A Clatter of Chains

by A Van Wyck

  He squirmed, his stomach cringing at half-remembered pain. “I was a little bit muddled even before I… fell.” He didn’t want to say lost. He remembered… most of the start of the match. “He was good,” he understated, not wanting to sound like he was downplaying his own ineptitude by admitting his opponent had been excellent.

  The keeper seemed to hear the unspoken words nevertheless.

  “You were lucky,” the priest informed him. “He might have stabbed you again if not for a nearby guard’s quick thinking. I’ve been trying to find the young man again, to thank him, but so far without success.”

  The keeper’s serious expression took on a more enquiring cast. “This person who stabbed you, was it the same assassin you encountered in the royal apartments?”

  His fingers knotted themselves into fists around the bed sheets and he had to remind himself to breathe. They’d both been lithe and agile, certainly, but the assassin had been wrapped from head to toe in black cloth and his most recent opponent had been dressed in bulky practice armor, complete with helm. In the first instance, he hadn’t gotten a good look because it had been dark and he’d been panicked and winded. This time he hadn’t thought to get a good look and then he’d been hard pressed to stay conscious. And then he’d been stabbed. None of which made for clear memories but…

  “It could have been,” he allowed. Another, more urgent thought occurred. “But the princess! She was right there! Why go to all the trouble with Norvalis and the tourney to kill me?” He realized he sounded ungrateful. He should just be glad the assassin – for that’s what the swordsman must have been – had been concentrating on him and not her. He’d say a prayer of repentance for his ungracious thought later.

  “I can think of two reasons,” Justin said, reclaiming his attention. “Revenge. Or expedience.” The priest’s mouth twisted in distaste. “Of the two, I’d prefer if it were revenge.” The keeper was deep in thought and did not notice his horrified expression immediately. “What I mean,” the keeper rushed to clarify, “is that revenge on you for foiling the first assassination attempt would be an emotionally motivated response. Emotions,” the keeper continued with an empath’s authority, “can be predicted and anticipated.” For an instant, the priest’s eyes seemed flat and hard. “But if going after you was nothing more than the elimination of a known obstacle – at the cost of an opportunity at the princess herself – I’m afraid we’re dealing with something else altogether.” The priest looked away. “A highly pragmatic, methodical mind can seem indistinguishable from evil. And can prove just as impossible to deter. If that is what we are dealing with – and I begin to suspect it is – then not only can we expect a further attack but we can expect it to be directed at you again, instead of at the princess.”

  He envisioned an assassin with the magical resources and martial prowess he’d seen, then imagined him as driven and relentless as the keeper had just described.

  “Quite,” the keeper agreed, responding to his sudden spike of apprehension.

  “They might not be the same person though, right?” he grasped hopefully.

  “Of course,” the priest agreed and then, surprisingly, laughed aloud. “Are we actually hoping there’s more than one assassin after your princess?”

  Despite everything, he laughed. Or tried to.

  “Ow! Ow, ow, ow, ow!

  This wasn’t good. He needed to get back to guarding the princess. He did no one any good confined to a bed in the bowels of the castle.

  “How long until I’m mended?” He wouldn’t be much use in a fight but at least he could give advance warning if any magical clouds started stalking the royal apartments.

  “Not too long. The wound has scabbed nicely and the internal damage is… minimal. No poison either, thank Helia! And no infection. You are extraordinarily resilient,” Justin complimented. “Provided you take your ease for a while longer, you should be fine. You will have an ugly scar but better that than a pretty headstone.”

  “How am I even alive?” he wondered aloud, staring at the thick bandages. He was no healer but he was a swordsman and he knew a stab through the stomach was only slightly less deadly than one through the heart. Unless a very good healer happened to be… nearby…

  He glanced suspiciously at the keeper, only now noticing the sunken cheeks, the brittle scent of utter exhaustion, the dark rings beneath the eyes, standing in sharp contrast to the sallow pallor of the skin. He looked again at the bandaged hand. “You were there…” he stated, suddenly sure. An unexpected swell of emotion threatened to choke him for a moment. He let his head slump back on the pillow, hiding his eyes. How many times was this now the keeper had saved him?

  “I was close enough,” the man admitted. “You had me very worried. It took all of my not inconsiderable talents to save you.” The priest’s voice carried a smile. “For a while there I didn’t think it was going to be enough.”

  They sat in silence while he brought his emotions under control.

  “You streamed,” he stated finally.

  “I did.”

  Raising his head, he looked again at the bandaged hand and ravaged features. The keeper looked like he too had narrowly returned from death’s doorstep. “I’m sorry.”

  Justin blinked. “Whatever for?”

  He chewed his lip and said something other than he’d intended.

  “It’s my fault your secret is out.” It had been understood the keeper’s ‘considerable talents’ should not be widely advertised in the kingdom. Kingdom commoners had grown up with ghost stories painting Temple priests as warlocks and necromancers. Stories spurred no doubt by exaggerated retellings of the deeds of the battle choirs and Temple healers. The Renali had a bone-deep mistrust of magic. The noble caste were supposedly better educated and enlightened. But news of the keeper’s mystical powers could not help but drive a wedge between them. At best it could erase all the goodwill the keeper had garnered. At worst it could spell disaster for the diplomatic mission.

  “I’d gladly do it again,” Justin smiled unconcernedly. “Besides, it was bound to come out eventually.”

  Another thought occurred and he winced, almost too wary to form the words. “Did the ambassador give you a lot of trouble?” He could just imagine Lord Malconte’s fit of hysterics.

  “We’ve discussed it,” the keeper said simply. “He’ll be fine. Once he’s calmed down.” The priests tone made it clear ‘once they’ve done peeling him off the ceiling’ would have been a better description.

  Beneath the floral bouquet of the room, he caught a hint of lingering rose oil and ozone. “He’s been here?”

  “He’s very anxious for your side of the story. A lot of people are.” Abruptly the priest cocked an ear as though listening intently for something. “He’s on his way again right now, as a matter of fact,” the priest informed him, standing. “I’ll head him off in the passage. He can be quite… energetic. And you need your rest.”

  Distant thuds resolved into multiple pairs of footfalls.

  The priest gave up the bedside chair to a vase of lilies scooped from the floor.

  “Where did all the flowers come from?” he asked, finally wondering.

  “Guess,” the keeper invited enigmatically.

  Oh.

  He hoped she didn’t blame herself for inadvertently sending him to his death.

  “You,” the keeper said from the door, “get some sleep.”

  A wave of lethargy washed over him and he surrendered to it obediently.

  Despite the keeper’s assurances, he spent the next week in bed. Justin’s spell had knitted his flesh but the join was far from seamless and he still had much mending to do. Infection remained absent and although the scar was not nearly as bad as promised the same could not be said for the pain. At times it felt as if he’d swallowed a weasel headfirst and it was chewing its way out.

  He’d had the dreaded visit from ambassador Malconte and survived. Barely. Invigilator Reed, the investigator with the reptile smile
, had also had a turn. Keeper Justin had arrived in time to prevent Marco from confessing to being complicit in his own stabbing.

  Really, Nestor!

  Dennik stopped by whenever the guard shifts allowed. These visits were marred by his friend’s obvious discomfort at the magical nature of his recovery.

  I’m not suddenly some ghoul, Dennik.

  That’s exactly what a ghoul would say… the man would half-joke.

  The princess’s visit had, in its way, been almost as bad as the ambassador’s. He hadn’t needed any empathic ability to feel her remorse and self castigation all the way from his door. She’d stood peeking at him between her fingers, afraid to come near him lest her mere presence cause him spontaneous physical harm. Somehow, he’d ended up consoling her. And he must have done a good job because she’d left teary eyed but relieved. The only sour note to her continued visits was her ever-present bodyguard, Luvid. He was amazed the arrogant condescension emanating from Luvid had not yet mildewed the wall where the man habitually leaned on these visits.

  The king had not come, of course, but had sent the royal physician. The anvil jawed man with the painfully erect bearing had pronounced him fit to leave his bed on the fifth day, albeit with a crutch. His first pained steps made clear that his alternate escape plan – namely going out the window and scaling the wall – had been better left unattempted. And though he hated the stupid crutch he would have agreed to use it to paddle himself up and down the corridors in a rowboat as long as it released him from his sick bed.

  Between the Guard captain and the royal physician he’d yet to be reinstated as the princess’s bodyguard. And so early morning found him clumping down a shady corridor alongside the keeper, accompanying the man to a diplomatic meeting. The priest was looking better.

  “Forgiveness is key,” the Justin was saying, continuing a conversation that had started as a lesson and evolved into a discussion. “The misconception that forgiveness needs to be earned is what prevents so many from ever experiencing true peace.”

  It had been long since he’d had a proper religious discussion. He hadn’t realized until now how keenly he’d missed it.

  “If forgiveness is sought then it has value to the seeker, if that value is not bartered in effort then how has forgiveness been earned? After all, Hegemon teaches that it is the sweat of the labor that blesses the grain to the body.”

  Keeper Justin smiled thinly but whether enjoying their bout of sophistry or just enjoying Marco’s enjoyment of it was impossible to tell.

  “That way of thinking,” the priest argued, “equates forgiveness with a commodity, ascribes to it an arbitrary value so it may be earned and given, horded and sold. The antithesis of peace, such as hate and anger, jealousy and greed, are often completely groundless in their existence. Why should forgiveness, a tool of healing, be circumscribed by tighter strictures than its opposites?”

  He nodded without conceding the point. “Hegemon wrote that nobler deeds demand a higher price,” he rebutted, “that bravery and selflessness are virtues only because it requires sacrifice to make them so. He held that nobility of spirit was prized because of its rarity. I’m sure he would have included forgiveness if he’d thought to.”

  “Ah, Hegemon,” Justin mused. “Did you know he started out as a numbers clerk for a noble house? Those early years spent trading and balancing commodities informed much of his later writings. It is no surprise he equates forgiveness with something to be bought or earned with effort.”

  “He wasn’t wrong though,” Marco pressed. “Bravery and self sacrifice, even forgiveness, is rare. You only have to look at the world to see that.”

  “Yes,” the keeper said sadly, “and just look at the world. What use dissecting our base natures like this if we’re unwilling to change for the better?”

  “You would ask people to forgive all those who trespass against them unequivocally?”

  “No,” Justin seemed surprised. “I would ask them not to trespass against each other.”

  They passed a guard standing to attention at a doorway and he noticed from the corner of his eye as the man made a warding gesture. He frowned. Tales of his miraculous recovery and the keeper’s role in it had spread like wildfire. Even with his book knowledge he hadn’t fully appreciated how superstitious the Renali were. Twice now the servants who’d brought his dinner or swept his room had moved with fevered haste, anxious to be done and away from him. He sighed.

  “I’m really sorry about that,” he apologized, knowing the priest would have felt the guard’s discomfort.

  “Some good has come of it, actually,” the priest replied, unconcerned.

  “How so?” Surprise colored his tone.

  “Well, for starters, I’m receiving fewer and fewer invitations from noble houses trying to broker private deals for Temple favors,” Justin smiled. “And I’ve actually been approached several times now with requests to tend to a sick family member. The last took me outside the castle walls and into the city.”

  The keeper chuckled at his astonishment.

  “Yes, I was quite impressed at the courage of those who approached me, considering the rumors running rampant out there. People are capable of tremendous feats… when desperate.”

  “What happened?” he couldn’t help enquiring.

  “The first was the daughter of a cook here in the palace who’d badly cut her hand. It was completely maimed and her mother had despaired of the girl’s future here. I managed to knit the tendons but only barely.” The keeper smiled at the memory. “You would have thought I really had brought her back from the dead the way her mother went on.”

  “And the one that took you out into the city?” he asked.

  The keeper sobered. “An old man who’d worked in a dye mill most of his life. Long years breathing the powders they use there had cankered his lungs. He’d been wasting in bed for almost a year, struggling for breath every moment. I performed the novissim’uta for him. His kin seemed relieved.”

  Silence settled between them and Marco felt foolish for having steered the conversation down this path.

  The novissim’uta was a death vigil where an adherent with the keeper’s talents could untether a soul from its fruitless fight. Get it to leave off life and light its way to Helia’s halls. He could never have imagined the keeper performing such a ritual. Contemplating it now disturbed him deeply. And perhaps unfairly. Even simple monks were required to sing the novissim’uta on occasion.

  Another thought occurred and his head jerked in the keeper’s direction.

  “Was the man a believer?” he asked before he could think better of it.

  “I do not believe so,” the keeper allowed matter-of-factly.

  His eyes grew round. The novissim’uta was a sacred rite reserved for the faithful, those who had made their own efforts at reaching Helia’s good graces. In many ways it was a blessing, a last helping hand to shove them in the direction of Helia’s halls. Its application to heathens was strictly forbidden by Temple doctrine.

  “Then...”

  “I choose,” the keeper forestalled him, “to believe that a good man will be judged by the creed of his life, not that of his land. If Helia doesn’t want him, let her tell him no.”

  He trudged along, wondering how to vocalise the enormity of what was going through his mind. Eventually, he gave up.

  “How are the diplomatic meetings going?” he asked to change the subject. Though he knew his duties as bodyguard were important, he could not help feel he was purposely neglecting his responsibilities as the keeper’s scribe.

  “Very well, despite the ambassador’s constant worry. We’ve ironed out all the important politics. What remains are the trade agreements, which might prove more difficult altogether.” The keeper smiled down at him. “I hope you’re not getting homesick. We might end up being here quite a while, judging by the bean counters’ bickering.”

  “That’s good,” he ventured.

  The priest regarded him critically.
“You miss being at the table?”

  There wasn’t much you could hide from Justin. “A little.”

  “I’m surprised. You miss the tedium and the inked fingernails?”

  “Well, maybe not that. But at least no one tried to kill me when I was merely your scribe.”

  “Marco,” the keeper laughed, “you’ve never been merely my scribe–”

  “Keeper Wisenpraal?” They turned to see a page in palace livery walking swiftly down the corridor towards them.

  “Yes?” Justin responded.

  “Sir,” the young man stopped at a respectful – or perhaps fearful – distance, executing a half-bow. “Ambassador Malconte requests your presence in the Green Conference Room, sir.”

  “Tell him I’ll be right there,” the Keeper nodded. The page retreated two steps before turning to hurry the other way.

  “Will you be alright on your own?” the priest enquired, concern lighting the kindly features.

  “Of course, Keeper.”

  “I’ll find you later,” Justin promised, briefly placing one hand on his shoulder. “I feel we don’t get enough opportunity to just talk anymore. You’re healing fast – very fast – and soon you won’t have time for me.”

  He opened his mouth to argue but knew Justin was right. He watched the priest follow the page’s steps out of sight.

  Deciding he’d take a roundabout route to his room, he settled the crutch more firmly beneath his arm and clomped off down the corridor. Despite the keeper lauding his rate of recovery, he was panting and sweaty before long. He gave up his meandering in favor of a more direct route.

  His little hole-in-the-wall room in the royal apartments was just as he’d left it and for a very brief moment he missed his goose down sickbed. He grunted with the effort of lowering himself to his narrow, canvas cot. The hitch in his midriff was a hard lump and an errant fancy pictured a spigot sticking from his stomach. One he might open, could he only find the valve, and watch the pain pour out. He lay down in the bare, windowless room, staring at the low ceiling while his thoughts trekked uncomfortable paths. He thought again about the keeper’s speculation concerning his attacker.