Stillbright

by Daniel M Ford

  “I walked away from that life, and that privilege. Yet I cannot say to you that I did it out of outrage, or sympathy, or to begin to atone for all the sins of my class, or even my own life. I did it out of anger, and arrogance, and only days ahead of being exiled. I walked away and into this village, where I found a girl whose father had saved her life by hiding her, probably just moments before he was murdered. In those moments, I would say he did more good for the world than I had done in all of my six-and-thirty summers.

  “Why am I telling you all this? Why am I admitting to you that I may very well be the man who orphaned you, or widowed you, or destroyed your home? How can that man be standing before you, telling you he is a paladin, expecting you to take his word and stand at his back?

  “I am telling you all of this, my people, because I must beg your forgiveness. When I call you my people, I do not mean what I once might have meant—that you must call me lord and knuckle your forehead and hop to my command. I mean that I am your servant now, not your master. I will never,” Allystaire paused, raising a fist with one finger extended, “expect any man to call me his master or his lord again. I rode into this village out of curiosity, and what I found, and what I did, beginning that day, was the start of something new. We are still at the start of that new thing. I do not know what to call it or where it will lead. Yet I will make a promise to all of you. The wars that have plagued your life, these squabbles between Barons who seek a crown none of them truly want—while there is breath in my body, those wars are over for you. That is how I will pay the cost of my sins. That is what the Goddess, who we call the Mother, has given me to do.

  “I will not rest till you know peace. This is not to say you will not know hardship or labor. Yet no one must take up arms unless it is their choice and in defense of this place we will build together. And if Baron Delondeur, or Baron Oyrwyn, or any of their liege lords or knights would seek to bring that war to our doorstep, they will have to carry it through me, and through Idgen Marte, and Torvul and Gideon, and any who choose to stand with us. None of them could beat me at their game when I was just a man, just one of them, playing by the same rules. None of them will do so now that the Goddess has shown me how much more there is worth defending than the lines on a map.”

  Allystaire let the final echo of his words roll over himself and the crowd. “I ask, today, for your forgiveness. Stand with me, and I will spend all the life that is left to me, and employ all the Goddess’s Gifts, to this one end: to peace.”

  He was met with dead silence till Mol came to his side and squeezed his hand. She tugged on his arm till he looked down at her. Then she pointed at the steps beneath their feet. He knelt.

  She placed her hands on his temples and leaned forward to dryly kiss his forehead. “That you of all people believe you need the Mother’s forgiveness is a sign that She chose well,” Mol said, her voice somber, resonant—not at all the voice of the simple village girl he’d saved. “Her forgiveness is yours, Arm, so long as you do Her work.”

  “It is not Her forgiveness I seek,” Allystaire said. “Or not only. It is their forgiveness I need ask for.”

  “Well,” Mol said, turning the crowd. “Do you forgive this man the sins of his life?”

  The crowd remained silent and still. He scanned them, seeing mouths hanging agape, others tight-lipped. A few began muttering to themselves, or their neighbors.

  One young woman—Leah’s age—stood up and stared hard at Mol and Allystaire. Her eyes were shining with anger, Allystaire thought, and her mouth quivered till she finally blurted, “My Raff was killed when he went for a soldier, killed ‘gainst Oyrwyn men. Your men,” she said, raising an accusatory finger at Allystaire. “We had just married. Now I’m s’sposed t’forgive him that?”

  Allystaire offered her no reply. He glanced up at Mol who tilted her head to the side, her lips flattening a little. “Odette,” she called out. “You would be dead, or worse, if not for what Allystaire did for you in Bend. Mind that.”

  “Oh I mind it well. I mind he walked in and killed a buncha men ‘cause it’s what he does, s’sall he’s done, is kill. And I’m sposed t’thank ‘im for it? And b’lieve that this Mother, this Goddess you prattle on about, is all mercy and love and forgiveness, and she chose a blaggard like ‘im to be her man? A killer, just like them reavers!”

  “Yes, Allystaire has killed, and he will again. In your defense. Or mine. Or your mother and father’s. The Mother is not so simple as to believe that bad men who are also strong will simply stop thieving, raping, and murdering because we ask them.”

  Mol’s shout was so loud, so shocking, that Allystaire recoiled; it was a physical thing, a force like a punch in the chest. The crowd fell into a shocked silence as her words echoed over the Temple Field. Birds exploded out of a tree in the middle distance, tearing madly for the sky. Odette paled and took half a step back. The crowd parted around her.

  “My father had strength, of a kind,” Mol went on, much more quietly. “And he was a good man. But when bad men, rabid dogs of men, proved they were stronger, it was all he could do to save me from their depredations by hiding me. Yet he could not stop them from killing him, or anyone else. Compassion is not armor. Mercy is not a shield. Fatherly love is not a ward against evil.” As she spoke, Allystaire saw, in the shadows of the hooded robe she wore, the tracks of tears leaking from the corner of each eye.

  “I wish, oh how I do, that it were otherwise, that bonds of love were proof against steel and flame. Yet they are not. We forgive what we can, endure what we must, but the Mother is no eye-blinding god, asking us to ignore the world and bear any hurt done to us in hushed and holy silence. There are hurts which cannot be borne, and more importantly, should not have to be. Forgiveness may be extended without mercy. Between us, and those who would do us unbearable harm, She has placed a good man to bring Her justice into a world that has forgotten it. She has made him strong. If you do not understand why, I cannot explain it.” Mol was weeping openly now, the tracks of her tears leaking down the side of her face. But she was smiling, if sadly.

  “Even as I wish I could return your Raff to you, or ease your pain, I wish you could find forgiveness in your heart. Is it so hardened by grief that you cannot?”

  The girl offered no reply, standing in a silence of grief and rage balanced in equal measure.

  “Neither the Mother nor Her Ordained will compel or coerce the worship or forgiveness of anyone. So was the first law of our church spoken by its first paladin and prophet,” the girl went on. “I would not order you to forgive anyone. Go if you wish. Stay if you wish. We go on now.”

  She turned back to Allystaire and placed her hands upon his head. “I cannot speak for all those who gather here, but I am the Voice of the Mother, and in Her name, I absolve you of the sins of your life. You, who were born Allystaire Coldbourne, are born again today in the boundlessness of Her Love and the warmth of Her Sun.” Even as she spoke, Allystaire felt those silver-strung harp notes of the Goddess’s music play along his nerves, felt some gathering of energy building in Mol’s palms and then flowing into him. It was like drinking the finest vintage, tasting it, feeling it with his entire body.

  “Rise now, Allystaire, Arm of the Mother. Rise, paladin, and enter fully, at last, into your new life in Her service.”

  Allystaire stood. His knee clicked in protest, as usual, and his back reminded him of too many long days in the saddle, too many nights of poor sleep, too many years of wearing armor. Yet he barely felt them. Something fell away from him as he stood up. Something that weighed upon him like steel upon the shoulders was lifted away.

  He took a deep breath of air flavored with the chill of autumn frost; it felt like his first breath.

  Meanwhile, Mol turned back to the crowd. Odette had stormed away in angry silence, and one or two in the crowd had followed her, though whether in sympathy or to calm her down, Allystaire couldn’t tell.
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br />   “Anyone who comes forward to me, whether in public or in private, in any place, at any time of the day or night, and confesses to me a sincere wish to be forgiven for any part of their past, will have that forgiveness. If this is to be a new way of life, a new place, then we must have new lives to live in it.”

  “How do y’mean sincere, exactly,” Torvul asked, from the doorway of the Temple, his silhouette outlined in the glow emanating from within. “Ain’t the easiest to judge.”

  Mol faced him, mirroring his own casual, knowing smile. “Do you doubt that the Mother has given me the capacity to judge the truth of your contrition, Mourmitnorthrukacshtorvul?”

  “Far be it from me to doubt Her Ladyship or you in any capacity,” Torvul said.

  As they’d spoken, some of the men and women of the crowd had begun to come forward. First among them was the farmer Henri, who approached Allystaire to shake his hand, and then went to Mol.

  “You said in public or in private, right, ah…”

  “My name is still Mol, Henri,” the girl said, with no trace of mockery. “Or y’could just call me girl, or you, or dammit get outta my field you little wretch like you used t’,” she added, her rough accent returning for a moment.

  Henri laughed, though nervously. On a somewhat balky leg, he knelt before of the girl, and cleared his throat. “I got somethin’ that needs sayin’. When we first came back t’Thornhurst, and the lad o’er there, well, Cold, you all know ‘im. The first night he was among us, me and two o’thers who I’ll not name, they’ll do as their own mind says. Well, we wanted t’murder the boy. Hang him. Were ready t’fight Allystaire o’er it if need be.” He swallowed hard, almost grimacing in pain as he forced the words out. “I wanted t’do murder. I was ready t’kill a lad o’er harm he di’nt do, not really. That’s the worst thin’ I can e’er remember doin’, and that night, Allystaire told me t’ask fer Her fergivness, and I’ve tried, but I can’t. I don’t have the words fer it.”

  Mol nodded, then placed her hands on his head and leaned over him. She murmured words that Allystaire could only hear as a quiet rush of sound, but he felt, distantly, a gathering and discharge of energy like what he’d felt moments ago when Mol had absolved him.

  When Henri stood, his face held the relief of a suddenly vanished pain. He threw his strong, wiry arms around Mol’s shoulders and hugged her. The solemn little priestess whose imposing shout had frightened them just moments before surprised them all now by laughing and wrapping her arms around Henri in return. The man stepped back, wiped a rough hand against the corner of an eye, and said, “Thanks. To all o’you.”

  He melted back into the crowd, even as a line of village folk was forming in front of Mol. Allystaire looked to his fellow Ordained, and saw Idgen Marte and Torvul both eyeing that line, and smiled inwardly.

  “Well, confessing is all well and good, and I encourage everyone to do so if they have a mind,” Allystaire suddenly said aloud, pitching his voice to the carry to the back of the throng. “Yet this day is a celebration, too. And I cannot be the only one here who is thirsty!”

  That got a great cheer, and jugs, bottles, and skins were suddenly produced in greater profusion than Allystaire had counted on.

  “Talkin’ sense again,” Torvul rumbled at Allystaire, as he strolled to his side and grinned up at the paladin. “Gettin’ to be a habit. Hardly know you anymore.”

  Allystaire snorted lightly. “Cold, in a lot of ways we hardly know each other at all.”

  “Nonsense,” Torvul protested. “Just learned quite a lot about you.”

  “And yet I still know almost nothing of you, or Idgen Marte.”

  “Well, could be that’s the point. New place. New life.”

  Allystaire nodded in the direction of the line forming in front of Mol. “Going to go confess, then?”

  The dwarf’s eyes narrowed and he rubbed a hand across his bald pate. “I don’t think so,” he replied, after a long pause. Then, he added, “Not today.”

  “I remember you asking me about it only a little while ago. When we found the god of the cave. Why the reluctance?”

  “I’ve my fair share o’sins and dark deeds. I’m not with a caravan, and I’m guessin’ you folk know enough of dwarfs to know that means nothin’ good. I’ve lied and swindled, never really thought of it like thievin’, but that’s,” he shrugged as he searched for a word, finally settled on “just fake weight, trying t’make scales balance when they shouldn’t. Still, that amounts to pretty small beer. I don’t think that’s what the girl and Her Ladyship have in mind.”

  “You have lost me, Torvul.”

  “Well, boy, what I mean is—the worst things I’ve done, the things got me out here on my own? Not ready to repent o’ them. Not sorry I did them. Not gonna try and lie to the girl and Her Ladyship and say I am.”

  Allystaire was silent a moment, letting his eyes wander the crowd. People had started breaking into baskets and jars, spreading out blankets on the ground, and passing skins and flagons among themselves. “No act of Faith will be compelled,” he said, choosing his words, and his somber intonation, carefully. “Whatever it was, Torvul—if the Goddess called you, she knows of it, and she has either forgiven you, or seen past it. I will trust Her judgment, and I will not press you. I will say only this: not very long ago, I would have said the idea of asking forgiveness for the life I have led was absurd. Now it feels as though someone else did those things, someone I knew, once, and have grown distant from.”

  He smiled at the dwarf. “It is a good feeling.”

  Torvul snorted and gave his head a quick shake. “A couple drinks’d be a better feeling.”

  “I think we can just manage that,” Allystaire replied, and the two began their way down the steps and out towards the crowd. “Yet none of your unnameable dwarfish spirits. We have a vigil tonight, after all.”

  “Ikthaumanavit is a boon to the soldier on watch till dawn, or the knight at vigil, as it were,” Torvul said, suddenly spreading one arm, as if pointing to the horizon of possibilities, his voice smooth and soothing. “It warms the extremities and sharpens the mind. It—”

  “Will put two old men to sleep when they try to stay up all through the night, which is a foolish goal even for the young,” put in another voice, and the both of them turned, confused, to find Gideon smirking at them. “And no spirit that strong sharpens the mind. It makes you feel that it does, and only briefly.”

  Torvul gave a loud harumph. “As if you know anything about drinkin’, boy. What say we teach him?”

  “Not today,” Allystaire said. “Soon, perhaps.”

  “I do not wish to imbibe fermented or distilled beverages of any kind,” Gideon protested stiffly.

  “Never let Idgen Marte hear you say that. Or Mol, for that matter,” Allystaire warned.

  “Stones above,” Torvul said, “enough nattering. There’s celebrating to be done. And I’ve got to get t’know the folk here.” The dwarf cleared his throat, and called out, “Who among you thinks he knows how to work metal or stone and has a jar to put in my hand?”

  There was a smattering of laughs at the dwarf’s words, but Giraud—the tall, gentle stonemason who Allystaire knew had directed most of the building of the Temple—stepped out of the crowd, a bulging wineskin in his hand.

  “I’m a stonecutter,” the man had barely begun to say, in his soft and patient voice, when Torvul had sidled up and assaulted him with talk of stone and tools.

  “You don’t cut stone, my friend, not if you know what you’re about,” the dwarf said. “Better to find the shape within it, eh?” Allystaire could read the confusion, but also the curiosity, on Giraud’s face as the dwarf steered him away.

  Allystaire laughed and placed a hand on Gideon’s shoulder, steering him into the crowd, and accepting a wineskin that was offered him. “How do you want to celebrate, lad?” He tilted his head back
then and took a long drink of wine, squeezing the sides of the bag. Then he offered it to the boy.

  “I said I don’t—”

  Allystaire frowned, and Gideon fell silent. “And you would insult the folk here if you do not accept some of their hospitality,” he murmured. “Trust me. You need not get sodden.” Not yet, he thought, trying hard not to laugh at the prospect. He handed the skin over and watched as Gideon squeezed a thin, brief trickle into his mouth.

  “So, as I asked, how do you want to celebrate?”

  “How do folk here celebrate?”

  “I have not the faintest idea,” Allystaire replied. “If I had to guess? There will be singing, dances, perhaps some wrestling.”

  “Wrestling?”

  “Aye, it is a common enough pastime at festivals and feast days in this part of the world.” Allystaire took the wineskin back and squeezed another long stream of the stuff into his mouth. “Nothing serious, just wrestle your man to a fall.”

  “Hmph. What point to it?”

  “A man who finds himself in a fight, or, for that matter, behind a cart stuck in the mud, is happy to know something about leverage and force.”

  “I suppose you’ll be wrestling then?”

  “No,” Allystaire said quickly.

  “Why not? You’d be good at it, surely.”

  Allystaire drew the boy away from the crowd, passing him the skin. “Think of this as a quick lesson in leadership. Let us say that I am good at wrestling, at boxing—at leverage and force, and that I know how to apply the strength I have spent a lifetime building. How well do you think most of the folk around here are going to fare against me?”

  “A lifetime of farm labor can be just as rigorous as a lifetime of fighting,” Gideon said, thoughtfully. He lifted a finger and tapped the tip of his chin once or twice. “I suppose, though, it’s unlikely any of the men here have the kind of experience you do. So you would probably win.”