He loved her all the more for it.
"He is dead," came a call from the tall grass, Juraviel returning to the group. The elf cast a glance at Roger, one that perceptive Elbryan didn't miss, and explained, "He was just about free when I came upon him, stuck in the tree just as you described. I had to cut him down—it took several arrows."
"You are sure he is dead?" Roger asked nervously, not wanting anything more to do with that one.
"He is dead," Juraviel assured him. "And I believe that your horse, Connor's horse, is just over there," the elf added, pointing across the road.
"He threw a shoe," Roger reminded.
"Which can be easily repaired," Juraviel replied. "Go and get him."
Roger nodded and started away, and Pony, on Elbryan's signal, kicked Symphony into a trot after him.
"Your quiver is full," the ranger noted when he and the elf were alone.
"I retrieved my arrows," Juraviel replied.
"Elves do not retrieve arrows that have hit the mark," the ranger replied. "Not unless the situation is desperate, which ours, now that the monks are both dead, is not."
"Your point?" Juraviel asked dryly.
"The man was dead when you went into the copse," Elbryan reasoned.
Juraviel agreed with a nod. "He apparently tried to get out of the bindings, choking himself," he explained. "Our young Roger did well in tightening the bonds, and was quite clever in capturing the man in the first place. Too clever, perhaps."
"I have battled with one called Brother Justice before," Elbryan said. "And you saw the fanaticism at our ambush. Did you doubt that it must end like this, with the death of the monk?"
"I wish he had not died at young Roger's hands," Juraviel replied. "I do not believe that he is ready for that."
Elbryan glanced to the road, to see Pony and Roger walking together, leading Symphony and Connor's limping horse.
"He must be told the truth," the ranger decided, and he looked to Juraviel, expecting an argument.
"He'll not take it well" was all the elf warned, but Juraviel did not disagree with the ranger. The road ahead for all of them would be dark, no doubt, and perhaps it was better to get this unpleasantness over with here and now.
When the pair arrived with the horses, Juraviel took Greystone and, after examining the injured hoof, led the creature away, motioning for Pony to take Symphony and follow.
"Juraviel did not kill the monk," Elbryan said to Roger as soon as the others were gone.
Roger's eyes widened in panic and he glanced all around, as if expecting Brother Justice to leap out at him at any moment. The man had unnerved Roger more than any other foe, even Kos-kosio, ever had.
"You did," Elbryan explained.
"You mean that I was the one who defeated him," Roger corrected. "And that the kill by Juraviel was no large matter."
"I mean that you killed him," the ranger said firmly. "I mean that you tightened the rope and it somehow slipped about his neck, choking the life from him."
Roger's eyes widened again. "But Juraviel said—" he started to protest.
"Juraviel feared for your sensibilities," Elbryan bluntly replied. "He was not certain how you would accept such grim reality, and thus feared to speak plainly."
Roger's mouth moved but no words came forth. The weight of the truth was hitting him hard, Elbryan realized, and he could see that he was swaying.
"I had to tell you," Elbryan said, softly now. "You deserve to know the truth, and must get beyond it if you are to handle the responsibilities that have now been put on your young shoulders."
Roger was hardly listening, was swaying more pronouncedly now and seemed as if he might simply topple over.
"We will speak later," Elbryan said to him, walking up to him and dropping a comforting hand on his shoulder. Then the ranger continued past, going to join Juraviel and Pony, leaving Roger alone with his thoughts.
And with his pain, for truly Roger Billingsbury—and suddenly he craved for that title again and not the foolishly pretentious Roger Lockless—had never been hit by anything like this. He had known grief many times, too many times, in his young life, but that pain was different. That pain allowed him to keep himself up on a pedestal, to continue to view himself as the center of the universe, as somehow better than everyone else. In all the pain and all the many trials young Roger had ever known, he had been able to hold on to his somewhat childish Roger-centric view of the world.
Now, suddenly, that pedestal had been kicked out from under him. He had killed a man.
He had killed a man!
Without conscious choice, Roger was sitting in the grass. Desperately, his rational side battled against his conscience. True, he had killed a man, but what choice had the man given him? The monk was a killer, pure and simple. The monk had killed Connor right before his own eyes, brutally, evilly. The monk had murdered Abbot Dobrinion!
But even those truths did little to assuage Roger's sudden sense of guilt. Whatever the justifications, and in spite of the fact that he had not intentionally killed Brother Justice, the man was dead, and the blood was on his hands.
He put his head down, laboring hard for breath. He craved all those things that had been torn from him at too young an age: family warmth and the reasonable, comforting words of adults he could look up to. With that thought, he looked over his shoulder to his three friends, to the ranger who had so bluntly told him of his crime and then left him alone.
For a moment Roger hated Elbryan for that. But it could not hold; soon enough he understood that the ranger had told him out of respect for him, out of confidence in him, and had then left him alone because an adult—and he was an adult now—had to work through such pain, at least in part, alone.
Pony came for him soon after, saying nothing of the monk's death, but only informing him they were going to gather up the fallen monk and then go south to retrieve Connor's body.
Silently, Roger fell into line, purposefully averting his eyes from the spectacle of Brother Justice, slung over Greystone's back. The horse was walking better now, for Juraviel had shaved its hoof to level, but still the pace was slow. Night fell in full, and still they walked, determined to get to Connor's body before he was torn apart by some scavenging creature.
With some difficulty, for the night was quite dark, they at last found the man.
Pony went to him first, and gently closed his eyes. Then she walked away, far away.
"Go to her," Juraviel said to Elbryan.
"You know what to do with him," the ranger replied, and the elf nodded. Then, to Roger, Elbryan added, "Be strong and be sure. Your role is perhaps the most important of all now."
And then he walked away, leaving Roger staring at Juraviel for an explanation.
"You are to take Connor, the monk, and the horse and head straight out to Palmaris," the elf explained.
Roger inadvertently glanced at the dead monk, at the image that so shook his self-perception.
"Go to the Baron, not the abbey," the elf explained. "Tell him what has happened. Tell him of Connor's belief that these monks, and not any powrie, murdered Abbot Dobrinion, and that they chased Connor out of Palmaris, for he, too, had unwittingly become an enemy of the wicked Church leaders."
"And then what for me?" the young man asked, wondering if this was the last time he would see these three.
Juraviel glanced around. "We could use another horse—another two," he added, "if you plan to ride with us."
"Does he want me to?" Roger asked, nodding toward the distant Elbryan.
"Would he have told you the truth if he did not?" Juraviel replied.
"And what of you, then?" Roger quickly asked. "Why did you lie to me? Do you think me a foolish young boy, unable to take responsibility?"
"I think you a man who has grown much in the last weeks," the elf replied honestly. "I did not tell you because I was not sure of what Nightbird—and do not doubt that he is the leader of this group—had planned for you. If we me
ant to leave you in Palmaris, in safety with Tomas and Belster, if we had determined that your role in this fight was at its end, then what good would it have done you to let you know that you had the blood of a dead man on your hands?"
"Is the truth not absolute?" Roger asked. "Do you play God, elf?"
"If the truth is not in any way constructive, then it can wait for a better time," Juraviel replied. "But since your course is yours to determine, then you needed to know now. Our road will be dark, my young friend, and I do not doubt that we will find other Brother Justices in our path, perhaps for years to come."
"And each successive kill gets easier?" Roger asked sarcastically.
"Pray that is not the case," Juraviel replied in a severe tone, eyeing Roger unblinkingly.
That demeanor set the young man back on his heels.
"Nightbird thought that you were emotionally strong enough to know the truth," the elf added. "Take it as a compliment."
Juraviel started to walk away.
"I do not know if he was right," Roger admitted suddenly.
The elf turned about to see Roger, head down, shoulders bobbing in sobs. He went to stand beside him, put his hand on the small of Roger's back. "The other monk was only the second man Nightbird ever killed," he said. "He did not cry this time because he shed all those tears after killing the first, the first Brother Justice."
The notion that this stoic and powerful ranger had been equally shaken hit Roger profoundly. He wiped his eyes and stood straight, looked to Juraviel and nodded grimly.
Then Roger was on the road south, too agitated to sit and wait out the remainder of the night. He had to move quite slowly, for the injured Greystone carried both bodies, but he was determined to speak with Baron Bildeborough before the midday meal.
PART FOUR
DOWN THE ROAD OF SHADOWS
As I learned more about the Church that Avelyn served—the Church of my parents and of every fellow human I have ever known—and as I met more of the Abellican monks, I began to recognize just how subtle the nature of evil might be. I had never spent time considering this before, but is the evil man inherently evil? Is he even aware that his actions are evil? Does he believe them to be, or has he tainted his perspective so that he believes himself to be in the right?
In these times, when the dactyl awoke and the world knew chaos, many, it seems, have come to question the very essence of evil. Who am I, or who is anyone, they might say, to judge which man might be considered evil and which good? When I ask, is the evil man inherently evil, I am supposing an absolute distinction that many people refuse to acknowledge. Their concept of morality is relative, and while I'll admit that the moral implications of many actions might be dependent upon a certain situation, the overall moral distinction is not.
For within that truth, I know a larger one. I know that there is indeed an absolute difference between good and evil, with individual perspective and justification notwithstanding. To the Touel'alfar, the common good is the measuring stick—putting the good of the elven folk first, but considering the good of all others, as well. Though the elves desire little contact with humans, they have for centuries taken humans under their tutelage and trained them as rangers, not for any gains to Andur'Blough Inninness, for that place is beyond the influence of the rangers, but for the betterment of the world at large. The elven folk are not aggressors, never that. They fight when they must, in defense and against imperialism. Had the goblins not come to Dundalis, the elves would never have sought them out, for though they have no love of goblins or powries or giants, and indeed consider the three races to be a scourge upon the very world, the elves would suffer them to live. To go to the mountains and attack these monsters, by elven standards, would reduce the Touel'alfar to the level of that which they despise above all else.
Conversely, the powries and the goblins have shown themselves to be warring and wicked creatures. They attack whenever they find advantage, and it is little wonder that the demon dactyl sought out these races for its minions. I tend to view the giants a bit differently, and wonder if they are, by nature, evil, or if they simply look at the world in a different way. A giant may look at a human and, like a hungry hunting cat, see its next meal. Still, as with powries and goblins, I feel no remorse in killing giants.
None at all.
Among the five races of Corona, then, I consider the humans most shrouded in mystery. Some of the very best people in all the world—Brother Avelyn, as a prime example—were human, as were, and possibly are, some of the very worst tyrants. In general, my own race is a goodly one, but not as predictable and disciplined as the Touel'alfar, certainly! Still, in temperament and general beliefs, we are much closer to the elves than to the other three races.
But those shades of gray...
Perhaps nowhere is the confusing concept of evil more evident than in the ranks of the Abellican Church, the accepted moral leader of the majority of humankind. Likely it is because this body has been entrusted with so high a standard, no less than to serve as the vanguard of human souls. An error in perspective among the Church leaders is a disastrous thing indeed, as Avelyn proved. To them he was a heretic, though in truth, I doubt there has ever been a man more godly, more charitable, more generous, more willing to sacrifice everything for the common good.
Perhaps the Father Abbot, who sent Brother Justice after Avelyn, can justify his actions—to himself, at least—by claiming them to be for the betterment of all. A master was killed in Avelyn's escape, after all, and Avelyn had no legal claim to the stones he took
But the Father Abbot is wrong, I say, for though Avelyn might be technically labeled a thief, the stones were his on purely moral grounds. Having watched his work, even before he sacrificed himself to rid the world of the demon dactyl, I have no doubt of this.
The capacity of any individual to justify his or her actions will forever amaze me, I fear.
—elbryan wyndon
CHAPTER 25
A Choice for Roger
By the time he neared the northern gate of Palmaris city proper, Roger Lockless and his grim luggage had attracted more than a little attention. Several farmers and their families, alert to anything moving in the area in these dangerous times, had noted the man's passage, and many even came out to follow him, pestering him with questions.
He offered few explanations all the way to the gate, grunting his answers to general questions, such as, "Did you come from the north?" or "Any goblins up there?" The farmers accepted the vague answers without complaint, but the guards at the gate proved much more insistent. As soon as Roger drew near and it became apparent he had two human bodies strapped across his hobbled horse, one of the two great city gates cracked open and a pair of armored soldiers rushed out to intercept him.
Roger was very much aware of the fact that other guards watching from the walls had their bows drawn and ready, and aimed at his head.
"Your doing?" one of the soldiers snapped, moving to inspect the bodies.
"Not that one," Roger quickly replied as the man lifted Connor's head, his eyes widening in recognition and horror.
The other soldier was at Roger's side in an instant, sword drawn and brought level with the man's neck.
"Do you think I would walk openly into Palmaris bearing the body of the Baron's nephew if I had killed the man?" Roger calmly asked, wanting these soldiers to understand that he knew the identity of the nobleman. "I have been called many things, but I do not number 'fool' among them. And besides, I considered Connor Bildeborough a friend. That is why, though I have other pressing business, I could not leave him on the road for the goblins and buzzards to pick over his corpse."
"What about this one?" snapped the soldier standing beside the horse. "He is from the abbey, is he not?"
"Not from St. Precious, no," Roger replied. "He is from St.-Mere-Abelle."
The two soldiers looked to each other with trepidation; neither of them had been among those sent to St. Precious when the trouble with
the Father Abbot had begun, but both had heard well the stories, and that put a sinister spin indeed on their suspicions when viewing the two bodies draped across Roger's horse.
"You killed this one?" the soldier asked.
"I did," Roger replied without pause.
"An admission of guilt?" the other soldier was quick to interrupt.
"For if I did not, then he surely would have killed me," Roger finished calmly, looking the accusing soldier right in the eye. "I should think that, given the identity of these two, this conversation would be better served in the home of the Baron."
The soldiers looked to each other, unsure of how to proceed.
"Unless you think it better to have the common folk pawing over Connor Bildeborough," Roger added, a sharp edge to his tone. "Perhaps one will find proper use for Defender, or it might be that their rumors will reach the Baron, or the abbot of St. Precious, and who can tell what intrigue that might bring?"
"Open the gates," the soldier standing beside the horse called to the guards on the wall. He motioned to his companion, and the man put his sword away. "Be gone to your homes," he scolded the excited and whispering onlookers, and then he and his companion flanked Roger and started toward the city, grim baggage in tow. They stopped when they got inside the gate, other guards shutting it behind them. Out of sight of the farmers—for they weren't sure whether or not this stranger had any allies among those folk—they grabbed Roger roughly and slammed him up against the wall, frisking every inch of his body and removing anything that even resembled a weapon.
A third guard brought out blankets to cover the bodies, then took hold of the horse's reins and led the beast, while the first two grabbed Roger roughly by the elbows and half carried, half dragged him through the city streets.
Roger spent a lot of time alone in Chasewind Manor, the palatial home of Baron Rochefort Bildeborough. He wasn't physically alone, but the two grim-faced soldiers assigned to guard him seemed in no mood for conversation. So he sat and waited, sang songs to himself, even counted the boards of the hardwood floor three times, as the hours passed.
The Demon Spirit - Book 2 of the Demon Wars series Page 49