“Good. I have no doubt that I can depend on you to get the job done and to do it well. I’ll leave the whore entirely to you.” Locque agreed without missing a beat. And it was true; she did trust Rowen, almost implicitly, despite the girl’s impulsive lust for blood. “But the summoner… I know what you mean. I have seen her; I’ve felt her. And under the right conditions, she could be a force to reckon with.” The sorceress’s ever-relaxed posture straightened and stiffened ever so slightly at the mention of the girl’s name. Teselin. “...for now, we must leave her alone. See how the rest of the plan unfolds first. When--and only when--power has been taken back from the new Galeynian Queen can we even begin to entertain any ideas as to how to deal with a disaster waiting to happen, like that girl. But, in the meantime…”
The made a passive gesture with her hand and shrugged her shoulders. “I know little of the silver acrobat, aside from her temper and the deep, emotional wounds she sports. She really has no place in my designs; but if her death would satisfy you in that it would be a mortal blow to your brother, I will not try to stop you. Although, I will say this: do not underestimate her. She has the air of a feral animal, and is always on edge and on the defensive. Don’t think for a moment that she doesn’t carry a knife on her. You won’t easily find a moment of weakness with her; it may come down to who strikes the fastest. And I’ve seen the way she moves. You may have your work cut out for you in targeting her; a worthy opponent.”
That her blatant concern for her life, and her advisory toward the young assassin’s self-preservation could come across as suspicious or ingenuine did not surprise Locque in the slightest. Although Rowen had no way of seeing the darkest parts of the sorceress’s long life, she had been very transparent and open with her, since the beginning of their working relationship. However, in knowing what Locque was capable of, it would have been foolish of Rowen not to be suspicious when she suddenly extended a care for her well-being. No, what struck Locque as more of a surprise was her own response to her young protege’s question.
“I’m sorry. I did not mean to suggest you aren’t capable of looking out for yourself.” The sorceress shook her head and dropped her hand into her lap. “But all life has value, Rowen. All lives have worth--even yours. Even those lives that you take. Believe it or not, long ago, I used to tend to the sick and injured. I don’t even remember who that girl was, anymore, only that she was naive and needed to change. But…” Her eyes trailed to one of the many bloodstains on the floor that Rowen had left in her wake, when she’d all be dragged herself into bed to recover from life-threatening injuries. “I suppose there are some habits that just die hard. Up until now, I had forgotten what it means to have an ally. Perhaps it is just that I’d rather not lose the only ally I’ll likely ever have. If I’d only wanted to use you up for your skills and then dispose of you,” she shrugged her shoulders and sat back in her seat, “then I’d probably have done so, already.”
There had truly never been a dull moment since the Missing Links arrival in the once lost kingdom of Galeyn, and Cwenha was of the opinion that as long as Briery insisted on keeping the company of that infuriating faoladh, drama and danger would always be at their heels. The man seemed to attract events of this sort, whether because he incited it out of boredom when life grew too dull for his liking, or for whatever bad karma chose to visit him as a result of his own questionable life choices. The trouble was, if it really were karma paying him his just deserts, the resonance of its effects did not appear to be exclusive to his luck and experiences alone.
Perhaps it was foolish to blame Hadwin for everything that began to unravel, but someone had to be held accountable, and the man had a reputation for looking for trouble. It had all begun with the near death of the Forbanne commander, Haraldur Sorde, attempted to take his life. At least, that was the rumour that spread just prior to the goliath man ending up in the Night Garden’s sanctuary with a suspicious wound at his neck. From there, word had it that his wife, the Eyraillian princes who he had been avoiding, had fainted, and then pined and worried for the days to come when it turned out her husband had survived, albeit in a catatonic state. If it was not one thing, it was another, and the rest of the kingdom did not remain unaffected.
Mostly notably was the change in the Forbanne soldiers. Despite the utter lack of identity with which they struggled, their reaction to the sudden “death” of their leader was not at all uniform. Some of them attempted to take their own lives, congruent with the final decision of their trusted commander; some of them even succeeded, while others ended up in the infirmary, staring blankly at the ceiling as they wondered their purpose and what to do next. Others, perhaps those who were slightly better adjusted, made an attempt to distance themselves from their encampment and more frequently sought the company of the resident escorts. Others had yielded to the commanding presence of Chara Rigas, who instructed them to keep vigilant watch of the palace and at the kingdom’s gates. Others, still, strayed completely, wandering the grounds like lost dogs in need of an unsure of their master.
But for those who were not lost, yet in need of the occasional distraction, those who chose not to partake in the many “services” of the escorts (or those merely looking for a change of pace) turned to the kingdom’s own group of traveling performers. Although the Missing Links had not put on a show with the grandeur that they had at Alster Rigas’s birthday celebration since that very night, there was a need for people to take their minds off of the stressors of the present, and that demanded distractions. Fortunately, the aerial skills of Briery Frealy, Rycen’s clever sleight of hand, and her songs were able to bring those alternative distractions when the distressed sought them.
For all she chose to blame Hadwin for their bout of poor luck (whether or not it really had anything to do with the vengeful karma that followed in his shadow), the Silver Fairy could not shake something that he had once said to her, and that Alster Rigas had also confirmed, later on. And that was that part of her purpose, that very purpose she sought, not so unlike the Forbanne, could be imparted from her song. She could not deny the effect she had on people when she sang from what was left of her hardened heart; she could not deny the tears in their eyes, or the smiles on mouths that probably hadn’t smiled in quite some time. For all that the silver acrobat claimed her hate and disdain for people in general, it was almost eerie how she was able to reach them. Even those sporting impenetrable armor could not help but let her song in, and let it affect them, for better or for worse. So in the days that passed, while the Forbanne commander continued to recover, while Elespeth Rigas remained in a stable coma, while her husband and the necromancer set off to find a way to save her, and while soldiers scoured the kingdom for the one they felt responsible for driving Haraldur Sorde to suicide (for they has some confirmation that it was not something that would have taken place, independent of provocation), Cwenha spent her time singing. In a way, it was both favourable and therapeutic for her, as well, for when she wasn’t singing, she was hating, and she was angry. It was because of this that performing had become such a crucial coping mechanism in her life: if she could not feel like a fulfilled human being, then the least she could do is pretend. Maybe one day, if she pretended long enough, it wouldn’t be pretending at all.
Seeing how these Forbanne were unraveling without the guidance of her leader, furthermore, made her realize that she should be grateful that she had coping mechanisms, as the same could not really be said for them. That she had been able to hold herself together in the years following the abuse she’d suffered was in and of itself noteworthy, and something that she realized she should have valued more. Especially when it was so glaringly obvious that there were worse fates than living every day in anger.
Her sentiments were confirmed late one morning, when she had finally decided to leave her chamber and face another day. One could only justify sleeping for so long, and she wasn’t particularly enamoured of the way the sun broke through her window every dawn, circumventing even the fabric of the curtains that covered it. Something about ‘promoting healing through light’, was the bullshit she was fed when she’d inquired about a darker room. Well, she wasn’t convinced that she’d ‘healed’ any at all, beyond what the Gardeners and the Night Garden had managed to do for her broken foot. And if the sun really had any healing properties at all, then the days spent on the road at the peak of noon should have already done wonders for her damaged psyche.
This morning was like any other morning, in that it was reluctant necessity that brought her into the halls of the palace: too much daylight to continue to sleep, and too many people in need of something to focus on, other than the uncertainty that was running rampant in the kingdom, especially since the Rigas Head himself had since departed. With one leader gone, another currently out of commission, and the only one remaining long since overwhelmed with her position, she couldn’t blame them for wanting to lose themselves in sex or spectacle or song. And… at the end of the day, she didn’t really mind being part of that escape. For one, people were not flocking to her out of lust or intrigue; they came to her because they needed her song. And that in and of itself, to be needed not just to fill a void or fulfill a fantasy, but to see something beyond pain and panic… well, it almost made her feel that Alster and that loathsome wolf might just be right.
But being an adequate distraction did not make her anywhere near qualified to counsel or console. So when the wayward Forbanne soldier, Kadri, called her name and decided to try and make another pitiful attempt at conversation, she was helpless but to oblige. “I guess it doesn’t matter that I literally just dragged myself out of bed, does it? You wouldn’t understand what that means for my well-being.” The Silver Fairy sighed and ran a hand through her unruly blonde curls. It didn’t matter what time of day it was, it was far too early for this conversation. “Come on. If you want to talk, then you can accompany me to the kitchens. I’m beyond hungry.”
Death, suicide, weakness… these were not things Cwenha was at all qualified to discuss with a lost and confused young man. But he wanted answers, and it didn’t matter if they made sense. There was no making sense of the shitstorm that had hit the once quiet kingdom of Galeyn with Haraldur Sorde’s attempted suicide. “Here is the thing, Kadri. Weak is relative to how you decide to perceive it. People who kill themselves can be weak; so can people who endure a life of pain. I once tried to kill myself, you know. At least, I thought about it, really hard. I climbed all the way up to the top of a bridge and prepared to jump, because of what people had done to my body for years. Maybe I’d have gone through with it, were it not for Briery talking me out of it. But does that make me weak? That I was too afraid?” Something tugged at her heart. Just minutes out of bed, and already, she was hitting too close to home with her own words. “You sure as hell can’t answer that, but it doesn’t matter if I am weak or strong. It doesn’t matter if the Forbanne who killed themselves were weak or strong; what matters is that some of them are dead, and some of them are not. And there is no point in focusing on the ones who are dead, because they aren’t around to worry about, anymore.”
As they turned a corner, another palace resident hastily stepped out of their way; whether it was due to the sight of Kadri’s halberd, which he carried in a most cavalier (and yet, still somewhat intimidating) fashion, or the annoyed and almost deadly look that the silver singer wore for the first hour of every morning was anyone’s guess. The fewer people who sought conversation with her, the better. Kadri was perhaps the only exception for how truly lost she knew the poor man was. “You’ll never know if asking about their well-being could’ve prevented their death, so there is no point in dwelling on it. I don’t even know that asking about my well-being would’ve prevented me from climbing atop that bridge. As for freedom, some will argue that death is the only freedom; and I’d be lying if I said part of me still didn’t believe that.” She folded her arms across her chest and turned her pale gaze to the floor. “It’s different for everyone. Only you can answer that question for yourself. How does it feel to follow your commander, even if you are no longer linked to his mind? How does it feel not to follow him?”
Just outside the doors to the kitchen, where the kindly chefs at the palace had come to gently accommodate the cranky young singer when she awoke to eat something that would hopefully make her less cranky, Cwenha turned on her heel and unfolded her arms to press one hand against Kadri’s chest. “Stop thinking, and start feeling, Kadri. You won’t find your answers by trying to reason through them. What you are asking doesn’t require reason; it takes intuition, and your intuition is obviously not all that great. So do what you did to your body to make it strong, and do the same thing with your heart. Then you’ll have your answers.”
Dropping her hand from his chest, Cwenha drew it back toward her own body, suddenly appearing self-conscious, and maybe a little bit embarrassed. “Sorry I’m not much help; especially first thing in the morning when I haven’t gotten any food into me. But a lot of the questions you have, Kadri… no one has the answers to them, I’m sorry to say. If I do happen to have an epiphany--you’ll be the first to know. I promise.”
“Leave her alone? You want to leave her alone?” Rowen’s voice spiked with skepticism. “If we ignore her, and choose to deal with her later, it may already be too late for us. We both agree she can be a force to be reckoned with, if driven to act. But I’ve factored her into my plans in eliminating one of Hadwin’s precious family. If all goes well, Locque, my brother will run. If he runs, Teselin will either choose to follow him, or she’ll be so distracted by his absence that her threat level will have dwindled significantly. It’s possible to open her up to suggestion--and make her yours.”
A sharp, acrid taste overtook her tongue, bringing with it an unexpected reaction. Rowen shivered with it, threw her arms around her shoulders to conceal it from the perceptive sorceress’ gaze. Make her yours. The connotations hit too strongly. Even if Locque succeeded in enticing the summoner with her skills of manipulation, it didn’t change the fact that Teselin did not choose Locque, like Rowen had chosen Locque. All the same, the thought sounded clear in her head, tolling with gongs as heavy as a church bell. What if Locque decided she preferred the summoner? Ladled her with attention, in Rowen’s place? Teselin had already stolen her brother. With her untold power and potential for destruction, why would the sorceress deny the girl with Rowen’s same physique and the same wide-eyed stare? She was the perfect replacement; a superior replacement. There was no need for Locque to entertain two copies bearing surface-level similarities when one was inherently more worthy and useful than the other. If Rowen succeeded in bagging Teselin for Locque...she’d be rendered irrelevant.
Why did this bother her so much? She already spoke her disapproval over Locque’s strange, borderline maternal attitude towards her health and wellness. Didn’t she say they had a business partnership, and nothing more? Why did it matter who Locque snagged as an ally by means of her compulsive prowess? They had agreed to target Sigrid Sorenson by chipping at her vulnerabilities, priming her for the sorceress’ unassailable power of suggestion. Acquiring the Dawn Warrior didn’t create the same knee jerk reaction in Rowen as it did to consider Teselin as their potential puppet. The explanation was simple; after all, she made it no secret, either to herself or to the summoner, that the two of them shared a mirror. While the summoner was the subject, Rowen was the reflection. Flat. Two-dimensional. Trapped in a land of opposites and opposition, doppelgangers that could not exist without their flesh-and-blood counterpart. For, reflections were much like shadows. And Rowen was both a reflection and a shadow. Darkness made to swallow darkness.
“She’s no worthy opponent in the least,” Rowen, ready to climb free of her bleakest of inner observations, took the dangling rope Locque offered and pulled herself back into the conversation. “She’s ‘feral’? Don’t insult me. This acrobat is the ‘play’ version of feral, in comparison. A wolf, she is not, let alone a housecat. Housecats can spit and scratch and wound, but if you think she’s a ‘worthier’ opponent than the Forbanne commander, who delivered me a fatal wound that I survived, then I question your analysis, Locque.”
The borderline vigor present in her argument did not last; in a wisp of a sigh, the tension deflated from her lithe body, and the numbness returned. All lives have worth. Locque said those words with a sincerity she believed, but how did one decode its meaning? Did Locque consider the worthiness of lives due to their usefulness in her schemes? Once a person died, they ceased having a utility, a purpose. On that level, it made sense to Rowen. Why dispose of a living creature when you could make that creature serve you in some capacity? Nonetheless, it didn’t solve Rowen’s inherent problem with the world. All creatures needed to die, regardless of their temporary usefulness to some fleeting cause she didn’t rightly understand.
“I disagree.” She withdrew the dagger from her belt and carved its point into the wood grains of her chair. “No lives have worth. Everyone here appears for no reason, they live for no reason, they die for no reason. At its basest form, we’re here to proliferate the species, but the species is an infectious disease. The only way to cure the disease is to kill the infected. And everyone is infected. You must think this, too, Locque. If all lives have worth, why do you let me kill? Would you have sought me out in Braighdath if not for my disregard for life?” A splinter of wood protruded from the grain her dagger shaved. “We’re all here to die; I’m just expediting things a little bit. I’ll die soon, too--but I can promise you that it won’t be happening yet. I have a few goals I want to achieve. Use me until then. I’m no special exception to you, Locque. The only difference between me and people like the Rigas Head’s wife is that I’ve decided to be here of my own volition. Unless,” she tossed her head at the sorceress, “that’s what you want me to believe. Whatever the case, I don’t care, as long as my goals are met. But if you want to maintain all life and I want to kill all life...then our paths are going to divert at some point. What will you do then?” Her reddish eyes flicked towards the ceiling, staring at the top of Locque’s false head of coppery hair. “Will you kill me to preserve your ideal?”
When Cwenha commanded him to come with her to the kitchens for morning sustenance, Kadri did not move to follow. “I am on duty. I can’t leave, even if you order me to leave. My orders come from Lady Chara Rigas, who acts on behalf of Commander Sorde. Only they can excuse me from my duty. I’ve compromised my route, before. I don’t know if soldiers can be free if they obey orders, but I have to obey orders now. The Forbanne need to show they haven’t been incapacitated. It was not right for me to talk to you.” He nodded in the direction of the kitchens. “I will stay here and patrol, but sustenance is important for you, Cwenha, and I’ll guarantee your safety while you do so.”
“Then it’s best that you go with her--Kadri?”
Perhaps it was the concentration he spent on forming the words to communicate with his friend, or the exhaustion it took to pull out his thoughts and make them heard in a way that made sense, but he didn’t notice the newcomer until he was upon them both. Kadri half-turned to the interruption, halberd raised in a defensive posture. He was wrong to have reneged on his patrol duty; he allowed someone to slip through his defenses while he so boldly stated Cwenha’s safety! The weapon did not relax, but as recognition for the stranger set in, it repositioned itself into a stiff salute. “Commander Sorde.”
“Rest at ease.” Sure enough, the man of controversy was standing before his soldier, alive and battle-ready, sporting light armor and a sword at his hip. Little about his stalwart appearance indicated his recent tussle with death--or his recovery from it--aside from the half-hidden scar which peaked out from beneath his shirt-collar. Commander Sorde had not lost his commanding presence; in fact, he seemed all the more hardened for his experiences. A person more astute to reading emotions and auras might be able to glean that the towering man appeared rather conflicted, like two sides of himself were warring for dominance. Fierce determination sat on one side, and confusion on par with the Forbanne post-severance sat on the other. Kadri saw nothing but his commander in the flesh, untroubled in presence because he was alive. But then he remembered what the escorts at camp were saying about ‘wellbeing.’
“Commander Sorde, may I speak frankly?”
The man nodded.
“How is your wellbeing?”
This seemed to take the commander aback. A near imperceptible shift twitched his dominant leg forward, destabilizing the stolidness of his tree-like stance. “Kadri, I’m not your commander right now, so while I can’t order you to temporarily remove yourself from patrol duty, I can suggest you go with this young lady,” he paused and tilted his head towards Cwenha. “Cwenha, was it? We met in Eyraille, but briefly. I thank you for celebrating the Equinox Festival with us. Impromptu wedding and all. Kadri,” he reshifted his attention to the smaller-statured soldier, “if you want to join Cwenha for breakfast, I’ll patrol in your place.”
“Commander--”
A bit of a playful spark lit a green fire in his eyes. “Are you implying I lack the ability to guard a hallway?”
Kadri almost blanched. “No. No. I would not say insolent things, Commander. I will go with Cwenha if that is what you want.”
“It is what I want, but is it what you want?”
Kadri did not know how to respond. Was it a trick? A test of loyalty? Some of his old masters used to offer them the best cuts of meat from a raided storehouse or a military banquet, asking if they wanted it for themselves. To answer anything other than, ‘If it is what you want, Master,’ granted them nothing but a sound beating, or worse, a meal of the Master’s own excrement and piss. For a Forbanne to express an opinion not filtered through the desires of their Master meant months serving the Master as a personal guard. It was not an honor, but a dishonor. Disobedient dogs wear a collar. Old puncture marks peppered around Kadri’s throat, imprints of his collar, a stigma other Masters and Forbanne saw and recognized. This one can’t be trusted, the scarring on his throat read. Lowly. A cur. Treat him as such.
“I’m not your commander right now,” Haraldur Sorde reiterated. “You can answer ‘yes’ to this question.” His eyes flicked in acknowledgment to the puncture marks, where the spikes of the inverse collar had burrowed and bit. “Even as a Commander, I’m not a Master.”
With hesitation bordering on fear, Kadri nodded. “Yes,” he said, in a small voice, bowing his head almost parallel with the floor. “I want to go with Cwenha.”
“Go then, Kadri.” Haraldur reserved a small, reassuring smile for the struggling soldier. “When you return, I’ll answer your question. About my wellbeing.”
With an earnest, albeit shaky salute of farewell, Kadri turned to Cwenha and at last, accompanied her to the kitchens. He kept silent on the walk towards their destination, (still rattled from his encounter with the Commander), until the acrobat opened her mouth to address his pressing questions from before. “So what should happen with the ones who are alive, Cwenha? Ones who killed themselves and came back, like Commander Sorde? Or ones like you, who didn’t get to do it?” A few Gardeners gave Cwenha and him a wide berth as they passed. “Commander Sorde can’t be weak because he’s alive. You can’t be weak. None of the living are weak. Dead is dead, but the escorts told us we shouldn’t think of people as just dead--because dead people were human, like us. If we can’t think of them as just dead, then I have to think of them as something. Weak or strong. Since we were always told dead people were weak because they didn’t survive, then all dead people are weak. But there has to be more than strong and weak. What else does wellbeing mean? And why do you say we can’t think of dead people, back when they were alive?” A trickle of earnest entreaty coated his words. “Things matter. They have to matter, Cwenha. If they didn’t matter...then none of this matters. The Forbanne don’t matter and Commander Sorde said they do. As people. Vega Sorde said it, too. So...dead people matter. The weak ones, too. That’s how Forbanne find humanity...right?”
A feeling close to dismay sank Kadri’s assured gait into something heavy and regretful, as though he carried not a halberd but a iron-weighted hammer of giant’s size. “I don’t want death to be the only freedom. Because then it means all the people I killed, I ‘freed.’ That Commander Sorde would have been better off dead, away from his wife and his children, because he’d be ‘free.’ I don’t like this freedom, Cwenha. If that’s freedom then I’ll follow a Master, again. Because I feel,” he hesitated. Feel. The word tasted foreign on his tongue. How did one say it? I feel, I feel, I feel…
“I feel...weak, not following someone. But... I don’t want to follow a Master. I want to follow people like Commander Sorde. He is Forbanne. He knows us. But he said he wasn’t my commander right now. Will he be, again? And can I still be ‘free’--alive and free--if I choose to follow him?”
In tandem with Cwenha, he stopped outside the kitchen doors, not sure how the acrobat was going to obtain sustenance if the cooks were still making the food inside. Kitchens were off limits to anyone but the chefs and the servants. In keeping with the palace rules, Kadri did not go through the doors, nor did he obstruct the doors with his body. He kept to the side, curious over what Cwenha planned to do, now that she arrived at a place she was not permitted to enter. “I don’t know what you want me to feel, Cwenha. If I feel weak too much, I’ll die. If I die, I’ll be ‘free.’ But then I won’t matter. If I die, I won’t matter to you. So why should I feel anything...if it will make me weak, and kill me, and make me stop mattering to my friend? If these are your answers to questions ‘no one’ can answer, can your answers change, Cwenha? If so...what is truth?” The more he lost his grip on the conversation, the tighter he held his halberd, as if compensating his lack of control with tactile assurance. “Can anyone find truth? If truth is also found in death...I don’t want that, either. Whatever I have right now, if it’s freedom...it...it...stings in my head. And,” he moved a free hand over his chest, “in my heart. And it won’t stop. It hasn’t stopped. Freedom is painful.”
“The summoner is a force to be reckoned with, yes. But she is also by far one of the most vulnerable souls in this kingdom.” Locque did not seem at all concerned at the notion of leaving Teselin Kristeva to her devices, at least in terms of not directly interfering with her. Not like she had with Elespeth Rigas. “If you’d rather have her out of the way sooner than later, and you plan on crushing your brother’s heart anyway, then I see no reason to stop you. But she does not want to harm; quite the opposite, in fact. She is so afraid of doing harm… Whether or not your brother is involved, I do believe it possible to sway her to our side, Rowen. In fact, I am so certain, that it is my belief she only needs to hear the truth. About Galeyn, and the Night Garden… and why I must take my home back. Nonetheless,”
The sorceress turned her face away from the window to meet Rowen’s large eyes. If she read any of the girl’s insecurities in them, she did not make mention of them. “I simply feel it is responsible to caution you that that particular housecat may be more dangerous than others. I know there are many who would look upon you and assume you are not a threat; the same goes for that girl, dressed all in silver. Don’t become a victim of your pride, Rowen.”
It appeared as though their appraisal of the girl named Cwenha was not the only way the two of them differed. But this came as no surprise to Locque. Of course the young assassin did not value life in the same way; she valued the feeling of taking life. But the sorceress had known that from the very beginning, and while it was not a path in life that she herself would have chosen, she could not deny her hypocrisy in the fact that she this trait was what made Rowen valuable to her, as an ally. “When I say all lives have worth, I am not implying that I value all individual lives and what they have to bring, Rowen. That would be impossible. Perhaps, if I got to know everyone in this kingdom, I would think differently. But it also stands to reason that they would not have me, here. They would not have me reclaim my rightful home. And in that, they’ve sadly forced my hand--which, so far, has been you. You are right that we might be standing on different platforms, but you are wrong about one thing. You are a special exception, Rowen. Because I have been nothing but open and honest with you--and you have chosen to stay.”
The stoic lines near Locque’s mouth smoothed, and for a moment, she did appear softer. Perhaps too young to be maternal, in her current guise; hardly older than the Sybaian healer back at the palace. It could have been her masterful manipulation, but something in that microexpression suggested genuine sentiment. “I’ve told you my goal. To reclaim this kingdom and make it my home, again. Its current Queen is not even interested in ruling, and her brother cannot venture too close to the Night Garden; they might not see it this way at first, but I am sure that Galeyn will soon come to realize I have done it a favor. But the refugees… The D’Marians, the Rigases, those whose lives you seek to disrupt, those are not my people. They are therefore not my concern. My purpose in life is not to maintain all life; only to preserve those of my Galeynian brethren. That said…” Leaning forward, she rested a hand on Rowen’s shoulder. “What you choose to do to those who are not my people is entirely up to you. My only request is that, when all is said and done, you spare Galeynian blood. I realize that staying in one place for too long is not your preference; it makes you restless, which is why I do not expect you to remain by my side when I have taken the kingdom back. But you are valuable and worthy to me, Rowen. And I ask…” She paused, and side, before returning her hand to her lap. “I ask that you not force my hand, and make me choose between defending my people and preserving your life. Anyone else is fair game--but Galeynians remain untouched, unless it is absolutely necessary to do otherwise. Can you make that one compromise, Rowen?”
Cwenha realized her detrimental faux-pas with the naive Forbanne soldier all too late. For all she should have known how literally he took anyone’s words, and how much he struggled to introspect and find answers on his own, she should have been more careful. The Silver Fairy stalled her pace and her shoulders stiffened with guilt. Of all the people Kadri had chosen to ask these questions… she obviously had been the poorest option. Although, given his definition of what made a ‘friend’, perhaps she had been the only option. I am not cut out for that kind of responsibility… She groaned inwardly. This job would have been far better suited for someone with more infinite patience, and an overall brighter outlook on life. Someone like Alster Rigas.
But Alster was not here, right now. And she was; so she was this man’s only option.
“No, Kadri, you are right. You’re absolutely right.” The small acrobat amended, but the confusion lining his face suggested the damage had already been done. Here, he had come to her for help and clarification… and she had only made him doubt his instincts and remain all the more confused. “I did not mean to imply that the dead don’t matter. They were people; they meant someone to somebody, once. Even the Forbanne who have never known love or friendship meant something to their own mothers. They deserve to be remembered, and to be remembered as people. What I meant was… we can never really know if there was something that would have turned their fate around. Unless you are a necromancer or a medium--and our resident necromancer has left with the Rigas Head for quite some time--you have no way of asking. And, even if you could ask them if inquiring about their wellbeing might have made a difference… they themselves might not know. There is no guarantee; not everyone knows what they want or need. Hell, even I don’t know.”
Cwenha turned her azure gaze to the tips of her bare feet, feeling at once embarrassed, awkward, and lost. “I don’t think you’re weak, Kadri, even if you feel that way. I think it’s fine to feel weak, because if we didn’t know what weakness is, how would we know if we are strong? But I can tell you this. Feeling doesn’t make you week. At least, I don’t think so. And if you died… you would still matter. Your legacy would still matter to everyone who knew you. You’d still matter to me.” The silver acrobat wasn’t even aware of how true that was until the words were out of her mouth. All this time, she’d thought she merely tolerated the poor, naive man. Humoured him, gave him an ear to receive his words and his questions, even if she did not have the answers. But throughout their rather unconventional exchanges, she now realized, it was more than just tolerance. For someone who held such stubborn hatred for people in general, she did not hate Kadri. She could not even find it in her to be angry with him for his ignorance; she, whose anger knew no end. In a way, it was really he who tolerated her, for her dark outlook and inability to be of any real help.
And yet...he still called her a friend. Even if that was proof enough that he did not really know what a friend was, she could not dent that somehow, the sentiment resonated with her. “Look. I wish I could give you better advice.” She looked up from her toes at last, only to find painful, raw desperation in the Forbanne soldier’s eyes. No matter how she attempted to explain, he would continue to see his world in shades of black and white, and nothing in-between. She wasn’t sure that was a habit that he would ever be able to break; and in that, he would never be able to fathom the answers anyone provided him. “But I am a terrible person to ask. Yes, answers can change, but I am only really guessing, because… I don’t know. I don’t know that I matter, before or after I tried to die. Some people, like Briery, say I matter, but even if that is her truth, I don’t know that it is the truth. If you want my opinion, Kadri, then it is that there are no real answers. But if it makes you uncomfortable to feel…” She hazarded what could have been interpreted as a smile. “Then I’d say you’re on the right track, and that your truths will come to you. Feeling is really awful. But it means we’re human, so just try to bear with it. Freedom is always going to be painful, because there is nothing worse than having to make every single decision for yourself when you never know if it is the right decision. But I suppose that’s just what life is about, isn’t it? Trial and error. Trying and hoping, over and over again… I mean, I guess that’s why I’m still here.” She shrugged her shoulders and hugged her arms close to her chest, as if she were warding off a cold draft. “Because part of me believes there’s still hope. And because I know, for whatever reason, I matter to some people, and dying would only bring them sadness.”
This was futile, the young acrobat thought to herself at last. To Kadri, these were all just words, and words did not suffice when it was a matter of the heart to engage in this kind of reasoning. As much as she wanted to… she could not help this man. At least, not with words and rhetoric. Although…
“Like I said--you’re going about this the wrong way. Thinking when you should be feeling, Kadri. I could go on and on for hours about how you don’t need a master or to follow in someone’s shadow simply because it is all you’ve ever known, and that not doing so won’t make you weak, because I am sure that others would tell you exactly the contrary. There is no penultimate truth; only the truths that we hold and that we believe. Look, I’m not Alster Rigas, and I’m not good with words. I don’t know that I can help you this way. But… maybe something different will reach you.”
Cwenha turned back to the kitchen doors, placing her hand on the solid wood. “Believe me, I am much more pleasant and useful as a person when I’m fed and better dressed. If you feel the need to ask permission, go and speak to your commanding officer, and see if he will grant you leave within the next hour. Come and find me near the south gate--by the fountain, where I first made your acquaintance. I think,” the corner of her mouth twitched; the beginning of a truly genuine smile, “you’ll find it helpful.”
The cooks in the kitchen (particularly a matronly older lady, who happened to bake bread that only the faoladh mutt could rival with his skills) never seemed to mind when the small, blonde acrobat stopped by hours after they had served breakfast in search of some leftovers. Perhaps it was because they were aware that the Missing Links were, in fact, Queen Lilica’s guests. Or maybe they quietly appreciated the snippets of her songs that she hummed while munching bread and cheese; either way, she was grateful for their tolerance, and that they did not ask questions or insist she wake earlier to attend breakfast with everyone else.
After filling her stomach (which did wonders for her mood), the Silver Fairy returned to her quarters to don her daily performing attire. Different from the skin-tight silver that was a mirror of Briery’s gold getup, the Ring Leader had sewn her blonde partner another dress entirely to accommodate her presence while singing, as opposed to flipping through the air. Keeping to her brand, the fabric was still crafted of the same sheer silver, since Silver Fairy had become her street name, ever since those days in Braighdath. She had always been more recognizable, shining in the hot sunlight, but instead of a tight-fitting bodice and small skirt, this gown flowed down past her knees at the back, and settled just above them in the front. The form sported an empire waist, to allow her to extend her abdomen for the sheer amount of air required to fill her lungs to make her notes carry, all the while still lending her a sweet and effeminate appearance. It was by far more comfortable (and less revealing) than her acrobat attire, and she couldn’t have been more grateful to Briery for taking the time to craft it (although it hadn’t taken that long). And of late, it had been getting far more use than her aerial stunts. Spectacle could well distract you from your problems and concerns; but music… Like Alster had once suggested, it could heal. And healing was exactly what these people needed, Forbanne and otherwise. After all, everyone had wounds, whether or not they chose to acknowledge them. Sometimes a song could reach those wounds and tend to it in a way that no other form of healing could.
So, like any other day, Cwenha took to the outdoors and put her voice to use for anyone who cared or needed to listen. Today was not particularly swarming with those presenting with that particular need; a straggler here and there would stop and listen to the angelic voice at the fountain for a little while, before moving on, either because what they’d heard had filled the void in her heart, or had touched on something sore that they were not ready to acknowledge. There was no one around by the time Kadri emerged, still with his halberd, temporarily off-duty but never unarmed. She didn’t blame him, because neither was she. “Good. You found me. I was hoping you would stop by.” The Silver Fairy smoothed her skirts on her lap from her seat at the fountain. Neither drunk nor injured, which had been the case the last time the two of them had been there at the same time. “Words don’t always get through to people. But music does. You don’t even need to understand the words to feel the song. My songs seem to have been helping a lot of people, of late, so I figured there is at least a chance it might do something for you, too. Something that talking can’t do.”
Tucking her pale curls behind her ears, the Silver Fairy stood from her seated position, assuming a straight posture with her shoulders rolled back. “You probably won’t understand these words, anyway, but that isn’t the point. Just listen to the song. Listen, and don’t be afraid to feel. This song...” Something vulnerable flickered in her blue eyes, and a small crease formed between her brows. “I learned it when I was very young. Sometimes I’d find myself humming it when I was in need of comfort. It’s reached me when nobody else could. Maybe it will reach you too, Kadri.”
With nothing more to say, Cwenha drew a deep breath into her lungs, and expelled music into the air on her breath. She sang in the language she no longer used, but still remembered, and felt those familiar emotions wash over her. Revisited times that were trying, times that were painful… but somehow, the notes made sense of it. The music untangled the trauma, and while it might not have the power to diminish it, it made it something tangible. Something that could be unpacked, understood, and dealt with, instead of some looming, unnamed demon that clawed at hearts and dreams. Every time she sang this song, it touched on old wounds of her own that wouldn’t heal, and it always hurt a little. But by the delivery of the last note… somehow, she always felt better.
She wondered if it was the same, for Kadri. When the last of her music drifted onto the warm afternoon air for her one-person audience, she waited for a moment in silence, and couldn’t help but wonder by his lack of reaction if this had been a bad idea. Had she been foolish in thinking her voice was so powerful as to reach such a confused and damaged person?“...do you feel any different?” Cwenha ventured at last, sounding both hopeful and uncertain. “Do you feel… anything at all?”
“Hmph.” Rowen rammed her knife into the chair; a practiced downward swipe that split the wood in twain and buried half of the blade. “My brother doesn’t have a heart to crush. It’s all fun and games until he’s in hot water. Then he’ll run to save his own ass. It happened in Braighdath.” Leaving the knife in the chair, she crossed her arms over her chest, adopting a casual air despite how much the recollection actually affected her. But why give her brother the satisfaction of mourning over his betrayal of choosing his replacement sister over her? “He buried the bodies I killed. It speaks to his love of danger, to be involved. When the difficulty level rose, and he knew he’d get caught if he stayed near me, he bolted. And he’ll bolt again, I assure you. Once he does...the hold he has over that summoner will loosen. It’s true, Locque, she’s a vulnerable soul, but he helps to mitigate her vulnerabilities with his zeal and zest for life; it’s infectious. She’s stronger with him. I’ve seen it first-hand, between them. Hell, I’ve experienced it first-hand. That’s,” she hesitated, “what he did for me. Made me stronger. Gave a damn when no one else did. But his affection has its limits, when he grows bored of you, or values his own hide over those of others. Soon, Teselin will know it, too. That he’s not trustworthy. And that is when she’ll fall more easily to your persuasion, Locque. Without his reassurances softening the blow of whatever truth you plan to throw in her face, she’ll be left bare and alone. No allies. No one to protect her.” As it should be, she thought. Fall into despair, Teselin. And take the whole world with you.
Kicking her chair from its tucked-in proximity to the table, Rowen threw herself upon it, pushing the front two-legs off the ground as she planted her feet against the table’s outer lip. It was a pose reminiscent of her brother, and so ingrained in her non-verbal expression that she was not even consciously aware of the influence, or from where it stemmed. With her youthful appearance and tiny stature, she looked less like a ruffian with a deadly hold on her knife and more like a petulant child who couldn’t sit still n her chair. “And I am saying, Locque, that she is not a threat because we move in much the same way. Her reflexes are quick and so are mine. She’s flexible--so am I. She operates by instinct--and so do I. But she is still human--painfully human--and she’ll die for it. It’s not pride if I’m observing the truth. I assure you, Locque, I’m not arrogant about my abilities; I know my limitations as well as my strengths. However much she struggles and wounds, I will end her miserable existence. It’ll be to her benefit; it’s obvious the bitch hates everything about being alive. I’ll be doing her a fucking favor.”
One matter was not settled, however; on the topic of their diverging attitudes towards the sanctity of life, Locque made her stance on targeting Galeynians quite clear. Kill them, and there was no guarantee of Rowen’s continued survival. “Why do you want to save the people who don’t care for you?” she found herself expressing out loud, bitterness fueling her question. “The Galeynians don’t want you. Taking the kingdom by force won’t change their minds. But,” her knife spun a few revolutions in the air before her hand caught it by the blade, “if your predilection is to rule by fear and to punish those who’ve denied you as an act of vengeance, you actually need subjects to subjugate, and not a kingdom of smoldering ash. So unless one of those Galeynians crosses me, or stands in my way by any means,” she dipped her head into a nod, “I won’t touch them, Locque. That is my compromise to you.” I knew I was disposable, the bitterness from her mouth trickled into the sanctum of her thoughts. She’ll kill me for them. Nameless, spineless people. That’s who she values. She wants the herd, not the predator. Once she gets what she wants, she’ll build a fence around her enclosure...and keep me out. Wolves don’t belong among sheep…
For a man (not even a man, as Masters of the past liked to point out and jeer) prohibited to have his own voice, Kadri was far better at listening than speaking. He always knew what others expected of him. Obey, obey, obey. Surrender your consciousness. Surrender individuality, eliminate the declarative: “I am.” Forbanne were a collective hive-mind. They listened to orders and carried them out without question. While Kadri had disobeyed, by demonstrating the survival of his independent thought, and was thusly punished for lacking the discipline to have absorbed every ounce of his indoctrination, it was his unkillable outlook of seeing the horizon line, even among the cruelty of the Masters, that remained firm. People called it naivete, or a softer, womanly persuasion that supplemented his missing balls, but the reason he believed the Master who tricked him into accepting the high-grade cut of meat was because he wanted to trust in him. He wanted to see benevolence, to experience an act of appreciation from Master to slave. But he’d been deceived by the Master he served. They labeled him as willful, insubordinate, and made him to suffer the brunt of punishment far beyond that of his Forbanne peers. He was the scapegoat, the cause of misfortunes, the example set to teach Forbanne their place in the world. The Masters thought this harsher treatment would break Kadri, and liberate him from his “weakness.” But it didn’t. Kadri was always weak. Gullible. Hopeful. ...Detrimentally trusting.
But was Cwenha saying it was okay to be weak? That acknowledging one’s weakness would lead them to explore their strengths? How was that possible? If weakness meant death, no one would survive long enough to realize what parts made them strong. Since Kadri represented weakness among the Forbanne, would he be next to die? And were he next to die, then Cwenha would disregard him as another dead body. He didn’t matter…
You’d still matter to me…
Kadri met Cwenha’s eyes with a blink of surprise. “So the dead do matter to you? I would matter to you? Is this true? I don’t have a lot of people who would say I mattered. Forbanne are tools of war and they are disposable. No one misses a dead Forbanne. People cheer. A dead Forbanne means one fewer weapon in Mollengard’s arsenal. So is this true, Cwenha? I matter? Because I can say that your death would matter to me.” He shifted in his stance, as though feeling...discomfort. Embarrassment. “You are my first friend. That’s my truth, even if my truth is confused, and I don’t know, either. But this is something I do know. Because my decision to be your friend...was a decision I made. Commander Sorde told me that making friends is what people do, but he didn’t order me to do it. I did it,” the halberd wavered in his white-knuckled grip, “because I wanted to. And if freedom is painful, and won’t stop being painful, if I have you as a friend, and people like Commander Sorde and Vega Sorde, like Naimah who named me, or Lord Alster Rigas, who talked to me like an equal, or Hadwin because he said I am his friend, then maybe it will be a tolerable kind of pain. Better than before, when pain was just pain. Did I understand you correctly? Did I use feelings, or are they still only thoughts?”
Cwenha, however, was reaching her conversational limits because her desire for sustenance (literally) growled louder. When she arranged a rendezvous point an hour’s hence, he nodded and, falling into old habits, clicked his heels to attention and saluted. “It will be as you say, Cwenha. In an hour. The fountain. I will be there, if Commander Sorde allows it. I will not delay you any further in your hunt for sustenance.” With another salute of farewell, Kadri spun from the direction whence he came and returned to his station, to where Commander Sorde was guarding in his place.
“That was a quick breakfast,” Commander Sorde remarked, sacrificing his statuesque stillness to greet Kadri’s return.
“Commander Sorde; forgive me. Should I have taken longer?” Kadri, as he’d done with Cwenha before, saluted, reverting to the staid, loyal soldier with the singular goal of pleasing his superiors (and those he respected).
“It’s your call, Kadri. I didn’t give you any time limits or restrictions.”
“Cwenha wants to meet at the fountain in an hour.” His tone slipped into one suggestive of delivering a report, a formal request for leave, rather than a conversation between equals. “If it pleases you, Sir, I humbly ask permission to attend our meeting.”
“If that’s what you want to hear from me, Kadri, but I’ve said I’m not your Commander right now. But yes,” he nodded, “permission granted.”
“Thank you, Sir.” Kadri swept out of his salute and reprised his role as the patrolling guard of the hallway. “I will resume my duty in the meantime. Even if you’re not my Commander presently, please allow me the honor of continuing to serve you and her Highness. If this is about my choice, then I choose to follow you, independent of the mind-link that severed our connection.”
Uneasy silence crackled in the air between the subservient Forbanne and the prince who’d barely risen from death, who hadn’t yet returned to fulfill the full brunt of his previous responsibilities to the soldiers he led. “The link is severed, Kadri. You’re under no obligation to serve someone who…” a hand fussed with the collar of his undershirt to conceal the scar on his throat, the stigma of one of his biggest blunders to date. “To someone who…”
“You are not weak, Commander Sorde. And if you are, then so am I. And that is fine. Cwenha said that it’s fine. We can learn to be strong again. And free again. I want to see this future--and I want you to see this future, too. So,” he bowed his head, a reverence not tied by strings by the puppeteer who forced his compliance, “if you allow me to ask...How is your wellbeing? And what can you tell me about...feelings?”
It was an uncomfortable confession, but the Forbanne Commander was forthright about his feelings of isolation and the slippery sensation of his freedom falling from his fingers. “It may not seem so to you now,” Commander Sorde recounted, “but Captain Solveig’s pull on me was...the worst infringement that could be done to me, because it affected my freedom, my autonomy...and threw me into the terrible mindset that I thought I’d run from and conquered. But it turns out, it wasn’t true. I’ve always been a slave to something. Most recently, my own doubts. Maybe I would’ve been strong enough to defeat the compulsion that was affecting me, if I wasn’t so concerned about feeling weak or being weak. If I accepted help instead of denying that no one would be able to understand...the outcome could have been different. I don’t know if any of this helps,” the man sighed, “but feelings are complex, and I can’t just sum up my experiences in simple terms like ‘sadness,’ ‘anger,’ ‘fear,’ or ‘disgust.’ Neither will you, I imagine. But you’re on the right track, Kadri. Plow forward and don’t stay stuck in your own head. That’s what I wish I’d done for myself, before I let darkness kill me.”
With the commander’s advice still fresh and tingling in his head, Kadri set off to the fountain where he and Cwenha had first met. Even from a distance, she was easily spotted; she sported a dress that glimmered like moonlight on water, a spectacle of an outfit intended for one nicknamed the ‘Silver Fairy.” Barring the one time--and the first time--he saw her donning performer’s garb, Kadri thought she looked...suitable this way.
He stopped at attention, halberd in hand, once he reached the edge of the fountain where she sat, waiting for him to bridge the gap. “I’ve never heard your music--any music, beyond Mollengard’s anthems of conquest, or the horns of victory. Forbanne march to the music, but they don’t sing. As with everything I’ve been learning...your songs are different than what I’ve come to know about life?” It was a rhetorical question, more of an out-loud musing than one where he expected an answer. Unlike most of his encounters in Galeyn, Kadri came prepared for the siren’s song. He knew of her status as a human songbird among the Forbanne ranks, but he himself was never privy to the music--until now.
She opened her mouth--and strange words wavered in the air like wind flapping against the standards of war. Only, there was nothing warlike about her song. It was wind, yes, but wind served multiple functions. It blew fiercely in the wastes of winter, filled the sails on the churning seas, or jostled a few blades of grass in a gentle breeze. The wind that blew from Cwenha’s mouth whistled, it sighed, it moaned and howled, it twinkled like little bells and gonged like big bells. It rode up and down on a hillside. It twisted midair, and collapsed like a bird with a broken wing. There was nothing single-purpose about the song. Like the woman herself, no one could parse the meaning in terms that made sense to Kadri. It elicited memories, the very few that did not pertain to soldiering, but rather, the rare, quiet moments in between. Sleep. Travel, to sights unseen. Sea brine whipping at his face. The changing of seasons. The sweet smells of baking bread in the markets of Flottheim, East Mollengard’s bustling capital. The song reminded him of a word he never thought he’d use to describe his affairs. It was...peaceful. Serene. It didn’t ignore the bloodstains, the litter of corpses, the gutted villages painted in flame, but persisted in spite of war and tragedy.
When her song faded and the notes died, Kadri opened his eyes, not realizing that he’d closed them at all. She was looking at him, expectant, prompting him to answer. But he didn’t know how to answer. What was he supposed to say? Saying he was ‘sad’ or ‘happy’ wouldn’t do it, not according to Commander Sorde. Emotions, feelings, weren’t so easily definable. She wanted to hear something, anything, so he scrambled to speak, despite the faltering words that sputtered past his lips, clumsy things in comparison to her soothing melody.
“Bread. I thought about how I want to eat bread. Or a good cut of meat. Sailing. Walking in a field. Crisp autumn leaves. Are these feelings? Am I doing this right Cwenha?” Embarrassment manifested on his dark cheeks, in the faintest color of rouge. His lips twitched, fighting against the stoic cut of his mouth. “My body is acting strange, but I don’t hate it. It’s a pain that doesn’t hurt. Overexertion from running...in the heat.” The stoicism broke free, and a small, uncertain smile lit his face, along with the moisture that added highlights to his coal-black eyes. “Your song sounded like...freedom. The truth of my freedom. Is that alright?” A stray tear swept over his cheek. “I don’t know if that’s alright. If that’s what you wanted to hear.”
For all Rowen had agreed to stand with Locque during her gradual, albeit eventual conquest of the place that had once been her home, the sorceress did not expect the young assassin to understand exactly why she was choosing a route of minimal carnage. Yes, some of it had to do with the difference in their view of the world, and what the believed it needed (or, in Rowen’s case, did not need), but moreover, she suspected that that young assassin continued to kill as a form of maintaining her own self-denial. While she never spoke of her wounds, for the fact she either wasn’t aware of them or for fear of showing weakness of any sort, Locque could see them, all the same. The way her Sight had eaten away at her securities and sense of trust. How it had poisoned her view of her own older brother, who to this day, still cared so deeply for her or her well-being, despite the carnage she left in her wake. Despite how badly she wanted to hurt him, to punish him for the fact that he could no remain her pillar of security, because all she could see was his darkness.
And if all you could see in others were their darkness, and their potential to destroy this world, it made perfect sense as to why someone like Rowen Kavanagh would take solace and pleasure in killing. It was so much easier to acknowledge what she saw, and how it fed into her belief system, than to challenge herself each and every day upon waking. To try and reason that there was so much more to life and the people in it than her Sight suggested. That was a feat that would both mentally and emotionally drain just about anyone, and in the end, the young assassin was simply getting through life in the best way she knew. Locque couldn’t and didn’t fault her for it, nor did she try to force her own point of view on the girl (it would be futile, anyway), but that small, nostalgic part of the sorceress couldn’t help but think that, were she the person she used to be, she might have been able to help her. Maybe I still can, that nostalgic part sometimes nagged at the back of her mind. When Galeyn is mine, when the Night Garden is mine maybe I can help her. Maybe I will find a way to clear the shadows from her vision… it can’t be impossible.
Of course, that was all entirely hypothetical, especially when Rowen neither wanted nor felt she needed any help. Still… still, maybe there was a way. “Perhaps your brother is not trustworthy, but I do believe he has a heart, Rowen. He still has a heart for you; he cleaned up those bodies to spare you from being caught. I’ve seen his vulnerability, too, and you are still part of it.” She sorceress watched calmly as the little assassin took out her latent anger on the chair, not batting an eyelash as her knife split the wood. “I cannot tell exactly how things will unfold. But I can tell you this: Galeyn will be mine--and so will that summoner. I have seen how truth affects her, and what’s more, she is trusted. The Galeynian Queen and her advisor trust her. The Forbanne Commander and his pregnant wife trust her. Your brother trusts her, as does her own brother, and the Rigas head. I may not be able to reach the people of Galeyn through a forced takeover, no. You are right. But I can show the summoner my truth. And she can--no, she will impart that truth to others. It will not mean a thing coming from me, a person whom they have been primed to fear for years. But coming from her, someone who they trust implicitly, I believe that may be just enough to inhibit retaliation, and to mitigate the need to kill to make a point. All the same,” she let out a soft sigh, “if a Galeynian happens to stand directly in my path of success, then they will have to be dealt with; and in that case, you will have my blessing to take them out. But for those who pose no threat…”
The sorceress turned her gaze to the window again, peering at the landscape beyond through a tiny crack in the curtain. Home; her home. “These people are not the same people who destroyed me, centuries ago. Those people are long dead. Even the Galeynian Queen, however terribly her own father slighted me and delayed my plans for yet another century, is not responsible for what happened to me. In my eyes, they are innocent, until they behave otherwise. As you said, there is no point in reclaiming my home if it is no longer a home at all. The people… they are a part of Galeyn. I do not just want the land; I want the souls that walk it.”
When she turned back to the young assassin, Locque gave her her full attention, and dared to reach over and lay a hand upon the fist that grasped the knife. The girl exuded her own vulnerabilities like a stench; the pungent aroma of jealousy and fear of abandonment. She knew better than to point it out, but all the same, she could not leave it unaddressed. “I realize that it does not suit you to stay in one place for so long. I cannot ask you to stay here, with me, either, because that would mean putting an end to your emotional outlet of killing. But Rowen, you should know that whatever you choose to do once I have my home back, you will always be welcome, here. There is a place for you now, and there always will be, as my first and only willing ally. I don’t know that making this place your home will put an end to your bloodlust, and I cannot and will not ask you to reconsider your habits and beliefs. But know that this can be your home, too. Either indefinitely, or occasionally, when you feel you need a reprieve and a place to belong. Do you understand?”
Rowen was a lot of things; deceptive, manipulative in her own rights, but not a liar. So when she agreed to their compromise, to spare Galeynian blood, Locque hadn’t the shadow of a doubt that she meant every word of what she said. If she could hold to her word, then Locque could not hesitate to offer this place as a safe haven for a girl who, although she wouldn’t admit it, never felt safe. “If you were to give this kingdom a chance,” the sorceress concluded, with a hint of a smile, “I think that even you, who only sees darkness, could find happiness here.”
Stagefright had never been an issue for Cwenha. Long before Briery had taken her under her wing and offered her an alternative path in life, the Silver Fairy had long become accustomed to performing. To exuding confidence and hiding away fear, self-loathing, and anything else that would betray her as being anything but happy and steadfast. Of course, the ugly truth always came out afterwards, when she would end up taking her frustrations out on a safe target (sometimes Rycen, and even occasionally Briery; of late, it had been Hadwin), but never in the moments before, during, or after a performance.
That said, it was an entirely alien feeling to have those nerves vibrate in her fingertips as she performed her song for her naive audience of one. As someone who did not know music out of the context of Mollengard and how the nation chose to use it, Kadri was perhaps any nervous performer’s dream, simply because he was not in a position to have any expectations--to which he had willingly admitted. So why, then, did Cwenha suddenly feel as though the quality of her song mattered? Was it because she wanted this young man’s first impression of what music should really be to set a high standard for his future appraisals of it? Or was she just that eager to make a difference in his life, to be of help in the only real way she knew how?
The uneasy silence that settled between them at the finale of her foreign song made the young acrobat itch and squirm. What if it had done the opposite for Kadri? What if this was his realization that music could do as little as words could for him? You’re an idiot to think you can solve everyone’s problems with a fucking song, a dark voice at the back of Cwenha’s mind jeered. Look at how lost he is. Now you’ve only gotten him deeper into the maze of his own mind…
At least, that was what she thought until he started speaking, again. Until she heard the catch in his voice, and noticed the over brightness of his dark eyes, shimmering with tears that wanted to fall. Without a doubt, he’d felt something; but she may never know exactly what that something was, or whether it helped or hindered him, in the long run. “Yeah, Kadri. I’d say those are feelings.” Came the Silver Fairy’s quiet response, in a gentle tone she hadn’t even realized she was capable of using. “Music can make us experience and re-experience things. Like tasting bread or meet, or recalling the temperature of a particularly notable day. You’re trying to put words and pictures to it, but that is feeling.”
She didn’t even think twice about reaching out to wipe away the tear that trickled down his cheek. Didn’t realize that her own eyes were beginning to fill with tears, as well. Hope. That was what she saw in his eyes. Something that she had long been in search of, something so elusive to her… and she had somehow managed to unveil it for Kadri. “Music can be your freedom. It can be anyone’s freedom. I asked you to come out here, remember? No one else is around to listen, and that song was for your. So of course it can be your freedom, if you’d like it to be. It won’t be an answer to all of your questions… but, it is a start. And we all need to start somewhere.”
A ghost of a smile curled her heart-shaped lips, until she realized the hand that wiped away his tear still lingered on his face. Flushing a pale shade of pink, she finally let her arm fall away. “Believe it or not, you’ve got everything you need to make sense of your own feelings. You just need to trust yourself. I’m not saying it’s easy; but you did so, just right now. Trusted that what you’re doing is feeling, and not thinking. So now you know what it feels like, and you’ll be better able to identify it in the future. I think you’ll come to recognize your own freedom before you know it.”
She would have left it at that, and almost did, except that something he had asked earlier continued to nag at her conscience. It was impossible to answer all of the poor man’s questions, but there was one that she should not have glossed over in her quest to obtain a satisfying breakfast. “...what you asked me before, Kadri. I forgot to give you an answer. You do matter. And if I’m your friend, like you say… I suppose you do have to matter to me, don’t you?” Cwenha expelled a soft sigh from her lungs. Was she lying to placate him? How much could anyone beyond Briery matter to her? But on her tongue… it did not feel like a lie. It did not sound like one. “You matter to Commander Sorde, too. Everyone you’ve helped in this kingdom--you matter to them, to some extent. Don’t forget that.”
She hadn’t believed him when the Forbanne Commander had sought her out to tell her he’d acquired the very permission from his wife that the young summoner had requested. So Teselin had gone and asked Vega herself for the details, shortly after. Sure enough, the Eyraillian princess confirmed what her husband had claimed, although it was abundantly clear that she had only agreed out of the utmost reluctance, on her part. “It isn’t that I want him to do this, Teselin. However much I refuse to lose Sigrid to the fate of that sword, I will selfishly admit it is not worth it for Haraldur to risk his life.” The Skyknight had sighed, staring into the distance from her seat next to Elespeth’s bed. “It is that I have no grounds upon which to stand to refuse him. He is bold and makes reckless decisions… but so do I. I did so in coming here, in my third trimester, flying hours and hours by roc. Anything could have happened. I could have lost my life and those of our children’s…”
“I don’t think you should let him do this, regardless.” Came the summoner’s disappointed reply. “You had a better chance surviving the flight with your children than he does handling a sword even with enchanted gauntlets. I can’t guarantee that it will be enough, your Highness.”
“It has to be, Teselin.” The Skyknight hissed, all fire and fury for just a moment, enough to make the summoner’s heart race, even if there was little Vega could do to her in her heavily pregnant condition. But the princess toned down her ire almost as soon as it rose, and she gave Teselin an apologetic look. “I’m sorry. But it… it has to be enough. I have to believe it will be.” She rested her hands upon her swollen belly, as if to shield the children from the fear that they might never come to know their father. “You have to believe it will be.”
There was nothing else to be done, with Haraldur’s mind made up, and with his wife’s compliance. So Teselin returned to the palace following her brief talk with Vega, devoid of excuses, but not of resentment. Whether or not there was a chance this might work, she found it difficult to forgive a man who would so put his life at risk when he had a young family depending on his survival. “You weren’t lying, after all. Vega did agree.” Teselin found the Forbanne Commander in the palace, looking as though he was standing watch in one of the corridors. A decidedly trivial task for someone of his standing among the soldiers. Then again, he really had yet to pick up the mantle of leadership he’d dropped in his attempted suicide…
“So here’s what I will do. Provide me with a pair of gauntlets that fit you well; if there aren’t any, then have them custom made for your hands. I won’t work with anything even slightly too big or small for your hands.” On one hand, it might have been comical to witness someone of Teselins’s slight stature with the look of someone who stood several feet taller. In that moment, when it mattered, it was clear she did not feel small. “I’ll take gauntlets and do my best to enchant them with something that will deflect magic. Ideally, if I can have something that belongs to Sigrid, something as minute as a strand of hair from her brush… I might be able to fool Gaolithe into thinking that beneath those gauntlets are Sigrid’s hands. Between that and your generalized resistance to magic of almost any form… it is the best chance we have.”
“That won’t work.” Rowen didn’t hesitate in naysaying Locque’s plan for a resolution among parties, using Teselin as the ambassador to fostering peaceful relations. “For one, if my brother’s still around, he’ll rip your truth to shreds. He has multiple reasons to despise you right now. Whether or not he has a heart--which you seem to think he does--he’s a spiteful son of a bitch and won’t hesitate to wreak vengeance on your plans. That’s why it’s best to sweep him out of this conflict altogether. Even if I do succeed in cutting him from this picture, what makes you think the summoner will side with you, independent of herself? Teselin is trusting, but she’s more likely to trust her side over your side. There are people in the palace who she respects--people outside the palace who she respects more, true, but it doesn’t matter if both her necromancer brother and Lord Alster Rigas aren’t present when you seek out her cooperation. She’s chosen her side. The moment you targeted Elespeth Rigas, you closed negotiations for peace and goodwill. The majority have hate for you. Lord Alster Rigas, who I’ve come to understand--certainly not through my Sight, where I’ve seen all sorts of horrible things he’s done--values conflict-free solutions, and he, above all, wants you dead.” She leaned back in her chair, playing with the reflection of the lantern light in the shaft of her dagger by directing its beacon across the far wall. “I’ve seen his murder fantasies involving you. Very elaborate. Very violent. There’s no light in his ‘pacifistic’ heart for you, Locque. There’s only one way forward for you--and it’s by force. You’ve had to have known the inevitability of the direction you chose; after all, how would you have attracted my attention, if you wanted peace from the start? I never would’ve agreed to something so preposterous, otherwise.”
Yet still, Locque continued to motion for some misguided optimism, believing that once she secured Galeyn and the Night Garden, the wrongs which had befallen her would magically transform into rights. For someone so powerful and driven by her ambition to reclaim her rightful place among her garden of wonders, among the people who inherited from their ancestors the name of the scourge that terrorized their kingdom, she was laughably simplistic. Gullible, even, in her idealistic take on her faultless paradise. She would have snickered in the sorceress’ face, if not for the seriousness in her tone, and the deliberate clasp of her hand over Rowen’s knife-hand. She meant every undeniably maudlin word, right down to the belief that the answer to her ‘happiness’ resided in Galeyn.
“I outgrew fairytales when I was six, Locque.” She twisted her body from the intense stare emanating from Locque, one that suggested promises not concurrent with the rules evident in this broken, cheerless land. “Such a place you speak of doesn’t exist. It doesn’t exist because wherever society gathers is a breeding ground for darkness and sin. Any sliver of goodness is rife with ulterior motives or less than savory intentions. Nothing done is ever done selflessly. Love is an affair with the ego; people choose their partners based on who validates them the most. It’s disgusting, and I want no part in it. There is no happiness here, or anywhere that’s polluted by people. Galeyn is like everywhere else, and it’s a delusion to think otherwise. There is no reprieve. There is no belonging. Happiness...is the denial of reality.”
Worming free from Locque’s grip, Rowen let her dagger clatter noisily upon the table as she stood from her chair in a brusque cacophony of scuffing boots and the wailing scrape of chair legs against the floorboards. “There’s no reason for me to remain awake,” the dead, disillusioned calm returned to her spiritless voice, mirroring in her red-ochre eyes. “Tomorrow, I’ll start spying on that silver eyesore. Fortunately, she’s been avoiding my brother, so he won’t be able to track my whereabouts if I end up moving too close. Good night, Locque.” And without another word on the subject, Rowen disappeared behind the curtain that delineated between the main room and the bedrooms in the back of their tiny, shared hut. Although she meant what she said to the sorceress, she oft-times wished she could share in the optimism of her peers. To emulate her brother, who’d experienced his fair share of darkness under the ugliness of their mother, and yet still found reasons to smile, laugh, and play--at the expense of others. But she couldn’t ignore the injustice of the world, which resolved to make monsters of men for the simple right to live. She couldn’t ignore that in order to find happiness, one had to exploit, turn a blind eye to suffering, and overlook the sinister underworld of society at its most self-serving. How then, could a person achieve happiness at all, if happiness rode on the backs of everyone it victimized? Happiness was denial. Happiness walled away truth, a convenient cover-up for the unavoidable nature of society. Happiness buried one simple fact; that humanity differed little from the animals it professed to transcend from. But animals--predators--didn’t pretend to smile whilst they double-dealed behind their backs. They killed the weak. No pretense. No claim to be anything more than their basest, most instinctual selves.
They weren’t happy. They killed to survive--nothing more, nothing less. And that was exactly what Rowen did, and would do, until the day she died.
Normally, when a hand reached for him, Kadri would stiffen and brace his body for impact. What would Cwenha do to him? Slap him across the face? Direct her fingers into his eye sockets and squeeze? Scratch his cheeks until bloody? Secure his throat and try to throttle him? He would allow her to do so, if that was her prerogative. Punishment for not understanding her song? Or was it a ‘forceful hand of approval,’ a term that Masters often used to excuse their behavior if driven to dole out an unsanctioned beating. Mollengard, while brutal in their training, seldom enacted violence for the sake of violence. There always needed to be a reason, a calculation, an end-goal. Unfortunately, Masters were never at a deficit of reasons, however convenient or nonsensical they appeared to the layperson. What was Cwenha’s reason? Why did she want to take her hand, and…
And…
Lay it against his cheek?
“What punishment is this, Cwenha?” Against his better judgement, he said his question aloud, at risk of receiving even more punishment. “Did I do something wrong? If you tell me what I did, allow me to fix it. Allow me to think the way you want me to think. Tell me the answer to your song.”
But she did no such thing, and even validated his interpretation of her song. Her hand did not sting him, or claw into his skin; rather it gently brushed away a stray tear from his cheek. His confusion mounted. Like most things in this new, “free” world of his, he didn’t know what it signified, but if he trusted in his intuition to solve the riddle, he would find that the sensation of her hand on his cheek posed no danger. In fact, it was...calming. Was this how civilians interacted with each other? Was this how they used their hands? Not to hold weapons and harm, but to bridge connections and...feel?
Why not try it, himself?
With hesitation, his arm twitched into motion, rising to the level of Cwenha’s face. It was a gnarled, callused thing, marred with scar-tissue so numerous, it discolored the natural tawny color of his skin. But it was his hand. Empty. Open. Reaching. Following Cwenha’s lead, he brought his fingers to sit against the apple of her cheek. “Is this how you do it? What does this mean?” It didn’t take him long to parse the meaning, when a tear escaped the moisture collecting beneath the Silver Fairy’s eyes. It trickled down, down, and met with his fingers. Nodding his understanding, he smeared away the rogue tear. “I matter, and so do you. You’re a good person, Cwenha. I wish I could be a good person like you. I’ve done nothing to help this kingdom, aside from following orders. That does not make me...helpful. That makes me obedient. But you help, Cwenha. You help the Forbanne. You help me. You don’t do it to follow orders. You do it because you want to do it. And that’s why,” another smile touched on his lips, “you’re a good person. Thank you for being my friend.”
While Haraldur usually preferred the mundanity of guard duty, this time, it was bane for wandering thoughts, of which he had many, as of late. Too many. His mind was bloated with the succession of events, assailing him from all sides and refusing to let him rest. He couldn’t blame the circumstances, however; he could only blame his reaction to the circumstances. It was he who refused to let himself rest. No one else and nothing else. Since awakening from almost certain death, however, he didn’t feel that he could rest, even if he wanted it. Now released from his compulsory convalescence period in the sanctuary, the only reprieve for him was standing in an empty corridor, a mixed blessing of both comfort from the familiar, and infuriating idleness. The more he dallied, the more he worried Sigrid would catch wind of their plans to steal Gaolithe from her possession. But he could not move on his own, much though he desired to go, independent of everyone’s wishes. In the past, perhaps he would take on the mantle solo, in keeping with his loner status, but now...it was not possible. He had too much to lose, should he fail. His wife, his children, people like Kadri, heartfelt in his pledge to follow Haraldur to the end, despite the severance of the mind-link…
He could not fail. And he would not fail. He was done with that reasoning, of failure before launch. Thinking the worst of himself. Believing he deserved nothing, that the Fates wanted him to suffer for his sins. Those beliefs were what killed him. Ironically, in order to survive, for his wife, for his children, he would proceed as planned, to handle an ancient sword that could vault him back into death.
It was a gamble, A selfish, selfish gamble. And for what? Self-recognition? A test of strength and of willpower? Hadwin’s analysis, while enraging to recall, may not have been wrong. He wanted to test his limits, to confirm the surge of endurance and resilience he experienced when in proximity to the Night Garden, nay, to the tree that whispered Algiz, which filled him with doubts...of his humanness. He needed to know what he was capable of, to step forward and be the person he wanted to be. For his cousin. For his wife. For his children. Peel back the layers of his doubts...and reclaim himself.
It was selfish, but he wouldn’t die. The tree proved his suspicions to be true. Algiz. Divine protection. I can do this. If I didn’t think I’d survive, I wouldn’t be doing it at all. I won’t let them down again. Vega. Kynnet. Klara. I’m not letting them down. I’m not I’m not I’m not…
The inner plague of his denials was disrupted when Teselin sought him out in the corridor. He repositioned himself into a receptive stance as he turned to greet the summoner. “She did. I know you still have doubts about my participation, Teselin, but I have none. If you entrust me to carry a chest containing the sword, how is this method any different? Gauntlets and a clamp. I won’t be touched, I assure you. I’ll get you what you need.”
As if on cue, Kadri reemerged, returning from his rendezvous at the fountain with Cwenha. “Commander Sorde.” He saluted, fist to chest. “Forgive my tardiness. I did not expect to be gone for long. I’ll return to my post immediately.”
“That’s not necessary.” Haraldur paused. “Actually, can you do me a favor?”
“You are my Commander by choice.” Kadri’s salute transitioned to a bow. “I’ll do what you ask. Let me be of help to you.”
“Go to camp and find a pair of gauntlets that can fit my hands.” He spread them before the Forbanne soldier, for reference. “As well as a fire-clamp. The one we use for lifting charred wood. Also, do you know where to find Naimah?”
“Of course, Commander Sorde.”
“Tell her that I sent you. Ask her about the status of ‘you know what.’ She’ll understand what I mean. While you’re there, if Naimah should happen to have or know how to obtain a strand of Sigrid Sorenson’s hair, inquire on my behalf. Assure her it’s not for any sinister means. No magical curses or whatnot.”
“Is that all then, Sir?”
“Yes. Thank you, Kadri.” The stirrings of a smile appeared on his face. “When you return, I give you full leave to do what you like--if Cwenha will have you.”
Buoyed by the comment, Kadri saluted and withdrew from the commander and his company, setting off on his task. Once alone with Teselin, Haraldur leaned on one foot and glanced out the window behind him, which had an obstructed view of the Night Garden. “The Gardeners want me to stay in the palace for now. I suppose I can’t blame them; they’re anticipating that I’ll have another run-in with Hadwin’s sister. Speaking of,” a shadow fell over his brow, accentuating the piling wrinkles of fear and concern, “do you...believe him? What he said about me? Vega says I’m ridiculous to listen to him, and maybe I am...but you know him better than anyone else here. Is he just trying to get under my skin, or does he really...smell...something,” his voice lowered into a cracked whisper, “not human about me? With your magic, are you able to sense some kind of...difference in my aura? It would help me to know. It would help me to reason why I feel...so safe, here. So assured of my survival. Like nothing can touch me. Like I can’t be defeated. It’s more than mind over matter. There’s a shroud of protection that envelops me, and it seems to respond with a chant. To strengthen and reinforce. It’s like I’m borrowing energy from the tree, by way of that chant. Or borrowing from all trees connected to this leyline. No,” he frowned, “to other leylines, too; they’re all connected. They all pass through sacred spaces, and this is just one of many. I know I can’t explain this well, and asking a Gardener would be my best approach in understanding, but…” he turned his back on the view of the Night Garden, “I trust that you’re a good person to ask, Teselin. It was Gaolithe, after all, that opened its energy pathways to you. Without your discovery of the sword’s intentions, it’s likely we’d never know of Sigrid’s fate. Your magic has already shown to be helpful, Teselin. So,” he fiddled with the hilt of his sword self-consciously. “I thought I’d ask.”
Ever patient, the sorceress gave Rowen an ear to voice her dissent of her sentiments. Of course she did not expect the young faoladh to feel the same way about her outlook. Not with the shadows that clouded her vision, and the Sight that forced her only to see the worst of peoples’ darkness. However, if the young assassin truly had no faith in a favourable outcome, or in Locque’s eventual success… would she really have agreed to join her in the first place? To work for or contribute to her cause, to the vision she believed in? Like many of Rowen’s mannerisms, this seemed to be as much of a defense mechanism as her passion to kill. You couldn’t be disappointed with people if they were dead and you no longer had to deal with them; you couldn’t be disappointed with life and what it had to offer if you only chose to see it as dark and hopeless, in the first place. But for Rowen, it went beyond not believing in fairy tales anymore. She didn’t believe in anything, or anyone.
At least, that was what she led herself to believe. But Locque… she could see the cracks in that resolve. Those fleeting moments when her little protege yearned for days gone by, spent with her brother who cared for her unconditionally. It wasn’t that Rowen inherently didn’t believe in a more positive outlook for this corrupt world; rather, it seemed she was to afraid to acknowledge an alternative to the doom that she predicted. Nonetheless, that did not indicate that the sorceress was about to give up on her the same way her little assassin had given up on everything else. “You are right. There is no guarantee that the summoner will be so easily swayed, especially not where I sent such a blaring message by causing Elespeth Rigas to commit murder. And I have all but given up on winning over the favor of the Rigases, completely. However,” she removed her hand from atop the young wolf’s. “While Alster Rigas might acknowledge that he wants me dead for what I did to his wife, he, too, is at his core a pacifist. And both he and the summoner recognize that what they want and what is needed may be mutually exclusive. But I do understand your point of view, and it is not without its merit.”
Straightening in her seat, the sorceress spared another glance out the crack in the curtains. Galeyn had never been a kingdom equipped for anything but peace; such was the reason that it relied on its close ties with Braighdath and the protection of the Dawn Warriors. None of its people nor the magic they possessed were at all offensive in nature, and that had been the case for years--for centuries. It was because Galeyn was so invested in that peace and harmony that it did not see fit to incorporate military force into his framework. And, perhaps, that was a mentality that died hard, and that had yet to die in the once-Gardener who had been exiled from her home for centuries. That force, while sometimes necessary, could not rule. And if she could help it, then one day--perhaps no day soon, but someday--she would not maintain her place in Galeyn out of its denizens’ fear of her retaliation should they speak out against her, but out of acceptance that peace had to remain the status quo. Because the kingdom did not know any other way to be.
“Force will be necessary at first, however much I dislike the notion. I am prepared to bear my teeth if it is what it takes to reclaim my place here. But it does not have to remain that way, indefinitely. Whatever this kingdom might think, I bear no ill will on its future, nor do I seek the means to destroy it. Peace… right now, it is elusive, yes. But I have been alive long enough to see it crumble. I have to believe that I will continue to live long enough to watch it heal. And, perhaps, to be part of that healing.” Returning her warm gaze to the stubborn and pessimistic young girl, Locque flashed a smile. “I know I cannot change your mind. Nor will I try, if that is not what you desire. I will remain grateful for however you see fit to further my plans. And for now--getting your brother out of the way, by whatever means possible, does appear to be the next best step. Rest well, Rowen.”
She wasn’t even sure that the girl heard her well-wishes before disappearing behind a curtain. If she did, she did not acknowledge it. But the girl’s cold reception did not fool her. After all, she wouldn’t have remained by her side if everything appeared as futile as she claimed. And whatever inkling of hope the young faoladh had hidden away in the recesses of her damaged heart… When all was said and done, Locque would show her why this venture was not so futile or without merit. She would find a way.
Punishment? What was he talking about? This man was a headache and a half; on one hand, he wore Cwenha’s patience so damned thin, but on the other, it was near impossible to become frustrated or angry with someone so innocent and naive. Not only that, but it rather hit home that he automatically associated touch with punishment. For the longest time, so had she; in many ways, she still did, and she was rather particular about who she allowed to touch her at all. She couldn’t fault him for his knee-jerk response; so she didn’t. “You did nothing wrong, Kadri. I asked you to listen, and you listened. I asked you to feel, but I didn’t tell you what to feel. There is no right or wrong answer about feeling a certain way. It’s all relative to the person, and their experiences… so there is no answer to my song. I won’t tell you what I want you to think or feel, because that’s not freedom; it’s the opposite. Do you understand?”
She wasn’t sure he did--but he was learning. Such was evident in the way he copied her motion, almost like a mirror image, and laid his own hand against her cheek to wipe away the errant tear that trickled down her porcelain skin. “Yeah. That’s what feeling is.” She confirmed quietly. It didn’t even occur to her to be angry that he was touching her without permission; not like those grasping hands in the crowd that were so ‘in love’ with the Silver Fairy that they needed to touch her skin, to seize her attention in whatever way they saw fit. This was no different from a child’s touch, curious and innocent. It’s not all bad, a voice she’d never heard before whispered in the back of her mind. They’re not all bad. Not all touches. Not all people. Not Kadri.
“Sometimes it’s because you feel joy. Sometimes it’s because you’re sad or you’re in pain; or both. They’re not mutually exclusive. Hell, if you laugh too hard, it’s all the same. You’ll cry; and that’s feeling.” Cwenha’s voice suddenly felt tight as she withdrew her hand from the Forbanne soldier’s face. “But you don’t have to cry to feel. That’s only happens on the extreme… I don’t want to confuse you, though. For now, let’s just leave it at that. That you know what it means to feel something, and that only you can give a qualifier to that feeling. That’s freedom, Kadri.”
Suddenly self-conscious for her tear-streaked face, the silver acrobat took a step away and folded her arms across her chest. Why did it make her feel so uncomfortable, that he genuinely thought her to be a good person? Because he doesn’t know how dark I am. He doesn’t know my past. He doesn’t know what I’m capable of doing when pushed to the limit…
And he didn’t need to know. The man hardly had the basics of human nature down, let alone the complexities. It was bad enough that he had chosen someone as broken as her to guide him through what it meant to be human. Anyway, she’d already told him enough; everything he needed to know about her at this given time. No need to confuse him any further. “Don’t think so low of yourself, Kadri. You’ve been helpful and valuable, here. You helped Commander Sorde’s wife--what might have happened if she’d found out the fate of her husband on her own, and collapsed with no one to send for help? You’ve helped this kingdom by being another pair of eyes to watch out for danger. Your value is in your desire to help. And it isn’t just because you’ve been asked to help; you want to. You’re a good person too, Kadri--and I never say that about anyone, so don’t take it lightly.”
It was clear that Teselin and the Forbanne Commander were not going to see eye to eye in terms of the best course of action to intervene with Sigrid’s dark fate, but the summoner had drawn the short straw when it came to making the final decision. With Vega’s consent, however reluctant, there was nothing she could do to refuse Haraldur the enchanted gauntlets he so desired. Even if she did, he was liable to go about finding another caster for the job. Someone with far less insight, and potentially even less reliable than she was… And she would never live it down if he lost his life at that expense. Nor would she forgive herself if he did not make it while she was the one overseeing the operation…
Teselin was stuck between a rock and a hard place, and there was no winning. Her only option was to believe in Haraldur as much as he believed in himself.
And anyway, the plan was already being set into motion. The young summoner stood back and casually observed the exchange between the Forbanne Captain and his naive, albeit well-meaning subordinate, to secure the objects that she had specifically requested to work her magic. This was no longer a plan; it was officially a pursuit, and all that was left was to follow through.
“Better you’re here with your wife, anyway. She’s had her share of isolation as it is; I think it would do the both of you good to make up for lost time with one another.” Teselin commented, struggling to keep the judgment from her voice, as it was no secret that as soon as Haraldur had learned of Vega’s presence in Galeyn, he’d gone out of his way to avoid her… after she’d been waiting and preparing for their reunion. She did not know the Eyraillian princess all too well, but she hadn’t needed to know her to know her sadness, and how much her husband’s decisions hurt her. In part, this was why she was so opposed to Haraldur putting his life at risk: because his wife--his family, unborn or otherwise--had hurt enough.
None of that had been her business until he’d asked her to help; until he’d made it her business. And for that, she couldn’t not have an opinion. “I don’t really know what to tell you, Haraldur. I do sense a difference in you… like something residual of magic, but I could not tell you whether or not it is human. I’m not that practiced; Alster Rigas would be a better person to ask. But you still seem very much a human, to me. Some people posit that those possessing magic really aren’t entirely human, in one way or another. So it’s not impossible, and what Hadwin is saying could be true… but to what extent, I’m sure not even he knows. It could be like pointing out the needle in a haystack: something noteworthy but otherwise not that significant in the grand scheme of things. But I’ll say this.”
The young summoner’s wide eyes found the larger man’s, and when they did, they were full of intensity. Enough that she reached out and grabbed his wrist. “If you are feeling a connection to this place--if you are feeling anything at all that could be akin to magic, you must investigate it if you have the opportunity. Ask around, consult the Gardeners, anything at all to get answers. Don’t sit around wondering. Take it from someone who also needs answers.” Those dark eyes suddenly shone with sadness and dropped to refocus on the floor. “There’s so much more at risk if you have magic you don’t understand… Try spending more time in the Night Garden, even. It might not our advice, but it’s advice. Just try… try listening, instead of asking. You might be glad you did.”
She hadn’t seen Naimah--or anyone, for that matter, it days. But Sigrid only had herself to blame, for confiding in Haraldur that fate that had her by the neck. She never should have said anything; perhaps he’d have snapped out of his fugue by some other means. Just as she had finally been finding the peace to accept the inevitable, and to feel blessed with whatever time she had left among the people she cared for, Haraldur had to involve Vega--and, no doubt, anyone and everyone else in their circle of friends.
So it had been safer to just stay in the clear of them in case they thought they’d interfere further, however much the isolation pained her. But with Alster already long gone on some last-hope mission to Nairit, everyone should have realized that she wasn’t--that she couldn’t be their priority. Her problem was not bigger than what faced Galeyn; it was not bigger than what faced Alster Rigas in terms of his marriage. And she’d finally decided she could no longer, in good faith, allow them to try and find her a way out of a dead end.
The painful part was that these days--any of which could be her last, she realized, in accordance to Gaolithe’s will--were not ones she wanted to spend alone. She wanted the company of her cousin, of her friends. She wanted Naimah’s company, but of late, she’d had had to avoid the woman she loved, because the Kariji woman seemed to have make herself scarce, regardless. Sigrid wasn’t sure if it was a result of what Naimah already knew, something Sigrid had unknowingly said or done to hurt her, or whether she was simply too busy with her work, or if it had to do with something else entirely. And she wanted to badly to ask her, in case there was smoke in the air that needed to be cleared, but… But what if it’s already ended, and she just hasn’t told me? What if her next words are the end of us, before the end of me?
Once again, Sigrid had cowed to her own cowardice. Because if that were the case… if Naimah was avoiding her in order to avoid telling her that she wasn’t worth her time if she wasn’t meant to endure, then the Dawn Warrior would be happier never hearing those words. Never hearing the finality of “good-bye”...
She did not spend much time in the palace, anymore; only long enough to rest when night fell, while a part of her heart wondered if tonight would be the night she saw Naimah again, who would put all of her anxieties to rest, and that they could fall back into old routines. And she’d have been lying to herself if she tried to claim that that evening, as she made her way down the empty corridor toward her chambers, that that morsel of hope did not still thrum in her heart… And then, as if the universe had predicted her wish and had somehow seen fit to grant it, there she was. No sooner did the Dawn Warrior turn the corner, just yards from her room, that she found Naimah only a few paces away.
“Naimah.” And just like that, her anxieties were gone--because she was too desperate to hope. In any case, the Kariji woman, when their eyes met, did not appear upset or reluctant to see her. She seemed… eager. “I’m so glad to see you. I figured you must have been keeping busy… I considered stopping by your tents, on occasion, but I didn’t want to make the situation awkward for you if you were with a client…” Heat crept into her cheeks. All this time she’d had to think about what she’d say to Naimah again when they found time for one another, and she was little more than a jumble of words and excuses. “Ridiculous. It hasn’t been that long, and it’s like I’ve completely forgotten how to talk to you.” A shimmer of humor sparkled in her azure eyes. Better to laugh at her follies than let them get the better of her. “I’ve missed you. That’s what I’m trying to say.”
Since his suicide and subsequent revival in the Night Garden, Haraldur had grown more sensitive towards people and their unfavorable opinions of him. Teselin was no exception. While no doubt deserving of resentment and ire, doubly so now that he plowed ahead with his involvement in a risky procedure that he didn’t completely understand, it was difficult for him to proceed unbothered by the side-eyed stares of those he considered allies and acquaintances. He was no Vega, able to navigate tense, or even borderline hostile social situations with the aplomb reserved for a noblewoman accustomed to unpopularity, but Haraldur, contrarily, had always blended in with the crowd. Aside from his intimidating stature, people often saw him as nameless soldier, nothing of note. Feared, yes. Hated--of course. Back in his Forbanne days, anyhow. But hatred spurned by war and hatred spurned by politics were two different beasts, and he was more equipped to handle the former than the latter. Haraldur, unfortunately, was a public figure, a representative of Eyraille, and his poor decisions reflected on the country he served. Shame dragged behind him wherever he went. He, hyper-aware of his past actions and his present actions, could do nothing but believe in himself. Believe in his course. No one else believed in him; someone had to, lest he lose grip on his momentum and backslide into the depressive fugue which had gripped him for days upon awakening.
No, he corrected himself. That wasn’t entirely true. Kadri believed in him, but the Forbanne soldier had no other frame of reference, hardly any other role models to follow. Vega believed in him as well, but out of desperation. Fail, and their entire family was well and truly doomed.
But like Vega, who risked her life, and the life of their children, for an opportunity, he saw the same, and he’d be remiss not to take it, and use it to help him climb up from the doldrums to become someone better than the disappointing man who’d died by his own hand. Haraldur could not recover by sitting idle and allowing others to fight at his behest. It might have been a reasoning akin to Alster Rigas, but he needed to be better, and he needed to do it now, before he lost all courage, and receded into a pathetic shell of himself. After all, how would a wretched man help and be worthy of his family? They needed someone strong, who wouldn’t allow defeat, no matter how abysmal the odds. But the odds, he knew, were not abysmal at all. They were well within his grasp to achieve.
“I know you don’t approve,” he said, making sure to check the hallway for any eavesdroppers before continuing. “But what I’m doing here...it is for the sake of my wife and children, Teselin. As ridiculous and nonsensical as it seems, I’m trying to build a world where I can be a better husband, a better father, a better...person. I won’t fail because I can’t fail. Victory is already assured. If I didn’t think so, I wouldn’t be doing this. I’m a survivor, and I never fight a battle I know I’m going to lose. That goes for what we’re doing, here. My decision hurts Vega; I’ve hurt her too much, already. Please understand, Teselin--I want to be done hurting her. So help me; let’s help each other.”
He didn’t know what kind of answer he was looking to receive regarding his alleged non-humanness, but the summoner’s reply was a realistic one. Revelations of this nature would not just appear at his door on a silver tray; perhaps it was the reason he did not seek out additional help from the Gardeners, a group that did not seem to like him on principle, after the snubbing of his wife, who remained popular amongst Galeynians. It was not guaranteed they’d have the information he sought for himself. As it were, he abhorred involving more people in his personal business; strangers, especially. He already felt sick to his stomach, dissecting the implications unveiled by Hadwin’s unceremonious truth-nugget, and to do so with the very people who were not convinced enough of his state of mind to allow him free exploration outside the palace walls, did nothing to sate his anxieties.
But before he could question aloud the aid of the Gardeners, the summoner seized him in place with a grip that surprised even him. Her inky eyes widened, and for one, pregnant moment, he thought she was about to attack him with her magic, either to check the fullest extent of his magic resistance, or to physically knock him out of commission until Gaolithe was safely removed from Sigrid’s possession. No such things had occurred, other than an intense warning that rumbled from her lips like a thunderclap. “I am asking, Teselin,” he said, in a hushed tone meant to calm her from whatever spike in the conversation had upset her so much. “I asked you. I’d ask Alster, too, but he’s gone. I don’t want to ask Hadwin--so that leaves only the Gardeners as an additional resource. Believe me, if this is going to be something that affects my family, I want answers. According to Alster, my children will have magic, and that didn’t come from Vega.” A vein of desperation pulsed through his words. “I’m trying to understand. I have to understand. But...being human is all I’ve ever known. To learn that I’m not...I’m sorry, but that’s something of note to me. More than a simple curiosity. Because that means my children aren’t human, either, and I can’t have them feeling lost and confused about themselves, like their uninformed father. So,” he gently loosened her grip with his other hand, “I get it, Teselin. I was a slave for the greater part of my youth. I don’t want to be a slave to unknown magic, unknown esoteric connections, however uncomfortable it is to unlock the truth. I’m trying to do what I didn’t do when I needed help the most; ask for it. So please be patient with me, Teselin, as I...relearn the steps to becoming, ironically, human again. Like my Forbanne subordinate out there...it can be a struggle to think you’re worthy enough of any help at all. Especially when you think people see you as something less.”
With Kadri as the liaison between Teselin and Haraldur at the palace, and Naimah in the Forbanne camp, both parties were able to coordinate a date to push their plan into action. As requested, the Kariji woman had provided a few strands of Sigrid’s hair, which wasn’t difficult to find; the Dawn Warrior shed her blonde locks more than she cared to admit, a small detail that brought Naimah fond memories of plucking the golden threads out of her pillow, where it intermixed with the loose ends of her own dark, coarse hair. Two days had passed since handing Kadri the components for what she could only assume was for a spell of sorts; all Kadri could confirm was that the strands of hair would not be used for anything ‘sinister,’ which was an odd way of putting it, but she understood the gist, nonetheless. Whatever the delay (for it must have taken a while to “prepare” the spell), at last, Kadri those two days later with the latest message. Everything was ready to go. Now, it was up to Naimah to acquire Sigrid’s keys and lead her from her bedchambers for as long as possible. It would not be so difficult, Naimah surmised; they hadn’t seen each other in over a week, scarcely within the last two weeks since Commander Sorde’s suicide, and the ensuing crisis amidst the Forbanne camp. No, it would not be difficult at all…
Unless…
Sigrid, in her self-defeatist mindset, had given up on their relationship, surrending herself in full to Gaolithe’s will. If that were the case, it would be Naimah’s fault; for avoiding her out of a misplaced anger, of punishing her for considering herself as lesser and thus, considerating their relationship as lesser, too. She threw herself into her work at the Forbanne camp, because somehow, it was easier to deal with suicidal soldiers than it was to deal with a woman who was already dead. How could Naimah reach someone who preferred to define herself as not worth saving? Her vocation was for the living; there was little she could do if the person resolved themselves to their own unmaking, steadfastly refusing to change her stance...even for love. It upset her too much to contemplate on, so Naimah avoided the topic, avoided the cause of her pain, avoided it all for weeks. She let the bite of Sigrid’s poisonous reasoning infect her, and the miasmic string of dark thoughts kept her awake at night. Give up, give up. You’re nothing to her. You can’t keep her alive. You’re not enough. She’d rather die for nothing, and leave you behind. Discard you like the whore you are. Sigrid is a Forbanne in despair; no amount of convincing will stop them from ending their lives, and she is no different.
No different…
She was done playing the supportive girlfriend. Done with her role as the shoulder to cry on, the warm body at night, the understanding and loyal companion who’d given her heart to a throwaway cause. If their relationship was over, then this was Naimah’s final act, and she was going to do it by force. Sigrid didn’t listen to reason, didn’t listen to desperate pleas not to destroy her existence and leave those who loved her behind. As revenge, Naimah was going to remove her from that accursed sword and its influence. No more skulking in the corner, resentful of the Dawn Warrior who didn’t value her life above others. Gaolithe was the enemy. Gaolithe was the aggressor. So she would fight Gaolithe, and bury it like a corpse.
Once Kadri had given her the go-ahead to proceed with the plan, she passed along her message to those who awaited her answer in the palace. “Tonight. Before she retires to her bedchambers. That is when I will pounce. Be ready. I’ll drop her keys and remove her from the hallway. Once I do, the sword is yours.”
When the Forbanne soldier departed to deliver her instructions, Naimah prepared herself accordingly. For the occasion, she draped on her finest silks, which hugged her waist and flared from her waist and arms like flower petals. She dabbed on rouge for the cheeks, coated her plush lips in blood-colored lipstick, and lined her dark eyes with kohl. Accenting her look, she took a hairpin and a matching set of dangling earrings that clinked like tiny bells, and twisted her hair into an alluring updo, allowing a few stray curls to frame her face and the back of her slender neck. After dinner in the camp came and went, she took leave of her tent, and headed towards the palace.
She did not wait in front of Sigrid’s door for long, before the Dawn Warrior appeared, coming towards her in a trudging, exhausted gait. “Sigrid,” she whispered, and the blonde warrior’s shock at her arrival transformed her, from world-weary and defeated, to the light of the sun peeking behind the clouds; hopeful, ready to emerge from her self-made prison. Why did I ever want to punish you? She chided herself. How petty. Especially when all I wanted...was to hold you again.
“I have been busy, yes. With the Forbanne. They have been lost without a command to guide their footsteps. But,” she stepped forward, her long dress giving off the illusion of floating on aerials, “I wanted to see you again. I’ve missed you, too.” Moisture appeared in her dark eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself, Sigrid; you’ve always spoken to me with a stumble in your voice; that is what makes you so endearing to me.” Her arms looped around Sigrid’s neck, brushing against the chain where she kept her keys. “There is no one here, Sigrid,” the breath of her whisper was heady, like the intoxication of drunken flowers in the moonlight, “there is no one here, and I...I cannot...I cannot wait--” Guiding her by the shoulders, she practically threw the surprised Dawn Warrior against the wall, feeding her with hungry lips and hungry hands. In the whirlwind of her desire, she surreptitiously undid the clasp of Sigrid’s necklace, slipped out the two keys she needed, and redid the clasp. “Sigrid,” she gasped, at last allowing herself to break free of their impassioned embrace, “come...come with me. To the baths. No one will be here at this hour. We can enjoy this beautiful evening...just you and I.”
Before Sigrid could speak any hesitation or reject the invitation on the grounds of exhaustion, or her routine bashfulness, Naimah loped an arm around the other woman’s waist, trapping her into servitude. “I would be thankful for the company, Sigrid. Please...it’s been so long, and I yearn for fresh air, for a change.” At last, the Dawn Warrior conceded, and let Naimah guide her to the bathhouses on the far side of the palace. Whilst they walked, Naimah, who’d bundled the keys in a small silken purse beneath her sleeve, carefully let it drop behind her feet, masking the soft thud of its fall with a loud, happy sigh. “This is just what we need,” she cooed, resting her head against Sigrid’s broad shoulder.
Teselin and Haraldur, who watched from their vantage point in a hidden alcove, waited a few minutes, ensuring that the couple were out of earshot and out of sight. Creeping out into the hallway, the summoner snatched the purse from the floor whilst Haraldur carried, with his gauntleted hands, both the chest enchanted to scramble the sword’s beaconing energies, and the fire clamp. A brief fidgeting of the keys and a turn of the lock later, and in seconds, they were inside Sigrid’s chambers. As directed by Naimah in messages, they located the false wall in the corner, more of a heavy, painted block of wood that Haraldur hauled out of the slot in which it’d been inserted. Inside, a nondescript chest sat. With his fire clamp, Haraldur hooked one end on the catch of the chest and fished it out of the little cubby hole. Teselin, who was in possession of the keys, opened the deadbolt on the chest, and...sure enough, the sword was inside, looking nothing more than a regular weapon; a hunk of steel and copper wire wound around the hilt.
“Okay,” Haraldur grabbed hold of the clamp with his gauntleted hands, “I’ve got this. Open up the other chest.” It was difficult, to use a tool when his hands were so restricted by the plate armor around his fingers, but after the third try, he secured the ancient sword at its mid-shaft point and raised it from its cradle in the chest. His arms shook from the pressure of keeping the weapon stable in his tenuous balance, held aloft by the two sides of a clamp. But worrying about the logistics of the transference process had distracted his mind from the tiniest seed of doubt that predicted his failure. Dead, dead, dead. You’ll be dead. You were such a fool to believe in your arrogance. But it remained silent, here, perhaps to let him die in the silence of oblivion, bereft of even the familiarity of his heckling mind.
Leveraging the sword to a horizontal position, Haraldur twisted carefully in his kneeling stance and lowered it into the enchanted chest that Teselin had prepared. The moment the blade interacted with the energy field, a nasty shock rippled down Haraldur’s arms, but that was all he felt. No instant death. No further penetration of his multi-tiered defense system. It seemingly tried to jostle out of his arms, or to take him down, or both, but did not succeed. He set it into the chest, they closed the lid--and that was that.
He set the down the clamp with his armored gloves, inside of which were drenched with his palm-sweat, and let out a shuddering sigh. The worst was over, or so they assumed. “Let’s clean up this room and go to the burial site, before Sigrid realizes something’s off. The sword might have sent out a signal during transfer,” he rubbed his arms of the residual shock, “maybe as a cry for help.”
It only took a minute to rearrange the space--not that it would buy them much time should Sigrid return to her chambers to see if anything were amiss. Securing the chest in his hands, Haraldur followed Teselin out of his cousin’s bedchambers, and darted to the Night Garden, where they would bury the abominable sword between the protective roots of the sentinel tree.
Sigrid had never been particularly attuned to her feelings or her own emotional instincts, ever since she was a child, abandoned in a strange city with no idea as to where her parents had gone, or if they would be back to come and retrieve her. Emotional intelligence, since then, had always been her weakness, and it was precisely what put her on guard more often than not. Not understanding her own feelings as easily as others did made her a particularly easy target for being duped or manipulated; she’d learned that the hard way, years ago, when she’d fallen in love with that pretty dancer. Truly, she’d thought the young woman had returned her feelings, and up until the moment she’d broken her heart, it had certainly seemed that way. But all that incident had done was cause her to become far less comfortable in trusting her gut feelings when it came to the ways in which other people approached or responded to her--Naimah included.
It was because of this, perhaps, that Naimah had been so good for her. She did not deceive the way that others did, and the sentiments she wore on her sleeve were always genuine. Her smile was genuine; her tears, her anger, all genuine, never leaving anything to the imagination. And yet, the Dawn Warrior’s own lack of faith in her own intuition had caused her to second-guess the feelings and intent of the woman she loved. Time and again, over the course of the past two weeks when her bed had remained colder in the absence of the beautiful Kariji woman, it had occurred to her that Naimah’s absence might have been intentional. That she did not want to see Sigrid, for any various and sundry reasons. That perhaps what they had was, in fact, too good to be true, and that beautiful illusion was finally coming to an end…
Now, with her beautiful lover standing before her, decked in silks and kohl and looking her absolute loveliest just for her, Sigrid realized how foolish she’d been. Naimah’s words and proximity drew a smile on her face; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d smiled, or wanted to smile. She hadn’t even realized how she’d been passing the days, wandering like a lost dog without direction, confused and uncertain of itself in the absence of the affection of the one person it loved and doted on. “And I’ve missed you,” she breathed, and those words really did not do justice to just how badly she’d yearned to feel Naimah’s warmth against her body, again. “I thought… it’s ridiculous, I know. I should know better than to doubt you, but I was beginning to wonder if… if you did not want to see me. And I was too afraid of the answer, so I did not ask, but I should have. And for that, I cannot apologize enough… I let cowardice get the best of me. Again.” Just as terrible as she was at understanding and intuiting her own feelings, so, too, was Sigrid absolutely awful at hiding them. The apology on her lips was a plain as the relief written on her face, as if she’d finally shed herself of an unbearable weight she’d been carrying on her shoulders. “I hope you can forgive me…”
True to her nature, Naimah’s actions spoke louder than her words. There was nothing but admiration and desire written into her features as her hands found Sigrid’s shoulders, and pressed her almost forcibly against the wall, reuniting their lips for the first time and what had felt like forever. And the Kariji woman found no resistance on the Dawn Warrior’s part. She’d have bent over backwards for Naimah if it was what she’d wanted, so happy as she was to be in her company again. She didn’t even notice when the keys around her neck went missing, drunk as she was on her lover’s affections. “The baths…” She murmured against Naimah’s greedy lips, a slight furrow of concern creasing her brow. “But those… they’re a public venue. Anyone could walk in…”
She wasn’t sure that Naimah was right in thinking that there would be no one present at the baths at this given hour, but it didn’t matter; either way, she wouldn’t have refused her. Until just now, Sigrid hadn’t realized the way she’d been traversing the days as though she’d been trying to hide and work in spite of an open wound that stung and throbbed like a hole in her heart--not until that pain was gone. At which point Naimah had become such an integral part of her life, that her absence hurt like a wound, the Dawn warrior did not know. But she welcomed the relief that accompanied the dark-haired woman’s touch, like a soothing balm on a stinging burn. The tension she’d been carrying in her body began to melt away by the second; Naimah really was her antidote. “...alright,” she breathed, without having to think. The Kariji woman had easily melted past all of her defenses with her touch alone. “Of course I’ll keep you company… anything you want, Naimah.” I’d do anything for you, she almost said aloud, but held her tongue, for fear that she would come across as too attached. “Even if it means risking my dignity by getting caught with you at the baths,” she added with a hint of a smile. Naimah was well worth the complete sacrifice of her dignity; she didn’t even need to give it another thought.
Even long after the couple had disappeared, Teselin’s heart continued to pound as she accompanied Haraldur in breaking into Sigrid’s chamber. Did it even count as breaking and entering if they had key? ...did it even matter? However much she wanted to sever the Dawn warrior from her fate, going behind a friend or ally’s back was not something she was accustomed to doing. It still felt wrong, and when Sigrid found out, she would feel so betrayed…
But she didn’t even have the time to ponder how in the hell she’d navigate Sigrid’s reaction, when an even greater concern was at hand: that being what exactly she was to do if Haraldur did not make it through this endeavour. The only thing worse than Sigrid finding out they’d confiscated Gaolithe was the potential that she’d find out they had tried and failed, and her cousin had died in the attempt.
The summoner’s heart had all but leapt into her throat as she stood back and watched the Forbanne captain remove the piece of false wall, and reach for the chest behind it. She hesitated to unlock it, knowing well that she was likely not completely immune to the enchanted sword’s wrath, but nothing happened as she turned the key and flipped open the lid. There it sat, a hunk of steel and copper that looked dull and unused as a blacksmith’s discarded wares. To think of the deadly secret it actually held…
“There is still time to change your mind.” She reminded Haraldur, as she opened the other chest and he prepared the fire clamp rather awkwardly in his gloved hands. He didn’t reply; there was no backing out. “If you feel off in even the slightest,” she said, her voice taking on an edge, “drop it immediately. Alright?”
Teselin held her breath the moment he tapped the sword with the clamp, half-expecting him to topple over, dead, from indirect contact. Nothing happened. It took a few times to get his bearings, and maneuver the weapon in such a way that he could lift it, but somehow he managed--and he still had his life and vitality to show for it. She didn’t let that tight breath out of her lungs until the damned sword was in its new chest, with the lid shut and sealed. Spots danced in her vision from lack of oxygen for what felt like a full minute, if not more. “I thought I felt something, too,” she commented on Haraldur’s remark about the shift in the energy field. “And you’re right; it could have called out to its wielder. As much as I want to think Naimah can keep Sigrid occupied for long enough, we need to move quickly.”
She wasted no time replacing the lid on the chest in the false wall, and the returning the piece of wood to its place. Nothing else appeared out of sorts, when all was said and done, so they were quick to take their leave of Sigrid’s bedroom. She almost locked the door behind them, but remembered that Sigrid no longer had her keys. “Maybe she’ll be too tired to think about why it’s unlocked,” she thought out loud and bit her lower lip, then hurried down the corridor behind Haraldur. She practically had to run just to keep up with his long strides, and was out of breath before they even reached the Night Garden. It certainly earned them a few glances from Gardeners and other Galeynian denizens, seeing a large man carry a large chest at a rapid pace, accompanied by a small girl who could hardly catch her breath, but no one stopped to question them, likely from the sheer absurdity of the scenario.
They had already gained consent from the head Gardeners earlier in the day to dig a hole in the Garden’s rich soil, explaining in vague terms that they needed a safe place to store a potentially deadly weapon that should not be found anytime soon. Of course, they neglected to name that weapon as Gaolithe, for fear that they would not be granted permission since every soul in Galeyn was familiar with the lore of the enchanted sword; and when Sigrid found out, and found them out, the Gardeners might well put two and two together. But that would be the point at which the Dawn warrior’s secret--Gaolithe’s secret--would have to be out for the world to know. That sword would not take another innocent life in the name of some victory, if she, Haraldur, and Vega had anything to say about it.
Speaking of the commander’s wife, the Eyraillian princess was waiting for them but that very hole in the ground. The relief on her face was palpable when she made out the form of her husband in the light of bioluminescent flora. Teselin could make out the shimmer of tears in her eyes. “You made it. Thank the gods…” Vega sighed, one hand on her belly and one on her heart. “Let’s put that accursed object to rest. Let it not take another life, friend, enemy, or otherwise. There is always more than one path to victory.”
Whether it was luck or fortune, Sigrid’s dignity did manage to remain completely in tact that evening, as no one else had the idea to access the public bath house. Perhaps it had something to do with the rather uncharacteristically warm night, high-humidity, and the idea of a hot bath not exactly appealing to anyone; whatever the reason, the Dawn warrior was both relieved and elated for the privacy she found with her lover in this impromptu (but much needed) intimate escapade. It wasn’t the first time impulse had gotten the best of them, but something about tonight felt… different--and not at all in a bad way.
Whatever fears, insecurities or misconceptions had been keeping them apart for the past handful of weeks seemed to have charged their desire and need to be near one another with renewed vigor. Sigrid’s need for intimacy--her need for Naimah--had grown stronger and more unbearable night after night, when the Kariji woman did not return to her bed, and now that they were reunited, she threw shame to the wind and indulged the beautiful woman’s ever want and need. Gone was the characteristically shy and bashful Sigrid Sorenson--insofar as their evening went, at least. Tomorrow might tell a different story, but that night, she didn’t care about the noise and commotion they created, or that water spilled over the sides of the tub, or that anyone passing by the building might hear their gasps and moans.
It was as though something inside her had broken, in Naimah’s absence, and her return not only healed it, but strengthened it. Sigrid hadn’t felt so full of life and ambition since the night they’d met, and the Kariji woman had taught her she didn’t need to be afraid of succumbing to intimacy. She brought out the best in her, and having experienced what it was like to return to life without her… she didn’t want it. She didn’t want to bear it, and she would go above and beyond to ensure it didn’t happen again.
For that, she determined that nothing would interrupt this evening, when they one hundred percent had one another’s attention; if someone happened to walk in and bear witness, the Dawn warrior would have not so politely told them exactly where to go, how to get there, and how fast. It took her completely off guard, therefore, when something akin to panic suddenly bubbled in the pit of her gut and caused her body to physically start. “I’m sorry,” she apologized to Naimah, who was straddling her lap, “I don’t… something is wrong. Something feels wrong…”
But what? What could possibly be wrong, in that beautiful moment? Sigrid had no idea as to the source of the wrongness that sent a shock through her limbs. It was like a disconnected thought, free of her consciousness; something… misplaced? Missing? But how did any of that make sense. “I don’t know what it is. I just have this feeling…”
Her azure eyes, having focused in the distance on nothing in particular at all, settled on Naimah once again. On her sultry skin and sharp eyes, the fullness of her lips, the dew from the bath that had settled on her face and hair… Suddenly, she found herself overcome by a different feeling entirely, one that drowned out the unease with its own intensity. Whatever phantom paranoia that suddenly had her heart racing was no match to the way the shape of the Kariji woman’s jaw and the smooth texture of her skin made her heart ache and her muscles go limp. “...forget it. It’s nothing. Nothing that matters…” Sigrid said at last, noting the concern that creased Naimah’s brow at this sudden interruption of their togetherness. “Nothing matters… but you. You’re all I want, right now.”
As if to spite that unrooted panic that had threatened to put an end to an evening that the both of them had desperately needed, Sigrid took her lover’s face in her hands and pulled her back into the deep kiss from which she had broken away just a moment before. Pulled her tight to her body, and didn’t let go. “...I love you.” The words slipped out, a whisper on her lips when she broke away for air. “I’m sorry I never told you. I am sorry if I’ve ever said or done anything to make you think otherwise. I was afraid… but I am done with being afraid. I love you, Naimah.”
Before they put too much distance between themselves and Sigrid’s unlocked bedchambers, Haraldur stopped Teselin. “Wait. Don’t keep the keys. Put them back in Naimah’s purse and drop the purse in the hallway. She’ll find them once they return.” Doing as instructed, the summoner pitched the purse towards the far wall, away from the well-trafficked hallway and any curious passersby who might spot it on their travels from A to B. At this hour, few people were about, save for the Gardeners, the majority of whom worked at night (owing to the flora’s nocturnal schedule), and Forbanne on patrol. Prior to their operation, Haraldur had spoken to the soldiers, who agreed to warn him should Sigrid emerge from the bathhouse prematurely, or if they were in danger of Gardeners tracking and following their movements. So far, they’d only passed several Gardeners, and while the duo tried their best to look as inconspicuous and unrushed as possible, there was not much to conceal about a big man with a chest and a tiny girl struggling to maintain his grueling pace.
Stepping out into the Night Garden, they took the path lined with bioluminescent mushrooms until reaching the roots of the sentinel tree, at which point they swerved and squeezed through a small, dark opening at the tree’s base. At the end of the dark passage, Vega awaited them with a small lantern in hand, her relief so palpable, he tasted it on his tongue.
“We made it,” he repeated, his chest heaving, not from exertion, but from the sheer scope of what he and Teselin had just performed. Lowering to his knees beside the hole, he dropped the chest, satisfied in hearing a distant thump make contact deep beneath the earth. They’d ensured the hole was significant in its depth, to deter anyone, Galeynian or Gardener, from stumbling upon the weapon by accident. Together, the three of them, spades in hand, shoveled the mound of dirt they’d earlier excavated back into the hole. And even after they smoothed out the place of burial, skimming away chunks of dirt to guarantee the area had not looked tampered with, Haraldur continued to tamp at the ground, diligent in eradicating any indication of their hidden “treasure.” As an extra precaution, he bowed his head over the flattened earth and, hands pressing against the fertile soil, he whispered a chant that the tree had taught him. “Algiz algiz algiz.” A deep sigh, a whirring whistle. “Uz az iz ez uz. Oz ez iz az uz.” A hush. The rattle of a snake, slowly sinking into the grass. “Seal this patch. Protect this patch. Let harm come to no one.”
Whether the chant accomplished anything or not, Haraldur rose to his feet, collecting the spades and the fire clamp in his hands. He was thankful the darkness concealed his face; it had heated in its embarrassment. “It’s...it’s done.” Relief washed in, replacing his hyper focus with a numbing sense of accomplishment. He’d succeeded in challenging the sword, laying it to rest with his own hands, his own will, just as he desired. But he could not take full credit for the feat.
Turning toward Teselin, he offered his free hand for her to shake. “Thank you, Teselin. Not only for putting up with my outrageous demands, but for using your magic to close off and contain Gaolithe’s energy. And, of course,” he held up the gauntlets, “for providing me an extra barrier between myself and the sword. It may not be the role that you wanted in this, but I appreciate the risks you took all for a person--all for people--you don’t know well at all. And...I’m sorry for how I’ve treated you, before. It might not be too much of a consolation to you, but,” his hand lingered to the necromancer’s rune mark, identical to the one on Vega’s chest, “consider my aggressions towards your brother a thing of the past. I won’t hurt him. Nor will I hurt Hadwin Kavanagh. If there’s anything else you’d like from me as recompense, please don’t hesitate to ask. Even if your request is as simple as, ‘I never want to work with you again, you immovable ox.’” A smile passed over his lips. “Please get some rest, Teselin. We’ll take it from here. And by that, I mean, once Sigrid finds out what happened, I’m going to take the full brunt of the blame. She’ll direct it at me, regardless. I won’t let her get to you.”
After the summoner voiced her farewells and took her leave of the couple, Haraldur wasted no time in scooping his pregnant wife into his available arm, crushing his lips against the top of her copper hair. “I have a lot to answer for, I know. For being so stupid, so foolhardy. And I know this is horrible to say, but that whole experience...made me feel...alive again. Don’t worry,” he hurried, “I won’t make a habit of risk-taking pursuits. I needed to get it out of my system, but now...with no foreseeable threats to our family--I’m ready. I’m ready for us, for them. I’ve caused you all stress.” His hand drifted to the mound of her very swollen stomach. “Stress that none you needed. I’ll take whatever punishment you have to give me, Vega. Even if that means sleeping on the floor every night until you give birth, or massaging your feet with oil five times a day. Whatever it is you want...I’m not going anywhere, anymore. And tonight was proof of that. It’s what I wanted to prove to you.” He gently raised her chin, making contact with her eyes in the dim lantern light. “I’m not bound. I’ll never be a slave again. I’ll fight against whatever chooses to enslave our family, and I’ll win. Death can’t hold me. It won’t hold any of us; not until we’re good and ready. All the same,” he wiped a tear from beneath her eyelid, “I haven’t forgotten...that I owe you for lost time. Lead me away, your Highness. Before,” he brushed his lips against her own, “I start making out with you right here, in front of this very sentient tree--which is probably judging me and my actions as I speak.”
It wasn’t difficult to forget that above all, her meeting with Sigrid that evening was steeped in ulterior motives and deception--mainly because Naimah did not pretend affection with the tall, strapping Dawn Warrior. While she was used to faking emotions so well, that sometimes she questioned her own authenticity whenever it came into play, there was no doubt for Naimah. Sigrid Sorenson, by the simple act of being herself, had won the Kariji woman over--and it was not fair. It was not fair, because the fates had conspired to take her away too soon. However, she had little choice but to keep hope alive and well, praying that Teselin and Haraldur would be successful in removing the stigma from Sigrid’s room, and subsequently, from her life. But it was just a surface-level extraction, on their part. For Naimah, she had to do the rest; to be there for the Dawn Warrior upon her eventual realization of Gaolithe’s disappearance. To confess her role, to help quell the flames of her betrayal. Naimah had the skills to deflate Sigrid’s righteous anger, but guilt, surely, would color every one of their interactions for quite a while. She wasn’t sure what her accomplice status would do to shake their relationship, and she didn’t want to think about it tonight. Tonight was their reunion. Tonight was for them--and Naimah would ascertain Sigrid’s full attention and cooperation.
When they arrived at the bathhouse, Naimah distracted Sigrid by sensuously peeling off her silks and pinning down her hair an an elaborate fashion. Once fully naked, she contributed to the Dawn Warrior’s disrobing, teasingly brushing against her exposed skin and retreating, brushing and retreating. To prepare for the womens’ bath, which to their relief, they had to themselves, Naimah straddled the blonde warrior from behind and gave her a sponge bath, slowly rinsing off the dirt and grime from the day’s accumulated stresses. With a stealthy hand, she removed Sigrid’s necklace containing the one key she did not steal, and tucked it beneath the bundle of their discarded clothes, making an off-hand comment about not wanting the keys to rust in the bath--which she was certain Sigrid was too preoccupied to hear.
All pre-bathhouse preparations complete, the two naked women entered the open-air pool, more of a hot-spring fed by the regenerative leylines that crossed beneath the Night Garden. According to Gardeners, the hot mineral baths had rejuvenating properties, great for decluttering the mind and body of harmful toxins. Perfect, then, for the likes of them. Having already done their foreplay inside, outside was for unfiltered wanton passions. No teasing, no flirtation. The water churned around their bodies, and the heat of the hot-spring flushed their cheeks until glowing. A few climaxes later (for there were several), the two women, at risk of fainting from lightheadedness, climbed out of the pool, enjoying their post-coitus by the edges of the water, reveling in the light breeze against their thirsty skin.
Amidst the blissful silence of each other’s company, Sigrid shifted in such a way that suggested her response to a threat. Naimah, in concern, held on to her arm. Did she notice--? She had noticed something! “Something is wrong?” Her dark eyes flooded with pronounced, and well-practiced, confusion. “Whatever is the matter? I’m well-attuned to danger, myself--one must be, considering my profession, and the fact that I’ve killed interlopers with my scimitars--but I sense nothing wrong. But if you feel that it’s something you must investigate--” She squished her ample bosom against Sigrid’s back, “then go and do so.” Her whisper was titillating, wet with desire, carrying the slightest hints of disappointment--but understanding, nonetheless--should she leave her alone in the bathhouse. As predicted, Sigrid did not act on her suspicions and, instead, had acted on her companion. Oh, Naimah had reeled her in like the largest catch in an ocean full of sharks!
“Nothing should matter, tonight,” she avered with the bounce of her head, “but us, yes?” And, following the shy warrior’s lead, fell into her kisses, her embrace, surrendering herself to pure sensation…
Until Sigrid said the words, and Naimah felt lightheaded again.
It was not the first time someone had told her ‘I love you.’ On the contrary; in her profession, she heard that statement dozens, if not hundreds, of times, by drunken strangers or impressionable boys. Meaningless words for some, meaningful, yet misattributed words for others. It was merely the idea of love, the expectation of love, which they were attracted to. They were young, inexperienced, and did not know any better than to declare their affections to the person who initiated their first intimate encounter. Sigrid was one such initiate. Naimah was her first, her only, and she had no other loves to compare, or to confirm the validity of those three words. But what Naimah already knew from Sigrid, she was not dishonest. Never dishonest. And for someone so stunted in her emotionality to declare, out loud, one of the most vulnerable things to say to another person...it was genuine. It was real. And even more shocking, for one who built a career off paid companionship and who had quickly become immune to the currency of affection--she felt the same way.
“Sigrid…” Why tell me this now? She wanted to yell. Right when I’ve led you astray, played a key role in deceiving you, mishandled your trust...and you choose now. You choose now!
Unbidden, tears appeared in her eyes, no different than the rivulets of spring water and sweat that streaked over her cheeks. “The shy Sigrid has rendered me speechless.” She laughed, a nervous, boisterous gong of a bell. “You’re….so adorable, do you know that? How is it you are able to make me flush, in turn? That is how adorable you are; it is contagious. And I...I have never said this to anyone before, but I,” she swallowed, running her fingers through Sigrid’s brilliant blonde locks, “...well, you know my profession. Declarations of love are not something I tend to believe in very strongly. But I have heard you. And I accept you. ...And I love you, too.” And I hope you forgive me....for what you are soon to discover.
They spent as long as they were able in the steam of the hot springs, and in the steam of their company, until severe lightheadedness forced them to evacuate, while they were still conscious and upright enough to do so. Encouraged by her success in “distracting” Sigrid away from her chambers, Naimah did not worry about their return, some two hours later. The hallway before the Dawn Warrior’s bedchambers was empty, save for the colorful splotch of a tiny, silken purse discarded in the wedge of a corner.
“Oh,” she exclaimed aloud, removing herself from Sigrid’s protective arms to pluck the purse, heavy from the two keys it carried, off the floor. “It must have fallen out of my giant sleeves. That was so careless of me. I’m lucky no one else claimed it as their own. Although,” she pulled out a handkerchief from the folds of the cloth pouch, “there is nothing of real value inside.”
Whilst yammering on about the contents of her purse, she deftly transferred the keys, under cover of the handkerchief, to her other hand, where she was clutching Sigrid’s purloined necklace (swiped from the pile of clothes upon their return from the springs). “Ah!” She held up the necklace, all three keys now threaded through the chain and accounted for, “speaking of, you forgot about these in the bathhouse. Come on; I could not have dominated every inch of your thought space so thoroughly as to render you a gawking admirer--surely not at this late stage of our relationship. Hm...I have, haven’t I? And that, Sigrid Sorenson, is exactly what makes you adorable,” she said whilst ‘pretending’ to unlock the already unlocked door with the keys. Inside Sigrid’s bedchambers, nothing looked out of place or mussed into disarray. It brought a sense of relief, a sigh that she almost released, catching herself in time. Yes, she would discover the missing sword. That was inevitable, and imminent. But perhaps now...the fates had afforded them one more night together, wrapped in each other’s arms.
“It’s been a while since I’ve spent time with you in your chambers. Tell me you have not grown accustomed to rolling around in this luxurious, overlarge bed by yourself. I would not fancy awakening to the sensation of falling to the floor from your errant shifting, Sigrid.”
Pulling aside the sheets, Naimah climbed into the soft, plush bed, and when Sigrid joined her, she embraced the woman from behind. “I’ll keep you steady, tonight--and make sure you don’t leave my side.”
And together, they remained, wrapped into each other, lulled by the relaxing aftereffects of the bath and by their company. When the lantern light winked out, coating the couple in darkness, Naimah never felt so cocooned with love and happiness as she did at that moment.
Come morning, would it all end?
Don’t end. Please don’t end...
It had occurred to Sigrid that using words she wasn’t sure she fully understood could be a dangerous and foolish feat. In the entirety of her existence, since her memories as a child were so thin and vague and still coloured with the shadows of what would forever feel like abandonment, the Dawn warrior could not recall anyone ever murmuring those words to her: I love you. Certainly, her brothers and sister in the Dawn Guard, as well as Roen, a mentor to whom she owed a great deal of who she was today, had expressed they cared. It was easy to care about someone or something, to be concerned for their well-being, to want the best for them and for them to succeed. But to love someone… that meant something different, entirely. And for all she had witnessed the words upon others lips, had witnessed what must have been love between other people, Sigrid was sure that she would never be entirely convinced as to what she was really feeling toward anyone; or if she was even capable of it.
At least, that had been the case, until she’d met Naimah. Of course, first and foremost, the Dawn warrior had been taken aback by her exotic beauty, and realized very quickly (within hours of knowing her, in fact) that she had become helplessly infatuated with the Kariji woman. There was so much to admire about her, that it was practically inevitable, for someone so prone to girlish crushes like Sigrid was. But infatuation, she knew from experience, had no longevity. Certainly, it could leave a sting if it was met with rejection, which was something she continued to experience to this day, since that beautiful dancer had made a fool of her in front of her city and her Dawn Guard family. But now that she had experienced life a little bit more, as well as what was surely a healthy and genuine relationship, she knew that she no longer harbored a shred of affection for the woman who had broken her heart; and, in hindsight, whatever feelings she’d had for her had been transient. And those feelings she had once harboured for her… they were entirely different from what she felt for Naimah.
Some of it felt the same, on a superficial level. Like feeling elated and drunk off of merely being in her presence, of looking forward to the next time they would see one another again, or the way she daydreamed about how Naimah’s dark curls framed her face. But what was more prominent than that bland admiration was the respect she felt for her, and it was about more than the fact Naimah had been the first person with whom she’d ever been intimate. Sigrid never stopped thinking about how strong a person she was, to have survived what she did: the loss of a family, war, self-loathing. How she had risen from the depths of her own despair such that the scars on her arms were now old and faded, no longer fresh and new and raw. How she stood proud and owned her chosen profession, and did not let anyone convince her she was less of a person or less worthy for it. Sigrid respected her for the woman she was, cared for her well-being, and wanted to look out for her. More than the desire not to fall asleep alone, she wanted to make sure she was always alright, and that she would safely return to her bed every night; and whenever she did, it served as reassurance that she was alive and well. She wanted to be sure that her clients did not mistreat her. She wanted to be the one to protect her--and she had never felt that way about someone before.
In the days that had passed, days spent alone at night and wondering about Naimah and what existed between them, this feeling had become all the more apparent to her. Not that she merelt craved the touch of the woman she cared about, but how badly she wanted to be a part of her life, and how much she wanted Naimah to be part of hers. If this was not love, then Sigrid was not sure the sentiment actually existed. And she was not afraid to express it as such; not anymore.
“Adorable… isn’t exactly what I was going for,” the Dawn warrior teased, flushing in her own right from Naimah’s compliments, however ridiculous they were. “Puppies and kittens are adorable, Naimah--is that the best you’ve got?” Of course, she didn’t actually care how the Kariji woman chose to describe her, as was evident by the glowing smile on her face. “I’ll admit… I don’t know a lot about love or being loved. But I’ve given it--and you--a lot of thought.. Especially in the past weeks, where I’ve seen you so little. I still couldn’t get you off my mind. And I wouldn’t say the words unless I was certain they were true, and I know that they are. I know that I love you.”
Naimah’s reciprocation of the sentiment warmed Sigrid more than the heated baths, because just as the Kariji woman was assured of the Dawn warrior’s words, so too did the blonde warrior realize that her lover was just as sincere. She was not one of Naimah’s clients, and the beautiful escort had no reason to appease her other than the genuine desire to. But those words, heavy with meaning as they were, were not words that either woman threw around in so cavalier a fashion. Sigrid wouldn’t have uttered them if they were not true; nor would have Naimah. So this is what it is like. This is what it means. Sigrid thought, as she all but melted against the Kariji woman’s lithe body. I want this. I want this forever… I want you forever, Naimah.
The Dawn Warrior was not sure what forever meant, or what it would be for her--for them. She didn’t know when each consecutive tomorrow might be her last. So she determined to make that night their forever, if nothing else, and did not hold back her passions or affections. She forgot about being shy, and gave in to what her heart longed for, and had been starved of while the beautiful Kariji woman had kept her distance. Were it not for the steam of the bathhouse stealing what little breath she had between kisses, and her muscles going weak from that desperate lack of oxygen, she’d have insisted they spend the whole damn night there, just the two of them, and sneak back into the palace at dawn before anyone was the wiser.
After reluctantly dressing (and putting very little effort into it, leaving her tunic completely untucked from her trousers), she made her way back to the palace with Naimah on her arm. Had anyone been awake to take in the sight, it would have been more than obvious how she’d spent the evening, with flushed skin and swollen lips and wrinkled clothes; and she wouldn’t even have batted an eyelash at whatever scandalous glanced she might’ve received. Among the many favourable traits that the Kariji woman brought out in the stubborn warrior, courage was one of them: the courage to unabashedly be herself. And so she was.
It was with reluctance that she let go of Naimah’s arm long enough for her to swoop down and reclaim a purse that had belonged to her in the empty hallway. Rather uncharacteristic of Naimah to be so careless… It was rather flattering. “So you were really in such a hurry to get your hands on me that you didn’t notice it was missing when you disrobed?” She teased, but was quick to bite her tongue when the Kariji woman presented her necklace of keys that had completely slipped her mind. And those keys never slipped her mind. “...alright. So we both had our minds on other things, completely.” The Dawn warrior was quick to amend, and scratched the back of her neck sheepishly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Naimah. I am not sure I could shoulder the embarrassment of having to admit to whoever is on guard tonight that I lost the keys to my room at the baths.”
No sooner did Naimah unlock the door and the two stepped inside that that feeling at the pit of Sigrid’s gut returned. Like something was off, something was not right, or something terrible was going to happen. Frowning, she looked over the room once, but nothing appeared to be missing; no enemies lurking behind furniture or the doors to her wardrobe. Everything was as it should be, merely cast with shadows against the moonlight that spilled in through the window. At one point, her gut urged her toward the false wall, behind which was stowed the sword that would destroy her life while saving everyone else’s, but she did not venture to lay eyes upon it. Not tonight. It isn’t as though it is going anywhere, she thought, before Naimah’s voice once again brought her back to reality.
“You know, before you, I used to take up the entire mass of any and all beds,” she confessed with a quirky grin. “But… I’ve been broken of that habit. Even these past few weeks, though I’ve slept alone… I still favoured one side. To make sure there was always room for you, in case you… in case, maybe, you didn’t want to be alone, either.” Her grin faded to something that resembled embarrassment. “Some nights, when I wasn’t dead exhausted, I left my door unlocked. It only seemed right to make sure you had room. Just… just in case.” It wasn’t until the words were out of her mouth that she realized how ridiculous and cowardly she sounded. Too afraid to approach her absent lover, but all the same hoping that she would come back… it was a wonder that Naimah put up with such foolishness.
But she did not seem offended, or deterred, and in no way made Sigrid feel lesser for the confession. She simply pulled back the sheets of the bed as if she had never been absent from it, and waited for the Dawn warrior to join her; which she did after shedding her trousers for a second time that night. “You don’t have to worry,” she said to her tolerant and understanding lover, relishing warmth of her body as it enveloped her from behind. “I’m not going anywhere.” I know better than to run from peace.
And peace was what she had--for a night, in her lover’s embrace, with everything that haunted her out of sight and out of mind, if only temporarily. Unfortunately, peace did not endure forever, and upon awakening the next morning, that feeling of unease returned. Something was wrong; something had to be wrong, because Sigrid’s instincts had never let her down before. One moment she was fast asleep, cocooned by the warmth of Naimah’s body, and the next she was wide awake, with dawn light streaming through the windows, spilling across the floor and the bed and onto the wall--the false wall, that she had paused at the night before. Is this it? The Dawn warrior suddenly thought with dismay, her heart sinking. Is it calling to me, now? Is the worst to come upon us?
She wouldn’t know unless she checked. Removing the board from the wall, Sigrid’s eyes fell upon the heavy chest, locked and still exactly where she had put it the day she’d moved in. I don’t want it to be today, she couldn’t help but fret, as she fumbled for her keys to unlock the chest. I want my forever… just a little longer. A little longer…
It never occurred to her that that might be exactly what she would get--and not in a way that she ever could have anticipated.
The Dawn warrior gasped so audibly that it was enough to rouse the sleeping form of the woman in her bed. She continued to stare in disbelief, into what was an undeniably empty chest, even after Naimah asked her what was wrong. “Gone. It’s… it’s gone, Naimah. I don’t know how, I don’t know what is going on, but Gaolithe isn’t here.”
There was absolutely zero chance it could’ve been misplaced; Sigrid was sure she hadn’t so much as lifted the lid of the chest to check on it just a few times, and it never would’ve occurred to her to put it somewhere else for any reason. All the same, there had to be some explanation, so the frantic Dawn warrior began to search under the bed and in the wardrobe, anywhere that the damned weapon could reasonably fit, but nothing turned up. Finally, Naimah--who had probably had enough of Sigrid running around like a beheaded chicken--called her attention back to her. And yet… Sigrid could not detect even a hint of concern or surprise in her face. “Naimah, do you…” No. It wasn’t possible… “...do you know what is going on?”
The Kariji woman said little--though there wasn’t much to be said. All the same, her honesty hit like a blow to the chest, and for a moment, Sigrid felt completely winded. “Haraldur. But he… how? He can’t touch it… no one can!”
Well, who better than to ask the man, himself? Somehow managing to remember to put her trousers back on amidst her shock and anger, Sigrid stormed out of the room and down the hallway toward Haraldur’s quarters. She was so focused she didn’t even take note of the young summoner, who just happened to have been passing through the right place at the right time. “Sigrid…!” Teselin tried to call, echoing Naimah’s voice, but both fell deaf on the Dawn warrior’s ears. No sooner did she reach the door that she banged on it with the intensity of someone who was not going to walk away without answers.
“Haraldur--open the door, now! You owe me answers!” She demanded, banging again and again, throwing any regard for whatever rest his pregnant wife might’ve needed out the window. “Open the damned door, or so help me I will break it down!”
“It wasn’t just Haraldur.” Teselin, who alongside Naimah, had caught up with the irate warrior, spoke up before Sigrid would wake everyone asleep on that floor with her anger. Despite what the Forabanne commander had said the night before, about directing all of Sigrid’s anger and betrayal at him, she could not in good conscience allow him to fully take the fall when he was not the only one involved. “I helped him. He was able to move Gaolithe because of me--because I made it possible. He merely carried out the task.”
Sigrid redirected her attention from the door and looked on in disbelief at the small girl, and then at Naimah. “And… you? You were part of this, too?” She breathed, hardly able to believe what was happening. That her friends and family, and the woman she loved, had conspired against her… even if--and she was sure this was the case--they believed it to be for a good cause.
Fortunately, she didn’t have to stand and wonder for too long. Haraldur responded to her demands and opened the door, looking far more alert for that time of morning than she’d anticipated. He’d prepared for this. “Where is it?” Sigrid demanded, resisting the urge to grab him by the collar of his tunic and shake the answers out of him. “Whatever you have done with the sword, Haraldur, you need to give it back. You have no idea what you are doing, what sort of ancient magic you are taunting… or who you could be putting at risk as a result!” Her eyes first flicked to Vega, who stood just a few paces away in the room, and then back to Naimah. Her heart ached with every beat. “You don’t know that that weapon won’t retaliate. And I will not risk the lives of the people I love to save my own ass!”
Come morning, the beautiful illusion between Naimah and Sigrid was shattered.
Naimah awoke to her companion’s loud gasp, but did not yet rise from bed. Taking the time to prepare for the shift between last night and now, and the new role she was forced to play, she lay curled on her side, took a deep breath, and counted from one to ten. At least we had one night, she told herself, as a means of comfort. One night. Most of my dalliances last only one night. I’ve experienced, firsthand, that an entire lifetime can occur in that moment, and we had it. But now, we all must pay for meddling with time. We all must pay for the deception. So let me be the first…
By then, Naimah had peeled off the covers and donned her silks, climbing out of the giant bed to stand behind her distraught lover, who was crouched beside the empty chest. At Sigrid’s declaration of fact, Naimah said nothing, for there was nothing for her to say. While she purged herself of the lies from last night, that didn’t mean she was ready to sprinkle the truth. And so she waited. Waited until Sigrid prompted her, and no doubt she would. Naimah may have had her bewitched for the duration of a single evening, but a single evening was not enough to remold a person’s entire purpose. Sigrid’s purpose, unfortunately, was tied to her abominable sword, and no amount of love-making or proclamations of love would lessen Naimah’s complicity in Gaolithe’s disappearance, nor exonerate her of wrongdoing in Sigrid’s fragile gaze. No. The spell had broken, and her hold over Sigrid paled in comparison to her fear.
“Sigrid,” she swallowed, moving aside to allow the Dawn Warrior to stand, granting her a wide berth out of respect for her upsetting discovery. And then came the inevitable question. Naimah...do you know what’s going on?
“Yes,” she answered, clasping her hands formally over her stomach and standing tall. Yes, she bore guilt over her actions for how they would hurt Sigrid, but she did not regret her part. And, perhaps it was morbid reasoning, but had Vega not approached her to request her aid as an accomplice, would she and Sigrid have reconciled last night? Would they have uttered ‘love’ on their lips as they washed the toxins from their body? “Yes,” she repeated. “Haraldur took your sword. But Sigrid, I’m also--”
But she was out the door, a one-woman stampede en route to smash down her cousin’s door. “Sigrid!” She chased after the Dawn Warrior, a futile pursuit, considering the rage-filled woman had been bolstered to perform impossible feats, speed included. She sped through the hallways like a flaming arrow with a target, and the bullseye hung over Haraldur and Vega’s doorway. When Naimah turned the corner, following not only the residual scorch marks from the Galeynian Queen’s months-ago rampage, but the smell of ozone that sparked from Sigrid’s own igniting trail, she was already pounding on the door, using her fists as a battering ram.
Naimah, seeing the young summoner, Teselin, try and fail to grab her attention in the hallway, joined in with the pleading chorus, but it was a feckless effort. Nothing short of physical restraint would tear her away from the singular goal of destroying the door. Somehow, Teselin managed to redirect some of the warrior’s single-target intensity--and it landed on her. Accusatory eyes alight, Naimah shriveled before the...pain which had struck those bright blue eyes into full blaze. “Yes, Sigrid. I gave them access to your room with the keys, and--” Fortunately, the latch lifted and the door swung inward, revealing the initial subject of Sigrid’s burning rancor. Naimah trailed into silence as Haraldur Sorde calmly stepped through the threshold and closed the door. He remained where he stood, using his body as a barrier between Sigrid and his wife, who appeared from behind him.
“Sigrid,” he crossed his arms over his chest, an immovable mountain before his cousin’s screaming squall. From Naimah’s periphery, several Forbanne soldiers appeared in the hallway, as if prepared to protect their commander from the morning invasion at his chambers. “The sword isn’t here.” Though his voice was calm, practiced, even, it carried with a force to rival Sigrid’s implacable fury. “And we won’t tell you where it is. Consider this as payback, Sigrid. Several times, you were forced to put yourself at odds with me, and I gave you hell for it. You saved me, twice. You tried to get me back on my feet. Now, it’s my turn. Feel free to give me hell--but leave everyone else out of this. Teselin made it possible for me to handle your sword, true, but I was the one to ask her. Vega contacted Naimah at camp and explained the situation, but it was my suggestion to involve her. Vega may have also had the same idea as me, to steal away your sword, but it was my plan, and I took on the brunt of it. I am fully responsible. So it stands to reason that I should get the brunt of the blame, Sigrid. Because I was the foolish one to handle your sword, and I’m the one you should curse if everything all goes to shit. It’s me--and no one else.”
“The sword does not work like that--at least, from our understanding.” A small voice took advantage of the lull between the dueling rumbles of thunder. Everyone turned to look at Naimah as she swept into the empty space beside Sigrid and Haraldur. “You never allowed me to discuss it, Sigrid. You didn’t want to hear it--but I will not accommodate your fear of this sword a moment longer. You refuse to understand it, and in your lack of understanding, you allow the fear to consume all your senses--in particular, your sense of self-preservation. Did you forget, Sigrid, that I was working with Alster to study the particulars of your sword? We never stopped researching a solution. And while we never learned how to dismantle its power, we did come across some insights about its nature as a weapon. I do not care if you care to hear it, Sigrid. I am going to tell you, and nothing short of sticking your fingers in your ears and shouting is going to stop me from saying what I should have said a long time ago.” A streak of stubborn wilfulness appeared in her own dark eyes and her jaw tightened, a testament to the ends of her patience. For weeks, she had submerged her desires to broach the subject of Gaolithe. Out of respect for Sigrid’s wishes, she chose not to update her on what she and Alster had posited and theorized about the ancient weapon, based on texts they discovered in Galeyn’s library. Now, she would say her peace, respect be damned.
“Let’s go inside. We’ve caused enough of a stir.” Before anyone could think to escape, Naimah herded everyone into Haraldur and Vega’s chambers and locked the door behind them.
“Gaolithe is not a sentient weapon.” In case Sigrid attempted to burst her way through the closed in pen they created for her, Naimah stood vigil in front of the door. If you dare leave, her eyes flashed, you better prepare to get through me. “It does not have a mind of its own. It was crafted for a specific purpose, which Teselin,” she nodded to the summoner, “was able to glean, through her accidental contact with its energies. While it is powered by the souls of previous users, this does not suggest the sword can think, let alone demonstrate complex emotions such as ‘vengeance,’ ‘spite,’ and ‘resentment.’ In fact, if we’re to argue that it is influenced by the souls it traps, the souls would bear resentment towards the weapon itself, and would surely emanate dark, bleak energies from the intensity and pain the users have suffered, repelling people, even those who are chosen, from wanting anywhere near it. But this is not the case, because the sword wants to be used. It cannot foist its will onto anyone, so the only other way it can attract a user is to become as attractive as possible.”
“In other words, Gaolithe was not created to subjugate its users by fear, but in its desire to be helpful, when placed in the right hands. Even Alster has admitted that when first encountering Gaolithe in Braighdath, he felt it emanate pleasant, peaceful energies, and mistook it for a benevolent blade. That is why it selects a chosen during times of great war and distress, during times when its power to change the course of a battle and save countless lives is too attractive to reject. Its chosen, we posit, have always been among the noble Dawn Guard, whose maxim is to serve and save the people who are under their protection. You can make a difference, the sword says. You can save everyone. And who could say no to such a proposal? Even if they do end up discovering the grim truth about their fate? So,” she spread out her hands, palms up, “it will wait, Sigrid. It is counterintuitive for the blade to act on its own and kill your friends and family as recompense for your rejection. If it did so,” she gave a meaningful gaze to the Dawn Warrior, “would you wield it, then? Would you still wield it if you had no one left to protect? If it killed all the people you wanted to protect?” She shook her head, clearing the air of her intense question, allowing it to remain rhetorical and unanswered. “Besides,” her voice lightened, “--if it could act on its own, it would not need you, Sigrid, as its handler and its holder. Rest assured...it will not retaliate because of what we did.”
What she failed to mention, however, was how her and Alster’s research was all unsubstantiated, impossible to prove because Gaolithe left behind no evidence of its previous holders. Their conclusions were based on hearsay, peripherally-connected mythologies pertaining to the deity who allegedly had gifted the ancient weapon to the Dawn Guard, and from Alster’s own knowledge of enchantment magic and energy-reading, which he had learned from his father. But it didn’t need to be said aloud. Its understanding was clear among the small gathering in the room.
“I cannot take much credit for this information. You were better off speaking to Alster about this, Sigrid, but that opportunity has come and gone--so now you have to hear it from me, amidst an audience, whilst we trap you in a room so that you will hear it. Everyone here has put themselves at risk to help you--so when will you help yourself? When will you see that we don’t want you to sacrifice your existence? Why would I want that?” Tears spooled down her face. She messily cleared them with the back of her hand, which smeared the residual kohl around her eyes, masking the area like raccoon rings. “Why, Sigrid? I avoided you because I could no longer support you. I could not advocate for your own destruction. If my contribution to this intervention means I’ve lost your trust forever, then so be it. I did what I had to do to save you. We all did. How many more interfering people will it take to get it through your thick skull?! That you’re important to us? We don’t want to lose you. And there’s no sacrifice that you can make which will save me more than I’ve already been saved. Because you did that, already. You saved me!”
Reduced to a weeping mess in front of everyone, Naimah, losing the strength in her legs, slid to the floor, curling up into a tight ball. “I was not nearly as strong, nearly as self-assured in my path, my profession, in my incredible loss...until that wolfish man introduced me to you. But if I had known that you would throw everything away and leave me to the emptiness I felt before I met you--then I’d rather not be alive! Because what is worse than emptiness? Emptiness borne from the realization that something was once there, and you cannot remember what is missing!”
Planting her hands on the floor, the inconsolable Naimah gave herself a half-hearted boost and returned to her feet. Collecting enough of a second wind to still her tears and the trembling of her body, she lifted the door’s latch and pushed it open. “I need to return to camp. I’ve said my peace. I’ve said it all.” Lowering her head to hide her face with her curls, she slipped out of the bedchambers and scampered down the hallway, her beaded slippers slapping against the marble in a hurry to broaden the distance from the woman she loved. The woman who infuriated her. The woman whose resignation to her fate would break her heart, regardless of the sacrifice which would effectively erase her existence. She ran out of the palace. Ran back to camp. Ran to her tent and threaded the flaps shut. She buried herself beneath blankets and pillows. And for the first time since meeting Sigrid at the D’Marian party, she took a blade to her arms--and sliced new hatch marks into the skin.
Back at Haraldur and Vega’s chambers, the group, minus one, was still reeling from the aftereffects of Naimah’s emotional speech--and Sigrid’s reaction to it. Haraldur was the first one to speak, not out of anything pressing to say, but because someone needed to break the stifling silence.
“My sentiments pale in comparison to hers, Sigrid. But she echoed my words. I can’t let you die for us, but that doesn’t mean any of our lives are forfeit. A family should stick together...right? I made the mistake of leaving this world prematurely, taking none of this into consideration. I was too hurt to see how badly my decisions were hurting other people. With that said,” he jerked his chin towards the door, which was left ajar, “go to her, Sigrid. She needs you right now, as I’m sure you need her. Unless you’re still focused on believing that you need to die, then fine. Stay here, and we can resume our grudge match. It’ll do you no good, though--because none of us will tell you where to find your sword.”
It wasn’t just Haraldur. No, of course it couldn’t be. Sigrid’s cousin might have been capable of a lot of things, but it must have taken nothing less than the careful conspiring of several minds and talents to not only steal Gaolithe right from under the Dawn Warrior’s nose, but to manage to find a way to handle it without someone losing their life to its immense power. How they had managed that particular feat, Sigrid could hardly guess, but between the stubborn princess of Eyraille, the resilient Forbanne commander, the powerful summoner, and her own sly and beguiling lover, it seemed that anything was possible.
“So… you…” She looked from Naimah to the others and back again, struggling to find the right words, but there were none. There was no ‘right thing’ to say in this situation, where she had been completely blindsided by four people whom she’d trusted immensely. “Last night, Naimah… all of that was… did you only come to me to distract me? So that they…” She looked to Teselin’s guilty face to Haraldur’s self-righteous one. “So that they could steal the sword?” She struggled to keep her voice impartial. Even, unaffected by what faced her, but Sigrid was not known to have any extensive control over her emotions, and the hurt and betrayal was there, as plain as the nose on her face. “Does that mean… mean that everything… that what you said was… a ruse?” I love you, too. That was what she had said; Sigrid hadn’t imagined it. But had she been so desperate to hear those words from Naimah’s lips that she’d completely bought into a lie…? One crafted to placate her and keep her fully preoccupied while her cousin and the summoner snuck into her room and took the enchanted blade from it’s chest? It dawned on her in a rush that Sigrid had never lost or forgotten the keys around her neck; that Naimah had never mistakenly dropped her purse in the hallway. And yet, up until now, she’d still completely bought into every detail of that carefully crafted lie and distraction. She’d never have even thought to question it, or Naimah, for that matter, had the Kariji woman not confessed.
There was no need to demand an explanation, because Naimah evidently already had one prepared. Sigrid did not put up any resistance when her lover ushered them all into Haraldur and Vega’s shared quarters and closed the door behind her, using her body as a physical deterrent to run from this confrontation.
Sigrid had not forgotten the time and effort that both Naimah and Alster had put into researching Gaolithe as a futile means to find a way to sever it from the Dawn Warrior’s fate. She’d known it had taken place, but when more pressing concerns had begun to escalate, it hadn’t occurred to her that either of them had seen fit to allocate any more time to continue that research. Evidently, she’d been wrong; that despite the stir that had arisen in Braighdath, despite Elespeth Rigas’s continually deteriorating condition, despite Haraldur’s attempted suicide and the now confirmed presence of Hadwin’s murderous younger sister hiding somewhere within Galeyn’s borders and, for all they knew, contemplating her next kill… her life was still worth enough to them to continue to try to find a way to save her.
All the same--even if Naimah’s explanation did hold a great deal of logic and merit--Sigrid could not shake the image of her own brother of the Dawn Guard dying right in front of her. She would never forget the way the light instantly flickered out of Gvynthar’s eyes the moment his fingertips had come in contact with that sword, how he had fallen to the ground, long dead and beyond and means of help or resuscitation before she even had time to crouch down and check for a pulse. The sword had made its point, then and there: I am a force to be reckoned with, it seemed to say. And dark times are upon us. Now is not the time to interfere with my prophecy. And, for a few weeks following, she had refused it. She had shunned the blade and would not so much as acknowledge that it had chosen her as its wielder, out of grief for her lost brother. In fact, it wasn’t until Alster had approached her and urged her to give it a chance, and to see what it meant to live up to being Gaolithe’s wielder, that the Dawn warrior--one adopted, not born into the legendary league of soldiers--had yielded to its will, and picked it up.
And that, she realized with a sharp pang of dismay, was the answer to Naimah’s question. Yes, Sigrid thought, but dared not give it words. I would. I already have. It took my brother… and I wielded it, anyway. I forgave it… But, that did beg the question, just how far would--could--it go? How many times would she forgive it, and what would be the catalyst? Would she continue to wield it if she took Haraldur’s life, and left his wife and children without a husband and a father? Would she continue to wield it if it took the summoner’s life, when she was barely old enough to consider ever actually having lived? Would she forgive it if it took… if it took Naimah from her?
No. There was no hesitation in the answer to that question. No. I wouldn’t forgive it. I would never forgive it… and I would never wield it again. I’d sooner die at the enemy’s hands. Even… even if that meant forsaking the Dawn Guard, and everything she had been raised and trained to believe in, and to fight for.
“Naimah…” Sigrid’s voice was quiet when she ventured to speak, but the Kariji woman was not finished. Tears had begun to pool in her eyes and trickle down her cheeks, and that was when the Dawn warrior realized just how foolish she had been to make such accusations in the hallway. Even if everything that had occurred between them the night before was a ruse, even if those precious words Naimah had reciprocated were untrue, the woman would never have gone to such lengths to deceive her if she didn’t care. If Sigrid didn’t matter, then no one would’ve made the effort at all, and would happily have left her to her grim fate. She could not blame Naimah for the deception, any more than she could blame her for avoiding her for several weeks. She’d deserved nothing less than that kind of treatment; and Naimah was only trying to keep herself from getting hurt, more than Sigrid had already hurt her, however inadvertently.
Her heart about broke in two when the Kariji woman fell to her knees and said everything she had wanted to say to the stubborn Dawn Warrior, ever since learning the truth behind that accursed sword. She wanted to kneel down and comfort her, to take her into her arms… but shock and shame froze her stiff, and she wasn’t sure that Naimah even wanted to be touched by her, right now. And the second she considered otherwise, Naimah’s words struck her like electricity straight through her heart: You saved me.
“Wait… wait, Naimah!” Sigrid called as the Kariji woman climbed to her feet and hurried out of the room, but her lover was long gone before she was finished calling her name. And she was too stricken to run after her. You saved me. No… no, she hadn’t saved her. She’d only given her false hope, and… and in the end, she had hurt her. She’d hurt her, so badly… “...I thought you’d manipulated her into helping you.” The Dawn warrior confessed quietly to her cousin, blue eyes fixed on the door where Naimah had made her retreat. “I really did think it was all your idea, but she acted completely of her own accord, didn’t she? She didn’t need any convincing…”
“I approached her,” Vega explained softly, placing a hand on Haraldur’s arm. For all he wanted to shoulder all the blame, it was wholly unrealistic when they had all conspired as a group. “Because I know how much she cares for you… and for that, she wouldn’t refuse. I asked for her help, but everything that she did was entirely her idea, Sigrid. From her own heart. You know that none of us would or could force her, if she hadn’t wanted to be a part of this… to help you.”
Sigrid nodded, all of the colour gone from her face, her hands hanging by her sides, clenched into tight fists. “She was trying so hard not to give up on me…” She murmured, to no one in particular. “Even after I… I gave up on myself. On my future…”
“Haraldur is right.” Teselin spoke up quietly, clutching her elbows. She no longer appeared to feel guilty for her part in this grand scheme; instead, she just looked sad. “Go after her. Don’t let her think your desire for sacrifice is more important to you than she is.”
The Dawn warrior was not sure that this conversation was finished, but at the same time, she didn’t feel as though there was any more to say. Nothing that could possibly be said on her part, at least; not when everyone in this room had already made it clear that the preservation of her life was more valuable than her sacrifice. So she didn’t offer a single parting word before she fled Haraldur’s chambers and hurried down the corridor to find Naimah. Sigrid ran all the way to where the escorts had made their camp, and did not stop when the curious eyes of Naimah’s fellow escorts looked her way. She did not ask permission before rushing into the Kariji woman’s tent--and was gutted by what she saw.
“Naimah.” The woman’s name rushed past her lips in a desperate whisper. Sigrid didn’t hesitate to disarm her, grabbing the blade and throwing it to the front of her tent. Those arms, those beautiful arms, they had been healing. They had been healing since the night they’d met, and some of the older scars were beginning to fade into obscurity… but now, new wounds opened and bled freely--all because of her. She had done this. She had helped them heal, and she had opened them, anew. “Stop. Stop, Naimah… stop.”
Without warning, Sigrid grabbed the distraught Kariji woman by her shoulders and pulled her toward her body, where she held her without any implication of letting go. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…” She whispered, her voice trembling with the weight of the emotion weighing in her chest. “Don’t hurt yourself, anymore. Hurt me--hurt me, because I am the reason you are hurting, now. I’ve hurt you. I hurt you when I… when all I was doing was trying to protect you. I realize that, now. What I was doing was selfish, because despite what I might want… it is not up to me to decide what is important to you. Naimah, I’m so sorry…”
Sigrid buried her fingers in Naimah’s dark curls and blinked tears from her eyes. All this time… Naimah hadn’t been angry with her. She had been hurting, and doing the best to protect herself from that pain in the best way she knew how: by avoiding the source of it. “I thought it… it wouldn’t matter, if you couldn’t remember me. But it didn’t occur to me that you might still feel that something was missing. I just… I was so resigned to my fate, even after I told you I would keep fighting. And that is not fair to you. It isn’t fair to anyone… not even me. But I was too stubborn to see it that way...”
When she finally withdrew (and it was several moments before she did), Sigrid took Naimah’s face in her hands, her own cheeks glistening with tears. “Last night… I don’t care if it was a distraction. It made me realize something: just how unhappy I’ve been without seeing you every day, or waking up next to you. And for a moment, last night, I thought… wouldn’t it be beautiful, if this could be forever? I haven’t thought about forever in a long time, because I did not think I would have a future. I don’t even know what forever looks like. But… I meant everything I said. I love you. And I don’t want to leave you behind; I’m too selfish for that.”
Her voice caught on that last word, before she closed the distance between them with a kiss, salty tears staining her lips. The only thing standing between Sigrid Sorenson and her happiness wasn’t the prophecy of an enchanted sword: it was her own obstinacy and defeatist attitude. And if what Naimah had learned was right--if Gaolithe was not a sentient entity that had the capability of seeking revenge when it was wronged, then it was of no danger to her or anyone else. Just because it might have been the easy way to victory did not make it the only way. When they both had to come up for air, Sigrid smoothed the dark curls away from Naimah’s forehead, and then took the hem of her own long, plain white tunic and tore away an even strip, which she wordlessly pressed to her Kariji woman’s new wounds to staunch the blood. “...I may have to answer to the Dawn Guard, eventually. They’ll need to know about Gaolithe. I don’t know that they’ll believe what I tell them, and there is a possibility they will revoke my status among their ranks.” Something that once would’ve been one of her worst nightmares, but back then, the Dawn Guard had been all she’d had. And as much as she respected and loved her family among them, they were not her one and only option anymore. “But… that’s alright. If forsaking them means that I have full control over my life and decisions… then that is the path I will take. For you. For… for us.”
Sigrid smiled--or at the very least, tried to smile through her tears. “If… you can forgive me, that is. For everything I’ve done, and everything I should have done. I know I may not deserve it, Naimah, but if you have it in you to forgive me… then I won’t let you down, should you give me a second chance. I cannot make you say yes, but…” That smile quirked into something mischievous, a flicker of the playful Sigrid whom Naimah had come to know, before Gaolithe’s secret had transformed her life. “You should know that I am prepared to get on my knees and beg for a very, very long time. To the point where I guarantee it could be downright embarrassing for the both of us. You’ve been warned.”
At first, she had resisted. It was an urge that prickled at her skin, gaping for the sensation like mouths wanting water to slake their thirst. If only she had desired something as innocuous as water; a cool, inviting stream across her arms to satisfy the craving for the tactile. But a mere trickling, a weak tickling, would not combat the wounds that were quickly cracking open from within. It would not be enough to distract her from the ruptures of her inner self. Her carefully constructed facade had sundered and surrendered to the pain she always kept at bay. Bereft of defenses, Naimah had no other outlet, no other relief to still the drumming that thrashed her back and forth, without cease. She had selfishly allocated the role to Sigrid, but it was wrong to rely on an outside source to soothe her, especially when that outside source valued self-destruction for a cause over some nobody of a whore, unimportant among the behemoths to which she’d become acquainted. Queen Lilica, monarch of Galeyn, Lady Chara Rigas, acting Head of the Rigas household, Lord Alster Rigas, current Head of the Rigas household, Vega and Haraldur Sorde, royal figureheads of Eyraille--and then, there was Naimah. Naimah Al-Razi, lone survivor of an exterminated tribe. Disgraced daughter, forced into a profession that she resigned to make her own. She was not influential. She was no healer, no wavemaker, able to bandage the emotional wounds of the warriors she professed to help. Under her care, several Forbanne took their lives. Even with her contributions that led to Gaolithe’s burial, she could not convince Sigrid to exist. So what did it matter, what she ended up doing to her body? In the end, nothing she did had merit, if she could not save the people who mattered to her.
I daresay Gaolithe is a weapon that can manipulate circumstances to fit its own ends, she recalled Alster telling her, during one of their many research sessions at Galeyn’s library. Luck, in other words. It is an incredibly lucky weapon. You could say it ‘orchestrated’ events that forced Sigrid to become its chosen. With that said, there’s no guarantee that if we bury it, or launch it into the blackest depths of the ocean, that it will stay buried, or lost. The only way to stop that weapon is to destroy it, I’m afraid. Or to deactivate its power, somehow. But to do so would cause instant death. Gaolithe’s failsafe is too thick a barrier for anyone living or corporeal to cross.
She knew this. She knew this, and yet, desperation drove her to try and defy the ancient weapon’s penchant for exploiting opportunities to its benefit. For Sigrid, any chance, however slim, to remove that destructive blade from her possession was a risk worth taking. Even if Gaolithe did break through layers of soil and exhumed itself to appear again at Sigrid’s feet, if everyone could succeed in convincing her not to wield the weapon, its reemergence wouldn’t matter. Gaolithe’s presence would be a mere nuisance, and nothing more. A rotten memory, persistent, yet ultimately meaningless, once rejected by its wielder. But Sigrid was not likely to change her mind, even with her circle of concerned friends and family rallying against her fate. Naimah had given it her all; it was her last chance to reason with the bullheaded warrior--and she had failed.
Gaolithe will find you again, and you will wield it. You will vanish from existence...and it will all end. Any hope for a future...with you. She pulled a dagger from underneath her pillow and unsheathed it, exposing the cruel edge to the vacillating lantern light. Her tears gushed anew as she positioned the blade parallel to her wrist and sliced, using the faint but raised pink lines as a guideline to pop open the old seams, one after another. The blood beaded, then welled, then overflowed, trickling gently across her arms like a warm, bubbling spring. So, water had played its part, after all. Heedless of the blood that landed on her lap to stain her fine silks, she worked on the other arm, and the tears stilled, her mind cleared, and relief set in, wafting over her like a nostalgic smell in the air. And just as she was about to lay back and relax, to let the blood coagulate and congeal, a yellow storm blew through her tent--in the form of Sigrid Sorenson.
“Sigri-” But she couldn’t finish her exclamation of the woman’s name before she was physically restrained by the shoulders, the dagger wrenched out of her hand and tossed across the tent-space like a bomb about to explode. Shame tinged upon her cheeks, and she lowered her head to hide her horror over being discovered in such a state--and by Sigrid, no less! “I am fine!” she blustered, suddenly defensive in her self-consciousness. “I needed a ritual draining; this is nothing new! Nothing I have not done, before!”
But Sigrid was neither convinced nor mollified. Minding her arms, the Dawn Warrior crushed Naimah to her chest--and what she had to say pressed more tears from the Kariji woman’s eyes. Did Sigrid--admit defeat? Had Naimah, somehow, shook Sigrid out of her profound resistance, which shunned help, worthiness, and faith in a non-terminal solution? It was too good to be true; a fantasy created from blood loss and a coma-like sleep. The pinches of pain and the small spurts and trickles of blood, on her arms, however, disproved her hypothesis. This was actually happening--and she couldn’t be more elated.
“Well then,” she began with a weepy laugh, “there was absolutely no point for me to ‘drain’ myself, when you have always performed the role beautifully. I should have given you the benefit of the doubt. Should have had faith that you would…come for me. Please forgive me, Sigrid. For surrendering too soon. For mourning my loss, when you are not yet lost. Forgive me for worrying you; it was never my intention to...to hurt you, either. And last--please forgive me one last time for...doubting your words, when I want nothing more than to believe you. I,” she pulled away, to search the truth in Sigrid’s ice-blue eyes, their facets always so precise, so unerring--now melting into tears. “Your face does not betray you, and you are a poor wearer of deceit. I know you speak no falsehoods in the moment--but will you...will you promise me that you will not retract this statement to me? Sigrid--” she prevented the warrior’s advance with the barrier of her hand pressed against her mouth, “first, you promise me. Promise me you will never stop fighting. That you will, under no circumstances, ever reunite yourself with that sword or use it in any capacity from this day forth. I will not fall to pretty words and tear-stained declarations of love, Sigrid. No. Not until I receive a contract of your good faith, spelled out without any frills or words mean to trap me under false security. You must tell me, in concrete terms, before we proceed at all--do you understand?”
Whether Sigrid had abided Naimah’s request or not, her resolve wavered, and in seconds they were upon each other’s lips with the force to suck marrow out of bones. The Kariji woman moaned with pleasure and almost threw the Dawn Warrior on the bed in continuation of their exploits from last night, but her quarry’s mouth had withdrawn--in favor of dealing with their more immediate problem. Naimah, forgetting about the unseemly mess of her arms, lowered her head at the sight and hiding a cringe. She accepted Sigrid’s torn white strip, allowing her to clean and dress the wound. “We’re in Galeyn,” she whispered with assurance. “These pitiable wounds are nothing a Gardener cannot address. Perhaps they can even minimalize the scarring. I...will not return to this habit, Sigrid. It was a moment of weakness. A moment of intense, paralyzing fear--that you would die. As my family died--leaving me alone to navigate this life...when all I wanted to do was joint them in death.” Raising a now-bandaged arm to her face, she wiped off some stray tears with the back of her hand. “Last night was a distraction, Sigrid--but I also meant what I said. I love you. And I cannot stand to lose you. So I will forgive you--and continue to do what I can to help you ward away this nightmare of a sword. It is wise to warn the Dawn Guard of the sword’s power, but do you believe that Roen will revoke your status? Please do not forget, Sigrid, you have several people here to vouch for and corroborate your story, several influential people who are more than willing to come to your aid, and defend your propriety. Haraldur, Alster, and Vega care about you very much. Do not isolate yourself from them, either,” she shared in the warrior’s same mischievous smile, “lest I will take you up on your offer to prostrate yourself at my feet and bleat for forgiveness before all the whores and Forbanne of this camp. They need a little entertainment, and you will be the perfect, lovelorn clown.”
Two uneventful weeks crawled by with all the speed of an injured man dragging himself across the ground, minus the bloody streaks--for Alster Rigas, and by extension, his unwitting partner, were very thorough in their plans of leaving no trace of occupancy, wherever they tread. This was not difficult, seeing as how the route was largely unpeopled, and the majority of travel happened at night. During the day, they slept, secure in the caravan, and, leaving nothing to chance, Alster erected an invisibility shroud over their camp, which persisted in strength even while unconscious. Sleep, of course, was nothing but a daydream for Alster; something ventured, but altogether ungained. He owed his insomnia in part to the adoption of Vitali’s nocturnal schedule, but the shift from his diurnal lifestyle did not explain the prominence and intensity of the nightmares that plagued him. So as not to disturb the necromancer’s precious--and frankly--enviable stillness of sleep (for he would never hear the end of the disruption), Alster, upon awaking in cold sweats, stifled his cries with the back of his hand. The dreams were all recurring, sketching out a hypothetical landscape, gutted and destroyed by an unforgiving storm. Trees had been uprooted, the leaves stripped from their branches. The grassy glade was trampled by black mud and sediment--deposits dumped by a swollen, debris-infested stream. Alster, wading through the decimation, called out to Elespeth--but there was no answer. Eerie silence pervaded the once idyll, their sacred space; the manifestation and the culmination of their wishes, crafted into a world that they alone shared. Gone. All gone. And Elespeth…
He stumbled upon her bloated corpse, floating face down in a muddy puddle. Nothing but a mess of hair and a shape that vaguely resembled a human form--a terrifying recreation of when he’d seen her stimulant-abused body, abandoned in the dark woods. Elespeth.
Dead. Dead dead dead dead she is dead.
Always, he relived this dream. And always, he found her dead. Never did he grow accustomed to the gut-wrenching horror of witnessing her fatal form, plunged into muddy obscurity, a disgrace to her life and legacy and beauty. But he never had the chance to pull her out of the morass, to clean her body, to breathe life back into her--before consciousness ejected him from the dream in a fit of inconsolable tears.
He spoke little over the duration of those two weeks. When he did, it was all related to the specifics of their journey--what landmark they had cleared on the map, where they were headed next, whose turn it was to make dinner, or to feed the Night steeds, or set up camp. Alster, despite his claim that they share evenly in the chores, preferred to do most of it, as a welcome distraction, and a way to break up the ruthlessness present in both his daytime and nighttime minutiae. For, if he wasn’t working, he was sitting idle, and sitting idle was anathema to his mind. Idleness brought thought spirals and panic. Idleness vaulted him into sleep without his permission. Idleness was a fiend so horrible, he preferred Vitali’s company to the alternative, which cloyed and clawed and whispered dead dead dead Elespeth is dead you killed her at every juncture. Oftentimes, his overactive mind was so venomous and brutal that he sometimes wished for some external disruption that required his immediate action. Bandits, brigands, a broken wheel axle, a runaway steed--hell, even an argument with Vitali. Shamed as he was to admit...he occasionally did instigate a few conflicts with the necromancer. Nothing so drastic, but he wanted so desperately to feel something other than numbness, that even anger and annoyance had sufficed.
At last, after the banal torture of two inexorable weeks on the road, they had approached the outskirts of Nairit late that evening, to the tower that, as per Vitali’s claims, was concealed by magic, and would not reveal itself, unless by invitation.
“So how do you propose we proceed?” Alster, after helping to set up camp in the woods just shy of where the reclusive Master alchemist and his tower would appear, inquired of Vitali. He passed a bowl of rice to the necromancer after fetching it from atop the fire he created with his magic. “You said that you know how to find him; I’m assuming that also means you know how to attract his attention. Have you had business with him in the past? Does he owe you a favor, or some such?” He placed a spoon into a bowl of broth he collected from the fire and stirred it with disinterest. “If you can arrange an audience with him, I’ll do the rest. I imagine he won’t be floored to see you; let me assure him that you’re here at my request, and not the other way around. I don’t want to threaten him into cooperation unless absolutely necessary, so...please keep your business practices to a minimum. There’s no need to blackmail or scare him needlessly. If this can be done amicably, then I will be the one to do so. We’ll talk later about extreme measures--but I want to do this the honest way, first.”
Naimah was not fine, despite her claim otherwise. There was nothing fine about taking a blade to one’s skin in the midst of despair, however the Kariji woman chose to spin it. What was worse, there was nothing ‘fine’ about the fact that she, a Dawn Warrior whose purpose revolved around the desire to protect, had been the one to drive Naimah back toward those self-destructive urges involving her knife. All because she was too dim-witted in terms of her own emotions to recognize the effect her decisions had on others. Because she’d been too stupid to understand that she could not let Gaolithe destroy her life in isolation; for even if no one remembered her, that did not mean that they wouldn’t experience loss, as Naimah had alluded to.
And she could never do this again. She could never cause the beautiful Kariji woman to want to regress to old habits because of her decisions. It had to end here, and it had to end now. Never again, the Dawn Warrior thought over and over, feeling Naimah’s heartbeat race against her chest, pulled close to her body as she was. I won’t be so stupid anymore. I’ll never hurt you again… “There is nothing to forgive,” she breathed, shaking her head at Naimah’s desire to seek forgiveness. How foolish, when she wasn’t the one who needed to be forgiven. “I was stupid. I’ve never been so stupid as I’ve been these past couple of months, and I couldn’t even see my foolishness reflected back at me in a mirror. But… you’re right. I am a terrible liar.” She smiled through the tears that had gathered in her eyes. “I mean what I say, and I will make this promise to you. From this day forth… I revoke any and all association with the blade called Gaolithe. It can sit and rot and rust, wherever it was that Haraldur has hidden it. I will not go looking for it, nor will I even ask for it to be returned to me. And if offered to me… I will refuse it, until the day I die a natural death, many decades from now. This,” she clasped one hand over her heart and searched Naimah’s eyes for understanding, “this is my sworn promise to you. On the honour of the Dawn Guard, I solemnly swear these words, Naimah, for whatever my words might be worth to you. But for that… I must also ask you to swear something to me.” Sigrid gently smoothed the bandages over the Kariji woman’s bleeding arms, wishing she could kiss away the wounds, inside and out. Unlike her, Naimah was very skilled at hiding her pain, and only wore it in the scars on her arms. This was the first and only time she’d ever borne witness to the depths of her lover’s despair; and she never wanted to see it, again. Never wanted to see Naimah succumb to it again. “Do not do harm onto yourself ever again. The next time you feel the need to pick up a knife and bleed… please come and find me, instead. The feeling will pass, and I’ll help you through it. Just as you’ve helped me through my pain and cowardice. Can you make this promise to me, Naimah?”
To her great relief, the beautiful Kariji woman did not hesitate to swear her own oath, in return; and so it was settled. Neither woman would ever return to their own self-harming thought patterns, be it succumbing to the will of a cursed sword, or the urge to let out pain through opening veins. “I do not know what Roen will think, when I tell him what we’ve discovered about the sword,” the Dawn Warrior admitted, without taking her hands away from Naimah’s slender shoulders. Almost as though she was afraid the woman would run from her, again, and she needed that point of contact to reassure herself that she was right in front of her. That all of this, all of these words were real, and that this was in fact the close of a very dark chapter of her life. “The Dawn Guard has revered Gaolithe as some holy weapon for longer than I can remember. I am not sure that they will believe me when I reveal it’s truth, because I made it very clear from the beginning that I never had any desire to wield it in the first place. But Roen… he is not unreasonable. There is a chance he will listen. What concerns me is how this news will transform the Dawn Guard, for they will need to adapt to the fact that the weapon they have revered from centuries is cursed, not blessed. I cannot say how they will react to that. But…”
Sigrid rolled her shoulders back and sighed thoughtfully. “Whether or not they choose to believe me, or stand with me, is irrelevant to my decision. And if for whatever reason they see fit to expel me from my rank… then I still will not regret my decision. Or my promise to you.” Leaning in, she stole one last kiss from her lover’s lips. “Once upon a time, I might have been petrified and devastated at the thought of not being a Dawn warrior, anymore. But you’ve changed that for the better. You’ve made me brave, Naimah. You brought out the best in me… and I’m not afraid to leave my comfort zone, anymore. All thanks to you. You said I saved you, but I think it’s the other way around. You saved me from my own self-effacing insecurity.”
The Dawn warrior tenderly wiped the remaining tears from her lover’s cheeks, and gently took her hands as she pulled them both to their feet. “Will you come with me to seek out the Gardeners?” She asked in a soft tone. “If they could mend that acrobat’s broken foot in less than a week, surely they can close these wounds and reduce scarring if we act fast. And they’re good people; you won’t find any judgment from them. Even if they did,” her mouth quirked into a bold grin, “you can be sure I would put an end to that, very fast.”
Having spent almost the entirety of both spring and summer in the quiet solitude of the farm house on Galeyn’s outskirts, the necromancer had become accustomed to slow and uneventful days--or, night, in his case, as he slept for most of the day. That alone was enough to prepare him for an equally uneventful journey with someone who could loosely be considered a reluctant ally. Vitali had anticipated steadfast silence on the part of the Rigas Head, for a number of reasons. For one, they were hardly inclined to get along, despite that they’d agreed to cooperate, but largely he figured Alster’s silence had much to do with the uncertainty of this mission’s success, and the comatose form of his wife back in Galeyn, with only the energies of the Night Garden and the efforts on the part of the healers keeping her alive.
And, to the necromancer’s credit, he had kept well to his promise. Alster’s only condition was that he not utter Elespeth’s name, whether or not it was intended to inflict pain, or casually in passing, and for all Vitali was wretched and largely amoral, he was not so callous as to rub salt into bleeding wounds. Especially not when he was forced to rely on the Rigas mage, to an extent. As much as he did not allow his blindness to prove much of a handicap, it stood to reason that Alster did have the advantage of sight, and was therefore the only one of them able to distinguish landmarks.
So with only the occasional bickering (more often than not incited by Alster, oddly enough), the majority of the trip ran relatively smoothly, with few interruptions along the way. No brigands ambushing them, no danger that either men could sense. Their only enemy appeared to be boredom, and it hadn’t taken long for boredom to corner them into doing the unthinkable, which was conversing. The necromancer merely preferred to think of it as collaborating. “My brother is a mystery to many people, but I don’t happen to be one of them.” Vitali replied. Now that their venture was finally about to get interesting, it did appear to have loosened his tongue just a little. “Although, to be fair, I cannot blame him. Can you imagine what someone who is capable of turning lead into gold could be worth? He’s had a taste of life as a slave. It only stands to reason that he would take every possible precaution not to wind up in that situation again.”
Absently stirring the bowl of rice and broth in his lap (though he appeared reluctant to taste it, after petty squabbling about how Alster prepared it far too bland), the necromancer rolled his shoulders back, not appearing at all concerned about the plausibility of even gaining an audience with his brother. “The man literally does not leave his tower. Nonetheless, he needs to stay alive. So over the years, he’s become acquainted with a handful of families whom he’s deemed safe to trust. Often trades his services for errands and necessities. He communicates with this select handful of people through mail, in a rather unconventional way, and sadly, even I am not privy to where these letters and notices are exchanged. However,” a sly grin crept across his face. “I happen to know a few of his loyal clients, insofar as I can recognize them. And I’m afraid that deceit is the only way we will achieve an audience with Isidor, regardless of whether or not I am present. Although, Rigas, I have to say,” Vitali arched a dark eyebrow, “I am rather intrigued that you, of all people, are willing to entertain the idea of taking what you want if your perfect saint act fails you. So it shouldn’t bother you at all that we will have no choice but to trick him--no threatening necessary, I’m sure. But for now, the only thing we can do is wait, and hope that the right person crosses our path. What did you see, before we lost daylight? Was Nairit’s mountain range on the western horizon? And does this trail look minutely traveled?”
At Alster’s affirmation of both qualities of the landscape, the necromancer nodded. “Perfect. In that case, we might as well get comfortable, because this is precisely where I want to be. Oh, and Rigas?” The necromancer sniffed the cooling bowl of food in front of him and wrinkled his nose. “From now on, let me do the cooking. I don’t deny that you are a talented mage, but culinary prowess is about as far from your forte as altruism is from mine.”
Unfortunately, the two were forced to endure another week of boredom and stagnation at that very camp, as a result of Vitali’s plan to lie in wait for their opportunity. This spurred frequent arguments of who got to leave the campsite to retrieve water from the river a half hour away, and who had to stay in case someone happened to be passing through, in the event that someone was precisely who they had been waiting for. The good news was, they waited only a week, before coming across another traveler by horse. It was a young man with sandy hair, not much older than Teselin would have been, carting what looked to be provisions on either side of the saddle. But there was no tent to pitch, and it did not appear that he was inclined to go camping. No, this was a day trip--and a day trip all the way out to the thicket of these woods could only mean one thing.
“Young man.” Vitali called out, accompanied by Alster. When the boy and his horse had veered off toward the stream to refresh their parched throats, the Rigas Mage and the necromancer had seized the opportunity to follow. “Sorry to bother you. I just wondered what it is you might be bringing Nairit’s own reclusive Alchemist on this fine day, and whether you’d care for some help?”
The boy, visibly startled by the approach of strangers, appeared to fumble for words. His lie was lost on him before he could find any. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he stammered, and nervously circled his horse, giving the impression that he wished to flee as soon as possible. “I’m sorry, I must be on my way…”
“Oh, please, let us skip the pretense. You are running and errand for Isidor, because he won’t set foot outside of his tower to save his own life. There is no other reason you would be out so deep into these woods, when the nearest village is miles away in the other direction. Well, it just so happens that my… acquaintance, here, is in dire need of an audience with an alchemist of his calibre. So,” he folded his arms casually across his chest, “let us do you a favour and cut your errand short. We’ll bring whatever you owe him the rest of the way, and gain an audience by those means.”
Caught in his lie, the young man’s cheeks flushed. “...Master Isidor won’t accept an audience with just anyone.” He said at last, eyes downcast. “He has kept my family’s head above water for several years; if not for him and his generous compensation for running his errands, my father would not be able to afford the medicine that keeps him on his feet to run our mill. I’m sorry, but I will not betray Master Isidor’s trust and jeopardize the livelihood of my family.”
“If that is what worries you, then rest assured, we will personally make sure your reputation remains in tact. Believe me, if he is upset, the blame will not fall on you.” The corner of his mouth quirked into a grin. “I am his brother. He loves to find reasons to be angry with me. But if that won’t convince you,” he gestured to Alster and took a step back. “Take it away, Rigas. Tell him why we set out to find ‘Master Isidor’ in the first place.”
Of course, it took Alster’s bleeding heart to finally persuade the boy to yield to they’re request. After all, he knew what it meant to shoulder the burden of a loved one who suffered from a dire illness. Perhaps the Rigas caster was right: sometimes going about things the ‘honest’ way was all that was necessary. “...three miles up ahead. Find the tree with pink leaves; it will be the only one of its kind. Then take this, and bury it in the soil near the roots.” He handed Alster a small, blue stone, that could have been any ordinary pebble you’d find along the road. “The leaves will turn green, and you’ll see the tower. But, please… you must convince him forgive me, if he is angry. I was supposed to tell no one of his whereabouts…”
“Don’t worry yourself. If I know my brother--and I do--he knows where to put his grudges.” Vitali waved off the concern with a flick of his hand. “And most of them end up in my direction. Consider it compensation for your help, we’ll make sure your family’s name stays golden in his book.”
Nervously handing over the cargo that the young man had transported from a nearby village (most of which contained dried meats, grains, and other relatively non-perishable items), Vitali and Alster brought it back to the caravan. No sooner was it loaded that the Rigas mage lad them moving again, bound for that tree with the pink leaves some handful of miles off.
They reached it by sundown, and the boy had been right; it was unmistakable. Its bright leaves, rivaling the vibrancy of wildflowers, stood out against the summer green of the forest. There was no mistaking that they were in the right place. “You might as well do the honours, since you can see the roots,” the necromancer told Alster, but he hardly had the words out of his mouth before the Rigas mage was out of the driver’s seat and making a beeline for the vibrant tree. Vitali, deprived of his sight, could only imagine what the Rigas Head must have witnessed, how the tree changed and Isidor’s elusive tower appeared. Must’ve been quite the sight; even when he’d been able to make use of his eyes, this new development to keep hidden had only occurred in the past decade or so, following the death of Isidor’s mentor. The new Master Alchemist had certainly become resourceful.
When Alster gave a verb signal to approach, Vitali heard him rap his knuckles against a wooden door. At first, there was silence. And then the door opened, and was followed by a familiar voice. “Wait. You… you’re not…” There was no mistaking that the man who answered the door was, in fact, related to Vitali through appearance alone, with only small differences. Where Vitali could only boast average height, Isidor stood several inches taller. Where the necromancer was lean, the alchemist could only be described as thin. Where Vitali’s complexion sported a healthy enough tan, despite having significantly reduced his time in the sun for the past several months, Isidor was pale as the moon. And where Vitali’s eyes were bound by a light-repellant cloth, a pair of angular spectacles sat upon the bridge of Isidor’s nose; the final touch on someone who looked every inch a scholar.
“Vitali.” The alchemist clenched his hands into fists and pressed his lips into a thin line, muffling his thinly veiled disappointment. “What is the meaning of this? Where is Severin? If you did anything to harm that young man…”
“Long time no see, little brother.” Despite that Alster had asked Vitali to let him do the talking, the necromancer forced his way through the door before Isidor could slam it in their faces. “I’m sure you were hoping to see your errand boy, but you’ll have to suffice with seeing me, instead; rest assured, he is just fine. We merely saved him the remainder of a trip. But do not flatter yourself; I had no real desire to disrupt your reclusive life. That was entirely his desire.” He gestured over his shoulder at Alster, who he hoped had come inside as well. “Now, I know you’re a busy man, and paranoid as hell to boot, and you aren’t going to listen to a damn thing I say. So I implore you to listen to Alster, here. I think you’ll come to like him; he’s as pure a do-gooder as they come, and he has found himself in a heart-wrenching situation, wherein you really are his only hope. So, Alster,” the necromancer took a step back and closed the door, trapping the three of them inside the stone walls. The muffled ‘slam’ echoed in the emptiness of the high-ceilinged room. “Take it away.”
Upon closer approach to the kingdom of Nairit, Alster was forced to take the reins from Vitali--who, for the most part, insisted on driving, and Alster only relented on the grounds that he navigate, which was a fair compromise, considering the necromancer was effectively blind--when they discovered that traveling the roads at night was strictly prohibited. Patrolmen and checkpoints dotted the landscape as a deterrent against roving bands of highwaymen and thieves that populated the area from sundown to sunup. As a result, Alster was the sole person steering the coach up front, whilst Vitali slept in the caravan. He didn’t realize how much he minded the loss of company until necessity required him to switch their traveling schedule to daylight hours, and he was alone, tortured by the image of Elespeth floating face-down in her muddy grave. She’s dead dead dead dead I killed her…
Fortunately, his surroundings, and the fact that he could actually see what was ahead of him, instead of layers of darkness, helped to dampen the picture that burned all the more brightly in his head when no other lights interrupted its prominent glow. The road opened up to him, bathed in sunlight and framed by trees which still kept their green foliage, despite the swiftly approaching changing of the seasons. He blinked away the light sensitivity, unaccustomed to how vividly objects popped before his eyes. Not grainy, not muted or lacking in contours or highlights. He was looking at a vibrant world amidst its zenith, and in it...there was hope to be found.
Therefore, when he and Vitali settled in a patch of forest geographically close to the assumed location of Isidor’s invisible tower, Alster, both from gaining exposure to daylight and from proximity to the source of his whole journey’s objective, felt a twinge more bolstered and spirited than usual. So much so, that the necromancer’s haranguing did not incense him quite as much.
“One of the last things I want is to enslave him to my will.” He rested his untouched bowl of rice on his lap. “But let’s get one thing straight Vitali; I’m not a saint, and whatever you deem as ‘saintly’ isn’t an act. I was ready to plunge all of Braighdath into war if the council motioned for Elespeth’s hanging. I know what I’m capable of doing; I know the person I can become when her life is on the line--but that doesn’t mean I have to lean into my darkest predilections if there’s a gentler approach. I desire a mutual understanding, and I’ll make it my goal to foster and nurture it to the fore, even if it’s to my own detriment. But, failing that,” his steel digits scraped against the edges of the bowl, their sounds like crickets chiming their melody before the dawn swallowed their song, “I came here to fetch Isidor, and I will make it happen. However much it compromises my ‘saintly act,’ this trip is predicated on my success, through whatever means possible.”
To satisfy both the boldness of his statement, and to thwart Vitali’s complaints over his food preparation, Alster lifted his bowl of rice and shoveled it into his throat. “There’s no problem with my cooking,” he swallowed his last mouthful and worked on the bowl of vegetable broth. “If you expect us to sit here and wait for one of Isidor’s couriers to arrive on this pathway, we need to preserve our rations and our spices. Perhaps we would have more of the latter if you weren’t so obsessed with saturating every meal you prepare with salt.”
The following week crawled by so slowly, Alster could have sworn he was watching the sun go retrograde in the sky. Starved for something to do, he and Vitali squabbled over the most mundane of tasks and chores, just for the excuse to wander away from camp. Since provisions to Isidor’s tower were likely to be delivered by day, Alster often lost the argument, convinced to stay and guard the road for any foot traffic, due to his lack of sensitivity to daylight, and of having uninhibited eyes by which to see and recognize Isidor’s visitors, as described to him by Vitali.
Desperation mounted on day six, when the Rigas caster, nearly at his wit’s end, introduced the necromancer to a deck of cards, a gilt set with embossed pictures and numbers, easy for reading with the fingers. The cards, Alster found, were not the only things easy for Vitali to read, as evidenced by his losing streak of sixteen games out of twenty. “I don’t even have a poker face for you to see,” he grumbled in protest, throwing the cards into a messy pile. “Does my voice give away my hand that much?”
By day seven, Alster had been reduced to a hill of drowned ants; a squirming, frantic collective of disjointed nerves scattered all across camp. “This is taking too long,” he paced back and forth, kicking rocks and dust into the low-burning embers of the fire. “I can search for the tower, myself. Locate its cloaking energies and deactivate them. It wouldn’t be beyond the realm of my capabilities. Meanwhile, you wait here and keep watch; this is your plan, so you should be responsible for--”
A shush from the necromancer ceased the flapping of his mouth. Deep in the thicket of the woods, they heard a faint shuffle of what sounded like human footfalls accompanied by the deliberate hoofbeats of a horse. Together, they eagerly followed the auditory signature, which led them to a stream and to a young, sandy-haired man who matched Vitali’s description of one of the couriers who frequented Isidor’s tower. Upon their emergence, he startled and shot to his feet in alarm.
“We’re not bandits; we mean you no harm,” Alster raised his hands in surrender, realized that his right hand looked like an intimidating hunk of steel and a bludgeoning weapon in its own right, and promptly lowered that arm to his side. Well, I mean you no harm, anyway, he thought, giving Vitali a sideways glance in anticipation of whatever explanation he’d prepared for the young man. And he was intrigued, surprised, really, when the necromancer favored the honest approach in mollifying the traveler’s suspicions. Not only was he choosing honesty as the key to success, but he entrusted Alster to be the key. I said I’d choose to foster understanding, even to my own detriment, he reminded himself, taking in a courageous breath of air. Now is the time to bleed.
“It is vital that I see the Master Alchemist, Isidor, and beg him for his assistance in a case that is,” he lowered his eyes to the ring on his left hand, “most dire. My wife, she suffers a debilitating heart condition,” he chose to omit the cause of her heart condition, doubting he could elicit sympathy if he directed unnecessary attention to Elespeth’s abuse of a potent and addictive drug. “It’s affected her to the point where she can’t even stay conscious. There’s not much the healers can do for her, other than to keep her comfortable and stable. There’s nothing I can do, either, but search for a cure before she…” She’s dead she’s dead she’s dead I killed her I killed her...He swallowed his trepidation. “...Her prognosis won’t change, and magic can’t heal her. She needs an alchemist. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I enlisted the aid of Isidor’s brother. Please,” he bowed his head in supplication. “As recompense, I can visit your father, and take a look at his condition. I’m magically adept, and a healer. I know that removing Isidor from your kingdom, even for a short while, will affect those who rely on him for his medicines and cures, so I will make sure to mitigate any undue stress or difficulties as a result of my decision. Whatever it is you need, I can provide you, if it’s in my power. What’s your name?”
He learned that the young man was called Severin, and he lived in the town closest to the tower. Whether moved by his plight, or by the promise of delivering assistance to his ailing father, Severin relented to their request, and revealed the secret to accessing the tower. “Thank you, Severin,” Alster, after packing away the last bundle of the young man’s grain in the storage area behind the caravan, shook his hand (with his flesh and blood hand) and bid him farewell. “I will call on your father’s mill if arrangements with Isidor interrupt your supply of his medicine. You have my word.”
Once the young man, atop his horse, turned and disappeared on the small road whence he came, Alster boarded the coach and clicked the reins, bound for the pink-leaved tree. “Your gamble paid off,” he admitted to the necromancer, albeit reluctantly. “I suppose it shouldn’t have surprised me, seeing how soundly you beat me at poker.”
They traveled the rest of the three miles in silence, until he saw the tree in the distance. It was an unmistakable wildflower pink, a strain which D’Marians loved to cultivate in their yards, along with the serene purple of the wisteria tree. “Here we are.” Pulling the stone from his pouch-pocket, Alster hopped off the coach and knelt to the tree, burying the stone at an intersection of roots, as Severin had instructed. No sooner did he funnel the last bit of dirt over the tiny blue pebble, than something flashed and bent in the corners of his eyes, like a wave rippling over the mirror-surface of an undisturbed pond. When he raised his head, there it was, a pinnacle of a structure, presiding over the forest like an arrow standing upright. Where the tree once stood, a doorway, and a pair of oaken double-doors appeared in its place. Beyond impressed by the thoroughness of the illusion, but without having the opportunity to admire or study it for longer than a cursory glance over, Alster rose to his feet, calling for Vitali’s attention with a quick chirp of a whistle.
This was not a pleasure visit. Nevermind the stray wisps of curiosity that began to develop and form over this elusive figure, or the speculations over his appearance, his mannerisms, or the set-up of his workshop. They were all distractions. He was there to plead. He’d done a poor job of pleading to the young man--Severin--out in the wood, afraid to peel off the layers of his carefully constructed facade too soon. But now--he had no more excuses. No more reasons to hide the pain and fear that haunted him every night with whispers of his self-annihilation. For, to kill Elespeth was to kill himself, whether or not his heart still lived.
Electing for a moment to gain his bearings, Alster raised his flesh and blood hand, and knocked firmly on the door with his knuckles. Quiet. Maybe the Master Alchemist could sense the quality of his company on the other side of the door, and would refuse to answer. What then? They would have to find another way to infiltrate, and--
The door shuddered, clicked, and swung open, before Alster’s worries could finish whinging around in his head. A tall, lanky figure stood at the door’s threshold, confusion needling at his pale countenance. There was no doubt the Master Alchemist and the necromancer were related; Isidor resembled Vitali were he stretched out a few hundred times on the Rack. “Please excuse our interruption,” Alster bowed his head, as he did with the young sandy-haired man earlier. “If you would allow us to explain--”
But Vitali, as if sensing the sputtering upon his lips, took advantage of the gaps in his faltering dialogue to quicken along their appeal for Isidor’s help. While appreciated, Alster could think of nothing else but Isidor, and how to frame his words. How to reach the sympathies of this strange man, and succeed. I said I wouldn’t fail. I said I couldn’t fail. There is no other direction but forward, Alster. You can do this.
In tandem with Vitali, he stepped inside the tower, nearly startling when the necromancer slammed the door, shutting away all vestiges of the fading light from outside. It was now or never. Time for the first impression. The Master Alchemist seemed ready to avoid the situation altogether; his stance was turned away from them, feet pointed to the nearest exit point. He’s more afraid of me than I am of him, he assured himself.
“It’s nice to meet you, Isidor. You can call me Alster,” he managed, giving the Master Alchemist his best, most disarming smile. No need to increase the man’s discomfort by spouting around important titles or carelessly flinging the famed Rigas name about like a ragdoll. “What your brother says is true; I can confirm it. He is here at my request. I know how this may look to you, but we’re not here to stronghold you into servitude. I merely ask that you listen to my plea. And yes...it is a plea. It was not my intention to use trickery to force an audience with you, but Vitali has insisted it to be the only method. Rest assured, young Severin is fine, and we have in our supply stores his foodstuffs and provisions, which he’s given to us with his apologies to you. I’ve come a long way to see you, Isidor. Since I’ve heard of your talents, I thought about asking you for a very important favor.”
His smile faded, which brought attention to the sagging hollows of his colorless eyes, the sallowness of his cheeks, the sorrowful knot twisted between his brow. He anchored his flesh and blood arm in place with the digits of his steel hand. “I’m about to lose someone who I cherish most in this world, Isidor. Someone who dearly needs your help. My wife, she...can’t make it on her own. She’s only alive by a miracle, and that miracle can only maintain her current condition; nothing more. Her heart,” his hand flew to his chest, as though afflicted by the pain by mere association, “has weakened to the point of coma. She sleeps, in a state between life and death, because her heart does not have the capacity to support her body and its functions. I can do nothing for her. Me, a powerful caster, and I can’t even heal her, because my magic will hurt her. She is surrounded by the best and brightest healers of their respective disciplines and rests in an ideal environment for recovery--yet no one can restore her heart. She is effectively...effectively…” he squeezed his eyes shut, his breath ragged on the word, “dead, if left in her condition. Vitali told me about a Master Alchemist, someone whose work with organic materials can revitalize organs to their proper functionality.” He opened his eyes, and allowed himself to lift the shadows from his face, and project hope. It was fragile, it wavered in the dank light of the tower’s entranceway, and it was subject to fizzle out with the slightest breeze.
“Isidor, can you help her? I beg of you--please. I don’t have any other options. It would require you to leave your tower for a short time and travel with us to another kingdom, but you have my word that I’ll compensate for your discomfort and provide you with whatever you wish. I may not look it, but I’m a very influential person, and there is little that is beyond my reach to grant you. I will even personally escort you back to your tower when all is said and done. I know this is sudden, and perhaps hard to comprehend, and I’m more than willing to give you some time to come to terms with my request, but I ask that you say yes. That you come with us. That you help to save a life most precious to me.” In supplication, he took the Master Alchemist’s hand, sandwiching it between flesh and steel. Tears cropped around his eyes, but he blinked them away. “Please, save a life, save a person who needs you, and your indisputable talents. You would be forever in my debt, and celebrated as a hero. ...Without the pomp or attention, if that’s your preference,” he added, aware of the alchemist’s reclusive status and understandable aversion to people. “If you say no, Isidor...it will kill me, and I am not exaggerating, or being dramatic. My soul is tied to her soul, through a pact of magic and blood. This is the desperate entreaty from a man on his own deathbed, so, in actuality, it won’t be one life you’re saving...but two. Two lives--and all thanks to the Master Alchemist and his brilliant works. After all, no one could concoct an illusion shroud outside of this tower so seamlessly, if he didn’t have the skill and know-how to do it. I believe you are the best person for the job, Isidor.” For the overwhelmed alchemist’s sake, he squeezed his lips into another smile, though it was pitiable, and marred with the stains of rejected tears. “Do you believe in yourself?”
To say that this unexpected turn of events had taken the Master Alchemist, Isidor Kristeva off guard, was an understatement. Anxiety was written all over his pale and sculpted features, mind and body struggling to find the most appropriate response to what he couldn’t help but perceive as a threat: fight, flight, or freeze. Currently, ‘freeze’ was the winning reflex, as he stood wide-eyed and rigid before these intruders. What could this mean, for him? If his own trusted errand boy had betrayed his location, whether or not he had been under threat to do so, who else could be aware of his presence in the woods that bordered Nairit?
“Well?” After a moment of very awkward silence, Vitali arched an eyebrow and folded his arms. “I assume you’re gawking with your mouth open like a fish, Isidor. You heard the man make his plea. So: sorry to put you on the spot, but will you help this sorely desperate man?”
“I… listen, you can’t just barge in here… I don’t have…” Whether or not Alster’s sad story had moved Isidor Kristeva, the Master Alchemist was at a loss for words. This went without saying, really, considering his contact with other people was sorely minimal on a day to day basis. He was lucky to exchange a handful of words with Severin every few weeks, and even those were brief. When he could finally find it in himself to string a sentence together, it was completely off topic, although not unwarranted. “...why are your eyes covered?”
“Oh. Well, that is rather a long story. Let’s just say I had a rather indirect run-in with my own father that left me a little bit worse for the wear--and don’t get me started about daylight. But we can go into that later.” Vitali rolled his shoulders back. “What do you say? Are you up for a little vacation from this dungeon? Once upon a time, you’d have done anything to get out of this place. Now, you are completely beholden to it.”
“I am here of my own volition, not of someone else’s will any longer.” Isidor argued, his mouth dipping into a frown. “Not that it is any of your business, but that is my reason.”
The necromancer barely offered a shrug. “Nonetheless, it hasn’t done any damn good for your health, I’ll bet. Alster, tell me if I’m right: he looks as though he hasn’t seen the sun or eaten a substantial meal in decades.” Vitali grinned and nudged the Rigas mage with his elbow. “I’m right, aren’t I? You don’t change, Isidor. Maybe it’s time that you did. Come with us, breathe some fresh air, and save a life. There really isn’t any way that you can lose, pursuing this opportunity.”
What little color Isidor’s body could muster tinted his cheeks ever so slightly, embarrassed in spite of himself. “...I’m sorry. But you haven’t come to the right person.” He muttered at last, and adjusted his spectacles on the bridge of his nose. “Medical alchemy is not my specialty. I haven’t dabbled in it in years, and the only organic matter I currently work with is that of flora and crops.”
“But you have dabbled in it, at all. And I know you’ve been successful, or else you wouldn’t have earned those powerful marks on your palms.” Vitali pointed out, a comment that appeared to make his younger brother all the more uncomfortable. “There’s no denying that--nor the fact that you are the only one even remotely capable of what Alster’s poor wife needs within thousands of miles. Anyway, according to your loyal errand boy, you’ve been helping his old man with whatever affliction he might be suffering. Sounds ‘medical’ to me.”
“Medicine is an entirely different matter, necromancer. Not that you would know what it takes to make people well.” Isidor scoffed. “You only deal with them when it is already too late--and only if it suits you.”
Vitali snorted and would’ve rolled his eyes if they were open. “Only when it is too late? There happens to be an Eyraillian prince back in the kingdom of Galeyn who would beg to differ. But I didn’t come here to talk about myself, little brother. I know that medicine isn’t the only thing you’re capable of doing to help other people. Come on; now is your opportunity to be a hero. To actually do something with what you know, as opposed to… well, just exist. Try justifying your existence for once.”
“You of all people do not get to determine my worth or my right to ‘exist’.” Isidor seethed, the colour in his cheeks brightening by a shade. His dark eyes flicked from his brother to the stranger named Alster, and back again. “You don’t even understand what you are asking me. For one, I hardly know the nature of the affliction this man’s wife suffers, and yet you already expect I have the solution.”
“I know what you are capable of, Isidor.” Veering away from Alster, Vitali put his hand out to touch the stone wall, and followed it all the way to an empty wooden shelf. He didn’t need his vision to know that this place was as barren-looking as the last time he had been there, many years ago. The only rooms in this place where anyone would find signs of actual life were the man’s various and sundry studies; for he hadn’t just one. “And I know what it took and what you had to do to become, capable. Have you already forgotten? That twelve-year-old boy who once begged me to take him away from this place, because the path to whatever greatness your dearly-departed mentor had in store for you just wasn’t--and in your own words--’worth the blood spilt’? Well, it appears as though that blood was spilled, anyway. And now, here you are: someone’s very hope.”
A shadow of genuine confusion crossed the Master Alchemist’s features, but all the same he took a step back, as if feeling attacked. “I have no idea what you’re yammering about, but I am not going to let you guilt or intimidate me into agreement.”
Vitali paused and turned his head in his brother’s direction, furrowing his brows as though he were trying to see his face through the light-proof blindfold. After a pause, he merely shrugged. “Of course not. Alster, here, is adamant that we go about this the ‘right way’. Obviously, we cannot force you. My job was merely to deliver this sad sod to inform you of his story, in case the potential to save a life mattered enough to you to leave your isolated tower for a little while. If you want my honest truth; I don’t care what you decide, either way.” He ran his hand along the woodgrain of the shelf; of course, his fingertips came away with layers of dust. He really didn’t frequent the tower’s entrance more than a few times a month. “I wouldn’t be here at all if our little sister hadn’t somehow managed to make me feel guilty enough to comply.”
“Wait… our sister?”
“Oh, of course--Teselin would’ve been born after you’d already been sold into your former mentor’s servitude.” The necromancer snapped his fingers and shook his head, as if disappointed in himself for not realizing the obvious. “Well there’s a reason to leave your hovel, in and of itself. I think you’d really like young Teselin; she is very unlike me, in many ways, and has a way of finding a place in your heart even if you don’t want her there. She’s known of you for quite some time and is rather eager to meet you.”
Isidor pressed his fingertips to his temples, as if a headache was suddenly assailing him. “Look, you can’t… all of this is…” The panic in his eyes said more than words could. Vitali had been right: it was more than just reluctance to leave the comfort and mundane routine of life in his tower. He was afraid. “At least give my the courtesy to consider all of this? It is late at night, I haven’t even eaten yet… and now, I’m not sure I can.”
“But of course--really, Isidor, I know you better than to have thought you’d be easily persuaded.” The necromancer flicked the dust from his fingers and returned his hand to the wall. “Sleep on it; and, meanwhile, so shall we. I’d humbly return to our borrowed caravan, but I’m not certain you’d let us in again. So I hope it won’t trouble you too much if Alster and I occupy one of your many vacant rooms that never see a living soul. Oh, and no need to show me around; unless you’ve upended and reconstructed the guts of this place in the past decade. With or without sight, I know where I’m going.”
Isidor stood, dumbfounded as he watched his brother disappear around a corner, as casually and as effortlessly as someone with their sense of sight in tact. When he at last found his tongue, he raked a hand through his hair and turned to Alster. “Up the stairs, the third floor… you’ll find bedrooms. They’re entirely unoccupied, and have been for quite some time… apologies if you don’t find them to your liking. The fourth floor--that is where I conduct my work, and it is strictly off-limits. I ask only that you respect those boundaries, Alster Rigas.”
Without another word, the Master Alchemist took his leave as well, looking as though he needed years worth of sleep, but wouldn’t get a moment of it. He had never intended to be a host to guests; and even if he’d been prepared, the result wouldn’t have been much different.
Alster did not see him again until late the next morning. For a structure that was built upward as opposed to outward, the inside was far more vast that it appeared, and far less intuitive than one would have thought. But after a bit of wandering, and with the aid of daylight, the Rigas Mage eventually found the Master Alchemist stooped over a mug of steaming liquid in the kitchen, rectangular spectacles propped on the bridge of his straight nose. Upon closer inspection, a small stack of books sat next to him on the table, one which was open, and appeared to be the current object of the man’s focus. Alster was right to announce his presence with a polite ‘good morning’; had he not, Isidor might have jumped, startled out of his intense focus. “Oh… right. Good morning. Ah, I…” The Alchemist straightened his posture and looked over his shoulder, the apples of his cheeks colouring with guilt. “I haven’t prepared anything for breakfast… I meant to, but I got a little bit side tracked. If you’re interested, I can put on some oats…”
He moved to prepare a pot before Alster so much as confirmed or denied he’d like something to eat, but not without noticing the mage’s curious glance at his stack of books. “Uh… it’s all written in Old Nairitian. The one that’s open, anyway. The others are foreign.” At the look of mild surprise that crossed Alster’s features, he merely shrugged. “I wouldn’t know what I do if I didn’t understand eight languages. Alchemy didn’t originate in a single corner of the world.”
Setting a pot upon a woodstove to boil water, Isidor knelt to open the belly of the cast-iron, blew across the palm of his hand, and set the wood alight. “Since you’re here, though, maybe you can make it a little bit easier for me to comprehend what it is you expect me to do for your wife.” He said as he straightened and turned back to the table. “Like I already mentioned, medical alchemy is not my strongest endeavour. I prefer to work with plants and metals and the elements. But if you’ve traveled as far as… what was it, Galeyn? I won’t claim to know where and how far that is, but I suppose the least I can do is hear you out.”
Waiting for the water to boil, Isidor took a seat on a stool and pushed the spectacles back up the bridge of his nose. They had a tendency to slide forward, without an arch to keep them in place. “Anything you can tell me will help, from the nature of her condition, to how long she’s suffered it, to how she became afflicted. Being born with disease demands entirely different procedures than acquiring them later on in life. Even the circumstances of how one becomes afflicted is crucial to know. But, that said… I hope you can understand that if I do feel there is something within my skillset that might be of help, there is absolutely no way I can guarantee the outcome until I see the afflicted, myself.”
Until. And there was Alster’s answer. Whether it was Vitali’s precision-wheedling, or the Rigas Mage’s bleeding heart plea, somewhere between now and the night before, Isidor, for whatever reason, had decided--or at least, leaned in the direction of accompanying them to Galeyn. “I don’t know what my brother told you about me, Alster Rigas, but… I’m not sure I will live up to whatever picture he has painted in your mind.” The alchemist worried his lower lip and turned the page of the book, which revealed a detailed diagram of a heart. His sleepless appearance finally made sense; he had been pouring over the decision all night. “However, I cannot myself direct you anyone who might be of better help. The only other person I knew with my skill set was my mentor, and… that wretched man was as far from a saint as they come. Even if he were able to help, he’d have made you pay dearly. Not so unlike my brother.” He frowned, and lines creased his mouth, suggesting he did far more frowning in a day than smiling. “I swore not to become what he was. This world does not need more people like him, and he is certainly not missed. Seeing Vitali last night, and knowing well how he makes a business of taking advantage of desperate souls, made me remember that. So if you really are, as you claim, entirely out of options…” He spread his hands and let out a sigh. “You asked me last night if I believed in myself; and the answer is, I do not know. But I am willing to try.”
The back and forth between the two estranged brothers unfolded as Alster had predicted, knowing Vitali’s penchant for alienating friends and allies (and family members) with his winning personality. Despite the mounting tension, which had piled over Isidor’s head like a crumbling pile of rocks about to topple, Alster was reluctant to interrupt the conversation, not when the necromancer was actually supporting his case via his own unique cut(throat) form of persuasion. Not for the first time that day, he was left surprised by Vitali’s above-and-beyond willingness to contribute to the success in their endeavor. Perhaps he was not keen on failure, himself, and it was a point of pride to reprise his role as a shrewd and silver-tongued negotiator, a peripheral talent that he no doubt developed from his underhanded dealings as a necromancer for hire. Perhaps there was a more personal matter at stake; for all he claimed he did not care about his brother, he did care about Teselin. To return having not given it his all to sway Isidor to their cause would incite disappointment from his recently reunited sister. Whatever the case, none of his reasons had to do with his respect for Alster, or his eagerness to see Elespeth awake and healthy of heart. He confirmed as much with his words; it didn’t matter to Vitali what happened, so long as he had put forth the effort to facilitate their objective. The necromancer was many things, most of them of a negative bent, but he was thorough when it came to settling debts. And that much about Vitali’s character, Alster appreciated, even valued.
Once the conversation mellowed, Alster no longer refraining from his input, turned to Isidor. He was pale, almost ashen, his skin appearing a sickly green hue from its translucency to the veins that spidered and crossed beneath the surface. Though tall, easily dwarfing the Rigas mage and his minuscule height, he presented with a stoop so severe, he looked to be holding the tower on his shoulders. The barrenness of his abode reflected on his outward personality; dusty, vacant, an empty corridor that seldom received nor wanted attention. Squirreled away in some nondescript corner, however, lie the secrets to his true nature, his true potential--a library of knowledge, waiting for someone to discover the depths of his shelves, exhume the books, and blow the cobwebs off the cover. For, Alster believed that this particular shut-in, unless he was on some holy and righteous pursuit of otherworldly gains, wanted to abandon humanity, or spurn all contact from a sympathetic being. He simply chose to, because it was a comfortable lifestyle, perhaps the only one he’d ever known, or remembered. Isidor never had the chance to be more than the shell of his tower.
“You won’t be singly pursuing a cure on your own, Isidor,” he reassured the alchemist. “Your expertise is invaluable to me, but I am not so unrealistic as to dump all my hopes and expectations onto your lap. That never ends well.” By the solemn change of his tone, he confirmed his understanding of that fact. Stella D’Mare would be standing today, if he had learned to process the vising pressure supplied by his overbearing mother and her obsession for perfection. But he did not process her insane expectations of him in a healthy or productive way. Instead, he fell into her trap, and slithered his way out with the Serpent as his tool for revenge. “I invite you to the kingdom of Galeyn as my colleague. We’ll work together, whether in the same room, or separately. Through the collaboration of our differing skillsets, I have confidence we’ll come to a solution and a cure. We’ll be among healers who are experts on the human body, among a healing Garden with amazing restorative properties and curious healing flora you are unlikely to find anywhere else on this continent, and a vast library, perfect for the medical research that we require for this invasive and very involved procedure. If you cannot fathom saving a life, then come for the research opportunities, and share in what you know. Anything that you can offer for this difficult case will be a godsend, Isidor--and the kingdom itself could not be more welcoming or kindly, especially when your cause will be a noble one. This is a peaceful and peace-loving nation, which values healing and contributions that will better society. It’s a perfect fit for you, Isidor. A place where formulas in a book can make a concrete difference.”
His rant, though short, stank so pungently of idealism, Alster was sure Vitali could smell it from across the room. Over the weeks in the necromancer’s company, he’d become too jaded to prescribe in free-floating hopes, for those hopes always dissolved in the sky like clouds. The only hopes with merit were ones tethered to the ground, ones guaranteed not to detach from the earth in a frenzied storm; ones with roots, that could nurture the land with its realistic approach to providing for life and the living. And though his speech threatened to topple his muted, yet far more practical perspective of hope, he didn’t believe he was off the mark, either. With someone of Isidor’s specialized training, his presence at Galeyn would complete the puzzle. If they succeeded in recruiting him, Galeyn would house the Gardeners, a Clematis healer, a Sybaian healer, a necromancer, a generalized healer (in Alster), and a Master Alchemist. Together...they really could shape the future of Galeyn, and by extension, Stella D’Mare--starting with his wife.
It wasn’t lost to Alster the framing of Vitali’s words to a seemingly confused Isidor, with references to an abusive mentor, one who’d allegedly died some years ago. Of course, it made sense that the shut-in did not have a large enough sense of self-worth to leave his safe and contained existence, to risk further abuse in a world that would not reserve its cruelties for those who have already suffered. He could not preserve the Master Alchemist’s world-view, should he agree to travel with them to Galeyn. And yet...a sign, however faint, flickered into Isidor’s terrified eyes. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but whatever the case, his heart lurched in an anticipatory jolt. Isidor seemed to be...considering the proposition.
“I know this is a difficult decision, and we sprang it on you in all of fifteen minutes.” Alster stepped away from the anxious Master Alchemist, his expression apologetic. “I won’t disturb you any longer, tonight. I’m thankful for your consideration, all the same. Your bedrooms are adequate, I’m sure. And please don’t mind Vitali’s company, here,” he thought he’d at least try to defend the necromancer, while he was out of earshot to appreciate the comment. “He’s paying off a debt to me, but I can guess the greater reason is out of respect for your shared sister, Teselin. He’s not lying when he says she’s eager to see you. Well,” he dipped his head and retreated to the landing where the staircase spiraled up and out of sight, “I’ll make myself scarce. Good night, Isidor.”
Like the majority of the forlorn tower’s aesthetic, the bedrooms were sheaved in layers of dust, the sheets smelling old and of must. For someone of Chara’s persuasion, this may have bothered Alster, but he didn’t fret. The tower housed enough rooms to provide him and Vitali each a separate space, a rare treat for the two caravan-bound roommates, and a situation that appealed to Alster, despite his general aversion to sleeping alone and in the dark. Therefore, he made do with the neglected room, beating the sheets of their dust and doing a cursory sweep of the place with a broom he found stashed and forgotten in the far corner. While cleaning and upkeep of a temporary bedroom did not serve a purpose beyond simple tidying, it was banal enough of a task to distract him from the dangers of sleep, from plunging into that forsaken place where he’d relive the terror of Elespeth’s fate...should he fail.
No….we promised to face this, together. There is no failure. Only delays…
That is if she awakens, a contrary voice pierced through the hope, knocking it off its perch. She may never awaken again. And you are to blame...
He gripped the broom in his steel hand, using it as an anchor, a crutch, from the threat of his spiraling thoughts. Even with a potential solution in his purview, despair clung, and pinched at his skin, twisting him inside out with the ever-present image of Elespeth, face down in the water. Dead dead dead dead…
Not surprisingly, he spent his evening in a state of half-consciousness, a compromised existence which promised dreamlessness in exchange for a slew of nonsensical, feverish thoughts, of brooms dancing over his head and dust swelling into ocean waves, crashing at his feet and drowning him in layers and layers of grit. When he “awoke,” the only indication of morning manifested in the tiny sliver of sun emerging from the narrow, slit-window facing opposite his bed.
He clambered out of his sheets and rubbed the grogginess from his eyes. Without a wash basin to clean himself properly, he wiped the residual signs of sleep against his sleep, brushed the tangles of his hair off his forehead, and sat, wondering, where he was allowed to go. The fourth floor was off limits, but the Master Alchemist did not restrict him from other places in the tower. Still, he didn’t want to overstep boundaries, knowing how important they were to the reclusive Alchemist. And so, he carefully tiptoed out of the bedroom and wandered down the stairs. His exploration did not take him far before he smelled the faint aromas of something brewing from what he assumed to be the kitchen.
Sure enough, when he turned the corner, he saw an open door and inside, a potbelly stove, a few countertops, and scattered pots and other cooking supplies piled beside an empty basin. Sitting at the table and surrounded by books, Isidor slouched, taking intermittent sips of his brewed beverage whilst poring over some important details scrawled in an open book.
Clearing his throat, slipped closer to the occupied alchemist and politely cleared his throat. “Good morning, Isidor. I hope I’m not disturbing you--though I won’t take offense if you tell me otherwise. I know I’m not a welcome presence. I’ll prepare something small to eat and leave you alone, if you require more time to reach a decision.”
But Isidor sprang to his feet and insisted that he’d mix a quick breakfast for the two of them. Far be it for him to shirk hospitality, however reluctant, he nodded, and smiled. “I’d like that. If there’s anything I can do to help--” he paused, his eyes catching the familiar handwriting in the sprawled book that Isidor left on the table. “I recognize it, though I daresay it’s been a few decades since I’ve read a book in Old Nairitian. May I?” At the alchemist’s go ahead, he gently lifted the book and scanned the text, squinting until recognition sparked his memory. “This...I’ve read this book, before. Not all of it, mind; only the philosophical inquiries that pertained to the ethics of tampering with a human heart while the patient was still alive. It was about thirty-five years ago, but I did spend some time here in Nairit with my father. He was a diplomat, so we were always traveling, and he taught me every language that he knew, the spoken and the written. The man had some influence, and knew how to charm his way into peoples’ private libraries and collections. This belonged to a nobleman of Nairit; I suppose he sold his collection to the highest bidder. Funny how it should end up in my hands again.” With the greatest care, he set the book back on the table. “It would be an honor if you let me read it. My memory is hazy on the theory that Kozniack proposed, but I remembered I was intrigued by his ideas, especially pertaining to his definition of the ‘soul.’ But here I go on an unnecessary tangent.” His smile was apologetic. “Magic is much the same as alchemy, in that respect. No universal language, and opinions, as numerous as the methods. Scholars love to snort their inklings of genius onto the paper and stretch it out into five volumes regurgitating that one little nugget of an original thought--but again, I digress.”
The lightheartedness spouting from Alster’s lips, the exuberance from speaking to another person who would appreciate a discussion on the sciences of magic and alchemy, which overlapped in places, faded altogether when Isidor turned the page to the diagram of the heart--and the reality of their forced encounter deflated him back to reality. With a sobering sigh, he sat on the chair beside the Master Alchemist, his finger absently tracing the right and left ventricles of the diagram. “Elespeth has suffered afflictions of the heart for over three months, now. A side-effect of abusing a powerful stimulant, gone awry.” Though it was not a judgement or an accusation, Alster flinched to speak the unflattering truth aloud to a relative stranger. It felt like a betrayal to his wife. “It started with arrhythmia, but her condition has evolved from that point. The heart is not pumping enough blood to her body, and heart failure is inevitable. In fact,” he fiddled with the wedding band on his finger, “she’d be dead, if not for the sustaining qualities of Galeyn’s Night Garden. Its healing effects are maintaining her symptoms; they are not intensifying, nor are they lessening, either. For a few months, I’ve transferred a large share of her symptoms to my own heart, through the magic links of our blood bond. But in order to have the strength to journey to your tower, I had to…” he hesitated, biting his lip, “return the borrowed symptoms to her in full. Now, she’s been reduced to a coma...and will remain that way, until her heart can be cured. I have healed organs before, with my magic, but even with our compatibility, I’m afraid her body is rejecting my magic, as well. That’s how I know this situation is dire.” Her body is rejecting me. My essence. How cruel, that I can’t be the one to save her…
But he kept his personal matters and opinions to himself. Isidor required the facts, and did not ask for an emotional speech detailing his grievances. He’d destroyed enough of the man’s inner world, as it was, by breathing air inside his tower at all. No need to test the threshold of Isidor’s finite social limitations.
Until...Isidor had voiced his agreement to accompany them, and all emotional reservations sloughed from Alster like snakeskin. “Isidor--thank you!” He erupted into a smile, and for the first time since leaving Galeyn, it was genuine. “Rest assured--you are exactly who I need. As I referenced last night, anything you can contribute at all will be a godsend. We’re in this together. I won’t push beyond your limitations, nor ask you to do the impossible. You do believe in yourself enough to realize that what we’re up against is not impossible. Your assertion alone gives credence that my expectations of you are en pointe. Because you share in the same goals as I do. You want to do right by this world--whether it’s as a statement against Vitali, or as a sincere desire to help. I respect that, Isidor. I knew I could have faith in you--as a good person.” But as he continued to smile and thank the man profusely, a troubling thought crossed his mind. Again...I did not reach Isidor. His decision stemmed from his distaste of Vitali. Was I even useful? Was I deluding myself into thinking I could sway the alchemist with my words, my pleas?
Does it even matter, in the end, to be so useless? As long as it saves Elespeth…
“How long will it take you to prepare?” he said, after a minute pause. “I’ll lend you a hand--well, I’ll lend you two hands but the other one isn’t the handiest, as you can see.” He cringed at his awful joke, and the steel hand recoiled into his sleeve, as though ashamed. “It’s a journey of two weeks by caravan. I meant what I said, yesterday. I will provide for you; anything you need. It seems you’ve already deduced that I am a Rigas, even though I never introduced myself to you by my surname. Are my ears a giveaway? Or my flippant disregard for the measurement of time in a mortal’s lifespan?” He absently rubbed at the tapered tips of one with his good hand. “Then I won’t hide who I am, anymore. I am Lord Alster Rigas, Head of my family, and...infamous, in many aspects, to my people. Though Stella D’Mare is defunct, our citizens have been taking refuge in Galeyn, and still answer to the Rigas family as a whole. Our alliances with the Galeynian Queen are strong--the queen, who in fact, is Vitali’s half-sister by the same father, if you want yet more of the complicated truth. You will find that we are all willing to ensure you the most comfortable stay in the palace. I swear to it, as Lord Rigas, himself.”
Genuine surprise flickered across the Master Alchemist’s face as Isidor took up a position beside him and took a good look at the open book upon the table. While anyone within the area could easily read contemporary Nairitian tomes, including many of the peasants with lesser educations, those who could still decipher the intricate script and dialect of Old Nairitian were few and far between; older men and women of nobility, almost exclusively, to be exact. And when those people were finally claimed by death, there would be few left to teach the dying script of an old language that had evolved over the past century. This alone, a small glimpse into Alster’s intellect (not to mention the fact he hardly looked to be thirty-five years of age, despite his recount of traveling with his father all that time ago) was enough to confirm his suspicions after taking note of the man’s pointed ears. For all Isidor was largely a stranger to the world and its various and sundry peoples, the Rigases just happened to be one of the few with whom he was familiar.
“Your ears did make me highly suspect your lineage, yes. Though to be honest, I was prepared to be wrong. I haven’t become acquainted with enough people in this vast world to be so sure that yours are the only people boasting such a trait.” He admitted to having taken a stab in the dark, but if the Master Alchemist could speak anything to his character, it was that his gut feelings were usually very accurate. “Although just now, when you tell me you visited this place over three decades ago, and you yourself barely look to be three decades old… Unless you’ve learned the secret to longevity, which is what my late mentor had sought for the entirety of his wretched life, I have been well aware for a while that there is only one bloodline blessed with extended life the way you have implied. In fact, I have a brief recollection of a Rigas visiting my own Master Zenech when I was still a boy.” Isidor tapped thoughtfully on the rim of his spectacles and furrowed his brow, as if reaching for a faint memory. “He was a much older man, and very influential. Zenech was particularly interested in gaining insight into Rigas longevity, and… was very disappointed to learn that it all happened through magic. A related field, but still vastly different from what was studied, here. I never did see that Rigas again.”
Returning his attention to the old book in front of him, written by a man whom, as Alster had identified, specialized in theories regarding magic, biology, and the soul, he lent an attentive ear to the obviously very stricken man. Whatever Vitali’s involvement with a Rigas, the necromancer had not been wrong. Alster wore the look of someone who was reaching for vestiges of hope without actually knowing where to look. And that had taken him here--to a place and a person that had exclusively relied on Vitali’s suggestion. He had grown so desperate that he had trusted the necromancer to deliver him to someone whom he strongly believed could help. And something about that alone, knowing that an obviously very intelligent man who could read people far better than he had put the hope for his future in his brother’s suggestion, made him want to come through for him. Or, at least, to try.
“Oh--that’s great!” The words slipped out without him thinking them through, after the Rigas explained the details of his wife’s condition. Isidor was not so dense as to not recognize his faux-pas, however, and quickly coloured in the face at the realization of how terrible he sounded. “I mean, no, not great. Not in that your wife is suffering at all--why would that be something to celebrate? That is not at all what I meant to say…” Isidor rubbed the back of his neck and turned away, far too embarrassed to look Alster in the eye. “What I meant is… At least, in theory, it bodes well that your wife’s condition stems from an external source. An introduction of something to the body that changed it so fundamentally that it can hardly sustain her life. Were you to tell me that her affliction is congenital, one that she inherited from her bloodline which finally became manifest in her living tissues throughout her adult years, I’m afraid I’d have had to refuse service. For to ‘cure’ disease inherited through lineage… that would require a sort of transmutation from the ground up. Something that would deal in more than just in changing the composition of her heart to make the organ viable. It would require tampering with the building blocks of her very existence, and even if that branch of alchemy presented with a favourable success rate--which it doesn’t--it would be more than her heart that would change. In the end, it is highly possible that she would no longer be the same person. Not one bit. But, if that is not the case…”
The Master Alchemist closed the open book in front of him, and reached into the pile for another, this one written in a tongue commonly spoken in the Northern countries. “I may have an idea that accompanies a much higher success rate, depending on what--or rather, whom--is available to me. Or, more specifically, available to your life. Both you and my brother have mentioned something of a ‘blood bond’ between you and your wife. Care to clarify exactly what that means?” Isidor thumbed through the tome, lips pursed in concentration as he sought a particular chapter he remembered reading years ago. “I can tell you why your magic has not yielded favourable results, even for your wife, despite this ‘connection’. And it lies in the fundamental difference between magic and alchemy. Mind you, I do not deal in magic, nor possess it the way I am sure you do, but over the years I have come to understand it as related to my own discipline. Magic, insofar as comparing it to alchemy, at least, is a force of will. You don’t like something, and you want to change it, or you want to create it, you take the energies that are available to you and you make it so. Most of the time, I am sure that works just beautifully, under many circumstances; except for those where your will is rejected, as is the case of your wife. Sometimes magic will harm where it is meant to heal; this is why people like your wife either will not respect or will react adversely to its presence on or in their body. Life forms possessing bodies with passive tissues may be more willing to accept forceful change, but it sounds as though your wife’s body is on the defensive. Magic will not help her because, even unintentionally, her body sees magic as intrusive and foreign, like an airborne illness. But alchemy, on the other hand… it is not a force of will. It is in its entirety a negotiation; a transaction, whose success is reliant on equal and acceptable trade. In essence, you are not forcing your will or desire. Instead, you are proposing it, and offering a trade that, if all goes well, the receiving entity or object will not want to refuse. An alchemist is simply the mediator of that negotiation.
“And, due to this very nature,” Isidor flipped through the pages of his current book until he came upon a sketch of two bodies, overlapping with a complex diagram that no one without insight into alchemy could possibly understand, “alchemy is impossible to perform in isolation of… well, a currency, of sorts. Something to trade. It is impossible for me to confirm details without seeing your wife myself, but it sounds as though what might be necessary is a replacement of the damaged tissues that are keeping her sick. If we are able to find a living heart that is biologically compatible with her own… The procedure is not free of risks, and I cannot guarantee success or side-effects after the fact, but it is a possibility. Something that I can look into when I have gained a better understanding of her affliction--”
Isidor’s musings were cut short by the sound of water overflowing from a pot and splashing onto the hot stove, causing steam to hiss and spit and rise into the air. Cursing under his breath, the alchemist left the table and rushed toward the stove to lift the pot, protecting his hand from heat with the sleeve of his shirt. “Listen; it is far too premature to get your hopes up about anything. I might still be useless to you. I won’t know for sure until I see your wife for myself.” He said to Alster, as he added oats to the water once it had ceased its angry overboiling. “All of these suggestions are purely based on speculation. But yes, since there is a possibility I might be able to make a difference… well, as my brother so eloquently pointed out, I suppose I lack good reason to refuse. But, you will need to give me some time.”
Replacing the pot on the stove to simmer (and quietly vowing to keep a closer eye on it), Isidor adjusted the spectacles on the bridge of his nose and turned back to the eager man with hope dancing in the blues of his eyes. “If it is necessary for me to leave my tower to perform any sort of ‘miracle’, I’ll need to be prepared for anything. That said, if you have not managed to travel all this way with ample room…”
Well, Vitali had been right: even after agreeing to the feat, the Master Alchemist was still searching for excuses to relieve him of responsibility. But Alster was quick to counter that train of thought by explaining that they had borrowed a caravan that was designed for its ample storage. Maybe he’d imagined it, but it looked as though a flicker, just a split-second of disappointment flickered across Isidor’s face. “Ah. Well, then lack of space won’t be a problem. Alchemy isn’t exactly a travel-friendly discipline, at the best of times. At least, not if you want to do it right.” He stood over the books on the table and closed the ones with open pages, before moving the heavy stack aside to make more room on the table. “I have several workshops and studies for a reason. The bulk of it is, in fact, books, but there are other items among them that will be necessary. Your caravan is going to be more than full, but I refuse to go half-assed into a situation where a life is quite literally at stake. I’m not sure exactly how useful the necromancer will be, without vision,” he scratched the back of his neck, “so I will in fact need your help to expedite the packing.”
Not for the first time, his dark eyes fell upon Alster’s prosthetic arm, full of curiosity as the Rigas mage drew attention to it. “Pardon me for inquiring, but… that cannot possibly be very comfortable, is it? It looks far heavier than any organic arm…” Although he did not reach out to touch the prosthetic himself, that all-consuming desire to learn and understand suggested he very much wanted to. Alster, one who shared in such a desire to understand the underpinnings of exactly how something was able to function, appeared to detect that desire and offered his arm for the curious alchemist to inspect. “May I? This is… I’ll admit, this is the first time I’ve seen anything of this nature. A replacement arm that appears to function just as an organic one…” He placed his hands on the prosthetic, and for the first time, the Rigas caster was afforded a glance at curious inscriptions that appeared to be scrawled into Isidor’s palms. Runes of sorts, but far more delicate, intricate, and deliberate than the crude marks the necromancer scrawled across the chests of the dead and dying, so pale it color that even against his fair skin, they appeared silver. “Steel and silver--oh, whomever crafted this even incorporated a fair amount of diamond dust. This structure must be nigh indestructible. And imbued with magic to ensure it doesn’t rust. I sincerely commend the smith that tailored this arm to you, it seems as though they thought of everything. Well, expect for comfort, I suspect; it is twice as heavy as a human arm. Does it also possess a sense of touch? Pressure, temperature?”
“Aha. Showing you his parlor trick, is he, Rigas?” Isidor all but stumbled back, startled at his brother’s stealthy arrival. Vitali grinned and leaned against the far wall, and tossed what looked to be an empty steel mugin Isidor’s direction. “Quick, exactly how much of this is steel, and how much is pewter? I want the exact composition; you’ve got five seconds.”
The Master Alchemist caught the mug and frowned, placing the empty mug on the table and ultimately deciding not to indulge the necromancer. “For someone supposedly allergic to sunlight, I’m surprised to see you up and about in the day,” he commented without much enthusiasm.
“Well, it’s a good thing your dingy little hovel has so few windows. And I have to give you credit, Alster, this handy little blindfold does well to keep me in the dark, even on the sunniest of days.” The necromancer frowned and shrugged his shoulders. “Couldn’t help but overhear you’ve decided to venture into the scary world outside your little tower, afterall. I must say, Isidor, I’m impressed! I honestly didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Alster has explained the nature of his wife’s condition. It may be one for which I am able to make a difference. So yes, I’ll make the journey and I will make the effort, but as I’ve just finished explaining to Alster, here, I cannot guarantee and such success. Like I’ve mentioned, medical alchemy--”
“It isn’t your ‘speciality’, I get it. You sound like a parrot, Isidor. But your squawking isn’t going to change this desperate man’s mind. I’m already aware that Zenech taught you everything he knows and then some, before he left this world, and his reputation as a Master Alchemist to this day follows him straight into the grave. So you’re going to have to find a more believable excuse than incompetency, little brother.”
Isidor coloured in the face ever so slightly, and turned back to the stove to stir the oats, which at this point were ready. “I’m not making excuses. I’m just preparing the both of you for possible failure. But if failure occurs, it will not be for lack of trying, on my part.”
“Well, we shall continue to have the utmost faith in your valuable skill set, Master Alchemist. Though among those skills--it smells as though cooking isn’t one of them.” Vitali wrinkled his nose at the mild smell of something burning. The oats were, at the very least, overcooked. “Seems as though you and Alster have more in common than I’d thought.”
“If you don’t like it, feel free to make something, yourself.” The Master Alchemist muttered, the corners of his mouth turning downward in a frown. “You’ll find non-perishables in the cupboards, and some fruits and vegetables in the solarium. In fact, those might as well be used as soon as possible, if I will not be around to tend to them.”
“A solarium? You have a solarium in a place that affords so little light?”
“It’s… the light is artificial. Well, in a sense. The quartz lining the walls in the room are imbued with sun--oh, why do I even bother.” Isidor huffed, realizing too late that the necromancer had already set off to find the solarium he spoke of. “Stay out of the workshops!” He called after the necromancer, not trusting him for a minute to abide his boundaries.
“I am sure my brother had his reasons for helping you find me, Alster, but I know better than to believe they are entirely selfless--even if you think he is repaying a debt.” He went on, when it was just the two of them again. “I am sure he has other motives he isn’t telling you about. He has wanted me in his debt for quite some time, for my uncommon skill set… be wary. Always be wary.”
At Isidor’s mention of an older, distinguished Rigas visiting Nairit some years ago, Alster did not register any surprise by the news. Instead, he nodded, confirming the truth of the Master Alchemist’s statement. “Aside from diplomatic missions, my father was, above all, an errand boy for the Rigas Head at the time, Lord Adalfieri. I suppose this task was too sensitive to entrust to even his most loyal of subjects as we’ve not heard of these secret meetings with your former mentor. But considering Lord Adalfieri’s questionable objectives, I wouldn’t put it past him to try and secure an ally well-versed in alchemy, in exchange for handing information about longevity and immortality. It’s as you’ve said, though; our longevity is linked to the sacrifices made by Rigel Rigas, our founder; thousands of years ago, he sacrificed his immortal life to provide those linked by his blood to enjoy a longer lifespan, so we could hone and perfect our magical pursuits. None of us are born with an elongated life; we gain it through ritual, by way of an ancient spell-form written by Rigel, himself. I alone have access to that spell-form, and can gift extended years to people who are not of Rigas blood. My wife, for example; she’s an outsider. Not a Rigas. But through her loyalty and heroism, she was welcomed to the family as an honorary member.” And she’ll never see those years with me...if we can’t save her. He bit on his tongue, banishing the thought with a punishing nip.
“I know it’s not an answer to immortality, and it is a flagrantly unscientific solution to unlocking everlasting life; that it is merely chance-based, and reliant on a demigod to supply. But by helping me, Isidor, I can gift you with the long years of a Rigas, in appreciation for your work and what you’ve done for my family. A longer lifespan, at the very least, will give you more time to research the mysteries within alchemy, that you may one day begin to solve.” It was a promise he could not technically make, but he’d bucked the convention before, with regards to the Rigas council. They were by and far agreeable, and ultimately forgiving of his trespasses, but he believed the reason was, in part, due to fear. They’d seen him assimilate with the Serpent in Braighdath; they witnessed his defeat of the same Serpent in Stella D’Mare. He possessed magic greater than his predecessors, and could wield celestial and chthonic magic in each hand. Several times, they had motioned for his death, back when they could control him with guilt and fuel the flames of his self-loathing. Ultimately, he had broken out of his own shackles and risen to the much more adjusted person of today. And while he did not want to demean his own accomplishments, he would not have been successful, if not for Elespeth.
Perhaps it rode too close against his current thought patterns, but Alster flinched at Isidor’s enthusiastic declaration of his wife’s dire condition. It was a short-lived reaction, though, and he did not take what the Master Alchemist said as a personal affront to him or to Elespeth. At the man’s hurried explanations of clarity, Alster shook his head, electing for a small, “no-harm-done” smile. The man lacked the social graces to convey his points with tact or filter, but it did not offend one such as Alster, who had shared in many of his idiosyncrasies, not so long ago. “I understand you, Isidor. And you’re right, that is good news. She does not have a congenital heart condition; our blood bond gives me insights about the specifics of her genetic make-up. That’s how I’m able to confirm that her current disease stems from an external factor and not from a hidden, hereditary pre-existing condition that the stimulant drug exacerbated to the forefront. The news couldn’t be more hopeful, really.” Especially when compared to the alternative. With a congenital defect of the heart, the situation would appear dangerously bleak. If presented with the chance to save her life, of course he’d always take it, however slim, but would he be as eager to dabble in the so-called ‘forbidden arts’, knowing he’d be fundamentally changing her entire being, her existence? Not Elespeth. Not my Elespeth....
And could it still happen, even with the far more optimistic prognosis of his wife’s condition under their collective expertise? Anything was possible, but it did him no favors to think the worst, let alone to speak the worst. So he did not entertain the idea at all, as evidenced by his silence regarding the more worrying and controversial aspects of Elespeth’s upcoming surgery.
“Yes, that makes sense,” he leaned forward in his chair, rapt with agreement and transfixed to full attention, lapping up Isidor’s every word on the subject. “My colleague, a Clematis healer, who is currently staying in Galeyn, has expressed similar sentiments on the invasiveness of magic as a whole. Though he possesses healing magic of his own, he’s loathe to use it unless in situations that call for immediacy. His specialty lies in epidemiology. In his field research, he has noted a correlation between sick patients and the over-abuse of magic in treatment. They are more likely to succumb to their symptoms and die, as a whole--even those with a more passive acceptance to invasive magic-techniques. Relatedly, my body could not handle the awakened surplus of magical energy running rampant through me and shut down, as a result. That is what happened to my arm,” the prosthetic arm rested on the table like a lump of steel taken from a suit of armor, an outlier of an article among the books and kitchen supplies, if not for the fact that it was grafted onto his skin. “It dissolved, unable to handle the hum of radiant energy that burst through my magical channels like a broken dam. Now, I’m forced to borrow stamina from an outside entity as my only means to stay alive. A pact with a beast which has damned me all my life--the universe has a disturbing sense of humor.” A rueful smile twitched on his face. “Elespeth acted as a temporary receptacle of my magic, before--out of necessity. Though it affected her dearly, I’ve also noticed that her body is more willing to accept my magic, whether through our blood bond or from other factors involving star connections and interwoven destinies--wherever you choose to prescribe your beliefs. Alas, she is too weak to accept my magical aid in any capacity. Sometimes, I can’t help but wonder...if continued magical stress upon her body contributed, over time, to the weakening of her heart. In other words...I may be to blame.”
It was a concern he worried about to the point of physical illness, during the long days and insomnia-driven nights on his travels from Galeyn to Nairit. I pushed her too far. I’m a contributing factor. If she dies...it really will be because I killed her…
“All blame aside,” he hadn’t realized he’d been clutching his head until he removed his flesh and blood hand from his clammy brow and observed the perspiration glistening off his fingertips, “we already have a willing donor for her operation.” The same hand drifted to his chest. “We will use my heart. By the nature of the blood I share with my wife, we are in many ways compatible with each other. Blood-magic is ancient and binding, mainly implemented in rituals involving oaths, in family matters, or in handfasts, and its success derives from the strength of will between participants. I cannot break down the phenomenon in scientific terms, but I am able to sketch out some specifics of my unique bond with my wife. The bond has provided us a link, both physical and spiritual. I always know where she is; I can feel her pain, sense her emotional distress, hear her heart as it pumps alongside my own. We share dreams and sometimes, a telepathic connection. She is an extension of me, and I, her. It is rather,” a self-conscious blush colored his cheeks, “a mawkish explanation, and a little overwrought, I realize, but if I could objectify the experience a little more, I’d liken it to a symbiotic relationship; a mutualistic one, in which we both benefit from each other. Unfortunately, this also means that if one falls, the other is quick to follow. I can’t confirm nor deny if Elespeth’s death would kill me; if the blood bond recognizes us as two halves of the same whole, then I will founder, as well. But if I can snap free of the pull of our bond, she will, no doubt, take essential parts of myself down with her, and that’s akin to a death. If the theories presented in this book have merit,” he tapped on the cover of the book written in Old Nairtian, “then the soul resides in the heart. And if our hearts are already linked, if our veins and arteries flow through each other and are connected in spite of great distances, then my soul, too, will die. Therefore, you will find no other heart more compatible than my own. I’m willing to accept any and all risks, so long as there’s a high degree of success that both of us will make it through alive. It can’t be guaranteed, I know, but as long as the percentage is stacked in our favor, then I will have hope it can be done, Isidor.”
He almost startled out of his seat when the pot hissed and raged upon the stovetop with all the ferocity of a cavalryman at full charge. After ensuring that Isidor didn’t need any help preparing breakfast (which was already wafting a smokey, overcooked haze around the kitchen), he calmed into a relaxed position on his chair. “We’ve anticipated your need for storage, Isidor, so I’ve taken the liberty to borrow a caravan from a friend of mine. It has more than enough room for your personal effects and the essentials from your workshops,” he said, showing no offense to the Master Alchemist’s deflated reaction to the news. When paired off with uncertainty and the potential to encounter danger, Isidor’s tower must have been looking mighty cozy to him. It was far easier to stagnate in familiarity than flourish in adversity, after all. Better to show patience towards the alchemist, a trait he’d almost depleted during his slog of a journey with Vitali in tow. “Don’t you worry about the necromancer, either. I’m going to put him to work. He’s shown he’s beyond capable of performing tasks unaided by his sight. He was the one to insist he drive the majority of the way to Nairit, so since he’s eager to be helpful, might as well give him more to do.”
When the bespectacled man’s eyes drifted to the hunk of steel still perched in its same position on the table, Alster complied in his curiosity and raised the prosthesis towards him to inspect. His own eyes caught a comparable curiosity, in the form of the elaborate scrawl of scar tissue which formed an unfamiliar set of runes on Isidor’s hands. “You would be correct, Isidor. It’s not very comfortable at all.” To further elucidate just how uncomfortable his arm was, Alster lifted the sleeve of his tunic, exposing the raw ring of inflamed flesh that crowned the ports where steel connected to organic tissue. “It’s interfered with my balance on many occasions. I’m not fleet of foot or very sprightly; not that I ever was, prior to my operation, but it does put a damper on performing rote tasks with any sense of ease. But that’s not the worst of it. To say that it’s painful is an egregious underestimation. It’s agonizing. On bad days, unbearable, to the point where I question why I consented to the operation at all. But largely, I’m grateful for its existence, and the people who crafted it for me. No sense of touch, or pressure. Makes it nigh difficult to grab things, or to determine my grip strength. As for temperature--I am able to warm it with magic, but I have to be careful, lest it overheats. The summer sun has not been kind to it, I will say. My arm was designed by a Mollengardian healer, whose outfitted artificial arms for soldiers on the field. But it was smithed by Glaucus Rigas, a metallurgist and a scholar. And,” he nodded, enthusiasm lighting up his face, “you’re absolutely right about its composition; there should be trace amounts of iron and nickel, as well; he used pulverized pieces of a meteorite for the cast, as a built-in amplifier for my celestial magic. I’m sure he’d be eager to speak with you, Isidor. For someone who almost exclusively works with metal, your ability to detect the make up of the compounds and elements that comprise an object would be a godsend to him. Are you able to do this with every type of material, or is it exclusive to metals and ores?”
At Vitali’s arrival, Alster didn’t jump out of his seat as he did when the pot thrummed against the stovetop; exclusive travel with the necromancer alerted him to his characteristics, including stealth and his penchant to show up unannounced. “Good morning, Vitali,” Alster, turning in his seat, greeted the necromancer with a politesse that implied nothing but good manners. “I’m glad the blindfold has been helpful to you. Though I must add,” he jerked his head to the pot of overcooked oats, “without the ‘can’t-fail’ ingredients of Galeyn’s fresh produce flavoring your farmhouse meals, your cooking is as unremarkable as they come. If Isidor were to check the contents of your dishes, he’d find that you’re compensating for something.”
Fortunately, their encounter with the contrary necromancer was short-lived, and within minutes after entering the kitchen, he was already on his way to the solarium, which, along with Vitali, piqued Alster’s own interest. “Does the quartz lining of the solarium act as a mirror panel that stores and captures sunlight? I’d like to see that, myself. Once Vitali is done with his run of the place, first. Speaking of,” he sighed and rose to his feet, stretching his legs as he approached the pot of oats, “I don’t expect you to celebrate a man who has nothing but disrespect and ulterior motives to his name. Heavens know me and him have a tenuous understanding, and even so, it’s strained. But I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that he has demonstrated selfless behavior, before--in particular to one of my own. Tivia Rigas.”
Locating the correct cabinets, he pulled out two wooden bowls, two spoons, and a ladle for the oats. “The farmhouse I mentioned was in fact a place where he has been living, on the outskirts of Galeyn, for the better part of half a year, with Tivia. They have a relationship built on respect and trust for each other--and I have seen him extend that same level of caring and respect to your half-sister, Teselin.” After stirring the oats, he ladled the contents of the pot into the two bowls, and offered one to Isidor. “He was not exaggerating, either, when he mentioned playing an indispensable role in reviving an Eyraillian prince, which he did at the behest of Tivia--and he did not ask for recompense of any sort. Does this exonerate Vitali of his past sins and current foibles?” He shook his head. “Not at all. I haven’t yet forgiven him for the curse he placed on me, and that was over a year ago. Incidentally, that was our first meeting. First impressions are hard to kill,” he muttered. “I only say this for the sake of clarity. Vitali may have other motives, but he knows better than to betray me. Or,” he remedied, “Tivia. Or Teselin. Rest assured, Isidor. I won’t let him touch you. And it’s not your debt. If anything, it’s my debt.”
