A man could light his candles, could lock his windows against the night, and huddle beneath the covers like a child, yet still it came, and when it did, there was no denying it. If a man was living, he was dying. Go away, he thought to the voice, leave me alone. I’m dying, can’t you see that? Why won’t you just leave me alone?
The voice said something else, but it was farther away now, quieter and weaker, and he couldn’t make out the words. That was alright. He couldn’t remember what it wanted, but that was alright too.
--OU’LL DIE IF YOU DON’T GET UP NOW.
He winced inwardly at the frantic, screeching sound of the voice, Don’t you get it? He thought, trying to make the owner of the voice understand the uselessness of it all, I’m done. I’ve been done for a while, I think, and what does it matter? Men plan and the worms feast; it’s the way it’s always been, and what’s left for me there anyway? Pain, that’s all. More pain than you can imagine.
I can imagine it, the voice replied, you are not the only one that feels pain. I think you’ve forgotten that somewhere. Life is pain, but that is not all it is.
Oh? He thought, wishing the voice would just go away, could have fooled me.
No, the voice answered sadly, and this time it sounded as if it spoke directly into his ear. Life is joy too. You do remember joy, don’t you?
He started to say no, no he couldn’t remember joy, but stopped as a vision unfolded before him. No, not a vision, a memory. A small boy sat at the top of the stairs of his home, looking between the wooden railings to the room beneath where his mother and father danced, unaware of their audience. There was no instrument playing, no singer to accompany their movements, but if they noticed the lack, they did not show it. The woman laid her hand on the man’s shoulder, and they held each other close. And they danced.
That’s it, the voice said reassuringly, you remember.
I remember nothing, Aaron thought back, turning away from the terrible, wonderful memory, turning back to the darkness, I don’t know that boy.
But you do, the voice countered, it’s you, Aaron. The boy’s you.
I’m telling you I don’t know him damnit.
What of loyalty, Aaron? Do you know nothing of it as well?
Another vision appeared in front of him, faint at first, but growing until he wasn’t looking at it anymore, but experiencing it. He was in a massive room, a cafeteria, it appeared. The tables were filled with young boys and girls with bowls of some gruel in front of them. They ate soundlessly, their eyes locked on their own bowls as they shoveled food in their mouths mechanically. Somehow, the place seemed familiar to him, and for a reason he didn’t understand, he was glad that they were silent. Here, in this place, it was important to be quiet, to be still, to not be noticed.
All of the kids turned, and he felt his own heart lurch in his chest as the main doors of the cafeteria burst open. He cringed inwardly as Headmaster Cyrille, marched in, a wicked, familiar switch in his hand. “Who dared to do it?” The man screeched, his face crimson, his eyes wild with anger as they swept the room. “Which of you ungrateful ingrates dared?”
The boys and the girls cowered in their seats, and Aaron, like them, wished that he could disappear. He desired only for whatever was about to happen to be over, so that they could keep living. Living wasn’t much to any of them, not in that place—one only had to look at the vacant, dead gazes of the girls or the careful, shaking movements of many of the boys to know that—but it was all they had. All that hadn’t yet been taken from them. “Answer me you stupid little bastards!” The man screamed, his hands knotted into tight, pale fists at his side, “Or I will make every last one of you suffer, do you understand me?” Silence reined, thick and pregnant with dreaded expectation.
The old man turned to the nearest child, a nine year old girl with soft, doll-like features and blonde hair so fine it seemed to flow around her face like rain, and brought the switch savagely across her face. The girl let out a cry of pain as her nose snapped beneath the taut wood, and she was flung out of her seat. She landed on the floor with a thump, her hands covering her broken nose as she sobbed in desperate, keening whimpers.
The man took a step toward her and brought the switch up again. “I know who it was,” A voice squeaked.
The gray-haired man stopped in mid-swing and whipped around to the young boy who had spoken. “What did you say, Thomas?” He asked, his voice suddenly deceptively sweet. “Please, go on my boy. Tell me again. I will not hurt any of you anymore; I just want to know who did it, that’s all. A boy or girl like that, well, they could ruin things for all of us, don’t you understand?” Somehow, though he knew he wasn’t there, Aaron could smell the sharp, acrid tang of the Tamarang herb floating about the man, and he knew that the man’s words, like the place itself, were a lie.
“I-it was Aaron,” the boy stammered, “P-please, sir. Please don’t hit her anymore. It was Aaron Envelar.”
“Are you sure, Thomas? You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?” He asked, his voice little more than a whisper.
“O-of course not, M-Master Cyrille. It was him. He did it.”
“No he didn’t,” a new voice said. The headmaster turned to the other boy who’d spoken. The boy’s hair was so light it was almost brown, and his nose was bent to the side from a past break that had never healed right. “It wasn’t Aaron, sir. It was me.”
“You?” The headmaster asked, surprised, “Owen, it was you?”
The boy’s eyes were wide with fear, but he nodded, and when he spoke his voice was determined, “Yes sir. I did it. I’m sorry, but I did.”
“Tsk tsk,” the headmaster said, shaking his head, “and after all I’ve done for you,” he gestured expansively across the room with the switch, “after all I’ve done for all of you, this is the thanks I get? Well, we will just see about that.” The boy trembled as the old man started toward him, but he did not cry out or beg as the headmaster grabbed him by the collar and drug him out of the cafeteria, slamming the doors behind him.
Once the doors were closed, the kids did not speak. They all liked Owen, but what could they do? It was better not to speak of it, to forget it, to keep on living. They turned back to their food and ate. You had to eat to live.
In some distant place, Aaron felt a tear slide its way down his cheek. I didn’t mean it, he thought, I didn’t mean it. Why did he do it? Why? It should have been me!
What of loyalty, Aaron? The voice asked as if he’d never spoken, do you remember loyalty?
No! He cried soundlessly, Don’t you see? They’re all dead. My parents, Owen, all of them dead. There is nothing in the world but pain and waiting for the pain to stop.
You’re wrong, Aaron, the voice said sadly.
Stop saying my name. You don’t know me!
I know you, Aaron Envelar. I know you better than you know yourself. What of love? Does love mean nothing?
Stop it, he begged, leave me alone. But the voice did not. Instead, a series of visions flitted through his mind in rapid succession. Visions of a woman with dark brown hair and eyes so fiercely blue that they seemed to burn with it. A woman that waited on the docks when he would have ran, a woman who hesitated with a blade when he would have struck, the same woman who had come to him at the inn, despite all of his cruelty, to let him know that she cared. Adina, he thought, her name is Adina.
Yes.
Suddenly, the darkness that surrounded him, gathered and waiting, seemed abhorrent, greasy and cloying. He shook himself free of it the way a drowning man might struggle against the pressing water, with a desperate, frantic determination.
When he’d given everything that he had, when he was convinced that it wouldn’t be enough, his eyes flitted open, and he winced at the brightness of the fire. “C-Co?” He croaked.
I am here, Aaron, the Virtue answered, the relief clear in her voice.
He gingerly felt the wound in his shoulder. The flow of blood had lessened but had not stopped. With a momentous effort and desp
ite his body’s protests, he managed to struggle to a sitting position. He rested there for a second, his head spinning, his eyes struggling to focus. Then, he took a deep breath and tore a piece from his tattered, bloody shirt—a task made almost impossible with one working arm—looped it around the wound, and grunted in pain as he pulled it tight.
He waited another moment then tried to push himself to his feet. He was sure that he wouldn’t make it, that he would fall, that his eyes would close for a final time and that would be the end of it. It was with some surprise, then, that he realized with a shock that he was standing. He was swaying drunkenly, in danger of tipping over at any moment, but he was standing. Alright then, he thought as he fought off a fresh wave of dizziness, alright.
He wondered, as he closed his eyes and took a slow, steadying breath, how much worse the pain would be if Co wasn’t there to lessen it. Too much, he thought, far too much. He glanced at the fire and saw that it was burning low, almost burned out. But not dead, he thought fiercely, not yet. He stumbled toward one of the soldier’s horses and, after the third try, managed to scramble into the saddle. The horse let out a neigh of displeasure as he tugged on its lead. “Come on then, boy,” he said, turning the beast toward the road, toward Naya’s and the others. “We don’t want to keep them waiting.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
Adina rose from her seat near the fire and peered out the window for what must have been the hundredth time. Outside, the darkness huddled around Naya’s small waystop, and Adina felt a deep foreboding settle over her. There was still no sign of Aaron. Gryle stood by another of the building’s windows, wringing his hands nervously, his gaze locked on the pale moon. He dreads the sun, she thought sadly, dreads the moment when those first rays of light will pierce the darkness, and we will leave Aaron behind. I know because I do as well.
She sighed heavily and walked back to her seat by the fire. On their trip here, Peter had been so excited about the visit, going on and on about Naya’s lemon tarts, and how kind the old woman was. It had taken all of Adina’s training in diplomacy to keep herself from strangling the youth. While he was worried about filling his belly, Aaron was out in that darkness. For all they knew, he could be dying. Don’t be a fool. For all you know, he’s already dead.
No. I won’t believe that. She swallowed hard and wiped at her eyes. “It’ll be okay, dear,” Naya’s kind, age-wizened voice said beside her, “you’ll see.”
Adina nodded and forced a smile as she turned to the woman. Though Peter’s incessant yammering had brought her nearer the point of murder than she’d care to admit, he hadn’t been wrong about the proprietor of the waystop. Naya was a short, stooped, elderly woman, and though she walked with a cane, she’d moved around surprisingly quick when they’d arrived, fixing them a meal of cooked meat, bread, and, of course, her famous lemon tarts, despite the late hour and without complaint.
“Thank you again for taking us in so late at night,” Adina said, struggling to sound grateful past the lump of fear and uncertainty that seemed lodged in her throat.
The old woman waved a wrinkled hand dismissively, “Never mind that, dear. I’ve always been a light sleeper, and I’ve found that it’s grown worse with age. Why, I’m lucky to get four hours a night, what with my old bones aching like they do. My husband, Ed, he could have slept straight through if a tornado’d come a’knockin, but I’ve never had the knack. I would’ve been awake whether you folks had stopped by or not. At least this way, I don’t have to sit around by myself.” The old woman casted her milky gaze around the small waystop, “The place has been too quiet since my Ed was taken by the fevers. Much too quiet for my likin’. It does my old heart good to have some young people here.”
The princess smiled, “Well, I thank you just the same.” She glanced over at the red-headed Peter who, even now, was chewing contentedly on a lemon tart, lost in his own world of sugary sweetness, “and I’m sure Peter thanks you too.”
The old woman chortled, “That boy eats like it’s his last meal.”
Adina winced at the woman’s words, thinking of Aaron somewhere out there alone. And what had his last meal been? Dried travel rations, nothing more, and he’d walked away with her words, spoken in anger, following him.
“Is something wrong, dearie? I’m sorry,” Naya said, patting her hand, “that was a fool thing to say. Sometimes my mouth runs off before my mind has a chance to catch up. Ed used to say that I could talk the stars down from the sky. At the time, I took it as a compliment.” She snorted and shook her head, “Now, I think maybe he meant that they’d choose suicide over listening to my rambling.”
The princess laughed weakly. “I’m sure your husband meant nothing of the sort.”
“Why don’t you tell me about him.”
Adina turned and glanced at the woman, surprised. “We never told you we were waiting on anyone.”
Naya coughed a laugh, “Come now, child. I’ve been around long enough to know that there’s only two things will put that look in a woman’s eyes, a man or bad memories, and you’re too young for many of those. Besides,” she said, gesturing at Gryle, “your man there has been staring out that window like his eyes are glued to it since you all got here. No,” she said with a small shake of her head, “I know how waitin’ looks. I ought to; I’ve been doin’ it for a long time now.”
“What have you been waiting on?” Adina asked curiously.
The old lady smiled, “Death. No, now don’t look at me like that, dearie, I’m not lookin’ to die, but I’m ready for it, and when the gods decide to take me I’ll go willingly. Fred’s awaitin’, and he never was a patient man. Nicest one a woman could ever ask for, but tell ‘em he had to wait on somethin’ and his foot’d be tappin’ a mile a minute ‘til the waiting was done. Why, I reckon he’s probably wore a hole clean through his shoes by now.”
Despite her fear, Adina didn’t have to fake the smile, “You must have really loved him.”
Naya nodded, “And still do, dear. Now, why don’t you tell me about your man. I ain’t the best at talkin’, but I can listen, sure enough.”
The princess opened her mouth to correct the woman, to tell her that Aaron wasn’t her man, but decided against it. After all, what difference did it make? She thought of the sellsword, of the look in his face and eyes when he’d spoken of Glenn’s sick daughter, of the way he’d given the man his gold without even a second thought. He would have her believe that he’d done it because it was the best way to keep from being killed, that he didn’t care about the girl one way or the other, but she knew that was a lie. She’d seen the look of anger and sadness in his hazel eyes, had seen his fists clench at his side as Herb’s girl, Paula, had come out from the back with her painfully thin limbs, and hair falling out in patches. “He’s … he’s difficult,” she said finally, “and stubborn. I didn’t think someone could be so stubborn.”
The old woman cackled good-naturedly, patting her chest with a wrinkled hand.
Adina smiled uncertainly, “Did I say something funny?”
Naya shook her head, running a finger across her eyes as she finally gained control of herself. “Oh, nothing dearie. You’ve just described every man that was ever born is all. My Ed could have taught a mule a thing or two about stubbornness, and that’s the truth. No, I mean what makes your man special to you?”
Adina considered this. “He doesn’t treat me like everyone else … for all my life, people have treated me like I was made of glass, like I’d break if I wasn’t watched. He doesn’t do that. And he has a good heart. He doesn’t know it, but he does.”
The proprietor smiled, “Then I guess you’d better show him when he comes back hadn’t you?”
The princess smiled, “I guess s—“ she cut off as the doors of the inn burst open. Gryle let out a squeak of surprise and stumbled back. He tripped over his own feet and nearly impaled himself on the blade Aaron had given him as he fell to the ground. Cold air wafted through the door making the
fire dance frantically. Adina felt her heart leap to her throat, sure that somehow the soldiers had gotten around Aaron, had pressed on through the night and found them.
They all watched, frozen, as a shadowed figure lurched through the door and into the orange glow of the fire. She gasped as Aaron shuffled into view. He was covered in so much blood that it looked as if he’d taken a bath in it, and a knife stuck out of his left forearm which dangled uselessly at his side. He swayed drunkenly as he surveyed the room with an unfocused, distant gaze. Finally, his hazel eyes, mad and feverish, settled on her. “I killed him,” he croaked, “I killed Owen.” As if the words were a cue, his legs buckled beneath him, and he crumpled to the ground.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
He didn’t so much wake as drift into a state of semi-consciousness, carried on eddies of delirium and pain. I killed Owen, was his first thought, but even as he had it he knew that it was wrong. The youth hadn’t been Owen, just some kid playing at being a soldier. He was soldier enough when he damn near killed you. He tried to sit up and pain tore through his body. He fell back into bed gasping and feeling as if he was about to pass out.
You live, Co said in his mind, her relief clear in her voice.
If you’d call it that. He forced his gummy eyes open, blinking against the harshness of the sun being filtered through a window. He was in a small bedroom he didn’t recognize, and a yellow quilt embroidered with white flowers had been laid atop him. Sighing heavily, wincing at the pain in his shoulder and arm, he closed his eyes again. Firefly, make yourself useful. Tell me where I am.
You’re at Naya’s. You have been here for the last three days.
Three days? You’ve got to be kidding me.
I am not in a kidding mood, the Virtue answered, her voice in his head thick with anger and fear, you took a stupid risk, and you’ve spent the last three days unconscious as a reward. The proprietor, Naya, is a skilled healer—lucky that—but you very nearly died just the same.
A Sellsword's Compassion_Book One of the Seven Virtues Page 22