Rokwolf got up from his chair and went to her side, sitting beside her on the bed, taking the cloth from the basin on the table, and wringing out the water. He felt himself strangely drawn to Klare’s friend in a way that he could not describe or explain, and he always had, ever since he had first known her. Somehow, he understood how she must feel, which was absurd, the rational, logical part of his mind told him, since he had not suffered a loss like hers, but he had lost both parents, he told himself, so he understood grief, and Marilee’s rejection felt somehow similar. If it had not been for Marilee. . . . He folded the cool damp cloth and placed it gently on Sutugno’s forehead; her hands found his, and she held both of them as she continued to sob, holding them to her head as his hands placed the damp cloth. This was an awkward position for Rokwolf, who finally had to lean forward until his elbows rested on either side of her head, bringing his upper body directly over her. He looked down at her face, dirty, streaked with tears, saw her full lips parted, the line of her chin, her neck bare where the sheet had fallen down, stray locks of hair on her neck, her ears, flushed cheeks, and her eyes open, wet, watching him, blue like the Inner Sea, a blue so deep that one could get lost trying to see the bottom. A memory flashed across his mind of that same face, those same eyes, illuminated by the last rays of the setting sun reflected off the calm surface of Krystal Lake. He hardly noticed her hands leave his hands and wrap around his neck, so caught as he was by the depth of her eyes and the memory; he felt himself falling into eternity. Then he felt her warm lips touch his, her hot tongue touch his as she prepared to kiss him, but it was the kiss of someone who desperately wanted to forget her sorrows in the arms of another, someone for whom she still felt something, someone she still had not entirely gotten over or forgotten. For a moment, desire fought with resentment within Rokwolf as Sutugno pulled him down onto the bed into a tighter embrace, as the urgency and passion of her kiss increased. There was no mistaking the fact that he found her very attractive; they had met many times before, under happier circumstances, but he had been preoccupied with Marilee, and he realized that some of the resentment he felt was not at being used by Sutugno, but resentment for being rejected, resentment he felt toward his twin, and resentment toward Klare who came between them. He pulled away and saw mirrored in the deep blue of Sutugno’s eyes similar confusion and surprise. His face flushed when he noticed that one short kiss had elicited more of a response in him than Marilee ever had, and this fact frightened him.
“This is not right,” Rokwolf hissed, but the words sounded wrong, “but . . . ,” he stammered, trying to say more.
Sutugno panted when they broke apart, looking confused. She shook her head at what he said, then interrupted him. “He . . . I had forgotten . . . ,” she said, pausing, then went on, “his kisses were fine, but not like that . . . ,” then she looked at Rokwolf, “you were going to say, ‘but feels so right,’” she finished for him, smiling weakly, gently touching his cheek.
Rokwolf pushed himself off of the bed and onto his feet. “I have to go, now,” he snapped, turning and walking toward the door.
“Please,” her voice pleaded, “don’t go. Your presence holds back the darkness, makes it possible for me to remain sane.”
He stopped within arm’s reach of the door; all his training, all the knowledge, all the warnings, all shouted that he should reach out and open the door, and escape, but the thought of leaving her there alone, the anguish in her voice, stabbed at his heart and was more painful than all Marilee’s rejections combined. Again, he remembered those days on the lake with his twin, Klare, and Sutugno, and how he had felt toward her then, if not for Marilee; it was her fault, after all, that had placed him here, for if it had not been for her clouding of his vision, dividing his loyalties between his desire to save her and his duty, he would not have made the decisions that led him into Xythrax’s trap, which caused him to order his command out of position, leaving Blakstar unprotected and vulnerable and losing him his command. That was why he had been sent–banished, perhaps–to Shigmar, to aid his twin brother and the other chosen in accomplishing their missions in life, which was why he was here, watching over Klare’s unbalanced friend, who had just tried to scratch out his twin’s eyes. He was the victim, caught in a trap made by others. That’s not true! his inner voice shouted. You’re lying to yourself! He shook his head to silence the voice and continued to tell himself, even as he turned and walked back to where Sutugno sat up in bed, it is Marilee’s fault!
Chapter 7
We must never allow a difference of opinion to become a point of contention between us. If allowed to fester, such a wound can turn the dearest friends or closest brothers into the bitterest of enemies . . . giving a victory to Gar without any effort on his part. . . .
from Annals of Melbarth, Sixth Series, Early Lectures of the Hierarchs
Plea for Reunion by Sedra Melbarth
As soon as he was sure contact had been broken, the white maghi slumped back onto the bed, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, holding his face in his hands. Hot tears wet his cheeks and blurred his vision. He had done so well for so long, not thinking about what had happened to his parents and so avoiding the pain, but seeing Klare’s face and hearing her say that she had nothing to say had led him to make that stupid comment about the stew, which brought it all to the front of his mind. Once there, he could not easily send it back into the dark recesses, lock it back in a chest hidden deep within his mind. And now? He felt himself shake with suppressed sobs, glad his kortexi companion was fast asleep and so could not witness him breaking down like this. He jerked himself to his feet, beginning to pace the floor of their small room, focusing his mind on the question of why: why had the Waters run out so quickly for the nobility, but not run out, until all had drunk, for the poor? He tapped his chin with his forefinger, turning on one heel to pace the other way.
In his mind, he carefully replayed each encounter, thinking first of the afternoon and the many poor, sick, injured, or lame, and the way Master William and his sons had carefully let them into the inn’s stable and sent them out with baskets when healed. Each face swam to the surface of his thoughts, and one in particular paused, an older matron, white-haired, who smiled as the Waters healed her and looked just like his . . . ; he wrenched his mind to other poor faces, avoiding any that were older, white-haired wetham, but there were too many of these, and the tears again burned his eyes and cheeks. He pushed the poor faces aside to recall the evening’s visitors: noblemen and noblewomen who had heard of Blakstar’s power, probably from their servants, he thought, and he began passing their faces before his mind. But these were worse than the poor, if that were possible, for there were more, older, white-haired wetham, matronly, who resembled his mother. The more rational and logical part of his mind recognized that this was not possible, but that his emotions were clouding and corrupting his memories; there were a few tall, white-haired wethem that, to his emotions at least, resembled his father, and so the tears flowed freely, his pacing faltered and stopped, his body again wracked by barely suppressed sobs. He slumped onto his bed.
Motivation? he thought, struggling for something, for anything, to suppress the grief and refocus his mind. Certainly not motivation alone, for both had been motivated by a desire to be healed. He recalled the way the nobility had demanded healing–attitude, he mused: the poor had not demanded but asked; had Blakstar refused. . . . Thal tried to imagine his kortexi companion refusing to help anyone, and he laughed amid his tears. A stern face floated to the surface of his mind, the thin face of an older duke, or so he claimed, narrow, hawk-like, commanding that he be allowed to see the kortexi at once, and there was something about the way this duke cocked his head and held an accusing finger in Thal’s face that recalled a conversation with his master; they stood in the lowest level below the ground, inside a room filled with brilliant light, speaking of the tower’s teka fences.
If anything should happen to your mother and I, if the tower
is attacked, this you must remember. . . .
Clearly, Thal saw his father’s intense face, but what he was supposed to remember about that conversation and room was lost with the word, “remember,” which carried with it hundreds of flashes of memory: words, hints, looks, nods, pats on the shoulder from his father, hugs and kisses from his mother, and all these bits fell into place, Thal finally seeing the pattern.
He sat up on his bed. “They have always known,” he whispered to himself, “and they have been warning me for ages.” He groaned and slumped back onto his pillow. “Why didn’t I see it before? I should have seen it before!” He jumped to his feet, starting to pace. “Fool! Idiot! They have been telling you for ages! Why didn’t you see it?” he chided himself, waving his hand in the air, but then he stopped suddenly. “But they were surprised by Blakstar’s sudden appearance,” he turned to look at his sleeping companion, then moved to stand next to the bed where Blakstar lay sleeping. “Why did you come early? My parents did not expect you so soon; they indicated to me that I would not be leaving until the fall, and since we left together, I must conclude that you were not supposed to come until fall, so why did you come early?” Thal grabbed his sleeping companion’s shoulders with both his hands and shook him hard, but the sleep that had taken the kortexi, brought on by his exertions, would not release him. Thal sobbed once and released Blakstar’s shoulders. He sank down on the bed next to Blakstar.
He sat silent for a moment. “If your coming was ahead of schedule,” he said looking down at the sleeping kortexi, “doesn’t that make you partially responsible for their deaths? For, coming ahead of time caught my parents unprepared, meaning they did not have time both to send us to Shigmar and prepare for the immanent attack of the ponkolum.” Thal continued to stare at the sleeping form in the candlelight, violently suppressing other memories that contradicted his belief of the kortexi’s early arrival; an anger, fueled by grief, an emotion he had never felt before, welled up inside, and he wanted to hurt Blakstar, cause him pain in equal measure to the grief and loss he felt. He reached toward the kortexi’s temple with his right hand, index finger pointing and surrounded by red light; the color caught his attention and he paused, for he had never initiated an orthek of this kind with power of that color. He stared at his red-glowing finger, transfixed by the angry light. Blakstar shifted in his sleep; Thal looked down at him, disturbed from his examination by a soft, barely audible groan. Blakstar’s mouth worked, and Thal knew he must be dreaming, and from the look on the kortexi’s face, the dream was not pleasant. Forgetting for a moment his anger, the white maghi reached out with his mind to touch the mind of his sleeping companion, ignoring the twinge of guilt that suddenly stabbed his heart, guilt that came from entering the mind of another without that person’s permission.
Thal stood in a fire blackened wood, surrounded by the broken, twisted, and burned remains of trees, all of which appeared to have been pushed in the same direction by some force. A hot, black wave of force slammed into him, filled with shrieking voices, and he knew at once that the force was wave after wave of tortured guilt, which was what had broken, twisted, and burned the trees around him. Flicker. As suddenly as he had stepped into the fire blackened wood, he was plunged into total darkness and absolute silence. Flicker. Light and sound returned, and he thought he was in the same burned and twisted forest, but there were no longer waves of tortured guilt crashing into him; he could hear voices, but the sounds were muffled and echoed strangely, coming from the same direction as had the waves of guilt. He could, now and then, catch glimpses and flashes of light among the twisted trunks, also in front of him, and so he slowly tried to make his way in that direction, tripping every step over roots and broken branches hidden in the darkness. Flicker. He was plunged again into darkness and silence, and when light and sound returned, the waves of guilt slammed into him again; the tortured screams pierced his ears. Struggling again to his feet, he noticed that the formerly white light now flashed red, and in the red flashes he saw that his robes were torn and spotted with some dark substance that covered the ground. Flicker. Darkness and silence. Flicker. White light and the mumbling voices; he made his way forward toward the light and sound, carefully placing each foot so as not to trip over the wrack of splintered and broken branches littering the ground. As he reached the edge of a glade–the source of both light and sound–his eyes were drawn to the three figures, and he stumbled, falling to the ground. Flicker. Choking darkness and empty silence. Flicker. He tried to stand but blasts of black guilt smashed him into the broken trunk of a blackened tree at the edge of the glade, pinning him in place against the broken stubs of branches that pierced his robes and skin; he stood at the edge of a clearing where a bonfire roared. Black- and red-robed figures moved around the flames; the figures took no notice of his sudden appearance at the edge of the clearing. He looked down and saw his robes shredded and stained with both soot and blood, neither black nor red; he felt as dirty as his robes. Flicker. Darkness gripped him; silence roared. Flicker. He stood at the edge of a clearing filled with light; three figures were there, one of them Blakstar, his hands held up and forward in a placating gesture, a white-robed figure stood just behind the kortexi’s left shoulder, the figure’s face overshadowed by his hood; the third stood facing the others, black-robed and obviously female, golden hair spilling out of her hood; she was backing away from the other two, and Blakstar moved slowly toward her. They were speaking, but their voices still sounded muffled and indistinct. Flicker. Strangling darkness and silence. Flicker. He was back in the fire blackened forest and glade, pinned to a tree by waves of tortured guilt. Near the fire, he saw a trunk bent almost parallel to the ground, a figure tied on top of it, naked, dripping blood from the many wounds caused by the broken and splintered stumps of branches of the bent trunk beneath the figure; he noticed all the trees were bleeding. Two of the red-robed kailum held a blonde wetha over the bent trunk–the same female of the other dream–eyes covered, hands tightly bound, worn black robe pulled open showing the whip scars all over her naked body, along with a freshly-cut mark, still bleeding, on her belly just above her loins, a mark he recognized at once as the same that Klaybear had burned into his palm and forehead, a similar mark scratched into Blakstar’s his chest and loins, and he knew at once who lay bound to the bent and broken trunk. The blonde wetha was screaming at her captors, Let me. . . . Flicker. Empty silence and darkness. Flicker. Three figures in a glade filled with white light, speaking, the female’s voice suddenly became clear as she continued to move back from Blakstar’s outstretched hand. How do you . . . how could you. . . . Flicker. Deadly darkness and choking silence. Flicker. Fire blackened clearing. Her voice continued . . . see him! echoing above the tortured screams; a ponkola stood beside the captured kortexi, laughing, with blood dripping from the claws of one hand, and Thal knew that she had inscribed the marks in both of them. The figure standing to Blakstar’s left also laughed, sounding of dry bones clanking together, and he guessed that it must be Xythrax. The blonde wetha was pulled away and vanished, and Thal guessed what was coming, but he could not tear his eyes away, even as the ponkola threw one, long and shapely leg over the trunk and the figure tied there, and the kortexi struggled to free himself, howling in rage, wave after wave of black guilt crashing into Thal where he stood pinned against the tree, feeling guiltier than the waves slamming into him.
You should not be here, a voice came into his mind. Flicker. He was plunged into empty darkness.
Wha-huh?
You should not be here, the voice repeated, and he felt a hand touch his shoulder. Flicker. The darkness dissolved around him and reformed into their room in the inn. Thal felt his cheeks grow hot, looking down at his sleeping companion; he reached out with his right hand. “I should have dispelled the nightmare, not tried to induce it,” he whispered, still tasting blood and guilt although no longer inside the kortexi’s nightmare, “but there were two, and I was confused by what was happening to him,” he added in an e
ffort to justify his actions.
“I already have dispelled the one,” a musical voice replied from behind him, “but the girl refuses to enter the other.”
He turned quickly to see who had spoken but saw no one. “Who are . . . what do you mean?” Thal stammered.
But whoever had spoken ignored his question. “The hunt is on,” the voice went on, almost singing. “You chosen cannot afford to stay in one place too long; you cannot even travel in the same slow way that others do.”
Thal kept turning his head, trying to discover the source of the voice and the speaker, but the phantom kept moving, just beyond his sight; he saw no one.
“Thus,” the voice continued, “you have been given the means to move instantly from place to place. Even now Elker reaches out with his minions to trap you in his hand.”
Thal felt something brush him gently, like the soft touch of a cool breeze on a hot summer night that energized him in the same way as drinking the Waters; Blakstar stirred next to him and sat up, looking around. Before either of them could speak, they heard footsteps running down the hall, and the door to their room burst open.
The Redemption, Volume 1 Page 77