I took a slow, shuffling step. Slowly, sliding along the wall, I moved back away from the doorway until I couldn’t hear the music anymore. Then I took another step, until my hands hurt with the cold again and the ache in my chest came from nothing more than broken ribs. They were simpler pains, easier to endure.
I don’t know how long it was before the two girls came back. The younger one held out a blanket wrapped around something. I hugged it to my aching chest. It seemed disproportionately heavy for its size, but my arms were trembling slightly under their own weight, so it was hard to tell. The older girl held out a small, solid purse. I took it as well, clutching it so tightly my frostburned fingers ached.
She looked at me. “You can have a corner by the fire in here if you want it.”
The younger girl nodded quickly. “Nattie won’t mind.” She took a step and reached out to take my arm.
I jerked away from her, almost falling. “No!” I meant to shout but it came out as a weak croak, “Don’t touch me.” My voice was shaking, though I couldn’t tell if I was angry or afraid. I staggered away against the wall. My voice was blurry in my ears. “I’ll be fine.”
The younger girl started to cry, her hands hanging useless at her sides.
“I’ve got somewhere to go.” My voice cracked and I turned away. I hurried off as fast as I could. I wasn’t sure what I was running from, unless it was people. That was another lesson I had learned perhaps too well: people meant pain. I heard a few muffled sobs behind me. It seemed a long while before I made it to the corner.
I made it to my hidden place, where the roofs of two buildings met underneath the overhang of a third. I don’t know how I managed to climb up there.
Inside the blanket was a whole flask of spiced wine and a loaf of fresh bread nestled next to a turkey breast bigger than both my balled fists. I wrapped myself in the blanket and moved out of the wind as the snow turned to sleet. The brick of the chimney behind me was warm and wonderful.
The first swallow of wine burned my mouth like fire where it was cut. But the second didn’t sting nearly so much. The bread was soft and the turkey was still warm.
I woke at midnight when all the bells in the city started ringing. People ran and shouted in the streets. The seven days of High Mourning were behind us. Midwinter was past. A new year had begun.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Burning Wheel
I STAYED TUCKED INTO my secret place all that night and woke late the next day to find my body had stiffened into a tight knot of pain. Since I still had food and a little wine I stayed where I was rather than risk falling when I tried to climb down to the street.
It was a sunless day with a damp wind that never seemed to stop. Sleet gusted under the protection of the overhanging roof. The chimney was warm behind me, but it wasn’t enough to actually dry out my blanket or drive away the chilly damp that soaked my clothes.
I finished the wine and the bread early on, and after that I spent most of my time gnawing at the turkey bones and trying to warm up snow in the empty wine flask so I could drink it. Neither proved very productive, and I ended up eating mouthfuls of slushy snow that left me shivering with the taste of tar in my mouth.
Despite my injuries I dropped off to sleep in the afternoon and woke late at night filled with the most wonderful warmth. I pushed away my blanket and rolled away from the now too-hot chimney only to wake near dawn, shivering and soaked through to the skin. I felt strange, dizzy and fuddled. I huddled back against the chimney and spent the rest of the day drifting in and out of a restless, fevered sleep.
I have no memory of how I made it off the rooftop, delirious with fever and nearly crippled. I don’t remember making my way the three-quarters of a mile through Tallows and the Crates. I only remember falling down the stairs that led to Trapis’ basement, my purse of money clutched tight in my hand. As I lay there shivering and sweating I heard the faint slapping of his bare feet on the stone.
“What what,” he said gently as he picked me up. “Hush hush.”
Trapis nursed me through the long days of my fever. He wrapped me in blankets, fed me, and when my fever showed no signs of breaking on its own, he used the money I’d brought to buy a bittersweet medicine. He kept my face and hands wet and cool while murmuring his patient, gentle, “What what. Hush hush,” while I cried out from endless fever dreams of my dead parents, the Chandrian, and a man with empty eyes.
I woke clear-headed and cool.
“Oooohreeee,” Tanee said loudly from where he was tied to his cot.
“What what. Hush hush, Tanee.” Trapis said as he put down one of the babies and picked up the other. It looked around owlishly with wide, dark eyes, but seemed unable to support its own head. It was quiet in the room.
“Ooooooohreeee,” Tanee said again.
I coughed, trying to clear my throat.
“There’s a cup on the floor next to you,” Trapis said, brushing a hand along the head of the baby he held.
“OOOOOH OOHRRRREE EEEEEEHHAA!” Tanee bellowed, strange half-gasps punctuating his cry. The noise agitated several of the others who moved restlessly in their cots. The older boy sitting in the corner raised his hands to the sides of his head and began to moan. He started rocking back and forth, gently at first, but then more and more violently so that when he came forward his head knocked against the bare stone of the wall.
Trapis was at his side before the boy could do himself any real harm. He put his arms around the rocking boy. “Hush hush, Loni. Hush hush.” The boy’s rocking slowed but did not entirely subside. “Tanee, you know better than to make all that noise.” His voice was serious, but not stern. “Why are you making trouble? Loni could hurt himself.”
“Oorrahee,” Tanee said softly. I thought I could detect a note of remorse in his voice.
“I think he wants a story,” I said, surprising myself by speaking.
“Aaaa,” Tanee said.
“Is that what you want, Tanee?”
“Aaaa.”
There was a quiet moment. “I don’t know any stories,” he said.
Tanee remained stubbornly silent.
Everyone knows one story, I thought. Everyone knows at least one.
“Ooooooree!”
Trapis looked around at the quiet room, as if looking for an excuse. “Well,” he said reluctantly. “It has been a while since we had a story, hasn’t it?” He looked down at the boy in his arms. “Would you like a story, Loni?”
Loni nodded a violent affirmation, nearly battering Trapis’ cheek with the back of his head.
“Will you be good and sit by yourself, so I can tell a story?”
Loni stopped rocking almost immediately. Trapis slowly unwrapped his arms and stepped away. After a long look to make sure the boy wouldn’t hurt himself, he stepped carefully back to his chair.
“Well,” he muttered softly to himself as he stooped to pick up the baby he had set aside. “Do I have a story?” He spoke very quietly to the child’s wide eyes. “No. No, I don’t. Can I remember one? I suppose I had better.”
He sat for a long moment, humming to the child in his arms, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Yes, of course.” He sat up taller in his chair. “Are you ready?”
This is a story from long ago. Back before any of us were born. Before our fathers were born, too. It was a long time ago. Maybe—maybe four hundred years. No, more than that. Probably a thousand years. But maybe not quite as much as that.
It was a bad time in the world. People were hungry and sick. There were famines and great plagues. There were many wars and other bad things in this time, because there was no one to stop them.
But the worst thing in this time was that there were demons walking the land. Some of them were small and troublesome, creatures who lamed horses and spoiled milk. But there were many worse than those.
There were demons who hid in men’s bodies and made them sick or mad, but those were not the worst. There were demons like great beasts that would
catch and eat men while they were still alive and screaming, but they were not the worst. Some demons stole the skins of men and wore them like clothes, but even they were not the worst.
There was one demon that stood above the others. Encanis, the swallowing darkness. No matter where he walked, shadows hid his face, and scorpions that stung him died of the corruption they had touched.
Now Tehlu, who made the world and who is lord over all, watched the world of men. He saw that demons made sport of us and killed us and ate our bodies. Some men he saved, but only a few. For Tehlu is just and saves only the worthy, and in these times few men acted even for their own good, let alone the good of others.
Because of this, Tehlu was unhappy. For he had made the world to be a good place for men to live. But his church was corrupt. They stole from the poor and did not live by the laws he had given….
No, wait. There was no church yet, and no priests either. Just men and women, and some of them knew who Tehlu was. But even those were wicked, so when they called on Lord Tehlu for help he felt no desire to aid them.
But after years of watching and waiting, Tehlu saw a woman pure of heart and spirit. Her name was Perial. Her mother had raised her to know Tehlu, and she worshiped him as well as her poor circumstances allowed. Although her own life was hard, Perial prayed only for others, and never for herself.
Tehlu watched her for long years. He saw her life was hard, full of misfortune and torment at the hands of demons and bad men. But she never cursed his name or ceased her praying, and she never treated any person other than with kindness and respect.
So late one night, Tehlu went to her in a dream. He stood before her, and seemed to be made entirely of fire or sunlight. He came to her in splendor and asked her if she knew who he was.
“Sure enough,” she said. You see, she was very calm about it because she thought she was just having an odd dream. “You’re Lord Tehlu.”
He nodded and asked her if she knew why he had come to her.
“Are you going to do something for my neighbor Deborah?” she asked. Because that’s who she had prayed for before she went to sleep. “Are you going to lay your hand on her husband Losel and make him a better man? The way he treats her isn’t right. Man should never lay a hand on woman, save in love.”
Tehlu knew her neighbors. He knew they were wicked people who had done wicked things. Everyone in the village was wicked but her. Everyone in the world was. He told her so.
“Deborah has been very kind and good to me,” Perial said. “And even Losel, who I don’t care for, is one of my neighbors all the same.”
Tehlu told her that Deborah spent time in many different men’s beds, and Losel drank every day of the week, even on Mourning. No, wait—there wasn’t any Mourning yet. But he drank a lot at any rate. Sometimes he grew so angry that he beat his wife until she could not stand or even cry aloud.
Perial was quiet for a long moment in her dream. She knew Tehlu spoke the truth, but while Perial was pure of heart, she was not a fool. She had suspected her neighbors of doing the things Tehlu said. Even now that she knew for certain, she cared for her neighbors all the same. “You won’t help her?”
Tehlu said that the man and wife were each other’s fitting punishment. They were wicked and the wicked should be punished.
Perial spoke out honestly, perhaps because she thought she was dreaming, but perhaps she would have said the same thing had she been awake, for Perial said what was in her heart. “It’s not their fault that the world is full of hard choices and hunger and loneliness,” she said. “What can you expect of people when demons are their neighbors?”
But though Tehlu listened to her wise words with his ears, he told her that mankind was wicked, and the wicked should be punished.
“I think you know very little about what it is to be a man,” she said. “And I would still help them if I could,” she told him resolutely.
SO YOU SHALL, Tehlu told her, and reached out to lay his hand on her heart. When he touched her she felt like she were a great golden bell that had just rung out its first note. She opened her eyes and knew then that it had been no normal dream.
Thus it was that she was not surprised to discover she was pregnant. In three months she gave birth to a perfect dark-eyed baby boy. She named him Menda. The day after he was born, Menda could crawl. In two days he could walk. Perial was surprised, but not worried, for she knew the child was a gift from God.
Nevertheless, Perial was wise. She knew that people might not understand. So she kept Menda close by her, and when her friends and neighbors came to visit, she sent them away.
But this could only last a little while, for in a small town there are no secrets. Folk knew that Perial was not married. And while children born out of wedlock were common during this time, children who grew to manhood in less than two months were not. They were afraid that she might have lain down with a demon, and that her child was a demon’s child. Such things were not unheard of in those dark times, and the people were afraid.
So everyone gathered together on the first day of the seventh span, and made their way to the tiny house where Perial lived by herself with her son. The town smith, whose name was Rengen, led them. “Show us the boy,” he yelled. But there was no response from the house. “Bring out the boy, and show us he is nothing but a human child.”
The house remained quiet, and though there were many men among them, no one wanted to enter a house that might have a demon’s child inside. So the smith cried out again, “Perial, bring out young Menda, or we will burn your house around you.”
The door opened, and a man stepped out. None of them recognized who it was, because even though he was only seven span from the womb, Menda looked to be a young man of seventeen. He stood proud and tall, with coal-black hair and eyes. “I am the one you think is Menda,” he said in a voice both powerful and deep. “What do you want of me?”
The sound of his voice made Perial gasp inside the cottage. Not only was this the first time Menda had ever spoken, but she recognized his voice as the same one that had spoken to her in a dream, months ago.
“What do you mean, we think you are Menda?” asked the smith, gripping his hammer tightly. He knew that there were demons that looked like men, or wore their skins like costumes, the way a man might hide beneath a sheepskin.
The child who was not a child spoke again. “I am Perial’s son, but I am not Menda. And I am not a demon.”
“Touch the iron of my hammer then,” said Rengen, for he knew all demons feared two things, cold iron and clean fire. He held out his heavy forge hammer. It shook in his hands, but no one thought the less of him for it.
He who was not Menda stepped forward and lay both hands on the iron head of the hammer. Nothing happened. From the doorway of her house where she watched, Perial burst into tears, for though she trusted Tehlu, some part of her had held a mother’s worry for her son.
“I am not Menda, though that is what my mother called me. I am Tehlu, lord above all. I have come to free you from demons and the wickedness of your own hearts. I am Tehlu, son of myself. Let the wicked hear my voice and tremble.”
And they did tremble. But some of them refused to believe. They called him a demon and threatened him. They spoke hard, frightened words. Some threw stones and cursed him, and spat toward him and his mother.
Then Tehlu grew angry, and he might have slain them all, but Perial leaped forward and laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. “What more can you expect?” she asked him quietly. “From men who live with demons for their neighbors? Even the best dog will bite that has been kicked enough.”
Tehlu considered her words and saw that she was wise. So he looked over his hands at Rengen, looked deep into his heart and said, “Rengen, son of Engen, you have a mistress who you pay to lie with you. Some men come to you for work and you cheat or steal from them. And though you pray loudly, you do not believe I, Tehlu, made the world and watch over all who live here.”
When Rengen hea
rd this, he grew pale and dropped his hammer to the ground. For what Tehlu said to him was true. Tehlu looked at all the men and women there. He looked into their hearts and spoke of what he saw. All of them were wicked, so much that Rengen was among the best of them.
Then Tehlu drew a line in the dirt of the road so that it lay between himself and all those who had come. “This road is like the meandering course of a life. There are two paths to take, side by side. Each of you are already traveling that side. You must choose. Stay on your own path, or cross to mine.”
“But the road is the same, isn’t it? It still goes to the same place,” someone asked.
“Yes.”
“Where does the road lead?”
“Death. All lives end in death, excepting one. Such is the way of things.”
“Then what does it matter which side a man is on?” It was Rengen asking these questions. He was a large man, one of the few that was taller than dark-eyed Tehlu. But he was shaken by all that he had seen and heard in the past few hours. “What is on our side of the road?”
“Pain,” Tehlu said in a voice as hard and cold as stone. “Punishment.”
“And your side?”
“Pain now,” Tehlu said in the same voice. “Punishment now, for all that you have done. It cannot be avoided. But I am here too, this is my path.”
“How do I cross?”
“Regret, repent, and cross to me.”
Rengen stepped over the line to stand beside his God. Then Tehlu bent to pick up the hammer that the smith had dropped. But instead of giving it back, he struck Rengen with it as if it were a lash. Once. Twice. Thrice. And the third blow sent Rengen to his knees sobbing and crying out in pain. But after the third blow, Tehlu laid the hammer aside and knelt to look Rengen in the face. “You were the first to cross,” he said softly so only the smith could hear. “It was a brave thing, a hard thing to do. I am proud of you. You are no longer Rengen, now you are Wereth, the forger of the path.” Then Tehlu embraced him with both arms, and his touch took much of the pain from Rengen who was now Wereth. But not all, for Tehlu spoke truly when he said that punishment cannot be avoided.
Kingkiller Chronicle [01] The Name of the Wind Page 19