, watching as the starting point of the line suddenly burst into violet sparks and burned rapidly. The small fire raced along the length of the line of ash. As the fire moved, it consumed the ash, leaving nothing behind.
The fire raced for the boy.
If the fire reaches the boy, Kabraxis warned, he will be destroyed.
Cholik walked to the other end of the line of ash, watching as the fire swept toward the boy. He thought furiously, knowing he couldn’t show any fear to the cheering audience.
If we lose these people now, Kabraxis said, we might not get them back. If a miracle occurs, we will win believers, but if a disaster happens, we could be lost. It will be years before we can come back here, and maybe even longer before these people will forget what happened tonight to let us attempt to win them over again.
“Effirn,” Cholik called.
The boy looked up at him, taking his eyes from the path for a moment. His steps never faltered. “Look at me!” he cried gleefully. “Look at me. I’m walking.”
“Yes, Effirn,” Cholik said, “and everyone here is proud of you and grateful to Dien-Ap-Sten, as is proper. However, there is something I need to know.” Glancing back at the relentless purple fire pursuing the boy, he saw that it was only two curves back from Effirn. The end of the ash trail was still thirty feet from the boy.
“What?” Effirn asked.
“Can you run?”
The boy’s face worked in confusion. “I don’t know. I’ve never tried.”
The violet fire gained another ten feet on him.
“Try now,” Cholik suggested. He held his arms out. “Run to me, Effirn. Quickly, boy. Fast as you can.”
Tentatively, Effirn started running, trying out his new muscles and abilities. He ran, and the violet fire burning up the ash trail chased him, still gaining, but by inches now rather than feet.
“Come on, Effirn,” Cholik cheered. “Show your da how fast you’ve become now that Dien-Ap-Sten has shown you grace.”
Effirn ran, laughing the whole way. The conversation of the audience picked up intensity. The boy reached the trail’s end, sweeping down the final curve to the ground, and was in Cholik’s arms just as the violet blaze hit the end of the trail and vanished in a puff of bruised embers.
Feeling as though he’d just escaped death again, Cholik held the boy to him for a moment, surprised at how big Effirn had gotten. He felt the boy’s arms and legs tight against him.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Effirn gasped, hugging Cholik with strong arms and legs.
Embarrassed and flushed with excitement at the same time, Cholik hugged the boy back. Effirn’s health meant nothing but success for him in Bramwell, but Cholik didn’t understand how the demon had worked the magic.
Healing is simple enough, Kabraxis said in Cholik’s mind. Causing hurt and pain are separate issues, and much harder if it’s going to be lasting. In order to learn how to injure someone, the magic is designed so that first a person learns to heal.
Cholik had never been taught that.
There are a number of things you haven’t been taught, Kabraxis said. But you have time left to you. I will teach you. Turn, Buyard Cholik, and greet your new parishioners.
Easing the boy’s grip from him, Cholik turned to face the parents. No one thought to challenge him about why the ash trail had burned away.
Released, wanting to show off his newfound strength, the boy raced across the clearing. His brothers and sisters cheered him on, and his father caught him up and pulled him into a fierce hug before handing him off to his mother. She held her son to her, tears washing unashamedly down her face.
Cholik watched the mother and son, amazed at the way the scene touched him.
You’re surprised by how good you feel at having had a hand in healing the boy? Kabraxis asked.
“Yes,” Cholik whispered, knowing no one around him could hear him but that the demon could.
It shouldn’t. To know the Darkness, a being must also know the Light. You lived your life cloistered in Westmarch. The only people you met were those who wanted your position.
Or those whose positions I coveted, Cholik realized.
And the Zakarum Church never allowed you to be so personal in the healing properties they doled out, the demon said.
“No.”
The Light is afraid to give many people powers like I have given you, Kabraxis said. People who have powers like this get noticed by regular people. In short order, they become heroes or talked-about people. In only a little more time, the tales that are told about them allow them to take on lofty mantles. The stewards of the Light are jealous of that.
“But demons aren’t?” Cholik asked.
Kabraxis laughed, and the grating, thunderous noise echoing inside Cholik’s head was almost painful. Demons aren’t as jealous as the stewards of Light would have you believe. Nor are they as controlling as the stewards of Light. I ask you, who always has the most rules? The most limitations?
Cholik didn’t answer.
Why do you think the stewards of Light offer so many rules? Kabraxis asked. To keep the balance in their favor, of course. But demons, we believe in letting all who support the Darkness have power. Some have more power than others. But they earn it. Just as you have earned that which I’m giving you the day you faced your own fear of dying and sought out the buried gateway to me.
“I had no choice,” Cholik said.
Humans always have choices. That’s how the stewards of Light seek to confuse you. You have choices, but you can’t choose most of them because the stewards of Light have decreed them as wrong. As an enlightened student of the Light, you’re supposed to know that those choices are wrong. So where does that really leave you? How many choices do you really have?
Cholik silently agreed.
Go to these people, Buyard Cholik. You’ll find converts among them now. Once they have discovered that you have the power to make changes that will let them attain their goals and desires, they will flock to you. Next, we must begin the church, and we must find disciples among these people who will help you spread word of me. For now, give the gift of health to those who are sick among these before you. They will talk. By morning, there won’t be anyone in this city who hasn’t heard of you.
Glorying in the newfound respect and prestige he’d gained by healing the boy, Cholik went forward. His body sang with the buzzing thrill of the power Kabraxis channeled through him. The power drew him to the weak and infirm in the crowd.
Laying hands on the people in the crowd as he came to them, Cholik healed fevers and infections, took away warts and arthritis, straightened a leg that had grown crooked after being set and healing, brought senses back to an elderly grandmother who had been addled for years according to the son who cared for her.
“I would like to settle in Bramwell,�
�� Cholik said as the Gulf of Westmarch drank down the sun and twilight turned to night around them.
The crowd cheered in response to his announcement.
“But I will need a church built,” Cholik continued. “Once a permanent church is built, the miracles wrought by Dien-Ap-Sten will continue to grow. Come to me that I may introduce you to the prophet I choose to serve.”
For a night, Buyard Cholik was closer to lasting renown than he’d ever been in his life. It was a heady feeling, one that he promised himself he would get to know more intimately.
Nothing would stop him.
FOURTEEN
“Are you a sailor?” the pretty serving wench asked. Darrick looked up at her from the bowl of thick potatoes and meat stew and didn’t let the brief pang of loss her words brought touch him. “No,” he replied, because he hadn’t been a sailor for months.
The serving girl was a raven-haired beauty scarcely more than twenty years old if she was that. Her black skirt was short and high, revealing a lot of her long, beautiful legs. She wore her hair pulled back, tied at the neck.
“Why do you ask?” Darrick held her eyes for a moment, then she looked away.
“Only because your rolling gait as you entered the door reminded me of a sailor’s,” the wench said. “My father was a sailor. Born to the sea and lost to the sea, as is the usual course for many sailors.”
“What is your name?” Darrick asked.
“Dahni,” she said, and smiled.
“It’s been nice meeting you, Dahni.”
For a moment, the wench gazed around the table, trying to find something to do. But she’d already refilled his tankard, and his bowl remained more than half full. “If you need anything,” she offered, “let me know.”
“I will.” Darrick kept his smile in place. He’d learned in the months since losing his berth aboard Lonesome Star that smiling politely and answering questions but asking none ended conversations more quickly. If people thought he was willing to be friendly, they didn’t find his lack of conversation as threatening or challenging. They just thought he was inept or shy and generally left him alone. The ruse had kept him from a number of fights lately, and the lack of fighting had kept him from the jails and fines that often left him destitute and on the street again.
