And the wood remembered.
He heard screaming voices, shrill and wanton. They have not screamed for so long. The fire burned it all away. I watched the pyre. I had to. The wood creaked and groaned, and the trees were the faces of the dead; and the rustling leaves their frantic squirming. They are long dead. Leave me be.
He strode faster, but the memories returned.
The Chamber of Judgment flashed before his eyes, deep within the Cathedral of Light. It was round and ornate, and the tiers were erected in a semi-circle; the Crystal Throne towered above, and the light of day cascaded over the white marble. He stood with Ser Jarl Yanif, Ser Rupert Duvan, and Lady Sophia Locklet. They were his knight captains—faithful and stout. Ser Johnathan Falenir was there as well—Holy Dalia’s Lord Protector—though there was little he could do.
Priests, stewards, and scholars sat upon the tiers, leering down. Man or woman, their hands never bore callouses, never watched their brothers and sisters die; and they lambasted Elin and his knights for their vice and sin—and for tainting the White Walls. Lady Sophia shuffled her feet, but he put a hand on her shoulder and whispered, “Not here, not now. It will change naught.” The knight kept silent.
Ser Johnathan stood in their defense, but his words fell on deaf ears. To the Crystal Throne they were monsters. The knight captains were stripped of rank and title, and forbidden to return to Holy Dalia, whilst Elin waited for his sentence.
What do you want me to say? Why do you have me remember?
The trees gave no answer but deathly howls. Ser Jarl, Ser Rupert, and Lady Sophia were moaning in the wind; their faces etched upon the dirt.
Elin ran until it stopped.
He reached a clearing, and saw a line of oaks running north, and maples to the south. The tree lines met in the centre, and the boughs formed a gateway to the village beyond.
The air was still and quiet, and the sounds of early morning were far off and muffled. The stillness was broken suddenly by the snoring of a dark skinned old man. Elin crossed the threshold, and the old man sprung to life, lithe as a youngling. “Ho there, lad! You are still much too loud to escape the notice of the boisterous lads ‘ere, ne’er mind ‘ole Samuel. Come down, pull that hood down, and let an old man see you. A friend you have never lacked in me.”
Elin did not want to bear his face to any, but the gatekeeper always insisted. He felt pale and decrepit pulling the hood down, though Samuel’s craggy face was as mirthful and eager as ever.
“I am seldom welcome here, old friend,” Elin admitted. “Do me a kindness and forget that I came.”
“Nonsense!” Samuel spurted out, and his face contorted as if he tasted some mouldy cheese. “You may coop yeself up, but I do recall the early days. Good lad, you and yours, whatever any may say—not that I am the least bit interested in whatever they would say, mind—and it is more than ‘ole Samuel who has come to miss you.”
Elin did not understand why the old man cared. He moved to protest, but Samuel was stubborn as old roots.
“Not a word of it, lad, not a word of it!” Samuel insisted. “See, whatever came to pass in the south is the business of those greater than me. What I know is Serenity would not stand if not for you, lad. Mothers would not be whelping, and young men and women would not be merry together upon the green in the night. Life, that is what you gave ‘em, and not all of us forget. Not even the old priest.”
You are a meddler, old man. “I have you to thank for that, old friend?”
“More than I. You can thank us by making for the church. The old coot is winded, but not so bad. Bah. Who am I to call a man that? Well, you would be ‘minded of my words if you would go.”
“I cannot, not today. I must see to my son.”
Samuel slapped a bare hand against the side of his head. “Foolish of me. Well, that cleared the cobwebs and that is all that matters. The healer came to me not two hours past, said he was expectin’ you, and that I was to send you along without none of my prattling. The gall the healer has. Just ‘cause he tends to the sick does not give him a mind to speak to me as that. Tell him that, will you?”
“I will, though we know what he will say.”
“Aye. We do. Now off with ye. I will not have that stuck-up fellow have more cause for discussions, you hear?”
Elin nodded, and briskly made for a ruddy dirt road that ran north—away from the oaken, thatched roofs in the west of the hamlet. The gate lost to the trees, he brought his hood back up. Forgive me if I have broken faith with you, too, but I cannot bear it.
The road curved away from the treeline, and arced towards a collection of small homes that were in desperate need of repair. He heard sounds of voices from the third house down: the goodwife loudly chastising the children, crying our wretchedly as they ran out the door. He pulled his hood tighter, eyes upon the ground.
He looped towards the east and saw a brown bricked manse with a red roof. It sat on a large green acre, at the end of a cut dirt road before an open fence. Suddenly, he heard the rolling sound of a carriage. He stepped aside and lowered his eyes, and he felt strange glares swarm over him. Leave a broken man be. He raised his eyes only when the clop of hooves was distant.
He arrived at the manse and saw old oaks to either side: their great boughs were sheltering children at play, and older men and women sat in the shade reading from leather tomes. He made for the doors, and a child ran past him; though without a haunting yell or scream. He thought the little one oblivious.
Inside the manse, the air was thick with the smell of peat, cooked tea, and herbs. The hall was simple and plainly adorned with several side rooms along the way, and stairs at the end leading to the upper floor.
Elin walked into a chamber at the end of the hall. Twin hearths burned fiercely, and it bathed the chamber in an orange glower. Sebastien Tiron was behind a long maple desk, scribbling in a leather tome; his spectacles were falling down his sharp nose.
“Sebastien.”
The healer looked up, exhausted, and his hands were twitching. His long brown hair was unkempt and matted, and deep, dark circles were beneath his worn, tired eyes. The simple brown doublet he wore was creased and wrinkled. “You are here. Good, good, a moment,” Sebastien said.
“Of course.” Elin watched Sebastien sort through stacks of papers, before rifling through bookshelves behind him. “’Ole Samuel will lecture you soon. Never did take well to you. Cannot imagine why.”
“The old coot will not bestir himself,” Sebastien replied gruffly. “Barely has the strength to mind that gate. Not that you ever come down.”
“You know why I cannot.”
Sebastien stopped his search, and turned. “You would hide your face from me?”
Elin pulled down the hood reluctantly. “If she should learn that Timothy is here…”
“Lutessa cares little about this village. Expects reports from me, not that there is much to tell.”
“It is not her that I fear.”
Sebastien balled his fists as a grimace crept over his face. “The Harpy, then. Her eyes are otherwise. If you would not seclude from—”
Elin did not heed a word of comfort from his old friend, well intentioned as it seemed to be. The Harpy’s name was as fell as her deeds. In all the years of servitude, he did not once encounter her. Nor did he want to.
“I did not come here for news of the realm. My son. What of my son?”
“Yes, your son. I shall take you to him. It will be simpler if you see him.”
Elin’s heart sank to his stomach, and despite gripping the desk, he still staggered. He turned his eyes to the side, and watched as Sebastien walked to the northern end of the hall without nary a look of comfort. The healer put a hand on the door, beckoning him.
Elin followed.
The chamber he entered was squat and cluttered, with parchments piled high atop a long desk, with others strewn on the floor. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and the windows were wide and narrow, just beneath the ceiling. Sebas
tien put his hands on a red spined tome, and there was a grating clamor as the shelf pushed aside, revealing a dark stone passage.
“What have you done with him?!” Elin demanded, pushing Sebastien against the bookshelves as tomes fell all ‘round. He unsheathed Judgment, placing the tip upon the healer’s throat. “He deserves more than the gaol you would place him in. Sun should be on his face. He should taste the breeze upon his lips. Not this cold, dark death.”
“Put… the sword down. I would not harm him. Harm you. I am your friend, Elin, saved you from death more times than I can dare count. I would not do this to your son, not lest there was no other recourse.”
“I did not forget the sight of your mercy, and the warmth you showed those poor, dismembered fools as they clung unto life. My son was not dying. His blood did not puddle beneath him. Do not treat him as such!”
“I… would not. Elin…”
“Healer? No, Sebastien. Slayer. Coward. Villain!”
“I did not… harm Timothy.”
Elin relented. Timothy’s name was too real. He dropped Judgment, and backed into the desk. Timothy. My boy. My dear, sweet boy.
Sebastien pressed fingers against his neck, frowning as blood painted his fingertips. “I am not a monster, Elin.”
“Show me my son,” Elin declared as he retrieved his blade and sheathed it.
The healer nodded, grasped the ensconced torch, and pointed down the stone steps.
Elin felt no shame. Judgment was sheathed, but his fingertips groped the leathern hilt. He always felt Mother God would take his family away, but never like this.
Curse the vows I spoke to Ser Johnathan. I cannot abide this!
“It is more than your son that is at risk, Elin,” Sebastien said coldly. “If you would have the Harpy’s claws far from his throat, I had to keep him far from where he would be found. Not all men are as kind as Samuel Taryn. They would sell a child and not think twice of it.”
Elin kept silent.
“I have seen her mark, if not her brood. They are in the Northlands, searching, for what, I do not know. I am not like you, no warrior. I cannot resist them. Nor would I endanger this village if they came asking after your son.”
And what of the danger I pose to you, Sebastien?
“Mind your feet.”
Sebastien disappeared to the far end of the stone chamber, leaving Elin in darkness, and to his thoughts. Sebastien if he… if you have done the unspeakable… I will stain my blade as if you were naught but a cursed Trechtian.
Dull glowers suddenly pierced the darkness. He saw a low bed, and a boy, bare chested and pale. “Timothy!” he screamed, running to the bed, and clasping his son’s hand. So cold, no, no. “Timothy. Boy. Timothy. No.”
“He will leave us all, soon,” Sebastien declared, shaking his head as he felt Timothy’s brow. “Look at his skin. Do you see the veins? Sable, dark as midnight. No herbs or concoctions have stalled it. There is naught that I can do but let him sleep.”
Elin looked down at his son. He wept, and hoped—wished—that this was fantasy. “All your knowledge. All your… and you will let him die?”
“I cannot remove death’s mark.”
“This is my son!”
“And he is beyond my aid.”
Elin tried to wake and convince himself it was a nightmare; that in mere moments Alicia would sit beside him, their fingers entwined, watching the boys play joyfully.
Naught stirred the nightmarish visage.
Mother God would not take him from me. Alicia said so. Alicia—
“There was naught I could do,” Sebastien intoned.
Elin reeled, cursing Mother God. No, She is not the deity, never was. Sariel, Lord of Death, Overlord of the Daemonic Hordes, Harbinger of Ruin, that is who we serve. That is who did this to my sweet boy.
“Sebastien,” Elin murmured, and the healer looked back piteously. “Is this my own penance to the will of a twisted god?”
Sebastien took a deep breath, but no warmth was upon his face. “I am no more pious than you e’er were. Seen too much, fought too much. What god would abide such sadness and despair?” He shook his head and looked down at Timothy. “This I have not seen in all those wars and struggles. If not man, it must be from the gods. It is to them that your lad will go. Their succor awaits him. Of no part in that did you play.”
Elin stretched his fingers out, following a smoky vein that seemed to bulge from Timothy’s forehead, and down to his neck and chest.
He is, he is gone, my boy. Gone. He wills it and now my son is gone.
Elin glared at Sebastien. “Mother God did not do this. She is a fantasy. How could She exist in this realm? No, those bleating sheep serve another whose domain is death; and if I learn of any part that you played in this, in this rancid act, there will be a graver sin that they will speak of.”
“I will forgive that,” Sebastien replied curtly.
“You will forgive that?!” Elin screamed, striking Sebastien in the face, and the healer crumbled in a heap. “You along with the Faith should beg my forgiveness. I, the pain of it, of what I did, what I had to do. I do not sleep for the memories. All for this, this is the just reward for my service? If excommunication was not enough. If it was not—” he could not say the words.
Sebastien spat out blood and rubbed his cheek. “I was there with you, Elin. You do not need to tell me. Lutessa did what she had to do.”
“And now she will not be content until she buries my family, is that the way of it?!”
“You are in grief, Elin. See to your wife.”
“This is not grief!” Elin withdrew Judgment and placed the tip upon the healer’s neck. “What do you know of me, Sebastien, what did she ever know? I did only what I had to do; not for me, but for all those who still lived in this accursed country. We were losing ground, Sebastien. If the sister cities were breached, what then? What would have stood between the Cleaver Prince and Dale itself? What would have become of those shining walls? I would not have been judged, and all held dear to me ripped away. And you, you, you would not have the chance to take my son from me!”
“None asked for those burnt up children swathed in white!” Sebastien recoiled. “Strike me down if you must, but that is why you were excommunicated. Do you still not understand that her hand was forced? She still loves you.”
Elin did not raise the tip of Judgment from Sebastien’s throat—just pricked the skin a little. The healer was not scared, did not squirm, and did not sweat. He was resolved. The Trechtians were always so resolved, whilst they pillaged and raped. That is why they had to die. All of them.
“I fought for the wrong side all these years,” Elin said.
“Go see to your wife, Elin.”
You shall account for your sin, as I have for mine.
Elin sheathed his sword, trudged up the stone steps, and raised his hood. The sounds of the hamlet filled his ears: children at play, men and women bartering, and the wheels of buggies. He passed through mud-slicked roads, avoiding them all. At the gate, Samuel rose from his seat and called out, but Elin did not hear it. He refused to hear it.
The forests surrounded him: the faces in the bark and the voices in the leaves near drove him mad. He ran off the dirt road to the north, hacking the faces off the trees, shouting at the voices in the wind. He collapsed before an old oak and his tears stained the forest floor. The voices stopped, but he looked away from the Voice’s face carved in the trunk.
Then there was a voice: not crying and wailing, but strong and stern. “To see you like this, it makes me sick. Your moniker was ill-earned.”
“Leave me, leave me to my grief.”
“Your grief? Timothy was stolen from you. You know what must be done. Oh, how they look at you. He was right all along. Trust to him, trust to me.”
“What you ask… what you ask of me,” Elin fumbled the words out, and pain marred every breath, broken and torn. “I am not a monster, I never have been. I am, I am a defender, I am the Defender of
the Faith, that is what they called me once, before. I did not wish for what came to pass. I will not embrace that, not again. Begone to you. Begone!”
“Defend? You wish to defend this decrepit, decaying land? These manipulators and subservient sheep? If you would defend aught, defend the Dream.”
He thought the voice senseless. He did not dream. He had not for years. There were voices and restless nights; that’s all there was.
“I will have no part of this,” he muttered.
“You never do. It is always left for another. Cry as you might, they will come for you, soon. You know this.”
“Is he… my boy… is he… beyond saving?”
“No more than you are.”
The voice was gone, and he felt alone. Terribly alone.
Chapter Three
The Order
Johnathan walked the city of Dale in the pale moonlight.
The Cathedral of Light behind, the cobbled streets were quiet along the thoroughfares. He neared market square, and at its centre saw an immense fountain of sheened marble sculpted in the likeness of Mother God. Merchants and hawkers had all but retired for the evening, though young couples sat on stone benches with nary a care in the realm.
He was envious.
He had spent much of the night in the Voice’s solar atop the western steeple of the Cathedral of Light, pressed to answer queries from Counsel of State Rachel Du’vron, and Counsel of Faith El Lucourt. They asked after the rumours from the Northlands: unrest from the beasts deep within the old forests, the delay of ships from the northern ports, the movements of Trecht, and the whispers of the dissolution of Isilia’s Ruling Council.
Johnathan told them the little that he knew: Knight-Commander Ser Jacob Merlen rode with a small force of knights and cavalry to sort truth from hearsay, though that was a moon’s turn ago. Missives made note of a quiet northern sea and undisturbed port towns, but there was much more ground to cover.
When it came to matters of the imperium, there was more he had learned: the Ruling Council was not dissolved, but supplanted. Imperator Argath Diomedes remained sequestered with a cloaked, shadowy figure with crimson eyes. Declarations from the Mountain were made by this stranger, and any dissenting voice was never seen or heard from again.
Darkness Rising (Ancient Vestiges Book 1) Page 3