Lord Nimes pulled his horse and men aside and shouted orders. Horns blew again and a square of knights formed up ahead as he rode out along the road.
Dalathos stared in awe.
Lord Perillian nodded to Lieutenant Domus. “You should be on your way. Give Lord Galadon the respects of both Prince Renforth, and Lord Perillian. He knows who I am! We will send word of your wounded as soon as we can.”
Dalathos stepped forward, meaning to address Lieutenant Domus, but instead looked at Lord Perillian, as he was clearly the senior figure. “Excuse me, my lord ... but we’ll need help returning. Our mounts ... ” He faltered, feeling foolish to admit that they’d ridden mules. It might have been better not to say anything.
Lord Perillian raised an eyebrow. “You are, perhaps, short of able steeds? Look to your enemy, and take what you need.”
Dalathos felt brittle under the attention. If everything else wasn’t bad enough, he’d no idea how to recognize a good horse. He didn’t want to be left stumbling about looking as foolish as he felt. “Any ... will do.”
“Bring two horses,” Lord Perillian cried out, “fit for knights of the Emperor’s Guard!” He thumped a salute to his chest, then rode down the ridge. Wind instruments called in rapid succession. The remaining knights on the field began to form up in columns.
Shortly, two horses were brought up: one sleek and white, the other a powerful black charger.
Dalathos took the reins of the white horse, simply because it was closest. Its ears pointed alertly at him. He led it to where he’d dropped his crossbow, and was relieved to find it undamaged, except for the bolt embedded in the frame. However, the mule he’d ridden lay dead on the ground. Blood streamed from its nose, and its chest was matted red where two more bolts had gone through. Dalathos sadly unstrapped his equipment bag and quiver, then the saddle and reins Sirath had paid for. He’d likely want those back.
Dalathos fixed his gear to the white horse’s large saddle, cushioned with red leather. To mount the mule he’d practically stepped over it, but for this full-grown horses he was forced to use the stirrup, and pull himself over. He feared it would prove anxious to have a new master, but it remained steady and calm. He leaned forward and stroked its neck. He’d no idea if it was the right thing to do, but it made sense in the moment. It felt so powerful between his legs that he wondered if he’d be able to control it. A wonderful white horse and a knight’s saddle! He only hoped his soiled trousers wouldn’t ruin the material.
Dalathos needed to clean himself, his armour, and Protector. And hammer his mind around the events of the day, to make any sense of them. He wanted to go find Rhalinias, but Domus insisted they return to Corianth.
Ulric walked the black warhorse over, patting its neck as it nipped at his arm. “Day’s fading. We should look to make camp. We’ll not make it to the city tonight.” He pointed back west, where fists of dark cloud grew in the west. “And ... there’s a storm coming.”
The Vision
Erin
Her spirit glowed with love — the ember that remained from her vision. And in her mind, a profound sense of loss. But also acceptance, knowing she would one day return.
Erin realized she was awake.
Her body felt numb, and terribly weak.
Slowly, she opened her eyes.
The world was filled with shadows. And a faint, growing light. A figure moved close by. Robed in red, there was something stark and deathly about it. Then Erin realized who it was.
Tilirine looked down and smiled. Somehow even that gesture seemed sharp and hollow, like looking at someone through broken glass.
Erin attempted to turn her head to see better. Sharp pain skewered through her chest and neck. She caught her breath, and held herself perfectly still, hoping for the pain to subside. She exhaled carefully as it did.
“Do not move,” Tilirine said. It was language, words. They sounded so little departed from grunting.
Erin clung to the fading memory of what she had experienced. Her voice was a rasp, her mouth far too dry, “Beautiful ... ”
Tilirine gently lifted Erin’s head and brought a cup to her lips.
It was so hard to move her jaw, and her tongue felt swollen against her teeth. She sipped carefully. There was a sweet, welcome, flood of taste, like a thousand ripe berries. When she had had enough, Tilirine removed the cup without being prompted.
Tilirine smiled. “How do you feel? Are you hungry for a broth?”
As her head was carefully laid back down, Erin said, “How do you put ... the beauty of the world ... into words?”
“Please do not try on my account.”
“I need to ... while I still have clarity of mind.” Erin tried to smile, but her face was too stiff. “Strange ... that. I was training to become a priest, to teach others about God. Yet I could not ... comprehend what God was. I thought God might be a greater being, or a force all around us. Now I realize that God is both, and more. God is all ... all is God.”
“Erin, rest, please.”
Footsteps approached, as if ascending stairs. Erin had never realized before how musical the rhythms of everyday life could be.
Jerine appeared over her. “Ah, Erin’s awake.”
“And talking too much. Just like you.”
Jerine fussed over the blankets. “How do you feel?”
“Happy ... ” Erin whispered.
Jerine studied her. “You were lucky. If it wasn’t for Ezekiel you’d have been in trouble.”
“I was never ... in trouble. I was ... sent back.”
“Sent back from where?”
Tilirine placed a halting hand on her sister’s shoulder. “She is trying to heal. Remember?”
“Oh, she’s in no danger now. Erin, you said you went to a place?”
“Not a place, but a state of being ... of immeasurable magnitude. Unbound and free ... to experience all existence. Words are folly to describe it. To imagine it is impossible. It is beyond ... comprehension.”
Jerine raised an eyebrow. “A state of being?”
“I left my body, and hurtled beyond the stars. Then ... ” Erin tried to find words to articulate. “Then it was as if I were floating in a room without walls, bathed in a sea without end, that I could feel as if I were seeing. And in every direction, as like in a lattice, were great spheres of light. Each of these were expressions of consciousness. And, oh! the scope was incredible. For each one of these spheres of consciousness was so vast that to know and experience one in its entirety would make the human mind as small as an ant’s. These were indeed our true selves, flowering free without the constraints of the physical world. Each one was a source for many lifetimes, all happening at once, for this was not a place, but something outside of time.”
Jerine frowned. “Outside of time?”
“Yet that was not the greater marvel, for it was this ... that the spheres together were like elements that make up a living body ... greater than the sum of its parts. The spheres were like the notes in a composition of music, each one beautiful in itself ... yet together they were the paragon of harmony. And this was the body of God ... not as may be seen or heard, but as may be felt by the simplest, most basic feeling. Love. Yet the love one may hold was incomparable to the vast and all enclosing love that was God. It was so powerful to behold that to leave was true sadness. And yet, I know one day I will return. In doing so, I will be home. I believe I woke with tears in my eyes to realize I had been sent back here. Such was the power of feeling of loss.”
Jerine nodded. “Well, Tilirine said you did wake up crying.”
A disturbing thought came to Erin. She was convinced she had seen Heaven. Yet why had there been nothing of Pollos? “Jerine?”
“Yes?”
“Was what I saw real?”
Jerine smiled and rose from the bed. “That’s for you to decide.”
Erin felt the last drop of memory evaporate. To feel it go was such a terrible loss that she could not help but weep. For the sadness o
f it leaving her. For the joy of knowing that she would one day return. Until then, she had a life, and a purpose to fulfill.
Imprisoned
Ezekiel
Ezekiel’s arms were forced up against the cold cellar wall. His wrists were bound with leather and fixed to an iron ring in the stones.
His one chance of survival was to remain silent, and not be recognized for what he was. Molric had never seen him, but Ezekiel could inadvertently reveal himself as from the future in so many different ways. He kept his head down, hoping not to be noticed, despite being an albino. His chest felt too tight to breathe.
Beside him, Sirath kicked and struggled. A pair of troopers punched him into submission, then tied his hands with what remained of his own belt.
At least that kept most attention from Ezekiel. He tried to shrink back, and find some way to calm himself. He sensed Weasel alarmed and hiding by musty crates in a corner. He willed it to stay hidden for the sake of its life.
Molric watched as the troopers finished with their improvised bindings. “Lord Rodrigan, dismiss your men.”
Lord Rodrigan waved the two troopers away, and their footsteps disappeared — up the short staircase, to the hallway that led to the front door.
The lone lamp in the cellar was weak, and the shadows made Molric’s face look deathly and villainous. “You are certain these are Amberlin’s agents?”
“Yes,” Lord Rodrigan replied. “Are you sure they’ll be secure here?”
“Bound behind a heavy door and iron lock? Of course.”
Lord Rodrigan stood forward, and too close. He waited a moment, then asked, “What of the one named Erin? Was she truly killed?”
Ezekiel kept his gaze to the floor, fearing to be revealed as having healed her.
Sirath snorted contritely. “Why, is her ghost haunting you now? Annoying, isn’t she?”
Molric placed a hand on Rodrigan’s shoulder. “There is time to dwell on that matter later.”
“So it was you who killed her?” Sirath said. “And the serving lad, at the Lion Inn?”
“Perhaps, little man. Perhaps it was because I was startled. Perhaps it was simply because I could.” Molric faced Lord Rodrigan. “You must go with your men. We have the evening’s business at hand.”
Molric and Rodrigan left the cellar with the lamp. There was an immense creak, and the heavy door closed shut with a thud. A key clattered and turned in the lock. Muffled footsteps faded away.
Ezekiel was entombed in silence and darkness.
Sirath twisted in his bindings. “This place looked old. With luck, these rings might be rusted loose.”
Ezekiel found the blackness suffocating. He had failed, utterly. He’d leave no mark on this world, despite that the Great Matriarchs had said otherwise. Even saving Erin would come to nothing, if he couldn’t maintain her treatment.
“Bollocks,” Sirath hissed after a while. “It’ll take ages to get free. I don’t suppose you’ve got any ideas for escape?”
Ezekiel had nothing. Poor Weasel remained terrified in the corner. He wished it would come to him, for company and reassurance. Weasel moved cautiously near.
“What’s that?” Sirath whispered. “A rat?”
Ezekiel desperately wanted to pet Weasel, as it climbed up his robes — but his wrists were bound too tight. Weasel sensed that, too. For a fleeting moment he shared the sharp scents: Molric’s sweat, Lord Rodrigan’s steel polish, the damp in the walls. Leather at his wrists.
A wild thought came to him. Ezekiel focused on the smell of the bindings and an association of food. He wasn’t sure if he’d succeed without his facilitator, but Weasel clambered up onto his shoulder, then up his arms. It stopped by his wrists and sniffed. Then began to gnaw the leather.
“Ezzie? What’s going on?”
Ezekiel refused to reply, all of his attention going into this one act of patience. A wrist came free — Weasel nibbled a little longer — then the other. Ezekiel stood unbound, his body flooding with relief just to be able to move. He picked up Weasel and cuddled and fussed it.
“Ezzie ... are you loose?”
Ezekiel turned, squinting in the darkness. “Do you need a hand?”
“Oh, if you’d be so kind, and only if it’s not too much trouble. Of course I bloody want a hand!”
Ezekiel froze at the outburst and held his breath. He cowered in expectation of approaching footsteps. None came.
“Sorry,” Sirath whispered. “Yes, I would like help. Now?”
Ezekiel followed Sirath’s voice. He felt Sirath’s body and arms.
“Hey, no funny business!”
Ezekiel found the length of belt that bound the wrists, and unfastened it.
“Thanks.” Sirath stepped away, rubbing his wrists. He moved to crouch by the door. A faint trickle of light came from underneath it. Sirath ran his hands around the frame. “It’s thick wood, and iron bound. We’ll not barge this down in a hurry. We need to find some tool to use.” He scrabbled about the floor in the darkness for a while. “Nothing, just rotting wood. We need something metal, such as ... my belt buckle!”
Ezekiel bit his lip, and stared anxiously as Sirath picked up something from the floor.
“I might be able pick the lock with the buckle fastening. Worth a try.”
Ezekiel waited. He stroked Weasel, daring to hope in Sirath’s creativity.
Sirath fidgeted at the door for some time. Finally, he cursed. “This lock’s too stiff, and my buckle’s too short and thin. Then again ... the door may be sturdy, but the hinges are rusted.” Sirath jabbed at the timber doorframe, pushing, prodding, and poking. He grunted as he continued to work it. Something metal fell and clinked to the floor. “Yes!” Sirath cried out too loudly. He remained silent a moment, listening out. Then, “One hinge done.”
So far no servants had come running to the noise that they made. But escape was still not assured. Commander Molric could return at any moment. And if imprisoned again, would he be so patient as to spare their lives a second time? Ezekiel gulped. “Work faster, Sirath.”
Colors of Spring
Ulric
A thunderhead filled the sky, clouds boiling black around it. Dusk was upon them. Bats flitted about bushes along the road.
Ulric swayed dully to each step of his powerful, black warhorse. His body seemed as heavy as logs. His muscles were bruised and stiff, and his thighs rubbed raw in the saddle. It’d been a mistake to stop and wash at the spring, when they’d watered and grazed the new horses. Both him and Dalathos had found quiet spots away from each another. Ulric had removed his boots and trousers, then his small clothes — and tried to rinse away the soiling. He now silently cursed himself for riding in wet clothing. He would need to find dock leaves, plantain, or similar, to calm his skin.
He tried not to think on what happened before. But the stink of gutting was stuck in his nostrils. Guilt weighted his chest.
Ulric tried to hold onto the ordinary. “Need to stop and make camp while we can.” Before robbers roamed out on the road. Jerine had also warned that riding in the dark risked tripping their mounts.
“It’s up to Lieutenant Domus,” Dalathos said. “He’s the officer.”
Domus sat slumped in his saddle, holding a hand to his head. He looked too ashen, and in no state to give commands.
A copse of grandfather beech, on a small rise aside, would provide shelter. It should be high enough against flooding.
“Over there.” Ulric kicked his steed like he would the mule. The big black beast snorted back at him, then lurched from the road. After the past few days in the city he needed to remain outdoors, under the roof of the sky. He hoped the spirits of this land would forgive and refresh him. He touched his charm in silent prayer for that.
The cool air of the woods embraced him, and the smell of damp earth. Dry orange leaves crackled under the hooves. When he reached the rise he dismounted, and his legs almost gave way. His trousers rubbed like fire at his thighs with every step. He eyed the sha
pe of the land for shade and damp where he might find the plants he needed.
A slow thump of hooves followed behind — Dalathos led Domus’s horse.
Ulric began to make camp straight away. He took a trowel from his kitbag and dug a pit for a fire, piling dark earth around the edge. He piled together dry leaves and kindling. Dalathos handed him his new tinderbox. The flint was sharp and the steel bright. Sparks came fast, and the fire took easily.
Ulric needed to range for logs to keep the heat going — pine for a hot flame, and oak for long burning. Then branches and ferns for a shelter. He hobbled away, trying to stop his trousers chafing so badly. It was a relief to be out of sight of the others, in case they saw through his pain and his shame.
A small ravine ran close by, and a last ray of light filled it with the colors of spring. Everything looked sharper somehow. He found Dove’s Foot, crushed a handful of stalks, and rubbed it about his thighs and buttocks with his trousers at his boots. The herb brought a cool relief to his skin. He sighed and closed his eyes. He whispered his thanks to the spirits of this grove for their gift, and gratefully meant it. The last thing he wanted now was their curses.
Another sigh, deeper than before. It rumbled through his chest, and caught in his throat. His eyes watered. Before he knew it he was on his knees, bawling like a babe.
His auntie had warned of the danger of murderers. He’d never thought he’d become one. His memory was all blurred, but he knew he’d hurt people. There was blood on his armour and blood on his ax, and he’d sat in the saddle of another man’s horse. What would Lucira think of him now, her Ulric become a bad man?
He fought that thought. It hadn’t been his fault. He’d been attacked. All he could do was defend. That’s why his auntie had bought him a sword, and he’d bought a mail shirt, and the Emperor’s Guard had put a breastplate on him.
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