The Redemption, Volume 1

by Clyde B Northrup

  Elanor sat up. “Really?” she asked eagerly.

  Varla nodded. Elanor, Varla, and Meekor all looked at Tevvy.

  “Why do I suddenly feel like a rat caught in a trap?” Tevvy asked the room at large.

  Elanor’s face went suddenly wide with mock surprise. “I make you feel trapped?” she asked, her eyes looking moist.

  “No . . . , I did not mean . . . ,” Tevvy tried to protest, “you don’t make me feel that way,” he finally said, gently touching her cheek. “What I should have said was that I feel carefully maneuvered into a position where I have only one choice,” he added, looking at his father.

  Meekor shook his head.

  “Mother?” Tevvy asked.

  “Are you suggesting that I backed you into this corner?” Varla asked. “I think you got there on your own!”

  “Can we get back to the story?” Meekor asked.

  “I did not bring up the idea of a joining,” Varla retorted, “you, also, did that on your own.”

  Tevvy laughed. “It is good to be home,” he noted.

  Elanor was glaring at him with her arms folded across her chest.

  “Is something amiss?” Tevvy asked, trying not to flinch under her glare.

  “Unless I’m mistaken, Telvor,” Elanor spoke very slowly, “you have, again, weaseled out of fixing a date.”

  Tevvy’s eyes widened. “I did?”

  “Don’t play innocent with me, Telvor!” Elanor exclaimed, her voice rising. “This is not the first time you have done it, and I am tired of playing games with you! Three days–yes or no?” She glared at him.

  Tevvy looked from Elanor to his mother, and saw that she was in full agreement; he looked to his father for some help, but Meekor smiled back at him, and he knew that he was cornered at last. Inside, he sighed; he took Elanor’s hand. “Yes, dear,” he said as submissively as he could, “that sounds wonderful!” He smiled and braced himself; Elanor flung herself into his arms a second time.

  “About time, too,” Varla noted.

  Tevvy looked at his father as Elanor continued to cling to him. “There might be more than just Elanor and I,” he said.

  “Really, who?” Meekor asked.

  “Do you remember the seklesi that I trained under on one of my field assignments?” Tevvy asked.

  Meekor nodded. “Captain Rokwolf,” he said, “but I thought he had his eyes on another seklesa, Marilee, I think I recall, who Elanor trained with?”

  Elanor shook her head. “She always told me she respected him as a leader but only liked him as a brother.”

  Tevvy nodded. “She finally rejected him,” Tevvy said, “and I think she has fallen for his older brother, and both she and Delgart had a strange wasting sickness that left half of their faces disfigured–the opposite half–so that if they place the maimed sides together, one can see the mark of Gar glowing between them. We discovered that all of the chosen have been maimed by Gar and have his mark inscribed somewhere on our persons.”

  “That’s horrible!” Elanor exclaimed. “Marilee was very pretty, for a wetha,” she went on, “and she had the most beautiful, long, black hair. When I was training with her, I’d help her brush it at night, and you say her face was maimed?”

  Tevvy nodded. “She and Delgart keep their faces wrapped at all times, always wearing their hoods,” he replied.

  Meekor was shaking his head. “Now you’re starting in the middle, son,” he noted wryly.

  “That happened near the beginning,” Tevvy said, “about the time I arrived in Shigmar,” and for the next few hours, Tevvy went on, amid many questions, to tell his parents and Elanor what had happened to him since he had left. He related all that had happened in Shigmar, and all that he had learned about his companions; he told of rescuing them from the dungeon, and how they had discovered the secret room beneath the sewers that actually stopped time. He noted that in the room they discovered the tampering with his and Klare’s minds and the verghrenum prepared to protect them from further tampering.

  “That reminds me,” he noted, “I have something for you, Elanor.” He pulled out a pair of bracers like his but with smaller symbols on them. “These were in the same chest where we found ours; Rokwolf saw their size and thought I might know for whom they were. Hold out your arms,” he said to Elanor, and when she did, he slipped them over her hands, one at a time, then tightened and tied the laces. When the second was tied in place, both glowed white, then her entire body was surrounded by white light.

  “Tevvy? What have you . . . ?” she started to say, then her eyes went blank, her body went limp, and she started to slide off the bed.

  Tevvy was ready for this, so he caught her in his arms; the light around her winked out.

  Elanor took a deep breath and looked up into Tevvy’s face.

  “How do you feel?” Tevvy asked.

  Elanor sat up in his arms, looking around. “I want to say tired, but that is not true,” she said. “I think I feel better, although I did not know that I felt bad before.”

  “You’ve done quite well,” Tevvy said. “When Rokwolf put his on, he went right to sleep and did not awaken until he was sent to Shigmar and Headmaster Myron.”

  “I do feel quite hungry, though,” Elanor added, looking around hopefully.

  “It should be here anytime now,” Varla said.

  “And you said you can communicate with these?” Meekor asked.

  “Not exactly, father,” Tevvy replied, “we can signal each other, but I do not know if it works with these,” he added, his voice trailing off. Casually, he touched the symbol on his own wrist and thought of Elanor, who suddenly looked down at her wrists. “What did you notice?” he asked.

  “They got suddenly warmer,” Elanor replied.

  Tevvy held up his arms so they could see what he was doing; he took his finger off the symbol.

  “They’ve cooled,” Elanor noted.

  “Like that,” Tevvy said, looking at his father. He looked back at Elanor. “Now you try,” he said, “concentrate on me and touch the symbol.”

  Tevvy felt an electric charge surge through him that made his face flush; he reached out and pulled her finger from the symbol. “That works,” he said.

  Elanor smiled at him wickedly. “Did it?” she asked. “Are you certain? Perhaps I should test it again?” she added, moving her hand toward her wrist.

  Tevvy grabbed it and held it. “No, I need to check something else,” he stammered, then let go of her hand. He touched the symbol and, for the benefit of the others, said her name aloud; he saw the familiar, and very thick, white thread going straight to her. He nodded. “Now you try,” he said.

  “But nothing happened,” she protested.

  “You’ll see a thick, white thread leading to me,” Tevvy went on, “the thickness or thinness of the thread tells you whether the person is far or near, in this case, quite near, so quite thick.”

  She did; her eyes widened. “I see it,” she said. “So I can use this to find you.”

  “And I you,” Tevvy added, “or anyone else who wears one of these.”

  He paused at this point as their breakfast arrived, but once they began to eat he went on to tell how Master Thalamar and Sir Blakstar used the verghrenum to find and rescue him, then of their journey north and entry into Shigmar’s tomb to retrieve breath-giver; he described all that had happened to them in the tomb, and how they had learned to communicate using the staff and sword, how they had rescued Klare, and what happened to Shigmar. He went on to relate how he had traveled south with the seklesem, and what he learned after reaching Kilnar, how he had nearly been captured, and how he had brought Rokwolf and Sutugno here with him and why.

  “That is a tragic story,” Meekor said, “and I will be happy to bind them together, whenever they wish it.” He looked at his son. “You did make one mistake that nearly cost you your life: you let prejudice get in your way, which is why you got caught in the sewers in the first place.”

  “But father,” Tevvy
protested, “the kortexi refuses to trust me: he will not accept that my skills can be useful. He sees me as a thief, nothing more.”

  “That may be,” Meekor said, “but that is no reason for you to be as stupid; he will come around, in time.” He sighed and shook his head. “You should have found some place to hide and waited until you had regained control of your thoughts and temper.”

  Tevvy nodded. “You are right,” he agreed, “I let myself get angry and got captured; I should know better.”

  There was a knock on the door; Meekor frowned. “That does not sound like Daybor’s usual knock,” he noted, getting up; daggers appeared in both hands. Tevvy and Elanor also stood up from the chairs where they had been sitting. Meekor nodded to Tevvy, who moved to the other side of the door, daggers sliding into his hands; Elanor waited near Varla, daggers held in front of her.

  “Enter,” Meekor said.

  The door opened slowly, and they saw the tall, sandy-haired form of Rokwolf framed in the doorway; everyone relaxed.

  “Come in,” Meekor said, smiling, “you are Rokwolf, and that must be Sutugno.” He turned to Tevvy. “Pull up a couple of those larger chairs for our wethi guests.” Tevvy moved the chairs to the table while Meekor and Varla greeted the newcomers.

  “Is it too early to have that sample analyzed?” Rokwolf asked after exchanging pleasantries.

  Tevvy looked at his father. “The one I took from the ale barrel in Kilnar,” he added.

  “He owes me a favor,” Meekor replied, “a very big favor, so if he balks, just mention ‘Ruby.’”

  Tevvy raised an eyebrow. “Which is?”

  Meekor shook his head. “That you know the name will be enough,” he replied, “any more and he will kill us both.” He thought for a moment, watching his wife and Elanor draw Sutugno into the other part of the room. “You mentioned the peculiar disappearances in Kilnar involving the Green Beast there, have you forgotten that we are next to another Green Beast?”

  Tevvy’s eyebrows drew together. “In all that has happened to us,” he replied, “that had not occurred to me. Have there been strange disappearances here?”

  Meekor shook his head again. “None that have been reported, but then no one keeps a very close watch on this part of Rykelle: no one of any importance lives in this quarter,” he added wryly. “I’ll have someone check their ale barrels, or just collect a sample of their ale.” He looked again at the ladies, then back at Rokwolf. “Knowing what has recently happened to you–Tevvy shared it with us–I would be worried about their conversation,” he said, nodding toward his wife, Elanor, and Sutugno.

  Rokwolf sighed. “I hear you, Master Meekor,” he said, “but there is very little I can do to change it.”

  “Seriously,” Meekor said, gripping Rokwolf’s forearm, “I can perform the joining ceremony, if that will help, and we can make it completely private: Tevvy and Elanor can be the official witnesses, and you know from experience that they can keep secrets.”

  Rokwolf nodded once, his face bleak.

  Presgrut was as surly as Tevvy remembered, even after he mentioned the name his father had given him. The short, hunched wethi with stringy gray hair snatched the sample from Tevvy’s hand, and his eyes bulged even more when he pulled the spectacles, with huge, clear crystals, from on top of his head down over his eyes; he muttered to himself as he bent his face closer to his workbench to examine the powder taken from the ale barrel. As Presgrut began to examine the sample, Tevvy and Rokwolf grabbed chairs, pulled them toward the workbench, and sat down to watch the old wethi work.

  “Well-formed crystals,” Presgrut mumbled to himself. He dumped some of the sample into a small, white container, ground it, then examined it again through his spectacles. “Powders easily; does it burn?” he asked himself, and picked up a long handled, blackened spoon. Taking a small amount with the spoon, he let a few grains fall into one of the candles burning; the candle sputtered and smoked. “Not really,” he noted, then held the spoon over the end of the flame, watching the powder until it melted, then boiled away. He picked up a second candlestick and tipped it into the steam rising from the boiling liquid; it sputtered and flamed as before. He set the second candle down, then wafted some of the steam gently toward his face and sniffed once carefully; he frowned and turned the spoon over, burning the remainder, then stuck the spoon into a bucket of water next to his workbench, causing a momentary hiss. He wiped it dry with a rag, then scooped more of the powder with the spoon and emptied it into a flask of clear liquid; the liquid turned orange as he stirred it, and he looked at the liquid carefully. “Yes, I thought so,” he noted, setting it aside. He moved to a vertical metal rod that had several metal devices attached to it; he turned two of them, with large rings, closer to him, the two rings were horizontal to the surface of his work bench, the first six inches above, the second, three inches above the first. Turning from his bench, he went to a shelf behind it and began to rummage through what looked like small circles of white parchment of varying weights. He chose two and folded them to form cone shapes that he dropped into the two rings. After setting a second flask beneath the lowest ring and inverted cone, he picked up the original flask holding the orange liquid and poured it slowly into the upper cone and ring. As the liquid dripped out of the upper cone, they saw its color was now red, and as it dripped out of the lower, it was clear again. Presgrut smiled.

  “So what is it?” Tevvy asked.

  “Where did you say you found this?” Presgrut asked, ignoring his question.

  “I didn’t,” Tevvy replied, “you never gave me the chance as you were too busy being grumpy, as usual,” and then, seeing him glare, he added, “in the top of a partially empty barrel of ale.”

  Presgrut frowned at this. “What was the ale being used for?” he asked.

  “I was hoping you could tell me,” Tevvy countered. “So what can you tell me?”

  Presgrut pointed to the two rings. “You should recognize the substance in this lower filter,” he said.

  Tevvy climbed onto his chair, then leaned forward, looking at the red residue left in the lower filter; he noticed the distinctive shade of bright red and the pungent odor. He sat back down. “Is that distilled from the berries of the skrufoti plant?” he asked.

  Presgrut nodded. “You do your father credit,” he said gruffly. “It is a plant found only in the Wolpoti Swamp, and it renders the victim unconscious.”

  “What is the other substance?” Tevvy asked.

  Presgrut shrugged. “I’m not sure,” he admitted, “although it appears to be some kind of venom.” He poked at the yellow substance with a needle-pointed instrument and held it up; they saw a tiny drop clinging to the point. He looked around his bench and found a small cage containing a gray field mouse; the small creature knew what was coming and tired in vain to escape. With practiced skill, Presgrut pricked the neck of the mouse; within seconds it went limp, eyes wide open and staring.

  “Notice that it appears to be awake,” Presgrut said, “but let’s make sure; it will probably want a drink went it regains the ability to move,” and as he said this, he opened the cage and turned the mouse to the left away from its small watering tin attached to one wall of the cage. They noticed the tail twitch as he turned it. “Already it begins to recover,” he noted, and they watched as, a few seconds later, its hind legs twitched, then moved, then its front paws, and its ears, and within twenty seconds the mouse got to its feet and scrambled to the right and its water dish. “As I thought,” he said, “this venom paralyzes the body, leaving the mind awake, cognizant of what is happening but unable to resist or flee. There is only one group of predators that hunts this way, mostly because they eat live flesh, and so keep their victims for days at a time before consuming them.”

  “There is not any animal I know,” Rokwolf said, “which hunts in that manner; all that I am familiar with use venom to stop the struggling of the prey, so it can be eaten.”

  “I do not speak of an animal in the strictest sen
se,” Presgrut went on, “but of spiders.”

  Tevvy laughed. “It would take a long time to collect that much venom from literally, thousands, maybe millions, of spiders!” he said. “Who would waste such time?”

  “Not so, you would just need bigger spiders,” Presgrut said, “about the size of sheep.”

  “There’s no such . . . ,” Tevvy started to say but was cut off.

  “There is,” Presgrut said, “in the western part of the Mariskal, or so I have been told.”

  Before Tevvy could process this statement, the lights flashed like stars and he was plunged into darkness and silence, sliding from his chair to the floor.

  Chapter 11

  Six legions, plus one elite legion, are stationed at all times in Holvar. In times of difficulty the Feragwen may organize a Seventh Legion, the gwenakso, drawn from the other legions, to perform special assignments on behalf of the Feragwen. . . .

  from The Higher Orders, written by order of the Fereghen atno 1739

  Delgart walked briskly at Marilee’s side, still struggling to learn his way around Holvar, and she led him today into a part of the citadel that was new to him. The elite seklesem guarding these corridors wore black cloaks, a reminder to all of the passing of the Fereghen in the recent battle near the Crossing of Reema. The messenger had told them who wanted them, and Marilee had gone white.

  “I wonder why she wants to speak to us?” Marilee whispered to him as they passed another guard and turned a corner to climb another set of stairs.

  Delgart looked sidelong at her before replying. “Maybe she simply wants us to report what we saw,” he said, “our firsthand account.”

  Marilee stopped suddenly, grabbing his arm and forcing him to stop. “We’ve written how many reports of the events?” she asked. “And how many times have we had to re-tell the story? I fear that if one more person asks me . . . ,” she doubled up her fist and held it up threateningly, not completing her thought.