What Emethius didn’t know, what he could never know, was how close Malrich had come to joining the rebellion himself. The ideas that led to the rebellion had been simmering just below the surface for as long as Malrich could remember. One only needed to visit the watering holes near the docks to hear that the people were not doing as well as the lords and priests would have everyone believe. The Blackheart was running rampant, and the common folk were losing faith. They were losing faith in High Lord Valerius, who claimed that the Blackheart was a scourge sent by the gods to separate the sinners from the saints. They were losing faith in the theocratic system, with its six holy dioceses and the venal aristocracy that propped them up. But most importantly, they were losing faith in the Calabanesi.
In taverns late at night, Malrich often gave a sympathetic ear to men and women espousing the virtues of the rebel cause. He understood their anger and frustration. But when swords were finally drawn, he stayed loyal to the oath he had taken when he became a Soldier of the Faith. But that was when he still thought Herald Carrick was the leader of the rebellion. Had he known about Prince Meriatis, things might have gone differently. The whole damn war might have gone differently. Thousands upon thousands would have rallied to the banner of the young and charismatic prince. The old order would have fallen. Malrich could only wonder what would have risen in its place.
He rounded the corner of Emethius’s street and stopped dead in his tracks. Three city watchmen were loitering near Emethius’s front door. A sudden fear welled in Malrich’s heart. What if Emethius was captured? His panicked mind raced through countless scenarios. Would Ftoril be on the hunt to quiet anyone who knew about the prince? Would Emethius give them Malrich’s name? And if Malrich was arrested, what would the court do with Ali? The thought gave him shivers.
Malrich lowered his head and pulled his cloak flush with his cheeks in a vain effort to conceal his face.
One of the watchmen stumbled into the middle of the street and began to make lewd gestures toward his companions, all the while shouting about his conquests at a brothel. The other watchmen laughed. No one so much as lifted an eye in Malrich’s direction.
Malrich swallowed the knot in his stomach and walked past the watchmen.
He was a coward in many ways, giving in to fear while greater men led the way. He was too afraid to help Emethius with Prince Meriatis, fearful that Ftoril was a two-faced fraud. He was too hesitant to join the rebellion, although he believed in the very ideas for which they fought. He was too weak to do right by his wife when she was healthy, or to do what was necessary to protect his son after she became sick.
A wise man once told him that fear made men do the sensible thing. The older he got, the more he realized sensible was just a kind word for cowardly. Sensible men never changed the world. Sensible men righted no wrongs.
Arriving to Emethius’s house, Malrich knocked on the door. There was no response. He attempted to peek through the window Ftoril had crashed through, but Emethius had done a thorough job boarding it up. Finally, he tried the handle. He was surprised to find it unlocked.
Malrich cautiously peered inside, half expecting a trap.
“Get in here, you oaf, and shut the door.” Emethius was sitting at the dining table with a collection of parchments strewn out before him.
“I thought... I thought... well, I’m not exactly sure what I thought. But...” Malrich trailed off as he caught sight of the new map that lay side-by-side with the map Emethius had found in Herald Carrick’s journal. “What exactly happened at the abbey?”
“The mission was a complete and utter failure,” reported Emethius, with a noticeable waver to his voice. “Meriatis doesn’t have a clue what happened to Shadowbane, and even if he did, it wouldn’t be of any help. Ftoril was taken captive.”
“Gods help me,” muttered Malrich. “Did they kill her?”
“Not that I saw, but there’s no telling what they’ll do to her. Sir Rupert is the one who finally subdued her. Ftoril took off his thumb before he knocked her out.”
Malrich would have found that funny if the stakes weren’t so dire. “Do you think she’ll talk?”
“Did she talk when we had her tied up?”
“No, but we didn’t start lopping off body parts.”
Emethius shrugged. “I’m guessing we’re safe, but only time will tell for certain.”
“Where did you get the map?”
“In a brief moment of lucidity, Meriatis slipped me this map.” Emethius rubbed his hands together, but it did little to hide the fact that he was trembling. “It answers an important question; I now know where the cure to the Blackheart is located. But that knowledge is more of a curse than a blessing.”
Malrich had never seen Emethius so shaken. He sat down and examined the blood-covered parchment. The image was clear enough — two lone peaks stood on the western coast of Eremel bisected by a river. At the head of the river was a large “X” and some words written in the ancient tongue. Malrich had a hard enough time reading and writing in the common tongue — he had never learned a word of Talsa Ew. In this case it didn’t matter. There was no other location in the world the mark could be indicating.
“Bi Ache, the Sin of Atimir, the city of the damned,” said Emethius. “That’s where the cure is hidden. And that’s where I must go.”
Bi Ache was once the greatest city is the world. A thousand years ago it was overrun during the resurgence of the Cul. Its citizens were slaughtered or forced into slavery. No sane person had ventured there since.
“No,” was all Malrich could manage in response.
“It’s not an option,” said Emethius solemnly.
“Oh, isn’t it?” challenged Malrich. “You’ll die, you know you will. No one has set foot west of Terra Falls since the Cul burned Bi Anule.”
“Superstition has kept them away, not fact,” countered Emethius. “No one knows where the Cul are hiding.”
“Here, there, and everywhere in-between,” said Malrich, pointing to the crudely drawn mountains that ran the length of the western coast. He narrowed his eyes sternly. “Meriatis is mad and that little dragon friend of yours is as wretched as they come. What do you think you are doing? What’s going on in that head of yours that makes you think it’s your responsibility to cure Meriatis of an incurable disease?”
Emethius’s eyes glimmered, betraying the hidden turmoil in his mind. “Yes, Ftoril is wretched, but not wicked. I believe she cares very little about Meriatis’s fate, and the end she sought would not have been the same as our own. But when she said there was a cure, I believed her.”
“You want to believe her, is more like it.”
“Meriatis’s map all but confirms Ftoril’s claim.”
“Aye? Ftoril may have told Meriatis the same lie.”
Emethius pushed himself away from the table and began to pace. “Life is a battle between right and wrong, and the easiest path is not always the most righteous. Meriatis may have fallen from grace, but he does not deserve to be condemned to madness if there is a cure. No one does. And if that does not convince you, it is as simple as this; Meriatis is my friend. That’s justification enough in my opinion.”
Malrich visualized the journey Emethius would have to take to reach the ruins of Bi Ache — all paths led along dark roads haunted by an even darker enemy. “You could sail to Terra Falls, but there’s not a captain in the world that will take you a league farther. From there it’s a hundred and fifty leagues as the bird flies, but the route you will be forced to take will never be straight. For every step of the journey you will be hunted by the Cul. I see only doom in that route.”
“No, there is another way.” Emethius pointed out the route on the map. “I can take the Barren Tracks into the Great Northern Ador — the Dunie still guard the way. The Cul fear that forest as much as any talsani.”
And for good reason, Malrich knew. The forest was haunted by the ghosts of the dead. The gods forbid the living to enter.
“If the
maps of old still bear any truth, the Northern Ador comes within fifty leagues of Bi Ache.”
“Fifty leagues in the Cultrator is still a death sentence.”
“The Cul rule the night, but in the open wastes of the Cultrator there will be no refuge from the sun. They will stay hidden by day and I will stay hidden by night.”
It was possible, Malrich knew, but not likely. He threw himself down on a bench, half out of exhaustion, half out of distress. Of all the possible destinations in the world, why did it have to be Bi Ache?
A heavy silence hung over the room, save for the odd pop of firewood crackling in the hearth. Malrich grappled with the implications of Emethius’s plan. If there actually was a cure for the Blackheart, it was a hope beyond anything he had ever thought possible. But his heart sagged at the realization that it was probably just that; a hope. A false hope that will mislead, and draw us like a siren’s call into the most forsaken place in the world.
“To think, we now take council from a madman, a dead herald, and a duplicitous dragon,” scoffed Malrich. He wrung his hands nervously and chewed at his lip. Finally, he sighed, accepting the burden in full. “By the gods, I pray that you are right, because you will be condemning us both to death if you are wrong.”
“I ask nothing of you, Mal.”
“That is because you needn’t ask. One alone stands little chance in the wilds of the Cultrator, but two, well...” Malrich smiled. “Besides, it’s not your decision to make. My home has been burdened by the Blackheart as much as any. If there’s a cure...”
“You owe it to Ali to seek it out.” Emethius nodded his head. He misunderstood Malrich’s motivation, but Malrich didn’t bother to correct him. Emethius jumped from his chair and gave Malrich a hearty hug. “You are a true friend, Mal. We have countless leagues yet to travel, and nothing but uncertainty between us and our destination. But, if at journey’s end we find ourselves once again in Mayal, may your wife be cured of her affliction, and may you both live a hundred years blissfully wed.”
“May it be so,” said Malrich, not really meaning it. Because the truth was, no cure would ever bring Ali back; the woman he loved had died long ago. He was undertaking this journey for the ghost of his son, and for every other Merridian who had suffered the ravages of the Blackheart. He had to find out if there was actually a cure, and whether or not the gods were purposefully withholding it from the masses. For the truth, Malrich would walk to ends of the earth. For the truth, Malrich would sacrifice his life a hundred times over.
CHAPTER
XII
TRANSFUSER
Leta stood in the inner ward of the Vacian Monastery looking over the rows of neatly arrayed beds. The beds were empty for now, each prepared with fresh white linens and a down pillow. They almost looked inviting, were it not for the wrist and ankle restraints fastened to the frame of each bed.
There had been a lull in the influx of new patients over the past few weeks. A reason to be grateful, thought Leta. Still, here the beds stood, awaiting the inevitable. More patients would come, they always did, and eventually someone would be sent to the headsman.
Leta had always regarded her duties within the Vacian Monastery with a sense of pride. Helping the afflicted was godly work, and if she needed to assist in separating a soul from its tainted body, then so be it. Death could be a mercy, or so her father taught her. But the death of a clean soul was simply murder.
Is my soul tainted by my actions? Will the gods hold me accountable for sins I did not purposefully commit? She had no answers, only doubts, and an incurable guilt that gnawed at her soul.
“I have only spoken the truth.” Those were the heretic’s last words. He had not seemed as demented as the other patients, but he wasn’t of sound mind either. Leta could only come to one conclusion — Lady Miren was somehow poisoning the minds of the heretics she sent to the monastery. There were a handful of poisons that would cause a patient to demonstrate symptoms similar to the Blackheart, but all would wear off within a matter of hours.
That troubled Leta even more. Someone in the monastery had to be continuously administering the poison, which meant there was a traitor in Leta’s flock. The thought caused her stomach to roil anew.
The door to the monastery opened, and in trotted Orso and Lady Miren’s three wards. The noon bell tolled, marking that the four children were right on time for their evaluation.
“Good morning, priestess,” said Awen and Bree in unison. They each curtsied. Leta couldn’t help but notice that their form had improved significantly. They had clearly been practicing.
“Lady Miren sends her regards,” said Ionni. Her curtsy was stiff and awkward. Her left leg didn’t seem to rotate properly at the hip.
Orso didn’t bother with such formalities. He pushed his way to the front of the gathering and wrinkled his nose. “What’s that smell?” asked the boy. His eyes wandered to the row of empty beds.
The fresh sheets hid the stains on the mattresses, but did little to lessen the scent of excrement and bodily fluids.
“What do they do here?” asked Awen, staring at the empty beds.
“This is where they treat the affliction,” said Ionni, answering before Leta got the chance.
“My cousin died of the Blackheart,” announced Bree with far too much excitement. “He was only five.”
Ionni ribbed Bree with her elbow.
“It was very sad,” added Bree. She looked down at the floor.
Leta smiled. Being the oldest of the three girls, Ionni had clearly taken on the role of big sister.
“You look very similar to him,” said Awen. She was squinting at Leta’s face.
“Similar to who?”
“Prince Meriatis,” said the girl, as if that answer was obvious. “I mean, you’re very pretty, like a princess from the stories. But Prince Meriatis was more handsome.”
Leta decided to take that as a compliment. She knelt down before the small girl so that they were eye to eye. “And how would you know what my brother looked like?”
“I met him.”
“Me too!” said Bree happily.
“He worked with my father on the senses,” said Awen.
Leta raised an eyebrow. “Do you mean the census?” A census was conducted every fifty years to measure the population of Merridia. It was one of the last things Meriatis worked on before the onset of the rebellion.
“Uh huh. That’s right,” said Awen nodding vigorously.
“Me too!” Bree declared, even more happy than before.
Was that why these poor children were here? Because their fathers had helped Prince Meriatis perform his civic duty to the throne? That seemed hardly a treasonous act. Leta noted that Ionni remained silent during this interaction. Ionni wasn’t a carefree child like the other two girls; she would be harder to crack.
Leta waved the children along. “Follow me. Let’s not linger here. I’m sure you are all excited to begin the evaluation.” Leta guided them to the testing area — a small chapel dedicated to the Weaver. A marble statue crafted in the likeness of the winged goddess stood overlooking a small altar. Atop the altar sat a cage covered with a red cloth.
“What’s in the cage?” asked Orso. He ran up to the altar and tried to peek under the cover.
Leta withdrew the cover, revealing a large white snow hare. “This is Saddy,” said Leta, lifting the hare out of the cage. Saddy was accustomed to being handled, and didn’t resist. She stroked the hare along its ears and back, which Saddy seemed to like. “Saddy is going to assist us with our test.”
“A rabbit? That’s silly,” said Awen, the youngest of the three girls. “How is a rabbit going to help us?”
“She’s a nice rabbit. Soft and friendly. She especially likes lettuce. Here, hold her.” Leta passed Saddy into Awen’s outstretched arms. Awen’s cynicism seemed to disappear immediately. She giggled like the little girl she was.
“Let me hold her,” said Orso, reaching for the hare.
“Each of y
ou will get your turn,” said Leta. She motioned for Awen to pass Saddy to Bree. “Today you will each be evaluated to see if you bear the Weaver’s Blessing. Those who possess the gift can perform the miracle of transfusion. They can manipulate the power of life. They can bring fruit to a barren tree, they can sow a barren field with grain, or they can mend the wounded and heal the sick. Those blessed with the gift have ascended to some of the highest seats of honor in our land. My father bears the gifts, as does Herald Cenna.”
“But you don’t,” said Ionni. She collected the hare from Bree, who seemed eager to part with the animal.
“It’s true, I do not possess the blessing,” admitted Leta. “The gift often skips a generation, and has even become extinct within some bloodlines, as is the will of Calaban.
“As is the will of Calaban,” echoed the children in unison.
Orso yanked Saddy out of Ionni’s hands and clutched the rabbit to his chest. “When do we begin this test?”
“Actually, we already have,” said Leta. “Now that everyone has had a chance to get acquainted with Saddy, I would like you all to put a hand on her back. Orso, you can continue to hold her. Girls, gently place your hands behind her ears. Now focus your attention on Saddy’s body. Consider what she hears, what she sees, what she feels. Imagine her heartbeat and the air drawing into her lungs.” Leta waited a moment for the children to comply. When they each appeared deep in thought, she asked her next question. “Do any of you feel Saddy’s life force?”
The three girls contemplated the question for a second. They each shook their heads.
“I felt something,” declared Orso with pride. “A tingling in my fingertips. Do you think I have the gift?”
Leta replied only with a smile. Orso was lying. The Weaver’s Blessing didn’t work like that, but the boy was too ignorant to know any better. Leta’s question was meant to get the children to hone their senses, to focus solely on their physical connection with the hare and nothing else. It helped to enhance the feeling of shock they would all soon encounter.
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