I got an edge in as the dau knight stepped a little too far forward. I brought my shotel up with a sharp flick, catching the inside of his knee with the bare tip of my blade. He recoiled suddenly, hissing with pain. We disengaged to catch our breath.
He tried to remain upright, tried to stay on his feet; but his knee was weak. He limped backward. Blood darkened his shin as it ran down into his boot.
He rolled back his shoulders and shook his head. He smiled as if to dismiss the injury, but his face could not conceal the pain, the worry.
Something prevented me from pressing the advantage – it would have been the smart thing to do. But I beheld something on his face and a strange feeling surged up from somewhere deep down. It wasn’t pity; and it wasn’t quite mercy. It wasn’t just guilt, and neither was it shame. It was like looking at a flower that I had just crushed, one that I had only just noticed.
I stuttered in place; I hesitated.
“Well,” said the dau knight, thrusting his chin into the air defiantly. “Come on now. Shall we continue?”
He raised his blade and this time, he engaged first.
It was a noble but ineffective attempt. He limped forward with a half-lunge. I knocked his sabre aside with ease and backed away.
“Haha! Right on. Didn’t you want to fight?” he said, wagging his sword in the air. “Come on!”
He raised his sword for a downward cut. It would have been easy to cut him then; but once more, I just couldn’t bring myself to it.
What had gotten into me?
I moved aside. His blade bit nothing but air.
“Give up and I will spare you,” I said, raising my blade to neck height.
He ducked backward with surprising agility – but still his knee gave out. Blood was now running down his boot, onto his heel, into the mud.
He slashed at me again. This time I parried with my shotel and brought my buckler hard against his forearm in an upward swing.
The dau knight cried out in sudden agony and lost his grip on his sabre. It clattered to the earth. He stooped to pick it back up but I kicked him hard in the shoulder, knocking him to the ground.
He cradled his arm to his chest and groped for his sword with his offhand. He tried to keep smiling but his face was spasming in pain.
“I’ve got you now,” he said weakly, reaching out for the sword. I kicked it away.
I stood over him and held my shotel to his neck. He stopped groping for the sword and slowly looked up.
We stared at one another for a long time. I wasn’t quite sure what to say; I was having a hard time finding my voice, a harder time still thinking in Urvish. Who was this being before me? I knew his name – he had been sure to tell me. But who was he to me?
“So,” he panted, holding his shattered arm against his chest, grimacing against the pain, “are you ready to give up?”
I didn’t know what to say.
It was a courageous gesture – but only a gesture. Nothing more. He was the one with the broken arm – the one bleeding on the ground.
“Tell me where the princess is,” I said firmly.
He looked me dead in the eye. A shiver ran through me and I had to bite my tongue to stop it.
“I would rather die,” he whispered back with that same little smile.
I breathed out. I did not want to do this – I did not know if I had the willpower to do what needed to be done. I rested the flat of my shotel upon his shoulder, placing the inward curve against his neck, and had to fight to keep myself from visibly shaking.
…your journey to a happy place of two growing trees…
I cursed inwardly and tensed my jaw. Damn you, fortune-teller! Get out of my head!
Then came an unusual creaking sound from behind me – from the bowels of the sickly oak.
“Hey!” cried a feminine voice.
I turned to look – and a blinding flash erupted with a resounding crack.
Everything went white; there was a high-pitched ringing in my ears. I was thrown back by some concussive force that exploded in the centre of my chest, my body tossed raggedly to the ground.
The world spun all around me. Everything was blurred. Suddenly I was on my back; I struggled to get up. But I was too dizzy, too confused; the ground tilted beneath me. I fell back down into the mud.
I don’t know how long I lay there – it could have been seconds, it could have been hours. I lapsed in and out of consciousness. It felt like I was struggling through a lake of tar, desperately trying to make it to shore.
A boot tapped me on the shoulder. I finally reopened my eyes and the world had stopped moving. The whine in my ears was gone.
And above me, blocking out what little light reached this dismal place, stood the dau knight.
“Are you ready to give up?” he asked smugly.
He had his saber unsheathed in his offhand, but not pointed at me. I scrambled for my shotel but it was gone. So was my buckler. I was covered in mud and shivering. My whole body ached.
“You’re lucky you’re alive. I don’t know how, but you survived a lightning bolt from the princess,” Herace the Redeemed said with a grin.
I noticed his broken sword arm was bundled up in his cloak. A knot of bloodied cloth was wrapped around his wounded leg, staunching the flow.
“Where… where is she…?” I croaked, looking around for any signs of the mark.
The dau knight laughed.
“Wouldn’t you like to know! Don’t worry, she’s safe. In fact, so is your enormous friend. Sound asleep, mind you; might want to check on him.”
Then he sheathed his blade. He looked down on me one last time and nodded.
“Until next time,” he said, then started to limp away.
My head was still spinning.
“Wait,” I said.
He stopped.
“Why did you stay?”
He glanced back at me and gave a half-smile.
“Just to make sure…” he said quietly.
And then he limped off.
* * *
I didn’t have the energy to pursue them.
I felt so defeated. I wanted to cry, I wanted to scream. I had been so close to capturing the mark, to capturing the princess. But I failed.
The Slave staggered from the forest of stone pillars looking haggard. He wouldn’t talk about what happened. Neither would I.
We left that accursed place behind; it was slow, painful going as we trudged up the ravines, wending our way through the tangled briars. When we finally emerged from the hills it was dark. We camped not far away.
I was so tired yet I couldn’t sleep. I had almost died – I certainly would have if my Void Stone hadn’t absorbed the princess’ magick. Now the polished surface was visibly splintered. I trembled to think how much magick it must have taken to throw me back in such a way, to damage this precious artifact.
And then there was Herce the Redeemed, the dau knight… why hadn’t he taken his chance? And why did he wait for me to wake up? Was he seeing if I was alright? Didn’t he know I was willing to kill him? Or did he actually know that I couldn’t do it, that I just couldn’t bring myself to do it?
And of course, there was the dream… the two antlers. His antlers were the exact same as the ones in that vivid dream. They grew from saplings into simple tines into great antlers… but what did it mean?
All these maddening questions swirled around in my head as I lay upon the hard ground in the dead of night. It was all so much, too much. Failure, confusion, even loneliness weighed so heavily upon me.
Bitter tears sprung to my eyes. Despite myself I began to weep, all but alone beneath the stars. For the first time in a long time I cried myself to sleep.
48
Bram Tan Heth
In the end – in the end, I did not do as I had promised.
It was not intentional – not to my immediate mind, my waking brain, the part of my head – like all our heads –
that thinks it does the thinking. It might do some of the thinking; it thinks the thoughts that we think we think. But those aren’t really the real thoughts. No, not even close. Is the surface of the sea the whole ocean? Are the undulations of the waves all there is to know?
Of course not.
I had every intention to fulfill my promise; every intention to transport myself through the unformed aether of creation to find this Princess Dawn. To teach her, just as I told Majira that I would.
But I did not fulfill that promise. I couldn’t; or at least, I didn’t. I still would – absolutely I would. I had every intention. But transporting myself was still a new spell – if it even was a spell. I wasn’t quite sure if it was. It was magick, absolutely; it required immense energy. All my energy. It required a durable, expansive soul to survive it… not sure if I could say I still had one of those, though…
Regardless.
It was a new form of magick, one not yet understood. Not even I understood it, and I was, at least to my knowledge, the only being to have ever tried in earnest, let alone succeed. It was only the fourth time.
I think – perhaps, though it might be untrue – that the thoughts one has are meaningless. The front-head thoughts. The kind one can conjure at will, fleeting and easily manipulated, so mutable and prone to sudden change. Those thoughts won’t bring you anywhere at all. Those thoughts are too insubstantial – too mercurial. Like smoke kinking up from incense, they take shape, then dissipate. There’s nothing there. No direction. No way to hold it in your hand, make any sense of it.
No, the kind of thoughts that will lead one on through the aether of creation are deeper than that. Far further down from those front-head thoughts; solid and firm and dimly-lit. They are the crucible into which one must reach for truth; they are the true substance of the mortal mind. Though, of course, they are not quite solid either; they are like a molten metal, shifting and hardening and cooling in some places while liquid and oozing in others. They are in flux, but much slower flux – much more substantial flux.
Like a weight these thoughts, these intentions, deep and heavy, pull one forward – downward? Toward wherever one wants to go while floating in the aether.
Wherever one truly wants to go.
Why I ever ended up in that desert place I do not know; it was a magickally disruptive area, yes. But where was I headed? I will never know.
And now – now my heavy thoughts, the true direction of my soul, had pulled me southward. Pulled my essence to a new destination, one that my front-thoughts had not intended.
Yet it gave me hope; it was a reassurance that my deep mind had not yet been tainted by the Black Laughter, by madness. Beneath the rotting, black matter around my brain lay sanity. The worms had not yet burrowed that deep. And my soul, though damaged, was still intact.
There was hope.
Bram Tan Heth the Mostly Mad.
Summer sunlight filtered through the trees when I awoke. Despite the aeons of incorporeal travel through an endless gulf of unformed creation, when I opened my eyes, that moment was all that mattered. I lay in thick grass beneath the lustrous canopy of a soaring maple.
I sat up. I cleared my throat; there was no laughter.
I leaned against the trunk of the maple tree and surveyed my surroundings. I was on the edge of a forest, filled with riotous greenery. Summer was in full bloom; even the smell was lush, verdant. A perfumed breeze reached me; flowering plants and growing grass.
I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply.
This was a far more agreeable place than the sun-scoured wasteland I left behind.
After a moment of repose I got up. I wasn’t sure where I was, but I had my suspicions.
I wandered through the trees only a short ways when I came upon a road – a wide road, well-dug. No sooner had I reached the road than a procession of bronze-clad centaurs came into view. Between them was a small horse-drawn cart of fine manufacture.
I knew exactly where I was. I recognized those troops…
I was in Céin Urthia.
I slapped my forehead. I had made a mistake.
The intentions of my soul hadn’t actually been to teach the princess. It was to please Majira by teaching the princess.
I waited by the road as the centaurs neared. They gave me only a sideways glance, likely thinking I was naught but a beggar. Given my state, I certainly seemed a beggar. Starved, filthy, ragged and wild.
I raised a hand in greeting and stumbled onto the road.
“Hail! Hail Princess Dawn!” I cried aloud, saying the first logical thing that came to mind.
One of the centaurs broke away from the formation and lowered his lance. He levelled it at my chest as he stood before me.
“Stay back! By order of the Royal Guard!” he growled, voice resonating beneath his bronze barbute.
I glanced over to the oncoming procession. I had a feeling about the traveller in the horse cart. It was covered in a cloth awning, shrouded from view, but I had my suspicions…
“Please, hear me! I’ve travelled from afar, the royal household is expecting me,” I said, raising my hands in deference.
“Keep back, beggar. No charity here,” he warned, menacing me with his lance.
The procession was passing by; I had to see.
“My name is Bram Tan Heth. I’m a Magus. I was sent for by Princess Dawn,” I urged.
But he was not convinced. He stood statuesque, unyielding. His lance didn’t even waver as it was aimed at my chest.
I had no choice; I would have to risk an assumption to sway this stubborn being.
“Go ask the sorceress you escort,” I said boldly, gesturing to the horse-drawn cart. “Majira will vouch for me.”
The centaur frowned. He looked back to the procession; it was already passing us by.
He trotted off to catch up with the cart. I walked behind, eager to not let the procession too far out of sight.
The whole cavalcade came to a halt. Another centaur broke away and approached me then. He removed his barbute as he greeted me; he bore no lance.
“Perethon, Captain of the Royal Guard,” he said in introduction.
“Magus Bram Tan Heth,” I replied. “You’re escorting Majira. I need to speak with her.”
“Of course,” he said, turning back to the procession and gesturing I follow. “But I was under the impression you were to meet the princess…?”
“I was. I will,” I said. “In due time. For some reason, I ended up here… there’s always a reason.”
We walked to the horse-drawn cart. A pale hand reached out from inside and drew back the cloth awning; I looked in.
Majira lay upon a mattress. Her head was propped up against a cushion; her red, kinky hair framed her pallid face. Dark bags were under her heavily-lidded eyes. Her lips were pale. She looked sickly, unwell. My heart sank.
“Majira… how… what’s wrong?” I whispered, leaning in.
She smiled weakly, turning her head to face me.
“A Witch. In the dreamscape… but it doesn’t matter… you’re here,” she said in a thin voice. “Why are you here? Where’s the princess?”
“Well, to be quite honest, I… I don’t know,” I said. “I transported myself with every intention of going to her, but… clearly not every intention was enough.”
“So it works? After all these years…” she mused.
“It mostly works. Like I said, I tried to go to the princess, but I ended up here. I ended up going to you instead.”
Majira relaxed into her mattress and closed her eyes. She sighed.
“I suppose you’ll just have to come with us to Naraya… we’re almost there. Perethon says we’re only a few hour’s journey now…”
I looked her up and down. She was so ill. When last I saw her, in the dreamscape, she had been fine, healthy. And now… now she was pale as a morning fog. Wasting away…
“Alright. I need time to recharge my reservoir be
fore attempting to transport myself again anyway. It might take a few days, given my current state,” I said. “And say, you wouldn’t happen to have some water by chance…?”
She rummaged for a waterskin and handed it to me. I unwound the spout and drank deeply.
Finally, some good cool water. If I ever saw sand again, it would be too soon.
“Bram…” Majira whispered as I handed her back the waterskin. “I need you to find the princess. Dream delve to her as soon as you can…”
Despite the weakness of her voice, her words were desperate. I could see the urgency in her eyes – she was deeply distraught.
“Of course. I’ll do whatever you need me to do,” I said. “As soon as I’ve mustered enough energy I’ll dream delve to her.”
Majira reached out with a hand and touched mine as it gripped the edge of the cart.
“Thank you…” she whispered and closed her eyes again.
I lingered there for a moment. Worry gnawed my breast. I did not like seeing Majira in such a state of suffering. What could the Witch possibly have done to her, to render her like this?
I closed the cloth awning.
Whatever it had done, I would get revenge. I would get revenge on the whole Witchlands; I would see to it that every cursed Witch would wither and die. Witnessing Majira brought so low only hardened my resolve, reinvigorated my spite.
Long had I watched the Witches toil in their grotesque fiefdoms – long enough that my own mind now betrayed me, my soul was decaying. Long had Avaxenon cried out against their growing threat – long enough that he was assassinated for his warnings.
And now Majira was hurt, so very hurt.
Had I ever imagined so bleak a future for us three? Could I have ever thought, back in the summery days of Valethucia as we studied together, that events would ever transpire to leave one dead, one broken, and one slipping into madness?
I felt a giggle worming its way into my throat. I dipped a finger into my Kov leaf pouch and chewed a shred.
There must be a way to reverse our fortunes. If there wasn’t, then surely the end was nigh. Not just for us three, but for all; one of the Twin Pillars of Woe would rise triumphant. The Disciples or the Witches.
Day of the Hunt (The Faun Quartet Book 2) Page 40