Blood Loss: The Chronicle of Rael (21 page)

Perhaps a dozen forms lay upon the floor, a few paired up in some semblance of post-coital bliss, and Rael has little doubt that drink has a bit to do with their lack of disturbance upon his entry.  Empty casks of mead and wine litter the floor around them, and the two large cooking fires have waned to gentle flames with no one awake to tend them.  The throne of bone sits empty at the far side of the hall, and at its feet lay Rael’s sword and shield.

He crosses the chief’s hall quickly, assuming that none will awake for the drink addling their minds, and the chief is nowhere to be seen, likely having gone off to his own private rooms.  Rael gently lays the gaoler’s sword on the ground, careful so as not to make too much noise, and he belts his own sword and sheath around his waist.  He gently lifts his kite shield, the fist-sized blue gem reflecting the firelight with rays of blue, and hangs it over his shoulders by way of its leather strap.

Rael turns to make his way from the hall, and he stops suddenly when he spies two intertwined forms to his left.  He approaches slowly until he stands over them, and simply watches his wife and son sleep, her arms wrapped about the boy. 
No, she is not my wife
, he reminds himself as he kneels next to them.  Dried tears line his son’s face, as if the boy cried himself to sleep with his mother’s arms around him, and for a moment, Rael feels as if his own heart may break.  He reaches out a hand to brush an errant red hair from Werrin’s forehead, and that’s when his face grows hard with a realization. 
He is not my son.  He was never my son,
Rael thinks, and he stands from his kneel.  Without a second thought, he storms less than silently from the hall, uncaring of who it may wake as he does so. 

Rael crosses the snow stricken village to the stables, in which he finds his black stallion asleep while standing.  He gently wakes the animal and readies his blankets and saddles, and the horse, a fine animal bred for battle, is ready almost immediately.  Rael rides out briskly for the stockade wall.  As he nears it, he hacks with his sword through the taut ropes holding the counterweights in place, and the great timber doors swing out and open, allowing him to ride through.

As Rael blows by the other, newer homes of the outer reaches of the village, he ignores all those that may wake by his passing.  As he starts down the slope leading into the mountain passes, he decides that he need only reach Aquis as quickly as possible.  The Northmen would not dare chase him into those lands.  Once there, he can set a more leisurely pace for Sanctum, where he will wait.  Somehow, he knows that the boy he lost at the docks in Roka will one day return to Aquis.  He need only wait.

Epilogue

Cor closed the tome and let it set in his lap for a few moments, the sun shining through the window and reflecting off its leather cover.  He’d found this small square room, only perhaps eight feet by eight feet, in the Crescent and immediately claimed it as his own private abode upon returning to Byrverus.  He liked it because it had two windows, one which faced east while the other faced west, and this let him sit and read by the rays of the sun for hour after hour, excepting night or around noon of course.  He leaned forward in his chair and set the tome on top of the desk he had placed in the room.  He slumped back in his chair and closed his eyes to think awhile.

The desk was truly an amazing work of craftsmanship, if not art, and it almost overpowered the small room as it used nearly half of the space available to it.  It appeared to be crafted entirely from mahogany, finished to a high shine.  Fine black leather had been inlaid on the top surface; skirting the edge all the way around, the leather created a comfortable place on which Cor could lean his arms while working.  Hand carved columns stood at each corner, seemingly supporting the tabletop, and they ended in beautifully carved eagle talons.  It was very expensive, but Cor had to have it when he saw it.  King Rederick made sure that the Lord Dahken was denied no such things.

Ja’Na merely sat, waited and watched patiently, and he thought idly about how he’d become so much more patient as he aged. 
On odd thing that
, he thought,
for I have less time left than ever before.
  He looked out the west facing window behind Cor and saw that the sun had dropped significantly lower in the sky, and so the aged Tigolean stood from his own chair.  His intent was to quietly exit the room and go about his own business, for he knew that Cor would send for him when he was ready to talk.

Just as Ja’Na reached the door, Cor speaks with his eyes still closed, “Don’t leave yet, please.”

“I was afraid you had fallen asleep.  I did not wish to disturb you,” Ja’Na replied, shuffling quietly, and slowly, back to his chair.

Cor opened his eyes and straightened upright in his chair to face the white mustached Tigolean scholar.  “Thank you for bringing me this,” Cor said, “but I am curious about a few things.”

“I will answer as best as I can, but I only write what I am shown,” Ja’Na replied truthfully.

“You have brought me other Chronicles since you first found me in Losz,” Cor said, to which Ja’Na almost imperceptibly nodded.  “Why did you bring me this one?”

“Did you not know Dahken Rael, and did he not teach you about yourself?  I saw and Chronicled those events as well.  I thought it important for you to know something of the man’s past,” Ja’Na answered, and his voice wavered a bit toward the end of his explanation.  It had started to happen the more he talked over the last few months.

“This is the first Chronicle I have ever read that is written as if… as if you are there, as if the events are taking place before your eyes and not in the past.”

“I shall answer that with the words ‘artistic license’,” Ja’Na said, causing Cor to look puzzled.  Ja’Na laughed softly.  “A sculptor may wish to make a statue of you one day, Lord Dahken Cor, and he may wish to do it in clay or marble or perhaps bronze.  As long as the statue suits you, you will leave the medium up to him.  Will you not?”

Cor smiled at the old man’s response; he had never considered that those chosen to receive the Chronicler’s visions would alter them to suit their own artistic needs.  It was an interesting idea, and he wondered if they changed the Chronicles themselves as well.  Would the interpretation change with the mindset of the scholar penning it?

“I have another thought, another question that I have never been able to answer.  Maybe you can shed some light upon it,” Cor said, leaning forward to place his weight on the desktop.  The scholar bowed his head slightly.  “Pagus the Paladin, the Rose Knight I believe he called himself could have killed Rael with one more blow from his mace.  Instead he chose to discard the weapon and hurl a punch at Rael.  I have seen this before from King Rederick.  The blow delivers what I can only describe as a flash of lightning and a clap of thunder, and the body struck is struck by the strength of Garod.”

“I know of what you speak,” Ja’Na agreed.

“It had no effect on Rael.  Rael died fighting alongside me, as I am sure you know, and the power of a priest had no effect on me while it killed Rael,” Cor continued.

“I remember.”

“What happened to Rael that he lost his immunity to Garod’s power?” Cor asked.

“A question I have pondered myself, Lord Dahken Cor.”

“And what answer have you come up with?  I know you have one,” Cor concluded.

“I have two that make the most sense to me,” Ja’Na agreed with a nod.  “The first is that Rael’s armor was his father’s armor, and his father was a Paladin like Pagus.  Perhaps we should look into the history of the making of that armor.  If it was forged with Garod’s power, then perhaps it refused to protect Rael from the same power.”

“An interesting idea,” Cor said, again slumping backward in his chair, “but that would assume the armor was… intelligent somehow.”

“Would such a thing be so hard to believe?  Would you deny to me that you have felt the wants and wills of Soulmourn and Ebonwing?  Do you think your blood led you to Noth’s armor, or did Noth’s armor call out to your blood?”

Cor tightened his lips and furrowed his brow over this, and he had to admit defeat to the old Tigolean.  “What is your second belief?”

Ja’Na paused before answering as he searched the Dahken’s face.  “Understand that I do not believe one to be correct over the other, but I think it’s possible that, at just that moment, perhaps Dahk allowed his power to leave Lord Dahken Rael’s blood.”

“But why would He do that?” Cor asked.

“Because Rael needed to die for you to become Lord Dahken Cor Pelson,” Ja’Na replied.

Cor closed his eyes for just a moment, not particularly enjoying the implications of such a statement.  What other actions, other motives had Dahk – Doctor Harold Brown – hid from him?  After a moment, he opened them and said, “I have one last question that I hope you can answer.”

“I can only try.”

“Well, you have penned many Chronicles, and I figure anyone can answer it if you can,” Cor explained, and Ja’Na again bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement of the compliment.  “I haven’t dealt with it as much as Rael did, but I have followed my blood across the West and back.  Why are we Dahken always called about the world?”

“I do not know, except to say, perhaps your god is more involved in your lives than you realize,” answered the scholar, and he turned to leave the small office.  Just as he passed the doorway, he turned back.  “May I ask you a question, Lord Dahken?”

“Of course.”

“How goes your own Chronicle?”

“My Chronicle?” Cor asked, inadvertently glancing at a scroll that he had thrown in disgust into a corner of the room the day before.

“I know not what else to call it,” Ja’Na clarified.  “Perhaps Chronicle is not the correct word.  Memoir, perhaps?  Treatise.  Yes, treatise is better.”

“How do you know about that?” Cor asked suspiciously.

“The Chronicler shows me much,” explained Ja’Na, and he turned away to head home.

THE END.