The Shattered Vigil

by Patrick W. Carr

  Kruin stood glaring at her, torch in one hand and knife in the other. “This is your doing.”

  She shifted, turning on the bench so that she could defend herself with her feet at need but knowing the gesture was pointless. Kruin could simply grab her and beat her into submission.

  “Think carefully, Kruin,” she stalled. “I’m still bound. You’ve been told not to let me touch you, but Lemm is out there screaming and he’ll scream until he dies. Do I have to touch you? Choose your next course of action well. If you let both of us go right now, perhaps you will survive.”

  He blinked, his face compressing like a man experiencing a sudden and unexpected pain.

  She shifted, moving to the side so that Kruin could see Lelwin’s face behind her. “Perhaps not,” Toria said as his mouth opened, stretching in horror at the sight of her apprentice. The torch fell, guttering on the ground, but Kruin was no longer there to pick it up. A second set of screams broke the silence of the night into shards.

  Freedom beckoned to her beyond the open door. The last guard would be chasing after his companions. She and Lelwin could slip away under cover of darkness. South. Yes, they would head south. The farther they got from the forest, the better.

  The last guard appeared in the doorway of the carriage, lit from the side by his torch. The play of shadows and light across his face gave him the aspect of a ghoul. He put the point of his sword to Toria’s chest. “This is the end of the road. When the speaker returns, we ride on horseback from here. If you speak, if you run, if you try to touch me, I will kill you.”

  Chapter 48

  Pellin rode between Mark and Allta, the two men sworn to guard him, contemplating his tenure as Eldest of the Vigil. How could one man accumulate so much trouble in such a short period of time? But as soon as that thought entered his mind, he rebuked it. Assuming culpability that didn’t belong to him was no different than trying to absolve himself from all blame. It was a snare and a temptation that carried its own peril. No, the events since Elwin’s passing could not be laid at his feet. Whatever had escaped the forest had done so before he had become Eldest.

  Still, that was not to say his short term in leadership had been without mistakes. Even now, he had no idea what to do about the newest member of the Vigil. Willet Dura’s blundering ignorance threatened himself and those around him, but at the same time his intuitive and innovative use of his gift offered glimmers of hope for their situation.

  He darted a glance at his guard. Allta rode with one hand on the reins and the other pressed against his side, protecting his cracked ribs. The yards of cloth that bound them couldn’t keep the pace they set from aggravating the injury. “Can’t we go faster?”

  Allta shook his head. “Another mile or so, Eldest. Even with the extra horses, we have to give them occasional rest or we’ll lose them.”

  Pellin ground his teeth at the delay. They’d looped around to the southeast away from the Darkwater, moving as fast as their horses would allow, until they’d reached the next village. After finding no sign of Bronwyn or Toria, he’d delved a couple of the villagers and found no taint of the Darkwater.

  “Where are we going, Eldest?” Mark asked.

  Pellin pulled himself from his frustration long enough to notice that his apprentice rarely addressed him without the use of his title since the village. What had happened to soften Mark’s cynicism? “We’re going to the farm.”

  Even without looking he could feel Allta’s gaze upon him. “Eldest, the growth of the Darkwater or some other enemy must have overtaken them.”

  “We have to be sure,” Pellin said, “and if not, they may have information for us, but if the forest has taken them then at the very least we owe them a quick death.”

  Mark shook his head in obvious frustration at their exchange. “Who’s at the farm?”

  Pellin looked to his guard. “Allta, tell him. He should hear it from you.”

  With a nod, Allta slowed his horse until he fell in next to Mark. “Vigil guards aren’t like those they serve,” he began. “We don’t live any longer than normal, and most of us don’t die in the service of the Vigil.”

  “You live for it,” Pellin said. “That’s more important.”

  Allta dipped his head at the compliment. “Vigil guards do not pass on their gifts to ready-made apprentices as members of the Vigil do. Instead, we retain our gift until we die, trusting that when it goes free, Aer will direct it to its proper destination and provide us with a replacement. We look for those with pure gifts and a certain turn of mind.”

  “Apprentices,” Mark said.

  “Just so,” Allta nodded. “Not every apprentice works out, but once in a great while we find someone unexpected to take up the mantle. Rory is one such. Vigil guards who have retired usually return to the village or city of their youth, but often, by the time our task is over we have no family or friends to return to. Though we are too old to render our former service, we find the habit of duty has been too deeply ingrained to surrender it.”

  “You have them farm?” Mark asked. “You can get food anywhere.”

  Allta smiled. “The farm is at the edge of the Darkwater. The duty of those who have retired is to watch the boundary and report any change to the Vigil and the heads of the church.”

  Pellin watched his apprentice, waiting to see if he would make the connection between Allta’s words and their flight from danger. Above all, those in the Vigil had to be able to think.

  “But the forest has already leapt its boundary,” Mark said, looking to Pellin. “That means something may have happened to the men at the farm.”

  His apprentice eyed the ground beneath his horse’s feet. Generous distributions of silver had procured two horses for each of them. They’d ridden without ceasing, skirting the edge of the forest, hoping for some sign of the rest of the Vigil. Mark peered at the scrubby grass here at the eastern edge of the Sundered Hills with concentrated focus. He shook his head. “Do you see a sign, Eldest?”

  “No. It’s easier with trees. The discoloration of the leaves is immediate and obvious against a backdrop of healthy green. Grass can be a dozen different colors and perfectly healthy.” He lifted his head, squinting in the distance where the Sundered Hills dropped toward the rolling plains at the southern tip of the forest. “Losing the men at the farm would be bad, but Aer help us if Bronwyn or Toria has spent a night within the boundary of the Darkwater.”

  Mark cocked his head with the exaggerated curiosity of youth. “Has anyone ever been healed from a vault, Eldest?”

  “N . . . only one,” he stuttered, remembering. “Queen Cailin survived the breaking of her vault.”

  Mark’s eyes widened. “Queen Cailin? Out of how many?”

  “Across the entire history of the Vigil it would be only in the hundreds”—he shook his head in disgust—“but we’ve easily matched that in the last few months.”

  “I wonder what made Cailin different,” Mark said. “How were you able to break her vault without destroying her mind?”

  “Not me,” Pellin said with a shake. “Dura.”

  “He must have done something different,” Mark said.

  He sighed. How many levels of failure would he have to endure as the Vigil’s Eldest? “I don’t know. That Cailin survived the breaking of her vault may have nothing to do with Willet Dura at all.”

  A thought struck him, and he straightened in his saddle. “In fact, it’s much more likely that Queen Cailin never had a vault and that Dura only thought he saw one.”

  Mark cocked his head. “Is it that easy to misread what you see?”

  “No, but Willet Dura has his own vault. And even outside of that . . . ” He stopped, groping for words. “There is something within Lord Dura’s mind that at times skews his perceptions. He sees things and people that aren’t there.”

  “Because he has a vault?”

  Pellin shook his head. “No, thank Aer. I think this behavior has a more prosaic cause. I have met a few men like Will
et before. What he feels, he feels deeply. I have no way to characterize such a trait within the boundaries of the exordium other than to ascribe it to a temperament of passion. Yet even that falls short because those who possess it often display it as compassion. Such men or women, with the right gift and talent, have marked the pages of history with their presence. They are our greatest healers and monarchs.”

  Mark caught his gaze. “But not soldiers.”

  “No,” Pellin said, “not soldiers. Dura came back from the war as broken as any man and probably more so. There are many traits I admire about him, but there is a glamour within his mind.”

  Mark’s brows furrowed over his youthful face. “A what?”

  Pellin shook his head with a soft chuckle. “My apologies, Mark. I’m an old man and sometimes I use old words. A glamour is a vision or enchantment. For Willet, it’s a protective mechanism that allows him to function in spite of the horrors war inflicted upon him.”

  “Eldest,” Allta called, “I think we can run them a bit before we switch mounts.”

  His bones ached with every year he’d gathered over the long centuries, but he nodded and dug his heels into his horse.

  An hour later, they rode down a long gentle slope that began as hardy scrub belonging to the Sundered Hills and ended in the verdant green of pasture. To the northeast, a thin stream meandered through the softly rolling landscape, winding its way toward a farmstead tucked into a notch where the pasture and the hills met.

  Mark pointed to a smudge of black that lay like a bank of storm clouds where the sky met the earth to the north. “Is that . . . ?”

  Pellin nodded. “That’s the forest. It’s a bit deceptive. There’s at least a mile of perfectly healthy woods before you come to the true Darkwater . . . or there was.” He pointed down the slope toward the farm where a pair of men pitched hay into a broad, low barn, their movements deliberate with age. “Let’s see what they can tell us.”

  Allta nodded. “They look hale enough. I hope it’s so.”

  A hundred paces away, the men looked up to see them coming. One of them departed, moving with a pronounced limp to return with a pair of longbows.

  Mark cleared his throat. “Um, Eldest?”

  “They’re concerned,” Pellin said, “and rightly so. Their farm is somewhat isolated, after all. And they don’t recognize us yet.”

  The men nocked arrows and drew, but at twenty paces the man on the left shifted his bow to peer at Allta, squinting with rheumy eyes. “Is that you, boy?”

  Allta’s mouth pulled to one side. “Aye, Etgar, it’s me.”

  He lowered his bow, then nudged the man next to him. “It’s Pellin—he’s Eldest now. Put your bow down, Orin.”

  Orin tensed instead. “How do we know we can trust him?” He waved the bow. “How do we know we can trust any of them?”

  Etgar reached out to put a hand on Orin’s shoulder, but the other man jerked away, his eyes wide and darting. His draw hand started to tremble with the effort of keeping the bow drawn. Without seeming to move, Allta positioned himself in front of Pellin, his sword drawn.

  With a snarl, Orin pulled and loosed.

  Pellin had just enough time to hear the twang of the bow before a weight hit him from the side. Allta’s sword flashed and the world tilted in his vision as he fell. The earth rushed to meet him, and air exploded from his lungs with the impact. He blinked, struggling to focus, and saw Etgar and Allta wrestling Orin.

  A knife appeared in Allta’s hand. Pellin pulled enough air into his aching lungs to croak, “Wait.”

  Allta reversed his grip on the dagger and struck Orin across the temple hard enough to stun him.

  Pellin rolled to his knees, blinking against the spots in his vision. The muscles in his gut finally relaxed enough for him to draw a decent breath. Mark offered him a hand, which he accepted with a nod and pulled himself to his feet.

  “I’m sorry, Eldest,” Etgar said. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

  He nodded, but his attention remained on the old man on the ground. “How long has he been like this?”

  Etgar shrugged. “You know he’s always been—”

  “No,” Pellin interrupted. “I know what he was like, and it was never like this. How long?”

  Etgar swallowed. “A week or so . . . He came back from scouting the forest, mumbling to himself and starting at every noise like a thief.”

  “Professional thieves don’t actually do that,” Mark said.

  Pellin waved a hand at his apprentice. “Not now. Let’s get Orin into the cabin.” He looked at Etgar. “Tie him up.”

  Pellin and Mark followed as Allta and Etgar half-carried, half-dragged Orin across the hard-packed earth of the barnyard toward the small cottage. Inside, they pulled a chair from the simple trestle table and poured Orin into it. Allta stood guard while Etgar fetched rope. A few moments later, bound hand and foot to the chair, Orin rolled his head back and forth as he struggled toward consciousness.

  With a gesture, Allta brought a stool and Pellin seated himself in front of the former Vigil guard while Allta and Etgar took up positions at Orin’s left and right. “Orin, can you hear me?”

  “Aye,” the man said through a squint. “I told you we couldn’t trust them. We can’t trust any of them.”

  “Orin,” Pellin said. “How long ago did you last scout the boundary of the forest?”

  As if the question had the power to return a portion of his sanity, Orin stilled, regaining a bit of the stoicism Vigil guards were known for. “Three weeks ago.”

  Pellin looked to Etgar, who nodded. “That’s about right. Here on the farm the days have a way of running together.”

  “What did you see?” Pellin asked Orin.

  Orin’s face closed, twisting until his eyes were slits. “What do you care? What do any of you care?” He strained against his bonds until veins stood out on his age-spotted skin.

  Pellin sighed as he stood, circling around until he stood behind the guard. The air of the cabin flowed cool across his palm and fingertips. He had just enough time to register the warmth of the weathered, creased skin on the back of Orin’s neck before he fell headlong into the delve.

  Centuries of experience had honed his ability to sift through a person’s memories and emotions to a razor’s edge. Though Bronwyn’s skill at delving inanimate stone for traces and hints of memory surpassed his, none now living approached his skill in this arena. He picked a thread of Orin’s memory, one of the most recent, and stepped into its flow, becoming one with the withered guard.

  He stood, one leg crossed over another, leaning against the trunk of an ash sapling as he looked out from between the trees that bordered the Darkwater. Early dawn light lit the landscape with almost horizontal rays from his left, lighting yet another campsite on the banks of the river. Packhorses, short and sturdy, built for work rather than speed, grazed without concern.

  He stood, musing for nearly half an hour as the men below roused themselves. Moments later they were panning the stream where the water tumbled over a series of shallow rapids. After mere minutes had passed, one of the men thrust his fist aloft, yelling his excitement over the find he clutched in his hand.

  “There’s never been gold in the Darkwater,” he muttered to himself.

  Across the field, the men scrambled, panning the stream with the energy only men taken by gold lust could know. He shook his head in resignation. Too many people had started to come to the Darkwater what with the sentinels gone and only their rumor left to keep the curious at bay. Now he would have to hurry back to the farm and send a carrier bird to Cynestol. Another one. His last had either gotten lost or Pellin had yet to see the message.

  With his free hand he rubbed his backside in anticipation of the long ride back, his glance falling on the leaves of the sapling that helped him stay upright.

  For long, long moments he couldn’t breathe. Then, with a savage ripping motion, he stripped the nearest stem of its leaves. They fell throu
gh his trembling fingers, drifting downwind on the breeze to land on the wet ground where they mocked him.

  “No, no, no,” he pleaded. “I checked last night. I always check.” He stepped away from the trunk, grasping the nearest branch and pulling it down to eye level, but his petitions died on his tongue. Spots of black discolored every leaf. He moved to each tree around his meager campsite to find all of them similarly diseased.

  Pellin released the memory and searched through the rest of the old guard’s mind for the vault created when the Darkwater swallowed Orin’s camp, but when he found it he paused. Orin’s vault, the black scroll that infected all taken by the Darkwater, wavered in his vision. When he reached out to take it, the edges of the scroll glided across his touch like threads of gossamer.

  With a thought he grasped it, prepared to rip it into smaller and smaller pieces until it no longer existed, but at the last he paused. Perhaps the guard who had served them so long and so well could be saved. If Etgar took him south, away from the threat of the encroaching forest, maybe Orin would return to himself. Pellin had seen his thoughts. Even now Orin’s mind fought to rid itself of the Darkwater’s poison.

  But would he win? He waited, watching the scroll he held. Within Orin’s mind time moved at the speed of thought, the space between heartbeats stretching until the pulse of his blood surged like an incoming tide to recede later. He had all the time he needed. In the world outside the use of his gift time passed far more slowly. A half hour in the guards’ cabin would seem an eternity here.

  After a time in which Pellin could have read Orin’s entire life twice and more, the black scroll of his vault pulsed then pulsed again, growing more defined, moving from ephemeral insubstantiality to material definition. Hardening.

  He sighed. With a blaze of thought, he tore the scroll into four parts, then ripped those into still smaller pieces, repeating the process until nothing, not even dust, remained.

  Pellin lifted his hand and stepped away from the guard who had served him so faithfully and so well. He tried to pray, to intercede with Aer and beg for Orin’s life, but the words wouldn’t come. Centuries of breaking vaults had taught him hopelessness. Yet Orin deserved better than his mute surrender. With no words of his own, he recited the penitent’s appeal from the liturgy.