by Daniel Ford
Without a glance back, Allystaire headed through the timber palisade gate, a part of him hoping that one of the guards of Bend would bar his way. As he trotted past, his hand remained wrapped around the haft of his hammer, just beneath the head, preparing to lift it free. Neither guard, in mismatched armor and carrying spears, stepped away from his post. He put the distance of a long bowshot between himself and the walls before he tugged the reins and drew Ardent to a slow walk.
He slipped easily from the saddle and removed his gauntlets, his hands clammy with sweat from the heat of the day. He ran a bare hand along the horse’s equally wet neck. “Should have thought more on fodder and water for you, old friend,” he murmured, as he felt the ripple of muscle as the horse walked. “Ardent,” he said, trying the word out carefully. The horse whickered softly.
“Amazing how quickly that name is working,” he snorted. The snort turned into laughter—a long, rolling, almost manic sound that crashed back at him from rows of sun-baked trees lining the road. When his laughter subsided and the last echoes reached his ears, he walked on for several moments in silence.
“I expect Idgen Marte might do what she can to keep the passage of the wagons hidden. May not be much. In the end even I ought to be able to track them, I think.”
He got no answer from Ardent or the trees, so he walked on in relative silence for a long while, sorting through his thoughts. In time he began to chide himself. You’ve made your whereabouts known to Baron Oyrwyn, emptied your purse, and made an enemy of a choiron of the Sea Dragon who actually seems to command real powers. Anything else?
Allystaire walked and thought a moment before answering aloud. “I killed some reavers. World is always better with fewer of them. Saved a village worth of folk.”
His mind didn’t miss a beat. And what’ll they do the next time reavers come along? Needn’t even be reavers if Delondeur ever decides to shut Bend down; you said it yourself. Are you going to stay and protect them? Be lord of some fishermen and pig farmers and corn millers?
“No different than being lord of peat diggers,” Allystaire responded, but the words came out hollow and flat. This back-and-forth with himself went on for turns of walking, punctuated with regular stops to allow Ardent to graze and Allystaire to fill water skins and change out of his armor. It was later in the day, but the sun still filled the surrounding forest with soft golden light that went unnoticed as he argued and remonstrated with himself.
“Poor girl. Mind is addled now. What was I thinking chasing Leah off? Idgen Marte was right. I did face ten men, by myself, and lived…” He stopped and shook his head. “Allystaire, you old fool. You are going as crazy as Garth always said you were.”
He walked but a dozen paces more, looking to a clearing at his left, when a voice, a voice he knew and yet did not, said his name. “Allystaire.” It was a woman’s voice, but it carried a note of command in it. He turned, stepped around the front of Ardent, gaping at what he saw.
Underneath a large oak stood a woman, glowing like a soft clean lantern, like a window catching the noonday sun on a cloudless day.
“Allystaire,” she said again, and his boots crunched on the stones as he drew, as he was drawn, closer. She was nude, he saw, but something about her nakedness gave her power. He looked only at her face for as long as he could stand, but eventually his eyes were drawn to the rest of her. Long, thick blond hair fell down her back. At least he assumed it was blond, for the glow that emanated from her made it hard to judge. Her body was the epitome of womanly beauty and perfection in symmetry and proportion. Finally, he drew his eyes back to her face.
It was Mol’s face. And Leah’s. And the fishwife’s. And countless others. Audreyn’s, his mother’s, Dorinne’s. Perhaps every woman he had ever known, all in one both old and young, beautiful, powerful, somehow terrible. She did not shift or change; there was something timeless, utterly unchanging about her and yet, she was all of the women he had known, and many more besides.
He could not hold his gaze upon her for long. He barely met her eyes, had an impression of them being golden orbs without pupil or iris. Before he knew it he was dropping hard to his knees a few yards away, and he did not know why.
“Allystaire; do you know who I am?” Her mouth did not appear to move, but the words sounded in his ears all the same.
“No,” he said, quietly. He lifted his face back to her, and for the first time in days he felt more fear than anger as he tried to look directly at her.
“I am someone this world had forgotten, or who had forgotten this world. It is difficult to say which.”
She was suddenly standing directly in front of him. He hadn’t seen her move.
“I remember now. The world must remember, and you will be the instrument that makes it, my Allystaire. My servant and prophet, revelator and paladin.” Her hands settled onto his shoulders; through the heavy riding leathers they felt like a fire that burned without pain; it thrilled through his arms, to his core, and down his spine. He drew a breath that caught and burned his lungs. He could not have spoken to protest if he had wanted to. There was no acceptance or denial on his part. There was Power, in front of him, touching him, and making of him what it would.
“Stand, Paladin.” He stood, quickly, no pain in his knees or back slowing him. “Give me your left hand.” With stunned slowness he lifted it, and she took it in her hands.
Direct contact between her flesh, if flesh it was, and his, almost sent him back to his knees in shock, but her hands held him in place.
“These days I have tested you, Allystaire, and each challenge I placed before you, each foe I sent you to vanquish, you overcame.” The Goddess, for Allystaire now knew that was what She was, without thinking it and without saying it, was speaking now with Her lips instead of Her mind. That comforted him somehow, but did not soften the power of Her voice.
“The first time, you saw the work of evil men and you rode toward it when most would ride away. The cries of the child that woke me were carried to your ear by My will.” She smiled; the sight of it was like a lover’s hand caressing his entire body all at once. “And when you heard them you ran to her. You brought aid and comfort to a girl who had no means to repay you. Most knights of this world would have left her, but you did not. You brought succor and hope to her, and of her hope you made a truth; you found her kin, you kept an oath, and you freed her people.”
She raised the palm of his hand to her mouth and pressed her lips to it; he let out a strangled gasp.
“With this hand, you will bring Hope back to this world. With this hand, you will mend flesh, heal the sick, refresh the weary and comfort the dying. You cannot—you will not attempt—to reach into Death’s demesne, and not every affliction will fall to this Gift, but with it you will do the work I have too long neglected.”
His left hand fell back to his side, his body taut like a drawn bowstring. Her voice rang like a harp in the hall of some wise king out of story.
“Give me your right hand.”
Allystaire did as he was bid, lifting his right hand to Hers. Nothing in him could possibly have resisted.
“When you found the evil men, the rabid dogs of men, who had burned and killed, raped and enslaved, you fought them and you killed them. You did so with no thought of plunder or glory, no hope of reward, and no trace of cowardice. You raised your hand for the weak and not for yourself. The weak are my people, and now, they are yours as well.”
Once again She raised his hand to Her mouth, and once again She kissed him, but instead of kissing the palm, Her lips brushed the flesh of his wrist, and Her teeth followed. A cry died against his teeth. She lifted her mouth free, and he looked to his wrist. No blood flowed from it. Instead it felt as though something invisible, but bright and powerful, flowed into it. He felt it join with his blood and flow through him, imagined he could feel it sinking into his bones and his muscles, settling, waiting to be called
forth.
“With this hand, you will bring Justice back to this world. Raise it in a righteous cause, and your wrath will be terrible to behold. In the defense of the innocent, the weak, the helpless, your strength will be a thing out of legend. Raise your hand with thoughts of winning glory and riches, and battle will turn against you.” For a blazing instant, the pain in his arm sang like the clearest trumpet call ever sounded—then was gone.
She released his hand and raised hers to his cheeks. Before he could gather wits enough to understand, she was kissing him, full on the lips, and the kiss was not chaste. It filled his bones for a moment with a flash of fire. When the kiss ended, he would have fallen, but she held him up as easily as he might have an infant.
“You spoke the truth when most men would have lied, and you saw the course it took you to the end. With clear sight and mind, you faced the consequences of your actions. When none were imposed upon you, you took it upon yourself to set right the life of a lone widow.”
Her hands stroked his throat, fingertips moving as if drawing runes across it; he felt something settle into his skin, through it, to the workings of his throat. He wanted to cry out, to sing, to scream, and he could not. “From this day no lie may pass your lips, but no man or woman may, by sorcery or trickery, speak falsely to you if you Compel them. That is my final Gift to you today, and the one you may rue the most in the end.” She stepped away, and he faltered, his mind overwhelmed.
“Sleep, my Paladin. Nothing will disturb your rest this night; it may be the last easy rest you ever have. We will speak again.” Then she was gone.
For Allystaire, it was as if brightest noontide had suddenly turned to moonless, starless night, and he fell forward and knew no more.
* * *
He was pulling himself from the grass into a nearly panicked fighting stance, hands groping for a weapon, before he even realized he had woken. He shook his head and cleared his eyes to find himself in a clean and ordered campsite. A fire was laid in a circle of stones, Ardent picketed to a nearby oak, and his saddle and tack were neatly piled beside him along with his armor and arms. He wore only his riding breeches.
Slowly, certain things dawned on him. “My back does not hurt,” he murmured. “Nor does my knee.” He reached back with a hand to massage the small of his back, his fingers finding and tracing the scar of an arrow that took him halfway between spine and kidney more than half a score of years before. “It always hurts when I sleep on the ground.”
“What happened? Have I been dreaming?” He bent and rooted among his saddlebags, his hands pushing clothes aside till he pulled out three leather purses. One was limp as a sock; the other two had but small bulges along their bottoms.
“No. No I have not,” he said, dropping them to the grass with a touch of disgust. “I did not,” he repeated, gaining strength from the words. He looked up, lifting his eyes above the treetops to the clouds that shrouded the morning sun. He had slept unusually late. A gleam of sunlight found his eye, causing him to turn away quickly from the sting. “Point taken.” He stood up straight, rolled his neck around his shoulders with a deep breath. “What do I call you then,” he spoke aloud, raising his voice to the trees, the sky, the sun beyond. “Goddess? Mother? Have you a name?”
He received no answer, but he nodded anyway and began to pack his camp. On a clean, flat rock by the fire he found a loaf of bread, a slab of cheese, and a steaming mug of tea. He nodded again, saying, “Mother it is, I suppose.”
Allystaire knelt down and tore off a hunk of bread. Probably ensorcelled. Or you’re still dreaming. He eyed the brown loaf in his hands and said aloud, “This bread is no dream. Neither was She.” His words rang with certainty; he breathed in the warm morning air like a condemned man set free and tore into the bread. It tasted good, was still faintly warm, and took some chewing. The cheese was cold and firm enough for his teeth to leave marks in.
The tea was so strong he nearly gagged and spat. Instead he set his jaw and cheeks and slurped it down in two great scorching gulps. He ate at a deliberate pace though, neither slowly nor quickly, but methodically, till the food was gone.
His meal finished, he rose, dressed, doused the fire, packed his arms and bags, saddled the horse, and rode off into a mid-morning silence broken only by Ardent’s hooves and the occasional bird, not even by his own voice, aloud or in his mind.
CHAPTER 15
The First Miracle
“They have made more progress than I had hoped,” Allystaire said aloud to Ardent, as he led the horse down the beaten track of fresh wheel ruts. “Rain must not have fallen as heavily here.” It was dusk, and on a slight rise above a turn in the road he saw the two wagons in an L-shape, smoke of a fire rising behind them.
Slowly, he led the horse up the rise, expecting a sentry, particularly Idgen Marte or Renard, to spot his approach and greet him. None did so. He paused, but only to free his hammer and let go Ardent’s reins, wrapping both hands around the iron-banded wood. The destrier followed him easily up the rise, and the two of them made enough noise to rouse the camp. A greasy weight settled on the bottom of his stomach as he cleared the wagons and found the several dozen folk of Thornhurst gathered around, Idgen Marte standing in their middle and speaking, Renard standing at her side, holding his spear uncertainly. Allystaire stopped beyond the circle to listen.
“I know how to bind wounds,” she was saying, “and to sew them. Not how to mend bones.” Her voice was even and her posture steady, balanced, graceful. “I can do naught for your lad but ease his way,” she added clearly, but carefully, choosing her words slowly.
A murmur ran through the crowd; Allystaire heard sobs, unease, grumbling. He shook his head and stepped forward, sliding his hammer back onto its iron loop with a distinctive thunk. The slick weight in his stomach dissolved and flowed lightly up and into him; he felt it gathering like a storm in his breast. “Where is the lad?” His voice cut through the chatter like a horn cutting the stillness before battle to signal the advance. “Take me to him.”
All of them turned slowly to stare at him; only Idgen Marte and Renard actually moved. The crowd didn’t part until Allystaire growled, “Now! Take me to the boy!”
That got them moving, scrambling out of his way to clear a path, while Idgen Marte pointed with her chin to the back of one of the wagons. Allystaire quickly hauled himself inside and knelt down; before him on the bed of the wagon lay a small form covered in a rough blanket. The wool stuck wetly to his misshapen legs.
“He was capering around in front of the wagons, tripped and fell right under the wheel,” Idgen Marte told Allystaire as she strolled up to the wagon behind him. “Rolled right over his legs before we could stop the horses.” She leaned against the back of the wagon, looking haggard. “Have we anything to worry about behind us?”
Allystaire shook his head faintly, replying, “Not soon, I think,” in a faraway tone. In his mind he thought on the Goddess’s words of the night before, as he flexed his left hand.
With this hand, you will mend flesh, heal the sick, refresh the weary, and comfort the dying, She had told him, and the memory of Her lips upon his palm burned as he felt something gathering in his hand. He held it like a fist, as if trapping something, and lowered his hand to touch the child’s sweaty brow. The boy whimpered and thrashed. Likely, he’d been given as much wine as he could hold to keep him asleep.
Allystaire spread his hand till it half-covered the boy’s head and face and pushed his senses through his skin. “Heal the sick, mend flesh,” he murmured. “This boy is not dying,” he added through gritted teeth. He felt something moving, some wave of intense feeling move from his chest and through his arm, down into his fingers.
“Why are you…what in the Cold are you doing?” Idgen Marte faltered in confusion and shock. Allystaire threw aside the blanket with his right hand and stuck his hand on the boy’s broken, misshapen knees. Something moved in him; something m
oved through him—an intense love, a boundless well of compassion, and a sorrow that called tears to his eyes.
Beneath his firm grip, the boy writhed and screamed. And then his bones began to meld as the healing flowed. The lad’s scream became a strangled gasp, and Allystaire clutched at the side of the wagon to keep himself upright as the torrent poured through him, as the child’s legs mended and straightened and finally snapped into place. His cries died as his flesh knit itself like a curtain suddenly closed. His eyes opened and he scrambled up out of his makeshift bed. Allystaire slumped to the floor of the wagon, supporting himself on knees and fists, streaming sweat. Idgen Marte, eyes wide in her dark face, backed half a step from the wagon’s edge, staring at him.
“What did you do? What have you become?”
Allystaire lifted his eyes from the wooden planks and turned his sweat-streaked face toward her. “She called me…paladin.” The last word somehow lifted him, in triumph, and he heaved one last great breath as he sat on his haunches, nodding in slow certainty. “A paladin.”
Idgen Marte’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, and her head shook slowly. Finally, she whispered, “I knew there was…so you’re a…a paladin…” She finally laughed, nervously, “So you’ve come to believe you’re a story too, eh? You’ve cracked?”
Allystaire said nothing, his lips bent in a faint, crooked smile. He stepped down from the wagon, suddenly clutching the tailgate as his head spun for a moment. Then he reached up, gesturing with his hand for the lad to come to him. The child stood nervously, so Allystaire lifted him clear of the wagon, setting him down lightly upon his feet. The torn, bloodstained tatters of his trousers fluttered around the boy’s whole, healed legs. He looked up at Allystaire with calm but worshipful eyes.