The Redemption, Volume 1

by Clyde B Northrup

  “I wonder if you’d be so kind as to share some news with me?” Master William asked as the three began to eat the cobbler. “What is going on out there?”

  “You mean you have not heard?” Thal asked.

  “Only what our thukro allows us to hear,” William replied, “which is very little. News around Komfleu is confined to local matters.”

  “So you have not heard that Shigmar was attacked and destroyed?” Thal asked.

  “The One preserve us!” William exclaimed. “Not the kailum?”

  Thal nodded. “We have come from that battle, and the good news is that Gar’s legions were destroyed, but the city has fallen.” Thal went on to relate to him what had happened and how a young kailu, one of the chosen, had returned with a powerful artifact that destroyed the attacking legions at the point where the gates had been breached and the city destroyed. Blakstar raised an eyebrow at Thal’s alteration of the facts, but they had all agreed that, when asked, they would not tell the story as it had happened.

  “Didn’t the Fereghen send an army to their aid?” William asked.

  Thal nodded. “He did, but the legions sent to aid the city met another army of Gar’s as they passed the Crossing of Reema,” Thal continued, recounting what Delgart and Marilee had told them. “They did not reach Shigmar until after the city had fallen, although their vanguard entered the sewers beneath the city at the moment it fell.”

  Master William shook his head. “It is clear that we are entering momentous times, and I suspect that the two of you had more to do with what happened then you have admitted,” he noted, looking at them shrewdly, but then he held up his hand to forestall Thal’s protest. “I do not wish to know any more than you have told me,” he went on, “I cannot tell what I do not know,” he finished with a smile, then looked toward the door, hearing something. He started to rise when the door opened and Jon poked his head in, looking harried. “What is it, son?” Master William asked.

  “Many carriages are arriving,” Jon said, “filled with people claiming to want rooms for the night.”

  “Claiming?” William said, moving toward the door.

  “Many of them appear to be sick, or injured,” Jon replied.

  William looked back at Blakstar. “Looking for you, I’ll wager,” William said in a soft voice, “and you’re out of that miracle elixir, and, even though we seem to have pulled off your healing of the poor without notice, this lot will surely bring news of your actions to our august leaders.”

  Blakstar touched the limp skin at his belt, then stood suddenly. “I’ll go and get more,” he said, drawing his sword and bathing them in golden light.

  “Not here!” Thal hissed, putting a hand on his arm. “We should go up to our room.” He stood and pulled the kortexi in the direction of the stairs.

  William nodded. “I’ll deal with our new guests. Jake!” he shouted at the kitchen. “Come lead Sir Blakstar and Master Thalamar up to their room, and hurry!”

  Jake came running out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishtowel, passed Thal and Blakstar, who was sheathing his sword, and ran up the stairs; Thal and Blakstar followed, then slipped into their room. Jake closed the door behind them, then they heard his footsteps running down the hall and pounding down the stairs.

  “Why did you stop me?” Blakstar asked, turning to Thal. “I could have been back by now.”

  Thal looked back at the door. “I do not think we should show anyone the power of the keys to transfer us instantly anywhere,” he said slowly. “It is a power that could be abused by the wrong people, who would stop at nothing to get the sword, or the staff, from us. So we should be very careful when we use them.”

  Blakstar sighed. “I suppose you are right, but it is not in the nature of a kortexi to think before acting to help someone,” he noted, smiling wryly and drawing his sword, filling the room with golden light.

  Thal put out his hand. “Let’s see if you can open the archway, then pass the sword to me and I’ll hold it open while you refill your flask.”

  Blakstar shrugged, then drew the circle and opened an archway into the room within the Mountain of Vision. He opened his right hand so that Thal could grasp the hilt; Blakstar took his hand from the sword, and the doorway remained open. “Nice trick,” Blakstar said, taking the special flask from his belt.

  “Just hurry,” Thal said, “I’m not sure that I can hold it open for long.”

  “And if it doesn’t work both ways?” Blakstar asked as he stepped through the shimmering arch.

  “Then I’ll follow you through,” Thal said.

  Chapter 3

  Damage to the patterns of a person’s mind can be repaired, in most cases, but it is impossible to replicate exactly the mental patterns as they were before damaged. The resultant alterations, although minute, can significantly alter the personality and memory of the person whose mind has been repaired. . . .

  from The Annals of Melbarth, Fourth Series, Early Lectures of the Hierarchs

  Lecture by Sedra Melbarth

  Silence. Silence and darkness, and the darkness was cool, empty, motionless, filled with quiet rest. No accusing looks; no screams of horror; no scent of battle, battle and death, the two seemed inextricably linked, and the heavy burdens had been lifted from his shoulders. No responsibility for all those lives. No guilt, no pain, no suffering. So this is what death felt like; millennia of writing and speculation, all of it completely wrong. No Klare; Klare, there was a name that carried exquisite joy, and terrible, aching pain, and guilt. He had failed her, left her behind, and caused her horrible suffering that was his suffering and the guilt stabbed through him, piercing his heart, blinding his eyes, but there was nothing to see: how could tears blind him if he had no eyes? How could his heart be pierced with such excruciating guilt and pain if he no longer had a heart? He felt himself wracked with sobs, but how was that possible if he had no life? Contradiction, added to guilt and pain, snuffed out the feeble candle of his consciousness.

  Again, silence and darkness; cool darkness and motionless rest bathing him. So this was death? Maybe, but now there was a spark, a whisper, a whiff of battle, and death, and now a hint of motion; the spark became a glow, the whisper became soft sobbing, the scent of death, and he was floating, now flying toward the light growing, sobs increasing, one voice crying many voices accusing fingers pointing up, at him, floating above rooms, prisons, roof removed, torn from the buildings and the ground the buildings once rested on, accusing faces staring up at him floating in a space that was no longer dark, but where the light was coming from could not be discerned; it came from everywhere at once, from nowhere at once. The crying voices now shouting accusations, lost opportunities, all blaming him, all looking up at him, raising hands and pointing fingers, all trapped in roofless prisons torn from buildings that must have, once, rested on ground that was solid, good brown earth that produced that which fed, once, those whose lives had suddenly been ripped out by the power of the staff of Shigmar, his staff that he could now see glowing green and clutched in his hand, the eye-shaped emerald pulsing like a thousand beating hearts ripped from those who shouted, pointed, at him, who floated above the roofless prisons that had once been buildings, filled with people who had hopes and dreams, snuffed out by his hand. The sound of many screaming voices became one screaming voice became his screaming voice, a face swimming in and out of focus, wrinkled with concern, mouth moving, but he heard no words, falling back into darkness, and silence.

  A place filled with light, and now the sound of water, gently falling, and sweet, soft music with clear voices singing. Klaybear opened his eyes and found himself sitting on grass, leaning against a tree, the light dancing green over his head, leaves moved by a gentle breeze. He inhaled deeply and sat up, feeling the spongy turf beneath him, but the scent in the air he breathed was exquisite and indescribable: it smelled of flowers, new-mown hay, cherry trees in blossom, fresh and moist air after a summer storm: all these scents at the same time, which did not seem
possible.

  “My son,” a voice that he thought he recognized said, “come join us, here, by the fountain.”

  He focused on the speaker and saw several others standing with him by the fountain, dressed in brilliant white robes, all looking at him. He stood at once, using the staff he still held in his hand, and he moved toward the group of people who had called him. As he walked toward them, he looked more carefully at the wethi who had spoken, and he looked familiar to him, like both his brothers, except his eyes were the same as Delgart’s, while Rokwolf’s eyes. . . . He looked at the wetha next to the wethi who had called him, and saw Rokwolf’s eyes, and his own face, and then he realized that the wetha must be his mother, who died bearing him and Rokwolf, so the wethi must be his father, both looking as young as he was. His mother had tears in her eyes.

  “Mother?” he asked, tentatively, “Father? Does this mean I, too, am dead?”

  His father was shaking his head, but his mother held out her arms to him, so he rushed toward her, embracing her for the first time.

  “I have watched over you,” she sobbed into his ear, “and am proud of the path you have chosen.”

  “There isn’t time,” his father said, “he must return soon.”

  “Yes,” said another voice he recognized at once as Klare’s father, “you must return to Klare. You must wake her and get her busy, or she will be lost within her own mind.”

  “And it will not be easy for you, or your twin,” his father added; his mother said nothing, content to hold him and stroke his hair.

  “But I’ve . . . ,” Klaybear began, but his father-in-law cut him off.

  “You don’t have time for that,” he said.

  “You did what you had to do,” his father added, “so do not blame yourself for what has happened; events are unfolding as they should, but Klare needs you.”

  Klaybear tried to laugh, but it sounded like he was choking. “I knew that,” he replied, “that is why Rokwolf must still be with us.”

  His father and mother exchanged quick frowns.

  “You must heal Klare,” his mother-in-law said.

  “But she’s the better healer,” he protested.

  “Not for the wounds inflicted upon her,” his father-in-law went on, “only you are capable of healing her, but be warned: if you do not, then corruption will take your place and the world will be destroyed.”

  “Do not let her behavior upset you,” his mother noted.

  “And do not be surprised when it drives your twin away,” his father added.

  “That is as it must be,” his mother went on, “cling to her as tightly as she clings to you; do not let anything, or anyone, come between you. Only then do you have any hope to heal her.”

  With these last words of his mother, he felt himself irresistibly drawn away from her, and the others, the light of the place brightening as he moved back into darkness, causing the people and the fountain to fade. As they faded from view, he saw clearly for the first time the other people who were standing behind his parents and his in-laws; one of them, looking like his own image whispered to him: “Heal mother for us,” he said, as Klaybear fell back into darkness and silence.

  “Klaybear!” The voice came from a distance. “Klaybear! You need to get up.” He knew that voice: it was his twin, but why was he speaking in common? “Klaybear! Klare needs you.” He felt himself roughly shaken. Klare needed him? He had heard that somewhere before . . . , in the dream! He had seen his dead parents, and Klare’s now dead parents: all had told him that Klare needed him. He sat up, blinking in the bright light. Slowly, his twin’s face swam into focus, looking concerned and slightly irritated.

  “Klare?” Klaybear asked, looking around bleary-eyed.

  “She is in the other room,” Rokwolf said, looking away. “We thought it best, since both of your sleeps were disturbed,” he added, apologetically.

  His memories of what had happened in the recent past were slow in returning, then he remembered the dream. “I saw mother,” he said hastily, switching to twin. “I hugged mother,” he went on, “I can still feel her arms around me, smell the scent of her hair, hear her sobs of joy, but it was only a dream,” he finished, looking at Rokwolf.

  A spasm of pain shot across Rokwolf’s face, replaced by envy, then the look passed. “You saw mother?”

  “And father,” Klaybear said. “They were both young, like us; Delgart looks exactly like father; so do you, except your eyes are mother’s.”

  Anger flashed behind Rokwolf’s eyes. “They were young? How is that possible? I know mother died when she was young, but father was not young. You know how much he aged after Delgart was taken.”

  Klaybear leaned back onto his elbows. “Klare’s parents were there, too, and they looked young,” he stopped, hesitating for a moment. “Just before the dream ended, I noticed others, and one of them, who looked just like me, told me I needed to help their mother. Rokwolf, I think they were, are, or will be our children, but they were grown, looking the same age as our parents and Klare’s parents.”

  The look of irritation flashed across Rokwolf’s face; he changed the subject back to Klare, speaking in common. “There is something not right about Klare,” he said.

  “Not right?” Klaybear asked, also switching from their private language. “What do you mean, not right?”

  “She does not remember what has happened, or how she got here, or even, what this place is,” Rokwolf replied carefully. “She was surprised to see me, here, believing that I was still in the Thruplar,” he said.

  “The desert?” Klaybear said. “You were there over a year ago, before we were married.”

  “Precisely,” Rokwolf said with a significant look.

  Klaybear looked closely at his twin, then looked away. Bleakness filled him. “Are you implying that she thinks it is more than a year ago, when you were in the desert, and we . . . ,” but he could not finish his thought. Rokwolf nodded once, and Klaybear put his face into his hands. “No! I cannot! It is too much!”

  “I tried to show her your things,” Rokwolf said.

  “You took her to our house?” Klaybear asked, looking up.

  “No,” Rokwolf replied. “We removed as much as we could from your house before that quarter of the city flooded.”

  “Flooded?” Klaybear asked in disbelief.

  “When the wave released from the staff passed through Shigmar,” Rokwolf replied, “it did something to the stone and wood of the buildings; most of them have crumbled, blocking the river. The northern areas of Shigmar are now covered with water; the river changed course and now flows through the city rather than into the sewers beneath the city, for most of the sewers have also collapsed. Only the passage to this sanctuary and out to the waterfall remain, but when the water flowed into the southwest quarter, it started to run down the tunnel that had not collapsed, so our only way in or out might be the staff, or the kortexi’s sword.”

  “Where are the others?” Klaybear asked.

  “Blakstar said that he had to return to Karble and report what happened to him on the Mountain of Vision,” Rokwolf replied. “Thal went with him, as they intend to go south from Karble to his father’s tower, hoping that his parents left us some clues and information about the keys. He also said that the only arch of advancement he could use is the one in his tower. Tevvy went with Delgart . . . ,” he hesitated, a spasm of anger twisting his face, “and Marilee back to Holvar, then he was going on to Rykelle.”

  “Why is he going there?” Klaybear asked.

  “While you were asleep,” Rokwolf replied, “the kortexi’s sword acted strangely, and Thal reasoned that the morgle, who still holds the rod, was attacked twice by parties unknown. He believed that the morgle survived the first assault but maybe not the second. The line connecting the sword to the rod pointed just west of south, toward the Mariskal, we believe, and an ancient fortress in the swamp that locals call Morokolu.”

  “He saw that line, the one that connects the three?”
Klaybear asked.

  Rokwolf shrugged. “I suppose he did, at least, that is the way he spoke of it.”

  “I can show you what he meant,” Klaybear said, holding up his staff.

  Rokwolf shook his head. “I don’t think there is the time right now. Anyway, since Tevvy’s father’s school is in Rykelle, Tevvy reckons he might have more information. When he learns anything, he will indicate it through our verghrenum so we can contact him, at sundown, using the staff. If he cannot get us to respond, he will try to contact Thal, who can then relay the message to us, using Blakstar’s sword.”

  “How long have I been out?” Klaybear asked.

  “Three days, at least,” Rokwolf replied, “although within this place, time is hard to judge. Thal and Blakstar ought to be in Komfleu by now, Delgart back in Holvar, and I imagine Tevvy is getting close to Rykelle.”

  “When did Klare wake up?” Klaybear asked.

  “Oh, she hasn’t, not really,” Rokwolf shrugged. “She started to wake up this morning, but she became so agitated when I tried to bring her up to date, and you would not waken, I gave her one of your sleeping drafts. She is moving around like she is coming out of it, so I thought I should try waking you again before putting her back to sleep.”

  “So you’ve been here for three days,” Klaybear said, “by yourself? What have you been doing?”

  “The shape of our sanctuary,” Rokwolf said the word bitterly, “has altered. When Tevvy and I returned here with Klare, a whole new set of chambers had opened: a stable for our horses, and a larger cave, somehow with natural lighting, where there is an exercise track, grass growing, and a large area at the center of the track for a garden. At least, that is what it seems to me to be; we even found a store of seeds that I have used in that area, playing farmer when I wasn’t watching over the two of you or exercising the horses. The miraculous part of it is that the seeds have sprouted and are growing at an accelerated rate, which is good, since there is probably very little food to be had in the ruins of Shigmar, fresh vegetables in particular.”