The Burden of Memory

by Welcome Cole

  “Vision. The insight to recognize the brethren behind the mask, the wisdom to embrace him, the tongue to persuade him.”

  Mawby looked off into the plains as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. The grass simmered like a tawny fire beneath the intense sun. The colors shifted endlessly, swirling in confused circles under the pressure of the relentless winds of these wretched plains. He had no idea what to say to the mountain. There was probably nothing he could say. This couldn’t possibly be real.

  “I share your surprise,” the Baeldon said, “I saw your pendant and nearly shit myself. Style of the engraving is identical to mine. At first, I thought you probably lifted it from a slain Baeldon. But it’s—”

  “It’s not the custom of the Vaemysh to rob dead warriors! Or soldiers. Enemy or no.”

  “I meant no offense. But it doesn’t much matter. It’s too small to be one of ours. Knowing something of metalsmithing, I’d swear the same hand engraved both of them. But more than that...”

  The man’s great eyes fell to the dirt as if he’d dropped the words and was searching for them in the matted grass. Mawby watched but said nothing.

  “More than that,” the runner finally continued, “I was born with a… well, a sense of things, I reckon.”

  “A sense of things? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I might’ve been a Caeyl Mage,” the runner replied with a sheepish grin, “That’s what I was told my whole life, anyway. I might’ve been a Caeyl Mage, except for missing a couple minor attributes.”

  “What attributes?”

  “Birthsight and a caeyl.”

  Mawby thought about it for a moment. The man was making fun of himself. He wasn’t sure if he should laugh or politely ignore it.

  “I was born with what they call the Lesser Birthsight. I hear whisperings from other people’s minds. All of us do in my order of the Faithful. When I was tending your wounds, I sensed the images. If not for that… well, don’t reckon I’d have looked twice at your chain.”

  Mawby was afraid to say anything. If even half of what he was hearing were true, it was bigger than anything else he knew or ever would know.

  “Ain’t many of us left in these modern days. Baeldons are slow breeders, and when an Eye dies without having spawned any children, his family’s place in Lamys te’Faht dies with him. There are stories passed between those few of us left, stories of other Eyes among other peoples, but I don’t think I ever really believed it. And yet… well, reckon it looks like I’ve proven the stories’ truth by finding an Eye from another race. And a Vaemyn, of all things? That’s the last place I’d have expected to find one of us.”

  As the meaning behind the words seeped through, the haughtiness of them infuriated Mawby. “Are you serious? Who in the Nine has more right, even more responsibility to house such an order? The Baeldons? Doubtful.”

  “Your people started the Divinic Wars,” the runner said as if explaining it to a child, “The mage who summoned the wyrlaerds was a Vaemysh Caeyl Mage. How can—”

  “It was a thousand years ago, for the love of gods! Anyway, that’s exactly why we’re responsible for seeing it never happens again! We own that responsibility, not you, not the Baeldons. And it’s mighty arrogant of you to think we shouldn’t.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Forget it! It’s typical. You make foolish assumptions about my people, your kind always does.”

  “Again, I didn’t mean—”

  “How do I know this isn’t a ruse?”

  The runner shrugged at that. “Good question. I reckon you don’t. For all I know, you could be a poser put here to trick me. If my leaders suspected that Lamys te’Faht actually existed among my kind, and that I was a member... hell, I’d be tortured, tried, and hung for treason before I could kiss my balls goodbye.”

  “Nobody’d believe you anyway,” Mawby said, “Nobody but those you’re charged with watching. Anyway, if our leaders are anything alike, they’d kill you in secret, not publicly. They’d put you down like a dog, quickly, quietly, and efficiently.”

  “That’s comforting,” the mountain said with a wink, “But it ain’t much of a revelation.”

  Mawby thought about what the Baeldon had said. They were the same worn out worries that’d plagued him most of his life, ever since he inherited the mantle of responsibility.

  “My name is Wenzil Tomas Kym’bel,” the runner said suddenly, “I’m searching for the Caeyl Mage, Chance Gnoman. He’s a master of the Water Caeyl who—”

  “I know who he is.”

  “Hm, I expect you do. Likely, you know him a mite better than you’d like. I expect he had a part in that there burn.”

  Mawby said nothing.

  “He sent one of his golems to Barcuun. Warned of a Vaemysh invasion. Said he was under siege in the war tunnels near the swamp. I doubt I’d be wrong to guess you were involved?”

  “I told you, I won’t answer any questions.”

  “Reckon I never expected you to. The images slipping from your mind tell me Chance is still alive.”

  Mawby looked out at the grass simmering beyond the tree line, but said nothing.

  “And that he’s still in the tunnels.”

  Mawby again said nothing.

  “I’ll take that for a yea on both counts.”

  “You can do whatever the bloody hell you want.”

  “So what am I to make of this? A Vaemyn here in the Baeldonian plains, pursuing one of his own, and sporting a fouled knife wound that I suspect that dead man out there on that hill provided. Judging by your condition, I’d reckon you pursued that warrior over a course of at least a couple days. You chased him down even to the neglect of your own health. Must’ve wanted him real bad, yea?”

  “What’s your point?” Mawby snapped, “Or is there a point? Maybe you just like the sound of your own voice.”

  “My point is that you were after something more important than a little revenge. I expect you were trying to stop him from something. I expect the prodes complicated your task. I expect you failed.”

  “You deduced all that by my wounds and the locket?”

  Wenzil reached forward and tapped Mawby’s forehead with a thick index finger. “Not. Just. That.”

  Mawby twisted his head away. “What are you, the king’s sleuth?”

  “Want to know what I find even more peculiar about this? The prodes. Ain’t been seen in these parts for a hundred years or longer. And they didn’t bother you, did they? Yet, they made a fine mess of that poor fellow planted on that hill out yonder. Looked like they were trying to carry him off. Just might have succeeded, too, if Hector hadn’t intervened.”

  “Hector?”

  The runner’s eyes darkened with that. He glanced over at the fresh dirt. He slid a hand back over his bare scalp and whispered something.

  Mawby realized the action wasn’t just a nervous gesture; it was a ritual of respect. He thought about poor dead Maeryc and wished he could’ve afforded him the same.

  The runner rose to his feet. His head seemed to brush the leaves. “I ain’t much inclined to believe any of this is coincidence,” he said from above, “How would you judge the odds of us crossing paths in such a way, two men of same trade in opposing camps? Two men bearing the same dark secret? No matter how I chew it, it just won’t go down without a choke. Nay, I reckon we’re operating under some kind of divine plan. I reckon we were meant to—”

  “I’m not a fool! And I won’t be played.”

  A cloud passed over the runner’s eyes. “I don’t take you for a fool,” he said seriously, “That being despite the fact you seem pretty stinking short sighted. You refuse to acknowledge the obvious. You’re like the village idiot who confuses shit for cake, even though he just saw the pig push it out.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “Which is it? Am I confused about you? Are you the village idiot after all?”

  Mawby again looked off into the grasses beyond th
e tree. He refused to continue craning up at the runner. He refused to submit to such a position of indignity when he was likely moments from death anyway. The man was trying to coerce him into a dark misconception, though to what end wasn’t yet clear to him.

  The mountain suddenly flipped his dagger down at him. Mawby flinched as the knife impaled the dirt between his legs just at his bound wrists. It was close enough to feel the cold steel against his thumb.

  “Trust begets trust,” the man said from treetops.

  Mawby let his eyes wander up to the mountain again. Arms thick as logs crossed his wide chest. He wondered how he’d fare if it ever came down to a fight between them. At least he’d have speed on his side. Somehow, he doubted it’d be enough.

  “I’m offering you a test,” Wenzil continued, “Reckon I’ll just mosey on east for a ways, mayhaps scout the plains for a few hours. That there knife’s close enough you should be able to cut your wrist binds if you’re so inclined. You look clever enough to work it from there. There’s an extra horse hobbled just north of the tree behind you.”

  Mawby didn’t understand. “You’re freeing me?”

  “I’m testing you.”

  “Do I look a fool? You’ll put an arrow in my back once I’m a hundred yards out.”

  The Baeldon descended back to earth. He settled to his knees and rolled forward onto his knuckles until his massive face was inches from Mawby’s. His head was the size of a pumpkin, blocking everything else from view.

  “We carry the same message,” Wenzil whispered to him, “We’re servants to the same terrible task. Though I never thought I’d be called upon to act on my vows, I still take them seriously. I can’t kill you and I can’t keep you. So, you see… I ain’t left with much choice, except to honor you. Unless you are the village idiot, of course, in which case you can save us both a shitload of trouble by just saying so.”

  The man studied him for a moment longer, then stood up again. Mawby’s locket landed in a pile of chain in the grass between his legs just south of the knife. “If you’re here when I get back, we’ll talk as free men, no prisoner and no keeper. If not, I won’t pursue you. You’re free to go as you please. You have my word on both counts. Of course, there ain’t no way I can speak for my fellows. You cross any other Baeldons down the road, you’re on your own.”

  Mawby sawed his ropes against the knife blade. “You’re taking a foolish chance,” he said as he worked, “How do you know I won’t come after you?”

  “How old are you?”

  The words seemed so absurd under the circumstances that Mawby wasn’t sure he’d heard them right. He stopped sawing and looked up at the mountain. “What did you say?”

  “How old are you?”

  “I’m… I’m thirty-nine years. What the hell does—”

  “You haven’t mated. You’ve no children.”

  There was no question in the statement. Mawby now understood exactly what the man was leading to. “No,” he said carefully, “And no prospects, either, I expect. Not anymore.”

  “I’m about the same age. And I’ve no mate and no hope or plans for offspring, neither.”

  “What the devil does that have to do with anything?” Mawby asked. He needed to hear it from the Baeldon. He couldn’t assume the man knew what he was talking about, in case this was a trick as he’d originally suspected.

  “All the Eyes you know. They’re all about the same age? All unmarried? All childless?”

  Mawby suffered a chill. It was true. All of it. If the man wasn’t an Eye, he knew a dangerous lot about them.

  “The legends say that when the lineage ends for Lamys te’Faht, their duties will have been served. It’s the meaning behind the bottom rune in our medals. There’ll be no child to pass the mantle of responsibility. We won’t be needed anymore.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Mawby said, “The word ‘lineage’ is meant as a symbol for our lifespan.”

  Wenzil looked back at him. “Nay, my friend. It ain’t.”

  “Well, of course, it is.”

  “No, it’s infinitely more profound than that.”

  Mawby felt the birth of a headache pulsing behind his eyes. None of this was possible. Maybe it was a fever-induced hallucination. Maybe a delirium of sorts. Maybe he was still out there on that hillside baking in the sun. Maybe this was some bizarre final dream before the last moments of life drained into the dirt beneath him.

  “I’ve read the few tomes left from the Divinic War,” the runner said from on high, “Got them stored in a secret family vault hidden in the catacombs deep beneath Barcuun. They’re the epistles of the nine surviving Caeyl Mages of the original Circle of Twenty who served during the war.”

  “Is that so?” Mawby felt sick to his stomach. This was no dream. He’d seen the Blood Caeyl with his own eyes. He knew it was all true, that the runner was exactly right.

  “The tomes predict the second coming of the Divinic Demons. They say that’s why Lamys te’Faht exists. They say we’ll know the time is at hand by certain signs.”

  Mawby watched him, but said nothing. What could he say? It was too much.

  “The first sign is the end of the collective lineages of the Faithful. Our time will be at hand. We’ll no longer have a need for successors. The second sign will be the appearance of a Vaemyn and Parhronii bearing a Blood Caeyl.”

  Mawby could barely breathe. The image of the red light flaming from Maeryc’s fouled eye exploded through his mind. The Blood Caeyl! He’d lost the Blood Caeyl.

  “You didn’t answer me before. Do any of the other Faithful you know have children? Are many of them significantly older than you? Are many significantly younger? Save for a few rare exceptions, I mean.”

  Mawby’s mind reeled with the revelation. He’d read the ancient tome his father had hidden in their own vault in the tombs of their ancestors. It said exactly that. There were three signs that’d mark the return of the beasts, and those were two of them. The third sign was the rise of a Fire Caeyl Mage and the return of the demons, the return of the wyrlaerds.

  He thought back to Pa’ana’s death. He remembered standing at that broken balustrade eight stories above the tower floor. He remembered looking down at his brother’s twisted, broken body lying like a cast away doll on the dirty planks below. He remembered the wyrlaerd Goelvar grinning at him from the stairs a level above.

  “It’s a hard rope to knot,” Wenzil said, “I’ll give you that. Still, I have to believe your line of Faithful has existed as long as mine. Ours is a faith passed down from parent to child, a family devotion, a heritage of treason.”

  “A heritage of treason,” Mawby whispered. The runner had laid the truth out so easily, so cleanly, so obviously. As desperately as he wanted to, he couldn’t find any way to deny it.

  “Yea, treason,” Wenzil said, “It’s treason because we serve the Faithful above all else. It’s treason because we serve a spiritual and corporeal allegiance to our people. To our mutual peoples. To yours, mine, and all the rest of the world. That’s a duty far more compelling than simple loyalty to king, fiefdom, or state.”

  Mawby felt the mountains leveling, the oceans drying up, the earth sucking into itself. It was a brand new world. It was a dark and horrible world.

  “Yea, it’s a tough bean to chew,” Wenzil said.

  “Are there others?” Mawby looked up at the Baeldon. “Are there other races, I mean?”

  “Don’t reckon I know for sure. Still, in light of you and me finding each other, I have to believe it spreads farther than this. There have to be others out there.” He looked out into the flaming plains. “There have to be.”

  More than ever, Mawby wished he had Pa’ana back with him. His brother had always been the quicker mind, the deeper thinker of the two of them. Mawby had strength and faith, but Pa’ana had the gift of sight. He looked down at the matted grass swimming across the dirt beneath the tree and fought his grief.

  “Had me plenty of time to think about it while you slept,
” the mountain said.

  The words landed like a gift. They pulled Mawby from his perilous thoughts. Fighting to keep his voice from breaking, he said, “And?”

  “We were supposed to find each other. It’s my gift and my charge. I have to find the others, the Eyes of other races. Or at least one of them.”

  Mawby forced himself to look up at him.

  “It’s my duty to reconcile you into collaboration,” Wenzil said, “We’re supposed to work together. Don’t you see that?”

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “You don’t have to,” Wenzil said as he turned away, “I trust you.”

  The sight of the Baeldon walking away felt like the curtain dropping on a sappy melodrama. There was too much happening. Was it really possible that other orders existed in other cultures? Even among their enemies? If so, how? And more importantly, why?

  As the sound of hooves beating the sod faded into silence, Mawby sawed through the ropes. The instant he was free he broke the dried clay from his oteuryns, and the relief that simple act served up was nearly incapacitating. The world rushed back in. His restored taer-cael filled in the dark and hidden corners of his senses. It was the most joyous sensation he’d ever experienced.

  An instant later, he was on his feet. His wrists and hands were sticky with drying blood, but he spent no time dwelling on them. He scouted around the camp and found his personal supplies that the runner had curiously left behind.

  Wenzil. A strange name for a strange man.

  It was odd how civilized the man had been, nowhere near the barbarian he’d expected. Of course, the only exposure he’d had to the giant race was through the renegade Baeldons working around Fark’s Freehold in the Nolands. Those men were a rough and miserable lot, and he realized he was a fool for having based his opinion of an entire race on a crew of smugglers, murderers, and thieves. The renegade Vaemyn running with the pirate brothers were no better.

  A sudden rush of dizziness seized him, sending him stumbling to his knees in the grass. His side was on fire, his wounds reawakened by his sudden movement. He distracted himself from the pain by listening to the earth. He heard the mountain riding away nearly a half mile out. The horse was beating the dirt hard and showed no evidence of slowing.