“The mind,” Belnavar said. “For this is all in the mind, is it not?”
Herr’Don shook his head. “Do not play games with me.”
“You knew me in life,” Belnavar said. “I never played games then, not even ilokadi, a game you liked to play often with your friend Edgaron in Madenahan. Battleblocks is not just a game for children, and yet you stopped playing it when you grew older, when your father, the King, sent you to play it for real on the battlefield. You have been playing it ever since. For me, battle has never been a game, and I have never played any game, real or feigned, of counter and board, or of mind and guile. So then, friend, for we have been friends for many years, trust in me, even if you could not fully trust in me in life to share what dogs you so.”
Herr’Don shook his head and continued to walk away. Yet Belnavar matched each of his steps, and no matter which way he looked he could sense or see the man, until finally he relented and stopped for a moment to speak his mind. To Belnavar he was a broken man. To any others who espied him on the hill tops, he was just a madman.
“It seems every time I befriend someone, I lose them,” the Prince said, and he clutched his cloak, not now to feign pride, but more as if he thought it might disappear too and leave him comfortless in the cold. “Edgaron was my dearest friend as a child, and I have not seen him since I left Madenahan. He kept me together when I was falling apart. And I know not where he is, or even if he is still alive, for why would he be alive when all others are dead? Of all the warriors I knew, you were the one I felt a great affinity with, and look what has become of you. And then I idolised Trueblade, and yet he turned out to be less than I had hoped, and in his eyes I was less still. Then I befriended Aralus, and he is dead too, his death witnessed by the very woman I loved, who is lost to me also. Who is there for me, to be with me, to live for me?”
“I am dead,” Belnavar said, “but still with you.”
“Yet perhaps only in my mind,” Herr’Don said.
“Is that not enough?”
“One mind is never enough.”
“Not even if it is a great mind?” Belnavar asked with a smirk.
Herr’Don sighed, forcing a despondent smile. “Not even then.”
“Fate has perhaps been cruel,” Belnavar said, “but perhaps before this is all over, it will be kind.”
“I always loved your optimism, and I tried to emulate it—but that is all it was, an emulation, not the truth,” Herr’Don said, and there was no feigned enthusiasm now; his distress was altogether real. “The dark night feels very long now, even if there is the hope of dawn.”
“There is more than hope,” Belnavar said. “It is not idealism to think that day will follow night, for it has done so for many years. It is a matter of knowing, not hoping.”
“And then night follows day,” Herr’Don replied. “When will it end?”
“Do we want it to?” Belnavar asked.
Herr’Don sat down. “Do you yearn for life, even when it is often cruel?”
“Yes,” Belnavar said. “Because it is often cruel, not always, and when it is not cruel, it is kind beyond any measure, and those moments outweigh the darker ones that precede or follow. Even when night comes and smothers day, there are stars up there in the blackness. And look, even now Uldarus is out. She does not hide in shame, but defies the dark.”
Herr’Don turned his forlorn eyes upon Belnavar. “Like you defied the dark? Like Aralus defied the dark?”
“I defied the dark while I lived,” Belnavar stated, “and perhaps I shall still defy it in death. I know of Trueblade, whom I fought side by side with, and I know of Edgaron, because I met him several times, but what of Aralus? Tell me of him, and why you were so close. There are not many who earn your high esteem.”
“There are few worthy of it,” Herr’Don said. “No one seemed to like Aralus, except me. He seemed to like the glory of battle. He seemed to understand me. Yet the closer I came to him, the further it felt that I was from the group. It seemed that Trueblade no longer looked at me favourably, no longer saw me as a knight of Boror. So I traded the favour of one for another, and the exchange was ill-fated, for I am now left with neither.”
“Favour can be re-earned,” Belnavar said. “Aye, ill can be made good.”
“So you are an alchemist now,” Herr’Don said. “Yet bereft of the Elixir of Life.”
Belnavar smiled. “Death does not ail me now,” he said. “I do appreciate good humour though, whether living or dead.”
Herr’Don feigned a chuckle, not because he wanted to mock or deride Belnavar, but because he could not muster the energy for a more jovial response, a more convincing performance. His body was sapped of its vitality, and his heart was sapped of its enthusiasm. He wondered if in his mind there was nothing left to drain, and that in the resulting void a madness must ensue.
“Something has stalked you for a long time,” Belnavar noticed, “and it is not me, nor even the ghosts of others, but some phantoms of your mind, some spectres of your emotions. Every time I met you while living I saw smiles and I heard laughter, but now I see past those masks to the troubles underneath. You have been hiding a lot from the living. You cannot hide it so easily from the dead.”
Herr’Don paced to and fro on the hillside, wearing down the grass with his thick leather boots, which had accumulated an even thicker layer of muck. They were nothing like the pristine boots he had kept before. Like his tattered cloak, his former visage was crumbling away, and all that was left was a haggard figure pacing briskly in the bitter cold of the night.
“‘Tis no dishonour to share your hurt,” Belnavar said.
Herr’Don stopped suddenly and looked away north to the kingdom of Boror. It seemed so far away now, an almost unreachable haven, and yet a land that did not feel quite like home. Perhaps then in the desolate land of Telarym he could share his troubles and there would be no other prying eyes and spying ears, and none of those he knew to spread whispers that the Prince of Boror was not as strong as he had claimed to be, that he had hoped to be.
“I need your word,” he said at length, and he felt the tremor in his voice. It was not the cold.
“Name the word you seek and I will give it to you,” Belnavar said.
“I need you to promise that you will keep this between us.”
“We are the only ones here.”
“I need your word,” Herr’Don said again more harshly.
“Aye, I give it then,” Belnavar said. “It shall go with me to the grave.” He gave a sly smile.
“I killed someone,” Herr’Don said, and the words felt cruel on his lips, and crueller to his ears. They were small and simple words, but laced with meaning and memories, like poison.
“Ah, so it has gone to the grave with them also,” Belnavar said, and for a moment Herr’Don almost thought the voice was that of Aralus, and he worried that he might summon the spectre of yet another former friend. “Ah, I am sorry, Herr’Don. ‘Tis an ill-made jest,” Belnavar continued. “I do not mean to mock you, nor the dead. But come, you must have killed many, both as a guard, a mercenary, and captain of the Fifth Regiment.”
“Yes, you’re right. But that’s not what I meant. I killed someone that I wasn’t supposed to. In fact, I killed several. People who were innocent, who did not deserve to die.”
“Oh … that is different. Hmm, and you’re feeling guilty now?”
“I should feel guilty, Belnavar,” Herr’Don said. “I should feel very guilty. And I do. I killed a family, a woman and her three young children. I wasn’t supposed to. I didn’t mean to. I was hired to kill a local farmer. The other farmers said he had been stealing their land, so they got together to pay for a mercenary, to pay for me, Belnavar. I set his house on fire that night, but he wasn’t in it. He came running back from the local market, screaming. His family was in there, sleeping. I ran back into the burning house and found one of the children. I pulled him out, but he was already badly burnt. I tried to save him, I did, but …
but there was too much smoke. He was already dead. I went back again for the others, until the smoke overcame me. The farmer pulled me out.
“He thanked me, Belnavar. He thanked me for trying to save his family. He thought I was a brave soul, fighting flame instead of lighting it. I could not tell him I had started the fire, that I was hired to kill him. He asked me my name. He wanted to give me a reward, and tell all about my heroism. That was one of the few times I did not feel like sharing my name, one of the few times I did not want acclaim. I gave him the name of another, and I fled the place so that I did not have to face what I had done.”
“What happened to the farmer?” Belnavar asked. “I presume the ones who hired you were not happy that he still lived.”
“I didn’t kill him!” Herr’Don said. He tried to calm the exasperation in his voice, which he thought Belnavar might mistake for guilt. “How could I go on as a mercenary after that?”
“What about the other farmers then? Did they demand their money back?”
“No, but I gave it back to them anyway. It didn’t feel right. They didn’t feel right either, so they gave the other farmer the money, as a kind of token gift. They felt guilty that he’d lost his family. He took the money and moved to a different town.”
“So the other farmers got his land then after all,” Belnavar said.
“Yes, fate finds a way, it seems.”
“Can fate find you guilty then? Do innocent people not die all the time?”
“I don’t kill those people,” Herr’Don said. “I feel guilt for the innocents that I have killed. I cannot forget what I have done, whether I will it or not, and I can never forgive myself for it.”
“I think you punish yourself needlessly. It is not as if you intended to kill the family, and even if you did, you were a mercenary. Death is part of the job. There is no honour in it, no, but surely you knew that before you took up that mantle.”
“I thought I would be hired to kill thieves and murderers,” Herr’Don explained. “To set the balance right, and bring vengeance and justice on those who had done evil acts, not tasked with doing evil of my own.”
“Then why did you not refuse?”
“Look at me, Belnavar,” the Prince said, and he felt suddenly naked to all eyes. He felt his bulging frame in his royal attire, which was far too small for him, for he had not been given new clothes in quite some time. He had bought plain clothes, sure enough, with no tears or holes, and with a much better fit, but they were civilian clothes, the rags of the people, not the apparel of royalty or uniforms of the military. So he refused to wear them, refused to don anything that did not make it clear to all that they were looking upon Herr’Don the Great.
“So you needed the money,” Belnavar acknowledged. “Does your father not give you anything?”
Herr’Don scoffed. “Nothing worth keeping.” He brushed aside some dirt from his clothes, as if it were the token gifts of the King.
“Killing is what made your father king,” Belnavar said. “It is in your blood. Do you not think there is a price to pay for the throne? How many have died to see Herr’Gal take the crown, and how many were saved by the decisions of his rule?”
“Olagh only knows,” Herr’Don said. “But if slaughtering the innocent is the way of the King, then I would rather not be called Prince, so that I not be next in line as a slaughterer.”
“Then Trueblade may still have hope in you, if you do not in him.”
Herr’Don gave a mirthless smile. He did not know what to say of Délin, whom he admired. He did not know how to cope with how his ideas of the knight were different, how he was less than he seemed in the tales, and yet sometimes more than the myths, so much to overshadow Herr’Don and make him feel small. It was one thing to read and hear of the tales of a hero, and quite another to be standing in their shadow.
“I visited their graves many times,” Herr’Don said, turning the subject back to his sorrow, on which he had plenty to say. “Each time I brought a wreath, for each time I came back the one I left was gone. Perhaps the breeze stole it, or some children, or some spirit of the dead. I tried not to question it, but instead honour those who had died.”
“I do not doubt it,” Belnavar said, “for I saw you pay respects at my own grave. It helped take away the hurt of death for me, and so perhaps it did for them also.”
“It would comfort me to know they are comforted now.”
“Then are you good enough to walk?” Belnavar asked.
“Yes,” Herr’Don said.
“Then may I join you?”
“You already have.”
Herr’Don stumbled away with Belnavar, following the faint trail of stars that led north. Some scholars said they formed the Arrow of Aelor, pointing to his people in the northernmost reaches of Iraldas, but Herr’Don could never make out the shape of an arrow. Instead he tracked the brightest of them, which was called Ardúnelé, or White Light, in Old Arlinaic. It formed the tip of the fabled arrow. Herr’Don wondered why Aelor was always firing this bow, and he wondered increasingly why any, himself included, would follow the directions of the gods, who had failed Iraldas so many times before. Yet with no other guidance bar the ghost of Belnavar, the stars would have to do.
The stars came and went, and the yellow orb of Ilios rose and fell like it was a ball in the games of the gods, and Herr’Don began again to lose sight of the passing of the days. He journeyed long and rested little, and he talked here and there with Belnavar, whom he was thankful to have as company when he approached again the eerie edge of the Issar Chammas.
“The River Barrier,” Belnavar said. “‘Tis much fabled.”
“I saw my death in the Chammas,” Herr’Don told him. “I saw that I would drown when I crossed the river. It does not comfort me to cross it now again.”
“It is a pity the Chammas did not show me my death,” Belnavar said. “For perhaps then I could have avoided it, and perhaps thwarted Teron in his evil plans. Yet perhaps seeing that I would be pushed into a chasm would merely have made me fear the touch of any hand, and I would have lived a frightened life not worth living.”
“There is always the second death,” Herr’Don said. “Perhaps the Chammas can tell you that, if even it dares look that far.”
Belnavar’s expression was grim. “Let us hope it does not, and that I shall never have a second death. My body is gone, but I still want my soul.” He looked wryly at Herr’Don. “Or what is left of it.”
They crossed the Issar Chammas together, and it seemed that this time the river made little response. Perhaps it could sense that it had already foretold the Prince’s future, and perhaps it could sense that for Belnavar there was no mortal future to be told. There was a kind of silence in the water, the kind of silence from something old and watchful, and very deadly. Even the splashes of Herr’Don’s feet seemed faint, as if the very sounds were being killed off before they could reach his ears. Eventually they both had crossed, and they looked at the dark and dreary land of Telarym on the other side, mere feet away, and yet so very distant. Boror seemed much closer now.
“So we live to cross again,” Belnavar said.
“I do not think that I ever will,” Herr’Don replied.
They continued northwards with little rest. In time they came to the border of Boror, but they barely knew it, for the towns and forts had all been abandoned there. The first sign of another person was near Madenloft Forest, where many woodsmen toiled long to supply the country with its much-needed timber. Some of the loggers came to Herr’Don and tried to help him, but he refused, and some asked who he was talking to, but he roared at them, until finally they backed away and thought it best to let him wander and die alone. So he wandered—but he did not yet die, and he was not alone.
VI – THE HARBOUR OF THE WOODS
The company did not rest long in the chill of the White Mountains, for Rúathar bid the Al-Ferian turn around at once and begin the journey back through the snowy crags to the Melting Meadows, and then b
eneath the canopy of Alimror. They made room in the sled, where the body of Théos was laid, and Rúathar urged the others to sit inside also, for their strength had been sapped by the snow. Ifferon and Thalla obliged, for the cold had almost lured them to Halés, but Délin defiantly refused, stating that he would not be drawn along by another, but would march on his own feet as he always had.
“Your defiance will be your doom,” Rúathar said. “The cold does not know honour. It will take the brave and the coward all the same, in one swipe if it can.”
“Then let it take me if it dares,” Délin said. “For I shall defy death all the stronger, until a life ill-taken is restored.”
“Your passion will keep you warm then,” Rúathar said with a hint of derision. “But the offer remains, should your legs no longer understand the dignity of your heart.”
The sled was hauled by many Al-Ferian, and Ifferon felt somewhat guilty that they must toil all the more with the weight of him inside. His guilt did not last long, however, as the warmth of the blankets and the calming whistle of the wind sent him into a long, deep sleep that had been a long time calling.
When at last he awoke again, several hours had passed, it seemed, for the group had travelled many miles, stopped for rest and rations, and begun another leg of their long journey. A bag with bread and fruit was sitting in his lap and he did not take long to devour it. The taste was far nicer than the food should really have been, and Ifferon was unsure if this was some strange Al-Ferian cuisine, or if the taste was simply heightened by his hunger.
“It feels like we are leaving behind our dangers,” Thalla said. Her bag of food had long been emptied, and it seemed from the dark rings around her eyes that she could not sleep as easily as Ifferon could. He noted with happiness that she had applied some of the healing salve to her scars, for they were barely noticeable now. “Yet it feels like this is a false comfort, that there are greater dangers ahead,” she added.
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