Dread of Spirit: Rise of the Mage - Book One

by Jason Bilicic

  “Good,” Varrl said. “Stand up straight and be silent.” His father finished adjusting his shawl just in time for a group of four adults to arrive, all of them far too old to be Henna’s parents. “Good morning,” he announced in the monotone voice he used at every funeral. “Sit where you will. The ceremony will being in perhaps half a glass.”

  Two men, thin and wearing wailer’s robes, bulky black mantles common at Symean funerals, escorted their women to one of the benches. All of them had white hair and one of the women employed a walking stick.

  Next came a large group of folks, almost all men. They scattered throughout the benches, all of them in regular work clothes, brown tunics and breeches, low scuffed boots and an occasional leather vest. Laborers, Kelc thought, sure that he was right. Men that worked for Lanch and felt that they must appear here to avoid giving offense to a small man. Such workers would have come out in a wagon, which they’d have to leave out front, and would lack the coins to have a black or grey robe. That, and they probably have to work once this is done. Unlike that bastard, Kelc thought, thinking of Margin Lanch.

  Finally, Henna’s parents arrived. The man looked like a Symean man should. He wore a dark purple mantle over a shirt of chain mail armor. At his side dangled a blade in an oiled scabbard. An old Symean tradition held that the oldest male should bring a weapon should the spirit need to be forced to leave. Absurd. Leave it to Symea to threaten the spirits of our own dead, Kelc thought. He sighed, drawing a severe look from his father.

  Henna’s mother wore a dark grey robe. Her eyes were red and puffy and she carried a handkerchief in both hands as if it were made of gold. She collapsed onto the bench closest to the coffin and stared at her dead daughter. “Sir,” she called out almost immediately, looking at Varrl. He moved to her with professional speed, getting there quickly, but without creating any sense of emergency. “You worked on my daughter?”

  “No. The work was performed by my son. He is eighteen, well into his deed.” As soon as she heard the answer, her eyes switched to Kelc. As per his function, however, he stared straight, ignoring her look as it bored into him. “Is something amiss?” he asked.

  She ignored him for a few moments. “No,” she said abruptly. “No. The work is exceptional. She looks…happy.” She returned her attention to her daughter, tears falling freely down her face. Kelc guessed that it had been a long time since she had seen her daughter look happy.

  “Are we expecting more attendants or shall we begin?” Varrl asked.

  “Begin, coroner,” answered Henna’s father, resting his hand on the sword sheathed at his side.

  “Very well.”

  Symea followed no religion. It was considered weak to place hope on an unseen god rather than a man putting forth the effort with his blood, sweat and steel to achieve his hope. What a man cannot do for himself or with the help of other men, should not be attempted, said a common Symean proverb. Why it was such, Kelc didn’t know. He had heard that other lands were littered with clerics and priests. Kreggen told him other peoples in distant lands relied heavily on the belief that gods oversaw all actions of men. It kept them honest, he said, because if they strayed from the path the gods desired, ill luck befell them.

  Kelc wasn’t sure what he thought of that. On one hand, there was someone to aid those that needed it, maybe enough to keep men like his father from beating their children to death. On the other hand, being told exactly how to live could also be rather oppressive. Oppressive, Kelc thought. Could it be worse than this?

  In any event, Symean souls were not entrusted to a god or given to the Heavens. A Symean soul was driven out.

  “We gather here to put to rest a Symean soul,” began Varrl, reciting a speech he had used hundreds of times. “As we all birth we must all then pass. The reasons are not important. What is important is that while here, each of us live life as we should, serve to further our people and nation. Strength of conviction and obedience has always served…” Kelc tuned his father out. He’d heard the words too many times before.

  And they’re garbage, he thought. No one cared to hear them. Why take a funeral as yet another opportunity to impose Symea’s will over her people? It wasn’t as if anyone would attempt to overthrow Symean leadership at a funeral. He wanted to shake his head but he kept still, thinking through the previous day’s and night’s events.

  “Does anyone have anything they would like to say?” Varrl asked after a time, having finished the short ceremonial speech.

  “Henna was such a wonderful daughter,” announced her father, Margin Lanch. “She meant much to me and Derla.” He patted his wife on the arm. “I just wanted to…” said Henna’s father, before struggling to continue, a fit of coughing suddenly taking him. “I…could I get some water?” He reached up, taking his own throat in hand. “Water?” It seemed to Kelc as if he throttled himself.

  Varrl shot a look at Kelc. “Get some.”

  Kelc moved methodically, as was expected, walking from his position in front and to the side of the congregation. He walked into the house where he fetched a tumbler and a water pitcher. “What is it?” Shaia asked, arching her eyebrows at her brother’s actions.

  “The girl’s father needs a drink. Guilt is killing him.”

  “Good,” he heard her say as he stepped back out the door and walked back to the funeral. He handed the water and mug to his father, who then offered it to Henna’s father, the man’s face bright red.

  “Thank you,” he croaked Margin poured himself a glass of water and took a quick sip. “As I was saying. I simply want to offer our deep love…” This time he coughed until he had to stand and move away, the continuous hacking so intense it set off his gag reflex. Kelc glanced at him as he dry heaved and it seemed that the man’s breath, a cold white vapor in the morning air, rebounded to him, snaking back to his throat. Hells, Kelc thought, is that Henna’s spirit or air? It certainly wasn’t air. He could see Lanch’s breath swirl away, vanishing. The spirits repeatedly blasted from his mouth with each heave, only to return, further harassing him. A small sound escaped Kelc as he realized what he saw. Dark practitioner.

  With a pointed look at his youngest son, Varrl cleared his throat, forcing Kelc to resume his attentive stance, staring across the front of the lawn rather than at the guests.

  Margin’s wife, Derla, made no move to join him or help. Instead, while he was away, she moved up and knelt next to the coffin. “Henna,” she said quietly, privately, her right hand caressing the dead girl’s face. “I’m so sorry about this. I should have… I don’t know what. Something.” The girl’s mother sobbed as she lowered her head to the wooden casket. “Henna, my dear. My Henna. I hope you are as happy…” a sob interrupted her, “happy as you look today.” She knelt before her daughter’s lifeless body and wept.

  After a while, Henna’s father returned, the white wisps no longer visible. He immediately moved to the unseemly display of emotion by his wife and aided her to her feet and then her chair. Varrl nodded toward the man to see if he would like to try and speak again, but he only frowned and shook his head.

  “Then we must now perform the rending,” Varrl announced, drawing the copper rod he used from a holder behind the podium. “Spirit! You must find your way now to Reman. There you will be renewed and reborn.” He tapped Henna on her right shoulder. “You will be taken and given new life, another chance to serve.” He tapped her left shoulder. A chill passed through Kelc. Would anyone be able to tell that this is about to do nothing, he thought. “This is how it has been since ever any man can remember,” Varrl called out, touching the copper shaft to the right side of her stomach, then the left. “This is how it shall always be.” With that he pressed the rending rod to her chest.

  A heavy silence settled on the lawn for a few moments, until motion among the guests shattered it, many of them already up and headed back to their horses and wagons out in front of the house.

  Kelc stood still as a rock, his guts knotted inside, fighting against th
e sudden desire to vomit that arose in his stomach. Henna’s mother, too, remained seated despite her husband already standing, one of his hands gently urging the woman up.

  Hells, Kelc yelled in his thoughts, let the woman mourn for the daughter you killed. His eyes stared straight out, not even watching Henna’s father and mother, but he could tell what happened between Margin and his wife. Probably as warm as my own mother and father.

  She eventually did stand and make her way from the funeral, but she looked back time and again, as if the rending of her child’s soul burned in her mind. As soon as she was out of sight, Kelc’s father turned to him. “I must think about the coming day. Put everything away and lower her,” he commanded. Kelc nodded numbly.

  Behind his father, the white vapor that Kelc saw choking Margin now settled to the ground, seeping along the ground in his direction. He blinked hard, unsure of what he saw, hoping that it would disappear. But it didn’t. It came.

  He stood in the cold after his father stomped away, unable to move for fear of the consequence, the spirit of Henna- that’s what he thought it was- still coming, the fact that he could see it so clearly overwhelming him. He still remained motionless as he heard his sister approach.

  “Father is gone, Kelc. Why don’t you change your clothes, and… Are you okay?”

  His eyes snapped to hers as she leaned into his vision. He breathed in through his nose, pulling quick shallow breaths. The slightest of headshakes answered her and he nodded toward the white essence only a few paces from him, still wandering at him. Shy looked to the ground where his eyes fell and then quickly returned to her brother.

  “Kelc?” called his mother. “Are you…” She walked up next to Shaia. “Is he all right?” She eased up to her son, concern filling her tired eyes. “Kelc? It’s okay. Don’t worry so much.” She reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Come on.” She pulled gently on his arm, urging him toward the house.

  As she did, the vapor rose up and for the briefest moment took the form of Henna, smiling. She nodded at him and reached out to touch him.

  As she did, his stomach clinched, driving out whatever boiled in his guts. Kelc doubled over to vomit, yellow liquid and potatoes erupting from his mouth before he collapsed to the ground unconscious.

  “Nah!” he spat in surprise and alarm as he woke, the terror of Henna’s soul obvious before his very eyes, and in broad daylight filling him yet. He gasped for air as a tear leaked from the outside corner of his right eye. Dark Practitioner.

  Guessing that it was late morning, Kelc tried to sit up, but weakness and surprising pain in his stomach muscles forced him back down. The room seemed to tilt and his stomach lurched. He pulled in a very careful breath and eased his hands to his cool belly, imploring it to settle. Vomiting the first time caused his muscle pain. Doing so again was beyond consideration.

  With relaxation came the realization that he was in his own bed. He stared up at a ceiling that he had only ever seen while ill. Never would his father allow him to stay in bed an instant longer than was necessary to sleep. Once a Symean man was awake, he had work to do. So looking up at his bedroom ceiling in the middle of the day was part of being sick, along with chicken broth, steam pots and the disoriented bewilderment of someone that sleeps at will, losing touch with the daily happenings around him.

  Just seeing the coarse planks of wood that lined the top of his room made Kelc a little queasy. So strongly associated with only maladies powerful enough to keep him from his feet, the sight and feel of being here now made him uneasy.

  Not only because it meant that he was unable and fragile, but because every single illness came with a price in his father’s house. Not only did Kelc have to survive the misery of being sick, but then his father would work him harder to “make up for missed time.” And more difficult than the work was the sharper temperament of his father, fueled by the anger that had built up while he performed “the work of the weak.” More than a few times had Kelc, and Kreggen before him, received beatings within glasses of getting out of the sickbed.

  After experiencing that only a time or two, anyone sick then bore the burden of dread, knowing that all of that anger and abuse was coming. “Perfectly cruel,” Kelc muttered to himself. “Cruel.” He groped along his side and found his sheathed blade. He tilted enough to slide it free and laid it on his chest, both hands clutching the pommel.

  He imagined he looked like a warrior being laid to rest on a battlefield, his uniform still on, his blade placed point down on his chest, his hands arranged to grasp the steel. Indulging the thought, Kelc envisioned rocks being carefully laid over him, a mounting cairn that would hide his mortal remains and guard his bones from wolves while his less enduring flesh melted from them.

  The light faded as rock after rock was set over him, leaving only weak yellow shafts of the sun that were filled with frantic motes of dust stirred by the construction going on above, leant material by the loose dirt knocking free of the stones that were even now still being piled atop his corpse. They were casually tossed now, the need for care gone as soon as he was no longer visible.

  Blackness was all he could see. Total blackness.

  His eyes snapped open again. By the look of the sunlight, nearing midday, he had been unconscious for only a half glass or a glass more since last waking up, but this time Kreggen stood over him while Shaia waited in the doorway.

  “Doing any better?” Kreg asked, a hint of a smile on his face. “I heard you pitched forward, outted your breakfast and dropped on the spot.” He glanced back to Shaia, who nodded. “Sorry I missed it.”

  Kelc couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah.”

  “Father told me that you drank with him last night.” Kreggen dug his thumb nail under another, cleaning it for a moment. “How much?”

  “Not much,” Kelc answered.

  “Not much, huh? Father’s not even mad. He’s looking at this as some type of passage into manhood or some such.” Kreg’s face took on a serious cast. “Is that why you made for the grass?”

  “Might have been. I felt unsteady all morning.”

  “And now? How do you feel?”

  Kelc sighed, propping himself up on his elbows. His stomach seemed to be decent enough, though memories of Henna still crept around in his mind. “I seem well enough.” He sat up slowly, wincing as his stomach muscles complained.

  “Good.” Kreggen offered a hand and brought Kelc to his feet. “We’ve got the warden coming soon. Everywhere I went, folk stopped me to ask what I’d done, or father…or you. Seems the warden is bringing both his deputies along.”

  Kelc closed his eyes as he heard the news. “Has anyone heard of anything like this before?” He reached down and pulled his robe on over his bare chest. He still wore breeches.

  “I talked to Aggyl Kanby. His brother once sparred with the deputies to see if he could become a warden.” Kreg shrugged. “He said they were hard on him, bullied him for days beforehand and then beat him until he asked to quit when they tested him. Sounds like what is happening here.”

  “Only Kreg won’t quit,” Shaia added, smiling at her older brother as he looked to her and then letting the smile become more genuine as she returned her gaze to Kelc.

  “So all of this is to test you?”

  “No,” Kreggen immediately responded. “They also test the entire household, extended family if they are around. They have to make sure that everyone who has ever influenced me is also a loyal Symean.”

  “Oh,” Kelc said as his discomfort reseated itself in his gut. “Well…we are, so far as anyone has told me.” He moved around Kreg and doffed his robe in favor of a grey tunic. “Should I dress formal?”

  “Father says no. Dress like any other day.” Kreggen’s eyes scanned the room for a moment, settling on the belt slung over the wall peg. “But wear your sword, just in case.” His expression changed instantly. “Where’s that black skiver?”

  “Oh,” Kelc said, looking to the floor for a moment, “I dropped it beh
ind the bed and didn’t have time to retrieve it before the funeral this morning.”

  “Wear it. It makes you look more dangerous,” Kreg chuckled as he turned to leave. “They could be here now for all I can tell. Clean up,” he said as he left the room, Shy stepping from his path.

  “Are you really okay?” she asked quietly, stepping into the room. “Father really isn’t angry at all.”

  “I’m…okay, I guess.”

  “Mother and I lowered Henna and put everything away. Father thinks you did most of it before you blacked out.” She smiled as he shot a surprised look her way. “It’s better that he thinks that.”

  “Thank you.”

  She reached out and squeezed his arm. “Come on.”

  Kelc dropped to his knees and dug the skiver out from under the bed, knowing it would draw Kreg’s attention if he didn’t wear it. It felt normal enough in his hand, though he feared it as he feared all of the inexplicable events in his life over the past few days.

  He slid it back on his belt and strapped his blades around his waist before following Shaia into the rest of the house.

  His father sat in a chair in the main room, oiling his sword. He looked up long enough to give Kelc a quick nod.

  Adda cooked in the kitchen, ladling some sort of brown stew into wooden bowls, one of which Kreg already had, along with a mug, where he sat at the kitchen table.

  Shy joined her mother and Kelc walked to the wash basin where he cleaned up, first rinsing out his mouth and cleaning his hair, feeling a little grimy. He then washed his hands.

  He slowed down and really looked as the water coming from the cistern nozzle flowed over his fingers. Though no one else seemed to notice, he thought that they shone a little blue, as if the water’s presence vexed his flesh, or the space immediately around it, sending off dull bursts of deep azure.

  He moved his hands apart and then rubbed them together, but it persisted. In fact, it seemed to be intensifying. He tried to scrub the blue from one hand with the other, but it simply extinguished as he rubbed it away, only to return the instant he pulled his fingers away.