“Your soul will find peace here,” Cet said.
The youth stared out over the dreamscape, lifting a hand as if the beauty hurt his eyes. When he looked at Cet he was weeping. “Must I die now?”
Cet nodded, and after a moment the youth sighed.
“I never meant to hurt anyone,” he said. “I just wanted to be free.”
“I understand,” Cet said. “But your freedom came at the cost of others’ suffering. That is corruption, unacceptable under the Goddess’ law.”
The narcomancer bowed his head. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Cet smiled and passed a hand over the youth’s head. The grime and reek vanished, his appearance becoming wholesome at last. “Then She will welcome your return to the path of peace.”
“Thank you,” said the youth.
“Thank Her,” Cet replied. He withdrew from the dream then, severing the tether and collecting the dreamblood. Back in waking, the boy’s body released one last breath and went still. As shouts rang out around the village, Cet knelt beside the body and arranged its limbs for dignity.
Ginnem and one of the Sentinels ran up. “Is it done?” the Sentinel asked.
“It is,” Cet said. He lifted the jungissa stone he’d taken from the boy’s hand. It was a heavy, irregular lump, its surface jagged and cracked. Amazing the thing had worked at all.
“And are you well?” That was Ginnem. Cet looked at the Sister and understood then that the question had nothing to do with Cet’s physical health.
So Cet smiled to let Ginnem see the truth. “I am very well, Sister Ginnem.”
Ginnem blinked in surprise, but nodded.
More of the villagers arrived. One of them was Namsut, breathless, with a knife in one hand. Cet admired her for a moment, then bowed his head to the Goddess’ will.
“Everything for Her peace,” he said.
The Sentinels went into the hills with some of the armed village men, after Cet told them where the brigands could be found. He also told the villagefolk where they could find the parent-stone of the narcomancer’s jungissa.
“A basin marked by a bird’s beak. I know the place,” said Mehepi with a frown. “We’ll go destroy the thing.”
“No,” Namsut said. Mehepi glared at her, but Namsut met her eyes. “We must fetch it back here. That kind of power is always valuable to someone, somewhere.”
Cet nodded. “The Temple would indeed pay well for the stone and any pieces of it.”
This set the villagers a-murmur, their voices full of wonder and, for the first time since Cet had met them, hope. He left them to their speculations and returned to the guestroom of the headman’s house, where he settled himself against a wall and gazed through the window at passing clouds. Presently, as he had known she would, Namsut came to find him.
“Thank you,” she said. “You have saved us in more ways than one.”
He smiled. “I am only Her servant.”
She hesitated and then said, “I...I should not have asked you for what I did. It seemed a simple matter to me, but I see how it troubles you.”
He shook his head. “No, you were right to ask it. I had forgotten: my duty is to alleviate suffering by any means at my disposal.” His oath would have become meaningless if he had failed to remember that. Ginnem had been right to remind him.
It took her a moment to absorb his words. She stepped forward, her body tense. “Then you will do it? You will give me a child?”
He gazed at her for a long while, memorizing her face. “You understand that I cannot stay,” he said. “I must return to the Temple afterward, and never see the daughter we make.”
“Daugh—” She put a hand to her mouth, then controlled herself. “I understand. The village will care for me. After all their talk of a curse they must, or lose face.”
Cet nodded and held out a hand to her. Her face wavered for a moment beneath a mix of emotions—sudden doubt, fear, resignation, and hope—and then she crossed the room, took his hand, and sat down beside him.
“You must...show me how,” he said, ducking his eyes. “I have never done this thing.”
Namsut stared at him, then blessed him with the first genuine, untainted smile he had ever seen on her face. He smiled back, and in a waking dream saw a horse running, running, over endless green.
“I have never wanted to do this thing before now,” she said, abruptly shy. “But I know the way of it.” And she stood.
Her mourning garments slipped to the floor. Cet fixed his eyes on them, trying not to see the movements of her body as she stripped off her headcloth and undergarments. When she knelt straddling his lap, he trembled as he turned his face away, his breath quickening and heart pounding fast. A Gatherer belongs wholly to the Goddess, that was the oath. He could hardly think as Namsut’s hands moved down the bare skin of his chest, sliding towards the clasp of his loinskirt, yet he forced his mind to ponder the matter. He had always taken the oath to mean celibacy, but that was foolish, for the Goddess had never been interested in mere flesh. He loved Namsut and yet his duty, his calling, was still first in his heart. Was that not the quintessence of a Gatherer’s vow?
Then Namsut joined their bodies, and he looked up at her in wonder.
“H-holy,” he gasped. She moved again, a slow undulation in his lap, and he pressed his head back against the wall to keep from crying out. “This is holy.”
Her breath was light and quick on his skin; dimly he understood that she had some pleasure of him as well. “No,” she whispered, cupping his face between her hands. Her lips touched his; for a moment he thought he tasted sugared currants before she licked free. “But it will get better.”
It did.
They returned to the Temple five days later, carrying the narcomancer’s jungissa as a guarantee of the villagers’ good faith. The Superior immediately dispatched scribes and tallymen to verify the condition of the parent stone and calculate an appropriate price. The payment they brought for the narcomancer’s jungissa alone was enough to buy a year’s food for the whole village.
Ginnem bid Cet farewell at the gates of the city, where a party of green- and gold-clad women waited to welcome him home. “You made the hard choice, Gatherer,” he said. “You’re stronger than I thought. May the Goddess grant your child that strength in turn.”
Cet nodded. “And you are wiser than I expected, Sister. I will tell this to all my brothers, that perhaps they might respect your kind more.”
Ginnem chuckled. “The gods will walk the earth before that happens!” Then he sobered, the hint of sadness returning to his eyes. “You need not do this, Gatherer Cet.”
“This is Her will,” Cet replied, reaching up to grip Ginnem’s shoulder. “You see so much, so clearly; can you not see that?”
Ginnem gave a slow nod, his expression troubled. “I saw it when I realized you loved that woman. But...”
“We will meet again in dreams,” Cet said softly.
Ginnem did not reply, his eyes welling with tears before he turned sharply away to rejoin his Sisters. Cet watched in satisfaction as they surrounded Ginnem, forming a comforting wall. They would take good care of him, Cet knew. It was the Sisterhood’s gift to heal the soul.
So Cet returned to the Temple, where he knelt before the Superior and made his report—stinting nothing when it came to the tale of Namsut. “Sister Ginnem examined her before we left,” he said. “She is healthy and should have little trouble delivering the child when the time comes. The firstwife did not take the news happily, but the elder council vowed that the first child of their reborn village would be cared for, along with her mother who so clearly has the gods’ favor.”
“I see,” said the Temple Superior, looking troubled. “But your oath... that was a high price to pay.”
Cet lifted his head and smiled. “My oath is unbroken, Superior. I still belong wholly to Her.”
The Superior blinked in surprise, then looked hard at Cet for a long moment. “Yes,” he said at last. “Forgive me; I see
that now. And yet...”
“Please summon one of my brothers,” Cet said.
The Superior started. “Cet, it may be weeks or months before the madness—”
“But it will come,” Cet said. “That is the price of Her magic; that is what it means to be a true narcomancer. I do not begrudge the price, but I would rather face a fate of my choosing.” The horse was in his mind again, its head lunging like a racer’s against the swift river current. Sweet Namsut; he yearned for the day he would see her again in dreams. “Fetch Gatherer Liyou, Superior. Please.”
The Superior sighed, but bowed his head.
When young Liyou arrived and understood what had to be done, he stared at Cet in shock. But Cet touched his hand and shared with him a moment of the peace that Namsut had given him, and when it was done Liyou wept. Afterward Cet lay down ready, and Liyou put his fingertips over Cet’s closed eyes.
“Cetennem,” Cet said, before sleep claimed him for the final time. “I heard it in a dream. My daughter’s name shall be Cetennem.”
Then with a joyful heart, Cet—Gatherer and narcomancer, servant of peace and justice and the Goddess of Dreams—ran free.
Strife Lingers in Memory
Carrie Vaughn
Carrie Vaughn is the author of the bestselling series about a werewolf named Kitty who hosts a talk radio advice show. She’s also written for young adults (Steel, Voices of Dragons), the novels Discord’s Apple and After the Golden Age, many short stories, and she’s a contributor to George R. R. Martin’s Wild Cards series. When she isn’t writing, she collects hobbies and enjoys the great outdoors in Colorado, where she makes her home.
My father was a wise man to whom many came seeking advice. During his audiences I’d lurk behind his chair or fetch his cup, and they called me fair, even when I was little. I grew to be golden-haired and wary. I was destined for—something.
War overwhelmed us. The Heir to the Fortress was dead—no, in exile, nearly the same. The evil rose, broke the land over an iron knee, and even my father went into hiding.
Then he came.
I was eighteen. The stranger was—hard to say. He looked young but carried such a weight of care, he might have lived many lifetimes already. He came to ask my father how he might make his way along the cursed paths that led to the ancient fortress now held by the enemy.
My father proclaimed, “That way is barred to any who are not of the Heir’s blood, but that line is dead. It is useless.”
Our gazes met, mine and that stranger’s, and I saw in him a shuttered light waiting to blaze forth. I gripped the back of my father’s chair to steady myself.
The stranger and I knew in that moment what was destined to be, though our elders needed a bit more persuading.
So it came to pass that the stranger, Evrad—Heir to the Fortress, the true-blooded prince himself—took the cursed paths and led an army to overthrow the stronghold of his enemy and claim the ancient fortress as his own. He married the wizard’s daughter and made her—me—his Queen. Happily, the land settled into a long-awaited peace.
The night after the day of his coronation and of our wedding we had alone and to ourselves. When the door closed, we looked at one another for a long time, not believing that this moment had come at last, remembering all the moments we believed it would not come at all. Then, all at once, we fell into each other’s arms.
He made love to me as if the world were ending. I drowned in the fury of it, clinging to him like he was a piece of splintered hull after a shipwreck. Exhausted, we rested in each other’s arms. I sang him to sleep and, running my fingers through his thick hair, fell asleep myself.
I had dreamed of this, sleeping protected by him. I had dreamed of waking in his arms, sunlight through the window painting our chamber golden, drawing on his warmth in the chill of morning.
Instead, I awoke to the sound of a scream. Evrad’s scream. He thrashed, kicking me. I backed away, arms covering my head. Our blankets twisted, pulling away from the bed as he fought with them. When I dared to look, he had curled up, drawing his limbs close. He was trembling so hard I felt it through the bed.
“Evrad?” I whispered. He remained hunched over and shaking, so I reached for him. “Evrad. Please.”
I touched his shoulder, the slope of it glowing pale in moonlight shining through the window. It was damp with sweat.
He flinched at the touch and looked at me, his eyes wide and wild. My stomach clenched—he did not seem to see me.
Then, “Alida?”
He came to life, returned to himself, and pulled me close in an embrace. I held him as tightly as I could, but my grip seemed so weak compared to his.
“Oh, my love,” he said over and over. “I thought it was a dream: you, peace—you. I dreaded waking to find you weren’t real.”
“Hush. Oh, please hush. You’re safe.”
I said those words to him many times, on many nights. I kept hoping he would believe me.
Strife lingered in the memory of what we had suffered. He defeated an army of horrors, but the demons may yet overcome him.
He kept the nightmares well-hidden. He always appeared to his men, his guards, his people as the hero, the savior, the King. He looked the part, standing tall, smiling easily and accepting gracefully the adoration of hardened warriors and toddling children alike.
He turned his best face toward the people, keeping his secret soul hidden. But he could not hide it from me. So it fell to me to keep my best face toward him, to be strong for him, and hide my secret soul away.
One night, he came to our chamber carrying an arcane-looking bottle covered with dust, the cap sealed with wax.
“I will sleep through the night,” he said in much the same way he’d once said he would defeat the dark army that threatened to overrun him. Liquid sloshed in the bottle when he set it on the table.
“What is it? Rare potion?”
“Rare whiskey,” he said with a grunt. “Perhaps it will make me forget the shadows.”
I pursed my lips, making a wry smile. “That will inspire sweet dreams, and not the comfort of my arms?”
“Oh, my love.” He touched my cheek with all the tenderness I could hope for, though his face was lined with worry. I took his hands, locking their anxious movements in mine.
Once, we needed no words, but I could not read the thoughts that clouded his expression. During the war, he had been proud, his look keen and determined. I had never seen him so careworn.
He kissed my hands and went out of our chambers. At least he left the whiskey behind.
A month passed, then came the night I awoke alone.
Perhaps the stillness woke me. Midnight—the dark chill of night when he usually began sweating, trembling as if all the fears he had kept at bay during the war came on him at once—had passed and no screams woke me. I sat up, felt all around the bed, looked when my sight adjusted to the dark. I was alone.
I searched for him. Wrapping my cloak tight around me, I went along the battlements where I could see half the realm across the plains. I searched the stables, where he might have sought the calm influence of sleeping horses. I carried a lantern through stone corridors where no one had walked since Evrad claimed the fortress.
I found him crouched in a forgotten corner, arms wrapped around his head, face turned to the wall. He had managed to tie a cloak around his middle, but it was slipping off his shoulders.
A guard walking his post from the other end of the corridor found him at the same time. “My liege!” the man cried and rushed toward him.
I interposed, stopping him with a raised hand. “Please. Stay back.” Turning to Evrad I said, “My lord? My lord, are you awake?”
I touched his shoulder. He looked at me. The lantern light showed his cheeks wet with tears. “Come, my lord. Let’s go to bed.” I helped him to his feet, like he was an old man or a child.
To the guard I said, “You will not speak of this. You will keep this secret.” And what of the next night? And what of
the night the guards found him before I did? I was a wizard’s daughter but I still needed sleep. I needed more eyes. “You will help me keep this secret, yes?”
“Yes, my Queen. Oh yes.” Wonder and pity filled his gaze. I remembered his face, learned his name, Petro. If I ever heard rumor of the King’s illness, this man would answer for it.
We had fair nights. Some nights, he only whimpered in his sleep, in the throes of visions I did not want to imagine. Some nights, drunk on wine, we threw logs on the fire until it blazed, making the room hot, and we played until we wore each other out.
Other nights, I wore my cloak, took another in case he had lost his, and searched deserted corridors by lantern light. I always waited until I had put him back to bed and he slept before I sat by the fire and cried.
At last, weary and despairing, I departed in the shrouded hour before dawn. I used craft that my father taught me: how to move without sound, how to turn aside the curious gaze, how to not leave tracks. I left my own horse behind and took one from the couriers that would not be so quickly missed. I rode hard, turned off the main way, and found the forested path that led through ravine and glen to my father’s valley.
After the war, he secluded himself in a valley beyond the line of hills where the city lay, a day’s journey away. He said he wished to be out of reach of peaceful folk who would trouble him with petty complaints now that the great matters were over. He said he was finished dispensing wisdom for people simply because they asked for it.
What a gentle place. I had traveled with him when he came to live here, but my heart had been so full of the times, of the ache of war and separation from my beloved, that I hadn’t looked around me. Water ran frothing down a rocky hillside and became a stream that flowed through a meadow of tall grass scattered with the color of wildflowers. Late sun shining through pollen turned the air golden. I could smell the light, fresh and fertile.
I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have run away. Or better, I should have brought Evrad here, to this place.
Epic: Legends of Fantasy Page 48
