by Colin Taber
I shook my head and called out to her, “Suit yourself.”
The guard was now handing out loaves, breaking them in half as he did to make sure each family or group got some bread. I spoke up again, “There is food and help at the ruins at the end of the sound, but only for those looking for hope. Go to the gate there and tell them I sent you.”
Some of them looked blankly, but a few smiled with gratitude.
The old crone spat amongst the stones and cursed, “There’s only bloody ends for heretics like you!”
I turned from her and got back in the coach.
We rode on until full dark and then stopped to rest both horses and riders until the first teasing light of dawn. The scattering of refugees had run out, leaving us on an open stretch of empty road.
At our current pace we expected to reach the beginnings of the looming ridgeside climb just after the coming mid-morning. From there it would be up and over and then into the Cassaro’s Vale.
-
As we set out the sun rose behind us, climbing over the snowcapped mountains to the east. The high clouds and new day’s light joined forces to help lift my spirits. The scene, one of the sound’s still waters, golden light and a mostly blue sky, saw my thoughts of ramshackle refugee camps fade away, but not completely.
Later, when the road finally turned from the shoreline to the ridge, we came upon another camp built at the base of the trail where it began to rise. This camp was different.
Shacks lined a series of overhangs and caves where once we ourselves had spent the night during our exodus from Ossard over a season ago. The shelters were better built than what we’d passed the previous day, but instead of sporting a hopeless air, they rose to stand as brooding and shadowed.
At first, as we came to the turn in the road, we didn’t see anyone about. What we did sense, though, was the unmistakable stink of death. Aside from that, the only other thing to grab our attention amidst the rough settlement was a couple of smouldering cooking fires.
The inhabitants were near...
The scene was intimidating, even though I rode amidst a large group. I wondered; how would a lone rider fare?
Not well, not well at all. A lone rider would have to be lucky!
The shanty suddenly filled with movement as its inhabitants stepped forth from a dozen different shadows and shacks. They emerged like wolves coming from the night, hunting their latest victims. Every one of them was armed.
The largest group came from where great strips of meat hung under a long stone overhang at the ridgeside’s base. The movement drew my eyes, and the red of fresh meat my focus. In a moment I realised they’d been butchering a horse. Such fare might be tough, but it’d do well to keep them alive. In fact, it’d do better than a lot of other things they were likely to have been eating.
They were a mix of people, but their numbers dominated by Heletian men. One in particular stood bigger than the rest. When he stopped coming forward, so did the others.
He was ominous, watching with dark eyes, as we began to pass along the road and through their camp. After taking our measure, he called out, “You’re running late if you go to join the battle!”
I hissed to Kurt, “Continue. We can’t afford a delay!”
As we passed on, he yelled, “You’ll be dead soon, just like the rest!’
I turned from him to look at my guards, to make sure that they were also ignoring him.
Sharp laughter burst from the heart of the camp, from where his people had gathered into a gang about forty strong.
I turned back at the sound.
The brute had dropped his pants and was theatrically wiping his arse on a blue cloth. After a moment, I realised he was using an embroidered rose flag.
We began climbing the hillside trail, our coach turning to take the first of its switch-backed lengths. The movement took him out of my sight, but not the question that rose as my heart skipped a beat; how’d he get a rose flag?
Was my lone rider safe?
-
It was as our party neared the top of the ridge that we came across a mounted Inquisition messenger. With a banner of black, navy and gold rising from his back, and other silks of white and yellow draped from his steed’s saddle, his allegiance was clear.
On seeing us, he hailed, our own banners identifying us more than anything else. “People of the Rose, who leads you?”
We had a dozen horsemen ahead of us on the trail, but remained the first coach. Kurt called from where he drove, “To me, man, for I speak on behalf of Lady Juvela Liberigo!”
The rider approached, his weapons stored and sheathed.
Our own horsemen let him pass, though I noted they were not lax in their scrutiny.
“I have a message for Juvela Liberigo, is she here or at the ruins?”
I opened the door and spoke, “I am Juvela Liberigo.”
He turned to me and dipped his head. “I come to declare that our mighty force has rallied in Goldston after joining with those from Minehead and the adjacent vales. It is built around a core of Sankto Glavos and inquisitors, our numbers bolstered by hundreds of southern knights, their men at arms, and, of course, countless thousands of the Northcountry’s own common people. By the grace of Krienta, I report that we command all the lands of the upper Cassaro down to the Old Goldston Bridge!”
And then he stopped, and I realised, awaited some kind of cheer.
What allies we’d chosen!
Quite simply, I felt sick. How could they send a messenger to so proudly announce arrival in what was already safe territory? It was as if they thought they’d breached the city walls!
Idiots!
Before me sat an example of the arrogance and ignorance that we’d always thought would doom the campaign. And it hadn’t gone away or been overestimated – it was still here!
Into the silence, I hissed, “Goldston didn’t need liberating!”
His mouth fell open, yet he had no answer.
I wondered; was I reading too much into this? Perhaps a little cockiness was worth displaying? Or was I seeing the truth of the Inquisition’s underestimation of what they faced, something I’d let my own husband and so many others go to aid.
All without my blessing...
The Inquisition might be blinded by their arrogance, but what excuse did I have for what I’d done? I was supposed to be a leader. Instead of showing leadership, I’d remained in Marco’s Ruin, sick with guilt and soiled by doubt, as I let them march to their doom.
What had I become?
Was I the Forsaken Lady I’d been labelled seasons ago, or was I just that confused girl who’d come of age in a garden of lust and misery, all of it watered with guilt and blood?
I made to dismiss the messenger, but then remembered our own. “Did you pass a lone rider, one carrying our banner and an urgent message for the campaign’s command?”
The man glanced at my mounted guards before turning back to me. “No, my lady, not a lone rider, but the roads aren’t safe.”
My breath caught. “He’d be a good half day ahead of us, at least.”
“If that’s the case, he may’ve met your volunteers and ridden into Goldston with them. That force had only just arrived when I departed. There was much happening at the time; my masters were already preparing the force’s elements to get under way, while many of the command group rode up the ridge with me, before turning west. They will be observing the battle from the ridgeside above the city.”
“The command?”
“They will have a better view of what’s happening and what needs to be done to win the battle from up on high. The ridgeline also loses much of its height as it nears the city, so they’ll be close enough to join the fight if need be.”
“I see.” I’d heard something of the benefit of the high vantage point mentioned during Pedro and Inquisitor Louis’ talks.
“May I suggest, my Lady, that if you have important news, that you avoid wasting time going down into the vale. Instead, just see
k out Inquisitor Baltimora and his command.”
“I need to speak to my husband who leads our own volunteers.”
“If I may, my Lady, by the time you get down into the vale the force will have already marched. If you have important news, you have more chance of catching Baltimora’s command. From there you will still be able to reach your people, as there are other trails down into the vale further west, if but ones only suited to those on foot or horseback.”
“Thank you for your advice,” I said and dismissed him.
Closing the door, I sat back and lost myself in thought. Later, as our procession continued on, I fell into dreams.
I passed through a long tunnel, the one that led to the first canyon, the detail of it barely intruding into my daze. Then I trod forest paths, moving along them, as I passed by my own people who laboured on to improve their lives and secure their futures.
My feelings were jumbled, but mostly of fear, loss and regret. I was lost, I realised, as lost as the dead – yet still my people toiled about me.
I didn’t have to ask what fuelled their efforts, for deep down, despite my own misery and doubts, I knew the truth: Hope burnt within them. The same hope I’d gifted as I’d led them from the falling city.
Hope of life saved and renewed!
Each step I took saw more eyes rise to meet mine, as they began to get to their feet. At their core, I could also see the white-blue glow of their souls show through – and all of them subtly marked by the last green sparks of Life’s magic.
I blushed, embarrassed by their faith: I wasn’t worthy and hadn’t been since my first soul-feeding – my own fall from grace. In truth, I didn’t want to go on if this was what I had to endure; awaiting the day when I’d dash the hopes of those who held such faith in me.
Barely conscious of where I went, I left the canyon and began moving through another tunnel, one which rumbled with water’s song. My people followed me on my lost and pointless march, one that delivered me only deeper into my malaise.
Wallowing in such thoughts, I realised that if I continued to refuse my deep hunger that it’d instead survive by consuming not the innocent, but me. The Prince could soothe the discomfort and hurt, yet the diabolical cause remained. The addiction was like a parasite – and it needed to feed!
I might have control over myself for now, but for how much longer? When would the hunger sap so much of my strength that I collapsed and finally gave in to one last cataclysm of celestial gluttony?
How wasted I felt. How empty and alone. How final.
Yet, my steps quickened...
Greenery surrounded me as I wove along a tight path that wound between trees. Above, the golden light of sunset painted the clouds orange, as I headed towards the grove of the heartwood: The home of the rose tree.
The clearing opened wide, revealing the lush mint lawn bathed in a soft light, all of it edged by the surrounding elms which reached up, long and lithe. Their silver limbs were studded with opening buds, for down in the canyon winter had already passed into memory.
Now was the time of spring!
The mother tree stood at the centre; tall and thickening, as her dark trunk filled out, while her branches above spread with a strength that seemed so improbable for a tree fringed with such delicate leaves of maroon.
I continued forward, slowly filling with a nervous energy.
Behind me, my people came into the clearing; not dozens or hundreds, but thousands. I could feel not just their presence, but their belief.
I looked to the rosetree, something that I’d brought back from the dead. The thought made me smile, for I wondered how I could be so full of doubt when I looked at the beauty in front of me, a beauty I’d resurrected.
All around me I was surrounded by those who cared, the air ripe with their love and faith. They knew I struggled with an inner burden and wanted to help. They’d gladly do anything for me...
...anything...
...even give their own lives and souls – their very beings!
I thought I’d understood before, but now my realisation began to bloom as profoundly as a black rose. Finally, I tasted the bloody truth. And it would be terrible indeed!
We’d all have to make grave sacrifices in the seasons to come to create the reality we wanted. Not just me.
Without Life the world lay fallow, regardless of how much Death watered it with blood. Yet, all that soil needed was a seed.
Chapter 32
-
To the Lakelands
-
Dawn came, and with it, time for Sef and Anton to leave the comforts of Adonis and begin their trek. Sef had been quiet through the past evening, and remained so now, lost in thoughts of a New Praagerdam and his nearing to Kaumhurst and its tragedy.
Anton respected his silence, but was also lost in his own sombre world, for on the previous evening he’d left Sef to himself and gone to visit the Heletian Quarter.
Homecomings were often difficult.
The decision had come to him when he’d thought that he’d all but put such whimsy aside. Once decided, he’d tried to do it quickly and anonymously, but like trying to define why he’d finally chosen to go, visiting his home district unseen was simply impossible.
With the Countess’ prior announcement of Sef and Anton’s imminent arrival and its need to be reported, the Heletians of Adonis had been expecting a visit from one of their most celebrated sons. When he’d passed through their quarter’s ancient gates, he found himself greeted not by a faceless bustle he could lose himself in, but a waiting crowd.
For was he not the inquisitor who’d only decades before condemned scores of Ossard’s Flets to death?
Amongst the crowd were distant relatives and half-forgotten neighbours, them all, in truth, long since become strangers to him. So, under a darkening sky, after some polite hints and then blunt insistence, he was finally led through the growing throng to his family’s ancestral home. Unsurprisingly the ramshackle building stood unchanged.
His older brother, Marcus, came forward from the house, summoned to the door by the noise from the street. “Anton, look at you?” and his tone came as a question, for all had expected him to return berobed, not clothed as a traveller.
“Marcus!” he exclaimed as he stepped into an awkward embrace. “You must tell me all that’s happened,” he added, upon seeing what he supposed was his brother’s wife and children standing in the doorway.
Marcus whispered, “You’ll need to farewell the crowd before I can get you inside – and I can see that’s what you’d prefer.”
Anton stepped back and gave a nod, before turning to face the packed street. “Good people of Adonis, it’s a joy to be home, but I regret to say that I’ll need to leave again soon.”
A moan of disappointment arose from the crowd.
He went on, “I’m sorry, but for now I need to see my family. Tomorrow I’ll do what I can to see the rest of you.”
A half-hearted cheer sounded, one founded on a dubious hope.
He waved to the crowd and then turned to walk inside the old building. Behind him he heard Marcus and his family following, as he wondered what kind of night it would be.
Already, he was wishing he hadn’t come.
The door shut as Anton turned to face them.
Marcus eyed him before pointing to a chair at the far end of the table. “Brother, please take a seat.” His family moved to the siding benches, Marcus going to the table’s head, to where their father had always sat.
They all took their places, Marcus the last to sit. “This is quite a surprise, but I suspect there’s more to come.”
“I apologise for not being able to give notice of my visit, but the last few days have been as unplanned and rushed as the season before.”
“Where are your robes?”
“I am... I’m without them.”
“Mother said you would be – if you ever bothered to return.”
Anton looked down at the table for a moment, and then to t
he unknown faces sitting about him.
Marcus went on, “Anton, this is my wife, Maria, and my two sons Giova and Peter, and my daughters Marydonna and Bella.” They all nodded in turn.
“It’s good to meet you,” he whispered, but the words fell flat. He turned back to Marcus. “And mother and father – and Tonio?”
Marcus shook his head. “They’re all dead.”
“Oh.”
“Did you never get my messages?”
Anton shook his head.
Of course he had; he’d read them, just not bothered to reply. He’d always been too busy.
“Our little brother was taken by the sea many years ago. Father also passed on back then, dying in his sleep. Mother had a wasting sickness, which finally took her two summers ago, but when the end came, it came without too much pain or so she said, and was quick.”
“A mercy.”
“Indeed.” Marcus looked up to stare at Anton, and then added, “Thanks be to Krienta!” He frowned. “She said on her death bed that you’d come back to us unrobed. What’s happened, for something clearly has – you’ve also come without your fiery anger?”
Anton looked about the table, noting that the youngest, Marydonna, had almost come of age. It meant that he could talk amongst them; that it’d be up to Marcus and Maria to censor the conversation if they’d not have it in front of them. “I’ve come from Ossard.”
Marcus’ eyes widened. “They say it’s fallen?”
“Into fire and madness; many have died.”
“Really?”
“It’s a great tragedy, perhaps the greatest of these days.”
“I thought you were unwelcomed there – the Inquisition.”
“We were, but things became so desperate that they called for us. In the end, it didn’t matter, we arrived too late.”
“So, who now rules Ossard?”
“Heinz Kurgar, the former head of the Flet Guild.”
“A Flet rules Ossard – and you left the city in his hands?”
Anton looked again into the faces of those about the table. His brother had never held strong faith, but that’d been a long time ago, and he knew nothing of his family. “A terrible doom is coming for what remains of Ossard and the Northcountry. I’ve left the service of the order and now labour on more pressing matters, matters of greater import than anything I’ve ever known.”