The Lure of Fools

by Jason James King

  Sharp pains from his lower back, ribs, and elbow assailed Tyrus as he stood. “I am inclined to agree.”

  “What do we do now?” Graelle glanced nervously at the atrium door. “Can you try to reach him, love?”

  Irvis shook his head. “I don’t think anyone can.”

  “Then we leave him,” Keesa said.

  “No.” Hort stepped away and knelt next to Jekaran’s body and extended a hand toward the sword.

  “Are you serious?” Irvis caught Hort’s wrist. “The boy hates Lord Gymal, but you’ve actually fought him. He’s going to see you as a threat.”

  Hort easily pulled his wrist out of Irvis’s grip. “If I die, I die. It isn’t like I don’t deserve such an end.”

  He touched the large amethyst jewel on the sword’s cross guard.

  Jekaran nearly tripped on the too-long hem of Irvis’s robe. He had to hike the garment up like a dress to keep up with the big mercenary escorting him to Gymal’s camp. It being night didn’t help any, and he fell after tripping on a lose stone the long robe had hidden from his view. Hort helped him stand, and Jekaran nodded his thanks.

  “I have a confession I want to make to you, Brother Ulan.”

  Jekaran’s chest tightened. Hort said the name in a deliberate way that made it sound like he knew it wasn’t really Jekaran’s name. Could the big mercenary know what he was up to?

  “Speak, my child. For the Divine Mother is always ready to forgive the truly penitent.”

  “It’s not the Divine Mother’s forgiveness I need.”

  Jekaran didn’t know how to respond to that. “Then why―”

  “I told you how I was an apothecary once.”

  Jekaran nodded. He did know that. But how? Hadn’t he only just met this man? For that matter how did he know Hort’s name?

  “You said that venture failed when you were unable to heal your dying son.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I need to confess.”

  “But you already told me that… um… my child.” Jekaran had to hastily add that last part. He was breaking character, but for some reason that didn’t feel like it mattered.

  Hort choked out a bitter laugh. “I lied to you. In part, anyway. Nemel was four days away from his seventeenth birthday.” Hort smiled and shook his head. “He was so excited to finally become a man. I tried to tell him that it wasn’t just a boy’s years that made him a man, but his walk and way of living. Said to him that there were wrinkled geezers that were less a man than he was for how they lived. He wouldn’t have any of it. He was stubborn like that.” Hort glanced down at Jekaran. “He was stubborn like you.”

  Jekaran wrinkled his brow. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I have to confess.”

  “Confess what?”

  Hort’s nostalgic smile faded and he refocused on the distant lights of Gymal’s camp. “Nemel got sick. It wasn’t anything serious. Just a sniffle. Well, we had this big feast planned for his birthday, and Nemel didn’t want to spend the whole affair hocking and spitting wads into a spittoon. And I think he had plans to get a kiss from the mayor’s daughter. So, he asked me for some Aetar seed oil. Doesn’t cure the sniffles, but it helps ya breathe. Dries up the snot, ya see.”

  “You told me he’d taken sick with a fever and died.”

  Hort’s eyes lost their focus. “I never was good at keeping my stories in order.” He chuckled nervously. “Always chaffed at my first wife’s temper, that. See, the bottles looked the same, and I didn’t bother checking the label.”

  Jekaran reached out and took hold of the mercenary’s corded bicep, halting both of their walks. “What are you saying?”

  Hort stared at him for a long moment before quietly answering, “I mistakenly gave Nemel Jeder powder I’d been keeping in an oil-like suspension. Do you know what Jeder is?”

  “It takes away pain, like poppy.”

  Hort nodded. “And like poppy, it can make you sleep. It’s excellent in small doses. But you take too much and you’ll stop breathing and never wake up. The dose for Aeter is five times the size of a single dose of Jeder.”

  Jekaran sickened as he realized what Hort was telling him.

  “Shoulda known when Nemel started yawning and asked if he could skip his chores to lay down for a nap. I let him, on account of his being sick and it being his birthday. When it came time for the party, I tried to wake him, but my boy had stopped breathing in his sleep.”

  “Divine Mother,” Jekaran breathed out.

  Hort turned and resumed walking. “My wife was the one who figured it out. She was so angry she told the whole town, tried to convince the magistrate I’d done it on purpose. I think that was just the grief. She didn’t really believe it, and neither did the magistrate. But that didn’t stop the constable from keeping me locked up during Nemel’s burial. Eventually they let me out, but after that, the wife took my other little ones to live on her father’s farm, and no one would have me tend their sick. Can’t say that I blame ‘em. That’s when I packed up, and went back to the other thing I’d been good at–killin’. But this time I did it for money and not for the king.”

  Jekaran didn’t know what to say. “You―”

  “Killed my own son,” Hort finished. “Yeah. Tried to get past it at first by seeking comfort from the goddess, but women, liquor, and fighting is quicker medicine.”

  “And did they help?”

  “Yeah, but just to keep me from feeling the guilt and pain. Problem is though, none of that ever lasts, and it always takes more to numb yourself the next time.”

  Hort stopped walking, slumped his shoulders, and turned to face him. “That’s what you’re doin’ right now.”

  Jekaran shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  Something pounded on the door of Jekaran’s memory. He shook his head, as if that would drive it away. “No. I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The two of them were suddenly in front of a free-standing door on a glass plain surrounded by whiteness above and below. Jekaran was wearing his normal clothing again, not Irvis’s brown monk robes, and Hort’s clothing bore tears and stains it hadn’t a moment before.

  Jekaran stared at the lonely door. “There’s nothing on the other side.”

  “Yes, there is,” Hort said.

  “What?”

  A tear rolled down Hort’s hairy cheek. “Pain.”

  Another heavy knock shook the door and Jekaran slowly backed away. “Then why would anyone want to open it?”

  “Because something else lies beyond.”

  Jekaran stopped. “What else?”

  “Healing.” He wiped his eye with the back of his harry forearm. “See, I always knew that, but never had the courage to face my pain. I just kept numbing myself with vice. That was until I got tangled up with you. You reminded me so much of Nemel that I haven’t been able to think of much else. It’s forced me to confront what I did and what I lost.”

  “But that hurts.”

  Hort chuckled. “Like flames eatin’ your flesh.”

  Jekaran wanted to turn and run from the door, but the glass plain infinitely expanded in all directions making retreat pointless.

  “How did do you do it? How do you survive the flames?” He could actually feel heat radiating from the free-standing wooden door.

  “By holding onto the good times, remembering the love you shared, and finding a new purpose.” Hort met his eyes. “I’ve found a new purpose.”

  “No.” Jekaran shook his head with increasing ferocity. “No, I can’t do this!” He turned and ran toward the infinite white of the horizon.

  “Jenoc, help!” a woman screamed.

  The familiarity of the voice arrested Jekaran’s flight. He turned back toward Hort. “What was that?”

  “Your new purpose.” The eerie quiet of the place carried the normal volume of Hort’s voice to Jekaran as though he were standing directly in front of him.

 
; “Kairah…”

  But closely resemble they one another, both heroes and fools at first,

  She screamed again.

  Jekaran walked back to stand in front of the door. “And the only way to help her is through there?”

  Hort nodded.

  …and it’s only at the fork of destiny’s road that the truth will at last emerge.

  Jekaran slowly reached for the doorknob. The metal burned and he drew his hand back. How could he survive the flames beyond the door? Surely, they would kill him.

  Kairah screamed again.

  For while the fool always looks to his own regard, the hero for others is er’ aware. And will suffer and die when called upon, even for strangers in his care

  Jekaran drew in a deep breath, reached out, and took hold of the scorching knob. His palm sizzled and the pain nearly overwhelmed him, but Jekaran grit his teeth and turned it. The door flew open, revealing not a fiery inferno as he’d expected, but showing him a scene of chaos and death; Jekaran himself slaughtering the king’s soldiers with wild abandon. He was fully enthralled in the sword’s battle frenzy, and though the sword wasn’t controlling him as before because of their fusing, Jekaran had partaken of its violent spirit.

  Ez ran up and call out to him, and though he paused in his work of death, he didn’t stop. Something in Ez’s hand caught Jekaran’s attention–a stun baton not unlike Gymal’s. Ez waited until Jekaran’s back was to him, and then ran up, baton aimed at Jekaran’s back. The scene slowed down as if to torture Jekaran with every detail as he watched himself whirl, and slam the sword through Ez’s chest.

  Ez smiled and then collapsed, sliding off the sword as he fell to the floor.

  Jekaran had done it! He’d killed his uncle! Killed the man who raised him, who taught him to read, and to farm. The man who’d loved him like a son; the only father Jekaran ever knew. He wished he could blame the sword, but it hadn’t been possessing him like before. Their minds were joined, and Jekaran’s movements were his own.

  But he hadn’t meant to do it. Divine Mother, but he hadn’t!

  After pausing to talk to Ez, he’d shoved his joy at his uncle’s sudden appearance to the back of his mind, and returned to letting the music of the sword’s magic guide his dance of death. The sword gave him a psychic awareness of his surroundings, but that sense was different than sight. He could perceive objects, and people, but only in an odd, detached sort of way. The people were nothing more than heartbeats, breathing, and motion. And the speed at which Jekaran fought demanded immediate, almost prescient reaction to maintain his martial dominance.

  Fused as he was with the sword’s mind, Jekaran was moving and reacting with a rapid superiority he’d never before attained. In fact, he was moving and striking so quickly, that physical sight was distracting and slowing him down. Thus, Jekaran kept his eyes shut, depending exclusively on the sword’s psychic perception as he fought. That was why he hadn’t registered it was Ez sneaking up on him until the sword was already plunging through his uncle’s chest. Like with Hort’s son, it had been an accident. A horrible, tragic, life-shattering accident.

  Jekaran fell to his knees and sobbed. Hort disappeared and the world around him resolved into a storm of red fire that threatened to consume him. It burned, oh how it burned! And Jekaran was tempted to surrender to the flames and the cessation of life they offered, but a woman’s face appeared before him. A woman with flawless white skin, amethyst hair, and deep purple eyes. He knew and loved that face. Loved the woman behind the eyes. He’d touched her mind and soul, breathed her scent, and heard her laugh. He loved her, and in that love he found strength.

  Though he couldn’t extinguish the fire, his determination to rescue Kairah gave him the strength to stave off immolation. He pushed back the flames until they parted and opened a way before him. Jekaran sprinted down the aisle of fire toward a point of light that grew brighter as he ran toward it until it consumed him. Jekaran lost all sense of his physical form, and floated disembodied in a cloud of white.

  You’ve done what no other has ever done, the sword said to him. You’ve come farther than any have ever come. All that I have, all that I am, my knowledge and the power, is yours now. Truly you have mastered Azrin.

  He didn’t know what that meant, but before he could call out to the sword, a rush of energy suffused him. It was cool and refreshing, while at the same time warm and comforting. Was it Apeiron? Was he channeling the energy through his body? It was impossible for Jekaran to know as he had no frame of reference, but the power soothed, comforted, and most importantly, it healed.

  “Kairah!” Jekaran shouted.

  His eyes snapped open and he sat up. Gone was the world of white, replaced by a beautiful garden full of plants and flowers the likes and colors of which he’d never seen. Irvis drew back a trembling hand, eyes wide and mouth hanging open as he stared at a glowing ring on his finger.

  Hort sat beside the chubby monk, tears pooling in his eyes. The big mercenary smiled at Jekaran, and Jekaran smiled back; not an arrogant or cheeky smirk as he was wont to do, but a smile that he hoped showed Hort his understanding and gratitude.

  “Jek!” Mulladin shouted. Then he hugged him around the neck, squeezing so hard that Jekaran had to struggle for breath.

  “Mull!” Jekaran wheezed, and the big man let go.

  Tears ran freely down his cheeks making him look again like the boy-man he’d once been.

  “Boy,” Irvis said.

  Jekaran looked at him and smiled. “Uncle Irvis.”

  The chubby monk lunged forward and embraced him in a hug almost as fierce as Mulladin’s. “I thought we’d lost you.”

  Then tears were pouring down Jekaran’s face. “I killed him, Irvis… I killed Ez…”

  “Hush.” Irvis shook his head, his white hair tickling Jekaran’s cheek. “It was an accident.”

  Jekaran gripped Irvis tighter and sobbed into his shoulder. After a moment of this, Irvis pulled back, wiped his face with the back of a meaty forearm and met Jekaran’s eyes.

  “It wasn’t your fault. It was the will of Rasheera.”

  Jekaran bowed his head and shook it. “How can you say that?”

  “Because,” his voice caught, “he offered his life to the Divine Mother in a covenant. He offered it up in exchange for her interceding to save you from the sword.”

  Jekaran glanced at the blade that rested on the ground next to him and growled. “But I’m still connected to it, I can feel the bond.”

  Irvis looked ashamed. “It was necessary to re-bond you so I could put your mind back together. I’m sorry.”

  “Then Ez’s sacrifice meant nothing.” Jekaran reached out, took hold of its handle and lifted it so he was staring directly into the round amethyst embedded in the cross guard. “I hate you!” He shouted. “Do you hear me? I hate you!”

  The sword made no response.

  Jekaran’s anger muted and he shot a glance at Irvis.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s not answering me.”

  “It spoke to me in your voice when I used it,” Mulladin said. “It held a piece of your mind.”

  “The fusing,” Jekaran muttered.

  “The what?” Gymal demanded in his nasally tone.

  “Back in Aiested, when I was fighting the king’s soldiers, the sword suggested we join our minds to access its full power.” Jekaran looked up at Gymal and then set the sword down on the ground. He gasped.

  “What is it?” Irvis touched his shoulder.

  “Usually when I let go of the sword, all my fighting knowledge and skill diminishes or disappears.” He met Irvis’s eyes. “I still have it all.”

  You have mastered Azrin. What did that mean? He’d have to ask Kairah. The memory of Kairah’s desperate scream struck him like a physical force, replaying with such clarity that it was like hearing it a second time.

  “Kairah!” He grabbed the sword and stood. “She’s in danger!”

  Maely limped along as quic
kly as she could, frequently having to lean against an Allosian statue, or the white wall of a building to rest or avoid falling. She dragged her ruined leg behind her, gritting her teeth and spouting a stream of profanity so foul it shocked even her.

  The pain was sharp and made her nauseous, but that’s not what evoked her unusually creative and exhaustive litany of curses. The Allosians who originally had come to her aid after Empyrean crashed had abandoned her. They literally dropped her and ran when Jenoc’s army swarmed into the city streets.

  “Gutless, jewel-haired, milkmaids,” she growled.

  The monsters with the ghostly green tentacles mostly ignored Maely–though now and again one would lash out at her. They all did the same thing when their magic tendrils disappeared; gasped in surprise and made two or three subsequent attempts before moving on to easier prey. Maely touched the chunk of green crystal beneath her shirt. It was doing its job in protecting her, but that didn’t erase all her fear, especially for Raelen.

  He’d run off, presumably after Jenoc himself, leaving her to the care of the Allosian onlookers. Since being left for dead, Maely had steadily moved in the direction she’d last seen the prince go.

  “That’s her!”

  Maely snapped her head to the left where she found three of Jenoc’s monsters; a woman and two men all leering at her. Their skin was pale, and they had dark circles below their green eyes, making them look sickly. But their wide grins belied their weak appearance.

  “She’s got some kind of talis protecting her.” The woman pointed.

  “I don’t see any talis.” One of the men scoffed.

  “See that bulge under her shirt?”

  Maely reacted by looking down at her chest. It was stupid and only served to confirm the woman’s accusation.

  The second man, a tall figure clad in the armor of the Aiestali army, laughed. “I see it!”

  The three advanced, and Maely pressed her back against the wall of the building she’d been leaning on.

  “Stay back!”

  She tried to draw the flare kris from where it hung at her belt–which was useless as the talis drained the moment Raelen put the green shard around her neck–to defend herself, but the two men surged forward, pinning Maely by her upraised arms against the wall. She cried out as the woman moved in and tore down the bust line of her top. Hanging in her cleavage was the bundled shard of green crystal.