by Jeffrey Hall
“A position once coveted by the Scarred if I remember correctly. Your own Dorja used to be the king’s preferred tool, but I’m afraid he’s no use for bones anymore.”
Requiem flinched, recalling the death of his mentor, one of the original Scarred.
“Besides, he knows above all else that a beast needs to be fed. If not, it goes hunting.” Glassius tapped the blade on his hip.
Requiem smiled. “And what does a hungry Glassius look like? Cutting off the pricks of miscreants for fun?”
Glassius shook his head. “Fighting in the stone pits. Tracking alothen and sleepers in the Bright Forest. There’s still fun to be had after the Shamble after all.”
“Sasha must be thrilled.”
“Oh, yes. Thrilled is an understatement.” He winked. “I find she has a certain tooth for a man with excitement. Excitement, but one who can still come back and tuck her in at night.”
Bile rose in the back of Requiem’s throat. The soldier holding his blade took a step back, causing the scars to scream louder.
“What you gonna do then? Slit my throat? Get on with it!”
He’d rather his death be hurried than listen to another second of the man’s drivel.
Glassius withdrew his blade in a flash and slashed down at Requiem’s neck. It pierced his skin, but cut no deeper than to draw blood, a substance he felt running down him like tears.
“You would like that, wouldn’t you?”
Requiem just stared at him, daring him to move the blade an inch more and finish it. Instead, the blade fell to the rope around his chest, and he cut it away.
“Give him his sword back.”
The soldier holding it looked at him, puzzled.
“You heard me.”
The soldier stumbled forward and threw the blade into Requiem’s lap. Immediately the strain he felt subsided even if the nausea didn’t.
Glassius took his sword away from him and turned his back to Requiem, letting his cape flutter in Requiem’s face like a slap.
“Follow me,” was all he said, walking away without looking back, daring Requiem to try something.
He hated the man, but he had to respect his bold stupidity.
Wobbly, Requiem stood, steadying himself on the tree he’d been tied to. The soldiers just kept staring at him.
“I can dance if you want?” said Requiem, but not a single one of their faces moved.
“Requiem,” said Glassius, stopping just ahead to wait for him.
Requiem hurried to meet him just like a pup.
“They’re afraid of you,” said Glassius as he continued walking down the line of wagons.
Requiem kept his eyes towards the end of the train, where he continued to see movement, people in platemail, others in the blue royal robes of Glimmer. Was she really here?
“If they knew there was one of the Scarred amongst the fray I doubt any of them would have charged,” said Glassius.
They were coming closer. Requiem’s heart was booming in his chest. They passed a tree with a hooded man tied to it and a pair of guards watching over him. Requiem could tell by the captured man’s garb it was one of the bandits from Proth’s Prodigy. The soldiers’ eyes were turned to Requiem as he passed. Glassius kept talking, impervious to the sight beside them.
“I told them they were fools. I told them that you were nothing to worry about, but a blunted blade. A weapon used too many times. One that hasn’t been sharpened by a thing like war or a proper battle in some time. A lost wanderer. A relic.”
Requiem’s attention turned back to the end of the caravan, and sweat accumulated on his brow as he waited for his feet to take him past the trees and the wagons that blocked his view, until at last they rounded the last cart, and there, in the middle of the road, sewing up the wound on a Bothane soldier’s arm like she had done for countless miners in Silver Hole, was Sasha.
His former wife.
He saw her hair first, long and chocolate just like a branch of the trees that surrounded them. Her sleeves were rolled up and her hands were red with blood, like she had just gotten done gutting the pig she had roasted for him once upon a time, when they had settled in Glimmer and the money Requiem earned afforded them such a luxury. He could only see the side of her face, but could still see the small lines that had accumulated there, new indentations like tally marks used to indicate the time since he had seen her.
She didn’t notice him until Garp spoke up from nearby.
“There he is, the thief who took my hand, but still wanted more.”
Requiem glanced to see Garp and Grey bound together and seated. When he looked back again Sasha had turned around to see him fully.
There was the woman he once thought about on the road, during his missions, the one he’d pictured as the years rolled on and he imagined what a lifetime together would look like on them.
The weathering of her face. The sag of her lips. The tinge of white that found the front of her hair, just like it had found his.
All signs of what time had done. Time, or the passing of their son.
She just stared at him with those mint green eyes, no expression, no smile or frown to hint at how she felt seeing him again.
Only Glassius’s hand on his shoulder saved him from her gaze.
“This way.” He pointed them into a white-painted wagon whose interior was upholstered with a fabric that looked as soft as fur. There were two cushioned seats on either side. Glassius ascended the steps and sat, waiting comfortably for Requiem to join him.
Requiem did, but not before stealing a glance at Sasha. Their eyes stayed locked on each other until Glassius closed the wagon door.
“How does seeing her again make you feel?” said Glassius, leaning in as if he were a healer trying to mend his mind.
“What do you want, Oric?” said Requiem. His head was pounding, and it took all his effort not to put the contents of his stomach on Glassius’s boots.
Glassius sat back, the brown cushion threatening to tear from the sharpness of his platemail. “That stone is a cheat, you know. I’ve quarreled for dozens of years to become the warrior I am, put in a lake’s worth of sweat and blood so that others would look to me as their champion, as their leader. Yet you stumble across a single stone, a lone growth deep in the belly of our land, and you are anointed as a savior. To powers beyond comprehension because of one lucky swing of a pickaxe.”
“You think I think otherwise?” said Requiem.
“I think you’ve long held yourself higher than you actually are.”
“You’ve been listening to Sasha for too long.”
Glassius folded his arms and stretched out his legs. “But try as I may to refute your place in this and your ability, it is easy to see that you have your uses.”
“Would you get to the point?”
“It’s only by luck that you fell into my hands, and what type of warrior would I be if I did not take advantage of such an opportunity?”
Requiem shook his head. He was just about to tell Glassius to play in the Abyss when the commander blurted out what he wanted.
“I want your help.”
“To the Abyss with you,” said Requiem, unappreciative of his joke.
“I’m serious.” Glassius’s face was straight. “We didn’t come here just to ensure that King Larken’s tithe was received. A few of us were sent as emissaries, to discuss the Elder’s troubles with keeping on track with what he owes.”
“You mean you get to be the ball thrown at the other brother during their spat again?”
“That’s what we all are, Requiem. You should have realized that by now.”
“What do you want from me? Diplomacy has never been one of my strong suits. Especially with the reputation Proth has given me and my stone here.”
“I’m not asking for your voice. I’m asking for your ability. I need you to poke around the keep. Find out why the discrepancies.”
It was Requiem’s turn to lean back.
“Don’t you have sp
ies for that type of work?”
Glassius looked to either side and held up his hands. “Where?”
“Exactly. They’re probably hidden already, looking at things they ain’t supposed to.”
“We have spies, but none that could penetrate the Elder’s secrets like one of the Scarred.”
Requiem chewed his lower lip. “I ain’t your man.”
“But you are, though.”
“Says who?”
“Says the fact that you are a caught criminal who could rot in a cell for the rest of your life. Murder. Theft. High crimes.”
“Didn’t murder anyone besides one of the few who attacked your caravan, but doubt you’ll hear that. So tie me up and deliver me then. Don’t sound so bad,” he said. He’d escape before they could get him anywhere. He’d find a way to meet the Abyss.
But the girl… he found himself thinking, and swallowed the thought, hoping the commander wouldn’t call his bluff.
To his surprise, Glassius pushed open the wagon doors. “Oh, Sasha.”
She had moved on to washing a bloody rag in a nearby bucket.
“What are you doing?” said Requiem.
But Glassius ignored him. “Won’t you come here? Requiem has something he would like to say to you.”
“What? No I don’t.” Requiem was panicking again, he could feel his head pounding like someone was in his head whacking a drum.
“I ain’t got anything to say to him,” said Sasha, and hearing her voice again was disarming. She sounded different than the voice he always recounted in his head when he replayed their times together and his failures.
Glassius’s face toughened. “I’m not asking you, my dear. I’m ordering you, as your commander.”
Sasha’s frown fell away as she straightened out. “Yes, Commander.”
“You crazy?” said Requiem. “I ain’t got nothing to say to her.”
“You’ll figure something out.” Glassius slipped out of the wagon and offered his hand to Sasha as she approached. She took it and allowed herself to be led up the steps.
“I’ll allow you some privacy,” said Glassius and he closed the doors just as Sasha was turning around.
“Wait!” she shouted like she was about to be fed to a pack of hounds.
She knocked on the door, but there was no response.
“He’s some man, eh?”
Sasha sat down, refusing to look at him. “What do you want?”
“Nothing. It was him that set this up.”
“Are you calling Oric a liar?”
“One of many things I’m calling him.”
She met his eyes. So close to her, he could recall the countless times he had spent facing them, after long days beneath the ground, where the only light he’d see for the entire day was from a single glimmer stone. Those eyes were like suns at night, when he’d curl into their bed and his body would ache so badly that he thought he might cry. Those eyes were his saviors, once upon a time.
Now they terrified him.
“He’s a great man and an even greater partner. Is that why you called me in here? To ridicule him? To try to tear him down before me?”
Requiem shook his head. “You already made your choice. I’m not trying to fix that.”
Her fingers curled into her robe as she tightened her hands into fists. “You gave me an easy choice to make.”
“This ain’t all me. You liked the weight we were getting from the stone.” Requiem tapped the hilt of Ruse. “The dresses. The tableware. The manse. The invitations to dine with the king and his people.”
“And what woman wouldn’t when she’s grown up beneath the dirt, same as her mother, same as her mother’s mother? It was fun for a while, but it was only shale. And I told you that.”
Requiem folded his arms. “You did, and I felt the same way, but what would you have had me do? He needed care. He needed help, and help was expensive.”
“The only help he ever needed was the hand of his father.”
“And what could I have done, Sasha? I was no healer. Still ain’t. Only thing I’ve ever been good at is swinging a pickaxe, and then a sword. That’s you.”
“Never asked you to be more than you were. Just wanted you to be there.”
“And do what? Sit? That was going to get us nowhere and you know it. So stop hiding behind our son’s death as the reason you left me and be honest for once.”
“Honest?” she said, the rage in her voice barely controlled.
“Be honest you left for the man standing outside this wagon and what he could offer you. A way out. A place in the king’s court. A ladder to officially climb out of the mines once and for all.”
Sasha just stared, her knuckles so clear beneath her skin, Requiem thought they might sneak through. “Oric,” she said at last.
“Yes, my dear?” Oric’s voice came muffled through the wagon doors.
“He’s said what he needed to say.”
The wagon swung open. Glassius stood there smiling. Sasha rolled up her sleeves and stormed out, but not before whispering to her new husband. “Next time don’t interrupt me with such ridiculousness.”
“Order received,” said Glassius.
Sasha left, and as she did, he felt his head hurting worse as the scent of her was pulled away from him again, and her essence, a thing like the valuable stones that lay beneath their feet, could be felt. Could be treasured and absorbed.
His blood was up from their argument, but it was already losing its energy, its potency sapped with her going… a thing he should have been used to, a thing he thought he never would be.
Glassius climbed into the wagon and closed the doors again. But Requiem kept staring in the direction she was before the view of her was taken away from him.
“Pleasant as always,” said Glassius.
“Why? Why’d you do that?”
“So you’d remember,” said Glassius. “So that when you do what I ask you know what you’re risking.”
Requiem just kept staring, impervious to his voice.
“If you disobey me, then it’s Sasha who will pay the price.”
“But she’s your wife,” said Requiem.
“She is, and I love her dearly. But my first love is the city of Glimmer, and anything that stands between it and safety is a wall that must be torn down. No matter how painful that wall is to break.”
“You think I care what happens to her?”
Glassius stood. “Requiem, my mutilated man, I’ve never been more sure of anything else in my life.”
He pushed open the wagon door and walked down its steps, and she was nowhere to be seen, off to help someone else or to walk off their discussion, either way, gone like a phantom, like a ghost he would always be chasing.
“There he is again!” shouted Garp. “Let me go and I’ll whack him with my stump until he ain’t nothing left.”
“Glassius,” said Requiem before the commander could walk too far away. “I’ll do what you want, but I’ll need help.”
Chapter 13
“You think that will help?” said the shadows as Dash paced the small swath of space before the bars of her cell, her hands on her ears like they were a helmet that would protect her from the painful words assaulting her head.
“Shut up,” she pleaded, for what felt like the thousandth time down in the darkness of the dungeon.
“Pace. Hide your ears. We are everywhere. We will find you.”
“Shut up,” she whispered, walking faster. She noticed that when she spoke softer and turned quicker that sometimes the shadow’s words were lighter.
Or so at least she told herself.
“We are everything. The walls. The ground. The bars. Your hands. Your flesh. You.”
“Shut up!” she screamed so loud that she thought her throat might rip, pulling her hands from her ears, afraid that what the voice said was true.
But all the voice did was laugh its terrible laugh, a noise that told her it knew more about her, about the complexities of th
e world, and couldn’t wait to torture her with its knowledge.
She fled that laughter, like she had done a dozen times already since her sister had left her there, and lunged into the bars, forcing her hand through them to try and grab one of the two shards of black lens that hadn’t fallen through the nearby grate. A pair of shimmering baits just out of reach, as she grunted and contorted herself in every way to gift herself a few valuable inches of reach.
“So close. So very close. Keep trying,” said the voices.
She pressed herself so tightly against the metal that she thought her body might break. Her nails clawed into the earthen ground, breaking and fraying as she attempted to pull the floor towards her. The last of her nails on her right hand broke and she fell back, holding her hand in pain.
“Try again,” said the voices, laughing.
Instead, she sprung back to the bars and yelled, “Someone help me! Someone! Please!”
“We are here for you. We always will be,” said the voice. “Why not just listen?”
“Please!” she shouted, helplessly, not expecting there to be any response, but to her surprise, between the shadows’ continued laughter and the racket of her own screams, she heard footsteps coming from somewhere in the darkness.
“Chendra?” she said.
A figure emerged from down the hallway. It was broader than Chendra, taller too. It looked massive, in fact, but as it stepped into the light she saw that was partly due to the cape its owner had draped over his back.
She pulled her hands from the bars, suddenly embarrassed. “King Larken?”
The Elder himself stood in front of her on the other side of the bars. Bald and imposing with a chin as sharp as a blade and the renowned scar that ran jagged from his right ear over his cheek and into his lip, an old wound said to have been received from his younger brother during a childhood spat.
He stared at her with eyes so grey they matched the bars he looked at her through.
She blinked, unsure if this was some new level of hallucination that the lack of black lens was taking her to.
“I appreciate you still calling me your king, Dashinora.”
She was going to ask how he knew her name, but caught herself. She was surprised that Chendra had mentioned her at all.