by Ulff Lehmann
She opened her eyes and caught his, peering across her shoulder. “I’m not made of paper, just get it over with.”
“As you wish, milady,” he replied.
She chuckled, and then uttered something between a howl and a groan, as he kneaded her flesh. “Yes!” she hissed.
There was a knock on the door. “You two done?” Jass asked loudly, her voice muffled by the door.
Drangar felt like a child caught with his hand in a sweetcake-jar. He stood, stumbled across something Jass, never a tidy person, had left lying on the floor, saying, “Almost.”
“Good, there’s someone here to talk to you.”
“Oh,” he said, and looked back at Gwen who was just rising off the bed. He averted his face when he caught her glare.
“No peeking,” she admonished sweetly. Seeing her smile like this would have made him blush even had he not already been drawn to her. She giggled; heat rushed into his face. He whirled around, tore open the door, and hurried out, Gwen’s laughter ringing after him. And to his ears, this expression of humor was gilded with affection.
The door slammed shut behind him and he looked into Jass’s astonished face. The warrior-woman was already halfway down the stairs, her body now opposite the bedroom. She cocked an eyebrow, regarded him for several heartbeats, and then shook her head and walked the rest of the way. “You’re in love, Drang,” she stated matter-of-factly as she passed into the kitchen.
Was he? It felt different than what he’d had with Hesmera. Affection, yes, very much so, he cared for Gwen. Just thinking her name made him beam like a madman. Her smile, he would fight the world to see her smile. Had he felt something similar when he had courted Hesmera? He didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. Gwen and Hesmera were as different as two people could be, although they shared the swearing and cursing habit.
Still feeling flustered, he entered the common room, and almost wished he hadn’t done so when he saw who was waiting for him. Not that he disliked Kildanor, but the Chosen had seen the Fiend unleashed in Ondalan. Still, the memory of the destruction, the way he had killed the Chanastardhians, shoved all the pleasant thoughts of Gwen right out of his mind. It also reminded him of the nightmare. Why did he always remember what those horrible dreams were about? He was just glad none of them involved her.
The woman accompanying the Chosen he had met once before. What was her name? Rheanna, yes. She had returned his sword. The Upholder looked at him, and the same strange expression he had seen once before spread on her face again. She had already hinted at some familiarity, but he couldn’t remember ever meeting her before.
“Good morning,” Drangar grumbled. No, he wasn’t angry, just concerned the Chosen would once again talk about demons. Right now, he wanted no part of that.
Kildanor moved to say something, but Upholder Rheanna spoke first. “Does the name Ralchanh mean anything to you?”
Had he not been wide-awake before, the mentioning of his mother’s family name would have woken him instantly. His surprise must have shown, for the priestess of Lliania gave a triumphant nod to the Chosen. “What of it?” he asked.
“Do you remember your mother?”
“She got pregnant with me and died in childbed.”
“Do you know anything about her?” the Upholder prodded.
“She got pregnant with a bastard son and died, what else is there to know?” Drangar snarled. “What is this? A trial for not using my birthmother’s name? Didn’t know it was a crime.”
“Mate, we’re here to help,” Kildanor said calmly.
“Help me with what? Not letting me find peace?” He heard Gwen descending, and felt his emotions warring within. Anger and affection—he dared not call it love—struggled. The latter won when she touched his side. He couldn’t help but smile. Why did she have this effect on him? “Very well,” he relented. “What is it about my birthmother?” Just having Gwen standing by his side was enough.
“Your mother was Caitrin Ralchanh, daughter to Amhlaidh Ralchanh, Justiciar to the Royal Court of Haldain.”
“Great, so what?” This revelation meant nothing.
“You said you traveled into the past, led by a ghost who showed you what really happened that day two and a half years ago in this very house.” He had the glum feeling that the little peace he had just found was about to be rent asunder. “I’m no artist, and my memory of your mother is vague, at best, she was older than me, and we traveled in different circles,” the Upholder continued. She retrieved a parchment from her shirt, unfolded it and held it up to him. “Did your spirit guide look anything like this?”
Drangar felt himself staring at the picture. His knees buckled and he slumped to the floor, his eyes still on the crude drawing in the Upholder’s hand. The portrait depicted a young woman, her face untouched by the ravages of time and still it bore the same features as the spirit he had seen. He had suspected then, by the way the woman had spoken, her gentle familiarity, her reproachful advice, that she could have been his mother, but until now he had not been sure.
“You have her eyes,” Gwen remarked from behind him. Her hand now rested on his shoulder. Stunned he looked up at her, oddly aware of how close her face was. She still smelled of the herbs and soaps from the bath, flowers with some mint. Their eyes met and for the briefest of moments he forgot they weren’t alone. All that mattered was she. The Upholder cleared her throat and broke the spell, and they turned away from each other. Drangar caught a little blush creeping into Gwen’s face, and was aware his face was reddening as well.
“This is my mother?” he said, trying to downplay the moment of intimacy.
“As I remember her, aye,” the priestess replied.
“How old was she?” Gwen asked. He still felt her hand on his shoulder, her scent surrounding him.
Upholder Rheanna stared into the distance for a few heartbeats then said, “She was nineteen when I last saw her.”
“It matters not,” Drangar muttered. “She’s dead now.”
“And that, mate, is where you err,” Kildanor interrupted. His voice sounded friendly, but he detected the steel underneath the joviality.
“She is dead, isn’t she?” Jass asked. She had put a tray filled with mugs on the table and now leaned against the wall.
He nodded. “Aye, why else would she appear as a spirit and show me what really happened in the past?”
“But,” Upholder Rheanna added, “things aren’t as simple as that. Her soul should have gone to the Bailey Majestic, unless she decided to remain.” He understood, and saw the flaw in his own thinking. “Left behind souls are stationary, bound to the place they died. Where were you born?”
“Kalduuhn.”
“So why did she come to you here?” Gwen voiced the question roiling in his mind. It truly made no sense.
“More importantly; why did we find a mummified dog in your cell, when the same animal had been seen alive a mere day before?” Kildanor added. He had almost forgotten Dog, and the advising voice that had repeatedly told him not to forget. “Not to mention that the Wizardess saw a woman overlaid by a snarling dog screaming at something she couldn’t see,” the Chosen went on.
Drangar stiffened. “What? She never told me.”
“Because all of us forgot,” Kildanor said. “There was so much going on at the time with the pinnacle of strangeness of you having returned to life that we simply forgot. We had the war to worry about, so the entire affair with her seeing a dog overlaying a woman in the spiritworld was lost amidst everything else.” The Chosen shook his head, “I should have connected the dots then, but in a way, I wanted to believe you were a sign that Lesganagh was on our side.”
“Are you saying his mother was a dog?” Jass asked, a trace of hysteria ringing in her voice. Gwen snorted.
“No,” Rheanna said. “His mother’s spirit, Cat’s spirit—her nickname was Cat—had somehow managed to manifest or root itself in the animal.”
“Why didn’t Dog… she… my mother tell me?” Dran
gar asked, feeling silly the moment the words left his mouth.
“Would you have believed her?” Kildanor said.
No, he realized, he wouldn’t have, but remained silent. All of this became stranger by the breath, his mother guiding him into the past, watching over him as his sheepdog. The nightmares, Hesmera’s death, the blood raging fiend in his mind, how did this all make sense?
His confusion must have shown, for Kildanor said, “I promised you we would get to the bottom of this, and I stand by my word. When you leave for Kalduuhn I ride with you.”
“I never made a promise to you, Ralchanh,” the Upholder said formally.
“Ralgon,” he corrected, sounding much weaker than when he usually corrected anyone who used his old name.
“Ralchanh,” Rheanna insisted. “As I said, I never made a promise to you, but your mother’s spirit asked me to help you, and so I will.”
He stared at her, stunned. What the Scales was she talking about? Dog was dead, his mother’s spirit gone. Why else would the animal have died? And why, if his mother’s soul still walked the world, did she talk to some Upholder? “What is your connection to her that she would task you with this?”
“She was part of the household I was born into.”
It was Gwen who grasped the significance of Rheanna’s words, for she drew a deep breath and whistled softly. He had never much bothered with priesthoods and all that, so he looked up quizzically, first at Gwen and then at Rheanna. “She’s of royal blood,” Gwen explained. “A Justiciar is assigned to a royal court.”
Drangar shrugged. “Long way from home, princess,” he muttered, receiving a stinging slap from the woman at his side. In a way he knew he deserved this, knew he was reverting to the sullen man he had been for more than two years, but he couldn’t help it. All these revelations, added to the fiendish threat inside his mind, were too much. He shrugged, said “Sorry” and stood. He turned away from this assembly, and not even Gwen’s scent reached his mind or heart. He felt an emptiness growing within, darker and more desperate than anything he had ever felt before, heard the Fiend’s triumphant call and cared not. Spirits, demons, breaking a magical cage that had almost killed him once more, tearing apart human beings with his bare hands, he wanted nothing of that. A bottomless pit seemed to open beneath him and he felt himself falling, falling. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered…
Except that a soft but strong hand somehow reached through the blackness, grasped him before he could pull away, tugged him back. “Stay,” Gwen said. “Don’t run, please.”
“And why shouldn’t I?” he asked, not suppressing the frustration he felt. “It seems as if I have not a bit of control over my life. Spirits, ghosts, magic—Scales!—even being brought back from the dead, I never asked for any of this. I never wanted any of this.” Drangar felt himself sink to his knees. “How can I keep my oath if those behind her death are already dead as well?”
“The Sons of Traksor?” Kildanor asked.
He looked at the Chosen, furiously wiping the tears from his eyes. “No, the bastards who did this to me! The bastards who made me kill her.”
“Do you think they put this fiend in you?” Kildanor regarded him steadily, frowning.
He thought briefly then shook his head. “No, the rage was there before I ever set foot in Dunthiochagh. The sword, remember?” Gwen’s hands rested on his shoulders now.
“As long as you haven’t gotten to the bottom of this, Ralchanh,” Upholder Rheanna said, “the attacks will eventually continue. No soul will be safe with you, but there is more to it; otherwise, why would your mother ask me to protect you? I will not deny a dead woman’s wish, so when you go to Kalduuhn I will accompany you.”
“So will I,” Gwen said, squeezing his shoulders.
“Drangar, if you want to find peace you must go to the Eye of Traksor and ask all those uncomfortable questions. You must find out why you are who you are,” the Chosen said, pouring a mug of tea. “Drink.”
He took the mug and sipped. Someone kissed his cheek. Gwen. Her scent was unmistakable. “We’ll get through this.”
He hoped she was right.
Why were things so difficult? Yes, he had dreamed of being a hero, a shining warrior to rescue kings and queens. He had been young then, and still a ward of the Sons of Traksor. A bastard as it turned out later. They had put those thoughts into his mind, told him what honor meant. And then they had spat in his face, and he had run.
He wanted to run now; the instinct was strong, so strong. All he hoped for was that it would end once the truth was out, once Darlontor, Dalgor and all the others had confessed their crimes and had been made to pay. What if things had gone differently? What if Darlontor had never cursed him? What if he had grown up still thinking himself the Priest High’s son? Would his life have been different? Would he still be haunted by nightmares, taunted by demons, feel so helpless?
What did it matter that he now knew his mother’s name and her ancestry? Nothing had changed. Nothing at all. All he wanted was peace, to live a life as far removed from all the wars and conflicts that had dominated his existence for so long. That, if nothing else, was the one true thing he had told Kerral back at his hut. The joy he had once known when fighting was gone, dead like so many other things he had once held dear. And he wasn’t even sure this was a good thing. Sometimes the only thing that brought justice was a decisive stroke of a sword. As strange as this thought was, Drangar felt a kernel of truth in it. After all, when he had passed judgment on the bastard Eanaighist Danaissan, he had done more good in the big picture of Dunthiochagh’s defense.
Maybe knowing his grandda had been one of Lliania’s Justiciars wasn’t such a bad thing. Maybe he had inherited his own sense of justice from a long dead man. Was that his road, to walk the path of the Lawgiver? He chuckled. Only the gods knew that answer. And besides, how could he pass judgment when he had committed so many crimes himself. He refused to take the easy way out, would not argue that the slaughter of an entire village had been a just thing. That angle hadn’t worked in Ondalan; the Chanastardhians had not tortured their prisoners, and tearing through them had not been a just act. It was what it was. Nothing more, nothing less, and he had to atone for it, even if it hadn’t been his mind that guided the savagery. At the very least he would drive out that monster lurking in his mind.
Drangar stared at the flames dancing in the fireplace. He was sitting in the room in which he had killed Hesmera. No, he reminded himself forcefully. This was the room in which Hesmera had been killed, by his hand, certainly, but not by him. The difference was all. He had not killed her, never could have killed her. His feet moved as if to shift straw away from the flames, a habit he had acquired years ago, drawing rushes away from the fire. Here, in this house, he realized when his boots only made a muffled scrape on the carpet, the fireplace was bricked heavily; a span of stones prevented most sparks from ever reaching the floor.
Gwen entered. He already could tell it was she by the way she walked. She stopped by the table and waited. Most likely, she was regarding him. Why she was attracted to him he could only guess; the tufts of hair surely made him look more like an abused paintbrush than a human being. He closed his eyes and tried to ease the tension in his neck.
“You need to stop worrying,” she said. Was he that obvious, that predictable? “You brood over every godsdamned detail. Sometimes there is no ulterior motive, you know?” She crossed the few feet that separated them and put her hands on his shoulders. “Sometimes things just are.”
He half turned, the first syllable of his reply ready to roll off his lips, but she shushed him into silence. “I like you, understood? There doesn’t have to be a reason for everything.” Her hand caressed his scalp. “Besides, it does grow back, not that it matters. Some men, you know, are so concerned with their grooming you can see them searching for a mirror wherever they are. But they never look themselves in the eye; if they did, they’d realize they’re empty inside.” Her red tresses surrounded
her face like a halo. “With you, well, let’s just say you’ll never have to worry about people thinking you shallow.” She tweaked his nose, stuck out her tongue, and walked away.
He smiled, then snorted, then laughed. Gods, it felt good to laugh. The nightmares certainly would not go away, but Gwen was there to calm him. Not everything he had seen in Ondalan was bad. He turned, and saw her looking at him. Again, she stuck her tongue out, saying, “Don’t worry, we’ll get to the bottom of this. You are not alone.”
CHAPTER 30
A century of negligence had changed the Elven Road through Gathran. Not many had dared following the straight paved lines that bisected the forest from east to west and south to north. At its center lay Honas Graigh, and humans, being the superstitious lot that they were, believed dead elves haunted the place still. Some stretches of road were still clear of shrubs and ferns and moss, but they were rare, becoming fewer each year.
Lightbringer walked through such a space right now, and wondered how the elves would act once when they had returned and reassumed command of their capital. She hoped the issue could be controlled without their endless deliberations; the humans had adopted this most irritating trait, bickering and politics had halted what should have been a simple procedure. Had the fools acted when they’d had the chance, things would not have been as bad. Instead of driving home their advantage, the idiots had sat back and enjoyed their success, swearing oaths and promising each other to be ever watchful. Why had none of them ever pursued the foe and finished them off? She had given them the tools, and the advice to use them guardedly. She had also told them to strike without mercy, without regret. And the simpletons had let their pride get the better of them. With their leader dead, they had not carried on the war. They had watched and done nothing. Where their endless elaborating and politicking had brought stability to one region, it had condemned another to ruin.