Close not your heart forever, but remember us. Look back
The cold road beckons, but we call to you. Look back
Not yet. Not yet. Hear our fervent prayer. Look back
Let your hands that hold our hearts reach for us again
Let us look into your eyes again. Look back
Wake again from this little sleep. We wait, faithfully. Wake
Wake and remember those you love, those who love you. Wake
Death cannot conquer where Love is strong. Wake
Wake!
A sudden gasp of breath sounded from the parlor, and a man cried out in alarm.
"Emma!"
Marsten muttered something in a language that Garrett did not recognize, and Garrett heard the sound of a woman's voice, starting as a low moan that became a delicate sigh.
"Emma!" the older man sobbed, "You're alive! You're alive!"
The woman sighed again.
"Emma, speak to me!" the man said.
"Remember what I told you," Marsten said, "She will not fully recover for a long while. Emma has been through a great ordeal and needs time to remember her place in this world. The truth is, she will need your help to get through this time of transition and readjustment. Please be patient and give her the time she needs."
"Yes, of course," the older man gasped, "of course. Thank you, Mister Marsten, thank you! You've done it!"
"No," Marsten said, "It was the strength of your love that brought her back. You were her only anchor to this world. Without you, Emma would have been lost forever."
"Thank you... can I take her home now?"
"Of course, Gerry," Marsten said, "I think Emma is ready to go home again."
"Thank you," the man said, "Come Emma, let's go."
An older gentleman in a brown coat stepped out of the parlor. A silver-haired lady in a long white gown walked beside him. Her eyes looked straight ahead, unblinking, but her cheeks were flush with a pink hue, and a gentle smile sat on her lips. The man patted her arm gently and spoke encouraging words as he led the woman to the door.
A smiling Marsten saw them out and said goodbye. He softly shut the door behind them and turned to face Garrett with a look of benevolent joy.
"It means so much to help those in pain, Garrett," he said, "There's no feeling like it in the world."
Garrett thought for a moment before speaking. "She was a zombie, wasn't she?" he said.
Marsten shook his head. "A crude term, Garrett, unworthy of our art. We are Resurrectionists, and she was no shambling, rotting husk. It is more proper to refer to her as reborn."
"You did something different," Garrett said, "She looked different. She looked alive."
Marsten nodded. "Thank you," he said, "I have refined my process to further aid in the restoration of the appearance of health as well as motility."
"How do you do that?" Garrett asked.
Marsten laughed. "That is a trade secret, young master!"
"Sorry," Garrett said.
"A valid question," Marsten said, "It shows you have an appreciation for refinement, and it borders on the nature of the matter which you wish to discuss with me."
Garrett's hand lifted to his hood. "You mean my scars?"
"Your blemishes," Marsten said, "and blemishes should never stand between a promising young man and his advancement in society."
"Blemishes?" Garrett said.
Marsten rubbed his chin. "What do you know of the Zhadeen?" he asked.
Garrett thought for a moment. "They live really far away?"
"Yes," Marsten said, guiding Garrett into the parlor and offering him a seat, "but what is their defining purpose in life?"
Garrett sank into the cushions of a broad, cream-colored sofa. He looked around the room, admiring the wide array of gilded-edged mirrors hanging upon the dark paneled walls. A nearby bureau supported a number of ornate glass bottles in various colors. He recognized the telltale glow of essence in at least one. A low divan, surrounded with fresh-cut flowers stood at the center of the room, and on it lay a lady's hand purse. "I don't know," he said.
"The Zhadeen pride themselves, foremost, on their appearance," Marsten said, stripping off his overcoat and hanging it inside a nearby wardrobe.
"I guess I probably wouldn't fit in very well there," Garrett laughed.
"Again, you belittle yourself, Garrett," Marsten said, "I've warned you before. It is beneath you."
"Sorry," Garrett said.
"And stop apologizing!" Marsten laughed. He tugged his cravat loose and carefully folded it before placing it on a shelf inside the wardrobe.
"Sorr..." Garrett stopped himself, "What's wrong with apologizing?"
"It smacks of incompetence," Marsten said, "No one trusts a man who is always apologizing for things."
"Oh."
Marsten ran his hand through his hair and walked over to pick up a dimly glowing bottle from the bureau. He then crossed the floor to sit beside Garrett on the sofa. "All right then," he said, "Take off your hood."
Garrett hesitated only a moment before dragging the hood from his head. He smiled hopefully.
Marsten frowned. "What happened to you?" he asked.
"Dragon," Garrett said.
"You're serious?"
Garrett nodded.
Marsten shrugged. "Well, it doesn't matter. We'll have you as good as new in no time."
Garrett watched as Marsten poured a measure of essence out into his palm and set the bottle aside. Marsten rubbed his palms together, whispering something in the same, unfamiliar language he had used before.
"What are you saying?" Garrett asked.
Marsten grinned. "Remember what I was saying about the Zhadeen?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"Well, I spent some time there," he said, "and learned a few things about illusion." He lifted his hands to either side of Garrett's head, smearing the essence over Garrett's scarred scalp and down the back of his neck.
"Illusion?"
"Making things appear to be something they are not," Marsten said. He whispered again the words of the strange spell.
The essence fizzed and tingled around the edges of Garrett's burns where he could still feel it. "Is that how you made that lady look alive?" he asked.
Marsten smiled. "A subtle blend of the arts of necromancy and illusion," he said.
"Isn't that kind of like tricking people though?" Garrett asked.
Marsten shook his head. "A man may love a portrait of someone that he has loved and lost with as much conviction as he loved them with in life. What I give to my clients is far better than any cold, lifeless portrait... I give them their loved ones back to hold and cherish for the rest of their lives."
"But it isn't really the person they loved," Garrett said, "It's just an... illusion."
Marsten laughed. "Garrett," he said, "look in the mirror and then tell me what you think of my illusions."
Garrett stood up and turned to face the large mirror that hung behind the sofa. He put his hand to his face, trying to convince himself that it wasn't someone else reflected in the glass. His fingertips touched hair where before there had been only the hard white flesh of nerveless scar tissue. He looked upon the face that had been taken from him, the face of a boy, becoming a man. He was whole again.
Garrett choked, unable to speak, and then he began to weep, shaking with emotion. He fell to his knees on the sofa, sobbing, and Marsten put his arms around him and held him while he cried.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The following morning began the first day of Emergence Week. During this holy rite, no men were allowed on temple grounds. Garrett celebrated the holiday by dressing in his best purple robe, polishing his amulet, and stopping by the market on his way to the Thrinnian Embassy.
He stood before the dark amber-inlaid door of the embassy, rearranging the flowers in his bouquet until he had steadied his nerves enough to pull the bell rope. He tugged the edge of his hood low over his eyes and waited. A few moments later, the door swung o
pen, and Garrett stepped inside.
The door closed behind him with a crisp click, plunging the entryway into utter darkness.
"Good morning, Mister Klavicus," Garrett said, "You fixed the squeaky hinge, didn't you?"
"Yes," the thin, dry voice of the doorman answered from the darkness, "an important guest will be arriving soon... all must be in order."
Something in the vampire's voice told Garrett that the implied insult hadn't been targeted at him.
"Is something wrong?" Garrett asked, "You sound like something is bothering you."
Klavicus snatched the cloth covering from the wisplight orb, lighting the room with its pale, watery light. The vampire stood, tall and lean, like some great carrion bird, gone too long between meals. He flashed his yellow fangs in a tense smile.
"Nothing wrong, Master Garrett," he hissed, "nothing at all... we are soon to be honored in receiving a visit from a... great teacher... young Lady Veranu is to be... instructed in the... proper ways." The vampire twitched and looked away, his over-large eyes flicking left and right, as though it pained him just to speak of it.
"Marla's not in any danger, is she?" Garrett asked, feeling even more uneasy than he usually did in the elder vampire's presence.
Klavicus stretched his lips back in a tormented grimace and ran the long fingers of one hand over his bald head. "No... no," he sighed, "I simply... disagree with their choice of tutor." His hand went suddenly to his mouth, and he glanced back over his shoulder.
"What's wrong with the tutor they chose?" Garrett asked.
Klavicus tilted his head sideways and his lips twitched back over his fangs again. "She is..." he lowered his voice, "she is too prideful."
"Oh," Garrett said.
The lean elder vampire seemed to regain his composure, and he tugged at the seam of his tailcoat as he stiffened his back. "I will tell young Lady Veranu that have arrived," he said.
"Thank you, sir," Garrett said.
Klavicus disappeared through a hidden door in the amber wall, leaving Garrett alone with the wisplight orb.
Garrett crossed the floor to stroke his hand across the cool surface of the wisp crystal and whispered a greeting in Fae. The orb shimmered with golden warmth, and an image of violets in a green meadow flashed in Garrett's mind. Garrett drew in a breath and tried to think of something to share in turn. Unbidden, the memory of the white towers of Braedshal came into his mind, and the flapping blue pennants along its high walls. He smiled, in spite of the painful memories that stirred beneath the image, feeling the wisp's thoughts playing through his surprisingly vivid recollection of the Astorran city.
Once again, he found himself bound inside the prison cart, rolling through the streets of Braedshal, but, this time, he saw the things that he couldn't see at the time. Sunlight gleamed on silver pauldrons as knights rode through the streets, golden leaves spiraled slowly down from the branches of the poplars lining the street, and two children splashed in the pool of a broken fountain, a pair of smiling, innocent faces in a place filled with anger and despair.
Garrett smiled, wondering if this was what it was like to be a wisp, seeing only the beauty in the world. In his mind's eye, he looked down at the dirty, straw-covered floor of the cart and watched a single beetle, struggling to climb over the iron frame of the cage. The beetle's shell glistened with an iridescent shade of bluish green. It fell backwards, wriggling its legs in the air for a moment before righting itself and trying once again to crawl out of the cage. Garrett wanted to reach out and help it, but his hands were bound behind him.
Garrett shook off the memory, aware that someone was speaking to him.
"Garrett?" Marla said.
Garrett pulled his hand away from the shimmering orb and turned to face her with a smile. She was dressed in a long shirt and hose of matching black silk woven with a pattern of tiny gray hexagonal shapes. She wore her hair up in a tight bun, held in place with a long, tortoiseshell pin.
"Hi, Marla," he said, "I was just saying hello to the wisp."
Marla laughed. "You should be careful," she said, "I wouldn't want you to be lured off into a swamp and lost forever."
"They do that?" he asked, looking at the shimmering light, trapped within the crystal sphere.
"Sometimes," she said, "I doubt they mean any harm by it. They like to share their stories and adventures with others, and sometimes forget that not everyone can go without food, water, or air."
Garrett laughed. "Oh," he said, "these are for you." He handed her the bouquet.
Marla smiled, running her fingertips over the petals of the flowers. "They're beautiful, thank you!"
"They're just regular flowers," he said, "I asked if they had any duskblooms, but they didn't know what I was talking about."
"They're perfect," Marla said, "Thank you."
Garrett nodded.
"Mother and I were about to drink," Marla said, "We would love for you to join us. I'm sure we could find something for you to eat."
"Oh... no, thanks!" Garrett said, "I just... I just wanted to show you something."
"What is it?" Marla asked.
Garrett's hands were shaking, but he drew in a steady breath and pulled back his hood.
Marla dropped her bouquet, her hands flying to her lips. "Oh, Garrett!" she gasped.
Garrett smiled, running his hand through the short curly hair atop his head.
"How?" Marla whispered.
"It's... an illusion," he said, "A friend of mine taught me how to do it."
Marla's eyes narrowed. "An illusion?"
"Yeah," he said, "it's not real... and it only lasts about an hour, but I can do it whenever I want. It's really easy."
Marla hugged him. "Oh, Garrett, I'm so happy for you," she said. She stepped back and lifted her hand to touch the hair at his left temple. "It feels real," she said.
"Yeah!" Garrett said, "And Marsten said that I can make it whatever color I want to."
"I like brown," she said.
"I was hoping you'd like it," Garrett said, his heart swelling with overwhelming joy.
"I almost didn't recognize you," she laughed.
"Well," he said, "this is me from now on."
Marla paused, speechless for a moment. A troubled look crossed her face. "Garrett," she said, "You know this doesn't matter to me, don't you?"
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"It's just... I don't care about what you look like, Garrett," she said, "I never cared before, and I don't now."
"Yeah, but..."
"Garrett, I'm glad that you found something new that makes you happy, but don't you see, this is just another kind of hood to wear?"
"No," Garrett said, "This is me... this is who I should have been, if..."
"No, Garrett," Marla said, her voice sounding hurt, "That isn't you at all. You're more than that! You didn't need this to do any of the things you've done. You don't need this to be my friend."
"It's more than that!" Garrett said, "I wanted you to... I wanted you to see me... differently."
"Differently?" Marla said, "Garrett, do you think me so shallow that this... illusion... would make me care more about you than I already do?"
"No," Garrett said, waving his hands, "It's just... What if I looked like Claude? Would you feel differently about me then?"
"What?" Marla said.
Garrett pressed his lips together tightly, his face flushed.
Marla knelt to pick up her flowers. "Garrett," she said, her voice suddenly cold, "I would prefer you didn't use this illusion when you come to visit me in the future. I prefer to look my friends in the face when I speak to them. I don't know who I'm looking at right now." She stood facing him, but her eyes turned to look at the wall beyond him.
Garrett stood, trembling with emotion and unable to speak. At last, he whispered the proper command and brushed the illusion from his head with his right hand as though scrubbing away a soapy film. He pulled his hood back over his bald, scarred head and walked to the door.
He heard the sound of a door closing behind him, and then the outer door swung open before him, dazzling his eyes with the gray light of day.
****
"Don't worry about it, Gar," Warren said, "She's just bein' a girl."
A chunk of rock bounced off the side of Warren's head, and he yelped. Growling, he lifted his paw in a rude gesture at Scupp who had thrown it.
"I think it looks nice, Garrett." Scupp said. She sat beside her brother in the mushroomy ruin of an old handcart against the wall of the grain mill.
"Thanks," Garrett said, running his fingers through the hair of his restored illusion. He sat beside Warren against the other wall, fuming quietly.
"You didn't bring any essence?" Diggs moaned.
"Shut up, Diggs!" Warren said, "His girlfriend is the one that makes the stuff, and she's being a... she's being sensitive."
"You should probably go apologize to her then," Diggs said, "and then see about getting us some more essence."
"You are such a numblok, Diggs!" Warren said, "Would you apologize to someone when you hadn't done anything wrong?"
"You sure don't know anything about women, do you, Warren?" Diggs laughed.
"Like you do," Scupp snickered beside him.
"I know you'll never win an argument with one," he said, "and, if you do, you'll wish you hadn't!"
"You don't know anything," Scupp snorted, "Garrett, she was just surprised by it all. She'll come around. Just give her time."
"I don't know," Garrett said, "I just wish she would have been happy for me."
"She is happy for you, Garrett," Scupp said, "She just don't know how to see you as somethin' other than what she's always seen you as. You scared her's all."
"Scared her?" Garrett snorted.
"Yeah, you scared her," Scupp said, leaning forward in the wreckage of the old cart and gesturing with her shaggy paws, "A girl likes to think she's in control of all the relationships in her life. She wants to be the one that decides what goes where. She don't like surprises, not real surprises."
"What do you mean?" Garrett asked.
"Oh, a girl likes to be surprised with gifts and parties and such," Scupp said, "She expects things like that, but she don't like real surprises, like, all the sudden, some boy she treats like a brother shows up lookin' sharp and wantin' to take it further. That throws her off and makes her feel like she ain't in control no more. She don't like that at all. You scared her."
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