The Burden of Memory

by Welcome Cole

  “Doesn’t matter,” Wenzil said, as if reading his mind, “If we’re spotted, we won’t be walking away from it. So I’m guessing we’re best off just not getting caught.”

  Mawby stood up and patted the neck of his horse as he took the reins. “Riding’s just no good,” he said, “I can’t hear anything up there. I should be walking.”

  “We can’t spare the time.”

  “We get caught, time won’t matter anyway, jh’ven?”

  “Soon as we make the hatch, we can get underground and out of the line of fire.”

  The thought of the tunnel made Mawby shudder so hard he wrenched his chest wound again. On top of everything else, he had that to face yet. The tunnels. He had to go down into those miserable tunnels!

  “I’m afraid of heights,” Wenzil said.

  Mawby looked up at him. It was as queer a statement as he could imagine, given their circumstances.

  “Hell of a thing. A Baeldon who gets sweaty just looking down from a mountain ridge. Had it my whole life, too. It’s so bad I can’t barely stand at the top of a long stairs.”

  Mawby only grunted and surveyed the hilltop rising before them. He wasn’t in the mood for idle banter.

  “Been the butt of jokes my whole life on account of it. Poor little Baeldon who can’t stand on a chair. And it’s not like I just get a little nervous, you know? I start shaking and puking, it ain’t pretty.”

  “I imagine there’s a point here?”

  “The elixir Chance gave me eases that fear. I mean to say, it eliminates it. Once I take a slug of that medicine, I can climb the steepest ridge for a day. I reckon if it works for my fear, it’ll work for yours.”

  “Can we just drop the whole damned thing?”

  “Sure,” Wenzil said, grinning, “Whatever you say, Saaro.” He dramatically emphasized the w-sound of the word, like SWAro. With that, he laughed and goaded his steed forward. “Saaro. What a goofy title.”

  Mawby watched the man loping away through the gouge between the hills. He understood the mountain was only trying to help, but it wasn’t helping. He needed to work out his worries alone. He’d never developed a taste for mollycoddling.

  ∞

  Mawby watched Wenzil watching the two prode-buzzards circling against the deep blue sky behind them. They’d been hovering over the plains since yesterday, and though they were still miles away, the Baeldon would give it no rest. He was constantly peering back over his shoulder as if he expected the specter of death to fall on him at any moment.

  It irritated Mawby that the man seemed to have no confidence in the oil he’d given him. The mountain had been going on and on for nearly three days about them being brothers and kindred souls, and telling him again and again how the elixir would sooth his confinement fears, and yet he didn’t trust Mawby enough to show a little faith toward the prode oil? It didn’t set well.

  Then again, what right did he have to blame the man for having such fear after seeing his friend brought down so terribly? He should show the man more generosity.

  He considered the ceramic vial in his hand. Wenzil had told him to take the elixir now, said it was best to have the medicine in his blood before he needed it. Mawby had tried to comply, but just couldn’t seem to complete the task. If the elixir worked for such fears, why hadn’t he heard of it before now? Why did his people still rely on the ceremonial herbs they drank during the interment rituals, herbs that left them able to enter the tombs, but also weak and hallucinating for days after?

  Yet, even as the thoughts marched into his head, he berated himself for entertaining them. He’d just mentally beaten his friend up for the same lack of faith in the prode oil. They were too much alike, he and the mountain. More than that, it seemed their people were more alike than he’d ever have guessed. They shared the same bad habits: mistrust, doubt, and hypocrisy.

  With that, he pulled the cork free and took a slug. The liquid was thick and had almost no flavor. He felt the first rush before he’d even pushed the cork back into the vial. His ears flushed hot and his eyelids felt thick. The sensation was so acute, he had to repress a giggle.

  “Thank Calina,” Wenzil said, pointing at down at the next hill, “There it is. The hatch.”

  Mawby urged his horse up beside Wenzil and shaded his eyes.

  There was no mistaking the blot on the landscape. The hatch was a nasty scab sloughing from the hair of the plains. Mawby noted that the grass around the stone rim was trampled and broken, an indication that this outpost was seriously occupied.

  He quickly scanned the surrounding plains. Down in the swale to their left grazed four Baeldonian horses. Their saddles and tack lay in the tall grass beneath a tethering rope tied between two tripods of tree branches. Four horses, four Baeldons. It wasn’t a comforting thought.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll go in alone. If there’s any trouble, I’ll shout you a warning and block their exit. You’ll have plenty of time to escape before they know you’re here, I give you my word.”

  He looked over at Wenzil. “Escape? And where exactly do I run to if those aren’t your allies inside?”

  “They are.”

  “I count four horses. There should only be one: your friend’s.”

  “I’d never put you in jeopardy.”

  Mawby turned in his saddle and looked back at the prode-buzzards circling against the deepening sky. They slowly but surely drifted this way. He was beginning to feel cornered. “All right,” he said with no little reluctance, “Go ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”

  What choice did he have? Death waited at every turn, just as it had for days. Even if he was inclined to run away from his destiny, he’d never be able to live a comfortable life crowded in by the faces of so many of his dead.

  XI

  THE CONVERGENCE

  CHANCE RUBBED THE LAST SMEAR OF BALM INTO KOONTA’S WOUNDS.

  The slashes on her neck and chest were deep and foul, and they weren’t making any progress. On the other hand, they also hadn’t begun to fester, and that was something. He studied the memory of ointment soiling the leather square draped over his hand. He couldn’t make it any faster than Jhom provided the ingredients, and Jhom was working heroically to do just that. Nevertheless, in spite of their best efforts, death was slowly stealing her away. He was truly shocked she’d made it this many days since the attack.

  They’d built a makeshift tent around Beam to block the caeyl light, and he’d ultimately made the decision to put Koonta in the tent with him. She’d been dying with such authority, Chance moved her there as an act of desperation. Maybe being closer to the light of the Blood Caeyl would benefit her. Much to his relief, her breathing and heartbeat stabilized within hours of the move. She even stopped vomiting the black bile. He kicked himself for not seeing earlier what should’ve been so obvious. The damned fatigue was clearly stealing his mind.

  Over the last couple days, the caeyl’s light had undergone an alarming change. The Blood Caeyl had slowly mutated from the bloody red light into a star-white blaze, a light so brilliant that it bled the color from everything in sight. If it hadn’t been for the makeshift shelter of blankets, they’d have been forced to camp up top in the plains or go blind from the intensity of it.

  He looked at Beam’s form reclined on the blankets next to Koonta’ar. The white light completely covered his form, shimmering and swirling across him like liquid sunlight. It was an eerie and discomforting sight, though he knew it meant the man within was still safe, still alive.

  “You’ve got that look again.”

  The voice startled Chance. Then it irritated him. He deliberately didn’t look up. Instead, he quickly re-wrapped the balm-stained leather and stuffed it back in his bag. “How long have you been loitering there behind me?”

  “Long enough to watch you endure another mood, I reckon,” Jhom said, chuckling.

  Chance pulled the blanket up over Koonta.

  “She’s still sweating like a blacksmith,” Jhom said behind him.
<
br />   “Am I blind now?”

  “Damn you, Chance. You are one prickly son of a bitch. I expect your mother didn’t give you near enough time on the tit. That’s why you grew up into a perpetual state of pissy.”

  Chance stood up and closed the wall of the makeshift tent. Jhom’s face was bleached white in the caeyl light pouring up over the top of the blankets. “I’m frustrated,” he said as he slipped the roof-blanket back into position, muting but not smothering the light, “I’m not doing enough.”

  He backed away, but continued to study the shelter. The tent glowed like a brilliant brown luminary.

  “Bullshit,” Jhom said behind him, “You’re doing all you can. This isn’t the Priory of Cohl. All you have to work with is the rogue’s caeyl and whatever measly herbs I manage to scrounge up.”

  Chance braced his back and twisted the cramps from his shoulders. His spine was a riot of knots that he could never quite work out, but only forcibly migrate from one muscle to the next. The The pain ran up his neck to the base of his skull.

  Jhom seized Chance’s shoulders and began rubbing the knots from both sides of his backbone. “You look like hell,” he said as he worked.

  The pressure of Jhom’s determined fingers against his stiff muscles nearly took the wind out of him. The relief left him on the verge of dizzy. “Did you find any fedlewood?” he heard himself whisper.

  “I did. That and another bunch of flesca and a couple nice rabbits. A little meat might help fortify you against these misguided bouts of contrition.”

  “I’ll say it again,” Chance said as he pulled away from the Baeldon, “Go to hell.”

  “Self-pity’s a fool’s weakness, Chance. You’re a better man than that.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  “Have I pointed out what an irritable bastard you are?”

  “Time and again.”

  Jhom followed Chance back to the hatchway. There, he dropped to one knee beside a pile of dry, gnarled branches. “Wood’s getting harder to root out of the plains,” he said as he broke one scrawny branch over his knee, “Had to ride ten miles for this pitiful pile. Thankfully, it’s plenty dry. Shouldn’t give off much smoke.” He carefully placed the broken ends onto the fire.

  Chance dropped to his knees before the makeshift fire pit, which was actually just a small circle of heavy stones huddling on the polished marble floor directly beneath the hatch.

  “I found something else besides herbs and firewood,” Jhom said.

  “Tell me it’s a keg of wine.”

  “Nothing as good as that. Found three war horses with the markings of runners.”

  Chance looked at him. “What?”

  “You heard me right. What I didn’t find were the riders who go with them.”

  “Where?”

  “East about fifteen miles or so. The riders are dead, I’m sure of it. If I stretch my disbelief far enough, I can imagine one runner losing a horse, but three? By Calina’s tits, I just don’t believe it.”

  Chance rubbed his temple. His headache was returning like a miserable old neighbor who just doesn’t know when it’s time to leave. He watched Jhom coax the fire back to life. Jhom was right about the wood. It was perfectly dry and burned nearly smokeless.

  “Maybe they’re not dead,” Chance said, “Maybe the prodes drove them off. Maybe the horses just escaped.”

  “Yea,” Jhom said as he prepared the rabbits on a newly cleaned section of the marble, “And maybe I’m cooking up a gourmet meal for the Royal Prefect of Parhron City and his gaggle of whores.”

  Despite his fatigue, Chance felt restless. He got up and began fidgeting about the camp as Jhom prepared the meat. Eventually, he found himself once again down the corridor standing before the glowing tent. As he studied the light radiating through the blankets, he marveled at how well he was able to sleep next to it. He’d always been a delicate sleeper, enough that even a sliver moon could wake him. But next to the caeyl light, he slept like it was pitch black.

  “You think he’s conscious under that skin?” Jhom asked from up the hall.

  It wasn’t the first time Jhom had made that query. Chance peeled back the edge of the top blanket, releasing a sharp blade of light. Squinting into the inferno, he called back, “When exactly did it begin to change? I can’t remember. Time’s all running together these days.”

  “I was thinking about that today,” Jhom said as he worked, “I found myself wondering if maybe the light had always been white and I’d just remembered it wrong.”

  Chance studied the bizarre image that represented Beam. The thick caeyl light clung tightly to the surface of his skin, swirling hot and silvery over his form like a sheer layer of glowing mercury, like molten moonlight poured into the form of a man, like he was the source of the light rather than the recipient of it.

  Even more unsettling than the skin of light encasing him was the activity beneath it. Beam would move, occasionally changing positions. Once they’d found him propped on an elbow. Another time he was actually sitting upright, cross-legged. If not for the liquid light covering his skin, he might’ve been just lounging there in bed waiting for the sun to rise.

  Chance had never seen or heard of anything like it. Nor had he ever read anything to indicate a Caeyl of Power could change colors. Perhaps even more strange, Koonta’ar’s skin now simmered in a similar pale, silvery glow. Barely perceptible, it was more like a dusting of light than a coating, like her skin still somehow reflected the stone’s glow. Unlike Beam, he saw her features quite clearly through it. In fact, he almost couldn’t see the sheen at all when looking directly at her. He prayed it was a good sign.

  He restored the blanket over the roof and turned away, feeling like he’d just taken a catnap. The caeyl light was marvelously rejuvenating.

  “Well,” Jhom asked as Chance returned to the small fire, “What do you think?”

  “I think something better happen soon. We’re running out of time. She’s dying by inches. I just pray the caeyl light benefits her. There’s not much more I can do.”

  A sizzling plume of steam erupted from the pan as Jhom dropped the dressed and seasoned rabbits into it. “It’s a shame to cook a fat rabbit in a pan,” he said, showing Chance the grin that always seemed to live in that closely cropped beard, “There’s nothing like a nice herb-rubbed rabbit slowly roasted over a gentle flame. Sweet as a fine girl’s hips.”

  “It’s good of you to make the sacrifice,” Chance said, sparing him a smile, “I know this isn’t the life of comfort you’ve grown so used to in your retirement.”

  “Yea, and I left a good woman behind for you, too. Don’t forget that.”

  “Any woman that’d have you must be flawed with patience. That and not overly particular about what flesh she introduces to her blankets.”

  They both laughed, and for just a moment, Chance felt the weight lighten.

  But the talk of a woman sent him down a fork in the road, a fork that led him directly back to the dark reality of this new world. He thought of the thousands of families out there living their moderate, uninspired, love-filled lives in a mundane sense of determination. The matrix holding the world together was divine mediocrity, exactly as it should be. Surely, the Gods of Pentyrfal wouldn’t let anything challenge such a perfect state of contentment. Surely, they’d intervene before the world festered.

  The enticing scent of the frying rabbits gradually pulled him from his gloom. Despite his complaints of the cooking technique, Jhom’s rabbits smelled heavenly. He’d always been the better camp cook between the two of them. The sad fact was that his friend was better at a myriad of tasks on the trail. Whatever needed to be done, Jhom could do it as efficiently and routinely as if they’d planned it out weeks in advance. He was the perfect companion on the road.

  Jhom put the pan down and picked up a long-handled fork that he jabbed tines-first into the armhole of his breastplate. His face twisted into the image of frustration as he searched for the obvious itch tormenting him
.

  “Why don’t you take that old armor off,” Chance asked him, “Your skin must be baking beneath it.”

  Jhom continued jabbing for the itch, his face contorted into the image of frustration. “Too much work,” he said as he dug, “Never know when you’re going to need it. Hate to be in a state of half-dress when the—“

  An explosion of metal rang out above them.

  Jhom was on his feet in an instant, his battle-axe in one hand and sword in the other. “Kill the fire!” he ordered Chance.

  Chance threw his arm out. His staff flew across the corridor and slapped into his hand. His Water Caeyl flared. The flames died and the coals went instantly black.

  A deep voice called down from above, “Hello down there!” The words rolled past them and faded into the darkness.

  Chance eased forward and carefully peered up into the brick-lined shaft towering over them. A distant half-circle of magenta sky marked the hatchway above. Jhom was always careful to close the hatch behind him. Someone had opened it. He saw the silhouette of a large head and shoulders looking down at them.

  Jhom shot him a glance, silently mouthing the word, “Baeldon.”

  Chance nodded back.

  “Hello!” the voice called again. It sounded tense and guarded, maybe even desperate. “I know you’re down there, Jhom.”

  Jhom said nothing, but only watched the figure above.

  “Oh, come on!” the voiced yelled out, “I can smell your dinner cooking, for gods’ sakes.”

  “Sounds like Wenzil,” Chance whispered to Jhom.

  “It’s possible. I sent him into the plains looking for you.”

  “Looks like he found me. Answer him.”

  Jhom leaned cautiously into the shaft. “You’d best be able to prove it,” he yelled up at the silhouette.

  “Prove it? There’s prodes all over the place up here. Let us down!”

  “Prove yourself or the prodes can have you.”

  “Jhom, you are one serious pain in the stinking ass!” The figure then backed out of sight. When it reappeared a moment later, it called, “All right, I’m dropping your stinking proof now, you son of a bitch!”