A Sellsword's Compassion_Book One of the Seven Virtues

by Jacob Peppers

  The man finally looked up from the papers and met the Aaron’s gaze with eyes so darkly green that they were nearly black—another common characteristic of the Parnen. He smiled revealing straight, white teeth. “A chance meeting in the night, aye.” He said in a lilting, almost musical voice. He glanced past Aaron at the swimmers that were quickly fading from view as the ship rushed through the water and sighed regretfully. “Ah, it seems that we have left some of your friends behind.”

  Aaron grunted, “Are you Leomin?” The men on either side of the Parnen tensed at his abrupt tone, and he could feel the heavy stares of several of the crew, but he didn’t look away from the man’s gaze.

  The necklaces the man wore jingled as he gave a casual shrug, “One must be who he is. We are always trying to be something different,” He glanced at the princess meaningfully, “Yet even as we change, we remain the same, do we not?”

  Aaron frowned, “Just what in the name of the Keeper’s Fields are you talking about?”

  The man flashed that bright grin again, “Ah the Fields, yes, the legions that walk them, fleeing from life or running to death? Is it the same?” He tapped his chin with a ringed finger, a thoughtful expression on his face, “An interesting question, no? Perhaps one that even the gods themselves cannot answer.”

  What the fuck is he talking about? Aaron thought.

  The question had been to himself, but Co answered anyway. I cannot feel him. She sounded worried.

  What do you mean, you can’t feel him?

  His emotions, his hopes or fears, what makes him him. There is nothing there.

  Aaron could hear an edge of panic in her voice. Just relax, Co. He thought back. The last thing he needed was for her to go crazy again. In the Mermaid, when the Virtue had panicked, he’d felt as if his head was going to explode. It was an experience he wasn’t interested in reliving. Come to think of it, what had that been about? The Virtue had been calm enough when he was barely avoiding getting skewered by arrows. Who was this Melan and why was she so frightened of him? He shook off the thought. He’d ask her later, when she didn’t sound like she was about to have a fit. He didn’t think he could survive another. After all, he thought soothingly, there must be plenty of people who you can’t feel, right?

  No.

  He coughed and was about to respond when Leomin spoke, “I see that you are a deep-thinker, one who would spend hours yet pondering the question, and I respect you for it.” There was something about the man’s deep green stare, and the small, almost wistful smile on his face that made Aaron uncomfortable. He got the impossible, yet distinct feeling that the man had been listening to his internal dialogue with the Virtue. He allowed his hands to drift slowly, casually closer to his blades. “Too many folk,” the Parnen continued, apparently oblivious of Aaron’s reaction, “these days worry only about the present. It is a worrisome trait. Still, if one only worries about the present, and the future will soon be the present, is one not worrying about both at the same time?” He rubbed at his chin thoughtfully, “An interesting question, isn’t it?”

  The sellsword blinked and tried again. “So … you’re Leomin?”

  The man seemed to consider this carefully, “For now?” He smiled, “I suppose I am. Though little do I resemble the Leomin who came before, and I suspect that the Leomins of the future will be more different still. Change, after all, is the curse of time, is it not?”

  Aaron rubbed at his temples where he could feel a headache forming. “For a man who talks a lot, you don’t manage to say much, do you?”

  Leomin looked surprised, “Why by the gods, no! I’d hate to think it. Now, if you are quite finished talking, I believe introductions are in order,” he said, turning to the two men beside him and not noticing Aaron tense as he seriously contemplated throwing the man overboard. “This,” the captain said gesturing to the stocky, salt-and-pepper bearded man to his right, “is Balen, first mate of this vessel.”

  Apparently, the captain’s calm manner was enough to assure the first mate that the sellsword and the others were no threat, because his hostile look was gone, and he nodded politely to Aaron and Gryle. When he turned to Adina, he ran a hand over his unshaven face and grinned sheepishly, “Pleasure to meet—“

  “Alright, alright, enough!” Leomin barked, and the first mate’s mouth snapped shut. The Parnen turned back to them shaking his head, “Balen’s a good enough sort, but he’ll talk you to death if you let him. The man’s words walk in circles like a mutt with the shits. Still, I love him like a brother, and much farther than I could throw him.”

  Balen stepped back behind the captain, and Aaron was surprised to see that he was grinning like a child who’d just been given a treat. Apparently, such a rebuke was common and a source of amusement for the grizzled first mate. Leomin indicated the other man with a flourish of his ruffled right arm. The man was thin and tall with a sharp, angular face that made him look hawkish. As in the case of the first mate, the man had traded his scowl for a smile so friendly that an observer might have thought he was a man greeting a long missed friend. “This,” the captain said, “is … it’s uh …” He gestured with his hand vaguely, “Oh, don’t tell me. It … it starts with an H does it not? Something short and strong. Is it Hugh … no, that’s not it.” He tapped at his teeth for a moment then nodded, satisfied, “Ah! I’ve got it! Hank. Yes, that’s it. Hank here is the cook, and a fine one at that.”

  The tall man nodded to them, “Nice to meet you. The name’s—“ he hesitated and glanced at the captain before continuing, “Er … the name’s Hank … but you can call me Randolph.”

  The captain sighed long-sufferingly, “By the gods what is wrong with everyone today? You’ve spent too much time with Balen, Hugh. His atrocious habit of running off at the mouth like a ship springing a leak has infected you, I fear. Can’t you see that our guests are tired? No doubt, they’ve spent a long night partying and drinking at one of Avarest’s finest, is it not so?” He winked at Aaron.

  “Not really,” the princess offered in an annoyed voice, and Aaron was glad to see that the captain wasn’t only grating on his nerves, “we spent the day being chased by thugs and murderers, but we are tired.”

  “You see there?” Leomin said, glaring at the cook, “what did I tell you? It must have been quite the party.” He gestured vaguely in the direction from which they’d come, “I insist that you take that as a lesson. A man can do too much of partying and talking both.”

  The cook nodded humbly, “Of course, sir.”

  Leomin watched him for a moment then gave a quick, satisfied nod, “There now. Where were we?” His eyebrows furrowed in confusion for a moment, “Balen?”

  The first mate glanced at Aaron and the others before turning back to the captain, “You was just sayin’ how you was gonna get the good folks a place to rest, I think, sir.”

  “Certainly,” the captain said, “and what a wonderful idea. I’m quite glad I thought of it.”

  Balen nodded, his expression never changing, “That’s why you’re the captain, sir.”

  “Indeed,” the Parnen said, pleased, “and that is—“ he cut off as he glanced at Aaron closely, squinting his eyes in the darkness as he took in the wound on Aaron’s shoulder, “by the gods man are you bleeding? On my ship?”

  Aaron nodded, “Yeah, sorry,” he said, his voice thick with sarcasm, “I don’t know where my manners are.”

  The captain gave a long suffering sigh, “Yes, well, apology accepted. Now come, let’s get that seen to and find you all a place to retire for the night. No doubt, Balen’s meandering, torturous conversation has killed what little wakefulness you may have had. We will speak more on the ‘morrow.”

  Without waiting to see if they were following, he turned and started toward the deck, “Sir,” The first mate said, “It’s uh … it’s this way.”

  The captain turned and frowned at him, “Do you mean to imply, Balen, that I don’t know my own ship?”

  “Of course not, sir.�
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  Leomin stared at him for a moment then nodded and patted him on the shoulder before turning back to the others. “Balen is a good man, but not the clever sort,” he said in a whisper that was easily loud enough for the first mate and cook to hear. They grinned at each other behind the captain’s back as Leomin started toward the cabin, “Come. I will show you the way.”

  “It’s going to be a long trip,” Adina whispered beside him.

  Aaron sighed then looked toward the distant Avarest, thinking about the would-be murderers who were no doubt even now waiting on the docks. “Think it’s too late to get them to take us back?”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  He woke with a start, reaching for the blades at his sides only to have his hands come back empty. He pushed himself up from the bed and growled a curse as he slammed his head into the frame of the empty bunk above him. Belatedly, he remembered that he was in the cabin Balen had led him to the night before. Sitting up carefully, rubbing his aching forehead, he tried to shake off the remnants of his dream.

  He’d been back in the Mermaid, watching in shock as the man, Aster, flung people into the ceiling where they shattered like cheaply-made puppets without expending any apparent effort. It was just like before, only this time, he hadn’t made it out. This time, he’d turned to flee and the man had been there, waiting, smiling that small, knowing smile. Aster. The man who’d put the hit on him. Aster, a man who Co seemed to think was Melan. Whoever that was. You have something I want, he’d said. You have something I want. Aaron turned the words over and over in his head, but he couldn’t make any sense of them. After all, the only thing he owned of any worth were his blades and—though they were good steel—they didn’t come close to approaching the five thousand coin bounty the man had offered for his head. What else could he possibly have that someone would want? What else except … Co? Are you there?

  Aaron jumped in surprise as the orb appeared directly in front of his face. I am here, Aaron. Gone was the usual playfulness of Co’s tone. Instead, she sounded tired. No, that wasn’t quite right. She sounded resigned.

  “Co, who is Melan?”

  The Virtue didn’t answer.

  “Look, Co, I need to know. Who is he?”

  There was a long pause, and Aaron was beginning to think the Virtue wouldn’t answer when she finally spoke, though he could hear reluctance in her tone. “Melan was one of Kevlane’s disciples. He was tasked with gathering the essence of one of the seven Virtues, so that Kevlane could conduct it into the waiting vessel.”

  “And?” Aaron asked impatiently, “Why are you so scared of him? I deserve to know after what you’ve put me through. Consider it payment for the free rides I’ve been giving you.”

  The Virtue sighed in his mind, “Fine. After Caltriss and Kevlane’s deaths, when the warriors of the barbarian kings burst into the chamber, Melan, like the others, was too exhausted to defend himself. While the others struggled to rise, struggled—and failed—to summon the power to protect themselves, Melan went mad. He cursed Caltriss and Kevlane both even as the barbarians began their bloody work. He was so consumed by his rage that he was still screaming his hate, his curses, oblivious even when they cut his throat.”

  “But you called Aster Melan. Why would you do that unless …”

  “Yes,” Co said, “your thoughts are correct. Through Kevlane’s ritual, the seven Virtues were created. When they arose from the ashes of that mass grave, when they awoke among those smoking husks of humanity, each Virtue retained some of the memories and personality of its creator.

  “You were … alive.” Aaron said, stunned. “You were a person.”

  “What matters,” the orb answered sharply, “is that Melan was tasked with gathering the virtue of strength. It was his power that you saw in the inn.”

  “Fucking perfect,” Aaron muttered, “the man can toss people around like kindling, and I can … what? Feel guilty? Cry a lot?” He shook his head, “Damn Iladen and his dice, both.”

  “It is not wise to provoke the gods,” the Virtue warned.

  “Oh?” He asked, as he rose from the bed and slid his blades into the sheathes at his side, “yeah, you’re right. I wouldn’t want to make him mad, would I? My luck would go to shit. Oh, wait. My luck already is shit.” Well, at least he and the others were safe on the Clandestine. The man could be the strongest person in all of Telrear—no doubt was—but he couldn’t walk on water. “He can’t can he?”

  “Walk on water?” The virtue asked, “Of course not.”

  Aaron nodded, “Good.” They sat in silence for some time as Aaron digested the information. Then, “Co? What was your name?”

  At first, he didn’t think the Virtue was going to answer. “It was not my name,” she said finally, “You do not understand. I am her creation, the product of a spell that was, by some strange anomaly, invested with a portion of her personality and part of her memories. A freak accident. Nothing more.”

  “You have her memories and her personality?”

  “Yes.”

  “What else is there?” He asked. “It seems to me that if you think like her and remember her experiences then you may as well be her.”

  You know nothing! The Virtue hissed in his mind, and he recoiled as the orb flashed a deep, angry red before reverting back to its normal color, I am not her. I am not human—I never was. Yes, I can remember pieces. I can remember the sun on her skin, but I can’t remember how it felt. I can remember the barbarians, remember the bloody slaughter they reaped, but I can feel none of it because it was not me. It is as if there is a vital part of me missing, as if they are something I read in a book. Can you imagine what that feels like?

  “No,” he muttered, “I don’t guess I can. But tell me this, if you—if your creator knew Melan, then why were you so scared of him? After all, he’s just a Virtue, right? Just a—what did you call it—a freak accident?”

  You still don’t understand, she answered impatiently, The Virtue of Strength is not Melan, but it does possess Melan’s personality.

  Aaron grunted as understanding dawned. “And Melan was insane.”

  Correct. Which means that if this man, Aster Kalen, is not mad already, he will be so soon. There is no stopping the transferring of traits between the virtue and its partner—it is Kevlane’s bond.

  Aaron thought of the way Aster had slapped Lucius’s hired muscle in the face, nearly killing him, or the way he’d tossed people aside, breaking bones and wreaking havoc with no more thought than a man would give to swatting a fly. Yeah, the bastard was crazy alright. Suddenly, a thought occurred to him, and he went rigid, “Before, you told me there were people who hunt the Virtues. Aster is one of those, isn’t he?”

  Yes.

  He sighed heavily. “Great. There’s still one thing I don’t understand though. “

  Just one? Co asked.

  “Very funny,” he said, but, in truth, he was glad to see the Virtue getting some of her humor back. It was bad enough having to share your mind with someone else; the last thing he needed was for her to become neurotic. “Two, actually,” he admitted, “first, what decides who one of you lightning bugs bonds with?”

  We do, of course, Co said as if he’d just asked if birds could fly.

  “So you … picked me?”

  Yes.

  He shook his head in amazement, “Why in the name of the gods would you do that?”

  The orb bobbed in the air and despite the fact that she had no arms or shoulders to do it with, he got the distinct impression that she was shrugging. I thought you were funny.

  Aaron blinked slowly, “You ruined my career as a decent sellsword and made me the enemy of a psychopath that can juggle people like rocks because you thought I was funny?”

  Do not mock. I’ve existed for thousands of years, and I’ve found one thing to be true. A good laugh is hard to come by.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

  You shouldn’t curse so much, she adm
onished, and no, I’m not kidding, but why don’t you talk to me about it after you’ve lived a few thousand years.

  “Okay, ignoring the fact that you’re a pain in the ass, are you telling me that Melan chose Aster?”

  It is not Mela—nevermind. To answer your question … perhaps. Melan—as you insist on calling him—is, as I believe I’ve mentioned, quite insane. Who can guess why he would have chosen Aster Kalen if he did, in fact, choose him?

  “And if he didn’t?”

  The Virtue paused before answering, and when she spoke her voice was tight with worry, If he didn’t, then Aster has discovered a way of doing what even Kevlane could not—forcing the Virtues to bond with a person of his choosing. In this case, him.

  Aaron frowned. Suddenly, the ship’s cabin felt too small. The walls seemed to be getting closer, and the air felt thick and cloying in his throat. He got dressed, threw on his weapons, and headed out the door. On the deck, the sailors were busy about their work and few of them spared him a second glance which was just how he liked it. The choppy waters of the night before were nowhere in evidence, and the ship skimmed across the ocean as if it were born to it.

  He walked to the side of the ship and looked around. Water stretched on endlessly toward every horizon. It was a disconcerting feeling. It was as if the ship and its passengers existed in a world of their own, as if the land and cities he remembered were nothing but a dream. His stomach lurched at the thought, and he closed his eyes, fighting back a wave of nausea.

  “Ah, good day, sir.”

  He turned to see the first mate, Balen, approaching. “What’s so good about it?”

  The first mate smiled and shrugged, “The sun’s shinin’ and we’re breathin.’ What more could you ask for?”

  The ship lurched as the sail caught more wind, and Aaron swallowed hard. “Land for a start.”