Duty (Book 2) (2 page)

“What I want to know is how these two were unaffected by the creature’s paralyzing magic. Everyone else was, and it seems a bit suspicious to me.”

It was Chertanne. All present twisted toward the entrance of the room where he had entered unnoticed. His face was angry and his arms were crossed over his chest. Dason stood behind him, clearly uncomfortable. All in the room rose and bowed, save Maewen.

“Welcome, Chertanne,” the First Mother greeted him politely, trying not to further anger one whose manliness had recently come into question.

At hearing the name, Maewen bowed as well. “So you are the Ha’Ulrich. Forgive my ignorance, Blessed One. It is an honor to meet you.”

Chertanne looked her over. “Thank you, Maewen. I have heard your kind was beautiful and I was not misled. I should like time alone with you to learn more about the elves.”

“Certainly, your Grace,” Maewen answered.

The Chalaine hoped she had time to warn Maewen before she undertook that visit.

Chertanne stepped into the room fully. “But please, Maewen, if you would address the question. It is rather odd that these two should be entirely unaffected by the creature’s presence whereas all others were frozen with fear.”

The Chalaine thought it odd that he excluded her, and for the first time she wondered how she had escaped the paralysis that incapacitated almost everyone else.

“It is not odd, really,” Maewen replied, “at least in the case of Ethris. The magic meant to paralyze the victims of the pattern can be overcome by those of exceptionally strong will or through counter magic. Ethris is a Mage, and a powerful one at that. All Mages and priests of high skill must develop strong wills to shape the energies of magic that emanate from the moons Myn and Duam, as I’m sure you know. As a result of that training and years of practicing his arts, he is strong enough to resist the entrancement.”

“And what of Gen, then? I sense you think something is amiss with him?”

The Chalaine put her arms around Fenna, whose tenseness betrayed the offense taken at the accusation implicit in the Blessed One’s question.

“Yes. I was going to ask more about him. I understood from the tales that he was not noble born. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Mirelle answered. “He is a serf, a refugee from his war-torn kingdom, Tolnor. Though a serf, he must have had some learning, for he talks as though he were noble born and is learned. He was also trained as a swordsman and is most disciplined.”

Maewen started to pace again. “The reason I ask is that the Chalaine mentioned that this
young
man had a brief dialog with the creature, using the words ‘Umiel’ and ‘Elde.’ The language is ancient, the words of the Gods themselves. There are two humans I know of who know some of that language, and Ethris is one of them. Even then, he has studied long to learn what he knows of it. That a peasant boy, not even twenty if I do not miss my guess, should know any of it is unfathomable, unless he has elven blood in him and has been alive longer than you know.”

“That would explain many things,” Mirelle replied pensively. “Talking with him is like talking to no other man his age. No one as young as he should be as knowledgeable, disciplined, or as wise as he is.”

A Pureman clearing his throat surprised them all.

“Forgive me, your Grace,” he said from a corner of the room. “There are many documented cases in scriptural history of men and women being blessed with the gift of God’s Tongue in times where they faced great peril. It is considered a miracle and a sign of God’s favor. The words put fear into all things evil.”

“Thank you for the insight,” Mirelle said. “I do remember some tales where that occurred.”

Maewen didn’t appear convinced.

“What do the words mean?” the Chalaine asked.

“Umiel,” Maewen explained, “is a command that translated roughly means ‘Flee in the name of the Light.' Elde is the ancient term for God, the root of ‘Eldaloth.’ Most likely he was invoking the name of God to command the demon to return from whence it came.”

Chertanne was displeased at this last answer, face turning red.

“What of the other words, the last ones spoken by the creature. ‘Chak Diggat, chak Ilch Murmit Cho’?” the Chalaine pressed, hoping to further vindicate Gen from Chertanne’s implied accusation.

“I wish you could remember the first part,” Maewen replied. The beast’s tongue is a corruption of the God’s speech and harder to understand. ‘Chak Diggat’ means ‘The Betrayer’, another name for Mikkik. ‘Ilch’ you know well, I am sure. The phrase seems to say that Mikkik will punish the Ilch, though that makes no sense.”

“I may have remembered it poorly,” the Chalaine said. “Ethris will know if he wakes. He seemed surprised by what was said.”

“This can wait until later!” Fenna cried out, emotions raw. “Is there nothing that can be done for them?”

“You can wait,” Maewen answered a little unsympathetically. “The poisons of the underworld do not just flow in the blood and destroy flesh. They infect the mind and the soul, working evil there, as well. Through the aid of your Puremen, the bodies have been purged, but only Gen and Ethris can purge what agents work at their own souls. Each must find a reason to emerge from sleep while the poison shows them every reason not to. Now if there are no further questions, I need to rest for a time.”

“Thank you, Maewen,” the First Mother said. “Ask for Pureman Feldsman at the door. He will see to your comfort.”

“Thank you. Honor to your house. May Eldaloth keep you Chalaine, Ha’Ulrich.”

Maewen gathered her things quickly and left, Chertanne’s eyes following her out. “Well, Dason, we shall leave the matter of Gen to another time, unless, unfortunate of unfortunates, he dies. What a shame that would be.”

Chertanne left, but Dason lingered long enough to bow to the Chalaine, eyes pained. Jaron scowled at him. The Chalaine inclined her head slightly as he left, finding herself missing his company again. When Gen had fallen, she had expected that Dason would be reinstated as her protector until he could be healed, but Chertanne refused to release him from service, and Captain Tolbrook had taken over as Gen’s replacement.

Silence reigned in the small room as the acolytes trimmed the lamps and returned to their somber vigil.

“Go, Fenna,” Mirelle said kindly, stroking the girl’s hair. “Eat and rest. I will watch for you. Take my daughter with you.”

Fenna thanked the First Mother and she, Jaron, and the Chalaine left. The girls took the meal in the Chalaine’s apartments. The Chalaine sorrowed to see how little Fenna ate and how the girlish exuberance that had always been a part of her nature had died.

When the meal was over, the Chalaine commanded the protesting Fenna to sleep in her bed.

“I will watch over Gen in your absence,” she promised. “And take heart. He is strong. He will win the struggle against the poison, I am sure.”

Fenna nodded and closed her eyes. The Chalaine stayed by her side until her face slackened and her breath slowed. Quietly, she donned her veil and stepped outside. For all her assurances to her handmaiden, she feared more and more for Gen’s life.

With Jaron in tow the Chalaine returned to the room where Gen and Ethris rested. She peeked through the crack in the door, finding that her mother still sat at Ge
n’
s side, absentmindedly tracing the pronounced muscles on his arm and humming sadly to herself. The acolytes, having done what they could, had gone to meditate and pray. The Chalaine ordered Jaron to stay with Cadaen outside the door.

“Mother?” she said quietly, door creaking as she pushed it open. Mirelle startled, turning toward her daughter, embarrassment rising on her face. “How does he fare?” the Chalaine asked, navigating away from the awkward moment.

“No better,” Mirelle replied, turning back to Gen, face drawn. “Ethris improves with each passing hour. Gen, if anything, gets worse.”

The Chalaine felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach. She joined her mother at Gen’s bedside, taking her hand. “Are you all right, mother?”

Mirelle managed a weak smile. “No, I don’t think I am. If the truth be known, I’ve been quite taken by this young man.”

“Mother!”

“Hush, child. I know my place. But you cannot blame me—you of all people—for loving him. For hours I sat in front of the Walls, peering out at the street watching lovers go by hand in hand. And there I was, year after year, hoping that the Ha’Ulrich could be found and I be wedded to the greatest, most noble man to walk Ki’Hal.

“Instead, my seventeenth year comes, and after a brief, horrible week with some lucky, beautiful man whose name I was not permitted to know, I was left to live the rest of my life forbidden to love until the return of Eldaloth. It was only your birth and raising you that gave me the sense that I was the First Mother and not a cow.”

The Chalaine nodded. “I feel my life will be little different, save I shall know the name of the bull.”

“I know, and I worry about you every day. I hid the truth of Chertanne’s character from you for as long as I could to at least permit you pleasant dreams. You may not thank me for it, but I couldn’t bear to see your hopes dashed so young. Your veil keeps others from seeing your sorrow, but I am your mother and nothing is hidden from me.”

The Chalaine squeezed her mother’s hand, finding her tenderly regarding Gen’s face. “When did you know you loved him, mother? How did you know?”

Mirelle smiled. “I knew when I saw him step to the dais after ordering Chertanne to let you go. I trembled, and not from fear. We have no kings in Rhugoth, but if you ever wonder what one is like, then remember him on that night, brave, powerful, commanding—a judge of all. You have no idea of the agony I felt as I watched Chertanne force you toward the door, and I doubt you could understand the thrill of seeing you freed and watching Gen, calm as a summer’s morning, behead that monster and return to stand with the rest of the dumbstruck apprentices—bleeding all over the place—as if nothing had happened!”

Mother and daughter shared a quiet laugh.

“Yes,” the Chalaine continued in a lighthearted tone. “He seems so intent on not being noticed or showing even the tiniest bit of emotion. He hasn’t done very well at the not-being-noticed part. His emotions, however, he hides well.”

“That is annoying, isn’t it? I took him to my apartments directly after the duel. . .”

“Mother!”

“Calm yourself! You and Cadaen have overactive imaginations. I took him to my room to talk to him—and to test him. When you listen to him, there is something about him that feels . . . old. Every time I have been in his presence, I feel at peace in some inexplicable way. Have you talked with him much?”

“I rarely see him since he is the night watch. When I do see him, I usually find myself stumbling for something to say. And he says practically nothing. Still, now that I think of it, I have felt safer knowing he is outside my door. Until recently, I thought him nothing more than another fine swordsman. But I see now that there is more. He has humbled me. I don’t think it is his wisdom or his skill, but an inner strength I don’t think is breakable. There is a deep sadness somewhere in his heart, though.”

Mirelle regarded her questioningly, and the Chalaine explained what had happened in the library as she, Fenna, and Jaron watched him sleep.

“He has suffered more than should be endured by anyone,” Mirelle said. “If he lives, we should work some way that Fenna can spend more time with him. I can see she cares for him a great deal. I hope he will return her affection.”

“So does she. I like him, too, and I am sorry if it ever seemed otherwise.”

“Fair enough. When I named him your protector, it was political suicide, though his actions have since vindicated my decision tenfold. I worried you would be angry over losing Dason. I know he made you laugh. Gen probably won’t make you smile much, though if he should live, and may Eldaloth grant that he does, you must speak with him. As I told Maewen, he is wise and well-spoken. I think you would find comfort in his words.”

“If Fenna can’t figure out how to talk to him, I doubt I will have much success, either. I’ve little experience talking with people in general, much less someone as closed as Gen. It took no effort to get Dason to ramble on about anything.”

“I think the key, my daughter, is to ask questions that begin with ‘why’ and imagine him with a mug of ale in his hand dancing and singing on a table.”

The Chalaine smiled at the image, finding it hard to conjure up.

Mirelle took Gen’s fevered hand in hers. “I have so many things I would like to ask him. Some that I’m afraid to.”

“The scars.”

“Yes. And perhaps how old he
really
is. If he somehow has elven blood in him and is older than me, then Fenna might have some competition after all.”

The First Mother smiled, and the Chalaine knew she was joking—at least she thought so. They sat in silence for a while, listening to his labored breathing.

“Would you have me love him as you do, Mother?”

Mother fixed her eyes on her daughter, trying to penetrate the veil. “Of course not. But I would have you love
something
, Chalaine. Gen’s training taught him to submerge his feelings, to ignore pain. I fear, however, that it also robbed him of the ability to feel pleasure or to truly serve anything except duty and abstract ideals.

“When I think back to him facing the demon, cowering though I was, I see someone all too willing to throw everything away, someone who didn’t love life enough to even attempt to survive. I see someone who doesn’t even seem alive enough to accept the affection of a beautiful young woman, attention most men can only dream about.”

“He has utterly confused poor Fenna.”

“My point is this, daughter. Before us lies a man, and a great one, slipping away because when the night is gone, he can no longer feel the warmth of the sunshine on his face. And since meeting Chertanne, you have become much the same.” Mirelle paused, letting the thought sink in. “Find something, anything, you can love and anchor yourself to it. It will bring you joy when the rest of the world seems cruel and unfair. And I can think of nothing more cruel and more unfair than seeing you wed Chertanne. You were the anchor for me, Chalaine. You brought me happiness, and I want that same happiness for you.”

“Thank you, mother.”

Mother and daughter embraced, and Mirelle rose.

“Do not stay too long, Chalaine. You need your rest, too. Gen will be none the better for us staring at him.”

The First Mother left, closing the door behind her. The Chalaine sat at Gen’s side and thought about her mother’s words. Gen muttered something unintelligible and was silent. Sweat matted his brown hair to his scalp. Several scars crisscrossed his forehead, and the Chalaine reached out and pushed his hair aside to get a better view of them. They were even and straight, as if someone had been trying to make a pattern on his skin. With her finger, she traced a scar that ran the length of his face, starting at his temple and ending on his neck. Feeling foolish, she pulled her finger away, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed her.

Then it hit her. No one was watching her. No one could hold her back.

Quickly, she placed her hand on his head and leaned near. Her awareness of the room faded as she bent her will toward finding Gen’s injury. The light of his life burned low, and it took her some time to find it at all. But something was wrong, different from other times she had healed the wounded. She sensed that his body was perfectly intact, but still his life ebbed like a candle struggling to stay lit in a drafty room.

She moved her concentration to Gen’s mind, seeking to find if the poison had caused some madness there that she could heal, but as with the body, she could sense nothing overtly amiss, although as before something just within the borders of her perception seemed off somehow. She returned to the life force and searched, trying to find what was extinguishing it, but while the feeling of wrongness persisted, it always lurked out of her grasp, like a memory half forgotten.

The Chalaine’s hopes sunk, and in frustration, she did the only thing she knew to do: she poured her energy into the dying ember, striving to spark it anew. The life force flowed from her, and as it did, she saw something, a darkness that clenched around Gen’s life like the demon’s black-mailed fist, crushing it. While her attempts at healing revealed it to her, nothing she did could break it. But her energy cast light upon the hidden force, and with another attempt she was able to follow the source of the darkness to Gen’s mind.

There, in her light, she saw what she could only think of as a door, a terrible door, from which rushed a river of black water. A sense of foreboding overcame her and she shrank from it. For several moments she thought of breaking her contact, something about the darkness shouting at her to leave. The Puremen’s fear that something in Gen could harm her became horribly real. Whatever brooded beyond that door, whatever it was that was killing Gen, was powerful and alive, and she feared she could not overcome it.

But as she lingered at that portal to the mind, lost in trepidation, she realized that what she faced was no different than what Gen had done for her in the Chapel. Without hesitation he threw himself in front of an enemy he knew would kill him, and for what? Because that was who he was and it was his duty to do it. Skill at arms and courage were his gifts. And while she was to be the mother of God, she, too, had been given a gift, the gift to heal. She felt ashamed that she faltered because the way was fearful and dark, and before she could think of any more reasons to dissuade herself, she concentrated and ran headlong through the forbidding door and into a world of pain.

At first she could do nothing but reel in the force of the dark torrent, floundering in swirling eddies of emotion—guilt, worthlessness, sadness, and despair. Like a fledgling swimmer, she fought to stay above the powerful current while it relentlessly pulled her down. Her own feelings of depression and her sense of inadequacy began to weigh upon her. How could she be the mother of God when she was so ignorant, so
simple
? At once she loathed herself for ever thinking she was somehow above marrying Chertanne. Who was she? Nothing. He was the Blessed One, and a wretch like her should be glad to even be of notice to him.

And then it stopped. Quickly, she took stock of herself, trying to forget the feelings and thoughts that had overwhelmed her. She was outside the door again. The current of darkness had expelled her and left her gasping on the threshold. Undaunted, she readied herself again. She knew the enemy now, and again she plunged against the current and into Gen’s mind.

The dark feelings returned, but with effort she fought them off, concentrating on Gen and not allowing her thoughts to turn inward, no matter how much her emotions begged for her attention. Struggling, she went deeper, searching, the sense of blackness deepening. There was a voice, faint at first, but as she pressed forward, it became clear. It was smooth, persuasive and powerful, and as it talked, images flashed before her to illustrate everything it said, images from Gen’s life.

And what was shown shook her to her very core. Gen’s iron mask of stoicism obscured pain and remorse she could not fathom. The voice droned the same message and the same images over and over again while she watched, a silent audience. Dimly she could sense Gen’s consciousness watching too, and it was from his consciousness that the darkness flowed, a flood that drowned his spirit. The dam had broken long ago, and the victory for the dark voice won.