Sorrowing Vengeance

by David C. Smith

  As evening came down, the people removed to their homes, and several families asked Asawas to join them at their table. He agreed to do so, accepting the first invitation offered, and walked down the road with the man and wife toward their home as he held the hand of their young son. He chatted amicably with the boy as the youngster told Asawas all kinds of stories.

  The four of them made their way inside the couple’s low farmhouse as the prophet’s loud, honest laughter echoed, alive and good, through­out the night-quiet village.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Of prophets and wanderers, lovers and kings, the low and the fallen and the searching, men and women of all kinds: of lives born in a storm and wandering in a storm.

  Out from the deep winds of Time comes the Voice of a destiny. Will one dream transform the destiny and make of it another destiny? Will the words of one life or the actions of another life change the road, make of it another road directed toward another destiny? Are there many roads, or are there only many roads converging into one road of immutable destiny?

  Of a Voice that is humanity’s voice, of a God that is humanity’s god, of events that seem to return to the pools of blood and the shadows of fire from which humanity birthed itself: the pool is deep, the shadows are old, the fire burns with flames that burn forever.

  O humanity, will you never change? O humanity born in a storm and wandering in a storm, why do you turn from the future and return to your past? O lost and disbelieving, you wander in your search for belief, and you dream that there is only one sun, one road, one destiny.

  Shall we pluck out our eyes so that we will not see what comes? For these things that come, they come with cause. Or shall we pluck out our eyes and exchange our eyes for the eyes of others, so that we may see with other eyes, and new?

  Shall we have memories, but forget those memories that remind us of what may come?

  Shall we hate war, and yet make a god of war?

  Shall we hate dishonesty, and yet make lords and princes of the dishonest?

  Shall we believe the only thing we hear, or believe only those things we hear?

  Shall we build a tower from which to look down, yet not look above?

  We are small-animal spirits, seeking and learning, ignorant of our true purpose, and caught in cages of clay, trapped on an earth of seasons and storms, manacled to a series of percussions and unguided events that seem to doom us since the hour of our birth. We are masters of ourselves only so long as we perceive our slavery to be the road to freedom: yet if we think ourselves free, then surely we trap and limit ourselves with more than metal bonds—surely then we capture ourselves with words and thoughts, with indomitable constructs that are foreign to that which we may become.

  Of prophets and wanderers, lovers and kings, men and women of all kinds:

  Of pride, the shadow of dignity, and voices in a storm.

  O humanity, O lost, born in a storm and wandering in a storm: why do you turn from the future and return to your past, and feast on blood and flame, and not look above?

  * * * *

  In Ugalu, where he had come, the master of the hell of men lived for some nights in a room in a small building on the waterfront. Here the closeness and the press and ache of human life was as real as the crowding of cattle in a pen; and Thameron, witness to it all but outside it, wandered the busy, hot streets at night, studied faces, studied hands he glimpsed in crowds, studied the ways women walked as they moved away from him. Women with dark eyes tried to seduce him, men with knives tried to cheat him. Here, in the city, where ships moved in and out and a worldful of different languages struggled to be heard and understood—here, where sounds in the night might be the moans of lovers, or the moans of dying troubled spirits—here, he wandered—

  Assia…

  —and found no clues.

  And when at last he feared that he might be poisoned by the atmosphere of Ugalu, tempted to make himself a great lord over broken shards of humanity, Thameron left the city. He went down to the docks and paid his way aboard a ship bound for Abustad, for he presumed that if Assia were not this far north, then she must be even farther north, in the empire of the West. Perhaps she was in Ilbukar; but Thameron suspected that she had gone west.

  So he took the ship and sailed west with it, spending the night in a bunk in the hold. And that night, as he slept, he had a troubled dream.

  He saw a shadowy figure, as old as eternity, seated in a cave. Something told him that it might be Guburus, his mentor, whom he had killed in a fit of agony and fear, with sorcery; but then again—no, it was not Guburus. It was some god or demon, and it called to him.

  Called to him from the north.

  Thameron heard the figure in his dream whisper to him voicelessly. He was frightened, and when he looked away from the shadowy figure in the cave and stared at the night sky, the many stars seemed to turn slowly, to revolve in a great wheel around his head, as though the great wheel were centered over himself, as though he were the commander of all the stars and they revolved at his discretion.

  Disturbed by the enormity of it, he awoke from the dream in a sweat.

  But as he sat in his bunk panting, the last of the dream faded, and Thameron felt a warm glow fill him. He sensed a good presence lingering near him, and suddenly he saw a face, white and pale, hovering for a moment in the darkness of the hold.

  Assia.

  It was Assia’s face—Assia’s warmth.…

  The following evening, when the ship docked at Abustad, Thameron made his way onto the docks and felt that warmth still with him. He entered the hurrying streets, pushed his way past soldiers and sailors, merchants and mendicants, and trusted his instincts to carry him to the woman he yet loved.

  * * * *

  The first night out from Sulos on the royal galley.

  Adred was sitting on a chair on the foredeck; Orain was in another chair beside him. They were alone in the quiet, breeze-washed night, for the Khamar had retired, as had Omos and Galvus. A few sailors were leaning against the larboard rail on the other side of the ship. Lanterns rocked with the gentle rise and fall of the deck; a few gulls, white-winged, flitted around the crow’s nest; the sky was open and deep and blue, star-speckled.

  Adred was thinking of things that had happened long ago. Remembrances of a night in a garden…evenings over supper…walks in marketplaces.… He looked up to no­tice Orain watching him, and suddenly he felt almost alarmed, as though she had read his mind.

  “I missed you,” she told him in a soft voice.

  He smiled faintly. “I missed you, too. I was…afraid.”

  “I know. I was afraid, too. Very afraid.” She yawned and looked out across the sea. “I feel so tired and—old!” She turned at Adred’s chuckling laughter and said, “May I ask you something?”

  “Yes, certainly.”

  “We had so little news, when we were in Sulos. It was difficult, pretending to be the people we weren’t. I did it, for Galvus’s sake. He’s a remarkable man. Whether I’m his mother or not.”

  “He is indeed.”

  She faced him with shadowed eyes. “Tell me what happened with you and Elad, when you left us last winter.”

  Adred exhaled a breath. “We…had our talk. I told him what I felt. Got a little excited, maybe. He’s such a curious mixture, Orain. It’s as if he’s many men in one, doesn’t know who he is, or who he should be.”

  “Oh, I know.”

  “He promised that he’d look into the matter of reforms, but I was sure he never meant to do anything of the kind. That’s why I was so surprised to hear about his sanctioning committees to look into the sirots. But he’ll still make it difficult.”

  “The palace,” Orain replied, speaking from experience, “is such a web. In some ways, Elad only has as much power as the council will allow him. The business interests run everything.”

  “It’s true.”

  “There are so many powerful men, and they’ll fight us if we try to take anything from them, give
anything back to society. The bureaucracy. They claim that you have certain rights, but then they make it so difficult.… It’s no wonder people become dishon­est. All the hypocrisy.” She went silent for a moment. “Why did you become a revolutionary?” she asked him then.

  Adred smiled. “I never actually intended to. But I went back to Bessara after I’d spoken with Elad; I already knew some people there. There was trouble; I helped out as best I could with the wounded. A street demonstration, and Uthis ordered out his steel. I was drawn into it. You can’t turn your back on responsible people fighting for justice. I can’t, anyway. Someone’s hurt, you have to help.”

  “Is that where you met the red-haired woman? Rhia?”

  “Yes. That’s part of what happened there.” He waited to see if Orain meant to make any comment; when she didn’t: “We—tried to help one another,” Adred said.

  “She’s an interesting woman,” Orain allowed. “I can under­stand.” She made a sound in the darkness. “It becomes very lonely. Life, I think, is a very lonely thing.”

  “Who was that fellow with you, the day I came back?”

  “Thios?” She waved a hand. “I know twenty like him. They’re lonely, too. But it’s very sad, when people don’t know themselves but expect you to know them and take care of all their emotions and confusion. All these hard-working men, without homes or families—they’re like children, really. They’re attract­ed to me. All my motherly instincts.”

  “It’s because you’re attractive. And you have a good heart, Orain; you care.”

  “Sometimes I wish I didn’t. I seem to attract all the people with muddy boots and the people who need a rug to wipe them on.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  She sighed heartfully. “No, I don’t, I sup­pose.…”

  One of the sailors on the larboard rail laughed out loud, a great singing laugh, and Adred and Orain both looked in his direction.

  As the joyful echo died away, Adred asked Orain, “Where did Galvus meet Omos?”

  “He found him in the street. He’s only a boy—little more than a boy. He was a prostitute, Adred; sailors and soldiers used him. He had to do something to eat and stay warm.”

  He nodded quietly. “Does it bother you that Galvus loves him?”

  “No.” She spoke plainly. “At least he’s honest about it, not like some of the hypocrites in the council. If Galvus wants to love another man and he can find some honest human comfort there, Hea bless him. I’ve begun to wonder if that sort of thing doesn’t have its advantages, myself.” She laughed.

  “You think he’ll become king?”

  “I have a strong feeling about it, Adred.”

  “But Elad’s married now. If he and Salia can have a child—”

  “Yes, I know. It’s just a feeling I have.”

  Adred was mildly disturbed by the tone of her voice, her insistence.

  Orain stifled another yawn and leaned back in her chair “This Princess Salia—Queen Salia. She’s a great beauty, isn’t she? I’ve heard that.”

  “So have I, but I haven’t seen her.”

  “That should suit Elad. If only he could appreciate all things just as earnestly.”

  “Evarris did.”

  “King Evarris, I think, has been gone for a very long time.”

  “It certainly seems so.”

  Quiet, again, for a moment. Then Orain stood, and Adred moved to his feet.

  “I’m going to sleep,” Orain told him. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not.”

  She smiled at him, then looked around at the night, the sea. “Lovely,” Orain said. “We haven’t had many pleasant nights, have we?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Yes.… Good night, Adred.”

  “Good night. Do you want me to—”

  “I can find my own way. Thank you.”

  She stepped across the deck, reached for the rail leading down into the waist, then turned as Adred called to her

  “Orain?”

  “Yes, what is it?” She saw him standing alone in the darkness, partially hidden in shadows, the height of him blotting out a section of stars, the wildness of his hair lit from behind by one of the rocking lanterns. His voice seemed almost disembodied.

  “Do you think— When we get back to Athad…would you like to go sit in the garden?” He waited a moment. “Would you like to do that?”

  A great smile filled her face; she returned across the deck and stepped close to him. “I was afraid,” she whispered, “that you’d forgotten that.”

  “Forgotten it? No!”

  They stared at one another for a long moment, two warm shadows in the night, sharing a memory—friends with one another, again. Then Orain kissed Adred on the cheek, quickly.

  “Thank you,” she said to him.

  He didn’t understand. “For—what, Orain?”

  She laughed lightly. “Just—thank you.” Then she went to the steps again and made her way down into the waist.

  Adred listened to her go. He was flushed, he felt young and confused. In love? He sat again in his chair, held out his hands, and looked at them. They were trembling slightly.

  “I was afraid that you’d forgotten.…”

  Forgotten?

  There had been so much, and he couldn’t forget any of it.

  It occurred to him at that moment that not once during their long talk had Orain asked about Cyrodian.

  Yet, maybe it wasn’t so surprising, after all.

  To forget.…

  Feeling as though he were a visitor in a land that did not know him, Adred looked out at the night, and the waves, and listened to the sounds all around. The scent of Orain’s perfume was still in the air, and Adred breathed it, and thought of her voice, the light fall of her hair, the color of her eyes—

  Forgotten? No…no. How could he ever have forgotten?

  * * * *

  When he reached the place where he sensed she must be, he waited before entering. He stood in the alley just outside. The alley was very dark, and around him in the night, all shadows seemed stronger than the feeble oil lamps that sought to dissuade them. The night was very warm, and at the sills of open windows high in the building behind him, alluring women talked loudly and laughed. But Thameron was invisible to them. He had clothed himself in darkness, as sorcerers will sometimes do, and he was now as hidden as any shadow in that alleyway. Had the sun abruptly risen on the moment to illuminate that place, still he would have seemed a shadow, natural and unrecognizable.

  Yet he was a shadow that quivered with human emotions, with passionate aches. He faced the door, a stout wooden door at the rear of a tavern, and beyond it, Thameron heard the voices of carousing men and women. He blocked out all voices but one.

  Assia’s.

  For she was in there. There—right beyond the door, behind that dark window. He could hear her voice, distinctly, as she argued with a man.

  The tavern door was thrust open. Gusts of warm air came like a sudden wind, thick with the smoky fumes of lamps and the scents of human sweat, stale beer, urine. The voices inside were abruptly very loud. And the man who had pushed open the door stalked into the alley and passed by Thameron, missing him by only the space of a breath—never knowing the sorcerer was there.

  Thameron watched him stumble down the alley. A drunken man in disarrayed armor. Swearing to himself, he reeled down the alley and rounded the corner.

  The tavern door stood ajar.

  Thameron entered.

  A few patrons who glanced at the open door did not heed the flutter of shadow-line that rippled against the wood, flowed upon the floor.

  “Urwus!” someone called, and laughter followed.

  The shadow moved toward the room directly to its right. The door was partially open; within, it was lit by one oil lamp that sat on a table in a corner. On a slovenly bed pushed against the opposite wall, lying beneath an open-shuttered window—

  Assia.

  Th
ameron, invisible, moved inside and stepped into the dark corner opposite the table, across from the bed. He breathed slightly; his heart raced.…

  Assia sat up suddenly on the bed, swung her legs to the floor, and pulled the vest she was wearing more tightly about her. She stood, stalked across the room, and leaned against the door.

  “Urwus!” she called. “Damn you, Urwus, you…coward! Pig! Where did you go?”

  Laughing voices answered her. “He left!”

  “Damn him!” She slammed the door closed and stalked again to the bed and sat. The wooden frame creaked; she sobbed in the hollow darkness of the cramped room.

  “Assia.”

  Startled, she looked up.

  “Assia.”

  She looked into the corner but saw only shadows. She wiped quickly at her face, glanced around for something to grab hold of, a weapon, perhaps, and started to rise. “Urwus?”

  “Assia.…”

  “Who’s there?”

  “It is Thameron.”

  “Who?”

  “I’ve come back for you, Assia.”

  “Tha-meron?” She pronounced the syllables as though they were new to her.

  He gestured, and his invisibility began to fall from him. He stepped forward into the room, and the darkness slipped down the length of him. Now it was as though light from some distant star seemed strangely focused on him.

  Assia fell back onto the bed, wholly startled. “Oh…gods!”

  “I’ve come back for you.”

  “Where did you—where did you come from? Thameron? How did you get in here? Is it really you? It’s not really you!”

  “But it is.”

  “How did you find me?”

  He laughed joyfully. “Come here. Touch me. I’m here.”