“Khorel is an affront to nature!” Jaiden called out, his rising voice causing the Duke to stir in his chair. Looking from the pestilence-riddled noble back to Saffron, Jaiden felt an uneasiness rising from the pit of his stomach. Of course she was right. He knew from his own experience that the King-priest was more than capable of ruining innocent lives in the pursuit of his goals – that he might even relish it.
But something else bothered Jaiden, something besides the idea of a divinely-induced sickness called down to ravage the enemies of Chelpa. It gnawed at him like a memory, lingering beneath the surface, one he couldn’t quite gather to consciousness. It was an answer to their problem, given before he knew the problem existed, and he could not remember what. Something said to him in a dream… that was it!
Jaiden looked directly into Saffron’s eyes. She raised her eyebrows, unable to decipher his gaze, waiting for him to verbalize the thought working its way through his mind. Instead of speaking, he shifted his gaze to the Duke, and then to several others in the room. Their skin, now illuminated by a mixture of torch and moonlight, showed the blackened decay and open sores of their affliction. Jaiden raised his head to the ceiling and swiveled to take in the high walls, looking for the narrow windows from which the slanting light of the moon, Criesha, pierced the room.
Daylight had completely passed away, and Jaiden pushed a long, wooden table across the stone floor until it met the western wall, where the radiant beams were strongest.
“Jaiden?” Saffron asked as he jumped to a bench and then atop the table. He peered outside, tracking the sky until he found the namesake of his goddess, still low in its nightly arc. The moon was full.
Upon this confirmation, he stepped down from the table, still not answering Saffron. He did not want to speak his thought aloud, risk sounding like a fool, until he put his faith to the test; the idea stopped him mid-stride. That is what it was, after all – faith. If he was only dreaming during his visits to that other world among the stars, he would pay the price now. But how could that be? His leg was whole again – that much was real.
Jaiden covered the ground to the Duke’s throne in quick steps. Such an approach would have earned an intercession of the noble guard in times past, but no one was left with the strength to defend Rosegold’s lord. The Duke looked up, merely watching as Jaiden stood over him and removed his gauntlets.
Saffron, who followed his movements more slowly, called from behind, “Jaiden, do not touch him, you’ll become infected!”
She was too late. He placed both palms upon the crown of the Duke’s head and closed his eyes. He did not know exactly how to do what he was attempting, so he let his emotions guide him. “May the pure light of Criesha cleanse your body,” he said, envisioning the soft cheeks and boundless blue depths of his Goddess’s eyes. He felt a surge of comforting warmth, then opened his lids and parted his hands.
The face looking up at him was not the same one from a moment ago. The Duke, though middle-aged, looked years younger with his skin cleared. Only a few wrinkles around his eyes hinted he was not a man in his prime. He raised his own hands, lips quivering as he marveled at the difference – once again strong and useful, unmarred by sores and decay.
“What is this?” he bellowed, looking up at Jaiden with searching eyes.
Jaiden did not know what to say. His throat caught as he opened his mouth, and he was forced to swallow hard without providing an explanation. He looked over his shoulder at Saffron, but with her veil on he could not read her reaction.
As the Duke of Rosegold stood, Jaiden moved aside and kneeled next to an almost completely wasted man, sitting in a heap against one of the long, wooden feast tables. He repeated his actions, clearing his mind as he laid his hands on the man’s head, and spoke the same words. This time, however, he kept his eyes open, and could feel Saffron and the Duke watching.
The change began immediately. No bright flash, no crackle of energy, no outward sign at all betrayed that something was happening – only it was. This man’s skin cleared as well, and he lifted his head as if coming out of a stupor.
“It’s a miracle.” The Duke’s observation sounded more like acceptance of what his eyes saw than exultation at the fact. His gaze moved from his revived courtier to Jaiden. “Are you some sort of Shaper?”
Jaiden shook his head. “If this is magic, it is the Goddess’s and not mine.”
“Criesha?” the Duke asked. “You are telling me the legendary Goddess of the Moons and Magic, a myth not worshipped in the Cradle for ages, is performing some sort of healing through you?” Coming from one who had just returned from the brink of death, it sounded to Jaiden like a challenge.
“It would appear so.” Jaiden looked over his shoulder again, as Saffron stepped closer. He was as stunned as any of them, perhaps more so, being the newly discovered conduit of his deity’s power. He offered a hand to the man he had cured and helped raise him to his feet.
“This was hinted to me in a dream,” he offered, finally finding his voice. He looked straight at Saffron as he spoke. “I only remembered it now.” He blushed, thinking about what happened in the dream world to distract him. “We must hurry, though. If all I was told holds true, I only have until the full moon sets to channel her power.”
Jaiden looked around the hall at the gathered survivors of Windhollow Castle. “There are enough to start here. Saffron, you must return swiftly to Sir Golddrake. Beseech him to have the Order ride to Synirpa and spread the word. Gather anyone who has the sickness and bid them travel to the castle.”
She nodded and turned her body to leave, but held her head a moment longer to cast a final look at Jaiden – a look he could not, with her face still covered, read. Their eyes met, then she strode in the direction of the courtyard.
“Whatever you need, Sir Knight, you shall have it.” The Duke clasped his shoulder.
“Pardon, Your Grace, but I am no knight.”
“Truly?”
“Truly, Your Grace, but I thank you for your offer. We should prepare this room to receive the sick. Who knows how many may come?”
“Too many,” the Duke replied, a far-off look in his eyes. “And it is already too late for many more.”
Jaiden knew the truth behind that statement, but chose to stay mindful of those he could help, starting with the Duke’s own court. One by one, he lay his hands upon the wasting bodies of the ill, and cured them of the Dread Tyrant’s plague. As he did, the Duke led the newly cured in moving tables and benches, creating a path along which the expected sick could make their way to Jaiden.
Saffron emerged from the gate of Windhollow Rock at a speed entirely unsafe for navigating the precarious, winding trail, especially at night.
The cavalry was mostly unhorsed, preparing to camp in a glade along the Dawn Way, within view of the castle. Rogan had even picked out a nice spot underneath an aspen tree. Yet Sir Golddrake was atop Bastion by the time Saffron cleared the snakelike approach, hurrying to meet her.
Rogan noticed she had ridden out alone, and feared what it meant. He strapped on his saber and hustled forward to hear the news. He had time to imagine an ambush, perhaps an accident of some sort, or an emergency related to the disease requiring young Jaiden to remain behind.
To hear instead that the impetuous warrior had miraculously healed the Duke, strained his trust in Saffron’s reliability.
“He has asked that we ride to Synirpa, and quickly lead as many of the sick as will come to the castle to be healed,” Saffron continued.
“Why the immediacy?” Sir Golddrake questioned, obviously less incredulous than Rogan.
“Jaiden claims he will only be able to cure the illness while the full green moon rides in the sky.”
“We must act swiftly, then.” Sir Golddrake turned in the saddle to face the rest of his men. “We have not earned our rest yet, it seems,” he called in a resonant voice. “Prepare yourselves and your mounts, for we ride to Synirpa with haste. We must gather all the infected who still
live and escort them to Windhollow Rock.”
Sir Golddrake left Sir Kilborn to see his orders through. Without hesitation, he urged Bastion northwest along the road toward the second largest city in the provinces. Saffron followed his lead, leaving Rogan and the rest of them scurrying to pack their gear and catch up.
“It sounds like a long night ahead,” he mentioned to the soldier beside him as they saddled their horses once more. The animals whinnied and snorted their displeasure at being burdened again without a full night to recuperate.
“I know, girl,” Rogan commiserated with his mare. “It is a sour course to swallow, but we must all dance to the Master’s tune.”
He swung onto his steed and put his heels to her flank, joining the line of the Order already riding north into the young night, underneath the green glow of the complete and watchful moon.
The ride stirred something within him, a feeling like surging memory springing forth from forgotten depths. This sweeping mood raised goosebumps, though the air had not yet lost its accumulated warmth of the day. This same night air, however, was undoubtedly causing a transformation – along with the moonlight, and the trees passing by east of the road like ancient sentinels, and the road moving swiftly like a river beneath the hooves of his steed.
Rogan became aware of the world around him as if his senses were heightened, and in this state a thought from years ago – something guarded, kept buried by a desire stronger than his consciousness – swam to the surface of his recollection. He could not explain what moved him, but he suddenly wept, the wind streaking tears from his eyes as soon as they formed.
It had been a night just like this – still warm but with cold to come, Criesha full overhead, bathing his manor in ghostly green light. The smell of smoke was heavy in the air, and the light changed to red as his house erupted in a conflagration. His wife and son were still inside. He had struggled to break away, but the Blood Tear Brotherhood pulled a sack over his face and struck him on the back of the head.
What was happening to him? He remembered it all: the almost-deafening anger, the physical exhaustion, the untapped sorrow threatening to flood him like the melting mountain snow, the heat of the flames, even from far away, the ubiquitous burning smell… the crying. Why had he forgotten the crying?
It was brief, but as he was thrown in the back of a cart he had regained consciousness for a moment, and in that blur of confusion and darkness was the sound of a child – his child, his Dominic – wailing for the loss he could not possibly comprehend. Why had he not remembered his son was still alive?
Synirpa lay no more than a league from Windhollow Rock, and Rogan saw his companions slowing to a halt with the looming skyline outlined in green to the west. His head still reeled from the memory as he pulled back on his reins, joining the crowd where a path diverged from the main road toward the gate of the moonlit city.
“The eastern bridge is out,” Saffron declared as the last of the horses came within earshot.
“Where is Master Golddrake?” The irritation in Sir Kilborn’s question was not masked, though no one present could claim fault. Rogan had come to realize this was not a man who liked surprises, but if Sir Golddrake had ridden on alone, it would have been his choice to do so.
“He commanded that you and most of the rest should follow him north and west around the hill,” Saffron gestured to a tree-spotted mound a stone’s throw beyond. “A second gate sits on the far side of the city, and he wants to spare no time. Once you gain entrance, he bids you rouse and lead as many of the sick as you can find back to this eastern gate.”
The Orders’ horses stamped and shook their manes, used to battle following such brief, hard rides. Sir Kilborn’s mount strode along the road once more and had to be forcefully steered back to circle around Saffron. “And the others?” he prodded tersely after a delay.
Saffron paused two more breaths before answering. She lowered her chin, choosing not to face the older knight. “I need a half-dozen to remain with me here to build a new bridge.”
Rogan had not been included, but he already knew he was staying to help Saffron. He imagined Dhania would as well. Still, he watched for Sir Kilborn’s reaction with interest. He knew it bothered Sir Golddrake’s lieutenant when those outside the Order were entrusted with too much responsibility.
“Pick your men,” Sir Kilborn responded flatly, then turned his eager steed loose to gallop in pursuit of their leader.
Saffron watched him go before moving her gaze to the heavens, checking the height of Criesha in the sky. “Any volunteers? Who are carrying the axes?” It only took a matter of seconds for six men to claim their chance to assist the Lady Saffron, and she dismissed the rest to ride to the far gate of Synirpa.
Rogan joined her in dismounting, and they led the remainder of their company to the bank of the encircling stream that formed the natural perimeter of the city. The old bridge had been disabled, though its foundations were still intact. He needed a distraction, to put his hands and mind to work, lest he torment himself with the new memory that had sprung forth under this haunting moon. Now was not the time to dwell on its implications.
“We should get to it,” he said to Saffron, taking charge without asking. “I’ll swim to the other side to assess the far bank. We’re going to need more light to work by, and new timber for the span.”
Saffron opened her mouth, but shut it without speaking. She placed her hand on Rogan’s arm and squeezed briefly. Perhaps she heard something shaken in his voice. “Alright. Dhania and I will take measurements. I fear it is going to be a night without rest.”
Chapter 22
The Miracle at Windhollow Rock
T he majority of the bridge’s components remained just inside the Eastern Gate of Synirpa, a pleasant surprise. Convincing the guards to let him use them for reconstruction, however, proved a task beyond Rogan’s abilities of persuasion.
“The bridge was disassembled for the protection of the city,” one of them said, “and nothing, short of a declaration from the steward or the Duke of Rosegold himself, will satisfy a reversal.”
When Rogan, still dripping from his swim, pushed his argument that the King-priest’s army was nowhere to be found, and repairing the bridge was the only way to save their sick, the guard pegged him as a native of Chelpa and accused him as a likely spy. Rogan was ready to strike the man for his insult, but the hot look that washed over his features forewarned the guard, who drew his sword in deterrence.
Across the stream a fire was burning, and the sound of axes biting trees echoed over the space between its glow and the woods beyond. Rogan could hear Saffron’s voice, and saw the feminine silhouettes of her and Dhania standing not far from the flames. He cupped his hands on either side of his mouth and called to her, deciding a fresh approach might be more fruitful. “Saffron, I could use your help over here. I am having difficulty… relating to the locals.” She turned her head and tilted it toward her sister’s outline before approaching the far side of the stream.
“What seems to be the trouble, Baron? Are you ready to lay the ropes?”
“Yes, but then I think you should cross over. They’ve got most of the bridge piled up just inside the wall, but the guards won’t let me near it.”
“I see.” Saffron tossed the coil of a thick, wound rope in a near-perfect arc across the stream. Tinged green, it looked like the tongue of an exotic frog unfurling to catch an insect.
Rogan caught the descending rope awkwardly in the dark, its impact stinging his bare hands. They each wrapped their end around the remaining stone foundations until the length between was taut, then tied knots to hold it secure. Repeating the process on the other side, they soon constructed a sturdy base on which to lay the planks.
“One moment,” Saffron called across the stream before returning to where her horse was grazing. Rogan watched as she unpacked her lyre and slung it across her back by its leather strap. Next, she removed her riding boots and left them as she crossed back over the cool
grass in her bare feet.
“What are you doing?”
“Silence,” she admonished, though without bite. “Let me concentrate, or I shall end up as wet and sour as you, Baron.” Arms out wide for balance, Saffron stepped onto the thick rope they had just strung over the running water. She did not look down, but Rogan did, and while the current was not swift, the channel’s dark waters were cold, and deeper than their width suggested.
Saffron’s sure feet folded around the curve of the woven hemp, and Rogan found himself holding his breath as she placed one in front of the other, steadily covering the span of the stream. When she was within arm’s length he reached out, and she took his offering, gracefully leaping the rest of the way.
She smiled easily at him, and Rogan could not help grinning also. “Well done. I could not be blamed if I mistook you for a cat.” He bowed in jest before remembering their plight and recovering a more serious manner.
“These fools have all the supplies we need, but will not yield them to me.”
Saffron adjusted her weight and pulled the strap until her lyre swung around her hip. “I understand. Let me see what I can do.” She walked toward the open gate, leaving delicate footprints in the dirt of the path.
Braziers burned fiercely on either side of the entrance, illuminating the quartet of armed guards who curiously watched her approach. Rogan followed, but made sure to stay several, long strides behind to prevent his presence from disturbing the natural aura of enchantment Lady Saffron exuded.
Instead of attempting to reason with them, however, she cleared her throat and plucked a few strings on her instrument to assure it was in tune. Then, she played. The men drew closer, no doubt wondering why a beautiful, bare-footed foreigner was serenading them at the gates of Synirpa.
“Weary now, the night has come, let it bring my body peace,
Tired from travel, tired from grief, let the dark bring some release,
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