by Brian Fuller
In the following weeks, Gen wholly embraced his training, thirsty for knowledge, and the Shadan took delight in Gen’s enthusiasm. Within two weeks, Gen could catch and deflect arrows, fight blinded, and take on multiple opponents with ease. The stones continued their work, refining his senses and advancing his technique.
The lessons of the stones gradually turned to defense, which, unfortunately, increasingly featured the killing of innocent people. Gen never told the Shadan that he could understand the language spoken by his teachers in the stones, for they taught him that, “If you must tell your enemy something, tell him nothing. If you can’t tell him nothing, tell him a lie.” He could sense that he was now surpassing Torbrand’s expectations, and the Shadan took pleasure in sparring with his student, his mood magnanimous and light as the snow began to melt, dripping from trees and rooftops.
Rafael’s health continued to deteriorate, and he slept for long chunks of the day. The Shadan took no notice of the old bard’s distress and never acknowledged his presence or pressed him to perform further. Gen could hear Rafael coughing whenever his training took him near the house, and at the end of each day Gen found that Rafael was invariably by the fire, hunched in a chair, pale and spent.
One evening after facing down ten of the Shadan’s soldiers in a scenario designed to teach him how to detect and defend against an urban ambush, Gen entered the Showles’s front room, and his old master smiled at him, face waxy and pallid.
“Let’s get you to bed,” Gen entreated him gently, taking his arm.
“Thank you, my boy,” he said, face kind and sad. “You are truly the best apprentice I ever had, Gen. When you’re done training, if you escape, remember you are a musician. You were meant to gladden people’s hearts, not stop them. Remember it.”
“Don’t worry,” Gen said, helping him into his room. “You’ll have time to remind me later. This winter is almost over. We’ll find our way out of here together.”
Rafael patted him feebly on the shoulder. “Sleep well, Gen. I am very tired.”
Gen left and went to his own room. Since resolving upon his plan, he could relax more easily and he approached the dream lessons with an appetite equal to those he lived through during the day. As consciousness faded, he found himself back in the enormous Cathedral for the first time since beginning. His masters stood before him unchanged but solemn.
“We have taught you all we have to teach,” Samian said. “It should not have been taught in this manner. For apprentices past, we at this point would recommend you to service against Mikkik and his Ilch, but you seem resolved upon another plan.”
“I think killing Torbrand Khairn will be service against Mikkik.”
Samian held Gen’s eyes with a sympathetic but firm look. “Then you do not understand. You told us some nights ago that the motive behind your actions did not matter as long as good came of it. We warn you that it is not so.
“We are inspired to act by many things, but if what inspires our actions be evil, then what apparent good they accomplish will rot and come to evil purpose. It may not be readily apparent, but the law of Eldaloth is that pure good can only proceed from pure motive.”
Gen knew this teaching. Pureman Millershim preached it. To hear Samian say it—a man who killed more than Gen could fathom—was either egregious hypocrisy or some wisdom Gen could not grasp.
“You know much now, Gen,” said Telmerran. “But you lack experience. Facing the Shadan and Omar will see you dead. We sacrificed everything we loved ages before you were born to raise up warriors to serve the Ha’Ulrich and the Chalaine. Only in the world they bring will there be an end to senseless misery and woe at the hands of Mikkik and the world he corrupted. Put Shadan Khairn from your mind. Escape.”
“We have nothing more to offer you,” Elberen concluded. “We will not speak to you again until you seek us.” The voices faded, and for the first time in months, Gen slept deeply and without dreaming.
When the first light of dawn woke him, he felt refreshed and fit. As he stood, his foot kicked something on the floor. A letter, loosely folded, lay upon the ground close to where someone had shoved it under the door. Gen recognized the writing as Rafael’s.
Dear Gen,
I’ve little time to write and deliver this. May I start by saying that I love you as my son and because of this love I have watched every day in agony as you were tortured and destroyed, body and spirit, at the hands of Torbrand Khairn. I know he uses me as leverage against you, to manipulate you to his will just as he did Regina.
I will not be used in this way. I am old. I have lived a life without regret, a happy life, until recent events. I cannot live knowing I am his tool against you. I have cheated Tolnorian winters so many times that I feel I owe them a debt. When you read this, you will be free to act without fear for anyone else.
It is my dying wish that you escape at the first opportunity. I know the stones bind you to him. If you can ever escape or if Khairn ever releases you, do not spend your strength fighting him. Run. Find yourself again. Live again. That is what Regina would want and that is what I want. If you ever loved me, then obey me now. Escape.
Ever your affectionate master,
Rafael De’Bellamaine
PS
Do not think ill of my choice. It chose me before I chose it.
Gen bolted through his bedroom door, letting the letter drop behind him, and sprinted through the house. Torbrand was at the room already, shaking his head.
“The old fool left his window open and threw his blankets off. Froze to death.”
Rafael lay dead, hands crossed over his chest. His favorite lute lay beside him on the bed as did an empty bottle of wine. On his desk an open ink bottle sat next to a spent candle.
“Killed himself, then, so I couldn’t use him anymore,” Torbrand commented, voice flat. “I suppose this is what you Tolnorians consider ‘noble.’ I assume by the ink bottle that he wrote you a note, or did you sense his death? Well, no matter.”
Numbness deadened Gen’s heart. Somehow, in the death of his most beloved friend, he found true, abiding emptiness. Calm settled over him, and, as Rafael wished, he felt free. The world was stripped of those he loved, and nothing existed except battle and the sword.
Gen sat, back against the wall of his room, arms resting on his knees. Shadan Khairn left him alone for the rest of the day, and Gen heard him come in twice, and then only for short periods of time. Gen read Rafael’s note over and over until he memorized it. As empty minutes turned into empty hours, a remorse leaked into the emptiness that possessed him that morning, a remorse deep and viscous, a regret that—however unintentionally—he was partly the cause of the death of the two people he loved best. If only he’d fought harder, learned faster, treated them with more concern. If only he’d tried to help them escape even though he couldn’t go with them.
Dropping the letter, he shut his eyes and pushed away the feelings, using discipline to stifle emotion and plan his next move. Rafael’s entreaty to escape touched him, and he wanted to obey, but he also wanted another chance at Omar, and just one chance at Torbrand. Reason, however, told him that the latter course would likely end in his death. Were he to face Torbrand and win, Omar would order every soldier in the camp to hunt him down. Gen knew his prowess at arms surpassed any single soldier in the camp, but one inferior opponent with hundreds to help compensated for any disparity in skill. They would overwhelm him and end a life with but one single claim to glory—killing the Shadan.
He watched the shaft of light from the sun stretch across the floor toward the door. His decision rested on which he wanted more: a chance to create a new life with the skills he had learned or risk death avenging his friends. Near evening, he decided. Escape was his best chance at fulfilling both desires. Above all, he wished to please Rafael, to find some way to be useful in the world. If Samian, Telmerran, and Elberen could somehow release the hold of the stones upon him, he was sure he could sneak out of town and to safety.
Gen heard his master enter, thundering to Laraen that he would take dinner momentarily. Gen lifted his head as Torbrand stepped through his door and regarded him with satisfaction.
“The time has come! Spring nears, and I shall have scouts to send, battle plans to draw up, and a fresh contingent of soldiers to prepare. Your training is at an end, so tomorrow I will remove the stones and you will face me. You cannot understand the eagerness with which I wait for the morrow. I will kill you, make no mistake, but it will be a fight the likes of which I will not enjoy again for some time. Prepare yourself, then. I will send the Pureman to you, if you wish. His time, too, is coming to an end and I’m sure he will have many wonderful views of Erelinda to share with you. So farewell. Sleep well.”
The Shadan left without waiting for a reply, and Gen didn’t give him one. At Khairn’s order, Laraen, brown eyes fearful, brought him a double helping of stewed lamb and bread, and Gen gulped every bit down. Food might be scarce in the coming days. She collected the bowl some time later, and Gen waited, unmoving, while the light in his window dimmed from blue to orange to black. When at last full dark came, he lay on his back, fingering the stones at his chest. He didn’t know how to summon the three masters, so he kept them fixed in his mind. When sleep came, they stood before him in the Chapel, grave but expectant.
“You have changed your mind, then?” Samian said.
“I have,” Gen replied.
Elberen smiled. “Then wisdom claims the victory, and we will at last be free.”
Samian and Telmerran embraced each other and then Elberen, faces joyful. Gen couldn’t help but be touched. The sacrifice they had made to protect a woman and man they would never know revealed a true nobility of character and an unwavering faith. As to Rafael, Gen felt he owed them a debt. For their sake, he could not squander his life or misspend his strength and skill.
“But how can it be?” Gen asked. “I have tried to remove the stones to no avail. No one can do it. My friends tried many times.”
“To be truthful, Gen,” Samian confessed, “we do not know if what we intend to do will succeed. The unveiling of Trys was to trigger our release, but long ago, in another day when our training was abused, we devised a way that we might free ourselves. While the stones would still bind master to student and refine the body, we would be gone, rendering the stones worthless for the teaching of war. Accomplishing this, however, will not be easy on you but could also be of great benefit.”
Gen felt uneasy. “How? What do you propose we try?”
Elberen stepped forward. “Let me explain. The stones allow us to teach you so quickly by linking us directly to your mind. We will use that link, one by one, to enter your mind, to take your body as our own. The magic binding of the stone prevents anyone save your master from removing them. We, too, Gen are your masters. If we inhabit your body, we think we can remove the stones. You need not fear. Since our spirits are not yours, we will, in time, find ourselves expelled and released to Erelinda, leaving you to you. At least we believe so. Some part of us may ever be trapped here.”
“In time you’ll be expelled?” Gen asked
“Yes. Perhaps the magic no longer exists, but in our time evil and good Magicians alike would leave their bodies and enter those of others. They could not permanently do so, however. The body will reject any spirit not its own. The less willing the victim, the quicker. We must ask you, however, to be willing so we can remain long enough to remove the stones and let you escape. It is also possible that you will remember a great deal of our lives besides what we shared with you. Passage through the link to your mind should be quick, but we cannot be sure of the outcome. Do you wish us to try?”
Gen swallowed hard. Before sleeping, he had believed that his masters’ plan was guaranteed to work. Learning that they couldn’t promise its success dimmed his enthusiasm, and to find that it involved opening himself to possession soured his opinion even further. Father Millershim condemned possessions in the darkest of tones, relating tales of good men turned without provocation to murderers and thieves by the manipulations of one of Mikkik’s disembodied servants. Gen wavered, wondering if his chances wouldn’t be improved by fighting Khairn after all. The prospect of being free, however, eventually won out over his concerns.
“Let’s be quick. The sooner I can leave, the better.”
“Very well. You will naturally want to resist, but you must fight it,” Elberen instructed him. “Samian, you go first. I will come second, and Telmerran last.”
Gen breathed in, relaxing himself. Samian, smiling, walked toward him and then into him. At once, Gen felt his presence at the borders of his mind, and every instinct within him told him to push it away. He could feel the walls of defense building within him, and it required many moments of rigorous concentration to break them down, to open the door, and to let Samian in.
And when he entered, Gen’s inner vision exploded into a riot of images, feelings, and memories accumulated over a lifetime. Samian was a woodsman before a warrior, and he knew every plant and animal that walked through mountain and wood. He spoke fluent Elvish and held a great compassion for all things innocent. Most dear, the clearest of all his memories, were times spent with his elven wife, who he had known would outlive him. Selva’hel was her name, and every memory of her was a joy.
By her, Samian had a daughter, dark-haired and beautiful. He loved her to distraction and taught her everything of nature. Her name was Quaena, his Leaf Daughter. The day he left them, in secret and in the dark, was the saddest of his recollections.
Samian wondered if his wife and daughter still lived. He wanted to know if they remembered him, if Selva’hel married another, and what Quaena chose to do with her life. He had a thousand stories to tell, a hundred things he forgot to say. He longed to return to a place not seen since the Shattering, the Ashwood. Beautiful. Peaceful. Warm. He wondered if Erelinda could be half so wonderful and who of those he loved awaited him there.
Next came Elberen, and the memories of his austere and proper elven master taught him what it was to be noble. Elberen lived many human lifetimes before the wars started, and, even in good times when opportunities to sacrifice and serve were few, he sought them out. He never took credit, never vaunted himself, never sought his own need or aggrandizement. When war came, he was counted the best of warriors, not only because of his skill, but also because of his capacity for compassion. His elven subordinates followed him out of love for the elf, not out of reverence for his rank. Elberen, too, longed for the peaceful confines of Ashwood.
Lastly, Telmerran entered his mind, a sharp contrast to Elberen and Samian. Telmerran was born to command and had confidence—almost to a fault—in his abilities. When decisions needed to be made, he raised his voice first and put down dissident views without regard to the feelings of those who forwarded them. He was brash, and whatever he did, he did completely and without remorse. He loved many women, but loved war more, and, of the three warriors, Gen marveled the most at his prowess. Samian and Elberen earned the respect of their enemies for their character and skill; Telmerran terrified his foes with sheer power, his name a curse on their lips.
Gen opened his eyes and came awake, but not as himself. He could see, hear, and feel, but someone else moved him, all three personalities struggling for the mastery of his mind. The moons shone through the window, and in their light Gen saw the three stones upon the ground. He was free in one fashion, but not another, and Gen feared Torbrand would find him standing stupid
ly mumbling in the middle of his room while three men fought over him.
Telmerran won the struggle, and Gen watched as a spectator as the warrior used his body to gather the stones and slip out the window. The moonlight was both a blessing and a curse. Telmerran worried about being seen, but he felt grateful for the visibility it provided in territory not familiar to him. Ever the soldier, Telmerran sneaked up on a sentry, broke his neck, and took his sword before sprinting out of town.
To Gen’s consternation, Telmerran wanted to go north. He was from Lal’Manar, the greatest of all the former ancient human kingdoms. Telmerran had learned of its fall and its people’s migrations west to Rhugoth, and Gen could sense the he wanted to go to the Portal on Emerald Lake. Gen wondered if he realized the distance or Tolnor’s need of help against Aughmere. Frustrated, Gen attempted to regain control of himself, finding Elberen and Samian competing against him. But none could breach Telmerran’s mastery of Gen’s mind, a mastery maintained by his natural will and passion.
When morning came, Telmerran hid in one of the increasingly infrequent stands of trees. Forest gave way to open plain east of Tell, poor land for anyone trying to avoid capture. Sure enough, a scout on fast horse rode by at some distance, and they saw him both coming and going. Telmerran did not allow movement until nightfall, though everyone within Gen’s mind agreed on that point.
Over the next few days they saw nothing of scouts or human company, making good time across the flat, even ground, gradually turning north toward the Rede Steppes and the harsh Red Wind Breaks beyond. Telmerran relinquished control to Samian for brief stints so the experienced huntsman could scavenge for food, if it could be called that. Hibernating beetles, roots, and dead grass—and not in great supply—were all they could find. Muddy pools of melting snow provided ample water, but his belly growled at its constant emptiness and discomfort.
