by Tim Waggoner
Now it was Diran’s turn to smile. “Without struggle, there is no Purification, and what defines the struggle is different for each person.”
Tusya nodded, pleased. “And it also varies for individuals in different circumstances and at different times in their lives.”
Leontis frowned, as he so often did after one of Tusya’s lessons, but it was an expression of contemplation rather than consternation.
Diran noticed a moth dip precariously close to the fire. “What insight might that insect have to offer us, Teacher?”
Before Tusya could answer, the moth dove too close and ignited in a bright silvery flash. Its charred remains fell into the fire and were quickly consumed.
Tusya’s smile was grim this time. “I think that speaks for itself, don’t you, boy?”
“I suppose it does,” Diran said softly. He thought of the upcoming Victory Day, and the lycanthropic purge it commemorated, when the followers of the Silver Flame had at last rid Khorvaire of the scourge of the evil shapeshifters. Some of the templars, believing that the ends justified the means, had used rather questionable methods to reach this holy goal. In the end, a few priests had become just as evil as any lycanthrope they had ever fought. They had flown too close the flame, and instead of being Purified, they’d been consumed by its heat.
“But as I said earlier, the symbol of our faith can reveal many truths,” Tusya said. “Forget the moth for a moment and consider instead the wood that feeds our campfire. Fire consumes wood for its fuel, and in so doing, the wood is transformed. It becomes one with the fire, fulfilling its true purpose. To serve the Flame well, we must willingly give ourselves over to its heat and light.”
For a time after that the three men sat quietly, listening to the crackle of the fire, the leaves of nearby trees rustling in the night breeze, and the gentle rushing waters of the Thrane River. It was peaceful and soothing, and soon Diran found himself becoming drowsy. He was about to say goodnight to his companions and crawl into his bedroll when a strange sensation began to come over him. The training he’d received at Emon Gorsedd’s academy of assassins had honed his senses to a razor-fine edge, and on more than one occasion those senses had saved his life on a mission. The feeling he had now was something like that, an awareness of danger, but there was more to it. He also felt a sense of wrongness.
Diran was instantly alert. “Teacher, I feel something …”
Tusya raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
Diran turned in the direction of the river. “That way … on the bank of the Thrane. But upstream a ways, I think.”
“What are you going on about, Diran?” Leontis asked. “I sense nothing.”
Tusya kept his gaze focused on Diran as he spoke to Leontis. “Our friend lived with a demonic spirit inside him for many years, lad. Thus he is more sensitive to evil’s presence than most people, even though he has yet to have any tutelage in the ways of dealing with such dark powers.”
Diran turned to look at Tusya. “Surely you were aware of this evil long before I was.”
Tusya shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“You have many fine qualities, Teacher,” Diran said. “But acting talent isn’t chief among them.”
Tusya grinned but said nothing.
Leontis sighed as he reached for his bow and quiver of arrows. He withdrew half a dozen shafts and began rolling their tips in the silvery ashes scattered around the burning wood.
“What are you doing?” Diran asked.
“Getting ready. Obviously Tusya wants us to investigate the source of this evil. Why else would he have insisted we camp here for the night? And why else would he have added silverburn to the fire unless he wished for us to make use of it?” Leontis finished coating the last of his arrowheads with ash and then returned the shafts to their quiver. He strung his bow, stood, and slung the quiver over his shoulder.
“Shall we?” Leontis asked.
Diran looked at his friend and fellow acolyte with newfound respect. Leontis might not have Diran’s life experience, but that didn’t make him stupid by any means.
Diran nodded to Leontis and stood. He turned to Tusya and asked, “Will you be joining us?”
During their travels through Thrane with Tusya, they’d had occasion to encounter evils both mundane and supernatural. But while the young acolytes had assisted their teacher in whatever capacity he required, Tusya had always been the one to take the lead when dealing with anything otherworldly.
The priest appeared to consider for a moment. “I’m a bit tired. I believe I’ll just stay here and warm my old bones by the fire.”
Diran and Leontis exchanged glances. Their teacher’s message was clear: he wished them to go alone this time.
“We’ll be back as soon as we can,” Diran said. He nodded to Leontis, and the two acolytes began walking away from the silvery flames of the campfire and into the dark of the night. When they were almost out of earshot, Diran heard Tusya speak in a voice close to a whisper.
“Go with the Flame, lads. But be careful not to fly too close.”
Baroness Calida took her time examining the letter of introduction from Baron Mahir. Not, Ghaji thought, because she had trouble understanding the missive’s meaning or doubted its authenticity. Rather, because she was uncertain how to respond to the words before her.
Ghaji, Diran, and Asenka stood quietly in front of Calida while she thought. Calida’s chamber was nothing like what Ghaji had expected. There was no throne on a raised dais to put the Baroness above her audience, no large open area for courtiers to gather, gossip, backstab, and generally attempt to curry favor with their ruler. The chamber resembled nothing so much as a private sitting room, with chairs and couches that looked almost too comfortable. Paintings of placid landscapes hung on the walls, and a woven rug of gentle sea-green covered the floor. As elsewhere in the palace, flowers and hanging plants were located throughout the chamber, their aromas mingling with the smells of the scented candles that lit the room, the combined odors keeping the air pleasantly perfumed.
Calida herself didn’t look particularly regal. In fact, if Ghaji had to pick a single word to describe her, it would have been tired. At first glance, he guessed Calida to be somewhere in her forties, but on closer inspection he realized she was likely ten years younger. The Baroness’s weariness added years to her appearance. Her eyes were red and sore, the flesh beneath them puffy and discolored. Her long flowing brunette hair was shot through with strands of gray, and she was so thin she looked as if she might be suffering from malnutrition. Calida’s simple yellow dress hung on her emaciated frame like a blanket someone had tossed carelessly over her to keep her warm.
She looked up from the letter and attempted to focus her gaze on them, though she seemed to have trouble doing so. She kept blinking as if to clear her eyes, and her head swayed from side to side slightly, as if she were having difficulty staying awake Ghaji wondered if Calida’s condition was entirely due to weariness, or if perhaps, living so close to the center of the Fury, she was forced to take narcotics simply to function. Perhaps both were true, he decided.
“Others have tried to remove the curse on the House of Kolbyr. What makes you think you can succeed where so many have failed before?” Calida’s voice was surprisingly strong, and Ghaji’s estimation of her went up a notch. It was the voice of a woman who was used to ruling, a woman whose inner reserves of strength, while depleted, were not yet exhausted.
Ghaji looked to Diran, expecting his friend to make their case to the Baroness. But to the half-orc’s surprise, it was Asenka who spoke first.
“I’m Perhaten, Baroness, and a faithful servant of Baron Mahir. As a Sea Scorpion, I have fought against your Coldhearts on numerous occasions, and I’ve slain more than my fair share. I think it safe to say that I hold little love in my heart for Kolbyr or its citizens.”
Ghaji grimaced. “I’m just an ignorant half-orc, Asenka, so feel free to correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t it generally a good idea for diplom
ats to speak diplomatically?”
Calida held up her hand to silence Ghaji then nodded to Asenka. “Go on.”
Asenka bowed her head to the Baroness. “Forget for the moment that Mahir thought enough of these two men to write them a letter of introduction and send me, the captain of his Sea Scorpions, to accompany them. Forget for the moment that the citizens of Kolbyr have lived with the curse upon their city for the last hundred years. Forget that, should the curse be lifted, it may well lead to improved relations between our two cities, and perhaps a better life for all who inhabit the Gulf of Ingjald. All that matters is that within this generation, the curse has manifested itself in your firstborn child, Calida. Do you really want to hear assurances that Diran and Ghaji can help you? You already know you’re going to allow them to try. As a mother, you won’t pass up any chance, no matter how slim, to save your child?”
The Baroness regarded Asenka for a long moment, the expression on her weary face unreadable. Finally, she rose out of her overstuffed chair, picked up a scented candle mounted in a pewter holder off of the end table, and began shuffling toward the door.
“Come with me,” she said.
As the three companions followed the Baroness, Asenka gave Ghaji a grin as if to say, Was that diplomatic enough for you?
Ghaji grinned. He was beginning to understand what Diran saw in this woman.
Ghaji expected Calida to lead them down into the bowels of the palace, where they’d find the cursed child sealed away in a subterranean cell, dwelling in darkness, forever denied the light of day. But instead the Baroness—along with the two guards—led them up a flight of stairs to the uppermost floor of the palace. At the end of a long featureless corridor lay a single door made entirely of metal, an iron crossbar set firmly in place to seal the room shut from the outside.
It must be a very lonely way to grow up, Ghaji thought. Curse or no curse, he felt sorry for the child forced to live behind the metal door. Strange and unfamiliar sigils and runes had been scratched into the surface of the door, dozens of them over the long years since the curse first took hold. Ghaji was by no means an expert, but he felt certain the markings were all protective charms of one kind or another. A glance at Diran, a nod from his friend, and Ghaji’s suspicion was confirmed.
As they drew near the iron door, Ghaji could feel waves of anger radiating from the chamber within, so strong that it was nearly a physical force. It took an effort to move forward, almost as if they were walking into a strong wind. He clenched his jaw tight and concentrated on ignoring the Fury that buffeted him, but he could feel it sinking into his mind, making itself at home, and beginning to grow.
They hate you, you know. Half-orc. Half-human. Haifa man … Show them how strong you are. Take hold of your axe. Will its flames to life. Strike swiftly and without mercy …
Ghaji’s hand reached for his elemental axe. But before he could draw the weapon, Diran laid his hand on the half-orc’s shoulder, and Ghaji felt soothing calm spread through him. The Fury was still there at the core of his being, but its urgings were quieter now, more easily ignored.
Ghaji gave his friend a nod of thanks then looked to Asenka. From the strained expression on her face, it was clear the woman was fighting her own battle to resist the Fury, but he saw that Diran held her hand tight, and Ghaji knew that his friend was also helping Asenka hold the Fury at bay.
When they reached the door, Calida stopped and turned to regard the three of them.
“I’m impressed. Most outsiders can’t make it this far without trying to kill each other … or themselves.”
“What of you?” Diran asked. “You seem unaffected.”
The Baroness gave the priest a lopsided smile. “Unfortunately, I am used to resisting the Fury … as are all who serve me.” She nodded to the two guards that had accompanied them. “Do not underestimate my son’s power. After Taran was born, he … his father was gripped by the Fury. My husband was driven to slay me, but enough presence of mind remained to him that he took his own life rather than harm me.” She then looked away from them, as if suddenly embarrassed, and gestured at the door. “I do not have the strength to unbar it. If you wouldn’t mind …”
Ghaji stepped forward. As soon as he slipped away from Diran, he felt the Fury whelm into him anew, but because he knew what to expect—and because of the lingering influence of Diran’s calming touch—he was better able to withstand it this time. With a grunt of effort he raised the heavy iron crossbar then took hold of the door handle. He didn’t open it yet, though. He looked to Diran to see if his friend was prepared to enter the chamber.
The priest looked at Asenka. “I think it best if Ghaji and I go in alone,” he said. Asenka started to protest, but Diran cut her off. “I mean no insult, but we have much more experience dealing with this sort of thing. If we fail to withstand the Fury, we might well end up attacking one another … or you.”
“I’m not afraid,” Asenka said.
“It’s not your fear that’s at issue,” Diran said. “It’s mine. I will not be able to fully devote myself mind and soul to the task ahead if I’m distracted by concern for your safety. Remain in the corridor and guard the door. If we need you, we’ll call out.” When Asenka didn’t answer right away, Diran added, “Please?”
For a moment, Asenka looked as if she might protest further, but she assented with a single curt nod. “Very well, I’ll remain. But don’t even think of asking me to lower the crossbar while you’re inside. I won’t do it.”
Now it was Diran who looked as if he might protest, but like Asenka, he merely nodded.
“I shall return to the chamber where we first spoke,” Calida said. Her tone was flat, her gaze dull. “Let me know how you fared … assuming any of you survive.” Without further comment, she turned and began shuffling back down the corridor.
The guards said nothing as they took up positions on either side of the door. Ghaji had thought at first that the guards’ impassive silence was just an intimidation act. Now he understood that they were concentrating on resisting the Fury.
“Call if you need me,” Asenka said. She then leaned forward and gave Diran a quick kiss on the lips. “For luck,” she explained.
Ghaji expected his friend to say something suitably pious and heroic, such as Thank you, but I have no need of luck as long as I have my faith to sustain me. Instead, Diran simply smiled at Asenka before turning to Ghaji and giving him a nod.
Time to go to work.
Ghaji opened the door and stepped inside. Diran followed and moved past the half-orc, slipping into the room as silent as a shadow, and Ghaji closed the door behind them.
The room was dark, so much so that even Ghaji’s orcish night vision couldn’t make out any details. There were no windows, no candles or lamps. Knowing an attack might come at them any instant, Ghaji drew his elemental axe and willed it to activate. Mystic flames burst into life around the blade, revealing a stone room devoid of furnishings, the only exceptions being a rumpled bedroll in the middle of the floor and a chamber pot that smelled as if it hadn’t been emptied in a while located in one corner. Sitting on the floor next to the bedroll, cross-legged and looking at them with an almost serene expression on his face, was a boy who couldn’t have been more than ten. He was completely naked, the flesh of his body crisscrossed with scratches—some scabbed over, some fresh and bleeding—as if the boy had been clawing at his own flesh. The child’s resemblance to Calida was obvious both in his face and brunette hair. But as disturbing as the boy’s appearance was, the aspect that bothered Ghaji the most was his eyes: they were completely black, moist and glossy, like the eyes of a beast.
“Are you Taran, son of Baroness Calida?” Diran asked. The priest’s voice was firm, but kind.
The boy’s beatific smile grew wider and became sinister, almost mocking. “She thinks so. The stupid cow.”
Ghaji remembered an important element of the curse of Kolbyr. “Diran, wasn’t the firstborn child supposed to be an indestructible
monster? This boy may be in dire need of a lesson in manners, but he looks human enough … except for those eyes.”
Diran smiled grimly, but he kept his gaze fixed on the child. “It appears the details of the curse have become distorted over the last century, starting with its very name. You see, my friend, the Curse of Kolbyr isn’t a curse at all. This boy is possessed by a demon—one that has cast a foul enchantment over the city, causing the Fury.”
Ghaji could feel waves of hatred and fury rolling off the naked boy, and he had no trouble believing Diran’s words. Then a thought occurred to him, and he frowned. “But what of all the other firstborns that preceded Taran? Were they possessed by demons as well?”
“My guess is they were,” Diran said. “But not by other demons: by the same demon. That’s why each cursed firstborn is reputed to be indestructible. They’re individual bodies may perish, but the demon that possesses them simply waits to return in the next generation.”
The boy’s grin grew even wider, his mouth stretching farther than was humanly possible. The corners of his mouth tore and thin lines of blood ran down past his chin. “Well done, priest. I knew when I first sensed you and your friends approaching the city—and by the way, I did send those gulls to attack you as a greeting—I knew you would prove to be a worthy adversary. Perhaps the most worthy I’ve faced since first being summoned.”
Ghaji snorted. “Spare us. Your kind always thinks you can put opponents off balance by alternately complimenting then castigating them. We’ve heard it all before.”
The boy turned to regard Ghaji with his glossy black eyes, and despite his earlier courage, the half-orc warrior felt a chill shiver down his spine.
“Is that so? Then perhaps you’d like to hear something new. My body may be locked away in this chamber, but my mind roams free. I know many things … things you and your companions would dearly love to know.”
