The Bellringer

by William Timothy Murray

  "Ah, there you go!" he said, once Esildre was in the saddle. "I'll keep ahold of the reins, but you should hang onto this saddle rope, just to keep steady. Let me adjust those stirrups. I seem to have them a bit too long."

  "Thank you," she said in the Common Speech, since that was what he spoke.

  "Not at all," he replied. After a few minutes, he had her stirrups adjusted. "Do you want me to tie your bag onto the saddle?"

  "No, thank you. I'll keep it over my shoulder."

  "As you wish."

  Tyrin mounted, tying the reins of her horse onto his saddle.

  "I don't know much about pilgrims, or such," he said, "so you must forgive my ignorance of your ways. And, though I've been in Duinnor for a while, I've only been up to the Temple once. Just to see the sights, so to speak. Oh, and what's your name?"

  "My name?"

  "Yes, your name. Old Raynor said you'd tell me yourself. And he didn't say I'd be escorting a lady, either."

  "Oh, pardon me for not saying." Esildre mentally scrambled for an answer. "You may call me Shevalia." It was an old family name, rarely used. And she immediately regretted it, wishing she had thought it through and chosen a more common name.

  "Shevalia," Tyrin repeated. "Pretty. Well, Miss Shevalia, let us be on our way. A long way to go!"

  "Yes. Let's."

  "So, anyway, as I was saying, I ain't had much call to know pilgrims, though I'm something of one, you might say, goin' from place to place. I'm from Glareth, originally. You?"

  "Vanara."

  "Ah! Should've known. My line of work, when I can find it, is along the lines of swordplay, if you know what I mean."

  "You're a mercenary."

  "Well, if you put it bluntly. I suppose I am. Or have been, anyway. Me and my mates—they're still in Duinnor—we figured we'd come out this way, westward, to see what kind of trouble we could get into. But there ain't a lot. Between the Kingsmen, Duinnor Regulars, and you Vanaran folk, there just ain't much call for our services north of the Dragonlands. And we prefer cooler places. No call in biting off more than we can chew with Dragonfolk. So, anyway, we sort of like Duinnor, though work is scarce. I mean, we don't mind too much. We'd rather carouse than fight any day of the week, when coin's ready and honor's kept. A trade's a trade, that's all. And, I suppose we're a might picky about the jobs we do agree to take. Once, down around Tracia, oh that was years ago, now, yeah, we sure cut our teeth down there. And that ain't all we cut, neither! Oh, I hope you don't mind this kind of talk. I ain't the pious sort, but I don't mean to offend."

  "Not at all," Esildre said with a smile. "Your way of speaking is refreshing."

  "And you've got the tone of fine breeding in your manner," he said. "If you pardon me saying so. So, anyhow, one of my mates heard about some trouble down southward, out near the plains, I think. So we might pull up and head down there now that it's warmer."

  On and on he went, for hours without stop, as talkative as a spring wren. Just as he would for days. And for weeks.

  • • •

  Even though their pace was easy, they made very good progress, with Tyrin expertly guiding Esildre along the rough paths through the mountain forest. Their good progress was due in part to Esildre's habit of encouraging Tyrin to travel some while longer each day than he wished before making camp for the night. And also owing to her custom of waking him well before dawn to be on their way again. She desired and asked for no rest, except when Tyrin said the horses needed it. In fact, he was so impressed by her toughness and endurance that he made comment upon it on more than one occasion. Which inevitably led him off into some tangential line of discussion, during which he, of course, did most of the talking. She deflected some of his questions, about the length of her pilgrimage, about the practices of pilgrims, about her family, about her upbringing, and about how she managed to get so far from Vanara before meeting up with him. Each question had its own traps, so she often said, "I'd rather not say," or else she would turn her answer into a question, which inevitably took Tyrin a very long while to answer, turning explanation into tale, as it were.

  One day, he asked whether she had been blind all her life.

  "No. I was injured by scalding water when I was younger."

  "Oh, my goodness. I'm very sorry. That's just terrible! I imagine, but may be too bold in my saying so, that it may not be as bad for those who have never had sight. Don't know what they're missing, so to speak."

  "I don't know about that," she replied thoughtfully, thinking of some of her servants. "I at least know the color of the sky. The beauty of a waterfall, and the hues of each season and their different moods. Those memories are still with me, and it is pleasant to remember them."

  She did not understand the feelings welling up within her, why her throat tightened and she had difficulty swallowing. Suddenly, thinking of those left behind in her castle, some sightless from birth, others from illness or injury, her eyes watered. She employed the blind for her own reasons, and until her maidservant pointed it out to her, she never realized the haven she had made for them. Her past arrogance now stung her, and their suffering under her earlier treatment clamped her heart with regret. Remembering Raynor's directive not to wash her face, and fearing that tears would undo her disguise, she stiffened and suppressed her feelings.

  Thought led to thought during this unusual length of silence from Tyrin, and she found herself wondering what natural, unaccursed attractions men and women may truly have for one another. Before the war, she had been as a child in a woman's body. Then she became a warrior, hardened to suffering, though her body never changed or declined, and she knew from the courting of so many that they thought her fair and attractive. But the war in the east changed her within. When she and her comrades, moving steadily from Duinnor into the Eastlands, came through the terrible battlefields, strewn with thousands of the fallen, and when she saw there the suffering of brief, mortal Men and their heroic sacrifice, she nearly broke.

  Tulith Attis changed all that. When she saw the slaughter there, like none she had ever witnessed, the walls stained with blood, the hacked remains of men, women, and even children, that was when her own hatred kindled true and hot. She and her comrades mercilessly swept across the Eastlands, transforming mere retribution into brutal insanity, unable to stop their bloodlust even when the last Dragonkind invader had been killed. Crazed and without reason, they then turned on each other, Man against Elifaen, and each against their own kind. Only the Queen, Serith Ellyn, was able to put a stop to it.

  Though she obeyed her Queen, and laid aside her arms, Esildre found that she cared no more about any thing. The last of her grace was gone, her beauty meaningless, and her soul as empty as the eyes of the dead.

  Then came her father, with his entreaty to go to Secundur. And she did.

  "Only now?" she mused silently as she followed along behind the equally silent Tyrin. "Only now do I feel my true heart trying to beat again? Only now? After all the centuries of captivity, and after all the years since my terrible freedom? Can Raynor be right? Am I truly changing? Or is this yet another snare laid by Secundur's curse upon me? I am as a child, again, starting over. What can I know of the world that may be good and true? How do natural people treat each other? What sight do they have, that I never had?"

  "Is my face terribly disfigured?" she asked aloud, impulsively, and with immediate regret. "Speaking as a man," she added, wondering why she was acting so girlish.

  "Well," Tyrin considered, slowing to ride alongside of her, "I wouldn't say so, exactly."

  She chuckled at his tone of voice.

  "No, no," he stammered. "Here's the thing, and I'd sooner go blind myself than give you any offense, but the face don't count for much, does it, now? I mean to say, no. Aw, heck! I mean, yes, even though you've got awful scars and such, they can't hide the beauty of your face, in spite of all, for any who'd care to look. And most certainly not the beauty of your smile."

  Esildre felt a rush of heat in her chee
ks. She was confused by the sensation until she realized that, underneath her scales, she was blushing.

  "Oh, my!" she whispered. Tyrin heard her, and smiled.

  "It's the gods' own truth," he continued. "Oh, pardon me for saying that! But here's another thing, and you may as well know it now, for it's sure to come up if we ever run into any other ladies along the way. That is, I'm the most handsome fellow you could ever ride along with. It's the truth! I'm tall, well-built (but not stocky), and I'm strong and quick. I have a pleasing face, and I possess the most charming smile that ever graced a mortal man. You can ask anyone at all! On top of that, I like to keep clean, wear good clothes, and drink fine wine. And I've got good manners, to boot!"

  "So you are a mercenary and a rake, too!"

  "I beg your pardon!"

  Esildre fell into unrestrained laughter.

  "Never in life, good lady!" he laughed with her. "Oops! We're comin' up on a sharp, narrow turn. Let me lead on."

  For the first time since beginning their journey, they rode along in complete silence for an entire hour. During this time, Tyrin dismounted and tied his reins to Esildre's saddle, then took the reins of her horse and led the way carefully around fallen logs that partially blocked the path, and downward into a wood.

  "Bend down a bit," he instructed at one point. "There's a low hanging limb. That's good, we've passed it, now."

  Esildre inhaled deeply, smelling the fresh pine scents, and turned her head to listen to a waterfall shushing somewhere in the distance. As they continued on and its sound faded behind them, she found herself wishing, incongruously, that this journey would never end. Listening to Tyrin speak soft encouraging words to her horse as he led her along, she wondered why, in spite of all, she felt so...happy.

  • • •

  And so, on the same day that Robby set out on his errand to Tulith Attis, the pair arrived in Duinnor, having an entirely uneventful journey. But Tyrin seemed to grow short of words. They continued to chat during this last day of their journey, but he was less jovial, it seemed to her, and far less anxious to reach their destination as he had been but a few days before. They reached the Temple just as the sun was setting, where they had to dismount to climb the long stairs upward. He silently took Esildre's hand, not her elbow, and, throwing her bag over his shoulder, he guided her carefully up the hundreds of steps of the long ascent. Once they reached the broad portico, Tyrin hesitated, glancing away at the city some miles off, and at the western sky, still brightly aglow with sunset.

  "I have the coin, here, to give to the monk," he said. "But I find that I have little desire to say goodbye to you."

  "You have been a kind man," she said, reaching out for him. He took her hand again. "And I hope you will not forget me. I shall never forget you."

  "Oh, how could I ever forget you?" he said with distress that was not in character with his usual tone. Though she could not see, she sensed his eyes upon her. "And if you should ever again require the services of a mercenary, or a rake, why, I'm your man. And I ever shall be!"

  She felt his lips on her scarred cheeks, one cheek then the other, and she closed her eyes beneath their scales. She felt the coin pressed into her hand, and his hands wrapped hers, gently pressing her fingers around the coin.

  "Here. Take this."

  She heard his receding footsteps, the bang of the door knocker, and then heard Tyrin going down the stairs and away.

  When the great doors were pulled open, and she handed the monk her coin, she hesitated. The monk gently took her arm to lead her in. Though blind, she instinctively glanced over her shoulder as she entered.

  Tyrin had only gone a short distance down the stairs. He saw her turn her head toward him just as she entered the sanctuary. Then the doors closed behind her. Finally turning away, he trudged slowly downward.

  "Well. I must tell Raynor she has arrived. He, at least, will be happy."

  • • •

  Esildre was guided into the Temple and through the halls to a small chamber that had been prepared for her. As they went along, she wondered what had just happened, and she touched her cheek where Tyrin had kissed her. She smiled, but behind her scales, her eyes watered, and deep within, in a place she did not know she had, she felt an ever-so-slight flutter. They came to what would be her room, and the monk guided her within.

  "If you wish," said the monk, "one of the females of my order would be happy to help you wash. Raynor of Duinnor, who has anticipated your arrival, has instructed us to allay your fears while you are in this place. The shadows of Shatuum cannot touch you here, nor touch any who are within these walls, and none who serve the master of Shatuum may enter into this sanctuary."

  "Thank you," she bowed. "But if you would only provide the things needed for washing, I would prefer to bathe myself."

  "Certainly," the monk replied. "You are free to walk our halls, and to share in our humble meals. You may join in our meditations and our prayers, if you would care to do so. Just outside your room and down the hall will be an attendant, who will provide someone to guide you, should you desire it."

  "Thank you."

  The monk bowed, and stepped aside as an acolyte entered bearing a tray of washing things. Placing the tray on a table, she then led Esildre to it, and helped her feel with her hands those things upon it.

  "I would be glad to help you."

  "No. Thank you. I will manage just fine."

  "Very well. We will leave you."

  Esildre heard the door close, pulled back her hood, and immediately began washing. In only a few moments, the false scars of her face were washed away, and the scales that blinded her were dissolved. Her eyes stung at first, and the lamp that burned dimly nearby now seemed far too bright. But these sensations soon passed, and her vision was fully restored but a short while later. She sat on her cot, looking at the tiny unadorned cell. On the floor was a small, triangular meditation gong, no larger than her hand, hanging along with a small mallet from a wooden stand. Nearby was an incense burner, several sticks of incense, and a small blue rug for kneeling or sitting. There was a tiny table, hardly large enough for the basin and pitcher, but there was nothing else, not even a stool for sitting, not even a window. For a long while, she sat, thinking about Tyrin.

  • • •

  Time does not pass for the Elifaen as it does for mortals. A season may pass as an afternoon, and a century may be as only a few months, yet a moment may be as a year. Indeed, this was almost their undoing when they first lost their wings and were made to walk the earth with their feet. Hunger was new to them, and many starved, wasting to nothing before realizing that the ripe fruits would not wait for them, or before understanding the need for haste. They learned that survival in life was as it was in battle, that life may hang in a blink of time. But when they were not pressed by cold, or hunger, or danger, they might contemplate a stream for days, or consider the next stroke of their paintbrush well past the drying of the paint in the pot, or pluck the same harp string over and over, eyes closed, listening to each difference of tone made by every possible kind of stroke.

  So it was with Esildre as she sat, engrossed in her thoughts, turning over her questions again and again in progressive variation. Hours passed, and she ceased wondering when Raynor would come, ceased even in the recounting of her troubles. Inexplicably, her musings wandered again and again back to Tyrin, and she felt again a certain glow, a lingering reflection of what she had felt in his presence. It was an unfamiliar sensation, warm and pleasant and mysterious, and she was baffled by it.

  Outside of her mind, the moments slipped silently by. The peace and quiet of the Temple gave her only the noise of her own breathing to hear and the sound of her own memories until she hardly thought at all, until her internal dialogue ceased altogether and a peaceful calm overcame her.

  Then, suddenly, the great gong of the temple banged, and so did the little gong in her cell, now gyrating wildly by its cords. Leaping up, she heard the echo of hundreds of chimes and bel
ls and gongs all throughout the temple. Flinging open the door, she ran into the hallway, amid a rush of confused monks going in every direction.

  "What is happening?" she cried. "Why do the bells ring?"

  "We do not know! We do not know!"

  Filled with a powerful sense of danger, she ran down the hall, following the monks to the main sanctuary. A second great wave of ringing and banging resounded, the huge sanctuary gong swinging without cause in its ornate frame, its violent decrescendo unnaturally sustained. The monks cried out in dismay, many prostrating themselves to chant their prayers, others going to light incense though it was not time for the lighting of it. Confused, Esildre did not know what to do, but the strange feeling that help was needed, that danger was imminent, somewhere far to the east, swept over her. It did not matter that she had no weapon, and no means but her hands to fight with, the need to engage the enemy was urgent. Momentarily frozen with panic, she felt a rush of air as the huge doors of the temple were pulled open, and she ran outside along with many others to the portico just as the third deafening knell rolled across the land. At the portico, Esildre saw that the Five Stars of Duinnor hung as steady as ever high over the night-time city in the distance below. But she could see lamplights glowing to life as they were lit behind thousands of windows, and she could hear the distant chorus of thousands of bells and gongs, cymbals and chimes of every note and tone, from the city, the temple, from house and hovel, and places near and far, all ringing of their own accord.

  The sound slowly died away, echoing from far hills, yet her heart still pounded as she stared out at the suddenly awakened city. After a few moments of eerie silence, the military trumpets of the city began to blare out their summons. War drums began to throb, ordering soldiers to take up their weapons and their posts. All along the walls and watchtowers of the great city, torches were lit and furnaces stoked. The city gates were pushed shut, soldiers crowded the parapets, and archers strung their bows, all in preparation of an impending doom.