by Marc Secchia
How long must I wait? Gantuls, and more?
I had travelled further afield from the monastery than usual over the course of several days, helped by a lift from a kind carter whose weak, inflamed left eye had been treated by one of the Brothers. We rode right through the wilderness toward the south-western corner of Roymere, where the dense lyrithbark, terg, and rimwood forest abuts the imposing ridge of the Lyrn Massif, and few traders travel save those interested in minerals. For league upon league, there rises sheer from the forest floor many trins high, a sudden escarpment where the land seemed to have been sheared away at some distant aeon at the stroke of Mata’s sword. This exposure made for excellent mining, and that market day, I plied my trade in an industrious mining village.
Truly told, I remember the exact makh. It was the eighth makh, when yellow Suthauk had fallen behind the mountain and the village was cast half in shade, half in bright sunshine, when I became aware a little girl was speaking to me.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Benok,” I said automatically, finishing my bargain with a miner. “Seven terls for the bindwort,” I said. “Three for the sathic infusion. Twice a day in hot water until the infection clears up.”
“Ooh. And why are you wearing those funny robes?”
I glanced down at her, thinking how open and unafraid she was, even with a stranger. “I’m a monk. We all wear these robes.”
“Can I buy something from you?”
I could not speak. Transported to another place and another time, memories long buried suddenly leaped up to ensnare me and steal my powers of speech as though an adept pickpocket had plucked my tongue out of my mouth in broad daylight.
“Mister monk, are you feeling aright? My mommy says that if people aren’t feeling right then sometimes they can’t speak proper.”
Finally I managed, “Sherya? Is that you?”
The little girl dimpled sweetly and explained in earnest, piping tones, “No, that’s my mommy. I’m called Rubiny. My grandmam, she is called Rubiny too. Mommy says I take after her.”
My legs failed me very suddenly and I thumped down on my behind, scattering pouches of herbs and bottles of ointment everywhere. I scrabbled for them stupidly and aimlessly, hardly daring to take my eyes off the little girl. She was exactly as I remembered Sherya at five anna of age. Red of hair, an impish little face, a person who would talk to anyone and everyone–only, this little girl had a pronounced, disfiguring harelip. But otherwise … after all these anna, it was just too much. My eyes welled up uncontrollably.
Fragments of my life, found. It hurt very, very badly.
“Mister monk? Are you crying?”
I gulped back the tears, and wiped my nose on the sleeve of my habit. “Ay, truly told … I’m a just a little silly and weepy … help me pick these up will you?”
I pulled my legs beneath my body, accepting the offerings as she darted around snatching up pots and herbs and scrolls and virtually flinging them into my arms in a welter of enthusiasm. ‘I’m a grandparent,’ I told myself inanely. ‘Rubiny must be alive!’
“Is that your special bag?”
I smiled at her, my heart swollen to the point of bursting. “It has lots of things inside to make people better. People like you, who are sweeter than any roundel sweetbread, who Mata has made … ay, a little different.”
Her fingers covered her lip immediately. “The other children laugh at me. That makes me so sad. But my mommy says I’m beautiful.”
“Oh, she’s right! Absolutely right!” I fumbled in my bag, gulping back an ocean of weeping. “Did you know, I have a special ointment in my bag which is very good for lips like yours?” Truly told, the one that I carried for show, which had no medicinal properties whatsoever apart from some herbs and essences to make it smell athocarial. Subterfuge, even in the smallest details, defined my life. “May I daub a little on your lip?”
“Will it hurt?”
“Not even the tiniest bit.”
“Fine.” She giggled. “That tickles.”
“And here by your nose. There, that’s done. Now, next time you look in a mirror–”
“Get your filthy paws off my daughter, you wretch!”
A scream in my ear was accompanied by an almighty blow against my backside. I sprawled nose-first into a muddy, dung-strewn puddle. People around us laughed at my misfortune, although one woman snapped, “Fancy treating a Solburn Brother so!” On hands and knees, I pushed myself loose of the muck. Hajik Hounds, the mother could kick like her grandmam! I needed not see her to know who it was.
Sherya. Over forty anna old now, she was looking well–not as slender as in her youth, but still a fine-looking woman. Much as I remembered Rubiny. Her clothing was not well-to-do, but neither was it threadbare. And her frown made her look thirteen anna old in my memory, just as she had looked the day I lost her.
“Pervert!” she hissed. “You leave my daughter alone.”
It was all water off a salmon’s back. I grinned happily at her through the faeces dripping off my nose, fully aware that she might not recognise me. “What I was doing,” I said softly, “was giving your daughter back her smile.”
“He put magic ointment on my nose!” announced Rubiny, with a stamp of her foot for emphasis. Oh holy Mata, like mother, like daughter! Sherya glanced down at her girl, then grabbed her cheeks and gave a gasp of wonder. “Ouch, mommy, you’re squeezing too hard.”
“Dear sweet Mata!” Sherya’s hands fluttered to her mouth. “It’s … gone! Oh, my darling! Oh … oh, smile for mommy. Please.”
“Just a few herbs in ointment,” I said gruffly. Sherya was not listening, but someone in the crowd might be. “No magic here.”
“Oh … oh, Brother! How can we ever thank you enough?”
I could have answered a thousand ways, but in the end, the lump in my throat proved too great to dislodge. “I, well, I could use a pumphouse, truly told,” I said gruffly. “Is there such nearby?”
“You will use ours, Brother. It is the least I can do … after–”
“No mind,” I said, willing to forgive anything. “Hot water, lye soap … will make me anew.”
“Then come.”
I cannot describe the simple pleasure of walking alongside my daughter and granddaughter after not seeing them for, I calculated in my mind, nigh on thirty-two anna. My feet hardly touched the ground. I felt I was in a dream and should wake soon, but I wished to never wake again. What had I missed? Sherya could not stop glancing at little Rubiny’s new smile. She started prattling on about her house, her two other children, both older than little Rubiny, and her mother’s husband who lay ill abed. Perhaps I could look in on him? It was the blood-cough, she said, which was incurable. Mayhap I knew of herbs which could ease his pain? They shared a house, she added, with her mother and her brother’s family.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this, Brother,” she apologised, as we turned at the front door of a large house built in the old Roymerian style, with many rooms arranged on two levels around a central courtyard, and servant quarters out back. “Be welcome.”
Ah, the sounds! My ear tuned to laughter, to a lummericoot being strummed somewhere, the birdsong of wrens and dainty yaluks bathing in a shallow pond in the centre of the courtyard. My heart was lifted to the heavens. My quoph sang. My tears were a river about to flood. I could not wait to lift the veil from their eyes.
Hasty washing availed me nought. I had to scrub myself thrice over to defeat the stench of dung. Meantime, an elderly manservant removed my soiled habit, and another brought grooming tools and supplies for my use. Carefully, as monks do, I shaved my scalp and beard, left aside the sandals provided to instead go barefoot as I had done for the last twelve anna, and pulled a most unfamiliar burnoose over my underclothes.
I looked myself over critically in the mirror. Sherya might not know me. Rubiny would not be fooled.
When I stepped out of the pumphouse, little Rubiny darted out from behind a bush and
grabbed my hand. “Come! Come on, mister monk. You have to meet all my sisters and cousins!”
My head was a-spin. I grinned like an idiotic drudge. Jerom had three boys, two girls, and another babe on the way. He was out working, but his tired and ready-to-burst wife gave me gracious welcome. Six children, and so quickly–I would also be worn out. As I burshingled over her hand, I checked her health and the baby’s out of habit. Nought amiss, Mata be praised. I patted her hand and said, “I shall make you a potion to help those swollen ankles and feet.”
Nine grandchildren in one day! I thought I should faint from happiness.
I bent down to little Rubiny. “Is your grandmam home?”
“Shopping again, truly told,” came the quick-as-a-wink reply. “But Tarrak, my grandfather, he is. He’s not my real one, you know. I heard the adults talking. They think children don’t have ears! Say, do you still like my new smile?”
She showed me two missing teeth and a wonderful smile. I patted her head. “Perfect! Has your cousin Rymi always had that bad foot?”
Little Rubiny made a face. “No, a very bad man drove his cart over it. But Rymi is fine. She can do everything I can. Look, I can skip. Can you skip?”
“Can you take me to your grandfather?”
“We’re not supposed to.” She glanced up at me. “Mummy says he needs his rest. Look, up there.” Indeed, Tarrak was dozing in a chair beside what must be the door of his bedchamber. Despite the warm sunshine, he was wrapped in a thick blanket. “Can you tell us a story, mister monk?”
When Sherya returned, I was holding court with nine rapt grandchildren, deeply immersed in a fanciful tale about faraway Eldoran, populated with sundry beautiful Warlocks and evil Sorceresses. Truly told, I could speak directly from experience on these counts! The most beautiful Warlock had white-golden hair … and this reference to P’dáronï had me wiping my eyes all over again. Still? Perhaps it was just the day, the best day of my life thus far …
When I had finished, Sherya said warmly, “You’ve an ulule’s tongue, Brother. Come. My mother has asked if you can see Tarrak. I told her I brought home a Solburn Brother.”
“You should have brought him up to Solburn sooner,” I said.
“Ay,” she returned over her shoulder. “Is it true what they say of this man Benok Holyhand, and the blessed waters there?”
“I believe so,” I said neutrally.
Rubiny had aged. It shocked me. When I made myself younger, I had not realised what it would do–and besides, the Eldrik in my heritage is longer-lived than the Umarite. I looked Sherya’s age, if that. Rubiny was white of hair and grown weak of eye. But she still had all the pride of the daughter Telmak.
When I greeted her she showed not a jot of recognition. Perhaps Rubiny worried more about Tarrak than I, which riled me. I thought I should still love her, and I did. But it was different now, tempered by the long anna of separation, and the knowledge she was my half-sister. I had to swallow hard. By his mien and greeting, Tarrak was a kindly man. I hoped he was a fine husband to Rubiny.
Taking his hands in mine, I closed my eyes.
“What is he doing?” I heard Rubiny whisper to Sherya.
“Praying,” I said.
Praying I would not rend this family apart by what I was about to reveal. Praying for courage. I reached down and bathed him in healing strength.
I dropped his hands. “He should rest now. He will sleep deeply and long. But I’m sure he will feel better come the morn.”
“Is that it?” asked Sherya, perplexed.
“Now, your mother.” I took Rubiny’s hand in mine.
Ah, the work-worn fingers I had once snatched from a life of luxury! Well-loved fingers, clasped in my own! Old and gnarled now, truly told, but perhaps the more greatly loved because of it. A thousand, thousand times I had wished for this day. Raising my right hand, I touched her eyes and said simply, “Be healed.”
Rubiny gasped. She looked at me twice, thrice; gasped again, and crumpled across the foot of the bed. I laid her gently beside her husband. She was much lighter than I expected.
“Well,” I said to Sherya, who was watching open-mouthed. “I suppose there’s no easy way to say this. How many people do you know who can heal with a touch? And how much has your mother told you about me?”
She flung herself into my arms, crying a word that broke my heart.
“Daddy!”
We gathered in the cool of eventide–Sherya, Jerom and his wife Rill, Rubiny, Tarrak and I–over a meal mired in awkward silences. I tried to tease Sherya about copying the Honoria Telmak, who had kicked me down the stairs of Telmak Lodge when I kissed the toe of Rubiny’s slipper, but no-one seemed amused. Finally I could bear no more waiting and hurting. I laid down my tine and said:
“I fear I have intruded here. I’m sorry to arrive as any Springtide storm. I’m not even sure what to tell the children–the grandchildren. For I must warn you, at once and in the gravest terms, that the matter of Jyla has not been resolved, and–”
“We will not flee in fear as before,” Rubiny interrupted.
I pursed my lips like a beggar asking a pittance. “I couldn’t do that to you again.”
“How many times since have you raised the Wurm, Arlak?” she inquired. “And how is it you still look so young?”
“Many times,” I admitted. “The last time was twelve anna ago, and seven days I fled from the beast across the desert south of the Nugar River.”
“We heard a tale you ploughed the desert.”
I smiled at Jerom. He had not stopped glowering at me. “That tale reached even here? It’s true.”
“Oh, we have heard about your exploits.”
“Jerom.”
“Sleeping with every woman from here to Eldoran.”
“Jerom!”
He turned to Rill. “Well, he can’t just turn up here like the proverbial lost terl and expect us all to expire in ecstatic worship of his greatness. Thank you, El Shashi, for healing little Rubiny. Why, thank you for fixing Mother’s eyes and Father’s cough. It doesn’t add up to thirty anna of forsaking us in the pursuit of personal glory. Look at what became of Lailla and Illia!”
“What–will someone please explain–”
“Lailla ran off with some travelling minstrel from Darbis,” he explained bitterly, refusing to meet my eyes. “She thought he loved her. And Illia–she died when she was but six anna. When you weren’t around to save her. It has been thirty anna, father!”
Oh, my sweet Illia! Oh no …
The majority of his accusations struck me as petulant, coming from a man of his age and station. But truly told, dark waters of real pain lay beneath. How might we ever be reconciled? To cause further sorrow was as far removed from my heart’s intent as the earth is from the skies above. However, before I could speak, Rubiny put her hand on Jerom’s shoulder and said sharply:
“You forget it was my decision to leave your father, son, and my decision to shield our family from Jyla’s revenge. Don’t you think it has hurt us enough, and for long enough? Not a makh of my life has been lived since unshadowed by regret.”
Jerom said to Rill, “I cannot hide from the children what might cost their lives. Would you?”
Again, the silence stretched as thin as Gethamadi silk. Finally I broke in, “Why not let judgement wait upon my tale? I would speak of our heritage. And I would have you know, Jerom and Sherya, that your mother and I are half-siblings. By Mata’s law our Matabond should never have been made, as we share the same father.”
The white faces around the table confirmed my fears, that they did not know this harsh truth. So I tossed in another, to ensure the platform was truly mine:
“I am half-Eldrik, the son of an Eldrik Warlock. And I may hold the destiny of all the Eldrik in my hands … if only I can work out the answers to Jyla’s curse.”
Chapter 27: Rebellion
The rebellion of the quoph, my son, is an evil pass, a rejection of all that is Goodness in the eyes of
Mata, and its fruit is akin to the bitterest frost of an Alldark night.
Soriam al’Fay’d kin Thanen, All That is Holy
I went after Lailla.
I quarrelled with the Father over the undertaking. In the end, the only concession I made to the multitude of his concerns was to take with me a companion, Brother Sherik by name. Sherik was once a champion wrestler in the pits of MaraUdal in Damantia, an occupation as deadly as it was notorious. He had a tygar’s build, from the shiny dome of his huge head down to his feet, a third again as long and wide as mine.
“I hear you are strong!” he boomed. When Sherik spoke, which was almost never, the very trees listened. “Do you wrestle? I will teach you!”
Truly told, I thought I was strong until I wrestled the mountain.
We were six days upon the road, and I was limping along nicely following our ‘morning warm up’, when Sherik said his next words to me. “Why go to Hakooi?”
I replied, “My daughter left with a man she thought loved her. He is called Lenbis. I hear it goes ill with her. He beats her daily, and worse.”
Much worse. Oh Mata …
Jerom showed me her letter as soon as they received it; a dirty, torn scrap of scrolleaf covered in barely legible handwriting. She was too afraid to entrust her message to the Qur’lik message-drums. Outrage and an overwhelming lust for vengeance were the least of my reactions. Quietly, in the dark makh of night, I swore an oath by all I knew was holy–that I would find her, and succour her. I told myself I would not kill this Lenbis. I would merely take my daughter to a better place.
Mark my words, this time I would do my fatherly duty. At last.
Sherik nodded. “Let us therefore make haste.”
And he said not a word more until we reached the border between Elbarath and Hakooi, whereupon he purchased for us each a sword, and bade me secrete mine beneath my habit. The merchant appeared utterly unconcerned about selling weapons to monks.
On the one hand, to travel with a companion was a pleasure I had seldom had opportunity to enjoy. Sherik was steadfast, courageous, level-headed, thoughtful, and a more than adequate cook. Perhaps one had to be to satisfy such a girth, I chuckled to myself. But on the other, I had an ill grephe. Was this right? And necessary? I could not shake the sense that the journey was somehow eclipsed in Ulim’s shadow, for I dreamed repeatedly the same thing: the foul Godslayer laughing at me. Just that. Laughing derisively, as though I were somehow playing into his hands.
