Transcendence and Rebellion

by Michael G. Manning

  There was a young girl playing a game with sticks not far from the house, something that involved drawing lines on the ground, but he found no sign of a man or any other adults besides the woman in the room with him.

  All of this served to put him at ease. His first instinct had been to leap up and seize the woman. The threat of violence would make her answer his questions, and if others had been near, he could have used her as a hostage, but since she was alone none of that seemed necessary. The fact that the only other person in the vicinity was a child made that abundantly clear. Slowly, he sat up, mildly surprised at the effort it took. His body felt like a wet rag.

  The woman turned at the sound of him rising. “You’re awake!” she exclaimed, stating the obvious.

  Tyrion fixed her with predatory eyes, causing her to flinch back slightly, then rose unsteadily to his feet. He had something urgent to attend to.

  It was when the woman’s eyes drifted downward that he realized he was stark naked. The heat of the oven had made it easy to overlook that fact. What was not easy to overlook was the state of his manhood, given how full his bladder was.

  He wasn’t embarrassed, though; his past made such an emotion unlikely. “I need to relieve myself,” he said flatly, then turned to the only door that led outside.

  The woman overcame her shock and ran over to the bed. “Wait! My daughter is outside.” Snatching up a blanket, she offered it to him.

  He accepted it and draped it over one shoulder before tying the corners at his waist on the opposite side. He observed woman’s gaze traveling across his skin as he did; most likely she was fascinated by the bizarre lines and symbols that covered his body. Pushing aside the flimsy wooden door, he went outside. The little girl took notice of him immediately and ran over to him.

  “What’s your name?” she asked. By her size, he guessed she was probably around six years old.

  Tyrion ignored her question and walked around the house. The girl started to follow him, but a voice from the house called out to her, “Anna! Leave him alone.”

  With the house blocking her view, he emptied his bladder. His urine was a dark and unhealthy brown color, an indicator that he had either been badly injured or that he had been unconscious for quite some time. He returned to the house a few minutes later. “I’m thirsty.”

  The woman brought a pitcher and a wooden cup. She filled the cup and handed it to him.

  Sniffing at it he looked at her with a question on his lips. “Water?”

  “It’s safe,” she replied. “We have a well close by. You’ve been drinking the water for the past week, what little I could get into you safely. You had a terrible fever.”

  Tyrion watched her aura carefully, and while he was no Centyr, he was well versed in observing people’s emotions and reactions. He didn’t sense a lie. With a shrug, he drained the cup and held it out to her for more. Once he had had his fill, he glanced at her again. “You have food?”

  She fed him, watching with curiosity as he put away everything she gave him. He could tell she had a lot of questions, but his appearance must have intimidated her, for she didn’t ask them, which suited him just fine. With his belly full, he felt the need to rest again, so he lay back down on the bed. The room was almost stiflingly warm, so he didn’t bother covering himself.

  He almost chuckled when a light touch woke him a short time later. The woman had draped a blanket over his midsection. He said nothing, however, pretending to be asleep. Soon enough his pretense became truth once more, and he dreamed. As was almost always the case, his dreams were filled with fire, fear, and blood. The only peaceful moments were when the green eyes stared down on him, and even those moments merely filled him with guilt.

  He awoke once during the night, needing to relieve himself. The woman and her child were asleep on the floor, wrapped in another blanket close to the stove. As he glanced back at the bed, it occurred to him then that it was the only bed in the house, and if her words were to be believed he had been occupying it for a week. He stared at them for a short time, deep in thought, then he went outside and took care of his personal needs before returning to bed.

  When his eyes opened again, it was morning and the smell of something simmering over the stove filled his nose. Rather than rise, he remained in the bed, studying his hostess from behind while she labored over breakfast. She appeared to be a healthy woman, sturdy more than beautiful, at least according to the tastes one might find in higher circles. She wasn’t fat by any means—hard work and the lack of abundant food made sure of that. Instead she was wide-hipped and somewhat muscled from her daily labors.

  It was a combination he found attractive, more so than the wispy figures so popular among the ladies of Albamarl who often starved themselves. Even the long braid of brown hair she kept rolled up at the back of her head was appealing. He wondered where her husband was. He clearly remembered her calling a man’s name before he had passed out.

  Rising from the small bed, he walked across the room and leaned over her shoulder. “Smells good.” Her reaction was gratifying. She startled, then turned, her face close to his. From her eyes and the shift in her aura, he could see she found him attractive. With a grin, he left the room.

  The little girl was in the yard, hanging wet clothing over a line with the help of a wooden stool that still left her almost too short for the task. After he had taken a quick trip behind the house, he returned and helped the child hang the clothes. She didn’t protest, but took to watching him with interest.

  “Are you a king?” asked the little girl.

  Tyrion looked down at her. “It depends who you ask.”

  She pouted. “That’s not an answer. Why don’t grownups ever answer straight?”

  He finished putting up the last pair of trousers. His own clothes were already hanging on the line, a sight that put him at ease. He had begun to wonder if the woman’s husband had left to sell them somewhere. Putting his hands on his hips, he tightened the blanket tied around his waist. “Sometimes the answers are too complicated to give an easy answer,” he replied at last. Then he stared into the girl’s eyes somberly. “I have never been called a king, but I have been like a king. Not too long ago I was a duke, but I think that’s probably over now.”

  The girl eyed him suspiciously. “But you were never a count?”

  He shook his head. “No. Why do you ask that?”

  “You look dangerous,” she responded honestly. “The Blood Count is very dangerous. He used to be our Lord, but the Queen banished him.”

  “And you thought I might be him?”

  She nodded.

  “Your name is Anna, right?” he asked. The girl nodded again. “Well, Anna, I can promise you that I am not the Blood Count, but you were right about one thing.”

  “What’s that?” she asked curiously.

  “I am dangerous,” he stated.

  Anna looked him up and down, then moved closer and pointed at one of the lines on his lower leg. “What’s this?”

  “It’s part of my magic,” he told her.

  “What does it do?”

  “It protects me from monsters, and from people like your Blood Count,” he replied.

  She looked at him with interest. “Is he your enemy?”

  Tyrion sighed. “One of many.”

  “Then you’re dead,” said Anna. “He’ll kill you.”

  “People have been telling me that all my life,” said Tyrion. “But I’m still alive, and all of them are dead.”

  “The Blood Count killed an entire army,” Anna informed him, stretching her arms wide and swinging them around. “Right here. He flooded the valley and drowned them all, along with Papa’s sheep. Mama said she and Papa had to hide in the hills until the water was gone.” She stopped for a second, then added, “That was before I was born.”

  Tyrion eyed the little girl. The challenge written on her face was humorous, and he couldn’t help but play her game. “I once killed an army’s worth of wizards, but I didn’t use
a flood, just my hands.” To illustrate his point, he activated his right arm blade, giving it a visible blue glow and holding it up for her to see.

  He had half expected the girl to be frightened at his use of magic, but to her credit she barely flinched. “They say the Blood Count killed the Dark Gods,” she boasted.

  He struggled to keep from laughing at her serious demeanor. Instead he nodded, then drew himself up and stood straight, towering over her. “I killed the race that created the Dark Gods, as well as most of the people living in the world back then.”

  Anna glared at him. “Liar. There’s lots of people in the world. Mama took me to Washbrook once. There’s hundreds of people there.”

  “It’s true, whether you believe me or not,” said Tyrion, then he bent down and touched a weed growing in the yard. Using a spellweave, he sent a thread of magic through it, causing it to grow visibly as she watched. Buds appeared and yellow flowers bloomed, and when there were enough, he used his magic to sever the plant from its base and wove them into a wreath, which he placed on her head.

  Anna was staring at him in wonder, more fascinated by his ability to create flowers than she had been by his armblade. Her fascination was interrupted by a shout from the house. “Anna! What are you doing? You should be done hanging the wash by now.”

  The girl ran into the house to answer her mother’s call, and Tyrion was left alone, his mind wandering back across the exchange he had just had with the girl. He couldn’t help but chuckle, not just at the girl, but at his own childish responses. Since his strength had recovered, he wandered around the house to a woodpile he had noted previously and made himself useful splitting wood.

  He knew he owed the woman a debt for taking care of him, and he wanted to repay her somehow since he figured he would leave in a day or so. Oddly, he felt closer to these people than any others he had met since leaving the She’Har grove. The citizens in the capital were far removed from the people he, or rather his creator, had known thousands of years before. The woman and her daughter, by contrast, weren’t very different from the people of his time. In short, they felt real to him in a way that the citizens and nobility of Albamarl never would.

  That evening, after finishing a simple dinner that consisted of a pottage made from primarily peas and onions, he sat staring into the fire when a small hand tugged on his sleeve. It was Anna, staring up at him with large brown eyes. “Do you know any stories?” she asked.

  Tyrion gave the woman a reassuring look. “It’s alright.” Then he paused. “I haven’t asked your name. Pardon me for being rude.”

  Anna’s mother looked down. “It’s Brigitte.”

  He hid his surprise at the coincidence. I hallucinated seeing my daughter, and now I’m saved by a woman with nearly the same name. “Mine’s Daniel,” he replied, falling back on a name he hadn’t used in millennia. For some reason it felt more comfortable here in this place, as though it matched the country farm. “I do have a story to tell, but I’m not sure you’ll want to hear it.”

  “Anything would be welcome,” said the mother.

  So, he launched into a retelling of his life, or his creator’s life. As far as he was concerned it was his own, since the original Tyrion had given up on being human. Who else could argue against it being his? Out of necessity, he shortened the tale considerably, as well as simplifying many parts of it to make it more understandable for Anna. Even so, his story took hours and though it kept the girl up long past her bedtime, neither she nor her mother showed any signs of sleepiness.

  He ended the story at what seemed to be its natural conclusion, when he had been betrayed by his daughter and had become a She’Har elder, but once he had finished and the silence grew, Anna stared at him in exasperation. “That’s it?” she asked angrily.

  His brow furrowed as he looked down on the child. “Pretty much.”

  “He turned into one of the tree people? They were the bad guys!” stated Anna, outrage evident in her voice. “That’s stupid.”

  “He needed to rest—” began Tyrion, but the girl interrupted him again.

  “He was supposed to kill the tree people!” declared the little girl. “And he almost did, but then he turns into one?”

  Brigitte broke in, “Anna, it’s time to go to bed. We’ve stayed up far too late. Thank Daniel for his story and let’s get some sleep.”

  “But Mom, it’s a dumb story! He needs to fix it!” protested the girl.

  Her mother’s gaze was unforgiving. “Anna!”

  The little girl glared back at her mother, then relented. She turned to Tyrion, her voice sullen, “Thank you for the story.” Under her breath she added, “Even if it was dumb.” Then she trundled away to roll up in the collection of blankets she and her mother had been using as a bed for the past week.

  Her mother looked at Tyrion and shrugged, an apology written on her face, but once it was apparent that he hadn’t taken offense, a question came into her eyes. “The boy in the story’s name was Daniel,” she said in a neutral tone.

  Tyrion nodded. “It was.”

  She stared once more at the tattoos that covered his arms. “But it was just a story, wasn’t it?”

  He went to the bed and stretched out. “I’m tired. Thank you for the food.” She didn’t press him for more, and he pretended to fall asleep quickly, but he lay awake for an unknown time after that, lost in thought.

  The next morning, he rose early and after eating what Brigitte prepared, he made his goodbyes. The look on the mother’s face was a mixture of sadness and relief. “Are you sure? You’ve only just recovered.”

  “I couldn’t impose any longer,” he told her.

  “Well, you cut some wood yesterday—”

  “I finished all of it,” he corrected. “I don’t think it’s enough to repay your kindness.”

  Her features froze. “All of it?”

  It had been a considerable pile, but he hadn’t relied on an axe to do the work. “All of it,” he affirmed.

  “There were almost two cords of wood out there,” she muttered in disbelief. “James said it would take days.”

  He headed for the door, but Anna called out to him from her seat at the table, “Fix your story.”

  Turning, he fixed her with a genuine smile, but underneath it something sinister lurked. “I intend to.” Then he addressed her mother, “Which way is Washbrook from here?”

  She answered immediately, “North, across the river. You’ll meet a road there; just follow it west a few miles.”

  He was gone before she could ask him any more questions.

  Chapter 32

  Breakfast had been finished for more than an hour, but Matthew and Rose, along with all the others except Conall, Irene, and Chad, still sat at the table. The conversation had ranged wide and far as they shared their stories, primarily covering the ground since Rose and Mordecai had escaped from Albamarl.

  Naturally, some parts were shortened for the sake of brevity, on both sides, but Matthew knew Rose had left out something critical. Something he needed to know. He had spent the prior evening deep in meditation, meditation that had proven somewhat fruitless. Their future was as bleak as ever, with almost every choice ending in darkness. Not the foreboding sort of darkness that indicated bad things ahead—no, this was the sort that showed nothing, simply a blank void.

  He had a strong feeling that what he had seen wasn’t something metaphorical, but rather an abrupt end of everything, a stark line that marked the end of history. It varied slightly how far away it appeared, but along every branch of the future it came within two months. The only glimmers of a more normal progression came after his conversation with Rose, and only along a few of the lines that led on from there.

  Nothing she had said so far hinted at anything that might give him an idea as to a course of action. Glancing at the others, he raised his voice, “Do any of you mind if I speak to Rose alone for a while?”

  The question earned him some sour glances, particularly from Karen and El
aine, but after a short space punctuated by random comments and the clattering of dishes, they left the two alone, retreating to the kitchen with their plates and utensils.

  Lady Rose didn’t wait for him to begin. “You seem very different than the last time I saw you,” she opined. “You’ve matured.”

  Rose had been a second mother to him for much of his life, or perhaps a close aunt. Hearing such a thing from her felt strange. “I don’t think it’s maturity,” he replied. “It’s more like a burden has landed on my shoulders. Without Dad here, it feels like I’m the only one who can carry it.”

  She smirked. “A burden, that’s a perfect description of maturity.” Lifting her tea-cup, she sniffed at it, realizing she had already finished the contents. Placing it back down on the table with visible disappointment, she added, “So what did you want to ask me?”

  “I need your help,” said Matthew frankly. “As they told you a little while ago, I can see branches of the future now, but what I didn’t mention was that currently there isn’t one.”

  She raised a brow. “No future, at all?”

  “Almost,” he nodded. “There are some murky paths that lead out from this moment. I think they’ll become clear after we talk, if you tell me the right things.”

  Rose leaned back in her chair. “That would imply that I’ve not told you the truth thus far.”

  “Or omitted something important,” suggested Matt. “Or that you haven’t told me the right lie.” When she looked askance at him, he continued, “I can’t assume it’s the truth I need to hear. All I know is that you know something I don’t, and either that truth, or perhaps some version of it you’ve edited, will open a path forward.”

  Her lips were pursed in a sour expression. “That’s not much help. You don’t even know whether you need the truth or a fiction.”