by Remi Michaud
“Time to begin,” Thalor's voice whispered.
The images went black; a hood was drawn over Kurin's head.
Pain. Always in a different place, always from a different source. Sometimes the pain stabbed, sometimes it burned. Sometimes it pummeled like a hammer blow, sometimes it poured like acid. Always, half heard questions punctuated the pain. “...is he?” “Who...?” “How many...?”
Kurin rarely answered. Not so much because he did not want to—if it would have stopped the agony for even a few moments, Kurin would have told him anything—this too was a source of shame in the proud old man. Had he been able, he would have told Thalor whatever he had to, to stop the pain, stop the hurt; it rankled him that in the secret depths of himself, he knew Thalor had won, that Thalor had broken him. But he did not answer, because he either did not hear the question properly, or he was too busy shrieking his agony.
As if the shame of his being too weak to withstand the monster's atrocities was not enough, there was always more. Here the memories began to fragment, as the hood was removed. Images skipped, turned blood red, jolted and jerked as though trying to escape capture. In his mind, Kurin was moaning, “No. No, no, no, no. Please no.”
Disjointed imagery, out of synchronization, played in fits and spurts, cracked and jagged around the edges like a broken mirror. Here the man repacked his bag of implements. Here Thalor rearranged his robe, a flush of color on his cheeks, a cruel smile under ice cold eyes. Here Thalor dumped Kurin from the table and to the floor. Kurin begging for mercy, no please no. Not again. The coarse dirt against his cheek, taste of mud and blood, his blood. Hot tears coursing down his cheeks as he sobbed. His tattered robes being lifted over his head. Thalor. Hot, moist breath in Kurin's ear. Words: “You will succumb to me. You will give me everything I want.” Thalor, grunting like a rutting pig, visiting upon Kurin's body the final debasement, the final humiliation which drove Kurin to cower, to hide his face in shame. Which drove Kurin to hate fueled insanity. Kurin crying out in pain and shame as Thalor cried out in ecstasy.
Jurel stumbled as though struck, almost falling into his chair. A tight band constricted his chest. His sword flickered as though hesitant. Tears, squeezed from a part of his soul he had thought locked away for good, streamed from his eyes.
Kurin would not look at him. The old man—he truly did seem old now with his slumped shoulders and a hunch in his back, older than his years—seemed shrouded in darkness.
“Oh, Kurin,” Jurel said quietly. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”
Wretchedly, Kurin met his eye. Trembling, he whispered, “Why? Why did you have to do that?”
“I needed to know.”
He had caused this. His foolishness, his arrogance. His selfishness. He was the one who had sent the army, who had not foreseen the ambush. Who had killed more than a thousand good men and women. He was the one who ran. He who caused Kurin this pain, the scars of which had bitten deeper, and would last longer, than any wound inflicted by sword or lance.
The old man stood before him, breathing raggedly, but though he lived, Jurel felt the dead void inside him. The chill of it emanated from Kurin like a glacial wind.
Kurin cringed when Jurel laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. Feeling a dagger-sharp pain at this, Jurel quickly retracted his hand.
“I'm sorry, Kurin,” he said quietly again. “I'm sorry.”
Stepping to Kurin's side, careful not to touch him, Jurel faced his audience.
“I am sorry,” he said. “Not only to Kurin and those who were captured by the former prelate, but to all of you here, and all the injured and the dead.
“But I am here now.”
He had had some ideas of making an uplifting speech, pull everyone together into one purpose, rally the troops. Begin the process of healing by promising a bright future. He had thought of it. Though he really did hurt to see Kurin brought so low, he could not have thanked the old man more for providing the perfect opening. Until, that was, the great council chamber doors at the far end swung open, cutting Jurel off mid-sentence.
A young acolyte pushed his way through the crowd, earning him shouted reprimands that he did not bother to acknowledge. In his hand, he held what appeared to be a ragged sheet of parchment. In his eyes, there was most definitely terror.
He halted a few steps from Jurel, panting. A wedge of ice lodged itself in Jurel heart.
“My Lord,” the young man said, going to his knees. “I-”
But his words stopped. He stared in horror at the piece of parchment in his hand as though it was a poisonous snake. It shook with the young man's trembles.
“What is it?” Jurel demanded.
He snatched the page away. He read. The page was dirty. Jagged crumple lines criss-crossed the primitive, angular writing. As he read, the blood drained from his face. The wedge of ice spread, threatened to engulf him.
Your woman has been invited to an audience with my master. She did not show proper gratitude when the honor was extended. This is unfortunate. We convinced her she must accompany us. Do not worry. My master has demanded that she not be too damaged.
My master invites you too. We suggest, for the continued health of your woman, that you comply.
Come north, into our lands. The way will be made clear.
For the first time in a long time his ears began to ring.
* * *
Consciousness came sluggishly. Even when it did, Metana's thoughts were oily, oozing slowly around the torrid ball of pain lodged behind her eyes. At first, she thought she was in her bed, but even her slow thoughts quickly discarded that when her body kept reporting that it was being ungently bounced and jarred. That, and it seemed that she had been thrown like a sack of potatoes over the back of a horse.
Opening her eyes was no help. Her sight remained blankly black. Groggy startlement turned quickly to fear: had she in fact opened her eyes? Yes, yes she had but the world remained opaque. Was she blind? Had she taken more damage in the battle than was previously thought? No, Kurin himself had seen to her. He was the best healer the Salosian Order had. If he said she was not in any danger, then she was not. It took her far longer to realize why she had no vision. Her breath was hot and moist, close to her face. Something rough rubbed against her cheeks. There was a hood over her head.
And with that came the memory of Dakariin in her room, a strangely pleasant smile under feral eyes. A fist. Flashes of varicolored lights followed by darkness.
Groaning softly, she raised her head.
“Ah, you waken.”
She snapped at the sound of the familiar voice, the thick accent, and the incongruously good vocabulary. Shards of sudden terror pierced her like wind driven sleet.
“You wish for food? No? Water?”
Stifling a whimper, Metana tried to hoist herself up off the back of the horse but soon cutting lines in her back and wrists informed her she had been tied down.
An ugly chuckle. “For your protection.”
“What do you want?” She was dismayed by how difficult it was to form words, how slurred they sounded.
“I have said to you already. My master wishes to see you.”
“Who-who is your master?”
Another chuckle. “He ask me to refrain from introduction. He wishes to surprise. Though I think you will find it unpleasant.”
Though she could not see it, it felt as though the world were spinning in great, lazy, nauseating circles. She worried that if she vomited in her hood, she would suffocate. He had struck her hard but a sneaking suspicion began to form.
“Am I drugged?”
“Yes. My master has told me that the jaigka leaves steeped as a tea will keep you tame. We do not wish for you to try anything foolish. I am not good with such womanly things as making tea. Is it working?”
She barked a laugh. “Is it working? Are you an idiot? What a stupid question. If it hadn't worked, I'd have burned you to bloody cinders already.”
“Ah,” he said. “Then I am glad it w
orks. I am not glad that you choose such disrespectful words. Perhaps when you wake again you will remember you are just woman and must not speak to hunter in this way.”
“No wait,” she cried.
Too late. A punishing blow blasted her tenuous consciousness back to the murky depths of oblivion.
Chapter 60
“He has passed his second trial,” Maora said, waving away the image of Jurel and his friends preparing to travel on a drizzly afternoon.
“Yes,” Gaorla said, well pleased. “He has touched his essence. He has accepted his destiny.”
“But his light is so much dimmer than it was, Father,” Valsa said softly. “Can he triumph in his third trial?”
Gaorla's eyes clouded over. It was rare that He was uncertain of anything. But he had cast the dice; he too must wait to see how they landed.
“His light is darker, but it is harder,” Shomra grated.
Maora nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, he is now like tempered steel. The only concern left is if, like over-tempered steel, he has become too brittle.”
“His third trial will be the hardest,” Shomra muttered.
Valsa sighed in exasperation. “Of course it will be. What a silly thing to say.”
“Now, now,” Gaorla appeased. “It will be difficult but I am still confident I made the right choice. He will prevail.”
“He must,” rejoined Valsa. “If he doesn't...”
“If he doesn't, then the world will not survive,” Shomra said.
“And neither will we,” finished Maora.
As rainbow lights playfully flitted across the waterfall walls, lit the pond beneath their feet with dazzling colors never seen by mortal eyes, the gods traded anxious looks.
“What will be, will be,” said Gaorla. Then he smiled and it was more dazzling, more beautiful than any part of this magnificent chamber. “Of course, we have managed to gain an advantage, haven't we? When he finds out what role young Metana is to play...well, that might change things in our favor, don't you think?”
The younger gods smiled and nodded.
“As long as she survives the ordeal,” Shomra said.
With spirits curdled, Maora reestablished the image of the young man, and they watched.
* * *
“But surely you could just...” Gaven made a motion that Jurel imagined must indicate his ability to teleport.
“No, Gav.” Jurel shook his head, cinching straps to his saddle bags. “It doesn't work like that. I need to know where I'm going. I have no idea where she is.”
In truth, he thought Gaven's idea had merit—he had thought of it himself earlier. But though he had some thoughts on how to make it work, he did not think this was the time to start experimenting.
Metana was in trouble.
The afternoon was cool, the wind not quite bitter. Jurel shivered in the light drizzle; even under his water-proofed cloak, Gaven looked positively miserable.
There was almost no one in the side courtyard where they prepared, most being wise enough to stay inside on this chilly afternoon. The only people besides Mikal and Gaven was a stablehand assigned to help them prepare, a young acolyte rushing back to Goromand with Jurel's final orders while he was away, and a guard who stood waiting to open the gate.
“Let's go,” Mikal growled. “The day's not getting any younger.”
As if Jurel needed to be reminded.
He chafed to be off as well. Thoughts of Metana crowded his mind stifling everything else. It was all he could do to concentrate on ensuring they were properly provisioned. He tried desperately to keep from thinking what was happening to her. Images crowded, ice blue eyes smiling, raven black hair fluttering in a breeze. Images of filthy savages holding her, pawing her, hurting her. He gritted his teeth and shook his head.
Foot in stirrup, he hoisted himself up. With a signal, he pointed his mount toward the side gate. Mikal and Gaven preceded him. The guard hurried to open the gate; though it was metal, it was well balanced and swung open easily. They disappeared beyond the gate under the Abbey wall.
With a sigh, Jurel glanced back one last time, feeling as though he left a part of himself here. His party was not complete, there was one missing. He had asked—at least, he had tried to ask—but there had been no response from Kurin. He had asked Mikal to intercede on his behalf, knowing that if Kurin was going to listen to anyone, it would be his longtime companion. The swordmaster had sadly reported that Kurin would not open his door.
As he was about to turn into the tunnel, a movement caught his eye under the long veranda near the far corner of the Abbey. He squinted; the shadows there were deep and the distance was yet far.
Then he gasped. Same gray mare, same gray robes under his water-proof cloak, Kurin emerged. He paused when he saw Jurel. Then his horse moved forward and he covered the distance between them.
A few paces from Jurel, the old man pulled up again. His cowled head was bent with grief, his shoulders slumped under the immense weight of memory.
Speech was difficult for a moment. The lump in Jurel's throat would not dislodge itself. Clearing his throat, then clearing it again, he finally managed to say, “I'm glad you came.”
The old man took a deep breath. Then, “Yes. Well. We must find Metana.”
“Yes. Of course.”
Why was everything so awkward? He had traveled half the known world with this man, been through countless adventures. This man had taught him, mentored him. This man had stood beside him through, well, everything. This man had believed in him when he had not believed in himself.
“I'm sorry,” Jurel blurted. Then he turned away, grimacing. How weak can words be? How empty, even if they are heartfelt? What else could he offer? “I'm sorry.”
The cowl lifted and, though the gray day did not touch the features within, Jurel thought he saw a hint of a tentative smile. “I know. Things will be all right between us.” His voice darkened, became as hard as steel. “You and I are still going to have a very long talk, and very soon. We'll start with how inappropriate it is to break into another man's memories. But later. For now, there is a young lady who is very important to us who needs saving.”
The lump was back with a vengeance. Jurel managed no more than a nod.
“Especially in her condition,” Kurin added, and this time Jurel definitely heard amusement in his voice.
“What do you mean?” Jurel asked, alarmed. “Is she all right?”
Slyly, the old man looked sidelong at him as he urged his horse past Jurel. “What? You don't think I would ruin the surprise, do you?”
Roiling emotions battled in Jurel. Sick fear for Metana, rage at the atrocity committed by the Dakariin scum, elation that Kurin was there, confusion over the old man's words.
Brushing it all aside, he urged his horse to follow Kurin's into the tunnel, and he emerged into the gray world fearing what was to come, but hopeful. Gaven was there. Mikal was there. Kurin was there. It was a grim hope, shadowed as much by the cold drizzle as by the terrible images of what the Dakariin were likely doing to his Metana but it was hope.
Yes. Hope. He would find her. He would save her. He would and he knew this because he was who he was.
And he hoped.
Epilogue
King Threimes II plodded tiredly back to his chambers, skirting the construction that continued on his palace without really seeing it. It had been a torturous day. The headache caused by the two bickering old men had only worsened after his announcement that he would support Shoka in his bid.
It had gone badly. Shoka had openly gloated, and while Threimes had conducted his court business of the day, Shoka kept intruding, kept offering his opinions and thoughts in a tone that strongly suggested they were commands.
Threimes regretted his decision almost as soon as he announced it. When Shoka was not injecting his thoughts, he was making the rounds of Threimes's nobles, setting his hooks into each one.
Salos had scurried away and disappeared immediately after Threimes mad
e it official. And with good reason. Just before Threimes called an end to the audience, Shoka had risen with one last request...which was, in fact, a demand.
“I request that His Majesty outlaw on pain of death those who do not accept the worship of Gaorla and Gaorla alone.”
“On what grounds?” he had asked, shocked that Shoka would go so far so quickly.
“Heresy, of course.”
Throughout his throne room, nobles nodded and grumbled their agreement. Only a few kept their expressions frozen, and Threimes was certain they hid their disapproval.
He regretted his decision. He regretted that he had been pressured by Shoka and by his court to make this decision. He regretted that future generations would certainly suffer because of the choice he made this day. He regretted being king.
He should never have been a king. He just was not cut out for it.
