“Couldn’t I just drink the Waters?” Blakstar asked.
“In time, as you learn to use your weapon of power,” the keeper replied, “drinking the Waters will be unnecessary, nor should you: save the Waters you carry for your future companions and those in dire distress.”
The keeper’s answer puzzled Blakstar, as it did not seem to him to be an answer to his question. The keeper drew the circle and a line of golden fire flared to life on the floor, and as he did so, Blakstar saw the stone on the pommel flare with brilliant golden light, matching the golden line of fire; he also saw different colored gemstones glittering in the sword’s cross guard as the keeper drew the arch in the air, opening the gray door, and Wingfoot stepped into the room with a clatter of steel shod hooves on the stone. The horse whinnied and nuzzled his master. The keeper lifted the sword from the floor where he held it, and the archway winked out as did the golden light from the sword and its gemstones. He turned to Blakstar and held the sword with its hilt toward the kortexi.
“Accept now the sword that I give thee,” the keeper began, switching to formal address, “and receive also the inherent powers of the sword.”
Blakstar went down on one knee. “Gladly I accept this gift of thy hand, and the powers that go with it,” he replied in the same formal, oath-making language.
The keeper led Wingfoot with a clatter to the fountain and allowed him to drink of the Waters. The stallion began to tremble with excitement, pawing at the floor and neighing loudly. The keeper laid one hand on the horse’s head, calming him. “Now thou art like thy master: chosen of the One and his special servant. Thou wilt be sensitive to his needs as he is to thine, and wilt follow and support him in all that he does.”
The keeper led him back to the kortexi, who scratched him under his chin. The keeper smiled. “Put away your sword and help me saddle your good steed.”
Blakstar began to wonder about the true size of the cabinet when the keeper pulled an oversized, golden mail shirt, lined with wool and of the same material as the kortexi’s. As the keeper threw it onto Wingfoot’s back, the kortexi realized that it was not so much a mail shirt as an armored saddle blanket that covered his steed from neck to tail, wrapping loosely around the horse’s chest. On both sides were symbols like those on Blakstar’s brooch and belt buckle. A white leather saddle with gold trim appeared from the cabinet and was soon strapped onto his horse. The saddle was followed by the rest of the harness, also in white leather trimmed with gold.
As the keeper strapped the saddlebags in place, he pointed to one side. “This contains healing supplies that will never run out as long as you never use them completely.” He pointed to the other side. “This contains rations that will keep you going when all else fails, and like the healing supplies, the rations will not run out if not completely used.”
To the left front of the saddle, Blakstar hung his shield bearing the now familiar device. On the right side of the saddle were loops for his short lance. The front and back of his breastplate attached to the rear of the saddle; the white-plumed helm hung from the saddle horn. His equipment was complete once he had buckled on his leg and arm greaves.
“I must speak of your life’s mission,” the keeper began gravely, “you will fulfill the kortexi’s dream.”
“What is that?” Blakstar asked.
“Were I to tell you plainly,” the keeper replied, “you might die of fright; in time, you will know. You and your companions will be called the chosen of the One. Together, you will bring about the downfall of Lord Gar and his kingdom, but not without much sorrow and misery.”
Blakstar paled and nodded once. “How will I know them?” he asked.
“I will, in a moment, send you to one,” the keeper replied. “Together you will travel to the valley of the kailum to meet more.”
“But should I not return to Karble first and report back to the Wesento?”
“No, should you choose that path you will fail at the beginning of your quest,” the keeper shook his head. “Remember this: to complete your first task you and your companions must be completely inexperienced to enter the place where another key rests. The more experience you and the other chosen have, the greater the odds against your success. No more can I tell but that you should flee all encounters until you have entered the place where the second key rests. Do you understand?”
The kortexi’s dark eyebrows drew together. “I think so,” he answered.
The keeper clapped one hand on Blakstar’s shoulder and squeezed. “Good. One thing remains: I must give you your special endowment against the minions of Gar. Kneel before me.”
As the kortexi knelt, the keeper spread his arms before him raising both hands and face toward the heavens. “Nemfa-ghelwo-komtra-duswektem,” the keeper sang. In the air between his arms small, golden lights sparkled, whirling around each other. The keeper moved his arms slowly together, gathering the lights into a single, golden globe of light about a foot across. Holding this globe in his hands, the keeper slowly moved it to hover just above Blakstar’s bowed head. “Esuleuki-donu-bagso,” the keeper sang, and the globe of light began to expand and increase in brightness. When it was brighter than the sun, it surrounded Blakstar and sank into his skin. The kortexi’s person glowed brightly for a moment before the light winked out, although a faint aura of gold still surrounded him.
“Now you are protected from creatures of evil intent,” the keeper said, “particularly purem; your aura will cause them pain and only the strongest will be able to endure your presence. This aura, like the teka of your armor and weapons, will increase in power as your skill and faith increase. Now draw your sword and I will place in your mind where you are going.”
In his mind, he suddenly saw a stone tower on a hill against a background of starlight. The tower was round and squat with windows and a single door. He focused on the door and drew the circle with his sword as the keeper had done; golden light flared from the pommel of the sword, down the length of the blade, and caused golden sparks where the point slid across the floor; the gemstones in the cross guard glittered. When the circle was complete, a line of golden flame burst to life, and he lifted his sword overhead in a wide arc, opening the archway. The gray shimmering suddenly became the tower on the hill lit by starlight. He felt Wingfoot’s reins placed into his hand and stepped into the archway leading his mount.
“Good luck,” the keeper said, “may you faithfully fulfill your quest, Sir Blakstar eli kerdu-ghebi.”
After crossing the threshold and lifting the sword, which closed the gray, shimmering archway and extinguished the golden light emanating from his sword, Blakstar had just enough strength to bang on the door with one fist before collapsing against its frame.
Chapter 8
Healing can only commence once the underlying cause of the disease is removed; without its total removal, complete recovery is not possible.
Tarlana, Headmistress of Shigmar, 167-194
Klare led her husband to the gates of the school early the following morning. After having seen to the needs of the awemi, Klare reasoned that she would feel better if she led Klaybear to the school, to ensure that he got there without mishap. Klaybear thanked her for her presence at his side, but said nothing else, which caused her to eye him suspiciously.
“I’m taking you to the healers,” she had said diffidently, “and I want to make sure that the Headmaster doesn’t intercept you first.” Klaybear had only smiled and nodded in response. Klare roughly wrapped bandages around both his right hand and his forehead, then pulled her husband’s hood far down over his eyes.
“If you pull it down that far,” he complained, “I’ll not be able to see where I’m going!”
“All the more reason for me to lead you,” she smiled dangerously.
Master Avril, the master healer of the school, met them at the door and would not let them pass until he had examined the wounds; Klare was his apprentice, so he had met her. “I read Rebeth’s report but did not believe it,” t
he thin, white-haired wethi said gravely, “particularly since I know his penchant for japes.” Master Avril carefully lifted the bandage around his forehead. “Great God!” he exclaimed, taking an involuntary step backward when he saw the mark. “How could this happen?” Then he frowned and shook his head slowly. “This will complicate things,” he said softly to himself after a moment’s pause. He replaced the bandage and pulled the hood back over Klaybear’s face. He turned to Klare. “Take him straight to the infirmary; Headmaster Myron is waiting for him there. And Klarissa,” he stopped her.
“Yes, master?” She was suddenly afraid, sensing her master’s mood.
“Don’t show this to anyone, no matter what authority he or she might invoke.”
Klare stifled her sudden fear then patted her master’s hand fondly. “Who bandaged his forehead and made him wear his hood, in spite of the warmth this beautiful spring morning?”
Avril smiled and squeezed her hand. He turned to Klaybear and sighed. “I’m envious, my son,” he said softly, “she brings to mind my long dead spouse. You have yourself a diamond here.”
“You are right, Master Avril,” Klaybear replied, “and she reminds me of that fact at least a dozen times a day.”
Klare punched him. “You ungrateful monster!” she exclaimed. Klaybear grimaced; Avril laughed. “I might have to lead you into a wall or door, or a stone column for that remark!” Klare hissed.
“Only joking, my dear,” Klaybear attempted to grin, which looked strained with his eyes covered.
Klare found the Headmaster in the infirmary’s central area, waiting for them, but before she could even greet him, he silenced her with a word and motioned that they follow him. He led them to one of the sleeping rooms, occupied by two patients resting behind screens. Klare tried to speak a second time, but the Headmaster held up his hand. He tapped the floor twice with the iron shod heel of his staff, whispered “kelnes stelni,” and a gray shimmering dome blossomed from the tip of his staff, surrounding them in silence and obscuring them from vision.
“I’m sorry to have cut you off, twice,” Headmaster Myron began, “but things are more serious than I thought,” he finished, whispering softly, although they were warded.
“My master hinted at it,” Klare said, “when we entered. I’m glad I followed my instinct.”
“I’m not,” Klaybear noted sourly.
“Stop grousing!” Klare snapped.
Myron ignored their bickering and turned to Klaybear. “Show me.”
Klaybear pulled back his hood and unwrapped the bandage surrounding his forehead; he saw a tightening around the Headmaster’s eyes, the only outward sign of Myron’s first sight of the mark. Klaybear held out his right hand.
“I’m guessing you both tried to heal these wounds?” Myron asked.
“Yes, but we are only novices in the healing art,” Klare replied.
“The wound refuses to close, and the pain increases,” Klaybear added. “I even tried one of the healing potions I took with me, which had no effect.”
Myron took Klaybear’s wrist with his left hand, holding it palm up. He moved his right hand, now glowing green, over Klaybear’s hand, but as soon as the green light contacted the wound in Klaybear’s hand, the younger kailu stiffened, jerking and trying to pull his hand away, but Myron held it tightly, bringing his own green-glowing palm into contact with the wound. Klaybear screamed in agony, jerking his hand from Myron’s grip and sinking to the floor. Klare knelt beside him before he hit the ground, wrapping him in her arms.
Myron stood stunned, his eyes wide. “It is worse than I thought,” he noted to himself, “there is a darkness in that wound that I cannot penetrate, a darkness that would swallow the world were it allowed to escape; it is somehow powered by Void, but I cannot determine how or where.” His eyes narrowed and he shook his head; he knelt by Klaybear’s other side. “We cannot allow the other kailum to attempt healing on you. That darkness would confirm to many the belief rumored about that you have sold out to Gar.”
Klaybear’s face drained of all color; Klare’s face burned.
“That’s absurd!” she shouted, voice rising in pitch. “He’s no servant of Gar! He has always been, and still remains, loyal to the One. You know this as well as I,” she added in a softer voice.
Myron took and held one of her hands. “I know, and you know,” he said, looking directly into her eyes, “but there are elements on the Council and members of this school who act against anyone that gives them the slightest hint, however far-fetched, they are in league with Gar.” He nodded toward Klaybear’s forehead. “That’s more than a slight hint; it is the mark used by all of Gar’s servants, a symbol of evil.” His head turned when Klaybear groaned; Klare remained silent, but her face still flamed. “It was all I could do this morning to keep those elements from marching to your home and arresting you on the spot. I convinced them that we should find out what happened and try to understand why it happened before jumping to conclusions. The Council will meet this afternoon to hear your story, and decide what to do.” He gripped Klaybear’s shoulder. “I fear for you, my son, given the outrage expressed by some members of the Council.” He squeezed Klaybear’s shoulder once before standing and turning away.
“What do you think they might do?” Klare asked, her voice shaking.
Myron turned to look at them. “Brand you a traitor, and you both know the punishment for one of the higher orders convicted of treason. . . .” Myron left his statement hanging.
Klare drew breath sharply; the color now drained from her face. “But you are the Headmaster and leader of the council, and you know he is no traitor; can’t you stop them?”
Klaybear sat and did not speak for a time; his eyes went blank, then his mouth worked, as if he were trying to speak, but only a moan came out for a time until words finally formed, his voice sounding alien: Awake, the sign will mark your separation from those whom you would save. . . . Then, perhaps, you will truly taste the bitterness of being chosen . . . taste the bitterness of being chosen . . . bitterness of being chosen . . . bitterness . . . chosen . . . bitterness . . . chosen bitternesschosenbitterness. . . . Klare and Myron shook his shoulders as the words he spoke blended together, her face wrinkled in concern.
“What happened?” Klare asked. “You started mumbling under your breath then spoke in a strange voice about separation and the bitterness of being chosen; I had to shake you to bring you back to the present.”
Klaybear shook his head, then looked up at Myron. “It must have been what the messenger told me,” he said distractedly, then paused in thought. “Master, has anyone ever come back from the glade and reported that his or her vision was jumbled?”
“Jumbled? What do you mean?” Myron replied.
“I’m not sure how to describe it,” Klaybear said, his brow wrinkling in concentration, “it was as if you took a deck of cards, with each card an event, then caused each card to be glimpsed for only a moment before the next, all of them in quick succession. Then the cards all flash past again, but this time in the reverse order that they were first shown. Back and forth the cards fly, but you never get to see them long enough to figure out what you have seen. Has this happened before?”
“No,” Myron said after a moment, “but all you need to do is slow them down in your mind, and examine each one by itself.”
“No,” Klaybear said, “which shows immediately that my use of cards does not work.” He paused. “Maybe if you put them all together, so that one event was smashed into the one that went before and followed, and you could not tell where one ended and the next started. . . .” He paused again. “One face or form blurs into a new face and form, before you can decide what the first face or form was, smashed together and constantly moving and changing, but with a strange sort of repetition, like the going out and coming in of the tide.”
Myron looked thoughtful. “It is odd that you should describe them in that way. Hierarch Kalamar used the same words to describe the way his apprenti
ce’s teka-aided look into the future was interrupted by other images, ‘images smashed together.’” Myron looked around. “We need time to consider this anomaly, but I fear we will not have it. I called you here for what I hoped would be a joyful reunion, but everything has changed.” The Headmaster shook his head. “I went to visit Kalamar yesterday, to inform him that you had gone to the glade. I arrived just in time to bring back a wounded young wethi, found near his tower and rescued by his son and apprentice, Thalamar. I brought him here; we tended his wounds, and thought he would be recovered enough that you could see him, your lost older brother, Delgart.”
Klaybear leapt to his feet, eyes wide with shock. “Delgart is here?”
“He is why I called you here, this morning, so you could see him. But something happened during the night; he’s contracted some disease that we cannot cure. And the oddest thing about it is that just yesterday, a seklesa was brought to us who was involved in a battle with purem near the Mountain of Vision. She was taken in a skirmish and when they found her, many miles away, near the Iorn Gate, she was ill and could not be healed; so they brought her to us, and we have been unable to cure her disease. On both of them, the skin and flesh is rotting away, as if both were already dead and decomposing. I fear that if we do not find some cure, both will die. The only clue we have is found in a very old text, said to have been written by Shigmar himself, but rather cryptically: When his end cometh, a wasting scourge shall afflict two of the chosen oppositely. Know that legend shall walk the land bearing living waters to restore his fellow chosen. What this means, no one is sure.”
The Redemption, Volume 1 Page 12
