Duty (Book 2) (3 page)

“See Gen,” the voice intoned with unquestionable surety, “that your every effort is useless. I could have given you the power to stop the pain and suffering, but you would never listen! Rest assured that your failure to serve will only hurt you, for many already take your place!”

“So now you are left powerless without me, struggling and unable to even claim something as easy as a girl! What business did an orphan have even thinking about a merchant’s daughter? At least pathetic Hubert could give her a name worth a little more than filth. What did you have to give her?”

The Chalaine could see her, a cute country girl with blonde hair. Regina. She could feel Gen’s longing for her, his anger at her betrothal to Hubert. She could hear them talking at the well and suddenly knew why Gen was so fair-spoken. In all her imaginings of Gen’s past, she would have never thought him a bard.

“And how easily were your supposed feelings of love set aside! You remember, don’t you, how you let the Shadan’s training overtake you until you had no care for anyone or anything at all?”

Flashes of Gen’s “training” came in a rush, and the Chalaine felt herself go weak. She would have turned away from the blood and agony if she could, but instead she felt forced to watch every wicked blow from day after day of misery. She watched with Gen as Aughmerian soldiers led people from his town away to be killed and thrown in nameless graves. She watched his torture, his silent suffering, his attempt to take his own life.

“You ignored your old master and your love while they suffered and waited for just one kind word to fall from your lips. Was that your love for them? If it had been love at all, you would have never let your own suffering take you and ignore their need. Had you even one grain of feeling, perhaps you could have at least helped them escape from Tell, but instead you did nothing. I ask you, did you ever think that you could have helped them escape without you, or did you just think of yourself?”

A wave of intense guilt poured down the channel of darkness, and the Chalaine had to fight away her own feelings of guilt as it passed. The scenes before her were so poignant and so private, she almost felt as if she should leave, but the healer within her impelled her to stay, made her watch in hopes that she could find some way to help Gen build his defense again, as he had done for her.

“Then your feelings are suddenly resurrected when you see her in danger,” the voice continued, “and what good did it do?”

The Chalaine watched in horror as Gen fought desperately to save Regina, only to fail. She felt his sense of inadequacy and uselessness. Never in her protected life had the Chalaine seen such depravity, and inwardly she pitied Gen for the unfairness and for the mercy that never found him.

The voice continued its cadence like a steady drumbeat of doom. She watched as Gen read the note from his beloved master explaining how he had killed himself so he could no longer be used to manipulate Gen. All the while, the river deepened as Gen’s spirit failed.

“And so then you come by dumb luck into the service of the Chalaine. Do you think she needs you, Gen? Were there not a hundred soldiers for fodder before, and will there not be a thousand after? Do you think you’ve redeemed yourself from Regina’s blood because you saved the Chalaine from Chertanne’s lust? What difference will it make? Whether she is forced to be with him now or later, she will be with him. She is his, after all. The only thing you’ve done is prolong the agony of her waiting for it to happen.”

The Chalaine felt anger within her rise, and yet something about the voice’s words rang true. Her agony was there, her dread of Chertanne growing daily. Had she not just told her mother the same? But the voice ignored what Gen had done. Given her dignity. While she didn’t doubt that Chertanne would do his best to strip her of it if he could, she still had it and would ever retain a portion of it. The voice told Gen nothing of the respect and goodness he had inspired, the web of hope that was spun at every telling of his bravery and honor.

As the voice continued its parade of disparagement, the Chalaine grew more and more incensed and indignant at its distortions, omissions, and exaggerations. Fear gripped her as she realized that Gen believed every word, ever eroding his will and snuffing out his life.

Time was short, and in the darkness she spoke. She wanted to say a hundred things to express her sorrow and pity. She wanted to tell him of her saved dignity, of Fenna’s love and devotion. She wanted him to know what he meant to those who knew him. But from the great mass of words, she could only find three to yell over and over in the darkness.

“I need you.”

At her cries, the voice ceased. And then the Chalaine felt a presence, strong and evil, turn its attention toward her. What she thought was merely a part of Gen’s mind was something else entirely, something awful beyond imagination. She felt its surprise at her presence, and though she could see no form, it saw her, grinning like a hunter who had at last cornered a fox after a long chase.

“And see, Gen,” the voice scorned him, “that you will be the instrument of her doom, after all. For here she has come in her pity for your wretchedness!”

The Chalaine felt something grip her and hold her fast, pulling her further into the darkness. She fought it, trying to pull and thrash her way back toward the door, but the force was too strong. She began to scream as she came closer to the void, feeling the destruction that awaited her if she passed through.

And then Ethris was there. She couldn’t see him, but she could feel him behind her, grasping for her. There were others as well, and she cried out to them. Pulling away from the evil presence with every ounce of will she had left, she reached backward, feeling a pull come from the other direction. A fierce struggle ensued, and she felt herself nearly torn apart in the contest of wills. Just when she felt all was lost, the darkness was shut away, and the Chalaine tumbled out of Gen’s tortured mind.

She opened her eyes. Ethris, still in breeches from his convalescence, stood behind her with two Puremen, all with their hands on her head. Sweat ran down his hairless body, and were it not for the Puremen, he would have collapsed on the floor. Jaron, on seeing her awake, came to her side, face relieved. The Chalaine felt dizzy and sick and needed Jaron’s help to stand. The Puremen helped Ethris to a chair.

“Mikkik nearly struck a fatal blow this night,” Ethris said. “Foolish girl! Jaron, get her to her Mother and have the Pontiff examine her. Everyone leave. I need to be alone.”

The Chalaine leaned on Jaron and he guided her toward the door. “Thank you Ethris,” she said. “I thought I was lost.”

“And so you were,” Ethris replied crankily. “But thank me not. It was Gen who shut Mikkik from his mind. Without that, we would have all been lost. Now go. No one is allowed in this room anymore without my leave. I need to think.”

The Chalaine let Jaron lead her away toward her apartments. Puremen were dispatched to find the Pontiff and her mother. All the while, she couldn’t help but feel bitter about the irony; she had gone into Gen’s mind to save him and had instead been rescued by him again. But Ethris’s belief that Gen had forced the evil presence from his mind gave her hope that perhaps his life would strengthen and return.

Her mother was already at the apartments when she arrived, as was Fenna. Both frowned at her with worry as she came in and fell exhausted on her bed.

“What’s wrong, dear?” her mother asked.

“I tried to heal him, mother. . .” And at this she found herself unable to speak as the memories of what she had seen and felt of Gen’s life overwhelmed her.

When she came to herself, tears ran unchecked down her face. “It was awful, mother. Awful. The things he’s been through are beyond anything I had imagined. The evil one himself came for him, sought to use him, and he rejected him to save me.”

For several minutes, the Chalaine was quite unconscious of anything, only aware of a mother and a friend who grieved with her.

When the Pontiff arrived, she gathered herself as best she could. He wore a simple black robe and held a staff tipped with a clear stone. The wrinkled face regarded her with concern.

“The Puremen told me what happened, Chalaine. It is unfortunate that you ignored the counsel of my brethren and sought to heal him. It is obvious that the demon opened a way for the dark one to war with Gen’s mind. It is fortunate he had the strength to close the link when you were threatened. An act of saintly virtue, indeed. And while you may have inadvertently saved his life, you must—must!—realize that you cannot take such chances! You are part of the salvation of this world, and no one—not even a faithful soldier like Gen—is worth throwing the world away.”

The Chalaine nodded and held to her mother’s hand, though she still felt no guilt over her attempt to save her protector.

The Pontiff exhaled and extended his hand to indicate she should sit in a nearby chair. “Now I must ensure that no taint of the evil one remains within you. The enemy has many tricks.”

The Pontiff laid a wrinkled hand upon her head and chanted softly for nearly an hour. When he was done, he leaned heavily upon his staff.

“It appears you escaped harm, except a deep sadness which I feel upon you. Sadness, though, is not evil unless it overwhelms us. While it may seem hollow, child, be of good cheer. You have many that care for you and a great destiny that lies ahead of you.”

After a short silence, the Pontiff shuffled toward the door, turning before going out. “We shall have the betrothal in two days. We can no longer afford to wait. Our enemy is clever and all the guards and walls have done little thus far to keep out the danger. I shall summon the Council of Padras to come to help protect you during the winter. Sleep well.”

As the Pontiff left, Jaron and Captain Tolbrook poked their heads in.

“Is she well?” Jaron asked.

“She is fine, Jaron. Close the door, please,” her mother ordered. Once they were alone, the First Mother removed the Chalaine’s veil, placing it in the armoire with the others. Tenderly, she combed her daughter’s hair while Fenna wiped away her tears and stroked her arm. Gradually, the Chalaine felt the sadness fade, turning into a dull ache. She felt worn.

Mirelle rubbed the Chalaine’s cheek. “We will go, my daughter, and let you rest.”

“Please stay with me tonight,” the Chalaine begged. “There is a story I need to tell you, tell you both, about Gen.”

The First Mother and the handmaiden sat on the bed where the Chalaine lay and listened as she began. “Where Gen lived, in Tell, there was a girl. Her name was Regina. . .”

Gen awoke, inhaling deeply. He lay still for many moments trying to dispel the fog from his mind. He felt hungry, but there was no pain or injury that he could detect. The struggle for control of his mind and emotions left him tired in spirit, but he felt unburdened, as if what had pulled him down for so long had been stripped of its weight. Pain for Rafael and Regina was still there, but overcoming the darkness forced him to put sorrow behind him that he might do his duty and find himself again.

Memories of being crushed by the demon rushed back to him, and in panic he wondered if the Chalaine, or anyone, survived. During the struggle within his mind he thought he heard her call to him, and it was that call that awoke within him a need to live, a reason to throw off the despair the dark presence conjured within him. But still, he couldn’t tell if it was real. The whole experience seemed like a nightmare.

He opened his eyes and came to his elbows, finding himself in a small stone room, empty except for Ethris, who was dressed in white as if prepared for a ceremony. He sat on a chair at the foot of the bed, face determined. Within his eyes Gen saw a battle being fought. In his hand he carried the Truth Staff, and as Gen came to a sitting position, Ethris rose and came to his side, placing the head of the Staff on Gen’s bare chest and pushing him back down. Gen was surprised at the Mage’s intensity but said nothing, waiting for an explanation.

“Hold there, boy.”

Ethris stared into his eyes, searching for something. Gen, while feeling hungry, felt fit and strong, and he knew he could escape, save Ethris’s magic. But Gen guessed what Ethris was about, for Gen also wrestled with what the demon had said in the Chapel that night, and with what the dark entity that had sought to destroy him had revealed. It was a notion so preposterous that he had dismissed it as a trick of Mikkik’s to increase his despair.

“I have sat here the better part of two days,” Ethris began, voice steady, “and three times I decided to kill you where you lie. No one would have thought it odd that you died, for you were close many times. But in the end I couldn’t do it, at least not before I talked to you.”

“You heard what the demon called me,” Gen said.

“Yes. ‘Torka bilex ur madda Ilch! Ilch-madda fen-gur enea ko. Chak Diggat, chak Ilch Murmit Cho.’ I shall never forget. While it was the first I had ever heard the corrupted speech in person, its meaning was plain:
You have left your master’s way, Ilch. My creature is not my own. This betrayal will be punished. Death everlasting is yours.
The creature in the Chapel that night was a Rukatahm, a puppet demon of Mikkik, created long ago. The voice that spoke through it was the voice of Mikkik himself. But you knew that, didn’t you?”

“How could I be the Ilch?” Gen protested, ignoring the question. “I do not bear the mark of prophecy, and I have risked my life for the Chalaine more than once! The Ilch is supposed to be some dark creature bent on her destruction. That is not me! I could have killed her and Chertanne a hundred times over by now.”

“And that is why I could not kill you. But make no mistake. I will kill you and anyone who seeks to harm the Chalaine.”

“As would I.”

“So you say. But listen well. You do not bear the mark of the unveiled moon upon your left foot as written, but there are many scars there, so it may have been removed to hide your identity. The Ilch was to have no mother and father, but rather be a creature created by Mikkik. You are an orphan. When the moon Trys is unveiled, great power will come into the hands of the Ha’Ulrich and the Ilch, their magic set against each other, one for good and the other evil. That latent ability is within you, Gen. I searched for it as you rested, and just as Chertanne, Savior of the World, will gain his magic on the return of the light of Trys, so will Gen, the serf orphan from Tolnor.”

“But. . .”

“There is more, Gen, but you must now answer my questions under this Staff, or I swear that you will not leave this room alive.”

Gen lay back as Ethris pressed the Staff down even harder, pinning him to the mattress. He could do little more than meet Ethris’s stare, the Magician’s mind intruding upon his own.

“Do you remember concealing the birthmark on your foot or have memory of anyone else doing so?”

“No.”

“Has anyone taught you magic?”

“No.”

“Has anyone instructed you to kill the Chalaine or the Ha’Ulrich?”

“No.”

“Are you determined to fight Mikkik and his allies?”

“Yes.”

“Will you protect the Chalaine with your life?”

“I have and I will.”

Ethris lifted the Staff and shook his head in wonder, returning to his seat.

“I do not fully understand how this can be, Gen, but somehow the prophecy has been turned on its head! The one destined to destroy the Chalaine now protects her with as much devotion as the Ilch was to have hate. It is unfathomable! Someone or something powerful has intervened in the prophecy through you.”

“The simpler explanation, Ethris, is that I’m not the Ilch!”

The idea of being the Ilch seemed so wild to Gen, that he could not accept it. The fanged monster, servant of Mikkik, searching the world to tear apart the Chalaine was not who he was, nor ever could be.

Ethris ran a hand over his bald head. “I think you are, Gen, for there is more. I said I do not fully understand how this could be, but I understand some. When the Chalaine tried to heal you—a stupid thing to do, I might add—I had to enter your mind to try to pull her away from Mikkik.

“In my search for her, I found something—something I went to revisit later—as you slept. Someone of surpassing power has placed magical seals on certain parts of your memory, as if he wished to protect you from what was there or perhaps protect others from what you would become if you knew what was there. The seals are meticulously and skillfully done, meant to be hidden, and only accomplished Mages, of which there are few, would have even noticed them. They are warded completely against the sight of evil. No small feat.”

“But what could they be protecting me from? How could a few sealed memories have changed me from harmless Gen to the infamous Ilch?”

“Not a few memories, Gen. Hundreds of them. Things that you’ve seen, heard, and done that you cannot remember. We all forget things, so it would be difficult for you to find the holes in your mind, but they are there.”

“There are holes,” Gen confirmed, something Ethris said tickling his memory. “I remember being visited by someone, though who it was I cannot recall. It’s happened more than once, but I cannot remember anything specific about what was said or who said it.”

Ethris rubbed his chin. “There is only one way to know what was happening. I could remove one of the seals.”

“Then do it,” Gen replied without hesitation. “This must be settled.”

Ethris nodded his agreement. “I will do it, and I will watch with you as you remember. My reasoning says I must destroy you, but something within me senses a greater power at work, and I am reluctant to kill without great need.”

Ethris laid his hands upon Gen’s head, and Gen closed his eyes.

It was a bright autumn morning. Gen was but a boy, having seen but ten harvests come and go. The house was cold, and the fire burned low. Rafael had gone outside in search of more firewood, though Gen knew there was none left. Rafael had told him he would teach him more about music that day, but the lesson would be miserable if they couldn’t heat the house. Numb fingers could not play the lute, and for Rafael it was doubly worse; the cold stiffened his already aching joints.

“Well, boy,” Rafael said as he entered, face angry, “it seems as if we have neglected the wood pile yet again. Jesten has gone to Sipton for the next few days, so we’ll have to get some wood ourselves the old fashioned way. Get your cloak!”

Gen jumped at the chance to get out of the house. Most of his lessons required him to stay inside and read when other kids got to run around and play. He wasn’t even old enough to be an apprentice, but Rafael had treated him like one ever since Pureman Millershim had given the old bard custody of him.

After leaving the house, Rafael grabbed the old, dull ax from the barn, fingering it and shaking his head.

“Well, Gen, it’s going to be a long day. So while we walk, let’s have a lesson or two. As you know, a bard must learn skill with words, to say things in different ways to evoke different emotions. Take this ax, for instance. If someone asked why it took so long for us to chop wood today, I could answer as any other person and say, ‘my axe wasn’t very sharp and it took me a long time to cut the wood.’ A true statement, but a boring one. So, lad, we must spice it up. Make it humorous or tragic so that people can feel the levity or pain of the situation. Are you with me?”

“I think so.”

“All right, then. Let’s suppose that tomorrow we’re walking through town and that layabout friend of yours, what’s his name?”

“Gant.”

“Yes, Gant. Suppose Gant comes up and says, ‘Hey, where were you yesterday? I dragged my lazy bones by your house to play several times and you were never there.’ You say, ‘We spent all day chopping firewood.’ Gant replies, ‘Well, what took you so long?’ What do you reply?”

Gen thought for several moments. “I would say, ‘The ax was as dull as Hubert Showles’s brain.”

Rafael laughed. “Very good! The humorous approach worked to perfection. Now change it so the answer conveys a more serious, sad feeling.”

“The ax was as dull as one of Rafael’s history lessons.”

Rafael kicked him in the seat of his pants, smiling in spite of himself. “Watch it, you little scamp. You show respect or I won’t teach you anything and you’ll be a rock-brain just like Hubert!”

“Sorry, master.”

Rafael continued his lessons on artful language, having Gen describe the dew on the grass, the golden and red leaves of the trees, and various people in the town. In no time they were in the forest, hunting for deadfall among the fallen leaves at the edge of the trees. Rafael found a dead pine, still standing. He removed his cloak and began to chop it down.

“Well, while we’re here, Gen, let me tell you a little about this place, and it’ll be your history lesson for the day. A long time ago, before the Shattering, this forest didn’t exist. It was grassy plain all the way to the sea, and its name was Aumat. No one lived on Aumat Plain, but during the First Mikkikian War, the races of the world were driven ever westward, Mikkik’s forces sweeping across the land like the shadow of a dark mountain in the valley at sunset.

“Near this place, the elves and humans worked together under Aldradan Mikmir to build a fort against the coming tide of evil, throwing up great mounds of earth and using what little wood there was to fence it with. It wasn’t beautiful, but it was strong, and when the Uyumaak, giants, gek, and demons fell upon it, the brave warriors and Mages managed to drive them off. Many were killed. Blood, black and red, flowed freely. It was the first battle of Aumat and the first victory for good in quite some time.”

“Was there a second battle of Aumat, then?” Gen asked. Rafael stopped chopping and leaned on his ax.

“There was. On hearing news of the defeat at Aumat, Mikkik was furious and sent an army twice the size of the one that had been defeated toward the crude fort. When the elven scouts heard of it, they trembled with fear, and many considered fleeing southward for their lives.”

“But to Aumat came a Magician, Morrinne. Without even speaking to human or elven generals, he laid a great enchantment on Aumat, and when the armies woke, they were encompassed about by trees. It is said that everywhere the west wind blew in from the sea, trees grew, and grew quickly. Morrinne then confessed what he had done and earned the name Morrinne Treemaker. I can only imagine the confusion of the enemy when they arrived to find Aumat missing, engulfed in the great protection of trees.”

“Undaunted, Mikkik’s armies poured into the forest, but in the wood the elves had the upper hand and slaughtered the first wave to enter. The Uyumaak then sought to burn the forest down, but even as they tried a great wind and rain kicked up, thwarting their attempts. The battle lasted for days, but in the end, Mikkik and his creatures were routed. The armies of the enemy retreated east, and Middle Peace began.

Gen looked at the trees around him with new wonder and respect, imagining the brave warriors running between the great boles and killing the evil hordes.