The Burden of Memory

by Welcome Cole

  Wenzil slid a hand slowly back across his stubbly head. Then he looked at Jhom and said, “Mawby promised he’d leave the trail clearly marked.”

  “I’m no damned slouch at tracking,” Jhom growled back, “Reckon I’m able to trail a bloody rogue, all right. I used to track smugglers a hell of a lot smarter than that simpleton.” He stopped and sent Chance a sheepish look. “I mean… I didn’t mean any—”

  Chance halted him with a raised hand. “Leave any supplies you can afford us,” he said to Wenzil, “Any spare blankets you’ve got stowed would help as well.”

  “My honor to help, Chance.”

  “When do you plan to leave?”

  “You know, soon as… soon as possible. I mean, if it suits you.”

  Chance reluctantly gave him a nod of consent. “It does not suit me, but it’s nine hells of a lot bigger than me and my needs. We have to put our trust in Lamys te’Faht. What other options do we have?”

  “None, I reckon.”

  “None. Exactly right.”

  “There’s one other thing,” Wenzil said, digging a hand into his shirt pocket, “Mawby left these.” He held out two leather cords with glass ampoules hanging from them.

  “The prode oil.” Chance climbed back to his feet and took them from the runner.

  “He didn’t say why he left them. He must’ve stowed them in my pack. Found them this morning.”

  “Hmph,” Chance said, looking hard at Jhom, “Doesn’t seem like something an enemy’s likely to do. Leave both ampoules of prode oil for us? Leaving himself defenseless?”

  Jhom’s eyes dropped to the dirt.

  Chance held one of the cords up to Wenzil. “You take one of them. You’ll be alone and you have a long haul ahead of you.”

  Wenzil smiled and pushed Chance’s hand back. “I think not. I understand why Mawby didn’t take them. He didn’t need them. He’s seen his fate, as have I, and neither of our paths involve prodes. Anyway, your burden’s a damned site bigger than mine. Better you stay alive if it comes down to a choice.”

  “Wenzil, that’s—”

  Wenzil threw up a hand and said firmly, “Not up for discussion, Chance. The Drayma’s shown me my path. I’ve no worries on making it to Barcuun.”

  “I reckon Wenzil’s right,” Jhom said, “We’ll take the vials.”

  Chance looked from Jhom to Wenzil. “I’m surrounded by valor. How can we fail with such honor in our company?”

  Wenzil squeezed his shoulder. “We can’t.”

  For a moment, they simply stood in a circle watching the grass at their feet. After a bit, Wenzil dropped a huge hand on Chance’s shoulder, saying, “There’s one more thing before I leave.”

  Chance heard the hesitation in the runner’s voice. “What is it? You don’t need to tiptoe around. Just say it.”

  “It’s the Watcher.”

  “Graen? What about him.”

  “I don’t exactly know how to put it, so I’m just going to lay it out.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You can’t let him slow you down. He’s going to die anyway. You can’t afford to wait for him to do it at his convenience.”

  Chance felt his stomach run cold. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying you need to leave as soon as possible. That rogue, or… or whatever he is now, he’s your only mission. You need to help him fulfill his role. The Watcher is… well, he’s incidental. In the scheme of things, I mean.”

  Though Chance had considered that very possibility a hundred times, the words stung deeper than he’d expected. He forced himself to look up at Wenzil. “The bond between our families goes back generations,” he whispered.

  “Wenzil speaks the truth,” Jhom said to Chance, “You know he does.”

  Chance felt like he was neck-deep in quicksand and sinking fast. The Baeldons were both right. It was just another sign of weakness that he had to be told this, something he already knew.

  “It’s a damned foul thing to admit among friends,” Wenzil pressed, “But you can’t risk the world to comfort a corpse.”

  Chance looked off toward the growing dawn. “He’s not dead yet,” he whispered.

  “He will be soon enough.”

  “Enough!” Jhom said suddenly, “Enough already. It’s not a decision any man should be forced to make before breakfast, and it needn’t be made this minute. I’ll carry Graen with me on Farnot. We don’t have to wait for him to die here. He can die just as efficiently on the road.”

  “You need to make for the forest as soon as possible,” Wenzil said, “The prodes’ll be out in force looking for the rogue. You’ll have to travel under cover.”

  Chance extended his hand out to Wenzil. “Fine,” he said, “Let’s not draw this out. There’s no way to thank you for all you’ve done, Wenzil. I wish you safe trails and pray we meet again under happier circumstances.”

  Wenzil ignored the proffered hand and instead pulled Chance into a life-altering hug. “Just finish the damned thing, will you?” he said as he smothered his friend, “Gods willing, we’re going to end this drama once and for all.”

  XXVI

  DUTY AND CHK’G FAO

  KAELIF WALKED OUT OF THE FOREST JUST AS THE YOUNG SUN BURNED AWAY THE MORTAL REMAINS OF THE NIGHT.

  The camp was as quiet as a miser’s wake, still and fully devoid of life.

  Except for the boy.

  A small figure sat cross-legged before the dying fire, wrapped thoroughly in a dusty gray wool field blanket. A tuft of disheveled blonde hair littered with leaves and grass crowned the top of the cocoon.

  Kaelif purposefully walked out of his way so as to approach Luren from directly across the small fire rather than sneaking up from behind. The boy had been through hell and was tense as a fiddle string for it. No sense adding to his alarm.

  Under normal circumstances, Kaelif would have banned any thought of allowing a fire, stealth being as critical to their mission as it was. But with the boy being in such bad straits when they’d found him, he didn’t think he had any choice; a snowball had more warmth in its flesh than he did.

  He squatted down in the grass beside Luren. The boy’s brow and closed eyes were just barely visible through the blanket’s gap. Kaelif reached slowly forward and squeezed Luren’s shoulder. “How’s your trail, Luren?” he asked in Parhronii standard.

  Luren didn’t respond. In fact, he barely looked alive.

  “Luren,” Kaelif said softly, “It’s going to be all right now. You’ve known me a long time. Nothing can harm you while I’m around. You have my word on that.”

  The boy offered no evidence he’d heard him.

  This behavior had been going on since the night before. It was quickly becoming no small source of worry.

  “I need to know you can hear me, son,” Kaelif pressed, giving Luren’s shoulder another firm squeeze, “You must give me a sign, now. I need to know you hear me.”

  This time, the boy stirred ever so slightly. There was a barely noticeable tightening of the blanket, and something akin to a nod.

  “Had to bury your tunic,” Kaelif said, keeping his voice low and gentle. “I doubt Calina herself could’ve cleaned the stink of that pit from it. And anyway, that blue dye… well, hell, a blind man could see it a mile off.” He laughed, squeezing the boy’s shoulder again.

  No response. He hadn’t expected one.

  The lad looked even worse in the daylight. The toll taken by his terrible misadventure had aged him terribly. He was too thin by yards, with hollowed eyes and gray skin. He reminded Kaelif of the beggars he’d seen in Parhron during his youth: young men and women who’d drank or drugged themselves into premature states of infirmity, squatting along the cobbled streets of the trade sections, stewing in their own urine and begging for coin. It was as sorry a sight as he’d seen in the worst of his wartime experiences.

  “Seth’s got some spare britches and a shirt that should fit you. You’re about the same size.”

  Luren didn�
�t move.

  Kaelif slid his hand across the boy’s back. “Son, I know it was a grim and sorry experience. I’ve seen a few dungeon cells from the wrong side of the bars myself. I know how the experience can linger. But you have to fight it. We can’t stay here and we can’t leave you behind. You need to show me some sign of life or we’re going to have treat you like baggage and carry you.”

  Luren’s eyes finally slipped open, though he didn’t look up. They looked as empty as the windows of an abandoned house.

  Kaelif wasn’t sure what to do or how to help the lad. He’d seen Chk’g Fao in a soldier’s eyes before. It was what his people called the battle mist, that lingering terror that can turn seasoned warriors into walking zombies. In the past, he’d always had experienced healers in the company to deal with the malady, healers with years of experience, full wagons of supplies, and comrades to consult with.

  Unfortunately, they had no such healers with them, and healing was most certainly not his best card. He’d administered the standard krell tea, spiced with fresh Rowfest Weed and Hag’s Cackle blooms, but the brew seemed to have no effect on the boy’s dark haze. He was at a complete loss for what to do next. In the end, he decided to simply act and hope instinct guided him true.

  He rolled to his knees and carefully peeled the blanket back from Luren’s head, folding it back across his shoulders. The boy offered no resistance, though he did glance up at him, if only briefly. Still, Kaelif was more than relieved to see any glimmer of life sparkle in those plagued eyes.

  “How’s your trail, son?” he asked again, brushing the boy’s tangled hair back from his face, “Did you sleep?”

  Luren finally nodded. “Yes, sir,” he barely said, “Slept some, I reckon.”

  “That’s good. You needed it. It’s been all hells of a long trip, hasn’t it?”

  Luren’s deeply circled eyes drifted back to the fire. As Kaelif studied him, he considered that if an artist could capture a painting of that face in this very moment, the image would be a document to the misery of these times.

  “I’m sorry,” Luren said, almost too softly to hear.

  An unsolicited communication? A hopeful sign?

  Kaelif leaned closer and continued rubbing the boy’s back. “Sorry? What could you possibly have to be sorry for?”

  Without warning, Luren shucked the remains of the blanket from his bare shoulders. The suddenness of the movement surprised Kaelif, but he quickly seized the opportunity. He held a wineskin up to him. Luren looked at the offering, but made no effort to take it.

  “Drink, son.”

  Luren’s eyes drifted back to the fire.

  Kaelif felt a sincere, heartfelt empathy for what the boy had been through. He hadn’t been lying about his own experience in a dungeon. The despair left by his youthful experience spending two years in the Parhron City dungeon never went away, not completely. For years after, those memories hovered at the periphery of his thoughts like an impending storm. Only through great effort did he learn to deny its persuasive lure. In time, that peculiar despair faded to a kind of background noise that disrupted the normalcy of his life only when deep sorrow or depression compromised his defenses.

  Still, unfair though it was, the sorry circumstances of their current duty allowed them no time for the luxury of patience or self-indulgence. The Drayma had made it clear that their personal needs were unimportant. The future was looking back at them with fear and hope, and there was no room for self-pity, and no time to stop and rest. They couldn’t wait any longer. They had to move out.

  He took the boy’s hand and pressed the flask into it. “Luren, you need to drink.”

  Again, the boy made no effort to accept it.

  Kaelif wrapped Luren’s hand and fingers around the container and held them there until he finally accepted it. Still, the boy only let it sit idly in his lap, staring at it as if he didn’t know how to make it work.

  Kaelif was losing patience. It was time for a different tack. “That wasn’t a request, son!” he said sharply, “Drink!”

  Luren flinched.

  “I know you hear me. That’s a direct order. You’ll drink that wine and you’ll damned well drink it now!”

  Luren finally relented. He uncorked the flask and took a long slug of the morning wine. He dragged a bare arm across his mouth, then paused for a moment, studying the last flicker of fire wiggling in the meager pit before them.

  “I didn’t tell you to stop. Take another.”

  Luren obliged him, then recapped the flask. “I’m sorry,” he whispered as his eyes returned to the fire.

  Kaelif felt a pang of guilt for his aggression, but forced it out of his mind. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for, Luren.”

  “I’m weak. I’m weak and… and I’m truly sorry for it.”

  “Weak? What exactly have you done that’s weak? Escaping the bastard’s dungeons? Traveling nigh on a hundred miles alone down the Skauer Vex River on a log? Where’s the weakness in that? I know seasoned warriors who couldn’t have pulled it off.”

  “I mean… I mean yesterday. When you found me. I’m sorry I broke down.”

  Kaelif threw his arm around the boy. “Well, that’s ridiculous. Hell, I’d have been crying, too, and a whole hell of a lot louder than you were. You thought you’d been captured again, and after one hell of a heroic flight. You don’t have a thing to be sorry about, not a single thing, you hear me? You’re a hero, son. I’ll press knife to gut on any man who denies it.”

  Luren looked up at him, his eyes red and raw and blossoming with water. He began to speak, but quickly retreated.

  “You’re going to be all right, Luren. We’re going to make this mess right. We’re going to send that bastard Prae to the fire, I swear it to Pentyrfal! Now, I want you to drink that wine. It’ll fortify you.”

  Luren dragged a bit of the blanket across his nose and did as he was told.

  “I’m damned glad we came along when we did. Another mile downriver and you’d have found out just how high Yaelic’s Teeth runs.”

  “I’m obliged to you for that,” Luren whispered.

  “Don’t thank me. Thank Calina, she’s the one guides us.”

  “I’ve been thanking her every minute I’m out of that dungeon.”

  “As you should. When we get this all settled, you can take a sabbatical, head back into the woods, build her a proper temple.”

  Luren’s gaze rose up past the fire and swept across the sandy dirt leading down to the river. Then he looked at Kaelif. “Where are my clothes?”

  “I had to bury your clothes, son. There wasn’t any saving them.”

  The boy seemed to consider that for a moment. Then he said, “Bastard’s dungeon ruined them, I reckon. Couldn’t barely breathe down there. It was the most vile place I’ve ever been.”

  “I’ve no doubts. I get uneasy just walking into his tower.”

  Luren threw a hand to his mouth and doubled forward as he choked back a sob.

  “What is it, son?”

  “I ki…” A dark sob ripped free.

  “Go on, Luren. Tell me.”

  “I… I kil…” Another spasm of grief seized the boy.

  “It’s all right,” Kaelif urged him, “It’s all right. Throwing the words out into the light will disarm them. You have to say it.”

  “I… I kil… killed the jailer. I killed him.”

  Kaelif looked at him for a moment. He heard the memories of his own first kill beating the pans of guilt deep in the back of his mind. He knew from that experience there were no mortal words that could ease the drama of such an event. The boy could only come to his own terms with it.

  He pulled Luren in tighter and held him. He didn’t speak, but allowed him to simply ride out his angst.

  “I killed him,” Luren said. His voice was quaking, but he somehow managed to fight back the tears. “I found the leg bone of a dead Baeldon. I beat… I beat him with it. I beat him to death with it. I... I knocked his eye out. I hit him over and
over and over, but he wouldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop no matter how hard I hit him. He wouldn’t die! He wouldn’t just die and leave me be!”

  “You’re a warrior, son,” Kaelif said as he held him, “You did what you had to, what Calina demanded of you. You survived. That jailer was the enemy. He deserved what he got.”

  Luren looked up at Kaelif. His eyes were wild and angry, bordering on hysteria. “The straw caught fire,” he whispered, “The straw. It was burning bad. I locked him in the cell with it. I locked him in with the fire. He burned to death. He was screaming. He wouldn’t stop screaming and he wouldn’t die. He just burned to death with his face pressed into the bars. He… he wouldn’t stop looking at me!”

  “I understand.”

  “He burned! He burned, and I just watched him!” The tears flowed now as the boy yielded to his anger and despair. “I watched him, Kaelif. I watched him and I was glad I was watching him! I wanted him to die! I wanted him to suffer!”

  “I know,” Kaelif said, holding him tighter, “And now you’re ashamed for it. And that’s fine. But it’s your shame that’ll be your salvation in the end. It proves you have a soul. Your shame will set you free.”

  “I’m glad he’s dead,” Luren cried into Kaelif’s chest, “I’m glad he’s dead, Kaelif.”

  Kaelif held him for several minutes, rubbing his bare back as the boy slowly released his anger. In time, Luren stopped shaking, and he stopped sobbing, and he fell limp in Kaelif’s arms.

  Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. Kaelif wondered if the boy had gone to sleep. But then Luren stirred and pushed himself away of his own accord.

  “How’s your trail, son?” Kaelif asked, releasing the boy.

  “I’m… I’m all right now.” His eyes were still red and hot, but he was no longer crying. “I am. I’m… I’m fine.”

  “You’re one hell of a man, Luren,” Kaelif said, climbing up onto a knee, “I hope you know that. Chance would be proud of you. Hell, I’m proud of you.”

  Luren looked up at Kaelif with eyes burning from the inside out. And in that moment, Kaelif knew that something had changed. He wasn’t sure if it was acceptance or some growing sense of resolve, but something was pushing away the clouds of despair. There was a strength growing in the boy’s eyes now, a strength that’d been lacking just minutes ago.