The Shattered Vigil

by Patrick W. Carr

  In the end, he’d lost all sense of himself, his mind too broken to carry out the simple requirements of keeping his body fed. The periods of lucidity made his condition worse because it was in those moments he knew the horror of what had happened to him.

  It had been a blessing when he finally deteriorated to the point that his guard, Nikola, delivered the mercy stroke, opening an artery in the old man’s left hand, Cronin’s right upon his apprentice, Jorgen. In that moment, she’d learned how cruel their gift could be, what used up really meant, and how deep the loyalty of their guards ran. Nikola, himself wearing only ten years of service, left the Vigil the next day, undone by Cronin’s death.

  Every other member of the Vigil who had passed since she’d joined had gone quietly, their bodies no longer able to serve them, but their minds and the myriad walls within it unbroken. She’d spent hundreds of years denying the possibility that Cronin’s end might be hers as well.

  “The walls within my mind are failing.” She swallowed and met Balean’s gaze, her back straight, pretending a courage she would never feel. “When the man in the tavern forced me into the delve, his vault was open. Threads of darkness, like a spider’s web made of tar, tried to anchor me to his mind even while he lay dying.”

  “Like Dura said.”

  She nodded. “Lord Dura still has much to learn about his gift. I was able to cut those threads each time they came for me, but a splinter remained after I escaped, like an arrowhead lodged in my mind.”

  Balean bowed. “When we rejoin the others, I will inform Allta of my resignation. There is no place in the Vigil for a guard who fails in his duty.”

  She waved his self-recrimination away. “Don’t be ridiculous. The decision to go to that inn was mine. Even when you voiced your objection, I overruled you. Besides, I’m not sure how long I have.” She leaned forward, driven by the need to ensure his obedience even after she died. “Once my mind is gone, you will need to administer the mercy stroke. It must be done in such a way that the gift does not instantly go free but instead will give me an opportunity to give it to Fess.”

  Balean, stoic as all the guards were trained to be, couldn’t hide his surprise. “He is at the beginning of his apprenticeship, Lady Bronwyn. I know you promised him your gift, but that was under the assumption you would live to train him how to use it first.”

  “There’s no time, and there’s no one else.” She took a deep breath, ignoring the temptation to check the walls in her mind for the hundredth time that morning. Instead, she brought forth a memory, one of her own. “Listen, here is how it must be done.”

  Balean shook his head. “I already know, Lady Bronwyn. All the guards know.”

  She nodded. “Yes. I suppose they do. If needed, I want you to slow the bleeding so that Fess has every chance of receiving my gift. Then stay with him. He will need all the experience you can give him and more. I forbid you to surrender your place in the Vigil out of some misguided sense of blame.”

  After the serving staff cleared away the remnants of her apprentice’s carnage, they waited, sipping tea, until Fess returned two hours later wearing his blue robe.

  Bronwyn pointed at the robe. “Is that wise?”

  He shrugged, his gaze roving over the table as if searching for any food that might have been inadvertently left behind. “I considered trying to find them without the benefit of disguise, but if they recognized me as the acolyte they saw yesterday and I wasn’t wearing the robe, it would have been as much as telling them I was spying on them.”

  Bronwyn nodded. “And if they recognized you from the fight last night?”

  A grin snuck up one side of his face, making him appear younger than he was. “I considered it,” he said, one hand rubbing the wound in his side, “but it’s daylight. You’ve said their vaults would be closed to them.”

  “Don’t place too much trust in what I’ve said.” She sighed. “I’ve been wrong too often lately for you to risk your life on my words.”

  “There’s little else to use, my lady,” Fess said. “And we’re risking our lives at any rate.” His smile grew. “Be that as it may, I found them making preparations to leave the city, and though they saw me, their eyes held nothing more than the slight familiarity you’d expect from yesterday’s first encounter.”

  She shook her head in disbelief. Of all the things she’d forgotten about being young—impetuous decisions, the feeling of immortality, the hunger for experiences—it was this that always surprised her, the unquenchable enthusiasm. Fess sat across from her with half a foot of stitches in his side and his face pale from last night’s attack, and not only had he insisted on jumping back into the fire this morning, he wanted to make sure it was lit.

  “In the daylight they are no match for you,” she said to Balean. “Follow them from the city and execute them for their crimes.”

  “You cannot order me from your side, my lady,” Balean said.

  “Nonsense.” She sniffed. “Fess is here, and thanks to you his knives are razor sharp.”

  “His wound prevents him from throwing with any certainty, my lady. You know this.”

  “True,” Fess smiled. “It will be a few days before I can find the mark. We need to stay together under his protection.” He nodded at Balean. “As you said . . . Lady Bronwyn, it’s daylight. Those men have seen me, but not you. You can touch one or all of them at the next village.”

  The thought of delving anyone—even a newborn with only its memories of warmth and water—made her cringe. She wanted nothing more than to find Pellin, have him delve her and take away the splinter of darkness infecting her mind.

  But that would be foolish, perhaps the worst decision she could make. If the splinter affected Pellin, managed to infect him the way it had her, then the Vigil would be down to two. She shuddered at the thought of Toria Deel and Lord Dura fighting the Darkwater, leading with their emotions and leaving their logic to catch up later.

  “Very well,” she said without meeting her apprentice’s gaze. “We will follow them, but let us see what we can discover without delving them.”

  “Lady Bronwyn?” Fess asked.

  She did her best to look decisive. “We have depended on our gift for uncounted centuries, believing that our ability to judge a person’s innocence or guilt made us impervious to error. Now we know differently. Let us see what insight and intellect can tell us of what’s happening in the forest.”

  Chapter 38

  Toria Deel stepped onto the gangplank of the boat they’d taken down the Soul’s Ease, the river that flowed from the southern tip of the Darkwater to the western edge of the city of Treflow in Aille. There, the river split into three parts: the Mournwater, flowing east into Moorclaire; the Dirgewater, flowing southwest toward Vadras, the seat of Caisel; and the Sorrow, which meandered south through the plains until it came to the largest city in the northern continent, Cynestol.

  Toria pressed a full silver crown into the palm of the ship’s master and took possession of her horse from the gap-toothed deckhand. For a moment she allowed herself a glance south across the uncounted leagues. Born and raised Elanian, with the dark hair, dark skin, and blue eyes typical of those whose blood carried traits from the people of both continents, she still considered Cynestol her home. Since joining the Vigil a little less than a century ago, she’d managed to spend twenty years in the city, a time she’d marked with Peret Volsk’s courtship.

  Her time in the Vigil had forced her to segregate her memories. She sighed. A mere five years before, living as though she were a separate person, Toria Deel had basked in the warmth of Cynestol’s evenings while the Vigil’s newest apprentice wooed her with ardor and honesty. She would have to put those memories away. They were useless now.

  Lelwin and Elory awaited her, mounted and expectant, though her guard eyed her uncovered head more than once with disapproval. As she drew near, Elory murmured, “The drawback of being beautiful, Lady Toria Deel, is that people will remember you long after the blush sh
ould have faded from your bloom.”

  She waved a hand. “I haven’t been in Treflow for thirty years. I’m unlikely to be recognized here, Elory.”

  He shook his head. “My village lies a scant twenty leagues to the southeast, my lady. This is not Collum or Elania. The people of the region follow the floodwaters of the three rivers, and are almost as fluid in their choice of homeland.”

  Strange that after joining the Vigil her chief complaint had not been the isolation or the requirement that she move every ten years or so in order to keep people from realizing she hadn’t aged. No, she hated having to cover her head if she revisited a region before enough time had passed to ensure anyone who could recognize her had died. And she’d only worked within the Vigil for a hundred years. How did Pellin and Bronwyn stand it?

  She raised the hood on her cloak, the breeze blowing from the north just cool enough to warrant the behavior. She added her sigh to the wind and nodded toward the city.

  “Will it work?” Lelwin asked.

  Toria felt reasonably confident she knew the reference behind the girl’s question, but Lelwin’s habit of starting her conversations in the middle required correction. Often, her apprentice would pick up the thread of a discussion hours or even days afterward. There was too much possibility for misunderstanding in that habit, and the duties of the Vigil required clarity.

  “Will what work, Lelwin? Be clear.”

  Her apprentice shrugged. “Pellin’s plan to pit the interests of the nobility against those of the church. It seems a risky venture, considering both sides must be evenly matched for it to succeed. In negotiations between merchants, one side always desires the goods more than the other. It’s the basis of trade.”

  Toria nodded. “You’re right, of course, but access to the Vigil is more complex than bidding for melons or wool. The dynamics of power between countries and orders of the church are larger and therefore take a longer period of time to resolve. Pellin knows this and uses it to his advantage. By making the kings and queens of the north aware of the intentions of the church, he counters them and buys us time in which to move freely. Hopefully, he started with King Ellias in Moorclaire.”

  Lelwin nodded. The girl was a remarkably quick study, even though she tended to see everything, even close relationships between men and women, through the lens of buyer and seller. According to the exordium, she probably held a talent for all, the ability to see and grasp complex relationships in the world. Those who held the talent were often the most successful merchants and kings.

  “Why him?” she asked.

  Toria had pondered this question herself each day they’d ridden or floated toward their destiny. Pellin had been stingy with the specifics of his plan. He might have tried his luck with the kingdom of Caisel first. “The king of Moorclaire is different.”

  Lelwin shrugged. “Everyone is different.”

  Toria nodded. “Yes, but the monarchs are usually different in the same way. The gift of kings rests on Ellias of Moorclaire more heavily than his peers. The portion of his inheritance, the gift of parts, which affords him the ability to understand crafts of all types, dominates his personality.” She shrugged. “That kingdom has ever held the mathematicum in high esteem, and he has always displayed a strong talent for logic. I sometimes wonder if he came to the throne completely whole.”

  Lelwin cocked her head the way she did whenever she needed additional explanation. “Is there something wrong with the king of Moorclaire?”

  “No,” Toria said. “I’m not sure I can make you understand unless you’ve met his like. In your time in the urchins did you ever meet one of your fellows whose mind seemed different?”

  Lelwin grew still as her thoughts and memories turned inward. “Lady Deel, children who have been orphaned by design or circumstance are always broken in some way. The question should be, when did I not?”

  Toria nodded, playing for time. Lelwin’s response offered another opportunity for her to question the girl about her past, to uncover those circumstances that led her to regard love—and more particularly, men—with such a jaundiced eye. Only those discussions would allow Lelwin to begin healing. She pushed that impulse away. She’d tried too often of late to bring the conversation about, and Lelwin’s natural reticence had grown in proportion.

  With a small sigh, she picked up the thread of their discussion. “I’m not referring to the brokenness that comes from extreme circumstances. Ellias of Moorclaire holds no such memories. Rather, I speak of someone whose gaze seems to slide past you as if in discomfort, and when they engage you in speech, their thoughts appear to run in a predetermined path that compels them.”

  “As if they must speak of it and nothing else,” Lelwin said. “Yes, I’ve seen such, but not just in the urchins.”

  Toria nodded her approval. “That is the way with King Ellias of Moorclaire and the mathematicum. He is a brilliant man and a decent king, but most of the responsibilities of the kingdom have been delegated away while he works in his laborium.”

  They rode through the gates of Treflow and into a market square a hundred paces on a side, amidst the din and noise of the town at harvest. Carts and wagons jockeyed for position, their riders yelling curses native to their kingdom as they strove to move their goods to the appointed place.

  Elory pointed to a street running south, away from the market. “If memory serves, the criers congregate that way, closer to the docks on the Mournwater.”

  They edged to the outskirts of the market until they came upon the main thoroughfare leading to the south part of the town. After a few hundred paces the houses grew larger and came farther apart, evidence that they had left the homes of more common tradesmen behind and ventured upon the houses of more prosperous merchants.

  They followed the turn of the road and came to a square with blocky, stone-built edifices on each corner guarded by heavily armed men. Toria pointed, answering Lelwin’s unspoken question. “Moneylenders. Sitting at the head of the three rivers, Treflow occupies a unique position. Boats travelling though this place have access to nearly half the continent’s population. The guards you see outside are but a sample of the precautions the settlement houses take against thievery.”

  Turning to follow the sun, they entered a square a couple of hundred paces farther on that put Toria in mind of Criers’ Square in Bunard, complete with the stands where each order’s designee enjoined the crowd or read from the daily office.

  “That’s a surprise,” Lelwin said. “I thought the square was particular to Bunard.”

  Toria shook her head. “The Order Wars brought a new kind of horror to our continent.”

  Lelwin shrugged her shoulders. “War is war.”

  “No, this was different.” Toria pointed at each of the four stands. “The Gift Wars and the Wars for the Gift of Kings had cemented the idea that men fought for power and that those men were nobles intent on expanding their reach. When the Merum church split, then split again, and again after that, it set a new type of conflict into motion.”

  Lelwin’s gaze became fixed on a point somewhere over the top of her horse’s head, as it always did whenever Toria spoke of the church, an unmistakable sign of boredom. Toria reined her horse closer and reached out to take the younger woman’s arm. “You need to understand this.”

  “Why?”

  The blunt forthrightness of the question took her off guard for a moment. “Because I’ve yet to see mankind make a mistake that it was unwilling to repeat.” She let go. “If you become one of the Vigil in my place, it may fall to you to stop the Order Wars from coming again.”

  Lelwin cocked her head, thinking, before she nodded.

  Toria pointed at the criers. “Before, common men fought because their lord or king told them to or because they needed to defend themselves from some other noble who wanted to amass enough gifts to walk a little closer to Aer. Now they fought because they believed they were right. By the time the war had flowered completely, every order of the church had mana
ged to decree that each of the other orders was apostate and their corruption of the faith had to be extinguished.”

  Lelwin’s eyes widened at that. “Even the Servants?”

  Toria nodded. “The war that came was unparalleled in savagery and casualties. Concepts of strategy and tactics were secondary to extermination.”

  Her apprentice frowned. “I would have thought that even after the split, the Merum church would have commanded enough resources to subdue the others.”

  “Men are opportunistic,” Toria said. “Alliances during the war were as ephemeral as mist and about as long lasting. The kings saw the war as a way to come out from beneath the rule of the Merum, and when one order was threatened with total defeat, other orders would restore the balance of power.”

  “How did it end?”

  “Everyone started to run out of men.” If she hadn’t been looking at her apprentice, Toria would have missed what she said next, so softly was it spoken.

  “Good.”

  Anger brought a flush of heat to Toria’s skin, and she rubbed one cheek, biting back the first and second response that came to her, replies that would inevitably push Lelwin back into her protective shell. “No, there’s never anything good about a lot of men dying.”

  “What about Bas-solas?” Lelwin asked, her tone sharp.

  Toria nodded to herself. Better. The girl could think instead of just react. “That was necessary . . . but hardly good. Good is a term we reserve in the church for those circumstances that align with the will of Aer. Death doesn’t qualify, no matter how crucial it may be.” She pointed at each of the stands in the square. “This is far better than swords and halberds.”

  Whatever she was about to say next was lost as a figure at the far end of the square mounted a makeshift platform, the people around him more attentive, more animated than the rest of those attending, the crowd far larger. Dressed in plain clothes befitting a common merchant, he lifted his hands as the other priests had, but even that similar gesture held violence instead of blessing. And though he had yet to speak, his face held the ruddy cast of one who’d been screaming. Even the other criers turned to hear him.