The Spine of the World

by Philip Athans

  “If that is indeed some of the poison,” Robillard remarked.

  “You yourself took it from the little one called Morik,” Camerbunne explained.

  “That does not necessarily mean …” Robillard started to reply. He let the thought hang in the air. The expressions on the faces of his four companions told him well enough that they had caught on. “What do we do, then?” the wizard asked.

  “I can ‘no be promisin’ anything,” the old woman claimed, throwing up her hands dramatically. “Wit none o’ de poison, me herbs’ll do what dey will.”

  She moved to the side of the room, where they had placed a small table to act as her workbench, and began fiddling with different vials and jars and bottles. Robillard looked to Camerbunne. The man returned a defeated expression. The clerics had worked tirelessly over Deudermont in the day he had been in their care, casting spells that should have neutralized the vicious poison flowing through him. Those spells had provided temporary relief only, slowing the poison and allowing the captain to breath more easily and lowering his fever a bit, at least. Deudermont had not opened his eyes since the attack. Soon after, the captain’s breathing went back to raspy, and he began bleeding again from his gums and his eyes. Robillard was no healer, but he had seen enough death to understand that if they did not come up with something soon, his beloved Captain Deudermont would fade away.

  “Evil poison,” Camerbunne remarked.

  “It is an herb, no doubt,” Robillard said. “Neither evil nor malicious. It just is what it is.”

  Camerbunne shook his head. “There is a touch of magic about it, do not doubt, good wizard,” he declared. “Our spells will defeat any natural poison. No, this one has been specially prepared by a master and with the help of dark magic.”

  “Then what can we do?” the wizard asked.

  “We can keep casting our spells over him to try and offer as much comfort as possible and hope that the poison works its way out of him,” Camerbunne explained. “We can hope that old Gretchen finds the right mixture of herbs.”

  “Easier it’d be if I had a bit o’ the poison,” old Gretchen complained.

  “And we can pray,” Camerbunne finished.

  The last statement brought a frown to the atheistic Robillard. He was a man of logic and specified rules and did not indulge in prayer.

  “I will go to Morik the Rogue and learn more of the poison,” Robillard said with a snarl.

  “He has been tortured already,” Camerbunne assured the wizard. “I doubt that he knows anything at all. It is merely something he purchased on the street, no doubt.”

  “Tortured?” Robillard replied skeptically. “A thumbscrew, a rack? No, that is not torture. That is a sadistic game and nothing more. The art of torture becomes ever more exquisite when magic is applied.” He started for the door, but Camerbunne caught him by the arm.

  “Morik will not know,” he said again, staring soberly into the outraged wizard’s hollowed eyes. “Stay with us. Stay with your captain. He may not survive the night, and if he does come out of the sleep before he dies, it would be better if he found a friend waiting for him.”

  Robillard had no argument against that heavy-handed comment, so he sighed and moved back to his chair, plopping down.

  A short while later, a city guardsman knocked and entered the room, the routine call from the magistrate.

  “Tell Jerem Boll and old Jharkheld that the charge against Wulfgar and Morik will likely be heinous murder,” Camerbunne quietly explained.

  Robillard heard the priest, and the words sank his heart even lower. It didn’t matter much to Wulfgar and Morik what charge was placed against them. Either way, whether it was heinous murder or intended murder, they would be executed, though with the former the process would take much longer, to the pleasure of the crowd at the Prisoner’s Carnival.

  Watching them die would be of little satisfaction to Robillard, though, if his beloved captain did not survive. He put his head in his hands, considering again that he should go to Morik and punish the man with spell after spell until he broke down and revealed the type of poison that had been used.

  Camerbunne was right, Robillard knew, for he understood city thieves like Morik the Rogue. Certainly Morik hadn’t brewed the poison but had merely gotten some of it from a well-paid source.

  The wizard lifted his head from his hands, a look of revelation on his haggard face. He remembered the two men who had been in the Cutlass before Wulfgar and Morik had arrived, the two men who had gone to the boy who had subsequently run off to find Wulfgar and Morik, the grimy sailor and his exotic, tattooed companion. He remembered Leaping Lady, sailing out fast from Luskan’s harbor. Had Wulfgar and Morik traded the barbarian’s marvelous warhammer for the poison to kill Deudermont?

  Robillard sprang up from his chair, not certain of where to begin, but thinking now that he was on to something important. Someone, either the pair who had signaled Deudermont’s arrival, the street urchin they had paid to go get Wulfgar and Morik, or someone on Leaping Lady, knew the secrets of the poison.

  Robillard took another look at his poor, bedraggled captain, so obviously near to death. He stormed out of the room, determined to get some answers.

  eralda walked tentatively into the kitchen the next morning, conscious of the stare her father leveled her way. She looked to her mother as well, seeking some indication that her father had told the woman about her indiscretion with Jaka the previous night. But Biaste was beaming, oblivious.

  “Oh, the garden!” Biaste cried, all smiles. “Tell me about the garden. Is it as pretty as Gurdy Harkins says?”

  Meralda glanced at her father. Relieved to find him smiling as well, she took her seat and moved it right beside Biaste’s chair. “Prettier,” she said, her grin wide. “All the colors, even in the late sun! And under the moon, though it’s not shining so bright, the smells catch and hold you.

  “That’s not all that caught my fancy,” Meralda said, forcing a cheerful voice as she launched into the news they were all waiting to hear. “Lord Feringal has asked me to marry him.”

  Biaste squealed with glee. Tori let out a cry of surprise, and a good portion of her mouthful of food, as well. Dohni Ganderlay slammed his hands upon the table happily.

  Biaste, who could hardly get out of bed the tenday before, rushed about, readying herself, insisting that she had to go out at once and tell all of her friends, particularly Gurdy Harkins, who was always acting so superior because she sometimes sewed dresses for Lady Priscilla.

  “Why’d you come in last night so flustered and crying?” Tori asked Meralda as soon as the two were alone in their room.

  “Just mind what concerns you,” Meralda answered.

  “You’ll be living in the castle and traveling to Hundelstone and Fireshear, and even to Luskan and all the wondrous places,” pressed Tori, insisting, “but you were crying. I heard you.”

  Eyes moistening again, Meralda glared at the girl then went back to her chores.

  “It’s Jaka,” Tori reasoned, a grin spreading across her face. “You’re still thinking about him.”

  Meralda paused in fluffing her pillow, moved it close to her for a moment—a gesture that revealed to Tori her guess was true—then spun suddenly and launched the pillow into Tori’s face, following it with a tackle that brought her sister down on the small bed.

  “Say I’m the queen!” the older girl demanded.

  “You just might be,” stubborn Tori shot back, which made Meralda tickle her all the more. Soon Tori could take it no more and called out “Queen! Queen!” repeatedly.

  “But you are sad about Jaka,” Tori said soberly a few moments later, when Meralda had gone back to fixing the bedclothes.

  “I saw him last night,” Meralda admitted. “On my way home. He’s gone sick thinking about me and Lord Feringal.”

  Tori gasped and swayed, then leaned closer, hanging on every word.

  “He kissed me, too.”

  “Better than Lord Fer
ingal?”

  Meralda sighed and nodded, closing her eyes as she lost herself in the memory of that one brief, tender moment with Jaka.

  “Oh, Meralda, what’re you to do?” Tori asked.

  “Jaka wants me to run away with him,” she answered.

  Tori moaned and hugged her pillow. “And will you?”

  Meralda stood straighter then and flashed the young girl a brave smile. “My place is with Lord Feringal,” she explained.

  “But Jaka—”

  “Jaka can’t do nothing for Ma, and nothing for the rest of you,” Meralda went on. “You can give your heart to whomever you want, but you give your life to the one who’s best for you and for the ones you love.”

  Tori started to protest again, but Dohni Ganderlay entered the room. “You got work,” he reminded them, and he put a look over Meralda that told the young woman that he had, indeed, overheard the conversation. He even gave a slight nod of approval before exiting the room.

  Meralda walked through that day in a fog, trying to align her heart with acceptance of her responsibility. She wanted to do what was right for her family, she really did, but she could not ignore the pull of her heart, the desire to learn the ways of love in the arms of a man she truly loved.

  Out in the fields higher on the carved steps of the mountain, Dohni Ganderlay was no less torn. He saw Jaka Sculi that morning, and the two didn’t exchange more than a quick glance—one-eyed for Jaka, whose left orb was swollen shut. As much as Dohni wanted to throttle the young man for jeopardizing his family, he could not deny his own memories of young love, memories that made him feel guilty looking at the beaten Jaka. Something more insistent than responsibility had pulled Jaka and Meralda together the previous night, and Dohni reminded himself pointedly not to hold a grudge, either against his daughter or against Jaka, whose only crime, as far as Dohni knew, was to love Meralda.

  The house was quiet and perfectly still in the darkness just after dusk, which only amplified the noise made by every one of Meralda’s movements. The family had retired early after a long day of work and the excitement of Meralda receiving yet another invitation to the castle, three days hence, accompanied by the most beautiful green silk gown the Ganderlay women had ever seen. Meralda tried to put the gown on quietly and slowly, but the material ruffled and crackled.

  “What’re you doing?” came a sleepy whisper from Tori.

  “Shh!” Meralda replied, moving right beside the girl’s bed and kneeling so that Tori could hear her whispered reply. “Go back to sleep and keep your mouth shut,” she instructed.

  “You’re going to Jaka,” Tori exclaimed, and Meralda slapped her hand over the girl’s mouth.

  “No such thing,” Meralda protested. “I’m just trying it out.”

  “No you’re not!” said Tori, coming fully awake and sitting up. “You’re going to see Jaka. Tell me true, or I’ll yell for Da.”

  “Promise me that you’ll not say,” Meralda said, sitting on the bed beside her sister. Tori’s head bobbed excitedly. “I’m hoping to find Jaka out there in the dark,” Meralda explained. “He goes out every night to watch the moon and the stars.”

  “And you’re running away to be married?”

  Meralda gave a sad chuckle. “No, not that,” she replied. “I’m giving my life to Lord Feringal for the good of Ma and Da and yourself,” she explained. “And not with regrets,” she added quickly, seeing her sister about to protest. “No, he’ll give me a good life at the castle, of that I’m sure. He’s not a bad man, though he has much to learn. But I’m taking tonight for my own heart. One night with Jaka to say good-bye.” Meralda patted Tori’s arm as she stood to leave. “Now, go back to sleep.”

  “Only if you promise to tell me everything tomorrow,” Tori replied. “Promise, or I’ll tell.”

  “You won’t tell,” Meralda said with confidence, for she understood that Tori was as enchanted by the romance of it all as she was. More, perhaps, for the young girl didn’t understand the lifelong implications of these decisions as much as Meralda did.

  “Go to sleep,” Meralda said softly again as she kissed Tori on the forehead. Straightening the dress with a nervous glance toward the curtain door of the room, Meralda headed for the small window and out into the night.

  Dohni Ganderlay watched his eldest daughter disappear into the darkness, knowing full well her intent. A huge part of him wanted to follow her, to catch her with Jaka and kill the troublesome boy once and for all, but Dohni also held faith that his daughter would return, that she would do what was right for the family as she had said to her sister that morning.

  It tore at his heart, to be sure, for he understood the allure and insistence of young love. He decided to give her this one night, without question and without judgment.

  Meralda walked through the dark in fear. Not of any monsters that might leap out at her—no, this was her home and the young woman had never been afraid of such things—but of the reaction of her parents, particularly her father, if they discovered her missing.

  Soon enough, though, the woman left her house behind and fell into the allure of the sparkling starry sky. She came to a field and began spinning and dancing, enjoying the touch of the wet grass on her bare feet, feeling as if she were stretching up to the heavens above to join with those magical points of light. She sang softly to herself, a quiet tune that sounded spiritual and surely fit her feelings out here, alone, at peace, and as one with the stars.

  She hardly thought of Lord Feringal, of her parents, of her responsibility, even of her beloved Jaka. She wasn’t thinking at all, was just existing in the glory of the night and the dance.

  “Why are you here?” came a question from behind her, Jaka’s lisping voice.

  The magic vanished, and Meralda slowly turned around to face the young man. He stood, hands in pockets, head down, curly brown hair flopping over his brow so that she couldn’t even see his eyes. Suddenly another fear gripped the young woman, the fear of what she anticipated would happen this night with this man.

  “Did Lord Feringal let you out?” Jaka asked sarcastically.

  “I’m no puppet of his,” Meralda replied.

  “Are you not to be his wife?” Jaka demanded. He looked up and stared hard at the woman, taking some satisfaction in the moisture that glistened in her eyes. “That’s what the villagers are saying,” he went on, then he changed his voice. “Meralda Ganderlay,” he cackled, sounding like an old gnome woman. “Oh, but what a lucky one, she is! To think that Lord Feringal himself’d come a-calling for her.”

  “Stop it,” Meralda begged softly.

  Jaka only went on more forcefully, his voice shifting timbre. “And what’s he thinking, that fool, Feringal?” he said, now in the gruff tones of a village man. “He’ll bring disgrace to us all, marrying so low as that. And what, with a hunnerd pretty and rich merchant girls begging for his hand. Ah, the fool!”

  Meralda turned away and suddenly felt more silly than beautiful in her green gown. She also felt a hand on her shoulder, and Jaka was there, behind her.

  “You have to know,” he said softly. “Half of them think Lord Feringal a fool, and the other half are too blind by the false hopes of it all, like they’re reliving their own courtships through you, wishing that their own miserable lives could be more like yours.”

  “What’re you thinking?” Meralda said firmly, turning around to face the man, and starting as she did to see more clearly the bruises on his face, his fat lip and closed eye. She composed herself at once, though, understanding well enough where Jaka had found that beating.

  “I think that Lord Feringal believes himself to be above you,” Jaka answered bluntly.

  “And so he is.”

  “No!” The retort came out sharply, making Meralda jump back in surprise. “No, he is not your better,” Jaka went on quietly, and he lifted his hand to gently stroke Meralda’s wet cheek. “Rather, you are too good for him, but he will not view things that way. Nay, he will use you at his whim,
then cast you aside.”

  Meralda wanted to argue, but she wasn’t sure the young man was wrong. It didn’t matter, though, for whatever Lord Feringal had in mind for her, the things he could do for her family remained paramount.

  “Why did you come out here?” Jaka asked again, and it seemed to Meralda as if he only then noticed her gown, for he ran the material of one puffy sleeve through his thumb and index finger, feeling its quality.

  “I came out for a night for Meralda,” the young woman explained. “For a night when my desires would outweigh me responsibility. One night …”

  She stopped when Jaka put a finger over her lips, holding it there for a long while. “Desires?” he asked slyly. “And do you include me among them? Did you come out here, all finely dressed, just to see me?”

  Meralda nodded slowly and before she had even finished, Jaka was against her, pressing his lips to hers, kissing her hungrily, passionately. She felt as if she were floating, and then she realized that Jaka was guiding her down to the soft grass, holding the kiss all the way. His hands continued to move about her, and she didn’t stop them, didn’t even stiffen when they brushed her in private places. No, this was her night, the night she would become a woman with the man of her choosing, the man of her desires and not her responsibilities.

  Jaka reached down and pulled the gown halfway up her legs and wasted no time in putting his own legs between hers.

  “Slower, please,” Meralda said softly, taking his face in both her hands and holding him very close to her, so that he had to look in her eyes. “I want it to be perfect,” she explained.

  “Meralda,” the young man breathed, seeming desperate. “I cannot wait another minute.”

  “You don’t have to,” the young woman assured him, and she pulled him close and kissed him gently.

  Soon after, the pair lay side by side, naked on the wet grass, the chill ocean air tickling their bodies as they stared up at the starry canopy. Meralda felt different, giddy and lightheaded almost, and somehow spiritual, as if she had just gone through something magical, some rite of passage. A thousand thoughts swirled in her mind. How could she go back to Lord Feringal after this wondrous lovemaking with Jaka? How could she turn her back on these feelings of pure joy and warmth? She felt wonderful at that moment, and she wanted the moment to last and last for the rest of her life. The rest of her life with Jaka.