by Dora Machado
“Aye, my lord, I think I do.”
“For your feats, your name will be inscribed on Laonia’s wall of heroes along with those of the Twenty. Beyond that, you will be remembered as the hero who found the only person in the world capable of defeating the curse giver and saving Laonia.”
“My lord,” Severo said, “that’s too great of an honor for one who failed you too many times.”
“From every failure we rose, and from every mistake we learned. That, Severo is the best compliment one man can give to another.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“For your efforts, you will be rewarded with the titles, riches and estates that you deserve. You saw us through. You can choose any post you like.”
“Any post?” Severo gawked. “I—I appreciate my lord’s generosity. My house will rejoice in your favors. But don’t you remember? You’ve already assigned me a life-long post, my lord, one that I swore to keep, for no one can separate me from my mistress’s service.”
Bren laughed. “Do you realize that you are going to be the richest and most highly decorated bodyguard in the history of Laonia?”
“The Twins be praised,” Severo said. “I can’t think of a better fortune, my lord.”
“It shall be as you wish.” Bren slapped Severo’s brawny shoulders. “Go then, return to you post with my gratitude.”
Bren watched his man saunter away and thanked his good fortune. Without Hato, without Severo and the Twenty, his story would have ended very differently.
The river Nerpes, water of the fickle Goddess, sweat, seed and blood of the world. For all Bren knew, the river had always been his steadfast companion, offering escape when he needed it most, trapping his heart in the voyage’s intricate flow.
Leaning on the gunwales, Bren stared at his reflection on the cove’s tranquil water. The man before him was a bit of a stranger. His hair had grown too long. His clean-shaven face seemed leaner and older. His black eyes had turned darker, as if the night that had cradled his nightmares had finally succeeded at sucking all the light from his being.
Bren blinked to dispel his eyes’ sinister expression, but his reflection stared back at him without blinking. In fact, his whole face split into an evil smile, a flash of fangs that his mouth denied and his fumbling fingers didn’t find echoed on his tightly pressed lips.
“Go away, Jalenia,” Bren said. “I don’t want you here.”
“The curse giver must have made quite an impression on you.” His reflection’s sneer widened. “Enough to blind you to the realms’ worst dangers.”
What happened next startled Bren. His reflection shot out of the water, somersaulting high above his head and landing behind him, trailing a tangled web of brilliant strings that snapped open in the air and settled around Bren in the shape of a luminous dome.
The air turned suddenly cold. His breath came out in visible bursts. Time stopped, or maybe it accelerated, until the world outside of the dome had no cadence or rhythm, no sense of movement, no illusion of beginning or end.
Several things happened at once.
Bren called out for his men, but none came. The iridescent dome distorted his views and echoed with the contained sound of his voice. It was as if he had been trapped in a glass goblet. Just a few spans away, Severo and the pilot were frozen in what had been animated conversation. They could not hear Bren. Had they looked, all they would have been able to see was the reflection Bren spotted on the outside of the dome’s mirrored surface, his own image, quietly staring at the placid waters as he had been doing a moment before.
Bren spun, sword in hand, tracking this newest and oddest of enemies, noting with alarm the details that made it different and distinct from the curse giver. Jalenia had teased him by assuming the shape of those he knew—his father, his brothers, his victims—but not once had the curse giver attempted to mimic him.
Other differences became instantly obvious. The creature before him had broken its bond with the water. It could travel independently and thrive without it. The creature’s face looked exactly like Bren’s, but it was dressed differently, wearing one of Teos’s golden assassin’s badges and holding a strange tubular weapon, a black dagger, fitted with three elegantly curved prongs, a deadly claw.
Bren’s blade clanged like a bell when it clashed with the strange weapon. The jolting blow jarred his wrists and rattled his bones. It was as if his sword had collided with solid granite. Sparks flew, igniting the creature’s body into a fiery radiance. The dagger’s massive hilt flashed and then Bren was facing a small, dark-eyed toddler no older than little Marcus, clinging to the odd dagger as if it was but a kid’s toy.
Bren hesitated. The child. It looked just like him when he was young. No, it was him! The little boy should have posed no threat and yet menace issued from him with an intensity that had Bren bristling.
“Who are you?” Bren said. “What do you want?”
The little boy shrugged. His body was too small and reedy for the oversized tunic pooling about his feet. The odd weapon shook in his little hands. His pout quivered as if he was going to cry.
“It’s all right,” Bren said, reaching out. “Don’t cry.”
Bren never saw the little boy move, but before he knew it, he was struck by an incomprehensible blow, a powerful explosion that left him breathless, half blind, unarmed and splayed on his back. The little boy’s bony knee pressed down on his chest. The dark claw prickled playfully against Bren’s windpipe.
In one swift movement, Bren reared, bucking from under the boy’s knee, rolling over the child while clutching the thin but strong wrist holding the dangerous dagger. It was strange. Bren’s body strained and not just with the effort of subduing the unnaturally strong child. He faltered, struck by the very blows he was delivering to the little usurper. The child seemed to become stronger as Bren spent his strength. His mind grappled with an impossible predicament. To prevail over the child he had to curb his attack, which in turn freed the powerful child to defeat him!
The dagger flashed before Bren’s eyes. He lunged for his sword. The blade found an easy target, a throat quivering with rich laughter. Only it wasn’t a child’s smooth neck flirting with his blade, but rather a wrinkled mess of flailing folds and flapping tendons, an old man’s neck, attached to an old man’s face, where a thinning crown of stringy white hair framed Bren’s own features, which had yielded before his very eyes to the implacable force of old age’s gravity.
“By the turds of the gods!”
“Ah, yes, call on those treacherous brutes,” the old Bren said. “You, they left for me, and me—well—for me, they’ll never come.”
The creature’s breath smelled like sweet wine macerate mixed with complex extracts, like a familiar tincture—like Bren’s breath, for the gods’ sake—puama bark, schisandra berries, bitter herb cordial and–just in case he had any doubts—like that rare and unique ingredient, the essence of white toad mushrooms.
The old man smiled, a tarnished flash of dull and discolored teeth grown too long in the aging gums’ cradle. Surrender lurked in the old man’s frail body, which contrasted with the surge of rage powering Bren’s growing strength. He might have ripped apart the old man’s throat with his clawed fingers, but something stopped him. From within the folds of his opponent’s crinkled eyelids, Bren’s own dark eyes challenged him to murder.
Bren wanted to kill the creature. His every instinct drove him to end the threat once and for all. The creature seemed to agree with his instincts, offering little resistance. Why?
Bren kept the sword in place against the old man’s throat and stumbled to his feet. “You want me to kill you. Don’t you? Why is that, I wonder?”
The man sat up, cackling aloud, swiping Bren’s sword out of the way with a casual bat of his knotted hand. “I’d heard you were clever, but you’re also quick.”
“Let me guess,” Bren said. “If I kill you, I’d be killing myself. True?”
“A worthy adversary,” the old man
said. “I hope you’re not just a passing fad.”
“Who by the gods’ pissing demons are you?”
“You know me,” the old man said. “I’m your fate.”
The hilt of Bren’s sword turned cold between his fingers. “Are you—?”
“The soul chaser, at your service.” The old man wrapped his gnarled fingers around Bren’s sharp blade and, displaying an absurd amount of strength, snatched the sword from Bren. With a single thrust, he stabbed half the blade’s length into the barge’s sturdy deck.
Bren’s eyes darted from his shuddering sword to the old man, who was now engaged in an incongruous struggle to lift his old bones from the floor.
“This won’t do.” The dagger in old Bren’s hand flashed. He leapt to his feet, a younger man, a fitting match to Bren in everything but dress and weapon.
Bren swallowed a gulp of freezing air and no spit. “Why have you come?”
“You were on my schedule.”
“I’m not your prey anymore,” Bren said. “I’m alive. I’m aware. I’m no longer at death’s door or under the curse’s evil spell. The curse giver has been defeated. My execution has been called off.”
“That’s not exactly all true,” the soul chaser said. “Your death has been postponed. The curse hasn’t been defeated, but rather it has been defused, or perhaps I should say diffused? Yes, that’s the better term, diluted in intensity, if you will, by your newfound ability to share your poison, which will only become possible if your woman has the capability to withstand your venom.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s all a matter of proportions,” the soul chaser said. “Or else ….”
“Or else what?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” The man scratched his back with his dagger’s curved prongs. “She’s very clever, your remedy mixer. One never knows what she’s brewing in those pots of hers.”
“Are you saying she has somehow doctored my existence?”
“Perhaps she doctored her own existence. How should I know? She’s talented, you know; those odd souls, they’re particularly succulent, fresh to the taste, luscious to boot, not to mention diligent between the sheets—”
“Stay away from her!”
“No problem. I like my women a bit more … compliant, shall we say?”
“I won’t ask again,” Bren said. “Why are you here?”
“Your soul still calls me. Your blood will always tempt me.”
The hair on the back of Bren’s neck stood on end. “Let’s have a fair fight and be done with it.”
“A fair fight?” The soul chaser pointed to Bren’s marooned sword. “And how do you think you could ever defeat me?”
“Let’s find out.”
“Hmm.” The soul chaser smiled, a young vital, engaging smile, neither a young child’s truant grin nor an old man’s feeble jeer. “Perhaps I’ll take you up on the challenge some other time. But not now. I haven’t the time. The kingdom’s a bloody place today. Riva’s gone. Revolt, they tell me. A massacre is about to take place, right over those hills. I’ll be busy.”
Bren wasn’t about to let his guard down. “Then why take a detour?”
“I like detours.”
“The curse’s failure might have stilled your hand,” Bren said, “but you still wanted to give it a try. You might not be currently able to take my life, but—”
“You can’t blame me for trying,” the soul chaser said. “Who am I to refuse your soul if you’re willing to give it to me?”
“I think you knew I’d fight to keep my soul,” Bren said. “And yet you still came.”
“Call it curiosity,” the soul chaser said. “Some say it’s my bane.”
“You seem smarter than your bane.”
“So do you.” The soul chaser smiled. “I’ll tell you why I came, but only ‘cause I’ve grown to sort of like you, B.”
“B.?”
“I came here to meet the only mortal I’ve ever known who managed to outwit the curse giver. Surviving that shrew. Ha! I wish I could’ve been there when you beat Jalenia at her game. What a feat. What a hoot. If you managed that, my friend, you may yet make it into The Tale.”
“I don’t want to be in any tale but my own.”
“We don’t choose what tales others make out of our lives.”
“Lives?” Bren said. “So are you mortal or divine?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He laughed. “I can see that lingering here will only work to my disadvantage. Finish your hunt, my friend. Go bed your wench. See if I care.” The dagger in the soul chaser’s grip flashed. “But don’t worry, B. I’ll be around. You and I. We’re on the schedule.”
And with that, the soul chaser disappeared and the dome vanished.
Bren stood frozen in place, assessing the world with heightened senses. The afternoon sun warmed his chilled muscles. The sounds of the day revived in his ears, the men’s banter, the wind teasing the furled sails, the horses whinnying, the water whispering an occasional secret to the hull. Only when he was sure that the soul chaser was truly gone did Bren approach his sword. It reluctantly sprang back intact from the wounded deck. On the hilt, the black stone of the house of Uras comforted Bren’s icy fingers.
He counted the unintended benefits of the creature’s visit. He might not know the creature’s true nature, but he now knew some of its capabilities and weaknesses. Fiercer battles had been won with less.
Bren knew he was safe for the moment, for as long as he could stand his life’s gifts along with his guilt’s heavy burdens. There could be no sure defeat when two beings were alike. There could be no sudden loss when two creatures shared in the same pot of strength. The air he breathed was sweet to his lungs. The sun was warm to his soul. The future beckoned.
He clasped the gunwales and closed his eyes. The current pulsed beneath his feet, beating strongly like the blood in his veins. He felt the river flowing through him, the communal conscience gushing through his senses, all that life, thriving within, all that promise waiting to burst.
The river Nerpes, lifeline of the land, jugular of the world, trail of mankind’s purest dreams. Perhaps he could race the current and win. Perhaps he could still build the fastest ships on the Nerpes, nurture Laonia into peaceful prosperity and flood Lusielle’s life with his affection’s ferocious tides. True, no life was assured for more than the present instant, and yet the future was always ahead, a risk to be run, a dream to be chased.
From here on, he got to make his own fate.
He remembered his father with affection for the first time in a long time. Edmund had made a foolish, prideful mistake and he had paid for it with his life. His father’s violent end, combined with his own ordeal, had taught Bren a humbling lesson: All men were flawed, and yet—despite their failures—all men could still be loved.
With a twinge of longing, he thought about his brothers. He wondered what they would have thought of a day like today. He said a prayer for their souls, that they should find peace in their deaths; that they should bring solace and comfort to the quest’s unintended casualties; and that on the starriest of nights, the sons of Uras be allowed to bring havoc to the gods’ tame halls.
Perhaps he ought to thank a certain Goddess as well, but only reluctantly. It was Suriek who had pushed him into the abyss, who had coerced him into wickedness, suffering, agony, murder, madness and despair. But it was also the Goddess who, in her darkest form, had embraced him. And it was she who had fashioned the odd wonder he loved and the dark world where creatures like him—not to mention the curse giver and the soul chaser—could survive with an entitled sense of rightness.
He didn’t know how he should feel—victorious, subdued, euphoric, grateful, hopeful, humble, apprehensive, or supremely fortunate. All of it, he decided, unable to sift though his emotions.
He took a deep breath. He still had a final challenge to face. He had earned this chance. It would take a while for a cursed man to feel assured, and yet he kne
w without a doubt that he was the most blessed cursed man who had ever walked the land of the Thousand Gods.
Chapter Ninety-nine
THE BARGE WAS FIGHTING THE STUBBORN current, making its way slowly upriver despite the Nerpes’s swollen waters. Clean, dried and warm, Lusielle washed down the last bite on her plate with a brew of fragrant flowers and nilla beans. It was a talented brew, capable of soothing and enticing at the same time, and it calmed her belly’s jitters with a burst of Strength.
“I can’t understand why you won’t consent to marrying me.” Bren paced the tiny cabin. “We could’ve sailed to the Sea Port Cities and be done with it.”
“My lord may remember you have a marriage contract with the Lady of Tolone,” Lusielle said, “a contract that has only increased in importance given the changes in rule about to take place in the kingdom and the territories.”
“Since when do you care about highborn politics?”
“Since I started caring about you and your future.”
“A future,” Bren mumbled.
“Get used to the notion.”
“You can’t really believe I’m going to marry Eleanor over you.”
“Why not?” Lusielle reclined on the berth, enjoying the luxurious feel of the silk linens and the feather pillows dressing the new mattress, courtesy of the Lady of Tolone’s generosity. “Eleanor is a highborn lady with a reputation for fairness. She’ll represent you and Laonia well.”
He was still not over his shock. “I’d never agree to share you with anyone else, and yet you want to share me with Eleanor?”
“Me? Share you? I don’t think so.” She wasn’t that fair. “She’d get the name and the title, I’d get the rest. She has Tatyene. I claim you.”
“But I want to marry you!”
“May I remind you, my lord, that I’m terribly unsuited for marriage, rebellious by disposition and plain dismal at the practice of it?”
“You could give it another chance.”
