Sul’s voice was calm, “I assume you remember the correct sequence?”
“Certainly,” Atiya reassured him and then she pressed the tip of the needle just under Sul’s eye socket, slid the length of heated metal under the bon,e and began burrowing upward. Sul gasped at the agony and heat. The needle met resistance briefly as it came into contact with bone. Atiya twisted the spike and applied more pressure. There was the soft crunch of bone and Sul jerked once before the instrument finished its trip through the man’s face, its tip now lodged behind his eye.
“How does it feel?” Atiya asked.
“It’s excruciating,” He informed her in a calm but strained voice, “Which means it is firmly lodged in the bone and not the brain itself. It will prevent any shards from tumbling backwards into my skull. You may proceed with extraction.”
“Yes, Sir,” Removing a small chisel and mallet from the blue flame, she gently tapped experimentally against each shard of iridescent glass in Sul’s eye socket. She felt one small piece near the center of where Sul’s pupil would be had he possessed eyes shift slightly causing her to nod once. Inserting the very corner of the chisel adjacent to the shard, she tapped it lightly with the mallet: once, twice, thrice and the shard fell free from its mounting.
“Tilt your head forward,” She instructed as she removed a small bowl made of obsidian that possessed several small grooves along the smooth, concave surface of its interior. There was a faint sound as a piece of glass, no bigger than a thumbnail fell from Sul’s face and landed in the bowl. It trailed a thick strand of viscous black ooze behind it, “Keep your head forward and let it drain.”
Sul gave a slight nod of his head to indicate he heard the instruction as Atiya brought the obsidian bowl to the brazier. Carefully removing a pair of tongs, she collected a single coal from the burning fire and placed it within the bowl. There was an angry hiss as drops of corrupted blood boiled away. When it was over, she took a small pair of tweezers and with exacting care, arranged the shard into a small groove perfectly shaped to accommodate it along the bottom of the bowl.
“One down,” Sul murmured softly, “Twenty-nine to go.”
After several hours, the deed was done. Atiya dabbed at an errant drop of black fluid near the corner of Sul’s eye socket and dropped the rag into the bucket on the floor, now heavy with a noxious tarlike substance: the extract that had been drained from Sul’s face and eyes.
Sul’s empty eye sockets looked cavernous in the blue light of the brazier. Atiya carefully maneuvered the last tiny shard into its allocated groove in the bowl. Every piece was accounted for.
“Now to purify,” Atiya commented tonelessly. Sul managed a wry smile.
“I’m familiar with the process thank you.”
Atiya gently placed the bowl into the roaring azure flames. Soon the bowl began to take on an eerie glow and the scent of ozone intensified.
Piece by searing piece, his eyes were reassembled and reinserted into his skull. When it was finished over an hour later, Atiya wrapped Sul’s eyes in clean linen, “How do you feel?” she asked.
“Better,” He got to his feet smoothly, “I believe I hear a celebration outside. Let’s see how our newest knights are acclimating.”
“You wish to study their interactions with the Legion under less stressful circumstances.”
“Exactly so.”
“Yes, Sir.”
.:*:.
Ceyrabeth could not remember the last time she had danced. And honestly, that was a pity because she loved it and was actually good at it- Carmilla had hated diplomatic functions, so Ceyrabeth had often acted in her stead.
She had lost Keiran to a grinning, hooting bevy of women early on but found no lack of willing partners to spin her around to the bright, pounding beat that the fiddler and drummer were currently putting out. When she paused, breathless, Maul slammed a mug of something into her hands.
“What is this?” She asked suspiciously.
“Does it matter?” He asked with a wink.
No, Ceyrabeth reflected. No, it didn't. She drained the mug, grimacing at the taste. It was alcohol, it was strong and it tasted like spit. “I'll have another.” She dropped the mug back into his hands and with his roar of a laugh ringing in her ears, she slammed back another.
She was cradling the same mug in her hands, sitting on the grassy side of a hill and watching the revelry when Sul found her, “It’s dwarven ale,” He informed her quietly.
“What?” She coughed again and rolled the taste of it around her mouth trying to banish it with her tongue, “Dwarves don’t drink alcohol.”
“Stone dwarves don’t drink as a rule, no. They can’t afford to have their senses addled when they are surrounded by things that want to kill them. But there are special occasions when they let down their guard and indulge in a little brewing. I managed to acquire a few casks of this after helping them with a crisis in the Iron Kingdom. They needed a good plan and good people to stabilize the region, and I could supply both.”
“You’ve been in the Iron Kingdom?” She nearly choked. Growing up she heard horror stories about that place: ‘Be good or the stone people will drag you underground’ had been popular with the parents of her neighborhood.
“Amongst other places,” He gestured to the revels, “The celebration is for you as well, Lieutenant.”
“Is it still Lieutenant?” She asked.
“Indeed. You earned your rank. I would not strip you of it.”
“That's kind. Thank you.” She gestured out to the swirling mass of happy people below. “As for the celebration…I was there for a bit. The hors d’oeuvres were tasty but this beer is awful. I guess it didn't pair well with a wounded heart.”
“Stronger alcohol is required for that I believe.”
She couldn’t repress a laugh, “Did you just make a joke?”
“A small one, perhaps,” His countenance shifted to something approaching sympathy, “Do you wish to discuss it further?”
“You already know too much about me, Captain.” She smiled wryly at him. “Never you mind. Unless you care to tell me why you baited me into telling my life's story when we both know you already knew it.” She waited for a beat, shrugged. “Eh, never mind. It doesn't matter tonight. Tonight, you made a loyal, brave-hearted, slightly stubborn young man perfectly happy and I guess I'd call that a win.” She looked up into his face for the first time and smiled a bit. “You're feeling better?”
“I am. Thank you”
“That's good. The screaming worried me. Mathias was furious, said if they'd take better care of you in the first place, you wouldn't have to go through that level of agony… He guessed every four weeks or so. That about right?”
“During periods of calm, yes. During periods of great emotional stress and turmoil such as I’ve experienced over the last few days, I require attention more frequently to keep my condition in check.”
“You mean, times like losing your temper and regenerating an elf's ears with bizarre magic?”
“For instance.”
Ceyrabeth plopped back on the grass, surveyed him for a moment. The alcohol had loosened her tonight, but more than that she felt a compulsion to say the words that were pressing on her tongue. Things could be said here in the soft blending of twilight and dusk that could never be spoken in the harsh, unforgiving light of day. “I'm so sorry for you. You're going to say I needn’t pity you, but I do. You're up here on this hill, always watching, so close to them,” She gestured toward the celebration, “but would you ever ask me to dance? Not that you'd want to, but could you even if you wanted? Maul didn't even ask, just galloped me away with that huge, splendid laugh of his, and I think that gives him a freedom you'll never have.”
There was silence for a long time and then, “You’re right,” Sul replied, “These are my people and though I am of them I can never be amongst them. That is the price of power,” He gestured with his head, “I lead these people, I command them, I direct them, I even punish t
hem when needed. Their lives and their deaths are in my hands and that is my responsibility. I treasure each and every one of them because they are my men, my Legion…and at any moment I may order one or ten or a hundred of them to their deaths because that’s what war demands.”
“And me? Would you order me to my death? Or Keiran? Evric?” They both already knew the answer to the question but she still felt like she needed to ask.
Another pregnant silence and then, “Yes, I would.”
“Of course…”
“And if given the opportunity…I would also ask you to dance.”
Ceyrabeth laughed aloud. “But you're much more likely to order me to my death?”
“Just so.”
So, he still felt. He would mourn her, aye, but he would also rejoice with her. With them. A commander who cared deeply for his people, against it all. Ceyrabeth felt something loosen in her very soul, like she had been living without air for too long and was suddenly able to take a deep breath.
“Enjoy the rest of your evening, Lieutenant,” He said and turned away. “Time with your old comrades grows short. You should make the most of it.”
“Thank you, Sir,” With a shrug she took a long pull of her drink, and this time the taste made her smile.
Chapter 7
Nightmares in Waking
‘Warfare is an exercise in deception and truth. To deceive the enemy and yet remain truthful with those who are loyal to you. Trust may be tested with deception but deception cannot be used to earn trust’. – A passage from ‘Victor Vinguardis’ (Way of Victory) translated from Daymorian. Author unknown. Currently banned by the Church of Imperius
Ceyrabeth turned and stretched, feeling a curious lack of tension in her muscles. The wind blew soft and warm against her bare skin, scented with salt from the sea and rosemary from the keep’s kitchen garden. “Beth,” Ceyrabeth turned toward the husky voice with a smile. Carmilla stood by the open window, blonde hair tossed by the fragrant breeze, not a stitch on her strong, fair form. Ceyrabeth propped herself up on her pillows and beckoned languorously with one finger. Carmilla came to her with a smile, willowy limbs swaying seductively…long fingers reached lovingly for Ceryabeth’s face…
Carmilla’s head split open like an overripe melon before transmogrifying into a ravenous set of jaws. A horrid chittering filled the air. Ceyrabeth realized belatedly that it was not her lover reaching for her, it was the creature. It was far too late to run, but she fought anyway, ripping off tentacles, gouging the thing’s eyes….
And she fell out of bed, flailing, for the fifth time in a week. She lay on the ground, thanking the Gods that it was a short drop, before pushing herself into a sitting position.
"Are you quite alright?"
Ceyrabeth looked up to see Pellinore standing in her doorway. "I did knock." He stated mildly.
"I believe it." Ceyrabeth got up, trying to retain a shred of dignity despite being clad only in her shortclothes. "Can I help you?"
"I have a note for you from the Captain." Pellinore handed her a small envelope. Ceyrabeth took it from him, read it, then read it again.
"Is he serious?"
"I've never known the Captain to waste words. It's a standard request to all new recruits, barring restrictions of religion or country of origin. Have you any such restrictions?"
"No." Ceyrabeth tried not to spit the word back at him. It wasn’t his fault the captain
was a...She banished the word from her head before it found its way to her tongue.
Pellinore nodded. "I thought you would like an escort. I'll be outside when you are ready."
The morning had dawned cold and gloomy as Pellinore led her across the camp to a small, open air stall. She could hear the singing before they even got near, the voice of a very young man- clear and sweet and trumpeting an extremely bawdy Ghen drinking song. A short, fat figure was hopping from one foot to the other in time to the music around a chair that appeared to be on wheels. “Don’t worry. Bayard’s harmless even if he is a little…strange.” He felt compelled to reassure her.
“You don’t have to warn me of ‘strange’ in this place, Lieutenant Pellinore.”
“You’ve not seen us at our best,” Pellinore caught himself and thought for a moment, “Although, maybe the Captain would say that because you’ve seen our uniqueness, you have seen our best.”
“Yes,” Ceyrabeth replied frostily, “His calling dark magic to reshape my ears against my will felt very unique indeed.” It was good that it was a short walk to Bayard’s stall because it was a very silent one after that.
Pellinore hailed Bayard, who immediately stopped and theatrically whirled around. The little man, with many elaborate bows, gushed his joy to see Lieutenant Pellinore again and to finally meet the young lady that caused such a stir about camp, “Why, it is almost as good as being back at court!” He assured her with a wide grin.
Almost without knowing how it happened, Ceyrabeth found herself seated in the wheeled chair and Bayard was examining her hair with exclamations of delight. “Such shine! Such heft! Why, half this glorious mass alone would bring a king’s ransom in certain parts of the Ghenlands!”
“You sell…hair…in the Ghenlands?” Ceyrabeth asked with mild disgust. The Ghen were the people bordering Daymore to the north and were considered to be little more than heretics at best, savages at worst.
“But of course, Madame! You do not think we magic our beautiful wigs from nothing, do you?”
“The majority of it must go. Captain’s orders. It’s up to Sir Ceyrabeth what’s done with it after that,” The lieutenant informed him.
“It’s all yours.” She waved the consideration away. Bayard’s face lit like a lamp.
“You are a paragon and a saint, to warm a man’s heart as you do with your golden words and generosity. But, ah! I have thought of a small thing,” The man’s fingers rapidly braided a thin strand about the width of Ceryrabeth’s finger. He tied it off at the end then snip! And he handed the length to her. “A souvenir. Now….here we go!” With a slice of his shears, a waterfall of ruddy gold fell to the floor. It didn’t take long before Beth was completely shorn, the back of her head a mass of artful spikes and the front just brushing her jaw. “Voila! You are a work of art in any civilized capitol in the world.”
She glanced in the mirror he held out to her to be polite, but stopped cold when she saw the face looking back at her. The face of an elf. A face she had never seen before. She touched trembling fingers to her reflection and thought how utterly strange it was that she would not recognize herself. Oh gods, save me.
She had to focus on something else and as she saw Pellinore seated at the small table behind her busily scribbling away, an idea formed in her head. “May I?”
Pellinore glanced at her, surprised to hear her voice was calm, even pleasant. “By all means.” He handed her a featherless quill and piece of parchment with some ink.
Ceyrabeth scribbled a brief note on the parchment and folded it. “Could you make sure Captain Sul gets this? I’d do it myself, but frankly if I never saw him again it would be too soon.”
“Yes yes, you go Lieutenant and I will escort the young lady safely home!” Bayard stepped between them with another flourishing bow and offered his arm to Ceyrabeth. She took it, though the difference in their heights almost made her have to bend to do so, and the last Pellinore saw of them they were heading toward the mess tents with Bayard talking a mile a minute.
He turned away toward where he knew the Captain had laired and though he was loath to disturb him, he knew he would want to know that his orders had been followed.
Atiya answered his gentle knock on the outside post of the tent, thanked him for the information and took the note from him. She ducked back inside and relayed the information to Sul. “Pellinore says she took it with good grace. Bayard was unmolested in any way.”
“Unsurprising. She is of a disciplined nature,” Sul replied non-committedly, “Mostly.”
�
��Yes, and right now she has turned that disciplined nature against you.”
“Sir Ceyrabeth will be tended to in time, but your concern is noted Atiya and appreciated.” He indicated the note. “That is mine, I imagine.”
“Yes. I can dispose of it if you’d prefer.” Atiya offered.
“Your vigilance is commendable….” Sul’s tone was light and only slightly sardonic, “…but unnecessary in this instance. I have never shied away from unpleasant words.” In reply, she handed the packet to him. It took just a fold or two to open; a long braid glimmered red-gold in the candlelight as it coiled around two simple words:
Calling 12:1.
He permitted himself a mirthless chuckle, “Quoting scripture from a god she never followed,” He folded the letter up, “Still, a clever choice.”
Atiya picked up the paper and examined the slanting writing. “’Calling 12:1?”
“I believe the line that is meant to be significant in this case is ‘I fear not the Legion, though they rise and set themselves against me.”
“Ah.” Atiya nodded understanding. “It seems Sir Ceyrabeth likes to have the last word.”
“She is welcome to it,” He replied tossing the letter into the brazier, “The last word and the final word are not always one-in-the-same.”
“As you say, Sir.”
.::.
“You’re going to tear it.”
Ceyrabeth glared at Keiran, but she did stop tugging at the hem of her new uniform. The high-collared shirt with its tracings of silver was comfortable but all she could see was Quinlan’s face when he saw her wearing it. And that time was coming soon. Quin and the others were to be released tomorrow morning. She had already worked out the details of transportation and provisions for each man with Lieutenant Pellinore. She had told Tregan, Mathias, and Corellan, leaving Quin for last.
“I can do it, Beth.”
“What?” She realized that she hadn’t heard a word Keiran had said.
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