The Burden of Memory
Page 52
“Mawby,” Beam said in a new voice, a voice without confidence, a voice hiding some kind of deep pain, “Koonta will show you to your quarters. There’s a bath in your room, if you’ve a notion for it. There’s also food and wine, if you care for it. I’ve got … I’ve things to attend to.”
“A bath?” Mawby looked at Koonta.
“A conduit of natural hot springs flow beneath this cave,” Beam said, “You’ll feel better for it. And gods know cleaning up a bit won’t exactly hurt you. I could smell you even before I sensed your taer-cael.”
Mawby had absolutely no response to this. The rogue was as dirty as a street drunk on a bender.
“Once you eat and get some rest, you’ll feel like a new man. You’ll find a little sleep goes a long way in this place.”
“I understand,” Mawby replied.
“No, you don’t understand. But you will. After you’ve cleaned and fed and gotten some sleep, there’s an errand I need you to run for me.”
Mawby glanced at Koonta.
Koonta nodded him back toward the rogue.
Mawby wondered just what the hell was actually going on here. The rogue was the boss again? The current in this cave changed as erratically as a riptide. He couldn’t keep up; he could only submit and hope he wasn’t the only fool in the room.
“All right,” he said, looking back at Beam, “Anything you ask of me, sir.”
“I need you to head due west, do some scouting south along the Boiling River.”
“The Boiling River?” Mawby said, “I don’t understand.”
“Which?”
“What?”
“You don’t understand which? The words or the message? Damn me, it’s a simple enough request!”
“Beam!” Koonta shouted.
“All right!” he said, waving her back, “All right, I’m sorry. Again!”
Mawby felt sick. This little drama was as far away from what he’d expected as the sun was from Calevia.
“You’ll find them just south of where you and your brothers chased me over the falls. You remember that particular spot don’t you, Mawby? The falls, I mean? Because I do. I remember it very, very clearly.”
Mawby felt a rush of embarrassment. “Ay’a, reckon I recall all right.”
“Good. You might be of some use to me after all, then.”
Once again, Mawby felt himself shift from dutiful compliance to wanting to knock a few teeth out of that arrogant grin. Instead he opted for the higher road. “Would it be out of place to ask what I’m looking for?”
“An army,” Beam said as he sat back down in the ridiculous throne.
“You want me to scout for evidence of an intrusion.”
Beam’s laughter rippled through the chamber. “Yes, Mawby, I want you to scout for an intrusion.”
“A Vaemysh army?”
“No. That’s a task for several days hence.”
“Well, who exactly am I looking for, then?”
“It’s a bloody army and it’s not Vaemysh. How many possibilities do you think that leaves?”
“I reckon I prefer not to guess.”
“Well, here’s a little hint, then. Once you find them, there’s a high degree of probability that their leader will hang you on the spot.”
Mawby’s stomach twisted again. “Lucifeus Fark,” he said, not believing it, “That makes no sense. He’s a smuggler, not a general.”
Beam laughed.
Again, the bastard triggered his irritation. He knotted his fists, but resisted his urges. “You want me to look for an army led by the Farks?”
“I do.”
The man was as mad as a high noon owl. He wanted to argue it, but the end result didn’t seem worth the cost of energy it’d take to present the case. Instead, he simply said, “By your leave, sir.”
“You’re smarter than you look,” Beam said, “Then again, you’d almost have to be.” He laughed harder than the joke deserved.
“But indulge me one question,” Mawby said, “Supposing the Farks somehow did manage to raise an army, which seems ridiculous at best, what gain could they possibly find by invading Na te’Yed?”
“Now why would you immediately assume they’re invading?”
“Uh, let me think… because they’re criminals?”
“Damn me, you say the word like it’s a bad thing.”
“Beam,” Koonta said suddenly, “Stop it. Just tell him already.”
“For the gods’ sakes!” Mawby said, throwing his arms out, “Has everyone in this cave lost their minds?”
Beam sighed too dramatically. Then he leaned forward on his knees and looked up at him. “Listen carefully, Mawby, because I don’t care to spend all day trying to explain this to you. The Farks are bringing an army. They’re coming to defend us, not attack us.”
“Defend us? That’s rich.”
“They’re bringing my army.”
“Your army?”
“Do you remember the vision you had when your guild opened their Drayma?”
Mawby’s heart skipped ahead at that. They were the last words he could have possibly expected, and they threw him completely off his game. He didn’t just remember his vision; it had been haunting him since the moment of its arrival. It plagued his every waking moment. And he was doubly shocked that the rogue knew about the Drayma at all.
“You don’t look well, Mawby. Do you need a tonic?”
“I remember my vision. It’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Following my orders.”
“The Farks are doing the same.”
Mawby studied him for a moment. He couldn’t make any sense of what he’d just heard. The words were more than just preposterous; they were absolutely absurd. The rogue might just as easily have said that Prae was the true Father.
Beam grinned up at him. “Well?”
“You’re telling me… you’re saying the Farks are…?”
“Mawby, you met Wenzil, didn’t you? Surely you now understand there are Eyes in cultures other than Vaen?”
“I have no problem with that concept. But… well, the Farks?”
“It’s a hard drink to choke down, I admit. And I had… I mean, Prave had reservations about establishing that particular sect in Lamys te’Faht. The Farks have lived outside the law through their entire lineage, going back more generations than is reasonable. But it sometimes takes a thief to guard a treasure.”
“Well, assuming that’s true, why do they need me? The visions are damned precise, if mine’s any indication. Why can’t they find their way on their own?”
“Good question,” Beam said, slowly clapping his hands, “Maybe you’re an astronomer after all.”
“If that’s an insult, you’re wasting your breath. I’m about one shock past being put any further off my game.”
“It’s not an insult. The truth is the Farks are Lamys te’Faht, and their Drayma gave them very clear instructions. But those instructions only directed them to the trail leading up the ridge to this cave.”
“Meaning no disrespect, that doesn’t chew.”
“Excuse me?”
“Why would the vision send them halfway? Why would they need a guide to get them the rest of the way? Surely they know where they’re directed to go.”
Beam’s face flushed red at that. “Let’s just get something straight, Mawby. Yours is not to question me. Yours is to follow my instructions to the letter and without question like a faithful bloody dog!”
Mawby felt himself flush. It was all he could do to resist yet another impulse to throttle the bastard. Still, cantankerous little prick or not, what if he really was the Father? He shook his head and squeezed the flesh between his eyes. The not knowing was irritating as hell.
“What is it now, Mawby?”
“All right,” Mawby said resignedly, “How do I know you’re not just sending me on a goose chase? Or if it is true, how do I know you’re not sending me to my death?”
“Why Mawby, such a lack of faith. You disappoint me.”
“I need you to go to the Farks because, although they are indeed Lamys te’Faht, their crew is most assuredly not. I need you to be my ambassador, to lead them and only them. Bring them to me here ahead of their crew. If you’re not up to that simple task, just say the word and I’ll see if I can find myself a monkey somewhere in these woods who actually is up to it.”
Beam stood up, looked up at Mawby for just a beat, then walked back around the chair without so much as a by your leave. He crossed the dais and dropped down to the floor behind it. A moment later, he disappeared into a room on the far backside of the hall. As he passed through into the next chamber, the jagged wall shimmered in his wake and the crystal poured back up into place, a rising wall forming a door behind him.
After a moment, Mawby looked at Koonta. “Well, that dirty little bastard is some piece of work.”
She laughed at that. “You’re not the first to make that observation.”
“You seem to carry some weight with him, though.”
“Well, there’s no arguing he needs a handler. But he’s not so bad. At least, not once you wear down the walls.”
“Scrape off the layers of shit, more like.”
“You need to give him a chance. I told you. He’s… evolving.”
“Evolving. Is that a lousy way of saying he’s still in training?”
“Be careful, Maw.”
“This isn’t what I signed on for, to be a dancing dog for some lunatic. I could’ve signed up with Prae the Biled if that’s what I sought.”
She grabbed his shirt and pulled him around to face her. “You didn’t sign on for anything! Your family did! Scores of generations before you were born. He didn’t ask for this anymore than you did, and he’s every bit as confused by it. Just because he’s not the pretty picture of the fairytale knight doesn’t mean he’s not a good man. It doesn’t mean he’s not the vessel of the Father. So just you be careful before you start shaking that finger of judgment at him, you hear me?”
He shrank back at that. She was right, and she’d effectively shamed him into deference. He needed to give the little bastard more time.
“Fine,” he said in surrender, “I reckon time will tell.”
“Time has already spoken, Maw. Ten epochs of time have spoken. He’s in a sorry place, a place he didn’t ask for and doesn’t want. But beneath that coarse bark is the soul of a savior. And though he’s every bit as afraid as the least of us, he’ll see this miserable drama through in spite of it. There’s a hero at his heart, just you believe me.”
He followed her eyes as they roved back toward the door the rogue had disappeared through moments before. And as he watched her watching it, he understood. “You like him. That’s the truth, isn’t it? You like him. After all you’ve seen? I can’t believe it.”
“You’re full of shit, Maw. I’m just trying to help.”
“Are you?”
“Ay’a, I am.”
“I think the bastard needs more help than you have to offer.”
Koonta sent him a glare he felt clear to the back of his head. “Have you seen what he can do?”
He was about to sling another retort when he was gripped by a rush of vertigo, which was immediately punctuated by a pang of nausea. He slumped forward and grabbed his gut. His side was on fire, like his shirt was filled with coals along where his knife wound rested.
He felt Koonta’s hands slide across his back. “It’s all right, Maw.”
He tried to respond, but the nausea and pain had him locked tight. The knife wound was on fire. It felt like the knife was still there. The heat boiled across his ribs. He slid his hands over the pain.
“Breathe, Maw. It’s all right.”
Mawby tried to look up at her, but couldn’t find focus. He felt cold, but was sweating profusely. He felt Koonta’s hands guiding him forward.
“I think… I think I shouldn’t ha-have said that. I’m… I’m sick.”
“No, Maw,” he heard her whisper, “You’re not sick. It’s the God Caeyl. Beam’s healing you.”
He dragged a sleeve across his wet face. He was tremoring. “Healing m-me?” he tried to say, “Feels li-like he’s ki-killing me.”
“Don’t fight it. It’ll pass quickly. We need to get you to bed. You need to sleep.”
“What the hell’s ha-happening to me?”
“You need to sleep, Maw.”
He wanted to respond, but was shaking too hard. It had come on so quickly. Her voice buzzed around him like a swarm of gnats. He felt himself moving, felt himself walking down a dark hall. Koonta was at his side, holding his arm around her neck, steadying him.
The last thing he was aware of was the bed rising up beneath him and the cave fading to shadow.
XXX
THE ILLUSION OF FREE WILL
PRAVE LEANED CLOSER AND WHISPERED, “RESISTING THE DARK VOICE MAY SEEM THE PATH OF VIRTUE, MY BOY.”
“May?” Beam asked, scowling, “Thanks, that’s helpful.”
“However, it may also be argued that yielding to the dark voice will prove the path of strength.”
“May again? May? I could use something a little more decisive than ‘may’ right now. Some direction, possibly? A little ancestral advice, perhaps?”
The sound of Prave’s laughter tinkled through the room as merrily as the melody of a flute.
Beam woke up.
He pushed himself up from the cool floor and looked around.
He was alone, just him and his dead. And he didn’t know if he felt relieved for the revelation or despairing of it.
It was another vile dream. Another useless, punishing dream. A dream of good people wanting him to be a better man than he knew was possible. Why the hell couldn’t they just leave him alone? Couldn’t he even catch a lousy nap without their intrusion? This journey was becoming pure misery, and he was more than sick of it.
He sat forward and rubbed his face. The caressing murmurs of the women fluttered at the edge of his awareness, though he’d long since stopped listening to them. They were ever-present in his mind, yet never intrusive or pushy. They were simply there, the way the sun is there, the way the air is there. It shouldn’t annoy him as much as it did.
He looked up at the soles of Prave’s crystalline feet. Though he understood the sacrifices the mortal man had made over so many endless incarnations, he still resented being drawn into this murder against his will. He wasn’t a hero and he wasn’t a god. Hell, he wasn’t even a good man. And now he was expected to fill those shoes? Prave’s shoes? It was a ridiculous request, and unfair as hell.
Self-pity would seem a reasonable emotion under such unreasonable circumstances.
Beam flinched. He glanced around the chamber as the memory of the words faded to silence. It was Prave. Or at least the memory of him.
You think I’m feeling sorry for myself? he pushed back. I’m just good and rightly pissed, courtesy of you. Where are you hiding?
Anger is an equally reasonable response, don’t you think?
You’re asking me what’s reasonable? Beam laughed. That’s sweet. Like I’d have a blasted clue what normal is. Normal is for the nameless civilians suffering through the dreary tedium of drearier lives. I wouldn’t know normal if it slapped me.
“And yet, it’s not whether the circumstances are normal or not that has you so worried, is it, Be’ahm?”
Beam’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest. The words were physical now. He grabbed the sarcophagus Prave’s foot and climbed to his feet.
A tall pane of particularly smooth crystal had materialized in the wall at the head of the sarcophagi. Prave walked into view from the other side of the glass, displacing the ethereal vapors within the crystal as he approached. He stopped just the other side of the crystal’s perfect surface. He stood there as still
as death, watching Beam.
Beam moved tentatively closer to him, gliding his open hand along the silky surface of his sarcophagus as he approached the image. The mage looked exactly as he had in the dreamscape, in the early times when he was young and robust.
“Where in the Nine did you come from? I thought you were gone.”
Prave only smiled at him.
Beam knotted his fists, but resisted his darker urges. “Why are you talking to me? Physically, I mean. With a voice.”
“In hopes it will stimulate you to circumvent your natural tendency for skepticism.”
“Skepticism! You’re an illusion. A dream. A bit of bad rabbit taken an hour too late into the night.”
“I’m no dream.”
“What are you then? A phantasm? You’re dead.”
“I’m your memory, Be’ahm.”
“Here we go again!”
“The time is coming.”
“The time is coming?” Panic gripped Beam. “Don’t tell me you’re taking me back into the Caeylsphere again! I’ll slit my own throat first, I swear to gods!”
“The time is coming. Your time is coming.”
“What the hell are you going on about now?”
“Your ghosts won’t allow you to hide behind them any longer. Soon they’ll be gone and you’ll be left standing face to face with your truth.”
“I don’t hide behind them. I’ve spent my life running away from them, and why shouldn’t I have?”
Prave turned and walked slowly, casually along the other side of the wall, sliding his fingertips delicately along the clear surface. Beam followed him. The crystal wall panes rising beneath the ridge of dead women swept clear as he passed, like breath on a winter window fading back to transparency in his presence.
“It’s time you heard the brutal truth, Be’ahm.”
“Great,” Beam said beneath his breath.
“You knew the truth long before you found your destiny in this cave. Through life, you made a career of your roguish alter ego. You have willfully turned away from every opportunity to prove yourself a good man. You’ve committed endless acts of barbarity and villainy. You’ve served your own self-promotion at the expense of countless souls over the course of your mortal years. And with every villainous act you’ve perpetrated under the guise of selfishness and self-preservation, you’ve suffered ever-deepening cracks of guilt. And yet, your life is a paradox. You see, your guilt is a fish buried beneath the corn. It is the fertilizer feeding your fears. And as your fears grow, your guilt drives those cracks deeper and your ghosts become stronger. Your ghosts exist only in the landscape of your mind and heart, Be’ahm. Your ghosts are the manifestation of your fears.”