by J M D Reid
“His breathing stopped,” said Dualayn, his voice gentle. He wiped at his own red-smeared hands. “His heart’s not beating. We knew there wasn’t much chance. The injuries he sustained . . .”
Avena snarled against the injustice of it all. A raw pain struck her, deep to her core. She had promised Ōbhin he’d be fine, that they would save him. The anger in her metastasized into the agony of grief, her mouth bitter with failure.
She yearned for the coldness to embrace her utterly, but she knew it for a trap. Once, she was almost stuck in it. It took Daughter Heana’s patience to draw her out. It never fully left her, that emptiness always lurking in her, demanding to be filled or it would swallow her.
She didn’t want it to swallow her.
“I wanted to save you,” she said to Carstin. She touched his face. He looked peaceful. At rest. “I’m sorry.”
“We both did,” Dualayn said. “I’ll clean up. You can go. Tell Ōbhin that we . . .” He drew in a steadying breath. “Tell him that we failed.”
“Okay,” she said, voice tight. Disappointment pressed on her sagging shoulders.
She ripped her gaze away. She grabbed a clean rag and scrubbed his blood from her hands beneath the stream of water from the aquifer. The last bit of his life spilled down the drain that led to the manor house’s leach field.
It all seemed so pointless to care for him. To hope for him and . . .
She shook her head. She couldn’t think that. Trying was never hopeless. Never pointless. If no one cared, then suffering would rule the world. She wiped the last of the blood off her hands. She marched out of the laboratory and into the warmth of the rest of the house.
She had her destination fixed. She marched ahead, her steps echoing around her. She stared down at clean hands, the beds of her nails sparkling. A roil of emotions shot through her, too tangled for her to understand. They all mixed together into something black and raw.
Ōbhin stared at the window.
He turned at some sound she made. His expression fell on her. His face hardened as he drew in a deep breath. His hands went behind his back as she stared at him.
“I tried,” she whispered as she crossed to him. She didn’t quite know why. To comfort him, or to find it herself. “I truly tried. I wanted to . . . I did . . . No matter who he was.”
“I know,” Ōbhin whispered, his voice soft. His arms engulfed her and pulled her to him. The pain grew too great. Her frustration threatened to overcome her. It had to escape her. The emotions welling up inside of her. She had to let them out. She couldn’t bottle them up and slip into the coldness again.
Her tears flowed as he rocked her. She mourned a man she’d never known whole. She knew nothing of his life save he’d engaged in banditry. His crimes didn’t matter. He was her patient, and she’d failed him.
Chapter Ten
A numbness gripped Ōbhin as he gained the top of the hill cloaked in blackberry bushes, a shovel over his shoulder. Behind him, the three guards who worked for Dualayn set down the cloth-wrapped corpse of Carstin on the grass. Breaths came in deep inhalations, thighs burning from the exertion of the climb, Ōbhin leaned on the handle of his mattock, studying the ground.
Someone had been standing up here recently. He frowned at the impressions of feet around the base of the tree growing nearby. Work boots, rough, the soles damaged and worn. The butt of a staff had dug an impression in the soil.
Or maybe the end of a bow . . . drifted through his thoughts.
“Are you okay, Ōbhin?” said the genial tones of Dualayn. “If this task is beyond you . . . ?”
Ōbhin shook his head. “No, no. He was . . . was my friend.”
He glanced down at the cloth molding to the form of Carstin. The impression of a broad nose and the shape of his forehead bled through the linen. It fell over his torso, his missing leg marked by the fall of the fabric.
“Sorry,” whispered Avena, her voice a low croak, destroyed by her sobbing.
“Come on, boys,” grunted a bulbous-nosed guard, the eldest of the three. His hair grayed. He cracked his swollen knuckles one hand at a time, pressing a fist into the opposite’s palm. “Hole’s not gonna dig itself.”
Miguil the groom was the first to thrust the wooden blade of his shovel into the grass covering the hill. He stepped on it. Despite the delicate cast to his features, he didn’t shy away from the work. He hefted a large chunk of soil and sod to the side, exposing the dry-brown dirt beneath. Ōbhin stepped up beside the man and drove his shovel into the rocky soil, feeling the jar of buried stones.
The guard they’d met at the gate, his smile forgotten, slammed a rusting mattock into the dirt, breaking up the soil as Ōbhin, the other two guards, and Miguil dug the grave. Thoughts drifted through Ōbhin’s mind as his black gloves slid up and down the rough haft of the shovel, creating an ever-growing pile. Sweat broke across his brow. It soaked his leather jerkin across his back and in his armpits.
The sun sank towards the horizon, shadows growing long as he worked, watched over by Avena and Dualayn. Soon they stood in the hole, digging it deeper. It rose up to their knees. Their waists. Then their shoulders. They tossed the progressively darker soil, full of wriggling worms and squirming beetles, out of the pit. Roots from the tree poked through midway down, feathery tendrils that swayed at every brush. Just as the grave reached the height of Ōbhin’s head, they found tough clay. The men grunted and groaned as they hacked through the last cubit.
Cold bled up from the earth, soaking through Ōbhin’s boots as he dug the final shovelful. He shivered, the sweat on his arms almost freezing. The light dwindled fast, the sun vanishing behind the western farmland. He scrambled out of the hole, panting, his lips caked in dirt, chapped and dried from the exertion. More filth streaked his sweaty face and matted his hair.
Ōbhin and the bulbous-nosed guard hefted Carstin’s burial wrapping. The emptiness deepened in Ōbhin. He felt so remote after the exertion like he stood apart from his body and watched with mechanical disinterest as they lowered the corpse with care into the depths of the earth.
Did Taim’s parents feel this way when they watched his coffin vanish into the King? wondered Ōbhin.
Dualayn cleared his throat. “Ōbhin, would you wish to say anything about your compatriot?”
Ōbhin swallowed, his throat raw and burning from thirst. He scooped up a fistful of the earth they’d excavated and tossed the rich soil onto the clean linen. In his native Qothian, he prayed, “May the seven Harmonious Tones welcome your soul. Let Vatsim forever hold your earthly vessel, and may Qasigh guard your remains. Let Lausi guide your soul from the pain of this life, and allow Zolinee to bathe you in her cleansing melody. May Otsar keep your essence warm and hold back the treacherous reach of Disharmony’s chaos so that you may reach Raleth’s revelations and awaken to the enlightenment we all search for. Lastly, may Aliiva soothe you of all your hurts so that your eternity can be filled with bliss. You are free of the prison of your body. You are free to sing with the Harmonious Tones. No longer will Niszeh’s discord disrupt the perfection of your existence. Find the Truth and know Peace.”
“Rise up and be welcomed to Elohm’s bosom,” Avena whispered. “Do not let the Black weigh down your soul. Let the Colours polish you bright. You are at rest now. At peace.”
Ōbhin nodded. Tears burned his eyes. His hands flexed. “Thank you.”
Carstin had awakened Ōbhin from his malaise. He couldn’t undo his terrible crimes, but so long as he lived, he could fight against Niszeh’s discord instead of aiding it. That started here. With Dualayn, Avena, Miguil, Pharon, and the others. They sought to lessen the pain in the world, to defeat disease, sickness, and suffering. He knew how to fight, so he would use his blade to defend them. To allow them to work.
I hope you found peace, Taim, Ōbhin whispered, tears spilling down his cheeks.
He said not a word as the three guards and Miguil shoveled the dirt back over Carstin’s form, letting the Earth, the domain of Va
tsim’s resonance, accept Carstin’s vessel. His soul was free of the burdens of this life. Ōbhin ached that the stories were true. That more existed beyond this world.
The last shovelful of dirt covered Carstin. A raw patch of disturbed soil marked his final resting place. The bulbous-nosed man gave a grim nod. “Find peace, brother.”
“Peace,” the other two guards and Miguil echoed.
“Come on,” the bulbous-nosed guard said, taking Ōbhin’s arm and leading him from the hilltop. “There’s a public house not far. Just across the bridge in Breezy Hills.”
Ōbhin didn’t resist, tears wet on his cheeks, his eyes raw with grief. The other two guards formed around him, the four trooping down the hill, boots thudding. The older guard’s hand shifted to Ōbhin’s back, providing a comforting strength.
“You’re one of us,” said the smiling guard. “We’ll get you through this. Lost my brother. I know.”
“Smiles is right,” said the bulbous-nosed guard. “You ain’t gonna lose that grief, but maybe you can ease it. Set it down for a time. ‘Sides, it’ll be good to talk. He must’ve been a good friend.”
“I hardly knew him,” Ōbhin said. “We just walked the same road.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” said Smiles. “Do we ever know anyone? There are times my Jilly seems like a stranger, and she’s my wife.”
“Can’t trust wives,” muttered the bulbous-nosed guard, his grip tightening on Ōbhin’s shoulder.
“You can if you don’t marry the village mare, Fingers.”
Fingers, the older guard, spat. “She weren’t that when I married her.”
“You sure? From the way you talk . . .”
“You’ll see, Smiles. One day you’ll realize your Jilly’s tryin’ to poison you to marry the butler.”
“Pharon?” Smiles grinned. “I think my wife could do better ‘n that. Wot you say, Bran? She could at least marry Edglin. He owns a bakery. Good money in a bakery.”
Bran, the youngest guard who seemed more boy than man, gave a nervous giggle.
“You sound like you want your wife to share her Red,” Fingers growled.
“Well, I’m just sayin’, if she were gonna trade me in, that she should aim high. My Jilly’s a prize, you know.” Smiles nodded to Ōbhin. “A ripe strawberry. Sweet and lovely.”
“You’ll see. One day, you’ll bite in and find her all wormed through. She’ll destroy you.”
Ōbhin let their talk drift around them, the two men trading back and forth about wives. He stumbled, Fingers pressing him on while Smiles sauntered on his right and Bran trailing behind them, hardly doing more than giving a nervous laugh or a tittering giggle.
“If you paid attention to your wife, you wouldn’t be muttering about her wanderin’ ways,” Smiles said.
“I paid attention to her. That was the problem. I watched, saw it all. That’s why she got nervous ‘n tried to poison me.”
“Riiiight.”
“Poison?” Ōbhin asked, blinking out of his thoughts. Night had descended and he realized they were walking on cobblestone streets passing rickety houses. The rank smell of sewage filled his nose, the effluent dribbling down gutters flanking the street and dumping into drains.
“She’d get this look, sometimes,” said Fingers. He clenched his left fist, his knuckles cracking one after the other. “Dark and distant. It always meant trouble. I ignored it, all day, I did. Went out to the field, broke my back to feed her. When I returned, I could see it as White as truth. She’d made a poisoned feast. Broke my heart. She was all smiles, you know, as she served it up. Like I’d be happy that she was tearin’ my heart out. Didn’t have a choice wot I did. I . . . left.”
“I suspect she didn’t poison you but did somethin’ nice.” Smiles shook his head. “Nice things confuse poor Fingers.”
“Nice?” He snorted. “We have different definitions of nice. If you’d seen her, you’d know. What she made that day was foul. I told her then and there I got a new job. Had to go to the city. To Kash. Couldn’t let her get me. Oh, no. She wanted freedom so she could marry the potter. I knew it. He was newly widowed, mind you, and she kept goin’ over there to ‘consolidate’ him.”
“He was grievin’,” Smiles protested.
Ōbhin worked his jaw. “You never can tell with a woman. They hide their emotions from you.”
“My Jilly don’t hide nothin’.” He turned around and called out. “You hear ‘em, Bran. You don’t want to end up like these two. Scared of their women. Scared to love ‘em.”
“Not scared of nothin’,” Fingers muttered.
“Except your sweet wife’s cookin’.” Smiles chuckled. “That’s more dangerous than facin’ a bloodfire, it seems to me.”
“Her food must be dreadful indeed,” Ōbhin found himself saying.
“Definitely,” Smiles said, clapping a friendly hand on Ōbhin’s shoulder. “And you would know.”
“Did you really kill Ni’mod?” Bran asked, a boyish eagerness in his voice.
The momentary stirring of camaraderie snuffed out. “Yes.”
Fingers grunted. “Cold bastard despite wot he was. Knew fish with more emotion in their eyes.”
“And wives, eh?” asked Smiles, nudging Ōbhin in the ribs as Fingers shouldered open the rickety door.
It opened into a common room lit by a pair of hearths on either end of the hall. Smoke drifted amid the bare rafters. A bouncer, his face shadowed by a wide-brimmed hat, nodded to Smiles, the pair exchanging friendly greetings.
“Oy, landlord, a round of your finest,” Smiles called.
“Ain’t nothin’ fine here,” a man behind the bar grunted, his stained shirt stretched over a ponderous belly. He had a shadow of a beard following his jowls, his cheeks bright from his own wares. “You know that, Smiles.”
“Pretend.”
The landlord snorted and shook his head.
“Don’t think you’ll find us holdin’ grudges ‘bout Ni’mod,” said Fingers, pushing Ōbhin down into a chair. “Man said five words the entire time I knew him.”
“Creeped my Jilly out,” said Smiles as he slouched into the chair to Ōbhin’s right. “And not much scares her.”
“Spiders do,” Bran said as he took the seat across from Ōbhin, his eyes bright.
Smiles shuddered. “Who ain’t creeped out by them long-legged bastards? Their silk might be white, but they spin it with Black, or so my mother used to say.”
A smile crossed Ōbhin’s lips as a memory rose through him. “Carstin hated them. We were camped out near the Remnants when he screamed out with blood-curdling panic. He had Ust up on his feet yelling about an ambush while Whiner Creg was tripping over his blankets. He almost fell face first into the coals. Carstin was thrashing in his bedroll, kicking and screaming. I thought he’d taken a wound. I bolted upright and cracked my head right into a low branch.”
Smiles snorted.
“Ust was bellowing the way he does, and Hook was shouting at us to form up. Stars were dancing around my head while Carstin gathered his blankets and threw them in the fire.”
“Waste of a good blanket,” Fingers muttered. “Must’ve known my wife.”
“Doesn’t every man?” asked Smiles.
Ōbhin couldn’t help his grin. “Is that why your wife was throwing them out?”
Bran let out a braying laugh as the landlord came around with the tankards, slamming them on the table. The tails of the white cloth tied about his upper arm swayed, one end coated in congealed grease. Fingers snatched up his, knuckles red and swollen. He brought the drink to his mouth.
“So he burned a blanket because of a spider?” asked Bran.
Grinning, Ōbhin nodded. He hefted his tankard and took a sip of the sour beer. “Ust was shouting at Carstin, and he was trying to explain that a spider landed on his face and woke him up. Came down from the tree he was sleeping under. Handsome Baill asked why he freaked out. ‘When a woman throws herself at you, best to just give her what she needs.’”
Bran blanched. “A spider?”
“Carstin didn’t even bat an eye. He looked at Handsome Baill and said, ‘She was confused. Meant to slip in your blanket. You the only one of us with a pick small enough to mine her gold.’”
Smiles, in the process of taking a drink, burst into laughter, foaming beer spraying from his nose. Bran brayed louder, pounding his fist into the table. Fingers chuckled, a smile cracking his lips as he shook his head.
“Carstin never took muck being slung at him,” Ōbhin said. “He was bold, you know. The type who’d back you in a drunken brawl even if you started it with the biggest guy there.”
Smiles wiped the foam off his upper lip as he struggled to catch his breath, his face turning red. He leaned back and let out a final guffaw. “Knew a man like that. Good man, just complained about his wife all the time.”
Fingers frowned.
“Not you.” Smiles said. “‘Nother poor sod who couldn’t appreciate the Colours shinin’ bright on him.” He glanced at Bran. “You find yourself a good girl, like my Jilly. She’ll keep you out of trouble.”
“I do just fine.” Bran straightened. “You’ve seen the jacket I won dicin’ here the other night. Real fine.”
Fingers’s eyes narrowed. “Ōbhin don’t care ‘bout that.”
Ōbhin leaned back in his chair. A good girl . . . Did one exist? Foonauri flashed through his mind. “Carstin thought he found that.” He leaned forward. “This laundress. Last thing he told me.”
Smiles’s grin faded. “She don’t know?”
“I don’t even know her name or where she’s from. Kash, maybe, but how many people live here?”
“Two, three hundred thousand, I heard,” Bran said.
Ōbhin gave a sad nod. He lifted his mug. “To Carstin.”
I’ll do better, he thought as clay mugs clattered together. His eyes flicked over the three guards. I’m sorry I didn’t get to you in time.
*
Sleep eluded Avena.
She kept seeing that moment over and over. Carstin, his insides splayed open. He’d only needed to last a little longer. He’d come so far, survived longer than he should have, only to perish right there at the end.
