The Stone of Sorrows

by Greg James

  He thought about his first encounter with death: the day his Grampa died. He had been too young to really know the old man. Kella had been sat down by his mother and told what had happened. Grampa was dead. His heart had stopped beating. No more Grampa. That was it. Kella had thought on it for longer than he should have done at the time. It wasn’t healthy, not for a boy so young. But that was why he became a soldier and trained himself so hard, because he wanted to understand death. Not so that he could deal death out to more people but so that he could overcome it. Though he had blood on his hands, he had always considered himself a man of peace, one who wished to fight for a day when all fighting would stop, when war itself would be a thing of the past. But it had not happened, and there seemed more and more ways for men to do terrible things to each other. He had seen too many go to the same place as his Grampa. He could not stop thinking about it, and he often dreamed of the deaths he had seen. He watched the ceiling, like a still curtain between him and death. That next world. That unspoken-of state. Sometimes, he would raise his hands up, almost reaching for it, hoping not to feel empty air. Instead, he wished for a dark fabric between his fingers, something he could cast aside before reaching through and bringing back all of those who had died.

  His was a lonely road; he knew that now, although he had not known it as a child. It allowed no time for women or other, gentler pleasures. His conversations too soon spiralled to depths the pillow talk of lovers was not meant to go to. And now he had become too old and grey for tenderness to take root and blossom in his breast, because death was there with him, always. It made every second, every minute, every hour flow through him. He felt the ebbing of his existence in the same way a wounded man might feel his lifeblood leaving him. There was no way he could stop the feeling, even if he wanted to. Kella had travelled far along his chosen path and done much in his life. Now, it felt as if he had barely noticed what he had achieved. Death was too much a part of him, closer than any friend had been.

  But then, there was the princess.

  She was her father’s daughter; he could see that. He could also see that she might well hold his life in her hands. Despite everything he had been through, Kella knew he would willingly die for her. He would protect her to his last breath, and he would fight for Highmount even if he would not live to see it return to its former glory.

  Chapter Ten

  Sarah sat up in the dark of her room at The Water Mark. The headboard of the bed pressed into her back as she sat listening, waiting, and wondering what might have disturbed her. She should be sleeping. After tonight, there would be little rest to be had. Tomorrow night, they would ride out to meet the Kay’lo. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She remembered, all too well, the nightmares they had given her when she was forced to inhale the fumes of the Rosara carna. The wilderness of the Grassland Plains had not been a safe place the first time she had crossed it, and this time it had been ravaged by the fiends from the Nightlands. They were out there hunting for her by land and by sky. She had seen the pain visited upon the people of this place. It was evident in the faces downstairs.

  What can I do?

  Her hands looked unnaturally pale in the room as her eyes adjusted to the shadows. With a thought, she drew a little of the Flame into herself, a mere whisper of it. Her hands coloured with a low light that pulsed in time with the beat of her heart.

  It’s a part of me until I die. A morbid thought. She blamed the shadows for that.

  She looked around the room and saw that she was not alone.

  Orraea stood by the door.

  Sarah held up her glowing hands so that Orraea could see she was not idle in trusting others, not anymore. Not after Sula and Mistress Ruth.

  “What do you want, Orraea?”

  “To talk, O Flame.”

  “Don’t call me that. I don’t like it, and I don’t think you do either. Me, that is. You don’t like me.”

  Orraea nodded curtly but came no closer. Her eyes were fixed on Sarah’s hands, and her body was tense, ready to strike back with some conjuration if she felt threatened.

  “What do you want to talk about?” Sarah asked.

  “My father.”

  “Ossen ... what about him?”

  “I want to know why he died.”

  “I ... I couldn’t save him. I didn’t know how to. He fell into the chasm with the Iron God.”

  “I didn’t say I wanted to know how he died. I said I wanted to know why he died. Why? Why did he fall?”

  “He did it ... I don’t know… He did it to protect me—us. Jedda and I. We would be dead without him.”

  “But he would alive if not for you.”

  “I wanted to save him. I couldn’t stop him. I didn’t know how.”

  “A god who doesn’t know how to save those who die for her. A convenient truth.”

  “I’m not a god. I didn’t ask for this power.”

  “But it is yours, yet you do not know how to use it to save others. I have seen the bodies of those who have died for you. I’ve seen the burns and fire-stains left by your power inside Highmount. But I have seen no life come about because of you, Sarah Bean, only death and destruction. You are supposed to fight the Fallen One for us. You are supposed to defeat him for us. Tell me, do you think there will be much left of this world or any of the other worlds once you are both done?”

  “I’m trying to do what I can.”

  “And what will you do when the power is fully grown within you, O Lady Flame? You will war against the Fallen One from one end of Creation to the other, scouring all in your path, leaving nothing but dust, ashes, and darkness. Do you find that good?”

  “No. No, I don’t. I don’t want that to happen.”

  “If you do not want that, Sarah Bean, I think you should take time to better understand just what you are and the strength that is within you. I could not stand against you; none of the Wayfarers could. We are motes in the eye of your storm. Little is beyond you, and if you can come to control what you are, little may survive you.”

  With those words, shadows suddenly descended and then lifted in the room. Orraea was gone. Sarah lay back down on the bed, but she did not sleep. Her mind was in flux. Her heart was aching. Dawn came, shining overcast light through the room’s window. It did little to illuminate the thoughts and feelings Sarah was struggling with.

  I’m not a god ... can she hate me so much? ... Kiley don’t die ... I have to save you ... I have to betray the Kay’lo ... betray everyone . It hurts ... this fire inside ...

  “I wish,” she said, “that none of this had happened to me.”

  But she knew she needed to be made of sterner stuff if she was going to lead people against the Fallen One and survive. She couldn’t let on to the others that she felt as if she were unravelling. There was no confidence that she could partake of, no shoulder to cry on, not out here. Orraea might be Ossen’s daughter, but the trust she had enjoyed with the Wayfarer was not there in the blood of his kin.

  I am alone.

  ~ ~ ~

  When Sarah awoke the next morning, it felt like no time at all had passed.

  She stretched the cramps out of her neck. Her shoulders were threaded with aching barbs. She wiped sticky grains from her eyes and sighed. The stuff of her dreams was quickly dissipating, leaving nothing for her to grasp at, to understand. The old, dry taste in her mouth wouldn’t wash away. The hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach would be with her all day.

  She dressed sluggishly, trying to wish away the way she was feeling.

  When you wish upon a star… she thought.

  I hope my dreams do not come true.

  Then she went downstairs to join the others for breakfast.

  “Are you okay, Sarah?” asked Witta when she at down heavily at the table.

  “I’m fine.”

  “It happens to all of us in these wild lands—fear,” he said. “Perhaps, you’ll get used to it, or, with the Flame, you will master it.”

  �
�I hope so,” Sarah said, not believing her own words.

  Chapter Eleven

  In Highmount, they kept vigil. Every soldier chewed over the image of the murdered man in his or her mind until, one night, the signal came from one of the night patrols: a flicker of light, and then a second one. Adrenaline washed away tiredness and fatigue. The one they sought was in the ruins of Plainstown, making for the gate. Some of the soldiers had been friends of the dead man. All of them were hoping for a kill tonight. A shambling form staggered through the shadows ahead. The soldiers moved in on him. He stared back into their eyes, his own were dull and he was swaying on his feet, idiot-faced, he was no threat. They watched him, waiting for an excuse to shed blood. Still he stood there, vacant, nibbling at his lips like a nervous rat and not really seeing what was there before him.

  As a halberd was raised to knock him out, the traitor’s eyes cleared, the static seeming to dissolve from his mind. He lashed out, surprising the soldier who had been about to fell him. Instead, the soldier fell with his face bleeding from ragged scratches made by dirty fingernails. His halberd thumped, harmless, to the ground. The mad man threw himself, whooping and shrieking, from soldier to soldier, clawing and beating at them with a sudden ferocity that threw them off-guard. They stumbled back in the face of his onslaught and he hunched in on himself, the pattern of his spine showing through his wasted clothes. Then he thrust his face out at them, and they saw that it was truly changed. His jawbone dislocated with a crack, and crusted, yellow fangs flashed at them from below wild, red eyes. Snarling deep in his throat, he crouched to leap. No one moved to stop him; his raw eyes held them still.

  “Hold!”

  The shout rang out, and the creature froze, the snarl easing, ever so slightly, on its lips. Princess Jedda strode between the soldiers and placed herself before it. She spoke again, not taking her eyes from the creature, not seeming to come under the spell of its red gaze.

  “You will not harm these men. They are under my protection.”

  The creature grizzled in its throat.

  “You will go with them. You will shed no blood. You will then wait for me to come to you.”

  It grumbled deeply as it settled down onto its haunches, but the aggression seemed to ebb out of its frame. Jedda turned to the soldiers, who were shaking their heads and wiping at their eyes, as if awakening from a night’s sleep.

  “Majesty, what is it?”

  “It is a Were. A Fellspawn. It will not harm you. Take it to the dungeons. Lock it in and guard it. I will come and speak to it later.”

  “Speak to it?”

  “It was once a man, like you. It will change again once the rage and fear have left its veins. Then I will find out what the Fallen One has planned for Highmount. Take it away.”

  “Yes, my Princess.”

  The Were shambled away after them. Its gait was pitiful, as if describing the agony it felt without words. Jedda bit back tears as she watched it go. It had been a risk. The Were could have torn the men limb from limb. But it worked. The Were knew her, recognised her, and obeyed her.

  What did this mean?

  If her strength, given by His Shadow, was not gone, then He still had a hold over her. Jedda stared down at her hands as the moon emerged from behind the clouds, illuminating the courtyard she stood in. She stared at them for a long time, fearing to see them become crooked and snarled like those of the Were.

  ~ ~ ~

  The Were did not fall when they shoved him into the dungeon cell. He dropped to his knees, and his palms scraped harshly on the old flagstones. Gurgling, he crammed his sore hands against his mouth and licked at them until the stinging subsided.

  A sound.

  His head snapped to one side. His skull felt as if it were burning in the underground air. With the night-sight of his curse, his eyes took in the walls of his cell. Another sound came: small and high-pitched. Flashing his fangs again and emitting a pained shriek, he sprang at the little shadow that moved in the far corner. He grabbed at it, picked it up, and tore it apart with his bare hands. Then he rubbed the wet remains of the dead rat over his face, all the while cackling with fear, emptiness, and despair.

  The spell was broken.

  A man now sat in the cell, his face covered in blood, wondering how he had come to be there. Then, tasting the remains of the rat on his tongue, he remembered. His eyes filled with tears and loud, hard, long sobs wracked his frame. This was not what he had been promised, but in deals made with the Fallen One, no one got what they deserved.

  The cell door opened and the man’s head twitched as Jedda and General Kella entered.

  The Were’s eyes widened in recognition, and it prostrated itself before Jedda. “Command me, Mistress. Command me.”

  “I wish to know who else is with you in Highmount.”

  “I serve no other but you. Your voice is His voice.”

  “But before me, there were others. You killed the man, but others brought you here.”

  “They did, Mistress. Yes.”

  “Then please tell me who they are.”

  The Were reared back on his haunches, his body language a horrible fusion of feral and human. He opened his mouth to speak but instead began to choke. He clawed at his face and at his mouth. He crumpled to the ground. His eyes bulged in his head as Jedda and General Kella crowded around him.

  “His voice! I hear His voice, Mistress!”

  “What does He say?”

  “Die ...”

  And he did.

  ~ ~ ~

  Jedda was in the Healing Room. It was cool and well-shadowed, and bowls of smouldering, scented leaves and spices were set out around the room on short wooden stands. Her gaze passed over the still forms of the comatose Herb-Sister and Lady Warden. Their bodies were alive still, unlike that of the Were. First, the Fallen One had taken his body from him, then his mind and finally his life.

  It could be the same for me, she thought, I could lose everything.

  Jedda sat beside the cot of Mistress Ruth. She wanted to talk to her. She didn’t know why, but it felt better to talk to someone who would just listen. General Kella looked for answers and solutions, but that was not what Jedda needed right now. She just needed to talk and know she was being heard or, at least, believe she was being heard.

  “I don’t know who I am anymore, or what I am. I died: I remember that. The awful cold of the mountain, and then passing into something … a blue shadow. It was not like His Shadow at all, although I feared it would be. It was warm and seemed to become dark, and then it became nothing. I don’t know how long I was in shadow until He reached out for me again through the veil of death. Part of me wishes He had left me there. Don’t they say that everything has its time? Children die in the world as well as men and women. Youth is no ward against death. But I changed when I came back, I know I did. Most Fellfolk don’t recover from the spell the Fallen One casts upon them. None should be able to hide their thoughts or feelings from Him, yet I was able to. I am dead, and yet here I am, alive. My heart beats. I draw breath. I can see, think, and feel when I should have dropped dead as soon as the Fallen One’s hold on me ended. It must be the Sword of Sighs that did this to me. It must be.”

  Jedda looked at Mistress Ruth and wished the comatose woman would respond.

  “What am I? What have I become? What has the Flame made me into?”

  One of the Sisters who was caring for Venna and Mistress Ruth roused from dozing on her chair. Her face paling slightly and she smoothed out her skirts as she got to her feet.

  “Are you well, Majesty?”

  “I’ve been feeling strange, sick, since the attack last night.”

  “How so?”

  “I have been having ... bad dreams.”

  “Bad dreams are to be expected.”

  “Yes, I know. But these ones … I think they are being sent to me ... by Him.”

  “It could be. You were once cursed by him. The taint may still be upon you.”

  “I was af
raid you would think me a fool.”

  “In my eyes, my Princess, you are not a fool. You are the best. You show respect for the people you defend here.”

  “Thank you, Sister.”

  Jedda finished her tea, and then stood and left.

  Alone with the dark, the Sister rocked back in her chair. Her eyes travelled around the room, examining with care every corner where the dingiest shadows lay, ensuring she was truly alone. She made a sign against the Fallen One in the air, taught to her by her grandmother, and closed her eyes.

  ~ ~ ~

  Kella stood on the walls of Highmount with an abnormal rigidity about his posture as he awaited Princess Jedda. His eyes were focussed on some point far away, so it took him a few seconds to register Jedda’s presence before him.

  “You don’t look well, General.”

  “I am not, my Princess. We’ve already lost a dozen.”

  “What?”

  “A dozen people have fled from Highmount. I don’t know how they got out, but they found a way. There’ll be more soon, if this carries on.”

  “They’re mocking us, General. They mean to whittle away our morale with desertion. Do we know who brought the Were into Highmount?”

  “Not yet, my Princess. I have as many men searching as can be spared, but that is too few, I fear. People are already nervous. If they believe we do not trust them, if we give them reason to fear us as much as the enemy, we may lose more to the wilderness.”

  “They’ll be slaughtered by Fellfolk before they can even get to their homes.”

  “Or turned to His Shadow, Majesty. You know that. I know that. But they do not. When people are trapped, they will see even the hand that offers poison as offering them something good and sweet. If they believe they can only die by remaining at your side, the Fallen One has only to tell them that they will not die if they leave Highmount.”