Tilden? Conti fought hard to disguise the surprise he felt at that name.
‘Why have you defiled my sanctuary?’ he asked, bluffing as his mind raced to calculate his options.
‘As I have told you already,’ the man who had called himself Tilden said coldly, ‘I am here to deliver a message.’ The words were steady and measured, betraying no emotion or hint of his purpose.
‘Indeed, it is a message of two parts.’
‘Then deliver it and be gone. I warn you, I have no time for Lothrian falsehoods and threats!’ He had begun to regain his composure now. The Lothrians had not sent this man, but he played a gambit to tease some information from the figure. If this man had been an assassin, skilled enough to gain entry to this place without detection, he would not have had the chance to challenge him. ‘I am a busy man and have the affairs of the Church to guide.’
Tilden sat forward and locked eyes with the high priest. ‘These are the most important words you will ever hear.
‘My first message is this: beware the imposter. His lies will destroy you and your precious Church. My second is that the Twins are reborn.’
Conti sat transfixed in the intruder’s hypnotic gaze, powerless for the first time in decades.
‘If you doubt my words, speak to your Lothrian equal.’
The corners of Tilden’s mouth turned up in a cold smile that never entered his eyes.
Conti met with Kerk, the leader of the Lothrians, on an irregular basis, but these meetings were held in secret. Only a few of his closest advisers knew of them. There was no desire on either side for them to become common knowledge. Then the room darkened, not enough to extinguish the light from the lamps, but enough to cause him to shiver with emptiness. Before he could speak, Tilden vanished. No clap of thunder framed his exit, no dramatic billow of smoke. The intruder was simply gone, leaving the chair vacant once more.
--*--
Dust blew along the empty chapel’s hard stone floor as thunder cascaded through the open windows that ran along the length of the building. Kerk was kneeling, deep in prayer, in front of the main altar. He had held this pose for nearly four hours now; the cramped pain in his legs helped him to maintain his focus.
His later life had been dedicated to his church and congregation. Every day he came to ask for guidance, for himself and on behalf of the people of Mashesh. He may be head of the Lothrians, but he never prayed solely for them. Life was gruelling on the edge of the Great Desert. Many generations had spent their lives rebuilding this solitary city after the Sundering. Not restoring, but rebuilding. Mashesh before the Sundering had been a place of decadence and depravity, opulence and spiritual poverty. Some of the greatest places of learning had resided in the city, but they wallowed in a chaotic mire of brothels, opium dens and gangland violence. That had been swept away in the Sundering, and any remaining vestiges cleansed in the Purge. He was well read in The Histories.
Kerk stood stiffly as he finished his prayers. The years had been kinder to him than to others, but age had taken its toll. Opening his eyes, he blinked as lightning divided the sky. A man was between him and the altar, a man with skin lighter than the blonde sandstone on which they stood. Initially startled to see anyone here at this time, Kerk took a couple of seconds to compose himself.
‘How did you get in here?’ Kerk asked, his deep voice cascading around the church.
‘Ah, Kerk. Is that really so important?’ said the intruder. ‘I have been here for some time, watching you.’ A hint of venom laced the intruder’s languid tone. ‘You truly are the most pious man I have ever seen. Faith has always fascinated me. Obeisance to a higher authority I can comprehend, but all this self-sacrifice and pitiful prayer - like a dog begging for scraps from the meal table; that is beyond me’.
Kerk felt the anger rising in him. For so many years, he had kept it on a short leash. ‘Who are you, and what do you want?’ he asked. ‘This is a Holy place and you will not defile it with blasphemies.’
‘Forgive me,’ he replied. ‘I have not come here to waste time. I have two important pieces of information, two warnings.’ He ran his thin fingers though his hair as he spoke. An obtuse power emanated from this man, but his young pale face, gave nothing away.
‘An imposter has arrived in your city, this very day. The storm announces his arrival. His lies will destroy your church.’ After he spoke, the pale-skinned man walked slowly over to the open window at the end of the altar, gazing out into the storm-darkened street.
‘Who dares threaten me in my own church?’ said Kerk, the anger growing in him. The head of the Lothrians was an imposing figure. Well over six feet tall, he had broad, muscled shoulders, with arms that were thicker than some of his younger priests. Years of subjugating his fury were threatening to unravel.
‘My second message is that the Twins are reborn.’ The pale-skinned man spoke without turning to face him. ‘As for my name, you can ask Conti.’
A growl grew deep in Kerk’s throat. He moved to take a step towards this defiler. Rage had over-ridden any self-control that had held him back. It had been a long time since he had been involved in any form of physical violence, but the familiar rush washed through him. As his foot touched the stone floor, darkness claimed the room for a heartbeat: cold, empty and clinging.
When light returned, the intruder was gone. He howled in impotent rage as his anger sought a conduit for release. It would be some time before anyone dared enter.
2 - The Struggle Within
He woke in a small plain room, with a single door and a single window. The room was empty, apart from the cot on which he lay and a pitcher of water sitting beside the bed. An orange glow from the window and the residual heat of the room told him it was approaching sunset.
Confusion crowded in on him. He couldn’t straighten out his thoughts. This place was familiar; not the room itself, but the smell of the desert stirred memories buried deep within him. He remembered dreaming vividly, but as he woke, the details receded. His mind closed the barriers behind which his sanity could survive. The visions of blood and anguish that had tormented him in his fevered nightmares were replaced by the dull aches of life.
Sitting up in the bed, he examined himself. He’d been ill for some time and someone had obviously cared for him. He was dressed in a plain, ill-fitting shift, many sizes too big. He swivelled on the bed, letting his feet rest on the floor, but even this small movement left him dizzy. Bile burned at the back of his throat. A sudden flash of darkness gripped his mind, panic grasped at him avidly and soon he was falling again. He returned to the dark chasm that had brought him back here. Faceless shapes clawed and pulled at him, drawing him down into the cold, the isolation, the bitter embrace of nothingness.
Soon, the sensation passed and he found himself sprawled on the floor, saliva dripping from his open mouth to pool on the cold stone. As he pulled himself into a sitting position against the nearest wall, a thought occurred to him through the vertigo.
Back here.
He had been here before; a long time ago, and yet not such a long time. He could recall the endless trek out of the desert and could remember reaching the gates of Mashesh.
Mashesh
Even the name of the city felt foreign. The dichotomy of his mind refused to reintegrate itself. In his liminal state, he felt memories of a different place and time stir in the recesses of his mind, but as he tried to grip them, they fled from his touch as if they feared to be held.
As he sat on the floor hugging his knees, the door swung inwards. A pretty, slender woman stood in the doorway, her dark hair pulled tight in a plait that lay comfortably over her shoulder. She wore a look of gentle concern on her dark-skinned face. Stepping to his side, she helped him back to sit on the edge of the bed, having no difficultly bearing his weight.
‘I see you are awake at last. We have been worried about you.’
He stared at her. He had vague recollections of this girl. She had spoken to him as he lay ill. ‘You are Aviti,
’ he said, more to confirm this to himself.
‘Yes, I am,’ she smiled. ‘My brother, Cairn, and I found you at the gates to the city. Do you remember the storm? It was truly awful. I have never experienced one with such ferocity in my life.
‘I am sorry, I am babbling like a child.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ he said. ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve spoken to anyone; such a long time. It’s nice to hear your voice.’ Silence descended, growing like the darkness in the room. The girl shifted in the gloom, standing back in the doorway. She turned from him to look outside. The sun had dipped behind the horizon now and the shadows, which had been there moments ago, had merged to blanket the ground.
‘I have a few questions for you,’ she said, ‘if you feel up to answering them.’
He gave no reply, but simply looked into her eyes when she turned back to face him. ‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘We found nothing in your clothes at all. No way of telling where you came from or what you were doing in the city.’
‘I -’ he began. He stopped himself and took a drink from the pitcher. His hands shook as he fought for control of his muscles. With his attention on the water, the answer came to him. ‘My name is Wist.’
Aviti’s face darkened. ‘That cannot be your name. You have been hearing Father talking in your sleep. I have warned him about saying such things, but he is old and -’ her voice trailed off leaving her words unspoken. ‘Your mind must still be recovering.’
He sighed and held his head in his hands. ‘I can’t seem to sort out my thoughts. God, I can’t even remember who I am,’ he cursed.
‘I’ve been here before and I’ve lived somewhere else. But I can’t seem to separate the two. Every time I grasp at a memory, it’s as if someone’s snatching it from me. ‘My head’s splitting. Do you have any -’ he thought for a second, ‘something to take the pain away?’ The blood pulsed in his temple and every beat of his heart was torture.
The girl thought for a moment. ‘We have something, but it will take some time to prepare. Lie back down. My father and brother will want to speak with you as soon as you are able. Cairn is out in the field just now, but the sun has set, so he shall be home soon.
‘If you are fit enough, you can come through and share our evening meal.’ She left the room, pulling the door closed behind her.
Wist lay back down on the bed and waited for the throbbing in his head to subside. It stubbornly refused to depart, but at least lying down made it bearable.
As he lay in the mounting darkness, surety grew in him that Wist had been his name; it was his name. But the name ‘Wist’ wouldn’t answer all his questions. The questions remained, along with the pain.
--*--
The room was drowned in darkness by the time his headache would allow him to stand without fear of collapse. The girl had returned with the promised brew, but he had only been able to force a few mouthfuls of the bitter fluid down. After putting down the cup, he shuffled to the outline of the door and eased it open, hearing the sounds of a meal being served. Progressing along the short hallway to the next door, he stepped into a large kitchen, and the aroma of broth and bread greeted him.
A solid wooden table dominated the room. Around it sat two men: a powerfully built man in one chair and a frail elderly man in the other; Cairn and his father, he presumed. Aviti served them as they waited. An extra space had been prepared for him and he moved over to take the seat. The old man’s rasping cough echoed in the room and Aviti rushed to her father’s side when the coughing refused to abate. She placed a mug into the frail man’s hands and urged him to drink. He managed to force some of the fluid into his mouth between racking coughs and, after a few moments, his breathing eased, allowing his body to relax. Cairn glanced up between mouthfuls of food.
The old man smiled at his daughter. ‘Ah, Aviti, I fear that even your tender heart cannot sustain me forever.’
‘Father! I will not have any of that talk at my table. Now eat your dinner swiftly or the night’s air will steal the heat from it.’
Aviti’s father looked away from her and focused on Wist, who shied away, uncomfortable under the close scrutiny, preferring to look around the room. Laboured breaths escaped the old man’s mouth between the sips he took from his mug. The skin on his face sagged as if weighed down by his many years.
‘So this is our stranger from the desert?’ he asked. ‘It appears my daughter has forgotten her manners. I am N’tini. Please be welcome in my home.
‘This is my eldest, Cairn,’ said N’tini as he gestured to his son, ‘whom you have met, but you may not remember.’ A knowing smile passed over his lips. ‘And here is my sweetness in this desert, Aviti.’
‘Now Father,’ she smiled back at him, ‘there is no need to be cruel. I was busy with dinner and simply had not got around to introducing you. There will be time for talking after we have finished,’ she said. She gathered a new bowl and filled it from the large pot that hung over the fire. Unsure when he had last eaten, Wist accepted it, glad to have something on which to focus.
Wist ate his meal without comment. The broth lacked the flavour that its smell had promised. All he could taste in his mouth was sand. When he glanced up, he caught sight of Cairn glowering back. The younger desert man had finished eating, so he stood up and announced that he had to attend to the farm. He walked from the kitchen, out of the back door and into the darkness of the farmyard, lifting a lamp as he went. Tension marked his passing.
‘Please forgive Cairn. He has - a lot on his mind,’ said Aviti, sounding unsure.
‘He believes the world will stop turning if he does not push it himself. And you should not apologize for other’s failings,’ said N’tini, reprimanding his daughter lightly. She moved to clear the table, but did not reply. As she busied herself, N’tini turned to Wist.
‘Tell me about you, Son. I have heard what happened after you were found, but I would like to know what happened before.’ N’tini coughed thinly after he had spoken. He wiped the spittle from his lips with the back of his hand.
‘But more importantly, who are you?’ A spark of light caught in the old man’s eyes. The direct question shook Wist. Unsure of how to proceed, he thought about playing for time by changing the subject, but his mind failed him once more.
‘I don’t remember much of my walk from the desert,’ Wist began. ‘Only the heat; the heat and pain.’ N’tini nodded at Wist’s words, as if he sought to give him assurance. The old farmer waited for Wist to continue.
‘My name is Wist,’ he said with an illusion of confidence. Aviti spun to face him, but before she could speak, her father silenced her with a raised hand.
‘Aviti, leave him to speak. I will hear what he has to say before I pass any judgement. Another lesson you have still to learn it would seem. If you cannot do so, then leave us.’
Aviti stood in silence for a moment as her eyes flicked between Wist and her father.
‘Then do not be long Father,’ she instructed him. ‘You need rest.’
Then she turned to Wist. ‘Whoever you are, do not make me regret my decision to bring you to our home.’ She lifted a rag from the table and walked past him into the house.
N’tini sipped the tepid liquid from his mug. Grimacing as he swallowed, he cleared his throat. ‘She is her mother’s daughter. There is a fire that burns in her that I would not quench, and I doubt if I could.’ The warmth returned to his smile as he spoke of his child.
‘What happened to her mother…. your wife I mean?’
‘Mabon. That was her name. Indeed, she was my wife and the mother of my children. She died in her sleep, five years past.’ Wist began to apologise, but N’tini stopped him with a gesture. ‘She had not been well for many years. Aviti’s birth took too heavy a toll on her and she never fully recovered. Not that Mabon blamed her daughter and nor did I. We would be blessed with only two children and some would say that this was a judgement on our family for my “blasphemous ways’.
‘If havi
ng two children as loyal and trustworthy as mine is a punishment, then I accept it wholeheartedly’.
Silence blanketed the room once more and Wist gazed through the window into the night. He could make out a few stars in the sky, but little else. A gentle breeze shifted his hair across his forehead. He ran his fingertips over his face, feeling the full beard there. The unusual sensations produced by his hands confused him for a moment.
‘I am a seer,’ pronounced N’tini. Wist turned back to look at the old man’s face for any signs of humour, but none were present. ‘I have never been sure whether it was a gift or a curse, but it is a part of me.
‘Do not be mistaken. I cannot tell the future, alter weather or cause plagues. But certain things I have been shown. I knew my love would die before me and I knew we would have but two children. However, this did not alter my path in life. Few men will know the happiness I have felt.’
The old man rose and made his way to an urn that simmered on the stove. Lifting it in shaking hands, he refilled his mug. ‘Are you wondering why I have told you this?’
‘No,’ Wist replied, ‘I’m wondering who I am and what I’m doing here.’
The desert man smiled at his words, taking no offence. ‘You are here because my daughter values life, any life. And you know who you are, for you have already told me. You are Wist.’
There was a certainty in N’tini’s voice that troubled Wist. ‘I am Wist, and yet I’m not - I can’t be,’ he said. ‘I’ve been here before. Many, many years ago, I was here - I can remember that -, but this place has changed. When I was here before, there was no great cliff at the approach to the city. And the city square, what is the meaning of the statue?’
‘You are a lucky man, Wist,’ said N’tini sternly. ‘If you had said that to anyone else in the city, you would not see out the night.’
Wist stiffened in his chair. In his fragile state, he couldn’t take flight and the thought of having to harm this old man repulsed him.
The Redemption of Wist Boxed Set: Books 1 - 3: The complete collection Page 2