The scar in Emethius’s back began to itch. No, something is actually scratching me, Emethius realized. Something coarse was tucked into the hem of his pants and was rubbing against the small of his back. Emethius reined in the horse, drawing the beast to a skittering halt. To his surprise, he discovered a piece of folded parchment shoved halfway into his pants. His mind raced back to the moment when Meriatis attacked him in the grotto.
“Meriatis placed a message on me in the scuffle!”
He squinted, straining to see what was written on the parchment. Moonbeams suddenly flared through the tree, and for a moment the parchment was cast in light. Emethius was forced to stifle a gasp.
The parchment contained an image drawn with blood. It was a poor illustration, but even so, Emethius recognized the image immediately. It was nearly identically to the map he had discovered in Herald Carrick’s journal, save one exception. There was a large ‘X’ drawn near the western coast of Eremel. Four words were written beneath the ‘X’, the very sight of which chilled Emethius’s heart.
‘Wasa vapaj, wasa tupwae,’ it read in the ancient tongue.
The message was clear. Find the Sage, find the cure.
CHAPTER
XI
MALRICH
Ali watched intently as Malrich worked the peas into mush with a spoon. She treated Malrich with a rare gummy smile and crept to the edge of the bed for a closer look. Just before she was able to reach him, the leather thong that tied her to the bedpost drew taut. The restraint always puzzled her, and she looked at it nonplussed.
“I’ll take it off in a minute,” Malrich reassured her as he added chopped carrots to the bowl. Food suitable for a baby, thought Malrich glumly. But it was all his wife could eat.
Malrich had to start putting his wife in restraints after she randomly attacked him in the middle of the night with a red hot fire poker. Fortunately, he managed to wrestle the searing iron bar from Ali’s hands before she inflicted any permanent harm. That incident marked the end of Ali having the freedom to roam about the house at will. The affliction had polluted too much of her mind for her to be trusted.
Ali’s mother moved into the house a few weeks after the incident, asserting that Malrich was not capable of caring for his sick wife. She was probably right about that, thought Malrich as he eyed his emaciated wife. Ali had no muscle or fat to speak of. Every bone in her body stood in stark relief against her liver-spotted skin. Malrich had grown used to how frail she looked — she’d been like that for over a year now. What troubled him were her eyes. The pupils had somehow consumed the iris, leaving behind black pits as dark as jet. It was inhuman, almost bestial. When their eyes meet, he found himself looking away more often than not.
Malrich tried a spoonful of the carrot and pea puree. It was hardly palatable, but it would suffice. Satisfied, he upturned a small vial of tar colored fluid into the bowl. He had purchased the vial of poppy milk from the apothecary earlier in the day. The apothecary wasn’t precise on the measurements. Malrich added a dash more just to be sure it served its purpose.
He removed the restraint from Ali’s wrist, finding that the flesh beneath was pale and sweaty. He massaged her wrist, working the flesh until the blood flow returned to normal. When he finally released her, Ali spun about on all fours atop the bed, like a dog let loose from its kennel. Finally, she settled, and sat cross-legged atop her soiled mattress. A low cackle issued from deep in her throat as she watched the food with keen focus.
“Dinner is served, my love,” said Malrich, trying to ignore the unsettling noise his wife was making. He held out the puree, wondering how his wife would respond. Half the time she would grab a handful and throw it in his face. Other times she would refuse to take a bite. Thankfully, she grabbed the bowl as if it were a prized possession and began to slurp down the puree in noisy gulps, groaning and growling as she consumed every last bit.
Within minutes the poppy milk began to take hold. Ali’s motions became slow and feeble, until finally, she curled fetal and clamped her afflicted eyes shut. She reached out to Malrich and made a pitiful noise that might have been an attempt at speaking. He held her hand and pulled her body against his own.
“I will sit beside you until you fall asleep,” said Malrich, as he cleaned the food from her lips and chin. He hummed softly and then began to sing.
“O’ where have you gone
Sweet lover of mine
To the white misty bay
Or the eternal forest of time
Rest easy my love
I forget not my word
Your shadow does linger
Your light shines in my world
The echo of soft laughter
A smile on your face
The touch of your skin
Your warm loving embrace.”
He gently stroked her fevered brow, humming and singing in turn. Ali closed her eyes and her breathing slowed. He noted she had picked open a half-healed sore above her left eye. I’ll have to remember to put ointment on that before I depart, thought Malrich as he continued to sing.
“Though fate had decided
For us to part ways
When weary my bones be
We’ll meet again one day
Seasons come and seasons go
But do not lessen the loss
Gray stone and graven words
Are now greened over with moss.”
Ali’s chest began to rise and fall in regular intervals, and she started to softly snore. Malrich stayed at his wife’s side a while longer, clasping her withered hands. They were no longer the firm hands that had once held their son. Hideous scars ran from her fingertips to her elbows, burns she received the day her mind finally succumbed to the madness.
Certain that the poppy milk had done its job, Malrich eased himself out of bed. He gently rolled her on her side, just in case she got sick in the middle of the night, then slipped mittens over Ali’s hands to keep her from scratching herself while she slept. He added fresh coals to the brazier to make sure Ali would stay warm. Lastly, he reattached the leather binding, this time fastening it to her right ankle. He made sure to switch between her wrists and ankles every other night. The binding would gall her flesh if left in one place for too long.
He walked out into the common room. Ali’s mother sat perched in an old rocker by the hearth, working at her stitching. “She’s set for the night, Minelle,” reported Malrich.
Though in her late middling years, Minelle still possessed a certain grace and beauty. She had a full figure, olive skin, and short-cropped blonde hair. Her blue eyes were piercing, which she used to great effect whenever she was mad at Malrich, which was often.
Minelle made it readily apparent that she blamed Malrich for her daughter’s sickness. She did not believe Malrich was good enough for Ali, and it was his corrupting influence that led to Ali’s affliction. Never mind that Minelle’s husband had died of the Blackheart a decade earlier. If anything, the sickness ran in her family’s blood, but no sensible words would change Minelle’s opinion on the matter.
Malrich almost believed that Minelle had moved into the house just to haunt him. The resemblance between mother and daughter was uncanny, and Minelle’s mannerisms and intonation reminded Malrich more of his wife than he would like to admit. Minelle was what Ali would have become had the Blackheart not driven her to madness. Sometimes, when Malrich came home at night he would spot Minelle’s silhouette against the window, and for a split second he would imagine Ali was waiting for him on the opposite side of the door.
Minelle didn’t bother to look up from her stitching when Malrich entered the room. She was adding a red trim around the edge of a wool blanket she had been working on all winter.
“Red agitates Ali.” Malirch thumbed at the spindle of thread she was using. It was the color of blood.
“Red has been her favorite color since she was a babe.”
She’s not a babe anymore, Malrich wanted to say, but neither was she an adult. So wh
at was she? A shell, thought Malrich glumly. “It will upset her, is all. I think somewhere deep down it reminds her what she’s done.” He made his rounds about the house as he talked, shuttering the windows and adding a fresh log to the fireplace.
“Don’t try to be sly,” said Minelle, pointing a wooden sewing needle at him. “I see what you’re doing, checking to see if everything is set for the night. Where do you think you’re off to at such a late hour? There are ill humors in the air.”
“No more so than there are in here,” said Malrich, grabbing his coat. Malrich had heard the rumors, too. There was a pox out of Tremel. A Tremelese galley had crawled into port the other day with half of its crew dead. The port wardens had quarantined the vessel and forbidden anyone to come ashore. “I’m not going anywhere near the docks. I’m going to get a drink.”
“Isn’t that a surprise. You’ve already killed my daughter and grandson. I have no problem in you speeding up your own demise.”
Malrich didn’t feel clever enough to respond. He grabbed his coat. “You know where to find me.”
Minelle snorted and returned to her stitching.
• • •
Malrich took a seat in a booth at a tavern in the southern district near the Royal Port. A great open hearth heated and illuminated the space. Ventilation was poor, and the tavern’s half-rotten ceiling was stained black with soot. There were more names carved into the tables and walls than there were men in the second legion. Malrich’s own name was carved into a stall located near the back of the establishment. That was where he usually sat, but tonight he chose a table by the front door, positioning himself so he could keep an eye on the tavern’s lone window. The window overlooked one of the few canals in the city that wasn’t locked up with ice, thus making it the only sensible route a small watercraft could take if it were returning from the southern end of the bay. Emethius would have no choice but to return this way from the abbey.
The tavern was packed, filled with a sundry mix of Emoni and Tremelese sailors. On any other night, Malrich would have spent the evening telling jokes, sharing stories, and drinking until he was sufficiently drunk; but not tonight. He kept his head down, eyes trained on the window. Even so, he couldn’t help but overhear the conversation from a nearby table.
“The Shadow has been especially bad along the Barren Tracks this year,” reported a sailor out of Ulmer. He had the strong muscular forearms of a rigger. “The Stygian mines have been closed for the season. Mark my words, the price of silver is going to spike.”
“I’d rejoice if I had a single coin to my name,” said a one-eyed riverboat captain. He was a regular at the tavern and rented a room upstairs. “But work has been hard to come by. The Estmer’s still icebound north of the Bend. Half my men have broken contract and joined up with whalers. I’ll be lucky if I can pay my port fee come spring.”
“The ice will free up soon, and you’ll wish it hadn’t,” said the rigger. “Cul raiders were spotted on the south shores of Lake Virta last fall. By now they’ve likely moved into the foothills of Mount Calaban.”
“Lies, lies, and more lies,” said the one-eyed captain. “The Cul haven’t been spotted west of the Morium in a thousand years.”
“Have you been alive long enough to know that for certain?”
“I’ve been alive longer than you, you green-eared bastard.”
“That’s true, and you have the senility to prove it!” The other men at the table laughed.
“You’ll find boys to man your oars once the season turns,” said a sere old trader who spoke with a thick Chanselese accent. “Work’s drying up everywhere. I just led a team along the Silverway. There are thousands of homeless wintering in the ruins of Estri, and enough displaced farmhands in the Estero valley to man every ship in the Elyim fleet ten times over. They’ll all come south looking for work once the snow melts. A day’s work won’t fetch a man a penny by the time summer comes.”
“That is, if the pox doesn’t arrive here first,” said a dwarf from a nearby table. He was so hairy, the only part of his face Malrich could see were his eyes and bulbous nose. “It’ll cover you from head to foot in weeping sores, and your lungs will be so clogged with phlegm you’ll drown on dry land.”
The old Chanselese trader nodded gravely. “Karl Moch had just recalled his fleet to Morsegoroth when I departed. My guess is that he’s trying to outrun the plague.”
“There’s no doing that,” reported a young dwarf who looked half sick himself. His brow was covered in a fine sheen of sweat and the whites of his eyes were twinged with yellow. “The pox is running rampant in Hearstead and Delos, killing highborn and lowborn alike. Before we set sail, King Calmer was threatening to shut down trade until the plague abated. The cap’n said we were the last ship out of port. We made calls at Mier and Inglestead, and found much the same. Mass graves, bodies being burned. The pox will make its way across the Sea of Ro, sooner than later, I’d wager.”
“The gods have already given us a plague,” muttered Malrich from his stoop. All eyes shifted upon Malrich. “Your pox sounds like a godsend compared to the nightmare that haunts the homes of Merridia, a sweet release from the ravages of the Blackheart. Should we be so fortunate.” Malrich took a long draught from his mug.
“Hear, hear!” called the one-eyed captain. Many of the other talsani within earshot nodded their heads in grave agreement. The Tremelese sailors grumbled amongst themselves in their own tongue, sounding their disapproval, and one dwarf was even so bold as to spit at Malrich’s feet. Malrich shrugged the insult off. They would never understand. The dwarven people were somehow immune to the Blackheart, although no one could say precisely why. They would never see their loved ones driven to madness. They would never have to make the stark choice of life or death, to allow the madness to worsen or condemn their loved one to the headsman’s ax.
Malrich finished his beer, then ordered another, and then another after that. To hell with staying sober, he thought, as he finished his fourth. At some point in the evening, he must have fallen asleep, because he awoke under the heavy glare of the tavern owner’s eyes. One quick survey of the room revealed that Malrich was the only patron left.
“What are you still doing here, Mal?” growled the owner. The owner’s nose was twisted sideways, the result of his propensity for instigating fights. He clenched his hand into a fist, causing his big flat knuckles to take on the shape of a gavel.
Malrich groggily wiped the sleep from his eyes, looking from crooked nose to clenched fists and back again. “I ought to be going.”
“Aye? And I ought to pummel you for loitering around my tavern all night,” said the owner. “Get out, now!”
“My apologies,” said Malrich. He fumbled blindly in his pocket for some coins and threw whatever he had on the counter. He stumbled from the tavern half-asleep. His joints were stiff, and his mind was foggy from a hangover, but the cold air sent a sudden jolt of wakefulness through his body.
He had not meant to spend the entire night at the tavern. Minelle would be furious with him, and rightfully so, but he couldn’t go home, at least not yet. He had to make certain Emethius was all right. He hurried down the street toward Emethius’s house.
Three years earlier, on a not so dissimilar morning, Malrich had stumbled home hungover and sore from spending the night asleep in a cramped barroom stall. When he opened the front door of his home, he discovered the entire house reeked of charred meat. At first, Malrich thought Ali had simply overcooked breakfast, but when he looked into the fireplace his heart broke.
Sometime in the middle of the night Ali’s mind gave way to the madness of the Blackheart. There was no telling how long his little boy had been lying there in the hearth, and in truth, it didn’t really matter. His son was gone.
Malrich would have killed Ali that awful winter morning had the neighbors not intervened. By the time they finally broke down the door and pulled Malrich off of Ali, he had beaten her face bloody. But when they saw what she had done
, all judgment left their eyes; they couldn’t fault a father for acting as he did. They left Malrich alone to finish what he started.
But he couldn’t finish it. Not Ali. Not the love of his life. She lay on the floor, her swollen eyes filled with terror. She didn’t understand what she had done to deserve such punishment. That was the way it was with the Blackheart.
His neighbors’ intervention had brought with it a stark sobriety. He sat there all day, a bottle in one hand and a knife in the other. “It will be quick,” he kept telling himself. “It’s either my knife or a headman’s ax.”
Finally, with the setting sun casting light across his broken home he did the only thing he had the courage to do. He carried his battered wife to bed, tucking her in like an invalid. Then he carried his son to the Soul Weigher to receive his final sacrament. It was the last time Malrich set foot in a temple.
Malrich was not without blame. He should have never trusted her alone with their son. Ali showed symptoms of the Blackheart long before the incident. The blanching of her olive skin. The darkening of her blue eyes, that had once been the color of ice. He shook the image from his head. It was easier to remember her as she was now. Ali is dead, it is only her body that remains.
• • •
The streets of Mayal were nearly barren as Malrich hurried toward Emethius’s home. A fishmonger walked by, eager to haul in his lines and see what the night had brought. A Tiber Brother rushed past, running late for the dawn prayer. His bald head steamed in the chill morning air. In the distance a bell tolled, welcoming the arrival of the sun. The gray stone pavers took on a fiery hue.
Fractured Throne Box Set 1 Page 15
