Sorrowing Vengeance

by David C. Smith

  And he felt empty. Not dissolute, not abusive, not foul, only dissipated and lost.

  When he had first started searching for her, he had feared that Assia might have died; yet his instincts told him that she hadn’t. He had inquired of people he had known before, people who had known him as a young priest in the Temple of Bithitu, and he had gone down to the docks and spoken with the sailing men who had been companions to Assia’s father. But the people he had known as a young priest did not trust him and had treated him as though he were a stranger; and the sailing men, if they knew anything, said nothing to the deep-eyed, handsomely dressed young man who might be Athadian, might be Salukadian, but might (as well) be something else entirely.

  What was most intriguing and frustrating for Thameron, however, was the strength of his sorcery. For he could, in truth, command shadows, understand the minds of animals, bring down storms, and make flames appear on the wind; he could slumber and visit strange regions; he could make gold coins from bits of lead and gems from splinters of wood; he could appear as youthful and virile as a spring soldier or as old and sinister as some virulent disease given human form. And he could accomplish things that no man on earth had ever done before. Thameron knew this of himself.

  Yet, try as he might, search as he might, inquire as he might from those shadows that clung to him now like a second breath, he could riot discern where Assia was, nor gain any clue as to how he might reach her.

  He wondered how this could be.

  Had not demons damned him? Had he not halved the stone that had opened for him all the paths at once? Had he not been warned that he had become the master of fear and evil on earth?

  Were his powerful instincts, his strengths, limited in ways he did not know?

  Or was Assia so distant from him that he could not locate her, no matter what he might do? Perhaps he should travel, to sense her more clearly the nearer to her he approached?

  Or might it be that, despite his endless thoughts of her, Assia no longer thought of him? Was that why he had failed, time and again?

  Or perhaps—

  “I love you, Assia.”

  “Then come back for me, Thameron.”

  Perhaps, as mightily as one part of him wanted her, another part of him did not want to find her again, did not want to face her with what he was now, with what he had become.

  He stood on the balcony and looked upon the people and upon the city of holiness that had betrayed him.

  As he listened to the noises of the crowds, and as he reflected upon the lust and greed of Serela, and as he thought of the Salukadians, who bowed to him, the servants who begged favors of him, the children no better than animals—the huge human tide of life and toil, sweat and endurance and suffering, cruelty that achieved more than suffering and goodness ever had—

  “That jewel belonged to the early gods,” Guburus had warned him. “It must be broken in half in a certain way to unravel its powers. If it is not done correctly, then the spirit is damned. It is a door that, once opened, cannot be closed.”

  He remembered, he remembered deeply, and, remembering, he was moved to anger.

  You are become your destiny, O man. You are chosen, the vessel, the being, the embodiment of the last days, O man beyond men, Prince of Darkness—

  Life, he thought, can be destroyed so easily. To sever the bond of a memory from its flesh is the simplest and easiest method, and not all are granted such an easy ending. Far worse is it to die inside, to know the death of oneself while the body still stirs and quickens.

  He turned and entered his room again.

  I am not evil, thought Thameron. I refuse that…destiny. Assia would understand. Hapad did not, Guburus did not. But Assia would understand.

  He felt again that tug toward the north; and Thameron, with fragmented thoughts and uncertain ones, could not determine whether the tug toward the north was the pull of destiny or the ache of lost love whispering to him.

  You are become your destiny, O man.

  But Assia would understand.

  Assia.…

  * * * *

  She was sitting on a large stone outside one of the tents of the First Legion Green, warming herself by the campfire. She was cold, although she was perspiring, and the little she had eaten had not filled her; so she sought to stay warm by the fire and try to ignore the chill in her bones, the rumbling in her bowels.

  Around her in the night a thousand campfires were spread upon the sloping hills, and a thousand tents. The night was nearly quiet; only a distant occasional laugh or yell from some of the soldiers broke the stillness. The air was muggy, filled with the dampness of the swamplands; the air seemed to crouch. To the north, through the many thick trees that led down to the Burul-Gos Stream, she could see suggestions of orange light: the signal fires that burned atop hastily built towers, lookouts for any Emarian troop movement on the other side.

  Behind her, the door flaps of a tent opened, and a number of men stepped out. Some of them were laughing, and some talked in low sounds as they moved away. Their voices were hollow; they looked like dark ghosts, barely lighted by the campfire. A lean young man in the colors of a corporal approached the young woman and sat beside her on the large stone. He moved close and reached to hold her hand. She didn’t look at him.

  “We’re moving out tomorrow for Abustad,” he said. “They’re sending up some of the reserves to relieve us.”

  “Are they?”

  “I want you to come back with me, Assia.”

  Now she looked at him. “Do you?” She coughed slightly. “Why?”

  “I just want you to.”

  Assia knew why. Urwus didn’t want her staying here with the other men; he wanted her for himself. She scratched her right cheek as she dully considered it. Sometimes Urwus would sing songs to her and make up poetry; other times, when he’d been drinking, he would strike her. But he was friendlier to her than anyone else in the camp.

  “Will you come back with me?” Urwus asked her.

  From a group at another campfire, someone called to him, “Come on, Urwus!” One hoisted a bottle of wine to tempt him.

  “Will you, Assia?” He gripped her arm insistently.

  “You’re hurting me.”

  He quickly removed his hand. “I’m sorry. Look—I can make all the arrangements, there’s no problem with that. I just want you to—”

  “Yes, all right.”

  “You’ll come?”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “Ur-wus!” came the voice.

  “Good!” He stood; Assia stared at the fire. His companions called to him again, and Urwus quickly rubbed Assia’s head before hurrying to join them.

  “Gods!” another of them laughed, his voice carrying. “You’d think she’s the only piece of cod around here!”

  “Oh, leave him alone, you just wish you could get your hands on—”

  “Give me some of that! Urwus’ll down it all before we even get a taste.”

  Their voices subsided as they went away, and the low grumbling sounds they made burst occasionally with crude laughter. Assia watched her fire, wrapped her arms about herself, and held her knees together to stay warm. She didn’t hear Laril until the woman nearly stumbled into her; she sat beside Assia on the warm rock.

  “You’re missing all the entertainment,” Laril informed her. From the way she rocked back and forth, Assia could tell she had been drinking for quite a while. Laril was a big woman with bright red hair, and her bracelets clinked and shimmered and glowed in the firelight like pieces of newly hot metal.

  “Am I?”

  “What’s the matter with you? Don’t be so—”

  “I don’t feel very well.”

  “Oh.” Laril tried to decide what to do about that, then thought it best to drop a heavy arm around Assia’s shoulders. “It’s that damned…swamp,” she said, burping.

  Assia told her, “Urwus wants me to go back to Abustad with him.”

  Laril chuckled hoarsely. “Well, good f
or you!”

  “Only I don’t know if I want to.”

  “What? Look, Sweet, anything you can do to get out of this hole, do it. That’s why you came up here. Make a little—” she rubbed thumb and forefinger together, indicating coins sliding against one another (and people) “—and you’ve done good for yourself, so go on back.”

  “I’m not sure if I can trust him. He hits me.”

  “Hit him back.”

  “People always hit me.” She didn’t whine, but this chill she had was beginning to make her feel self-pitying.

  “Look.” Laril leaned close and brought her mouth to Assia’s ear. “You don’t like it when you get back, you hit the stones. No one says you have to stay with him when you get back. But at least you’re in a city, not in a swamp.”

  “I know, I know.…”

  “You really don’t feel well, do you?”

  They sat there, Assia staring at the fire, Laril leaning on her and burping occasionally. Abruptly, she let out a laugh.

  “Anyhow, you’re missing all the fun. Fusk is doing his imitation of Captain Bull. ‘What is this? Are you men standing on your heads? I want to see faces! I want to see every soldier trimmed and groomed! I don’t care where we are! I don’t care if we’re in the middle of a swamp! You’re going to be in the middle of more than a swamp if I catch you like this again!!’ If Bull catches him, he’ll strip and quarter him right there! Osu’s jumping around with two boobs under his jacket. He’s so drunk! What a bend-over he is! Imos—you know who he is?—the short one?—he’s over there looking at the sky and telling us which stars are evil and he’s trying to scare everybody.” Laril tried to make a ghostly sound, but she was too drunk to succeed. “Brrrhhh—oooo—!” She coughed and spat.

  “What he’s saying?” Assia asked.

  “Oh, he thinks he’s something. All right, look. Up there. The bright one? Look to where I’m pointing. Come on, Assia, look! The bright one there. That star…now three over. That’s Imgor. When Imgor moves into this con-stel-la-tion—” (she struggled with the pronunciation) “—the constellation over there— What did he call it? Assia, this is scary, now! Sath! The Dragon! Imos says when Imgor looks like it’s in the sign of the dragon, then something else has to happen.… The dragon that eats its own tail. And then terrible things are going to happen. We’re all going to be crying for our mamas.”

  “Sounds scary.”

  “As-sia! This is funny! It’s ridiculous!” Laril reached over and felt her forehead. “You’re getting a fever, girl.”

  “I know.”

  “You better go lay down. It’s the swamp, makes us all sick, makes you want to puke your guts out. You don’t feel that sick, do you?”

  “I think I’m just tired. I didn’t eat much today.”

  “All right. You get back to the tent and lay down. I’ll bring you some food. They have soup.”

  “I think I will.”

  Laril helped Assia to her feet, walked her around the fire, and headed her toward one of the tents assigned to camp followers.

  “Can you make it, now?”

  “Yes. I’m just tired.”

  From his campfire, Urwus saw them, stood, and yelled, “Hey! Is she all right?”

  Laril turned around. “Oh, she got a good look at you and now she has to vomit!”

  “Told you!” laughed one of his companions. “Told you, Urwus!”

  Another yelled at Laril, “Shut up, you old piece of…hole!”

  Laril ignored them and began walking toward Fusk’s fire. Urwus’s boots pounded on the ground as he ran to her.

  “Is she all right? Tell me!”

  “She’s just tired, Urwus. Leave her alone.”

  “Maybe I’d better—”

  “Just leave her alone,” Laril repeated sternly. “She’ll be all right.” Snidely, to his troubled expression: “She’s going back to Abustad with you, so you’ll have her all to yourself.”

  Urwus growled an obscenity and jerked one arm up as though threatening a slap.

  “Just leave her alone,” Laril sighed. “Go on back and finish drinking. I’m getting her something to cat. Let her sleep.”

  Urwus stood there, rocking on his feet, and watched Laril walk away. He glanced at the camp followers’ tent, then started to move in that direction.

  But his companions called him back to their fire, so Urwus grunted, turned around, and returned to them.

  A few fires away, a sudden chorus of screams and laughter erupted from Imos’s crowd of listeners as every face there stared up at the cold sky and followed pointing fingers that showed the patterns of the stars, the movements of the planets.

  Dragons, and constellations, evil stars.…PART TWO

  COALS BENEATH THE ASHES

  CHAPTER SIX

  “…hear me, Cyrodian?”

  The giant jerked his head around and stared at Nutatharis. “Did you say something?”

  “I said, ‘Do you hear me?’ Obviously, you did not.”

  Cyrodian made a sound, then turned away. “True. I did not.”

  Nutatharis rose from his supper table and carried his wine goblet with him as he crossed the hall to the window where Cyrodian was standing. “What are you staring at?” The king himself saw only his twilight-shadowed garden three stories below: walkway, stone fountain, gargoyles, the long southern wing of his palace. “Is someone down there?” he asked, annoyed.

  Cyrodian fisted his hands, rapped the knuckles lightly on the window sill, then reached for the wine cup he had set on the stone. “Eromedeus,” he replied coldly.

  “Ah.”

  “He just went through that door.” Still, Cyrodian stared at it.

  Nutatharis returned to the table and sat in a low-backed chair. He threw out his legs and crossed them casually at the ankles. “You’ve been avoiding him,” he observed, “ever since General Kustos’s death.”

  Cyrodian faced him.

  “Why?”

  Cyrodian did not answer, but he turned his back to the open window and swallowed the last of the wine in his cup.

  “Are you frightened of him?” Nutatharis pursued. He regarded the giant with a smile of doubt. “Not…frightened, perhaps. The wrong word.”

  “It is a personal matter, Nutatharis.”

  “There can be no ‘personal matters’ in this palace that interfere with duties of state. You are a man of office, Prince Cyrodian. I must ask you to explain yourself.”

  Cyrodian colored slightly. He moved ahead and sat at the head of the table, then leaned forward on propped elbows. “It has to do with Kustos’s death.”

  “Did Eromedeus murder him?” the king asked.

  “I don’t think we can say that.”

  “My physician tells me that the general’s heart gave out. He did not die of his wounds gotten in the lowlands. Perhaps those weakened his constitution, but his heart gave out.”

  Cyrodian said, “He was a superstitious man, was he not?”

  “All men are superstitious in one way or another.”

  “Did you know, Nutatharis, that Kustos had religious beliefs?”

  “Most of us exhibit religious impulses on our deathbeds. This strays from the issue at hand, Prince Cyrodian.”

  The giant swallowed a deep breath. “You know, don’t you—you’ve known for a long time—about Eromedeus and his black arts?”

  “Sorcery?” Nutatharis smiled. “Perhaps that, too, is the wrong word. Chicanery.”

  “It is more than chicanery.”

  Nutatharis frowned. “Are you telling me that Eromedeus, this…charlatan…provoked General Kustos on his deathbed? Caused such fear in a veteran man of arms that he suffered a seizure of the heart?”

  Cyrodian showed his teeth; his broad face wrinkled. He did not look at Nutatharis but wrapped his paw-like hands around his empty wine cup and stared at the ornamental carvings on it. “I…am saying it, yes.”

  “Cyrodian, you are not a man to be—”

  “Perhaps I, too,” the Atha
dian grumbled, looking at the king, “have…superstitions.”

  “Indeed.” Nutatharis cleared his throat noisily. “I must tell you, then, that I believe the best way for a man to deal with his fears, or his superstitions, is to face them. And when you started daydreaming over there, Prince Cyrodian, I was making the point to you that I think Eromedeus has served in my court quite long enough.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean…I mean that Eromedeus has been in this palace for a year. Sir Jors brought him here to have the man entertain me. I retained him because of his astonishing memory and his knowledge of geography and politics. His appreciation of local history is remarkable. You yourself would keep such a man in your court, were you king. He made his home here, and I began to observe him. Eromedeus is not prone to associate with his fellowmen. Still, I let him find his balance. It’s best to do that, I’ve found: the surest way to test men is to observe them; never let them know they are being tested. By this practice, I have found Eromedeus wanting.”

  Cyrodian listened intently; much that he had had to piece together himself from overheard gossip was now corroborated by Nutatharis.

  “And—yes, I know about these servant girls he’s tortured and his forays under dark into the forests and his other tricks. But he’s no sorcerer.” Nutatharis tapped his forehead with his right index finger. “Up here, a man is anything he believes himself to be.” The king leaned forward to face Cyrodian directly. “I am about to return to the lowlands. I am thinking of placing you in sole control of my army.”

  Cyrodian’s eyes betrayed him; this was his highest ambition.

  “But before I do that— We have shared an oath, Prince Cyrodian. You understand, don’t you, why I must ask you to do what must be done?”

  Cyrodian swallowed. “Yes.”

  “I cannot allow this strange man to leave my court. I would not trust him even were I to banish him into the mountains.” King Nutatharis leaned back in his chair, posing, sure of himself. “I wish you to do this thing because I can trust you, Prince Cyrodian. And because you and I have sworn a powerful oath to each other, I think it only fair that your part of the bargain be dispatched quickly and efficiently. Then we will worry about it no longer.”