by Matthew Cook
I wonder where the midwife is now. When it was clear that the wounds of childbirth were healed, faded to pale scars by morning, and when it was apparent that I would not die from sheer, overwhelming grief, she left, disappearing into the night.
As is my habit, I stroll out to the courtyard directly after the midday meal. Soon, Lia emerges from the mercy tent, where the last of the wounded are being tended. Burns mainly, almost all superficial, not life-threatening but painful. Those that were more deeply wounded, crushed, or torn, or burned, had all perished and been buried days before; even Brother Ato's goddess could not help them all.
As I stroll in the midday sun, my guards trail behind. You are not their prisoner, certainly not, but you also are not free, never forget that, my sister whispers inside. I nod, accepting the widsom of her words. Since that night, she has spoken to me, hesitantly at first, then with greater strength, as if she were recalling the sound of her own voice.
She seems calmer now, the madness and spite that always seemed to thread through her every word diminished, if not entirely gone. I wonder if it is as Lia says, that she is indeed no more than a voice of my own creation. I shrug. It does not matter, for she will be with me, always, I feel it, as certain as my own body, my own blood.
Ato follows Lia out. He spots me and glares at me with a lingering, resentful stare. I return it, like for like.
Even after his refusal to tend to me, to soothe the pain of my mending flesh with the power of his goddess, I still might have forgiven him. After all, I had made promises. Promises I had broken, or that I had so desperately wanted to break that there seemed little difference between the wanting and the doing. I had earned his wrath.
But, standing beside the tiny grave, so small amongst the rows of heaped soil, the final resting place for so many, and listening to his refusal to bless such a ... such a thing with the final rites. Standing beside my son's grave, I felt my heart turn to stone as the gods once and for all turned their faces from me.
Good riddance and damn them. Damn them all if such is their mercy.
Lia walks to my side. She is still pale-faced, her bruises faded greenish-yellow, but she moves better, her gait free from the old lady's stiffness that seemed graven into her bones just days before.
Like me, her power has marked her, but unlike mine, those marks may fade in time. I pray it will be so.
"Are you up for a walk?” she says, grasping my hands. I nod. Together, we stroll through the open gates and down the road. The guards, as ever, trail behind, close enough to watch me but not close enough to intrude.
Down in the valley, where the water pools when the rains are heavy, the great cairn that the people have piled over the bodies of the Mor stands, the pale stones shining in sun, white like skulls.
"I still dream of them,” she says, pausing beside the road. “Still see them coming through the gate."
I nod. I know all about dreams, hers and mine.
"I would have died, there before the gates, if not for Natalie,” she says in a rush. I nod again. She has told this story often, as if this singular event has the power to haunt her, rising above all the horrors of the past few days.
Once again she speaks of Natalie, the most promising of my young archers, she who stood with me on the wall and who helped loose the rain of stones upon the Mor. She tells me of how Natalie saw the burning knife aimed at Lia's heart, and how she pushed her aside, taking the stroke in her own breast. I listen as Lia tells me of the way she held her as she died, just as I had held Jazen, telling her that she would be fine, that she would be going to a better place.
If we were not sisters before, we were then.
"Her sacrifice gave me the strength to call down the lightning once more. Again and again, until I was blind, was deaf, but still fighting,” she says.
"And then, they were running, were retreating. Gods, what a sight. We had broken the Mor. We were safe."
I squeeze her trembling hand and lean my shoulder against hers, feeling the tiny tremors of unshed tears coursing inside her body. Soon, one day, those tears will come out, and on that day I pray I shall be there, as she was there for me in the dark whirlwind of the battle and of its aftermath. Pray she will let me be there for her.
We walk on, until the lake and the valley are spread out below us. I see smoke rising from chimneys, see the tiny, dark forms of the women in the fields, laboring to bring in the second harvest before the inexorable arrival of the cold.
"I wish to be gone from this place,” I say. “These people ... they are not mine. They never were. It was foolish for me to ever hope they would accept me, I know that now."
Lia nods. “Ato can never forgive you, and without his blessing, I fear they can never forgive you either,” she says. “Where shall you go?"
The words send a spear of ice through my breast, one that I ignore. She will make her own decision, either way.
"If I leave soon, I should be able to beat the first of the late summer snows,” I say, striving to sound matter-of-fact. “Rory knew these passes well, and if he was right, then they should be passable for another week or two."
"Can I ... Can I come with you?” she breathes, so soft that I can barely hear her. I stare, open-mouthed.
"Can you? Oh, gods, I wished for nothing else,” I say, turning her to face me. Her face blazes red in a deep blush, so very like my prim and proper Lia, so comically embarrassed
I can scarcely stifle a laugh. She flinches a little, then seeing that I truly mean it, she breaks into a smile more radiant than the zenith sun.
We embrace, settling together, bodies interlocking as if designed for exactly that purpose, arms encircling tight, half laughing, half crying with relief.
We turn and, together, head back to the manor. We have much to do, she and I, before we leave. I know that Brother Ato will be glad to see me go; I doubt Lia's leave-taking will be half so joyous for him.
I smile, trying to imagine the priest stopping her. The smile lasts all the way to the walls.
THE END
About the Author
Matthew Cook graduated from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago in 1991 and wasted no time in beginning a family. As many Fine Arts graduates do, he took a normal, respectable job, one good for paying the bills but terrible at nourishing the soul. He spent several years trying to keep his illustration, digital graphics and photography skills sharp, even resorting to wedding photography when things were truly dire. More than ten years later, he was still no closer to making anything resembling a living in the visual arts, so he turned to his other great love: literature. In a bout of desperate optimism, he began on a mammoth undertaking: an urban fantasy trilogy set in his beloved Chicago. Four years later, while “taking a break” from editing that (still unfinished) project, he had this strange idea for a necromancer named Kirin...
Matt's second book about Kirin (Nights of Sin) will be published by Juno Books in 2008. He lives in Columbus, Ohio.
He blogs at: bloodmagicbooks.blogspot.com/
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