by Brandon Barr
Daeymara wrapped her arms around herself as if she were suddenly cold.
“Honestly, what I’m trying to say is, I don’t have anyone who really cares about me. It never mattered to me before I began studying here at the enclave. That’s just how life was. You can’t want something you don’t know exists.”
Aven stared at her in wonder. How could a world ever become as deformed as the one she described? He looked on Daeymara now with new eyes.
She turned her head from the fountain and tried to smile.
“Zoecara has been a friend,” said Daeymara. “And Hark and Rueik, even Arentiss, in her own way. But Hark and Rueik have someone else to care about. And with Zoecara, our friendship is ankle deep. Her heart’s for Rueik.”
Aven didn’t think Daeymara had it quite right. Just because someone was mated to someone, or because they had other friendships, it didn’t mean they couldn’t be invested in you. But he wasn’t going to voice this, because whether or not it was true, it was how Daeymara felt. Perhaps she just didn’t understand how friendships worked. The world she came from was bizarre. Even more bizarre than the worlds that wouldn’t let you put your feet in a fountain.
Aven scooted closer to her. He hoped the little gesture would reassure her without words that he was willing to be a friend.
Daeymara looked at him, her eyes moist with emotion. She reached down and drew a knife from her tunic and put it to the top of the little braid she’d made in her short black hair. The blade was exceedingly sharp, for she severed the braid with two quick strokes. Aven watched in silence as she put away the knife then drew out a white piece of threat and began to tie it around the top of the braid.
“On one of the worlds I studied, when an orphan or a widow who was without a home went to depart on a long journey, they would cut off a lock of their hair and give it to someone in their village. The braid served as a promise. The one it was given to must never forget them. And in turn, the widow or orphan would always know they were thought of, even when they were alone in the world. I know I’m no widow, but I’m rather like an orphan, and though you barely know who I am, if you would just take this braid of mine and put it someplace where it won’t be forgotten. Then I would know someone cares. It would be a comfort, while I’m on my mission.”
Daeymara held out her hand. In it lay the thin braid with the white string knotting the top. Aven reached out and took it, as if it were the most fragile thing his fingers had ever touched.
“I’m honored,” said Aven. His heart ached as he stared at the lock of hair. The significance of this gesture struck him powerfully. “I’m honored that you chose me for this gift. I promise, you won’t be forgotten.”
A mix of strong desires swept over him. To protect her. To show her some physical comfort. He steadied himself, and simply reached out and took her hands in his.
She smiled sadly.
“You’re thinking about your mission, aren’t you?” said Aven.
“Yes,” said Daeymara, “but not only that.” The sadness seemed to ease off her face. “I’m thinking about the strength I feel in your hands. And your new farm. I’m looking forward to going there tonight. I think, someday, I’d like to live in a place like that. A place I’d never leave.”
HEARTH
To Higelion, Magnus Empyrean,
I am requesting to be transferred from Hearth.
…I understand this world is in someway pivotal, but I am not being told why. Regardless, I did not graduate first in my class to eek out a career as a Cultivator in a place where the stench of sulfur grows stronger every year. The people here are completely devoted to their bizarre worship of fire and their cultic leader, the Divine King! How I loathe having to call him by his title.
My Divine King, will your vast mountain walls ever be tall enough, or do you intend them to reach the stars?
My Divine King, when will I be worthy enough to enter your temple?
I know the Guardians strive to preserve each world’s unique cultures, but perhaps we should consider some unworthy of this goal…Hearth would be at the top of my list.
I implore you, find a better psychological match for Hearth’s Cultivator. I cannot stand it here much longer.
Sincerely,
-Hezzat, Cultivator of Hearth (Transmission to Higelion, Magnus Empyrean of Sector 54)
CHAPTER 33
SAVARAH
Savarah lay embedded in darkness behind closed eyes, but she was conscious. The pain pulsing in her right breast was agonizing, for she realized by the cold stone pressing against her right arm, that she must have been dropped on the floor, and that the front of the arrow’s shaft was pressing with her own weight against the floor, the ragged wood prying excruciatingly against the raw, severed flesh inside her chest.
Harcor had known she was coming. But how?
And why hadn’t he killed her yet? She was certain of one thing. If she didn’t manage to escape, this would be the place where her vengeance ended.
Savarah took in her surroundings through her nose and ears. There was the crackling of fire and the scent of charcoal and burning wood. A monotonous scraping sounded not far from her head. It took only a moment to recognize she was inside the very room she had been spying into through the window. Harcor’s blind wife must be there, sharpening her knife.
With no other decipherable sounds, she slowly opened her eyes. If she had any chance of escape, it would be now, if Harcor was gone from the room. She doubted he was absent.
Below her the stone floor was covered in her blood. Too much blood. The sight of it made her suddenly dizzy. Her lungs wheezed, unable to draw in enough air to satisfy her need.
The scraping of the knife above her head stopped momentarily, then continued.
Desperate, Savarah placed her palms flat on the stone and pushed herself up. The pain was too great. She teetered upright for only a moment, legs spread out before her, then the room seemed to shift on her like a boat caught in a storm, and she fell down on her back, against the protruding arrow shaft. It twisted, then snapped under her weight, and she screamed from the pain that felt like teeth scraping on a thousand raw nerves.
She screamed again, and again, until the pain became almost bearable.
In that moment, when she’d briefly sat up, she’d seen Harcor watching her, seated beside his wife, lips curved downward at the ends, eyes hollow, as if he were looking at a spot of dog piss on the floor that needed cleaning.
She lay there, breathing shallowly. She’d lost too much blood.
“How did you know?” Savarah rasped, coughing. Blood pooled at the back of her throat.
“Osiiun sent a message when Aszelbor died,” said Harcor. “He simply told me to be wary. And that if you should show up before a second letter came from him, that I should kill you.” His eyes stared coldly at her. “My vigilance has proved worthwhile.”
Savarah closed her eyes. Damn Osiiun and his caginess. It had nearly gotten the best of her the first time, when she led him to the razor arm. He must have known as he died there on top of her what would happen when she tried to kill Harcor. He knew she would fail.
“I haven’t heard from Osiiun,” said Harcor. “Did you kill him?”
“Yes,” said Savarah, retaining a smug pride in her tone.
“Why?” asked Harcor.
Savarah stared up at the ceiling. “Because these people are better than us. Their ways are better than our master’s.”
“These people are like putty. Ruled by their emotions. Do you find weakness and frailty better than strength and power?”
“Yes. I have beheld their weakness. I have felt their compassion, if only in small moments. Nothing we have compares to it.”
“You drank of their weakness and have become a drunkard. Look what your compassion has gained you. Nothing but death. Because you have become weak. If I had the feelings of these people, I suppose I’d feel pity for you. But I feel nothing when I look at you. All I see is an ugly growth, like a wart on a
pure and beautiful face. Nothing that a knife stroke can’t remove.”
“The beauty is in the weakness, not the calculated perfection.”
“I disagree. And so does my wife, Semmie. She has learned the way of our master. Born blind, would you call her imperfection beautiful, too?”
“Let me kill her now,” said a woman’s voice. Semmie.
“Whenever you wish,” said Harcor. “My curiosity has been quenched.”
Savarah found her thoughts drifting from the room in her last moments. What was the purpose of it all? She had been willing to risk her life for the cause of her master, for his vision was wide and full of purpose. Why had she risked her life? For whom?
For the good of the weak people around her. Yes. That was why. But what was their end? Isolaug’s end had been grand, for he had set in her a vision for taking the entire galaxy, and beyond that, the seven galaxies that comprised the universe of the gods. But what was the hope that drove these people? Their love? Their sacred writings? Some vague promise from the Makers that she had not heard?
She hadn’t asked enough questions to know if there was more to it. She knew only that she’d been moved by something beautiful in their care for one another.
The cold hand of Harcor’s wife caressed her forehead, pressing it gently to the floor, exposing her neck.
Savarah drew in a thin breath she knew could be her last. She was going to die for that alluring beauty the Hold people called love. Whether she was a fool for doing so, she would never know.
Savarah opened her eyes to see Semmie raise the knife in her hand.
A crash sounded in the room. Semmie’s sightless eyes drifted up toward the noise, and, in that instant, an arrow tore through her eye socket, and her head jerked out of sight.
A bow string twanged near her, and the shriek of a dying man followed it. A discordant fury of arrows twanged from bows in response. Then the clanging of steel sounded. Swords clashed. A body fell across Savarah’s legs, but she didn’t have the strength to lift her head.
If this was a miraculous attempt to rescue her, it was too late.
She closed her eyes, as death began to beckon her to leave the waking world behind.
_____
MELUSCIA
Meluscia watched Wiluit and three other men battling a bald-headed man who moved like a tiger. All had swords in hand, having dropped their bows for a blade. The bald man had three arrows sagging from his arms, and one from the side of his chest, but he fought fiercer than any. Two armed men who’d come with them lay upon the ground, their blood flowing like a river toward the stone hearth.
Two more guards came in through the door. The bald man spun on one foot and grabbed a fiery log in his hand, glanced a sword blow with a slash of his own steel, and threw the flaming wood, striking a man in the face. Suddenly, he leapt at the man on his left, driving a fist into his jaw and springing off his chest toward a window pane. The glass exploded as the bald man leapt through. Wiluit and three men who remained on their feet, raced out the door in pursuit.
Meluscia turned and found her sister’s body on the floor. She rushed over and took her hand. She called Savarah’s name, but heard no response, then put her ear to Savarah’s lips. A fragile breath passed in and out. Meluscia looked at the blood covered floor. It was impossible to tell how much belonged to her sister, and what had come out of the old woman lying above her, or the two fallen men, one of which was draped across her legs.
She rubbed her sister’s face. It was pale, but there was no blood on it. Savarah looked different, lying there helpless, barely holding onto life. Like she’d been a young woman wearing a cruel and savage mask her entire life. Meluscia hardly recognized her. She was pretty, almost innocent looking. And where before she had the harsh look of a soldier, she now had a soft, effeminate aura about her features. Gone was her perpetual grimace and harsh, furrowed brows.
Meluscia embraced the tears that ran down her cheeks.
“Please, I want more time with her,” she whispered to the Makers. She’d barely begun to glimpse the strange new girl before her. What had caused the change? What would her future have been like?
A gentle hand touched Meluscia’s back. She looked up through stinging tears and found Wiluit kneeling beside her. Standing above him were the two old men, the young girl, and the boy.
“Jauphenna can help your sister,” said Wiluit. He pulled tenderly on Meluscia’s arm. She stood, trying to absorb his words, staring at his face and the confidence she found there. Meluscia had seen the wounded brought back from patrols with her father. She had visited the physicker’s chambers. Savarah was well past hope of return. She had twenty, maybe fifty feeble breaths left.
The young girl knelt down beside her sister and placed her hands on the bloodied cloak that covered Savarah’s chest. The arrow head stood erect, slick with blood and gore.
What did she think she was doing?
“We thought we were coming here with only words for your sister,” said Wiluit. “But we were mistaken. Both Jauphenna and the boy, who is called Shauwby, have words for you as well. The two speak very different messages, Shauwby’s tongue gives direction and encourages, Jauphenna’s tongue gives warning and breaks one’s bones. Shauwby sees only the present and future, but Jauphenna glimpses past and present.”
“What is she doing with my sister?”
“Healing her,” said Wiluit, his hand still on her arm. His touch was comforting amidst the chaos of his words. “It will take some time for her to finish. Healing is her other gift. She is the only one of her kind.”
A Healer? A wild hope came upon Meluscia, she looked down at the girl, then back at Wiluit. “What do you mean, only one of her kind?” she asked.
“No other diviner has been given two giftings. None that the histories reveal, at least.”
Meluscia recalled his words to be true. The diviners she’d read of had only one gift. Who was this man who knew the histories?
“You are like a dirty rag,” said a voice from below. It was the girl. Meluscia looked down at her, surprised. Jauphenna’s hands were pressed against Savarah’s chest, but her eyes glared up at Meluscia, full of poison. “Pretty on the outside, but underneath the skin you fester with rot. A secret transgression mars your heart. Your feet have taken you places you should never have gone, and yet…”
Jauphenna’s words trailed away, and the disgust filling her eyes seemed to lessen, if only slightly. “Yet the Makers see your heart has turned from murder. You’ve taken the first few steps back toward the pure love of the gods. You have a new friend, but you have not confessed to her. Too long have you grown accustomed to the darkness of life under the mountain. You’ve come to make peace with the King of the Verdlands, but I swear as the gods’ voice, unless you confess your wrongs to that woman, your words to the king will fall on deaf ears.” Jauphenna looked back down at Savarah. “That is all I have to say.”
Meluscia stared at the top of Jauphenna’s head. Shame coursed through her blood, along with fear. The gods had spoken to her through human lips, and had brought to light her secrets before men. She felt stripped naked. Humiliated.
And terrified.
Was that what the gods saw? Only the wrong in her? Was there nothing of worth or praise? She’d done wrong, but she had righted herself. Her whole life, she’d dedicated to the Makers, to the teachings of scripture, to pleasing them with the way she had prepared herself to rule the Hold and bring peace to her realm.
This response from the gods, it left her cold.
Further, they’d asked her to confess what she’d done. She couldn’t tell Praseme! It wasn’t necessary! It would only serve to hurt the woman. And to tell her such a horrible offense…how could she broach such a thing?
Then a child’s voice broke the silence. “I want to say something,” said the boy, Shauwby. “It is not very much. Just a little thing to say. Or, I think two things. One thing is, the Makers know you did bad things. They are sad, but they still smile. I m
ean, smile at you. They love you.”
Meluscia found the boy looking up at her, concerned. It was his look, even more than his words, that made her knees collapse under her own weight. Just as Jauphenna embodied the gods’ judgment, in Shauwby’s face she saw their mercy. If both Jauphenna and this boy’s words were from the same source, their messages couldn’t feel more different. She had felt the sting of abhorrence and the kindness of forgiveness, both from a Maker’s Tongue.
Wiluit held her up. She didn’t know what to say. The sense of hopelessness had fled at Shauwby’s words.
The gods did see her. They cared for her.
“One more thing,” said the boy. “It’s a nice thing. But, I think it’s a hard thing, too.”
Meluscia looked at his small round face. The boy’s lips broke into a smile. He reached out and touched his tiny hand to her stomach. “You’re going to have a little girl.”
LOAM
Truth can be the most excruciating pain of all. If we do not have it at the core of our knowledge, then it begins to eat at our false beliefs—even though we often cherish them. Our treasures. Those things that fill us with warmth and make us secure.