Healed by Hope

by Jim Melvin

  “I sincerely hope they are well, happy, and peaceful. They have suffered greatly too. It will take many years for the damage to even begin to repair. But as king and queen, it will be our duty to hasten the healing.”

  Laylah loved him more at that moment than she ever had before. She hugged him and kissed him. But on this night they were in no mood for lovemaking. Instead, they lay upon a warm slab of stone the melted ice had exposed and slept past dawn. By then, the surrounding air had grown chilly again, and the mysterious object had cooled enough to permit the two of them to approach within a stone’s throw.

  “It is metal,” Laylah said. “Well, metal and rock.”

  “I would bring it with us now, but it’s still too hot to touch and I don’t feel like waiting around here any longer. Besides, we have a long way to walk—and some very difficult climbs.”

  “I wish Jord were still with us. She could carry us to Anna in less than a day.”

  “It’s a long way on foot,” Torg admitted. “But I couldn’t ask for better company.”

  Once they departed Nirodha, the journey became more difficult. The mountains bordering the frozen wastes were next to impossible to climb, and if not for Torg’s guidance, Laylah doubted she could have managed it. But just when it appeared they would be forced to turn back, Torg would find a pass or divide that eventually spilled into a valley. And in the valleys they found plenty of food, water, and warmth. Though summer was almost upon Triken, this far north it resembled early spring—and it was beautiful. This entranced Laylah. Once past the most severe mountains, they were able to wind their way through Mahaggata’s northeastern range without fanfare. It was tiresome, but being alone with Torg made it feel like paradise.

  Somewhere along the way they encountered a small tribe of Svakarans and were treated like royalty. Eventually, they set off with blankets, two pouches of food, and two goatskins of wine. Torg was presented with fur trousers and a war shirt made of deer hide and decorated with fox tails. Laylah created a stir when she chose the same outfit instead of a buckskin dress, but a stern look from Torg quelled any more displays of disapproval.

  In almost identical dress, they left the village hand in hand. Laylah couldn’t help but laugh. “Do you enjoy doing that?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Scaring people like that.”

  Torg seemed sincerely offended. “Enjoy it? Of course not. But sometimes I lose my patience, and I can be dangerous when I lose my patience. I’m not Tathagata, after all.”

  67

  ELEVEN DAYS AFTER discovering the molten stone that fell from the sky, Torg and Laylah reached the foothills of Mount Asubha.

  “You still haven’t told me where we’re going,” Laylah said.

  “There are a few places I’d like to visit . . . that’s all.”

  “We’re going back to Jord’s house?”

  “It’s on the way.”

  “The magical pines?”

  “They’re on the way, too.”

  “To where?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Arrgggghhhh!”

  As dusk approached and a sliver of moon set in the west, they arrived at Jord’s house. In the relatively short time that had passed since Torg and Laylah had last been there, the hut had become overgrown with broad-leaved vines that grew all over the walls and angled roof, as if years had passed instead of weeks.

  “It’s a mess,” Laylah said.

  “Yes . . . and it was not so before.”

  “Do you want to keep going tonight?”

  “The pines aren’t far, but I’d rather wait until morning before we visit them. Let’s build a fire in the hearth and sleep in the hut tonight. Perhaps we can snare a che-ra or some hares. I’m not overly pleased by the thought of more killing, but we haven’t had a hot meal since we left the Svakarans.”

  The inside of the hut was musty but otherwise as Torg remembered it. They filled their bellies with a brace of hares, but not before uttering a series of chants that wished the creatures well in their next existences. Then they entwined their naked bodies, wrapped up in their blankets, and slept all through the night. If ghosts came to visit, the pair knew it naught.

  The next morning was warm and breezy, and they bathed without discomfort in a nearby stream, enjoying the crisp feel of the still-frigid waters.

  “When we reach Kamupadana, will it be safe?” Laylah said. “I would love nothing better than to stay in a nice inn for a few days and relax. But won’t the witches and Sāykans come for us?”

  Torg shrugged. “If they assault us, they will do so at their peril. They don’t have the threat of Invictus to embolden them anymore. Despite the greatness of their walls, I doubt they would hazard the wrath of the Tugars by harming either of us. But we shall see what we shall see.”

  They left the stream and continued along a high plain densely covered with conifers and hardwoods. Eventually, they came upon what remained of the magical row of pines. Where once the great trees had towered two hundred cubits above the plain, now there was nothing left but a series of charred and broken trunks, as if enormous bolts of lightning had shattered each of the thirty behemoths.

  This stunned Torg. “Jord created them. Without her magic, they could not survive.”

  “Do you think this happened the moment she died?”

  “I would not say that she died, for in truth she never lived. At least, not how you and I think of life.”

  “It makes me sad,” Laylah said. “Like the way we felt in Nirodha when we were remembering our comrades. I miss Ugga and Bard, especially.” She sighed. “As you said before, we have lost so much. Will Triken ever fully heal?”

  “It will heal. Invictus is gone . . . and so too his stains will fade . . . probably sooner than you might think. Life is for the living. You and I will lead those who remain into a new era.”

  68

  BY THE TIME THEY reached the mouth of the cave, it was midafternoon. Torg turned to Laylah and smiled.

  “There are marvelous creatures living in the bowels of Asubha that I would like you to meet. Will you follow me beneath the surface?”

  “Nothing would please me more.”

  They descended along a difficult passageway, and soon the quality of the air began to change, growing stale and musty. Eventually, they entered a cavern, and there they sat upon a flat stone and consumed the last of the supplies they had received from the Svakarans.

  “Shouldn’t we gather more food before we go any deeper?” Laylah said.

  “Where we’re headed, there’ll be plenty to eat,” Torg said. “As long as you don’t mind soup.”

  “I love soup.”

  When dusk came to the surface world, the cavern grew intensely dark. Laylah willed Obhasa to glow, illuminating the chamber. In the farthest reach of the cavern, an old woman appeared, her smile exposing an impressive set of flat white teeth.

  Torg and Laylah descended into the darkness.

  To Torg, the worm soup tasted even better than it had the first time he had eaten it the previous fall.

  TORG AND LAYLAH remained with the cave monkeys for three days. The charming little creatures were thrilled to see him again, especially the female he had healed with his magic. And they immediately took to Laylah, treating her with even more reverence than they did Torg. But they continued to distrust the Silver Sword and insisted Torg bury it in the sand beneath his and Laylah’s bed.

  When Torg finally announced that it was time to depart, this dismayed Laylah. Eventually, she acquiesced, but not before Torg promised a dozen times that they would return again within the year. They left the inner caverns with one pouch full of jewels and another containing mushrooms and, of course, dried worm meat.

  From then on, it took them three days to walk to Kamupadana, though they traveled lightly and
could have traversed the distance more quickly had there been a need. At dusk they stood upon a hillock that overlooked the city. The half-moon hung directly overhead. To their left lay the remnants of the refugee village, which now appeared almost deserted. With the threat of Invictus and the Mogols removed, most of the inhabitants had returned to their homes, wherever they might be. This relieved Torg and Laylah.

  “I remember being in there with Lucius,” she said. “In some ways it seems like yesterday, and in others a lifetime ago.”

  “I was in that place too,” Torg said. “We very nearly crossed paths in the village instead of within the walls.”

  “I still treasure the first time we ‘crossed paths,’” Laylah said. “Despite all that was going on, it was the most wonderful moment of my life.”

  “And mine,” Torg said, smiling.

  They spent that night in a nearby copse, and for the first time in weeks it rained. But it was a warm night, and the droplets that wove their way between the gnarled branches felt good upon their brows. In the morning they dried themselves with magic and then began a now-muddy walk toward the ninth wall of Kamupadana. Quickly they came to the paved processional that led to the main gate and there joined the throng, which was far less numerous than it had been before the wars. Where seventy thousand once entered the gateway each day, perhaps only five thousand now were visible to Torg—and most appeared to be plain village folk intermingled with the occasional female or male whore. Torg saw relatively few merchants and noblemen. Apparently the specter of war and the ruination of Senasana had put a serious damper on business, even this far north.

  Though Torg and Laylah were dressed in Svakaran garb common to these parts, they still failed to blend into the crowd, so extraordinary was their height and beauty. The thinly spaced mob gave them a wide berth.

  This was amusing to Torg, but he paid it little heed. Instead, he looked this way and that, searching for the first signs of Sāykan soldiers. Oddly, there seemed to be none about, when before they had commonly patrolled the processional. Either they were huddled behind the merlons of the towering ninth wall or were lying unseen in ambush somewhere on the ground. Had they been alerted to Torg and Laylah’s arrival? Torg doubted it. Besides, the Sāykans had too much pride to hide out of fear.

  “I was ill and remember little of this place, but aren’t there supposed to be more people? And where are the soldiers?” Laylah said, mimicking his thoughts. “Should we not already have been confronted?”

  Torg shrugged. “Things are not as they should be.”

  A stone’s throw away, a swordfight broke out between a burly villager wielding a falchion and a lanky merchant with a much-longer rapier. The crowd spread out to give them room. The villager looked stronger, but it soon became obvious that the merchant was the superior swordsman. A teasing upward stroke split open the villager’s left nostril, and then a deep poke to the belly doubled him over. Typically, at least a dozen Sāykans would have surrounded the pair and hauled them away. But no soldiers appeared. Instead, the merchant loomed over the fallen villager and taunted him with curses before continuing on his way, leaving the man to suffer and probably bleed to death. No one made any attempt to lend aid.

  Torg and Laylah knelt over the man, who had rolled onto his side while clutching the wound on his stomach. He managed the strength to twist his head up and look at them, his face filled with pain and weariness.

  “The bastard robbed me yesterday and stuck me today.” Then he coughed. “I think I am going to die. At least that is a good thing.”

  “If I help you, will you help me?” Torg said.

  “I’ve got nothing to barter . . .” He coughed again.

  Torg pushed the man’s bloody hand away and placed his much-larger hand over the wound. Blue-green magic surged into the puncture from Torg’s palm, causing the man to gasp. After Torg finished, the man sat up and rubbed his stomach in disbelief.

  “Are you the One God and his bride come to escort me to heaven?” he said in amazement.

  “It matters naught who we are,” Torg said, helping the man to his feet. “Do you feel strong enough to walk?”

  “Believe it or not, I feel pretty darn good.” Then he bowed. “Thank you, sir . . . and thank you, ma’am. Whoever you are.”

  “Walk with us, then,” Torg said. “And talk to me. I have questions.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where are the Sāykans?”

  Before responding, the man lifted his bloodied shirt and stared at the healed wound. “I have never . . .”

  “The Sāykans,” Torg repeated sternly.

  “The soldier girls? Ah, yes. Well, about three weeks ago, the strangest thing happened. All of them marched inside the fifth wall and raised the drawbridge. And not a one has come out since . . . not even a witch or priestess. Well, that’s not true. They say that a couple of soldiers tried to sneak out, but they took arrows to their backs.”

  “You saw this?” Laylah said.

  “Not the arrow part. That I just heard. But one night me and some buddies snuck over to the moat and saw thousands of the soldier girls up on the battlement of the fifth wall, as if they expected a war to start that very moment. Yet there isn’t an army within fifty leagues of here, as far as any of us knows.” He rubbed his stomach again.

  Torg grunted impatiently.

  “Oops, sorry,” the man said. Then: “Otherwise, the soldier girls have left us alone. In some ways that’s good, ’cause we can do as we please, and we don’t have to pay no taxes. But it’s also kinda bad, ’cause there’s no one to keep the bad guys from doing nasty stuff to people.”

  “The markets and inns are still active?” Torg said.

  “Yup . . . even the whore houses. Business ain’t nearly as good as it used to be, but it ain’t stopped dead.”

  “Why are you here?” Laylah said. “You’re carrying no wares. Or did the other man take them from you?”

  “Nah, he took nothing—other than me pride. You see, I work for a sword-maker . . . best one in all the north, he is, but I did a job on the side for that bad guy, and he decided it’d be cheaper to kill me than pay me. So he stuck me with the same sword that I made for him, if you can believe it.”

  “It was a mismatch,” Torg said, glancing at the falchion.

  “Ahhh . . . I’m no sword-fighter, anyway. I’m just an assistant to a sword-maker . . . and a part-time butcher, too. I use this blade to chop up the meats. I’m good at that.”

  Torg and Laylah chuckled.

  “A sword-maker is just what I need,” Torg said. “Take a message from me to your master, and there’ll be a reward in it for both of you.”

  “You have already given me my reward. But if you don’t mind my asking, is there anything you can do about my bloody nose?”

  Torg’s and Laylah’s chuckling turned to outright laughter.

  69

  THE GATEWAY OF THE ninth wall was open and unguarded. The throng funneled through the entrance far more smoothly than usual. Vendors crowded the market that occupied the narrow gap between the ninth and eighth walls, but more booths than not were unmanned, and there were far fewer customers. Torg whispered in the man’s ear, placed something in his hand, and then led Laylah away. Quickly they passed through an open door in the much-smaller eighth wall and entered the area of inns and taverns.

  “It’s less crowded than I remember,” Laylah said. “But it’s hardly deserted.”

  “I know a great inn with comfortable beds and copper tubs for bathing,” Torg said. “I once met a beautiful woman there. Interested?”

  “You took the words right out of my mouth.”

  “Funny . . . my Vasi master used to say the same thing to me constantly.”

  Eventually, they came to a stone-block inn with a turret on its flat roof. The turret was unguarded, bu
t the grated gate protecting the front entryway was closed. Torg rang a bell and then waited.

  “She gets mad if you ring it twice,” Torg said with a wink.

  “I remember coming out but not going in,” Laylah said of her previous stay at the inn.

  An overweight woman finally peered out the door and entered the small courtyard behind the gate. But she wasn’t as overweight as she had been the last time Torg had seen her less than a year before. Now she was about a third less large, and her cheeks were sunken.

  “Who’s there? I’m not accepting no coins, if that’s all you’ve got. They’re not worth anything to me anymore.”

  “What are you accepting, madam?” Torg said.

  The woman crept out cautiously and peered through the gate. “Do I know the two of you?”

  “Indeed you do,” Torg said. “We are friends of Ugga and Bard, and we enjoyed the comforts of your fine establishment several months ago. Might we stay again? We have methods of payment that you might find worthy.”

  “I remember you,” she said softly. “Since the two of you left, there’s been lots of trouble around here. But for Ugga and Bard’s sakes, I’ll let you in. I love those two boys, I can’t deny it.”

  “As did we,” Laylah said.

  The woman tugged on a chain, and the grated gate rattled inward. Then she walked over to Laylah and stared hard into her eyes. “There’s sadness in your voice, pretty lady. Has something happened to my boys?”

  “We will speak more of this inside,” Torg said.

  Hearing of Bard’s and Ugga’s deaths devastated the innkeeper. Even Rathburt’s death made her sad. It took quite some time before she could speak, and then she claimed to be too hungry to answer any questions. She left Torg and Laylah alone in the same room that they had first met in and then returned a short time later with a ewer of wine and a tray of salted beef, fried potatoes, and boiled cabbage. All three ate ravenously, and they finished off two more ewers of wine and three more trays of food before they were satiated. By then it was early evening, and they retired to a parlor on the first floor, where the innkeeper’s skinny assistant served them black tea.