Grimenna

by N. K. Blazevic

  — «» —

  Renn pushed Ceitra away from him and watched her panic through the blur of the water. She thrashed, her red hair streaming like silken ribbons about her horrified face. She fought to swim, clawing madly for the surface, but the water did not support her. Bubbles erupted from her mouth in a drowned scream, but even the bubbles sank with her. She fell still, her eyes opening wide as she became listless, surrendering to her demise. He watched as the red flooded from her hair, watched as the black of her eyes became empty except for the green of the waters about her. It was a slow, painful descent to watch.

  He looked beyond her into the womb.

  He did not even try to fight the pull of the water, for he knew it was futile. Instead he let his body drift, opening his arms wide to the darkness that would swallow him. As he looked into it, he felt only peace. He would find his absolution; he would find his forgiveness in its immeasurable depth.

  He closed his eyes and tasted the sweetness of its waters. In his ears was the sound of his own heart beating. As his thoughts scattered, the only one that remained was how it was a shame he was dirtying this peaceful place.

  Suddenly something caught his cloak and held him fast. His descent came to a jarring halt. Petals and feathers brushed past his face as they fell. Ceitra disappeared below, yet he did not follow. His head was forced to look up where, in the blurred halo of light from the surface, he saw a girl clinging to a braided vine of flowers. Her pale hair floated out about her head in shining streams.

  He could not at first make sense of her, and a pang of anger flared in him at this person who would take him from his peace. He was wrenched upwards, he felt an arm about his neck, tendrils of hair floating against his face. She struggled to haul him to the surface, fighting the pull of the chasm. He heard her thoughts echo out through the water, felt her anxious hope that the vines would hold fast and she would make it to the surface before she lost her breath.

  “Heavy,” he heard her voice, “too heavy. Renn, help me, by all the stars help me. I can’t do this.”

  Paiva. Her name jolted him from his daze. He felt the burn in his chest from lack of air and he sprung back to life in a panic. He clambered for hold on the vine, pulling Paiva into his chest where she clung about his neck as he hauled them upwards.

  Her thoughts echoed out and floated about him in the dream waters and he wondered if she could hear his own. “I will not let you go,” he heard; “I will not lose you.” She wrapped her arms tighter about his neck and pressed her face against the wall of his chest. Seconds later his hands broke the surface with a muted splash and he surged up and into the air where he gasped in burning breaths.

  Paiva choked and coughed, her body spasming violently. Renn held her to him, cradling her within the bend of his arm. They clung to each other as they caught their breaths, the waters spilling into the forest. A thousand heartbeats were shared between them before he looked about for Varloga.

  He found the creature tearing into Viviel, crushing the beautiful flowers beneath them.

  “Save him,” he heard Paiva whisper. “Please save him.”

  He pulled them from the pool, setting Paiva aside to wilt into the flowers. In one fluid motion he retrieved his pitted sword and swung it back.

  Everything seemed to slow in that moment. Varloga lifted his snarling head from Viviel and turned it to Renn. Its features changed. Odrik reappeared, but Renn’s sword was already swinging.

  There was a spray of black blood, a flutter of white feathers. The force of the swing sent Renn rolling into the ground. For a long moment he rested, unable to lift his head to witness the damage he had done. White feathers fluttered to the ground around him, crushed flowers bleeding their scent into the air.

  When he raised his head, time returned to its normal flow.

  Viviel lay stricken on the ground, staring at the headless winged body above him. Blood dripped onto his chest and into his face. The body twitched, the wings jerked, then it staggered away as if looking for its missing head. Viviel surged to his feet and pushed it hard, toppling the twitching body into the Conjuring pool. He watched it thrash, then sink, rippling the surface and disappearing into the deep.

  With that, its evil sank back into the creation from which it was born.

  Viviel touched his forehead in the familiar gesture of warding off bad luck, then turned back to Renn. Renn stared at him in disbelief. He felt a great flood of emotion, a cleansing and a banishing of pain and hurt. He choked on a sob.

  Lying in the trampled greenery was the head. Odrik’s face stared at him, his jaw clacking open and shut, his black eyes staring coldly into Renn’s soul. Slowly the shadows departed, diminishing until they were empty of every accusing fear and hurt. The face changed and there remained only a ghoulish monster in its stead. Renn shuddered a sigh and closed his eyes.

  “Renn,” he heard. Then Paiva was beside him, pulling him to his knees and cradling his face in her hands.

  “Renn, you did it,” she said. “Renn you are … you are a hero!”

  “You are a hero,” Viviel laughed. “Claim Varloga’s head. Rise and you shall be followed.”

  “But I can’t … I …” he floundered, his throat suddenly too dry to voice sound. “But the Spirits… they’re gone. Who will save us now? Who will save man from himself?”

  He found Viviel’s golden eyes on him, emanating such kindness he felt it warm into his bones. “Man will have to save himself,” Viviel smiled, dried tears staining his wolfish face. “Man will have to remember that there is great goodness in his heart and it is he and he alone who has the power to use it. Come. Rise.”

  “I can’t,” he begged.

  “Are you afraid?” Paiva asked, and he looked up into her smiling eyes. Viviel’s laugh echoed out into the garden, then the Incarnate turned and began to walk away. His fur seemed to melt from him, his shape receding back into that of a man. He stepped out of the crumbled ruins and into the woods, peering about into the lush greenery.

  “Where are you going?” Paiva called.

  “Let us return to the world of men,” he said. “For we have our work to do, my beautiful Virtue.”

  — «» —

  Maggra stared in disbelief as the Folka snarling at her, keeping her from crossing the threshold into the Vale, suddenly shrank back into the shadows of the trees. She blinked, trying to comprehend what had happened. Ulrig limped up beside her, his head bleeding into his white beard and staining it red. He peered into the trees and a smile broke over his face, then a laugh burst forth from his chest and echoed out into the forest.

  A shape appeared from the woods, tall and dark with silver eyes. In his hand was the bloodied white head of Varloga, its maws slacked open dragging a snaked tongue in a grim tableau of death. The Folka backed away from him as he came, crouching low and hissing.

  Renn raised the head to them, his heart hammering in his chest.

  “I have slain your creator, your conjurer and master,” he bellowed to the wisps of Folka. “You are nothing but shadows, bound to this earth through our fear. I banish you.”

  Renn watched as the Folka bowed their heads and slithered into the trees, dissolving like the shadows they were.

  — «» —

  Renn dropped his arm, feeling the weight of the dead thing drain the last of his strength. His head spun dizzyingly, his breaths came short. He looked down at his ruined body and wondered how much longer he’d be able to keep standing.

  From behind him came Viviel and Paiva, walking through the trees together looking like they were more a part of the forest than human beings. Paiva’s eyes shone green and gold as she smiled to Renn. Life sprang beneath every one of Viviel’s footsteps and he left a trail of blossoming flowers in his wake.

  Maggra felt the blood drain from her body. It left her knees weak. There was a claw tear in her chest, over her heart, from which
she waited for the last of her life’s blood to drain. She fell to her knees, her head bowed before this golden-eyed man that came forwards from the depths of the Forest.

  “Wolf Father,” she whispered. He stopped before her and looked into her struggling eyes. “I will die now,” she said. “But can you help me? I want to remember the name my Mother gave me.”

  “You could stay,” he said gently, touching at her cheek with his fingertips. Flowers spiraled up her legs and grew their roots into her wounds. She shook her head as tears fell from her eyes.

  “No,” she whispered. “Look at me. I am not worth saving.”

  He placed his hand over the top of her head.

  “Every life is precious,” he said. “Every life matters.” He looked around at the others, the painted faces and the bearded faces, bleeding ones and ones in awe.

  “Thank you,” he said to them all. Maggra gasped as flowers and vines snaked up from the forest floor, winding around her body and closing over her wounds. In moments she completely disappeared beneath the flowery mass and everyone turned to stare in wonder. The flowers budded and bloomed, opening their petals to the sun, then one by one they wilted and their petals fell away like snow. Viviel bent his head and whispered to her, “Only you can remember your name. Only you can choose to heal.”

  For a long moment nothing happened, then the flowers began to wilt as if a sudden autumn had come. Petals fell away and within the cocoon of greenery Maggra rose, her wounds healed, her lifeblood restored. She gaped at herself, looking at the hands she spread before her, smoothed and erased of her painted pain.

  Paiva gaped at her, for Maggra appeared renewed and beautiful. From her dark eyes she wept the last of her hurts and fell to Viviel’s feet. “Thank you,” she whispered both to him and the Forest, clutching handfuls of earth. Flowers and tender shoots bloomed about him as he went to every man and touched him, their wounds healing, their hearts filling with awe. The bodies of the dead were swept over with flowers, disappearing into the earth from which new life sprang.

  Renn tossed the head amidst the Wildermen and watched as flowers blossomed about it from the ground. Then he sagged to his knees and drew in deep breaths, his body succumbing to its injuries. Paiva crouched beside him and took his hand as flowers swallowed them. His bones sang and vibrated with energies of the forest, the very magic he was a part of. When the flowers wilted Paiva swept them from his face, and he found his pains were gone. He drew in breaths of sweet air and ached with the beauty all around him, the beauty shining through Paiva’s wide eyes into his.

  “Thank you,” she said to him.

  “Where are the others Good Spirits?” Ulrig asked then.

  “They are returned to the magic that made them,” Viviel said. “They are a part of the Forest again.”

  “Then we must not forget them,” Ulrig said and bowed his head. “We must not forget their stories.”

  Chapter 18

  Yulin sat beside Lord Pratermora on his bedside. Gently he reached out and placed his hand on the Lord’s shoulder and shook it. The old man shrunk under the touch, muttered something and turned his head away.

  “My Lord,” Yulin whispered low.

  “Go away,” Pratermora murmured. “No more medicines.”

  “No more medicines,” Yulin promised. “Rennik is back from the woods.”

  “Rennik?” the Lord moaned, then he tossed his head and his face contorted into a pained frown. “Odrik,” the Lord whimpered, and then was still.

  Yulin sighed wearily and turned to look helplessly at a figure standing across the room. Viviel blinked his golden eyes at the Warden, then strode forward to take his place by the bedside. Yulin anxiously paced to the back of the chamber, clutching his hands behind his back as he was often given to doing when he was sufficiently worried.

  Viviel reached out his wide, calloused hand and placed it over the Lord’s chest. Pratermora drew in his breath quickly and tossed his head again, then his body spasmed and tensed, curling and coiling as if Viviel’s hand was a hot iron. Then he was still again, a long, shattered breath expelled. Yulin watched anxiously.

  Slowly Pratermora’s eyes blinked open and shone blue. They were clear and without fog, they spun around the room and landed on Viviel. He blinked again, transfixed by Viviel’s eyes.

  “Your son has returned from the woods,” Viviel said in deep, gentle tones.

  “Rennik?” the Lord choked. Tears flooded his eyes and spilled down the lines in his cheeks. Viviel moved his hand to the Lord’s brow, clasping it tenderly beneath his gentle warmth.

  “What have I done?” The Lord gaped as memory flew back to him, “What have I done?”

  — «» —

  It had been nearly a week that the Wildermen had returned from the woods and news spread quickly throughout the Keep of what had come to pass in the deep of Grimenna. Bards, minstrels and heralds were dispatched to the villages and towns where they spread the news through stories and songs. People were taken aback in disbelief, others outrage. They cursed Ceitra’s name and her dark spirits, rejoicing with hope for a brighter future with her gone.

  Ramsi was sent from the Keep as sorry as a dog. His proud, good name was ruined, his red cloak stripped from him for life. Yulin resumed his station as Master Warden and the first thing he did, aside from hurrying to the kitchens to gorge himself on Bessil’s cooking, was to give Viviel his double brand of Pardon. There was no ceremony, though the Lord signed his ledger and sent a troop of rangers to Quarrytown on the fastest horses in his stables to free Kess from the work pit.

  Paiva would never forget the long wait. She and Aunt Bess sat on the steps of the entrance to the Keep watching Viviel pace the bailey square. The scorched tower watched over them from above and for hours they sat there, not wanting to miss the moment when Kess should arrive.

  At last a horse cart came trotting into the bailey through the gates surrounded by rangers on dusty, tired mounts. In the back of the cart sat her mother, dressed in disheveled rags with a haggard, gaunt face. When her eyes alighted on Viviel, she threw herself from the cart and raced through the bailey, tears streaming from her eyes as she threw herself into her husband’s arms. Paiva laughed and felt her own eyes whelm with tears. She ran up to her parents where she received a shower of love and joy. She could not recollect a single moment in her life that had ever been so happy.

  Bess lurched to her feet and came round, where she received a warm, tearful embrace from her sister. After that Bess ushered them inside the Keep where they were given their own chambers and fresh clothes and servants to attend to their every need. Her mother chased the servants away after they had filled a tub with hot water and her father had helped her to undress from her soiled clothing. Paiva glimpsed reddened marks and welts in her mother’s back, saw mangled, healing flesh on her legs and turned away with a sickened stomach. She remembered the crack of Master Rojik’s whip in the quarry and remembered her mother’s screams when the dogs had taken her down.

  Viviel touched his gentle hands to her hurts and her mother wept, then he bathed her in the tub. Paiva left them alone then, her heart hurting from the sobs her mother tried to stifle as her pain and hurts were washed away.

  They slept together on a straw pallet by the fire that night, Kess with her arms over Viviel’s great chest, her head against his heart. Paiva lay alongside her mother and played with her hair while they told her the story of what had come to pass. It was a long story and Paiva fell asleep with her face nestled in her mother’s hair to the sound of her father’s snores and the crackle of the fire.

  She slept deep and with peace, waking in the morning to the sounds of horns blaring. Her father rose sleepily and went to look out the slanted window with a smile. The horns trumpeted over the Keep, ringing out into the surrounding farms announcing the Pardoning ceremony.

  — «» —

  The Great Hall was fil
led with every last soul in the Keep. People spilled out into the streets and gathered in thick droves. Their voices rang up, deafening the air with noise. Paiva sat beside her parents at a rough table dressed in the finest gown she had ever worn in her life.

  A kindly group of maids had arrived that morning under direction of Yulin with armfuls of clothes. Her mother had helped her to pick out a gown, then helped her into it and fussed tenderly over her all morning, brushing her hair and plaiting it with flowers plucked from the Keep’s own garden. The dress was of a sage-colored silk, so soft and fine she felt like she was wearing a spider web. Her mother had chosen a dark green gown stitched with intricate designs and Paiva in return had helped to arrange her hair and weave it with small purple flowers.

  Her father himself was dressed in newly cut brown breeches, a crisp fresh shirt with a patterned vest, and over his shoulders was cast a brown wool cloak with a wooden brooch. On his head he wore a wool cap with a long striped feather poked through it. Her mother had muttered about how she had not remembered the last time he had looked so handsome, for he had groomed his beard and washed the dirt from beneath his fingernails. He sat as fine and as handsome as a nobleman would, his golden eyes glittering beneath the dark curls on his forehead.

  Bessil had put on a magnificent feast and spared no expense. The tables were laden with breads and roasted meats, sugared nuts and glazed fruits and every last fine wine and ale that she had ever stowed away in her cellar. She rushed around ordering her maids, blushing under Yulin’s warm gaze that followed her wherever she went.

  The Great Hall fell hushed as the Lord descended from his chambers. Paiva had not seen him since their return from the woods, but as she gazed at him now, she saw that a great change had passed over him. He wore his deep purple robes, the silver and gold chains draped across the sigil on his chest. His face was still gaunt and pale, but his fierce blue eyes shone with life. In them was every happiness of the world returned.