“This is true,” Ifferon said, nodding. “I have studied herbs in the Order of Olagh in some detail, and the Garigút taught me much in the knowledge I was lacking. Yet none of this compares to those who truly know the flora as a friend.”
Rúathar’s eyes seemed to brighten in much the same way Ifferon remembered Elithéa first reacting to his appreciation of the natural world. He shivered, for he felt the stern gaze of the Ferian woman from her bonds in the corner. The eyes of accusation, the look of one betrayed.
Thalla did not seem as impressed as Rúathar, however, for she still resisted their attempts to help. She recoiled from them, as if they were the flames that seized her.
Délin shook his head, as much to deny his own guilt than to disapprove of her recoil, but Rúathar simply smiled. “There are many young among this world, but sometimes those who claim to be the most advanced are the most young in wisdom. You are a twig in a forest, Thalla, and you might snap off in a breeze, or you might cleave to the branch that you come from, and so grow strong because of it. Yet I am not unschooled in working with twigs like you, for the Al-Ferian suffer the fate of all races, and I would be lying if I said I was not also stubborn. Take this,” he said, producing a small salve in a pouch made of leaves. “We do not need to force it upon you, but it has many healing properties for the skin. Use it early, for it works best then. Unfortunately, its powers do not work within.”
Thalla accepted the salve from Rúathar, like a lamb cautiously stepping forward to taste the leaf of a brightly-coloured flower, but she scampered back to her furs, like the bosom of a mother. Ifferon wondered if her scars would make her retreat further inside her mind, where the fire lurked, or if perhaps she might one day blossom like a beautiful flower of her own.
Rúathar then turned to Ifferon and Délin. “We have a lot to do,” he said, and he seemed almost tired already from the thought of it. “The road ahead will not be easy. In fact, there is no road at all, but rather some subtle hints that some might have one day passed this way, but are now long forgotten. The Ardúnari may have discovered the Elixir of Life, but an endless life is still not a resurrection, for death is the necessary precursor of the latter, while it is but the curse of the former. The second life of an Al-Ferian is a difficult endeavour, but I do not know what difficulties might beseech those that seek the second life of a god. Yet, as one of the Ardúnari, I have some foresight that shows me there are many rocks and brambles in our way.”
“Then we will remove those rocks and bury the brambles,” Délin said, “for we must. Too much depends on it.”
“Yes,” Rúathar said. “We must try, no matter the cost or end. But herein is a dilemma, and I think this is a test for you, Trueblade, more than it is for us. For my knowledge tells me that two cannot safely be housed in a single body, and so was Corrias restricted in his powers when in this form. Théos was supposed to be a host, an empty vessel, but it seems he has a soul of his own, and Corrias did not have the will to douse that flame, that his own might burn more brightly. So you see that Corrias sacrificed his own potential, that he even risked his own demise here on Iraldas, for there are none who can commune with the soul of another and not truly realise our ultimate union.”
“I trust your account, for it rings true in the halls of my heart,” Délin said. He opened his mouth to begin a new sentence, but the words would not come, as if there were some comfort in not speaking what his heart longed to speak.
Ifferon could see in Rúathar’s eyes that he knew that Délin understood the dilemma, just as Ifferon did. Yet it needed to be spoken, to see if it could be solved.
“We will do all we can to bring Corrias back,” Rúathar said. “But I do not know if it is also possible to do this for Théos’ soul. I am not sure the acorns are enough to reel in two fishes when the pond they swim in is infinite.”
The dilemma was an internal one, for Ifferon saw clearly that all must choose to save Corrias, that Corrias might in turn save them. Yet what seemed on the surface like a simple choice was clearly more complex deep beneath, where even the fishes did not dare to swim.
Délin looked up to the sky, as if for answers—but who was there to answer him? His two patron gods were locked on Iraldas, while Agon threatened to escape his chains. Issarí’s life dwindled like the hope of Arlin, while Corrias did not even have a life to dwindle—just the promise of a second life, a promise like those made by parents to their children, just to save them from the pain, despite knowing that it might not truly happen, that the good they want for the innocent might never come to pass.
When Délin pulled his gaze away from the heavens, his eyes were filled with little fish-ponds of their own. “Did I try to protect Théos because part of me knew he was Corrias, or did I just do it because he is an innocent child who should never have had to lose his life like this, who should never have had to hand over his body like a puppet so that the gods might play their game of ilokadi on the board of Iraldas? This a question I do not know the answer to. Perhaps the answer is not yes or no, but yes and no to both, for if two are muddled in the body of one, then perhaps the answer is muddled also.”
“This is why it is a dilemma,” Rúathar said. “I cannot tell you much, but I can tell you this: Corrias chose you as his protector, but not because you are a Man of Corrias. What god would not want for his protector a knight who stands before the innocent to stop them seeing the darkness, or stop the darkness seeing them?”
“I am wondering,” Ifferon said, “if the ritual is successful, and a second life is granted, is it guaranteed that Corrias will receive this lease of life and not Théos? Could it not go either way?”
“Without direction, yes,” Rúathar said. “But we cannot leave that to chance. There are ways to make the acorns favour one or the other. The question is which one? The answer seems obvious to me, as it does to Ifferon, I garner, but I think you will need to know it too, Trueblade.”
“These questions are like wounds, and I beg a real battle to save me from them,” Délin said. “Is my god more deserving of life than an innocent child? Who gets to decide these things, and why? Is there really a greater good if we sacrifice the little goods of the world for it, for have we not then just created a greater evil?”
“Unfortunately we must take the burden of this decision,” Rúathar said. “And I think even a council of Céalari would not envy us this responsibility. Yet Iraldas is our world, not that of the gods, and so its fate is ultimately always in our hands.
“I will not force you to solve this dilemma now, but you must understand our position: there is a monumental threat to the world, and there are few weapons or shields left that can aid us. Even if we united all the races of Iraldas and marched to Agon in open battle, it would do little but feed his fury, giving him the fuel he needs to burn this world to ashes. The Céalari rose to power because they were powerful, and so we need those powers in the world or we cannot win. Then Théos, as a boy in a first or second life, as a young sapling, or as a spirit in the Halls of Halés, would be no more, and his saving will have been in vain.”
“It is an evil choice, even if I must choose between two forms of good,” Délin said. “Too few nights have passed to nurse my sorrow, and the day is greedy with its light, for it does not illuminate my heart. I cast aside my pendant, and it feels like many years ago, but the pain feels new each day. This rocks my very foundations, for I built them on a bed of honour. Some nights ago, perhaps the darkest night of all, I thought Corrias had forsaken me, and so I forsook him. Here today there is but one resurrection, and it is of that evil choice. I either choose Corrias, and he forsakes me, for he forsakes this child, or I choose Théos, and I forsake Corrias, and perhaps the world at large. Either way I die a little, and yet I feel rotten to pity myself for these little erosions of my soul, when some would yearn to have a soul so brittle.”
Ifferon realised then that the choice was not so easy, and that he had been too quick to think it was as simple as a small sacrifice for
the greater good. This was not merely a choice for Délin, but a gauntlet, wherein each path carried much struggle and strain. Time might make Délin understand that there would be many more children saved if Corrias was restored to the world, though even Ifferon saw no guarantee of this. And yet another question kept gnawing at his mind: would there be anything left of Délin to save, if he killed his honour so that a god may live? For then he might condemn himself to become a husk of the hero he once was, like a suit of armour bereft of a knight.
V – THE LONELY ROAD
Herr’Don stood before the shimmering figure of Belnavar, shock overcoming his weariness. At first he thought he was seeing a memory too clearly. Then he thought his imagination had turned the shapes of shadows, rocks and trees into a mirage form. Then he wondered if it were a ghost that stood before him, summoned by his lament and the tears that watered Belnavar’s grave.
“A scratch,” Belnavar repeated, and the words were almost mocking.
“I decide the state of my injuries, not you,” Herr’Don said gruffly. He puffed his chest and turned his injured arm away from Belnavar, to hide his ailment.
“That is why it is just a scratch,” Belnavar said, smiling now. The smile was just like it was when he was living, the kind of smile that lured people in like a trickster.
“You are dead,” Herr’Don said, shaking his head. He did not know if he was trying to deny the truth of this—or trying to deny the sight before his eyes. Either way, someone or something was deceiving him, and his reflexes whispered to his right hand, hovering near his sheathed sword.
“An astute observation,” Belnavar said, and he stopped smiling. “But I am as astute as you, so I see you are readying for battle more than readying to hear my tale.”
Herr’Don had lost the element of surprise, but he drew his sword anyway, holding it before Belnavar in case he might be some new form of Spectre, another nightmare unleashed upon a world already desperately trying to wake up.
“Since you cannot see the Spectres, then I cannot be one,” Belnavar said. This response to his silent question confused Herr’Don, but even more confusing was the memory of him having made his accusation out loud.
“Perhaps if you did not try to defend yourself from your friends, you would not be here alone,” Belnavar added. He gestured to the right and left, to show how utterly isolated they were. Not even a bird was in the sky, and no animal was brave enough to watch the warriors.
“Perhaps, but then I would not be here with you,” Herr’Don said. “Last I checked, two is not alone.”
Belnavar smiled again, and as he did so the light seemed to shine right through him. “You have always been alone with your thoughts. This is perhaps no different.”
“Begone!” Herr’Don cried. “I have no use for ghosts.”
“How do you know that I am a ghost, and not part of your own mind?”
“If Belnavar was part of my mind, then I would have had his titles and his glory, and yet I never did. I would have traded the Great for any of his titles.”
“You mean, you would have traded an imagined name for a true one.”
Herr’Don cast back his cloak in anger. It flailed madly in the breeze, the ragged pieces catching around one another as if they were clinging together to save themselves from the unmerciful weather. The clattering fabric brought a sense of comfort to Herr’Don. It reminded him of the flags at the top of Ilokmaden Keep, that lonely vantage point where he found comfort away from the troubles below. It was harder to feel small when up so high.
“I envied you,” Herr’Don said. “They gave you titles that I could not even dream of, names that put the mothers and fathers of others to shame.”
“Yet I never sought them,” Belnavar said. “And never clung to them when they were given to me. A warrior does not need a battle-brooch to know that he is good at battle.”
“Come, Belnavar, do not pretend you are shy of being honoured,” Herr’Don said. “It is easy to say you needed no recognition when you had more than your fair share of it. Those who bask in the sunlight may mock the envious who live in the shade, but the sun is ever-shifting.”
“Will it shine on you?” Belnavar asked. The light in the sky shimmered for a moment, almost taunting.
Herr’Don was silent for a time, until finally his frustration grew too much. “Go away! I have enough to trouble with.” He was reminded of his arm, and yearned for a distraction; a small part of him began to wonder if he had invented his phantom friend for this very purpose.
“At least you still live,” Belnavar said. The memory of Belnavar’s mangled body flashed in Herr’Don’s mind. He shivered.
“If this is living,” Herr’Don said.
“If you draw breath, then this is living. The question is: do you do more than just draw breath?”
“I never knew you to be a philosopher,” Herr’Don remarked. “If this is what ghosts do, then no wonder people go mad in a haunting.”
“If you are not already mad,” Belnavar said.
Herr’Don glowered at his friend, if this were really his friend and not some spectre of Agon’s devising. He spoke with an intimacy that made him think he must truly be the one the bards sang of, and yet he spoke things far too openly, far too honestly. It was unsettling, but then perhaps there was no need for guile when one is dead.
“If I am mad,” Herr’Don said, “then you are part of my madness. Does that diminish you?”
Belnavar smiled. “In a sense, yes. But I think it diminishes you more.”
“You have had time to grow accustomed to your titles and trinkets,” Herr’Don said. “So much so that they mean nothing to you now. Well, I have had time to grow accustomed to being dismissed and ridiculed, to being diminished. The King called me mad. His court called me mad. For a time I even started to believe it, but now the word has little meaning to me. If this is madness, then madness is part of who I am.”
“Aye, a good way to look at things,” Belnavar said. “There comes a time when we must accept who and what we are.”
“And have you accepted death?” Herr’Don asked.
“I wear it well,” Belnavar said. He stood tall in his studded leather armour, arms folded and head tilted to one side. His black hair faded into the night, but his eyes stood out brightly like twin stars, and in them was the glisten of curiosity. The display contrasted starkly with Herr’Don’s memory of the broken and battered body he had found on the riverside.
“I know how you died, Belnavar. I heard it from Teron’s lips as he taunted Ifferon. I heard all his revelations, and they shook my soul, for I thought we were fighting for good, not aiding evil.”
“I need no reminding of how I died,” Belnavar said. “The body does not carry the memories. The soul does, and the soul is yet living. I trekked many leagues with Teron, and throughout all our conversations I never once suspected that he had given himself in service to the Beast. Even when he pushed me into the Chasm of Issarí, even as I fell into the gorge, and even as the rocks bashed against me and the hands of Taarí dragged me under, I did not know what had happened, that he had betrayed me. Nay, he had betrayed all of us. It is only on reflection, in this somewhat lighter form, that I can see how painfully obvious it should have been, but we look at everyone as through a window, and what colour the glass is, or what shapes and symbols block our view, depends very much on their words and actions, and our understanding of them. I saw him as a devout head-cleric, a fighter for the faith, and so it never dawned on me that he could ever be faithless, or serve the one against whom our entire faith is forged.”
“Teron fooled us all,” Herr’Don said. “Though not all paid the same price.”
“We all share in one price, and that is what happened to Corrias. I might have died a bit sooner, but everyone in this world will die soon enough if we cannot undo some of the evil that has been done, if we cannot find some way to replace that which we have lost.”
“There is nothing to replace,” Herr’Don said. “A bo
y is dead, and a god is dead. There can be many more children, if their mothers and fathers live through this darkness, but there can be no more gods, with the lanterns doused by Agon. Even if he were to be defeated, there would come a time when all the gods would wither away, and all that would be left are the races they created, living their small and empty lives, and praying to nothing.”
“What then do you plan to do?” Belnavar asked.
“Talk to you, or myself, or whatever this is.”
“And then?”
“Then continue my journey.”
“Where will you go?”
“This is why you cannot be from my mind,” Herr’Don said, “for my mind knows the answer, yet it did not expect your question. I will travel to Madenahan, the capital of Boror, for where else have I to go?”
“You could go back to Ifferon.”
Herr’Don scoffed. “And be another martyr to a coward? There is one dead man too many here as a result of Ifferon.”
“And what if Madenahan is no longer welcoming?”
“You were there, Belnavar, a lot more recently than I. You know that it is never welcoming.”
Herr’Don patted his numbing arm. There was a tingle near the shoulder, but below that he felt not just nothing, but a feeling of death—a feeling that was slowly spreading to the rest of him. His breathing was heavy, and he felt sweat upon his brow and a fever in his skin. He began to wonder if he would make it to Madenahan. He began to think that Belnavar was not a phantom of Halés or even of his supposedly broken mind, but a symptom of his ailment, a figure conjured from the fever.
“Tell me, Herr’Don,” Belnavar said, and his voice was suddenly ghostly, invading the Prince’s thoughts. “What is it that haunts you?”
“Besides you?”
“I accompany you, but something troubles you.”
“You have many titles,” Herr’Don said, “and I have many troubles in their stead. From which of these will you take your pick? Do you want to look again upon my arm, hacked and hewn, or would you rather play historian and delve into my past, where what was hacked and hewn was my heart? To which ailment would you rather look, one of the body or the mind?”
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