The fire had died in the night, and damp had crept through the shutters to fill the little cottage. Dirca woke cramped and shivering. Though pain still lingered, it had subsided enough that she could stoke the fire and prepare some food. The meal revived her, and by midday, Torvil would never detect what she had done.
But, even if she had been unconscious, Torvil wouldn’t have noticed. He arrived home on a pallet, carried by four of the villagers. They laid him on his bed and departed, with only a quick word of explanation. Torvil had apparently drunk too much and fallen down the steep riverbank. There he lay unconscious, half his body in the cold, black water, until the rising sun lit the lands. Some of the stragglers from the Vistani camp spied him, a lump on his head, and his legs cold and lifeless. Thanks to them, Torvil lived—and didn’t live, seeing and hearing nothing.
“I’ve seen this before,” one of the rescuers said. “He may wake, but he’ll never work again. When Duke Gundar’s men hear …” He stopped a few words too late. His ruddy face grew even redder and he blurted an apology. If her husband couldn’t work in the fields, she would be taxed. Like most of the peasant families in Gundarak, she and Torvil were destitute already. Without charity, they would both starve.
Her sister came as soon as she heard the news. Sara, well into her pregnancy, offered to stay and help care for the invalid. Dirca refused her aid. “Your child will be born soon,” she said. “You must think of yourself and Ivar.”
“You are certain you’ll be all right?” Sara asked, sensing dark desperation in her sister’s tone.
“I promise it.”
“Ivar said he’ll help as best he can.”
A generous though useless offer, Dirca thought. Ivar’s only talent lay in wizardry, but, since he’d come to Gundarak, he dared not recite a single incantation. Duke Gundar had great skill at detecting mages in his land. In spite of Ivar’s caution, Gundar had heard rumors of his presence, and his henchmen had been seen prowling the town. If Ivar’s skill were discovered, he would be forced to flee or serve the duke. To a man like Ivar, either choice would be unbearable.
“You have troubles enough,” Dirca told her sister. “I’m able to take care of this on my own.”
“We do have troubles,” Sara admitted. She seemed unsettled, about to say something else. But instead, she kissed her sister and left.
As soon as she was alone, Dirca bolted the door, then went to her husband, and removed the blanket covering him. His clothes were damp. She should change him. His lips were slack and blue with cold. She should feed him some broth. Instead, she looked down at him and thought of her babes. Lovingly, she began washing his face, which looked so much like theirs. She combed the leaves and mud out of his hair, the same shade of autumn brown as theirs. Then, she went about her day’s work, smiling bitterly, listening to Torvil’s half-conscious pleas.
By night, Torvil had fallen silent again. Dirca left the shutters open, let the fire die, and slept in the trapped warmth of the loft. In the morning Torvil was dead. She had just stripped and covered his body when Duke Gundar’s men arrived and, rather than collecting a tax for Torvil’s lost labor, they found themselves grudgingly paying Dirca a widow’s pence instead. Gundar’s lieutenant noted the cold hearth and night chill in the room.
“We’ve little wood to spare for spring fires after you tax us for it,” Dirca said when the man questioned her.
“Even to save your husband’s life?”
Dirca wanted to laugh. Instead she said nothing, hiding her terror until after the men left. Once alone, though, she gave into her fear and paced, certain the men would return for her. She was young and would make a good slave for Duke Gundar.
Ivar found her in the loft of her little cottage, half hysterical with fear. “Gundar’s thugs think I killed him,” she whispered to the man, pointing at her husband, but refusing to look in his direction.
Ivar responded with a soft question, “Did you?” Though Dirca had intended to tell no one what she had done, she nodded.
“Gundar can force the truth from you far easier than I. Do you want to leave this land?”
She looked numbly at him. Only a fool would try to flee Gundarak. Sometimes a strange mist would suddenly rise there, confusing the senses, routing refugees into the clutches of the border patrols. Gundar’s thugs were far from merciful. Those caught fleeing died as an example to others.
In spite of the danger, Ivar had been determined to go for some time. “Sara will bear a daughter. Once the girl is born, Gundar’s men will expect us to flee. I’d hoped Sara would be able to leave now, but she won’t risk the babe’s life on such a journey, nor drink the Vistani potions I purchased to help us pass the mists.”
“You would leave her now?”
“I must. The duke’s men have been asking about me. Soon they’ll try a more direct approach. If they take Sara …” He left the thought unfinished. “But if we go, you and I, Sara can speak the truth. You killed Torvil, then we left together. No one can blame her for our betrayal. She can stay with your mother until the child can travel. Then, I’ll return with the money and means to take her and the girl safely away.”
“Sara agrees?” Dirca asked, knowing how dependent her sister was on Ivar.
“Sara insists.”
Dirca agreed. She said good-bye to no one the night she stole through the fields and into the trees where Ivar was waiting. The pair traveled quickly to the border. Once there, Ivar drank half the Vistani potion and handed her the bottle. “There’s no sign of the mist,” she whispered. “We hardly need it.”
“We may need it yet,” he replied. “My spell will attract the duke’s attention, but it can’t be avoided. I won’t leave Sara penniless. Stand guard. Shake me if you hear anyone coming.”
At the side of the road stood an oak so ancient that six men with their arms outstretched would barely form a circle around it. There, Ivar dug a narrow hole among the ferns and placed beside it three of the plain copper discs Gundrakan peasants used as coin.
Dirca stood on the opposite side of the huge tree, her eyes and ears fixed on the forest. She listened for the sound of wolves, or Gundar’s ruffians, or even a pack of kobolds said to live near the borders.
A light, brighter than the sun, suddenly danced through the treetops and cast the oak’s shadow across the ground. “Ivar?” Dirca whispered, shielding her eyes. She heard only the quick muttering of an incantation in reply.
“Ivar?”
He appeared at her side. “Gundar senses my power. Follow me!” he whispered and ran down the narrow path leading to the border. Dirca followed on his heels.
Someday, she thought, using the traditional farewell, then whispered the conclusion every peasant left unsaid, “we will be free.”
As Dirca ran, mists rose from the ground beneath her feet, circling her ankles, her legs, her body, like a maelstrom in a swiftly rising pool of water. Though Ivar was only a few feet in front of her, he disappeared. She called his name and felt his walking staff brush her arm. She grabbed it, holding tightly as the swirling clouds covered her face. “Run!” he repeated. She continued forward, though the ground beneath her had already become invisible.
In a place where the mists were thickest, Ivar halted. With one arm around Dirca, the other holding his staff upright in front of him, they stood, silent and waiting, Ivar’s incantation the only reality in the terrible, pressing darkness.
Things moved around them … small skittering animals that stared at them with huge unblinking eyes; spiders and centipedes larger than any Dirca had ever seen. Then, abruptly, a tall, pale man with eyes that glowed in the dull light held out a hand to her and beckoned her to come. Though she felt the power of his commands, she pressed closer to Ivar and trembled.
She didn’t know how long they stood there, only that Ivar muttered a complex incantation. On the final word of it, the mists cleared and the night sky sparkled. All about them, the terrain that had been flat and thick with trees became sloped and grassy.
They stood on a hill, and below them lay the town of Linde.
Ivar had crumpled to the ground at her feet, seemingly as lifeless as Torvil had been. She called the wizard’s name, rubbed his cold hands with her own.
“I’ve done it, Sara,” he whispered, staring into Dirca’s face, but using his wife’s name. “I’ve done it. I’ve moved us to a safe home.” He lapsed into unconsciousness as she cradled his head in her arms.
He had never attempted that spell before, he told her later when he revived. He wasn’t sure he possessed the strength to ever use it again. Leaning heavily on her, they staggered down the forest path, through the cleared fields of grazing cattle, to the comfort of The Nocturne, which young Andor Merriwite had just inherited from his father.
She never told Andor why she had fled her homeland, only that she couldn’t bear children. Months after they were married, he told of his curse. “My children would’ve been violent and bestial. When you told me you were barren, I rejoiced, for I’d already come to care for you. I do want children,” he confessed, “and surely this hard land makes many orphans.”
His words proved false. Linde was composed of extended families. When parents died, their children were taken in by relatives. True orphans never survived long enough to find their way to The Nocturne. In the years that followed, Dirca tried to accept her fate.
Now she looked down at Jonathan—the beautiful, pale-haired infant that had been given to her care—lowered her head to the basket, and wept tears of joy.
Her joy was short-lived. As soon as Leo kissed the child good-bye and began his journey back to the monastery, the child’s peace ended. Jonathan barely slept and, in the hours he was awake, he screamed. Though his cries were undoubtedly due to hunger, his tiny fists would beat away the skin of goat’s milk that Dirca used to nurse him. His body arched and twisted, trying to escape Dirca’s loving arms. The scar on his cheek—the “fire sign” Ivar called it—turned an angry red each time anyone approached him.
Ivar did what he could for Dirca and her husband. A simple incantation gave the couple a few hours’ rest each night. With effort, the wizard could also calm the infant long enough for Dirca to feed him. “The child has a strong will,” Ivar told them. “It’s unwise to use sorcery too often on an infant.” He looked at Dirca’s stricken expression and quickly added, “I will help you for one more week. If Jonathan hasn’t accepted you by then … well, something must be done.”
Dirca and Andor waited and worried, but, if anything, Jon’s writhing and screams intensified. Finally, the couple made the only decision left to them, asking Ivar to summon Brother Leo.
Dirca had prayed the monk’s arrival would have no effect on the child, that she could demand Ivar’s continued help. But she already knew the truth. As soon as Leo arrived, the child’s screams ceased. As soon as Leo held him, the child cooed happily and, his head on the monk’s shoulder, slept.
“Perhaps the infant already has the calling,” Ivar whispered to Leo.
The monk nodded and placed the sleeping child in the same basket that had brought him to The Nocturne. The plain woven blanket had been replaced by a colorful blanket of thick wool and a feather pillow for the child’s back. Dirca gave him a second bag filled with clothes and gourd rattles and skeins of bright-colored yarn. She thought she could say good-bye, but, when she bent to kiss the child, the tears she had been holding back began to flow.
“Rest awhile before you start back,” Ivar suggested to Leo.
Andor offered a meal and he, Leo, and Ivar sat and ate together in the inn. Upstairs, in the whitewashed room Dirca and Andor had given the child, Dirca sat alone, rocking the basket in her lap. She sang to the sleeping infant as though, only in this parting, Jonathan belonged to her at last.
“It’s for the best,” Andor said after Leo had gone. “We may find another foundling in need of a home.”
“Yes,” she agreed woodenly, knowing that Andor spoke out of love. She didn’t smile as her husband went on trying to cheer her up. A bitter seed had been planted deep within her. No child could ever replace the silver-haired boy she couldn’t have.
Once, I tempted them directly, twisting their righteous hopes, destroying their prayers with profane visions. Once, when I was new to this terrible fate and far stronger, I turned their spells back on them, sending down a rain of fire that destroyed nearly all their order, as well as their crude temple. Every battle weakened me; the effects, while pleasing, were hardly worth the effort. Now I draw my strength about me like a shield. The Guardians think my power has waned, for I hide it well and use it only when I must.
Already, I have sown dissension among them. Now my shadow sits beside my son’s bed year after year, murmuring promises to his innocent mind, sensing his power grow, and mine with it.
My son. My only son. The only creature I have ever dared to love. I wait for you.
In the years that followed Leith’s disappearance, Jonathan grew into an intelligent, obedient youth. His hair darkened, but kept its silver highlights, and the baby-blue of his eyes transformed to a strange silver shade, which grew more pronounced as he matured. During that time, the five lonely men who cared for him came to forget how stormily the infant had cried, how stubbornly he had demanded to be returned to their home. After so many years with only one another for company, the Guardians considered the boy a ray of light, of hope.
Despite the order’s isolation, the Guardians were well equipped to teach Jonathan. When only a few years old, he began learning the history, geography, and ecology of Markovia and the neighboring lands from blind Brother Mattas. The old monk sifted fact from legend, describing the creatures who lived in the mountains and deserts, and beneath the face of the earth. He taught Jon many things, withholding from him only information regarding the tapestry. The brotherhood believed that, to be genuine, Jon’s calling should precede any knowledge of the cloth. But all other tales, Mattas told with relish. Unable to see the effect of his stories, the old monk listened for fear in Jonathan’s voice, fear that told the old monk his words had been received and understood. “In this land, fear is a virtue,” he’d lecture at the end of nearly every lesson.
Mattas might have toned down his stories had he known the effect they had on the boy. Often, Jon would lie awake in his room, his eyes straining to see in the darkness. On some nights, he felt certain a vampire would, at any moment, fly through his window to drain his blood. On others, he expected a wight to stop his heart with a freezing touch. On nights when the terror grew too great, he tiptoed down the hall to Hektor’s bed. Claiming he was cold, he would crawl beneath the covers and take comfort in the huge monk’s presence beside him. He longed to be grown, to be strong and fearless, as Hektor was.
As soon as he was tall enough to sit at the library table, Jonathan began to learn reading and mathematics from Leo and Dominic. The pair soon discovered that the child possessed an astonishing skill. After reading a passage only once, he had committed it to memory. Often, after the evening meals, Jon would be called upon to recite the tales he had read only hours before. He memorized songs just as easily. Peto taught him to play the harp and, with Peto accompanying on his flute, Jonathan would sing ballads from the monks’ homelands. His voice was so clear and beautiful that the others sat and listened rather than joining him and marring the music.
When Jonathan reached his teens, Hektor began teaching him the basics of fighting. The monk pursued his former craft with a joy that Jon found infectious. Hektor started with simple wrestling holds, punching and parrying blows. Later, when Jon was older, the monk began working with staves and wooden swords. Though Jon moved quickly and showed good judgment during their matches, he didn’t have the strength or size to be a brawler. A larger man would easily subdue him through weight alone and, Hektor thought sadly, most men would be larger. And the boy took defeat sorely.
“Remember that you have a warrior’s courage, a warrior’s heart, and the intelligence to know that fighting is usual
ly not the answer,” Hektor would tell the boy when his strength failed him.
“Is that as important as strength?” Jon countered.
“More important than strength. Besides, you have other skills far greater than mine.”
Jon nodded. Hektor’s words were certainly true.
“Where did you learn to fight so well?” Jon finally asked him one day when they were finished with their lesson. Of all the monks, Hektor was the most secretive about his past, even with Jon.
Hektor looked at his pupil, nearly seventeen, full of knowledge yet still so naive. “Come outside the fortress with me,” he said. The pair walked to the edge of the road and sat on a pair of rocks overlooking a steep drop. In the distance stretched the harsh wasteland of G’Henna.
“I have spoken to very few about my past,” Hektor said. “But you, Jon, I will tell. Others would only scoff at my mistakes; you can learn from them.”
Gesturing out to the east, the huge man said, “I was born in the land of Borca. My father was a huge man, over eight feet tall, with arms the size of a normal man’s leg. He would brag that he had giant’s blood in him and that I had inherited his size and strength. It certainly seems so. When I was just a child, I was half again the weight and height of my peers.
“It was a custom in my village that all males, even small boys, would pair off in shows of strength. The master of the land my father farmed saw me fight for the first time when I was only six. He’d heard my father’s bragging and now saw it was true. He bought me from my parents and had me trained as a warrior and later as an assassin. Though I was seven feet tall at your age, I had less skill than you. The training was hard.” Hektor paused then added, “I hated it.”
Tapestry of Dark Souls Page 10