“No offense, Leomin,” Aaron said, “but I don’t get it.”
The Parnen grinned, “Nor would I expect you to, Mr. Envelar, for you are not Parnen. The same way that I do not understand the lighting of candles and the unified reciting of chants in your own religious establishments. As if the gods cannot hear us unless we are loud, cannot see us unless we guide their eyes to a beacon.”
Aaron considered that then shrugged, “Okay, fair enough. Still, there must be a lot of only children, right? I mean, herbs or not, there are plenty of husbands whose wives refuse to take them to bed for days or weeks, sometimes years at a time. I’ve got to think its common enough.”
“Not as common you might think,” Leomin said. “You see, Aaron, among my people, a wife and a husband are not only beholden to the Fanea, but also to each other. A wife would not even consider begrudging a man’s affections, as he would not consider begrudging hers. It would be looked at with much the same outrage as incest is in your country.”
“Ah,” Aaron said, “Well. I know some men that might just be moving to Abalan, if they heard you say as much.”
Leomin grinned, “Yes, but the truth is that only children are very rare among my people. I myself was the only single child in my village. The holy women say that the gods blessed my people with great fertility, one not bestowed upon any other race of men as we are the chosen, the only ones given any chance of repaying their Fanea. It is not uncommon, among my people, to see families with eight or nine children, if not more.”
“Must be crowded,” Aaron said. “Anyway, do you believe all that—that your people are chosen?”
Leomin grinned, “I believe that, as you say, my people are a quiet, reserved race and not given to spending their time on idle chatter. This, then, frees up their time for more … shall we say, physical endeavors.”
“Not big talkers, yeah. I’d heard that,” Aaron said, “so what happened to you?”
Leomin took a moment, thinking. Finally, “As I told you, I was the only single child of my village but not just my village, of all the surrounding ones as well and all the ones that surrounded those.” He hesitated, rubbing a hand at his chin in thought. “I’m sorry, Mr. Envelar, but these truths are ones I have never shared with another—not even Balen. I find it difficult in the telling and, in truth, I do not know where to begin.”
“That’s easy,” Aaron said, “you begin at the beginning.”
Leomin nodded, “Let us say, then, that for as long as the history of my people has been recorded, we have held in trust a certain … truth. A certain power. One that, it is believed, was given to us that we might protect it. A thing which was entrusted into our care, it is said, by great Daonin herself, the Goddess of life and birth. A thing which my people believe, if possessed by the wrong person, could undo the fabric of existence itself, creating wars and strife until the world itself bled and burned and died.”
“Sounds like a pain in the ass to me.”
Leomin laughed, “As it did to me, too, at my first hearing of it, but let us leave that for now. Know, then, that this power was one entrusted into only the most holy of us and, in my culture, there is none holier than a child. It is believed that any man or woman of adult age who tried to bear this thing would be twisted and warped by the power it contained, the person they were burned to ashes and so much dust, and in their place would grow a monster with limitless power. The power to break the world.”
“Damn,” Aaron said. “Not exactly big on bed time stories your people.”
“Not as much,” Leomin agreed. “Though these things, these truths are taught to children from birth, so that all might know the danger and the honor of being Parnen.”
“So what does this have to do with you?”
Leomin nodded, “As I said, there is none holier in the eyes of my people than a child and among them none more blessed than an only child of a wedded union. Such a child, it is believed, is the only one who might be given this thing, this power, and not be destroyed by it. Such a child is taken from his or her home at a young age to live under the tutelage of the holiest women, of those said to be the most blessed by the gods. Under them and among them. The child is not allowed any contact with his parents or the people he once knew, for he is chosen among all the chosen and therefore not considered to be, strictly speaking, human. Such a one as this, it is believed, cannot have his or her time squandered by such menial things as family and friends. They are, instead, given lives devoted to worship of the gods and to sit in prayer and worship and the rituals of it. Precautions which—it is believed—act as a shield against the power which will always try to corrupt and stain their souls.”
Aaron let out a deep breath as he began to understand. “And you were such a child.”
“So I was,” Leomin said, and there was no mistaking the pain in the Parnen's voice. “For five years, I lived with my parents, Mr. Envelar. Five years with no brothers or sister—the time which my people believe a child is rightfully considered a single birth. Then I was taken by strange women that I did not know or understand to a place that I did not really belong to and that would never really belong to me. Among people who did not look at me as a person but as a vessel. A cup to be filled until rust and wear took their toll then discarded so that another might fill its place.”
There was bitterness in the man’s voice, something that Aaron had never heard from the Parnen, and he was taken aback by it. “But … your parents,” he said, “surely….”
“My parents,” Leomin said, “did what any good Parnen does. Stand by and stay quiet. The truth, Mr. Envelar, is that I do not know them, and they do not know me. I cannot tell you even if they still live and, if they did, I would not know them upon meeting them. All I have are a few memories—the sound of my mother singing a lullaby of my people, her face blurred and faded with time in the memory like a letter looked at too often, until it is smudged and illegible.”
Through his bond with Co, Aaron felt more than heard the Parnen’s words, felt them as if he’d lived them himself. He saw himself dragged away from his parents, pulled into a world of prim and proper women, women who spent their days with him not in love but in duty. Devoting hours to examining and inspecting him the way a jeweler might some precious stone, searching for any weakness or flaw that might spread and corrupt the gem. He felt their words of scorn with each mistake he made, felt their silent displeasure as they watched him, believing him to not be taking his duty seriously enough, no matter how serious he took it, believing him to be ungrateful when the truth was he had nothing to be grateful for.
He could hear Co’s voice, so soft as to be almost nothing, as she wept in his mind. What such a thing would do to a man, to a child, Aaron couldn’t imagine. He cleared his throat finally, “I’m sorry, Leomin. It must have been terrible.”
The Parnen turned, meeting his eyes in the darkness. “Yes,” he said after several moments, “I believe you do know, Mr. Envelar. Still, it is not all so bad. There are many among my people—nearly all, in truth—who would have found it a great honor for their child to be chosen. It is a thing done only once a generation.”
“Nearly all thought it a great honor,” Aaron echoed, “sure. Except, maybe, the children.”
Leomin nodded, “So you have hit the truth of it, Mr. Envelar. As accurate in your understanding as you are with that blade you carry. To be an only child among my people is a blessing, and it is a curse. But a curse that’s existence no child may ever speak, even to each other. Even when they are alone. For there are always those watching, in my country, wounding and drawing blood with their good intentions. “
He hesitated for a moment, and out of the corner of his gaze, Aaron saw the Parnen wiping at his eyes. “Still, I do not ask for pity, Mr. Envelar, nor do I want it. It was not all bad, and what bad there was came not from malice or hate, for my people are not good with such things as that. Our darkness comes from a very different place. It is the shadow we create when we light a taper to fe
nd off the night. It is the words of kindness and love that remain unspoken for our silence. My most vivid memory of my childhood is of my mother and father standing at the door to our small hut, watching as the women took me away. “
Leomin laughed, but there was no humor in it, only bitterness and pain, “I remember crying out for my father to save me, to help me, but he did not, standing only in silence as I was taken. I know, at least, that he was a true Parnen then, though I cannot speak for times since. It is the only memory of him I have. My mother, though. I like to think that there was a certain … bend to her as she watched me taken away. Not because I wish her pain, for I do not, but because it gives me the hope that my leaving weighed heavily upon her, at least for a time. That she felt my leaving, you see. My people, Mr. Envelar, are not very good at feeling. Such showing of emotions is a thing for children and heathens, not the chosen people of the gods. I like, too, to think that there were tears standing unshed in her eyes, that day, but there is no way for me to know, not truly. For the memory is little more than the ghost of a ghost, and it has had a lifetime to grow sour and wrong within me. Still. I like to believe as much.” He paused, staring at the stars overhead, “She had such a sweet voice, my mother.”
Aaron felt his face heat with shame. For years, he had carried around a hate for the world, a hate for an existence that would see his mother and father killed when he was a child himself, would see him orphaned and sent to a house of children where the headmaster beat and tortured them. Still, he could not imagine having lived with what the Parnen had. His parents, at least, had been taken from him. They had not stood by and watched as he was marched away, had not let him become dead in their minds even while he lived. Such a thing, he thought, would break most men. “I know that you do not look for pity, Leomin,” Aaron said, “and so I will not give it.” He grabbed the man’s shoulder, “But I am sorry, and I know a fraction of what you feel. No child should have to lose their parents.”
Leomin nodded, letting out a ragged sigh. “Thank you, Mr. Envelar,” he said, wiping at his eyes again, “and forgive me my own emotions. It is an old wound, one that in forcing myself to forget, I foolishly thought healed. Instead, I find, that it has remained unchanged, as raw and sharp now as the day I received it. It’s a funny thing, isn’t it, that as I grew into a man, I thought I had left that bitterness, that anger behind me, but, in truth, it was there all along, within reach.”
“As funny as a funeral,” Aaron said, and for a time they were silent as Aaron sat and looked at the moon and the stars and listened to the sounds of a man—his friend—weeping beside him. He thought to comfort him, for through the bond he felt each fresh agony as Leomin ran the fingers of his mind over the wound, probing it, checking its size and texture and reliving each painful memory. But his was a voice that was not used to uttering words of comfort, did not know what they might be or what shape they might take. Besides, he thought that, for some things, the only comfort a man can offer is the comfort of companionship, for the other to know that their grief and their pain is not a thing they must stand up against alone, a load that—though it still must be carried—might be shared, if even only for a moment.
He did not know how much time passed but, after a while, the Parnen spoke, “I am sorry, Mr. Envelar, for putting all of my grief on you, as I have. I sought only to make you understand, to answer the question that you asked me.” He paused to sniff then continued, “you have heard, I suspect, of the man, Aaron Caltriss, of the wizard Boyce Kevlane and the Seven?”
“I have heard of them,” Aaron said, “though any child among my people could say as much. The story is a common one, grown old with the telling. And know, Leomin, that you have nothing for which you need apologize. A friend’s job is to help with such burdens.”
The Parnen smiled at that, “Friend, you say. Ah, you know not the kindness you do me, Mr. Envelar. But getting back to your original question, you have heard, then, of the Seven Virtues? Those beings created from the failed ritual of the ruler Caltriss and the wizard Kevlane?”
“I have.”
Leomin smiled, “You see, it’s funny, but that story, though common knowledge in your country of Telrear, is not known or spoken of in Abalan.” He laughed, “I think that many of the holy women of my country would be paralyzed in terror at the thought of six more such powers existing in the world as the one over which my own people held dominion. I only heard the story upon coming to your country and realized that it is looked at as a fiction, a tale that parents tell their children.”
“Yes,” Aaron said, “it is looked at as a fairy tale, it’s true. The Virtues as creatures of myth to cause wonder and delight in children, the barbarians monsters who will get them if they don’t go to sleep when they should.”
“Well then,” Leomin said, holding his hand out in front of him with the palm up, “let me introduce you to a creature of myth.” Several seconds passed and nothing happened. Finally, Leomin frowned and closed his eyes, “It is okay,” he said in a whisper, and it was clear that he was not talking to Aaron. “There is no danger here.”
After a moment, an orange orb flashed to light above the Parnen’s palm. It flittered and danced, and there was something about its appearance that struck Aaron as nervous. “Forgive me, but Aliandra is not used to her presence being displayed to others and believes it to be a bad idea.”
“Bad idea?” A voice demanded, and it seemed to Aaron as if it was a voice that might have belonged to a nineteen or twenty year old woman. A noble’s voice, if he’d ever heard one. “No, Leomin,” the voice continued, “a woman of station wearing trousers and a broad-brimmed hat, that is a bad idea. A holy woman in silks, that would be a bad idea. What you do now is not something so simple as ‘bad,’ nor is it even a simple lack of decorum or a youthful show of irresponsibility. What you do now is foolishness of the highest order. You are, you understand, confessing my existence—our bond—to a man who kills people for money.”
“Well,” Aaron said, deciding that maybe Co wasn’t so bad after all, “the people I don’t like anyway. The others I only rob and maim, if I can help it. Anyway, I haven’t killed anybody for money in a while.”
The glowing ball of orange light somehow contrived to snort, a trick that Aaron didn’t care to delve too far into. “Rob and maim, is it? Rob and maim? Do you hear that, Leomin? If we’re lucky, this ruffian might leave us enough fingers to fill out a nice glove between both hands. Yes,” she said, and in her voice Aaron heard the distinct sneer that so many of the highborn shared, “Quite wise, Leomin. I do hope you are intelligent enough to appreciate your error before your neck departs your body, though I very much suspect—”
“Sister.” Aaron’s eyes widened in surprise as Co manifested hovering in the air in front of him.
“Co—” he began.
“It’s alright, Aaron,” the Virtue said, and though Aaron had still been undecided as to whether or not he would divulge the Virtue’s existence, he had to admit that it had the beneficial effect of leaving Leomin’s own silent for several moments.
The orange orb pulsed, somehow conveying surprise, then flitted away from Leomin’s upraised hand to hover inches away from Co. “By the gods, can it be?” The orange virtue said, “Ev—”
“It is me, sister,” Co interrupted.
“Oh, but it is good to see you!” Leomin’s virtue exclaimed, flitting around in what Aaron took as excitement. “Why, you have no idea how long it has been since I’ve spoken with anyone of any intelligence. Do you know that I’ve spent what is nearly the last thousand years being equally feared and worshipped by these Parnen savages?” The orange light wavered in the air, seeming to turn in Leomin’s direction, “No offense, of course, Leomin.”
The Parnen captain gave a weary smile, and Aaron suspected that he must have had cause to hear such pronouncements before. “Of course, my dear, of course.”
“Anyway,” the Virtue said turning back to regard Co, “you’ve no idea what it’s been
like. I tell you, sister, it seems to me that all these ‘holy’ women do is sit around and chant and scowl at one another! And don’t even get me started on the clothes. Why, they might as well be naked for as little as they wear, sister. I swear by all the gods, major and minor both, you wouldn’t believe it unless you saw it.”
Co laughed then, and Aaron heard something of a weary amusement in it, as if she had heard such talk before from the Virtue or, at least, from whom the Virtue had once been. “Ah, Aliandra, but it is good to see you. And I see that you have not changed, not in a thousand years and more.”
“Well, sister,” Aliandra said, a coyness in her voice, “Once you have found perfection, there is no reason to change it.”
Co let out a noise somewhere between a grunt and a sigh, “Yes, well, I’m sure that there are plenty of suitors that would agree with you. Or were, at least. It has been a long time.”
The orange Virtue let out a huff, “Long indeed. And you have no idea how difficult, sister. It is quite hard to make men fawn over the turn of your ankle when you don’t have ankles.”
“Yes,” Co said, “A truly terrible conundrum. Why, if only I could question the gods, my first would be why they allow evil men to do as they do, but my second, of course, would be to ask them how they could see fit to get rid of such fine ankles as yours.”
Aliandra glowed even brighter for a moment, “They were fine, weren’t they, sister?”
“Of course.”
Aliandra turned slowly, drifting along the air closer to Aaron, though not too close. Skittish, a dog afraid of being beaten begging for a meal. “And you are paired with this one, then?”
“So I am.”
“Your ways are inscrutable as always, dear sister. I cannot imagine what would motivate you to choose such a … wild pairing.”
“I find him funny.”
The orange Virtue drew closer to Aaron’s face, so close that he had to shield his eyes with one hand. Scowling, he swatted at it with the other, and the Virtue flitted away. “Yes,” she said doubtfully, “hilarious.”
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