The Shattered Vigil

by Patrick W. Carr

  Fess caught sight of her and moved to take the seat across from the pair of them, unmindful of the instinct that drove other members of the Vigil to sit facing the door. He still didn’t smile.

  He nodded. “Lady Bronwyn.”

  She pointed to his traveling clothes. “Where’s your robe? Did the Absold here realize you weren’t part of their order?”

  He gave one quick dismissive shake of his head. “No. There’s something wrong in this town.”

  Her heart fluttered in her chest like a bird trying to escape. “What did you find?”

  “I’m not sure. . . .” He made a vague discarding motion with his hand. “Nothing of substance.” For once, his thoughts seemed to run close enough to his words to create those pauses in conversation others took for granted.

  “Explain, please.”

  He nodded. “In the other villages and cities we’ve passed through, I’ve impersonated whichever order has held ascendancy.”

  “Yes, I know,” Bronwyn said, a hint of frost creeping into her voice.

  Fess raised his brows and pointed to her mouth. “Did you know that your lips get tight whenever you disapprove of something I’ve said or done?”

  She inhaled to show him just how cold and sharp she could be, but he held up a hand to forestall her. “I do not mean to mock you, Lady Bronwyn.” He looked over his shoulder, gauging the distance to the closest patron before speaking again. “On the streets, we learned to read people the way priests learn to read the liturgy. I’m not as good as the Mark, but I’m close. You can’t bluff or con someone if you can’t read them well enough to see what they’re thinking.”

  “So you’ve said before. And as I’ve pointed out, it indicates that you and Mark have strong talents for others.”

  Fess leaned forward, his voice dipping almost to a murmur. “In all the villages and towns we’ve visited there are two orders that inspire trust and two that don’t—I’ve yet to see a farmer, merchant, or tradesman display the slightest caution or hesitation in their speech in the presence of someone wearing the brown of a Servant or the blue of the Absold.”

  She nodded. Her own far-more-vast experience encompassing centuries had shown her this as well, but did he see the causes the same as she? “And why do you think this is, young Fess?”

  He smiled as always at the appellation. “Because it’s not in the nature of the Servants or the Absold to judge the actions of others. The browns are too busy healing and feeding, while the blues believe grace covers every action. They see the sins of men and women as an opportunity to draw them closer to Aer.” His expression hardened. “Of course that was for regular people, those who lived north of the poor quarter. Those worth saving. The only reason I know as much as I do about the church is because I’ve made it a habit to steal from them.”

  She stiffened at his rebuke, felt it like a dagger in her chest, a personal attack she couldn’t deny. “I understand your feelings, Fess, but the church, for all its flaws, performs a vital service.”

  He laughed and the dagger twisted at his dismissal. “Service to others, those worth saving, those who can put something in the offering box.” He held up a finger. “Here’s something you’ll never hear in the poor quarter.” His head tilted and he donned a vacuous smile. “‘It is not the judgment of Aer that draws us to Him, it is His mercy,’” he quoted.

  Before she could stop herself, she reached out and slapped him. “You will not mock the church. Not when we have done so much.”

  “What have you done?” he snarled.

  “Given you a home,” she shot back.

  “Because you were forced to,” Fess said. “Because you needed our skills. Because you needed children to fight for you during Bas-solas.”

  “I’m not talking about them,” Bronwyn said. “I’m talking about you, about me. I’m giving you a home, because that’s what Aer and love tell me I should do.”

  His eyes widened in shock for a split second before the expression in his eyes became hollow, his emotion swallowed. Shame she hadn’t felt for centuries overwhelmed her, and she blinked away sudden tears.

  “I’m sorry, Fess.” She struggled to keep from sobbing. “I should never have hit you.”

  He rubbed the cheek, shaking his head. The skin remained unbroken and unbruised—she no longer possessed the strength to do more than sting.

  “Why did you?” he asked.

  She swallowed against her regret. “Because however much you may believe what you say to be true, however much it is true, you should never hold anyone or their beliefs up for ridicule. How will you ever reach them if you’ve mocked them?”

  She forced her back to straighten, and in her mind she imagined her pride and arrogance as a man she could fight and take hold of by the throat. “What I did just now, Fess, was more wrong than I can express. Will you forgive me and tell me how I can make it right?” She waited with her head bowed, unwilling to coerce his forgiveness with more words or by staring him down, allowing him time to deny her or state the conditions of atonement.

  “Nobody has ever apologized for hitting me,” he said, his voice far older than the decade and six he carried. “‘You are forgiven,’” he quoted, “‘and absolved from this moment forward.’”

  She looked up, saw him rub his cheek, his gaze focused in a way that scared her. “When we are done with our conversation, Lady Bronwyn, you will need to delve me.”

  “That is not necessary,” she said. “Pellin has already done so.”

  He shook his head in denial. “Pellin looked within each of us to see if there existed any immediate threat to the Vigil. Our apprenticeship is intended to be temporary.”

  She jerked. “How did you know that?”

  He assayed a smile, but it faded, swallowed perhaps by remembered pain. “We’re urchins—we eavesdrop as a matter of course.” He leaned forward. “I want to be your apprentice in truth. That is my price.”

  She didn’t have the authority to do as he asked. He had to know that. So why had he asked? Was he testing her, pushing to find the depth of her repentance? If the situation hadn’t been so immediate and serious, she would have laughed at herself. How could it be possible to live for centuries and be so completely caught off guard by the actions and motivations of a sixteen-year-old boy?

  “I will delve you, Fess, if that’s what you wish. And if I find within you what I believe is needed to be a member of the Vigil, I will ask Pellin to appoint you as my apprentice.” She saw his mouth tighten in disappointment, and she almost smiled, remembering how their conversation had started. “More,” she went on, “I will grant you this. If death takes me before I can meet with Pellin, I will pass my gift to you instead of letting it go free. If I am able.”

  When he nodded his agreement, she lifted a hand to prompt him. “You were telling me about how people react to the different orders.”

  “Yes, in the towns we’ve visited, those held by the Vanguard or the Merum, the only information I’ve been able to gather has come from the members of those two orders. Most people prefer not to speak overly much in their presence. They have a reputation for judgment that the Absold and the Servants do not.” He shrugged. “I’m only saying what I believe to be true, Lady Bronwyn. I have no gift for seeing into the minds of others.”

  “Yet you’ve said nothing with which I would disagree, Fess. What does this have to do with Havenwold?”

  He checked over his shoulder again. “I’m talented at pretending to be what I’m not, Lady Bronwyn. I have an ability to create trust quickly with people I’ve just met.” His serious mien vanished between one blink and the next, and he smiled at her, white teeth showing beneath his thatch of blond hair and warm blue-eyed gaze.

  She smiled in return, and he pointed at her mouth.

  “You see,” he said. “I’m not boasting. I do this very well. But I met merchants who never looked beyond the robe to see my face, Lady Bronwyn, and they never spoke an unguarded word in my presence.”

  “Tel
l me about these merchants, Fess. What were their trades?”

  He nodded. “One was a farrier, the other a journeyman to a blacksmith.”

  “Only two?” Bronwyn asked.

  Fess shook his head. “No, there was one other. Dressed in common, well-used clothing, but I couldn’t discern a trade, and his manners didn’t fit his clothes.”

  “How so?”

  “In the smithy he moved among the implements with an eye toward them as if he was afraid of soiling his garments, watching his sleeves as he passed close to the anvil.” Fess shook his head. “I followed him, at a distance, to an inn on the other side of Havenwold, toward the north. He’s not native to this town.”

  She sat back to regard her apprentice, finding the sensation of being surprised, so seldom felt the past couple of centuries, to be quite pleasant. “As my apprentice, what would you suggest?”

  “Delve them, Lady Bronwyn,” Fess said. “It should be a simple matter to approach one of the three and arrange some circumstance that will allow a casual touch. I would suggest the one who is not a merchant, as he seems to be the leader, but if he’s not native to Havenwold, it may be harder to get close enough to him without rousing suspicion.”

  She smiled. “That, you can leave to me, Fess. Over the years we have mastered the art of inconsequential contact.” She nodded toward his arm as she pulled her glove loose from her fingers and removed it. “Now, give me your hand.”

  Chapter 36

  The sun shone to the west, an oversized red ball resting on the horizon that cast weak shadows on the streets of Havenwold. Bronwyn, dressed in nondescript browns and grays for traveling, made her way with Fess to the inn where he’d spotted the suspicious merchant. At the northern end of the town they came to the small single-story building set on a back alley.

  She flexed her hands inside of her gloves, anticipating the moment when an accidental brush, carefully contrived, would reveal the merchant’s mind to her. She slowed as she approached the steps to the inn, allowing the weight of years to stoop her back and shorten her stride until she wore the fragile shuffle of an old woman.

  Three steps up, with her hand clutching the rail, she stood upon the covered porch of the inn. Two, only two, sat at a table, playing some variation of bones and taking pulls from their tankards, their voices filled with the tenor of those with manageable hopes and fears.

  Balean and Fess came behind her, her guard doing his best to leave enough distance between them to appear unattached, her apprentice walking upright and smiling as though the dying day offered nothing but joy and opportunity.

  Inside the inn a man moved from table to table, wiping them with a filthy rag. No other servants were visible. She spied a table in the corner, situated away from the fire that might reveal them but close enough to the door to allow her to see the entirety of the room and its exits. She sat and Fess joined her while Balean took a position at a table to one side to wait.

  “What do we do if he’s not here?” Fess asked.

  She pulled a deep breath that held old aromas of meat, ale, and people, each holding a faint hint of something beneath—as though the meat were slightly rancid, the ale turning to vinegar. “What can be done?” she asked in return. “We either find him or approach one of his compatriots.”

  “Let me go into the city, Lady Bronwyn,” Fess said. He looked around the interior of the tavern, his gaze landing on bits of food that littered the floor.

  She shook her head. “If you are my apprentice, you must learn patience. To be in the Vigil means to hold vigil. In my experience everything can be brought to light if one simply has the patience to wait for the opportune moment. Use the time wisely and read what I’ve given you.”

  He squinted in the gloom. “It’s too dark, and this isn’t the place for us to wait,” Fess said. “We’re too noticeable.”

  Bronwyn looked around the interior of the ramshackle room. Despite the impending sunset, no one had bothered to light the candles or bank the fire, and deep shadows covered everything, doubtless an attempt to keep patrons from inspecting the food too closely. The three of them sat removed from the ruddy glow of the fire upon the hearth. Anyone entering would have to search for them.

  “We can hardly be seen, my boy,” Bronwyn said with soft laughter. She glanced outside. The pair of men on the porch must have surrendered their game.

  Fess shook his head, irritated. “Lady Bronwyn, you don’t think like a criminal.”

  “I should hope not.”

  “Look around the room,” Fess said. “You’re the only woman here. Despite the lack of customers, no one has come to offer drink or food.” He pointed to a group of three men on the far side of the room, also situated as far from the light as possible. They sat hunched over their tankards in a posture of defense and warding, their faces shielded. “Men sit like that when they expect violence. Lady Bronwyn”—Fess’s voice held urgency—“we need to leave.”

  She looked out the window. The tiniest sliver of sun showed above the hills to the west, and just enough light remained for her to see the tables were empty. “I’ve been a fool.”

  Just as the sliver of sun disappeared, she rose from her table—Balean moving to stand by her, and Fess digging frantically in his travel pack.

  At the far table the men stiffened and rose to face them, their eyes wide. Their collective gaze swept across Balean and Fess to her, and they jerked in recognition, one of them pointing as he muttered, “Block the door.” The tavern keeper moved out from behind the bar to join them.

  Fess growled a pair of words that he couldn’t have possibly gotten from the manuscript she’d given him and darted away from her side, a throwing knife in one hand and sheets of parchment clutched in the other.

  Balean’s hand flew to his belt, and his blade jumped into his hand.

  Footsteps pounded along the hallway that led back toward the rooms, and three more men entered. They locked onto her with identical unblinking gazes. “Don’t kill the woman,” they said in unison.

  The room erupted in chaos.

  Moving like gifted, the men at the table came for her, two of the men darting between tables while the other man and the owner leapt like grasshoppers. With his free hand Balean threw a chair that hit one and jumped up to meet the other in midair. Sparks accompanied a clash of swords, and a splash of hot blood hit her in the face.

  Fess turned, his cloak billowing to hide his throwing hand, then flicked a dagger toward the other three men. Swords swept the knife from the air and coarse laughter mocked her apprentice. The three men shifted to cut off his escape from the room, moving to block him from the kitchen and the front.

  But Fess was already moving away, rolling across a table to throw the sheets of parchment he held.

  Balean’s blade swept in an arc that she heard rather than saw, a cry of displaced air. The ring and echo of steel sounded in the room as he engaged a pair of swords. His free hand crashed into the top of her shoulder, knocking her to the floor, away from the outstretched hand of the third man.

  The man rolled, darting toward her, his fingers reaching for her bare skin. Above her Balean parried the strikes of the other two and lunged, drawing blood.

  But he couldn’t disengage.

  She cried out as the bones of her wrist ground together. Fingers pried their way beneath the leather of her glove and ripped it free. Desperate to avoid his open vault, she tried to make a fist, screaming with the effort to close her hand.

  A throwing knife flew from across the room to take the man in the shoulder. He growled in pain, shrugging off the impact. Knuckles smashed into the tendons on the back of her hand and the man pressed her fingertips to his.

  Time slowed and lengthened as she fell into the delve. The edges of her vision faded, but she could see the room in lurid detail despite the lack of light. Above her a rope of blood hung in the air, suspended in time as Balean’s sword found its mark, cutting through the throat of one of the attackers.

  To the side Fess
stood in the path of a sweeping blow that couldn’t help but find its mark in his side. Her apprentice would never see the blow that killed him. He faced her instead of his attackers, his attention on the path of the dagger that he’d thrown toward the man who held her.

  The room narrowed and time slowed even more. Balean’s sword hardly moved, his muscles flexed for a return strike. Fess’s dagger floated through the air, tumbling on a path that would miss its mark.

  The last thing she saw was shadows.

  Memories filled her and she became Rhue, a laborer without gift or discernible talent, a man who made a meager living with his back. Bitterness filled her, black as tar, scorching as bile at every memory that carried the image of those who held gifts or talents, those who lorded their worth over him.

  Someday he, Rhue the porter, would find a way to put those with their gifts and talents in their place. If they would not acknowledge him, they would die.

  A shock jolted Rhue’s memories, blurring them, and for an instant she knew herself. Outside the delve, someone must have struck true against her attacker.

  Praise Aer.

  From out of the acid memories, black tendrils and laughter reached for her. She recoiled, fleeing along the strand of Rhue’s resentments, trying to hide, but the scorn followed and a thread of midnight coiled around her, anchoring her in place.

  No. Focusing, she concentrated on her gift, her Aer-given ability to break the vaults within other minds. Reaching out, she snapped the black thread that held her and continued her flight. Other threads came for her, but she slashed them all with a thought, bright and razor sharp, and they fell away.

  Another shock sent her mind tumbling, and the colored threads that constituted Rhue’s life dimmed, their light pulsing. From out of the inky black behind her a myriad of threads shot forward, flying toward her like the sticky ribbons of a spider’s web. She slashed at them, and the pieces fell, disappearing into nothingness.

  But she couldn’t open her hand. Rhue’s memories dimmed, and several of them blinked like the last flicker of an ember and died.