The Shattered Vigil

by Patrick W. Carr

  Orin’s head had dipped, and though his chest rose and fell with mechanical regularity, his eyes were closed and his mouth was slack.

  “I’m sorry, Etgar,” he said. “He camped on the edge of the Darkwater.”

  Etgar nodded, the bare skin on the top of his head catching the light. “So he said.”

  Pellin nodded, knowing as well what Orin hadn’t said. “The Darkwater grew during the night, enveloping his camp. When he woke the next morning, the leaves on the trees around him bore marks of the disease.”

  Etgar put his other hand on Orin’s shoulder, the gesture protective, even defiant. “That’s not possible. The Darkwater doesn’t grow.”

  “Not often,” Pellin agreed, “but it does and it has again.”

  “It’s true,” Allta said. “We came from a village in the Sundered Hills that had been engulfed.”

  “I delved a half dozen of the villagers, Etgar,” Pellin said. “Every one of them had a vault, but not one of them had any memory of going to the forest.”

  He turned to Allta. “We have to ride the boundary west. We need to find Toria and Bronwyn and warn them of the forest’s growth.”

  Orin’s head lolled to one side, and his eyes opened, the stare glassy, the same as every other soul Pellin had broken.

  Chapter 49

  For three days Bronwyn tracked the men from the marketplace, which was to say Balean and Fess tracked them—searching them out each evening in the villages where they stopped, careful to avoid being seen, while she waited for one or the other to return. Each night, Fess kept watch over whatever inn the men chose to frequent, waiting until they left at dawn, making their way north toward the Darkwater.

  She sighed. All of which meant her apprentice spent each day sleeping in his saddle. She glanced to her right to see a thatch of windblown blond hair ruffling in the breeze, as though Fess’s head were waving to her while he slept. He never complained, but she could tell the long nightly watches were taking their toll.

  A flare of light flashed across her vision, and unbidden, a door into memory opened, flooding her with memories that mingled with her own and confused her sense of self. “No,” she breathed. “Not now. Not yet.”

  Balean looked at her, his expression stoic but resolved.

  She tried to wave his concern and the memories away, but they washed over her, uncaring of her pleas or needs, and her mind became a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. A man, her husband of twenty years, lay in a sickbed, and she stood accused. She lifted hands so scarred they resembled claws, thrust them at her accusers, forcing them to see.

  “No!” She thrust the memory back behind the door. “That’s not me!”

  As soon as she did so another memory took its place, a recollection that bloomed in her consciousness from that same long-locked door, an image that carried fire and agony. With a scream she threw her arms up to ward off pain from hundreds of years before. Falling. She was falling, but the sensation warred with the memory that painted a picture of her husband, jealous and raging, forcing her hands to hold burning coals for touching another.

  Bronwyn forced her eyes open, saw her guard, Balean, and her apprentice, Fess, gazing at her in helplessness.

  Their mouths were moving, working to make themselves heard, but she couldn’t untangle their words from the wash of memory and pain. She gazed at a blue autumn sky past Balean’s face and lifted her hand to block the light. She curled and opened her fingers, searching for scars and burns, but they were merely old, wrinkled and veined. She clutched at their reality, forcing the memories back behind the door.

  Within her mind she slammed it shut, then locked it. She became conscious of her guard holding her, and with the feeble struggles of an old woman she made her intentions known to him.

  He placed her feet on the ground, and the touch of earth beneath her feet served to further steady her mind and thoughts. She drew a shuddering breath and paused to survey their surroundings. Rolling hills stretched away to the north, east, and west, flattening somewhat to the south, and copses of cedar and pine dotted the hollows where wind had gathered the seeds over the years. “Where are we?”

  “Some leagues yet from the southernmost tip of the Darkwater, Lady Bronwyn,” Balean said, pointing to the north. “Our prey seem to be exercising more care in their movements the closer we get to the forest.”

  Partly out of intent, but more out of necessity, she lowered herself to sit on the ground, motioning Balean and Fess to join her. Her guard paused to stake the horses, ever conscious of the practicalities of their mission.

  “Are you well, Lady Bronwyn?” Fess asked.

  She smiled. One of his teeth had a slight chip to it. Strange that she hadn’t noticed it before. And his eyes, blue, had a way of catching the reflected light from the grass to cast a greenish tint. “No, child, I’m not.”

  The horses secured, Balean sat with them, completing the triangle but still managing to convey the impression of watchfulness.

  “My doors are weakening, Balean,” she said.

  He nodded, his face so still it sent a foreboding chill shooting down her spine. “How long?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, but not long. They’re coming faster and harder than they usually do.”

  “Is it the splinter?” Fess asked.

  She nodded, though she would have saved Balean from the admission if she could have. “Yes. I can sense it drifting through my mind, weakening the doors and walls I’ve spent centuries building to keep the memories at bay, but I can’t grasp it.” She lifted her hands, grateful to see them unscarred. “It’s like trying to grip water.”

  “What about Pellin?” Fess asked. “Could he go into your mind and destroy the splinter?”

  “Possibly,” she answered truthfully. “But we may not be able to get to him in time, and we’ve never had to fight the taint of the Darkwater in ourselves before. He might not know what to do.” She focused her attention on Fess. As a Vigil guard, Balean had been trained, taught from his first day the necessity of what might come. “There might not be anything he can do.” She leaned forward to place her hand on the boy’s knee, grateful for the fabric of his trousers that kept her gift at bay. “Fess, do you truly wish to be one of the Vigil?”

  To his credit, he didn’t answer right away. He stilled until he might have been one of their guards. Yet even motionless as he became, his eyes conveyed the energy of his thoughts. “I don’t know.”

  “If we cannot reach Cynestol in time, you must,” Balean said with finality.

  Bronwyn stared at her guard in shock. Though he had never been as stoic in his demeanor as Allta, Balean had come close, speaking rarely, and he had never presumed to issue orders to anyone in her presence. His deference to her had become the bedrock of their relationship.

  Fess’s mouth twitched, but his ever-present smile failed to materialize. “Must? Is it not the right of any apprentice to relinquish his trade if he so desires and seek a new one?”

  Balean cut the air with one hand in denial. “Word games will not avail us,” he said to Fess. “The Vigil stands at four, perhaps less. If another of the gifts goes free, how will it ever be found? You must take it.”

  Bronwyn suppressed another shock. Not only did her guard repeat his command, but he had done so without a single glance in her direction.

  Fess’s smile manifested itself at last, but his eyes hardened until they became agates. “What if I have no wish to live for centuries? What if I am not willing?”

  Again Balean refused to look at her, and with a start she realized her guard considered her passing to be a foregone conclusion. “Do you think you have the right to refuse? The gift came to Willet Dura in his ignorance.”

  “Balean.” Bronwyn lifted her hand for silence. Even to her own ears her voice sounded weak, but it was loud enough, for she saw Fess begin to turn to her before Balean gave a savage jerk of his head, dismissing her interruption.

  “The Vigil must endure,” he said. “Lady Bronwyn
has accumulated hundreds of years of wisdom and a thousand lifetimes of knowledge. What is your willingness compared to that?”

  Her apprentice’s face hardened, an expression that didn’t—and never should—appear natural on him. Deep in her chest, her shock at Balean’s behavior changed into anger on her own behalf and Fess’s. With a lurch she leaned toward her guard and struck him openhanded.

  He saw the blow coming, had to have seen it. He held a physical gift that few could match, and the struggles in her mind had left her weak. She saw his eyes widen a fraction and follow the path of her hand all the way to his cheek. Both men stared at her in shock, especially Fess who lifted a hand to touch his face.

  “I’m not dead yet! Listen to me!” She hadn’t meant to cry, but tears choked her words. She shook her head, scattering them to the ground as if they opposed her. “I will not force the gift on another.” She spat the words at her guard, who sat before her with all the response of a statue. “The road is too long and difficult for one to take it up unwillingly.” She turned to Fess. “To you, Fess, the gift is offered freely. It is your choice to accept or reject it. It is much like the gift of Aer himself.”

  Fess saw through her argument as soon as the words left her mouth. “I don’t think Willet would agree with you.”

  She straightened. Even when he wasn’t present, the reeve had a way of turning her accustomed beliefs on their head. “There have been other exceptions in the Vigil’s long history, Fess. I can only attribute them to the hand of Aer.”

  He smirked. “The books you gave me to read say that Aer regards all His children equally.”

  She nodded. “Yes, they say that, but that is not all they say. The rules contained within the exordium of the liturgy apply to all men and women, but that doesn’t mean they apply to Aer. Does the craftsman require permission of his work to display it with honor or use it for some more humble purpose?”

  Fess reached out to cup her cheek, the touch soft as a brush from a feather. “Or destroy it, Mother?”

  The use of the name for her that he’d kept locked away in his mind brought fresh tears to her eyes, and she swallowed, struggling to control her voice. “Does the creator need permission from his creation to say that he’s done with it and must craft a replacement?”

  His hand came away from her face, leaving her skin exposed to the chill of the wind. “He sounds like a hard taskmaster. I don’t know if I want to serve Him.”

  Grief caught her unaware. Her stomach and chest ached to hold the boy, beg him to change his mind, not about receiving the gift, but about the nature of Aer. Instead she nodded, though every muscle in her body cried out to enfold him. “I understand, and many times through the long years, I have thought the same, my child.” She could see his surprise at her words by the way his eyes widened and he gaped at her.

  She cupped his face in return and nodded. “Sometimes the task is hard, Fess, but I don’t believe the taskmaster to be.” She struggled to rise to her feet. “In the end, there is little choice. If we cannot find grace from our creator, where shall we find it?”

  Even to her own ears, her logic sounded weak. Was her sole reason for serving Aer because there was no alternative? The doors in her mind holding countless memories locked away threatened to burst and drown her identity. She reeled with the effort but forced herself to hold on a little longer, if for no other reason than in the hope of finding a better answer for Fess.

  “Come,” she said as she pulled her shoulders back and forced a measure of steel into her spine. “My infirmity has cost us too much time already. If we are to discover the purpose of our enemies, we must track them to their destination first.”

  She walked back to her horse with the stiff-legged strides of a marionette and climbed into the saddle, refusing Balean’s aid. Her affliction would countenance no show of weakness. She clutched the reins as if she could wring strength from them.

  They rode through the rest of the day, careful to keep at least two hills between them and those they tracked, but as the sun descended, misgiving filled her heart. They were nowhere near the next village. “Balean!” She barked his name with as much authority as she could muster. “Fess will remain with me as my guard. Track them as closely as you dare without being seen. I want to know if they intend on camping or continuing in the dark.”

  She held her hand out, palm forward, as he began to object. “I need to counsel my apprentice.” The weight of her collected memories pulled at her so that she longed for the oblivion of sleep. “Time is not our friend here.” When he still made no move to obey, she allowed her head to dip a fraction. “Please.”

  Bronwyn waited until the muted sound of hooves on thick turf faded behind her before she released enough of the iron she’d forced into her spine to sit as Fess staked the horses. Then he came and sat before her, his expression open and expectant but not demanding, content to wait. A warm breeze from the south ruffled his hair, and from long ago in her own past, far enough back that the memory came from her own youth, she recalled another young man who favored Fess in both looks and demeanor.

  “Are you well, Lady Bronwyn?”

  She smiled at him and her memory, but sadness touched it and her eyes welled. “Do you want to know something strange, Fess? I have lived so long that everyone I meet reminds me of at least a dozen other people I’ve met before.”

  He grinned, the expression bright and clear as spring wine. “Even urchins like me?”

  She laughed softly. “They weren’t urchins, but they were like you, young men or women who reveled in each breath life had to give them no matter their circumstances. Most of them had your smile.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she knew what her decision must be. Aer forgive her, she would not go into eternity with this on her conscience as well. “When my time comes, I want you to get as far away from me as you can, Fess. Run. Hide so that Balean cannot bring you within arm’s reach. Let the gift go free and pass to someone else.”

  He started, rocking back where he sat. “Lady Bronwyn?”

  Unexpected grief, centuries of it, wracked her where she sat. She never saw Fess move, but the clasp of his arms enfolded her and she buried her face into his neck. Even in this, she did not feel awkwardness in his embrace. Even now, he remained perfectly comfortable in her presence.

  “I can’t!” she sobbed. “I won’t let the gift take the light from your eyes, turn you into me.” She knew her words didn’t make sense. “The world needs people like you. We need men and women who light the room with their smile. We need to see people who remind us that life can be joy. You greet each moment as a new friend. We need that. Aer have mercy on us, we’re desperate for it!”

  He never answered but held her until the storm of her grief ran its course, gales of weeping that finally subsided. Fess waited until she pushed herself away and helped her to stand. When she scrubbed her eyes so that she could see, the light of day had gone, replaced by the deep charcoal of dusk.

  Fess pointed to the hillside north of them. “Balean is coming back.”

  Her guard topped the hill and came toward them at a canter, his face grim even by Vigil standards. He flowed out of the saddle before the horse had come to a stop. “They’ve made camp, Lady Bronwyn, but their behavior is puzzling. While the light of day lasted they did as one would expect, staking the horses and readying a small fire, but when the last ray faded, a change came over them.” He stopped, searching for words.

  “What sort of change?” Bronwyn asked.

  He shook his head. “It’s hard to describe, but their movements appeared different—quick and jerky, and then lithe, almost as if they were gifted.”

  “I think you witnessed the transition between their waking mind and their vault.” She pulled in a breath, her former grief displaced by frustration.

  Fess stepped away from her, moving to his horse with decisive strides. He donned a dark hood and cloak, pausing to wrap a strip of cloth over one eye.

  “You need eyes in the dark
, Lady Bronwyn,” he said as he rejoined her and Balean. Then he grinned, pointing to the eye covered by the strip of cloth. “I can give you one, anyway.”

  Her heart lurched in her chest, but she stifled the order that would have kept him safe. The world could not afford her timidity, and Fess, as an experienced thief, would have a better chance of scouting their prey while remaining unseen than she or Balean. “Keep your distance, apprentice. That’s not a request.”

  He smiled as if she’d paid him a compliment. “Yes, milady.” He turned to Balean. “Where are they?”

  Her guard nodded. “Three hills over, in a valley where a river branches into two smaller streams.”

  Fess was barely out of earshot before her guard turned to her. “Will he accept the gift?” His tone carried the resolution of a man prepared to enforce his will.

  She met his gaze without flinching. “We spoke and my instructions were clear. Fess knows exactly what to do when my time comes.” She turned away then, unwilling to endure his scrutiny. “I need to rest. Wake me when he returns.”

  Chapter 50

  A hand on Bronwyn’s shoulder brought her from sleep, and she rose, searching for the familiar surroundings of her home in Caisel before she managed to pull the threads of memory together. Balean and Fess knelt by her in the first wan light of predawn, their faces somber.

  “It took us a while to wake you, Lady Bronwyn,” Balean said. “Are you well?”

  She checked the doors within her mind, found them closed for the moment, though she could sense pressure building behind each of them, as though the memories contained within had at last grown restless with their long imprisonment. The mental fatigue that had weighed on her since they were attacked in Havenwold and she had been infected returned, and she longed for strong tea. There would be none. “Well enough,” she said.