“And so what if they did notice?” Aaron asked. “As you said, not many people know what the coin means—what are the chances some desert villagers would know of it?”
The Speaker nodded. “Normally, I would agree with you. Only, my brother died in the village, remember, and I did not have the strength or opportunity to gather his body and take it away from there. And he, like all Akalians, had such a coin.”
Aaron grunted. “Shit.”
“Yes,” the Speaker said, a smile coming to his face, but it was a weak, frail thing and it withered as he began speaking once more. “I kept a special watch on our camp at night while my family slept, reasoning that they would most likely choose to come in the darkness, if they intended to come at all. Three nights passed without sign, and I began to believe that perhaps my wife had been right after all, that they had not noticed the trinket my daughter had carried.” He sighed heavily, and in that sigh was a regret and pain so deep that Aaron wondered how the man wasn’t swallowed up by it.
“I often went out to hunt for food at night, for in the desert there are lizards and snakes that, while hidden in the heat of the day, will rouse themselves in the cool darkness to come out and hunt, and they tasted surprisingly good when prepared well, as my wife knew how to do. Such was my hope, to find some morsel to break our fast on the morrow, when, on the fourth night, I saw torches in the distance. Fifteen or more, perhaps as many as twenty, but not more than that. When I saw them, I knew well enough why they had come, and so I went out to meet them.
“As I said, these men were not warriors, and the weapons they carried ranged from machetes to stout lengths of wood. Yet, despite that, I knew the look in their eyes, understood well what was meant by the set of their jaws, for I have seen such looks before. They had upon them the look of men prepared to do murder, and so for all their lack of training and proper weaponry, I approached warily, my own blade strapped at my back. When I stepped out of the darkness, several of them started toward me, as if to attack, but the one in the front, a wizened old man whose skin was leathery and tough from years spent in the sun, held up a hand, forestalling them.
“I was surprised at that, and had some faint glimmer of hope rise in me, until he began to explain that demons such as my kind would not be tolerated in their lands, and that the woman and the babe must die as well, for one was the spawn of a demon, and the other corrupted by it. I knew at once that there would be no reasoning with them, for though the old man had not stepped forward to attack as the younger ones had, I was familiar with the irrational hate in his eyes. After all, I had seen it before.
“I am ashamed to say that I considered slaying them then—true, they were many, and I only one, but, as I’ve said, they knew little of the art of war, and I thought my chances at least even of coming out the victor.”
“Ashamed?” Aaron said. “Why the fuck would you be ashamed? Those bastards came to kill you and your family—you would have been well within your rights to do what needed doing.”
“According to who, Aaron Envelar?” the Speaker said, meeting his eyes. “You? I thank you for the sentiment, but there was a time before then, remember, when I served Akane, the God of Shadow, and despite what many think of him and those who follow him, the Dark God abhors violence for its own sake, or without just cause, and who was I, one man, to judge whether my cause was worthy or not?”
Aaron frowned, still not convinced, and the Speaker shook his head slowly. “Still, I believe I would have attacked those men anyway, would have fed their blood to the ever-hungry sands, if I believed my chances of victory better, but even odds are hard to take when the lives of one’s wife and child hang in the balance.”
Aaron nodded slowly. “So what did you do?”
“To understand that, you must first know that the peoples of the desert are, without exception, terrified of fire. They fear it in the same way sailors fear rogue waves or kings fear betrayal. For, you see, there is little water in the desert to put fires out once they are begun, and though they made their houses from clay and not wood, that meant only that they would become little less than ovens if the fire took them. And a life in the desert without shelter from the elements is a short one indeed.”
“So,” he said, lifting his burn-scarred hand up so that Aaron could see, “given the threat poised to my wife and daughter, I did the only thing I could think to do. If they believed me a demon, then I would be a demon in truth, one who felt no pain or fear, only vengeance, and before they could react I stepped forward and grabbed the burning brand of the leader’s torch, extinguishing its blaze with my flesh. I did not cry out—though the Dark One knows I wanted to—nor did I release that torch until the flame was extinguished. They looked in awe at me then, and I feigned to be without pain as I stared at them, their expressions twisted with fear and revulsion in the light of the remaining torches. I would go, I told them, but the woman and child were to be left alone, and should I ever hear of harm coming to them, I would return with those of my kind and wreak such vengeance upon them and their families that people would speak of it for generations.”
“Damn,” Aaron breathed, staring at the man’s scarred hand. “What did they do?”
The Speaker shrugged. “What could they do? Men such as they who were not warriors but survivors? They agreed, promising vengeance of their own should I ever come back to plague their people, then they left.” A tear wound its way down the Speaker’s face, but he met Aaron’s gaze, unashamed. “And I left with them, abandoning my wife and daughter to a world which cares little for the innocence or beauty of a thing except to see that innocence despoiled, that beauty destroyed.” He seemed to wither, to shrink in on himself, and he shook his head slowly. “To my great shame, I left them.”
“But you didn’t have a choice,” Aaron said. “You saved them.”
“So I thought at the time,” the Speaker agreed, glancing back at the woman—his daughter—lying asleep in the bed. “But for what? So that she might live a life bent on vengeance, twisted by hate? So that the woman I once loved would spend her years wandering cities that were not her own, hoping for mercy from a world which has none? Perhaps I saved them, Aaron Envelar, but in doing so I damned them both.”
Aaron wanted to comfort the man, but he could not find the words. Nearly thirty years the man had spent away from his daughter and the woman he loved, all in an effort to protect them. He did not ask the man why he did not go to them when they left the desert and came to the cities, for he knew well enough. The desert villagers may have hated them, but they were not the only ones who looked at the Akalians as demons—far from it—and as long as he was with them, they would never have been safe. What could one say to a man who had suffered such as that, who’d had his entire life and everything that he loved taken from him?
“Have I now satisfied your suspicions regarding her?” the Speaker asked, and though his voice was without emotion, Aaron could see the pain of the awakened memories in his eyes.
“Yes,” the sellsword said, not trusting himself to say more.
“Very well,” the Speaker said, his expression growing unreadable once more. “This way, then, and I will show you one of those things I believe you must see.”
They didn’t have to walk long, and in a few minutes they arrived at another room. The Speaker withdrew a key from a chain hung about his neck and unlocked the door, stepping inside. Aaron followed warily, not sure what to expect, then let out a hiss of surprise as he noted the figure lying on the bed.
Manacles on her wrists and ankles secured her to the four bedposts. Her hair was in disarray, tangled and knotted. Her face and the pale skin of her arms that showed on top of the bed covers were covered in red, bloody welts, as if some cruel torturer had dragged a knife across her flesh for the sheer joy of it. Despite the blood and hair covering much of the woman’s face, Aaron immediately recognized Tianya, the leader of the Tenders.
“What have you done to her?” he demanded. The woman had attempted to kill
him, but seeing her there, so badly abused, sent a wave of anger washing through him. “Why is she chained?”
The Speaker shook his head. “We have done nothing to her, only cared for her as best we may. The wounds you see upon her flesh are not our doing, but hers, and the manacles are necessary. When we first retrieved her, half-mad with grief and shock from the forest outside Perennia, we gave her a room much as the one you used with no such constraints. That night, she tried to kill herself for the first time—there have been several more attempts since, and we have been forced to take drastic measures to preserve her life.”
Aaron stared at the woman in disbelief, remembering the last time he’d seen her. She had meant to kill him, to take the Virtue of Compassion from him and, with it, flee as far away from Kevlane as she could. But one of Kevlane’s hulking brutes had come upon them, slaughtering the Tenders who followed her, and Tianya herself had vanished into the woods. In fleeing and abandoning the rest of her order, leaving those she led to die, she had preserved her life, but one of the lessons Aaron’s own life had taught him was that no matter how fast a man—or a woman—ran, no matter how great a distance, they could not outrun themselves, could not outrun their own shame.
The leader of the Tenders, once a woman of great will and confidence, lay on her back in the bed, her eyes open but staring at the ceiling above her without recognition, and she did not so much as stir at the sound of Aaron and the Speaker’s voices. “What’s wrong with her?” he asked.
The Speaker shook his head. “I do not know. My people are skilled in many ways, and though we are all trained in medicine and the treating of wounds, we are taught to heal the hurts of the body. Hers, I believe, is a hurt of the mind, and our knowledge is of little use in such matters.” He turned to Aaron. “I had hoped you might help her.”
“Help her?” Aaron asked. “Gods, man, I’m no healer, and even if I was, I doubt there would be anything I could do for her. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
“No,” the Speaker agreed. “But given your bond with the Virtue of Compassion, you might be able to see into the dark places of her mind in which she huddles, might be able, perhaps, to pull her out of the shadows.”
Aaron grunted. “Look, Speaker, I don’t know how much you know about the Virtues—I’ll have some questions about that later, I promise you—but I’ve never done anything like that.”
“Nor has a first-time mother birthed a child before,” the Speaker said, giving Aaron a small smile, “yet her body knows what to do just the same. This woman carries the Virtue of Perception within her, Aaron Envelar, and if you are to do battle with the magi and his minions, you will need what gifts it provides.”
Aaron shook his head, wanting to tell the man that he could do nothing for her, but the steady, confident gaze with which the man studied him coupled with Tianya’s terrible condition decided him. “Once I get Co back from her reunion with her dad, I’ll try. I won’t promise anything, but I’ll do what I can.”
“Yes,” the Speaker said, nodding. “And that is all any man can do.”
“Well,” Aaron said, unable to take his eyes from the wretched form of the leader of the Tenders. “What now?”
“Now, I believe, we should find Lord Caltriss and Lady Evelyn, for there is much to discuss and little time in which to do it. Your companions should already be waiting for us.”
Aaron nodded, for he had been thinking much the same. If everything was going according to plan, the armies of Perennia and the other kingdoms should already be on the march toward Baresh and, with any luck, he and the others might catch up with them before they reached the city walls. “Lead on.”
***
Adina and the others were already seated when the Speaker led Aaron into the large room. A table sat at the room’s center, maps and papers scattered on its surface, and Aaron’s companions sat around it, talking quietly. When Aaron closed the door behind him, they turned, and Adina hurried toward him. “Thank the gods you’re okay,” she said, pulling him into an embrace.
“I’m alright,” Aaron said, holding her tight despite the pain that ran up his wounded arm.
Finally, after what might have been a moment or an eternity but was, either way, too short, Adina pulled back from him, looking him up and down. “I came to see you as often as they let me—they said they believed you’d be okay but…” She trailed off, tears gathering in her eyes, and Aaron cupped her face in one hand.
“I’m okay, Adina. Really.”
“Good to see the general decided to wake up from his nap, sir,” Wendell said, grinning as he came to stand beside Adina, bringing his fist to his chest in salute. “Though, if it was beauty sleep you were after, I think maybe you got up too soon.”
Aaron laughed. “You’re one to talk, you ugly bastard.” The sergeant started to say something else, but Leomin, Gryle, and Caleb rushed up to shake Aaron’s hand, and he found himself touched by how excited they all were to see him up and around. Damnit, Firefly, you’re making me soft, he thought.
Sure, Co said, her voice brimming with happiness no doubt from being reunited with her father, you’re about as soft as a razor.
Aaron paused to clear his throat, looking at each of his companions in turn. “I’m glad to see you’re all okay.”
“Yes,” Leomin said, smiling and flashing his white teeth. “And I assure you, Mr. Envelar, that we are all quite glad to be okay.”
Adina glanced to the two Akalians that had taken position on either side of the door then to the Speaker who was making his way to a chair at the head of the table, flanked by two more of the black-garbed figures. “Do you know what they want?” she asked, her voice quiet.
“A little,” Aaron said. “I think we’re about to find out more now. The man seems to know what he’s about, and I think it best we trust them. After all, if they wanted us dead they wouldn’t have even had to draw a blade to do it—Kevlane’s creatures would have done the job for them happily enough.”
“Trust?” the Parnen said, his eyes wide in mock disbelief. “This coming from Aaron Envelar, the sellsword of some ill repute who, I suspect, emerged from his mother’s womb only to scowl at her and ask her what she was on about?”
Aaron snorted. “Yes, you bastard. Now, let’s have a seat and see why we’re still alive.”
The others started toward the table, and Aaron followed after. I, also, am glad that you are alright, Co said.
I’m glad that you’re okay, too, Firefly. Now, don’t go getting all mushy on me.
I wouldn’t dream of it, the Virtue said, but he heard the amusement in her tone. Truly, though, I visited you every day.
And I thank you for it, Aaron thought back, pulling up a chair beside Adina and sitting down. Now, before you get me all weepy, let’s see what these guys have to say, why don’t we?
Very well, the Virtue responded with reluctance, but I must admit that I do so enjoy seeing you weep.
Aaron scowled at that and chose not to respond, instead turning to the Speaker of the Akalians. “Alright, we’re all here. Now, what do you want of us?”
“No,” the Speaker said, looking up at the door even as one of the Akalians stationed there motioned to him with their hands. “Not all of us have gathered, not yet, but soon, I think.” He gave the black-garbed man a nod, then the Akalian unbarred the door and swung it open.
The woman, Seline, stalked in, glancing at the two Akalians at the door with open hostility. For his part, the Speaker did an admirable job of keeping his expression calm, but Aaron saw the powerful emotions turning just beneath the surface as he watched her make her way further into the room.
“Seline?” Leomin asked in a shocked voice.
“Now then,” the Speaker said, “since we are all here—”
He’d barely gotten the words out when there was a rush of displaced air. Aaron, who’d been watching the woman, saw little more than a vague blur as she moved with an impossible speed, and when he turned back to the table he saw
that the Speaker had risen, and the woman stood directly beside him, a blade poised at his throat. Well, shit, he thought. I guess that explains where the Virtue of Speed went after Beth.
Yes, Co said, her voice worried, and she does not seem happy to be here.
Despite the blade at his throat, the Speaker’s expression remained calm, and if he felt any fear, he did not show it. “Seline,” he said in a soft voice, barely more than a whisper. “It is very good to see you.”
“Don’t you say my name, you bastard,” the woman spat. “Don’t you dare.” The two Akalians standing on either side of the table started forward, their hands going for the blades at their backs, but the Speaker motioned them away.
“It has been long since I saw you last,” he said, meeting his daughter’s gaze.
“You mean since you abandoned us?” she hissed, her hand shaking with a rage that Aaron knew all too well. “Yes, Father, it has been very long since you left me and my mother alone. Do you have any idea of what we went through? Of what we—what she suffered because of you?”
The Speaker didn’t answer, only watched her. “Answer me damn you!” she screamed, jerking the knife closer, and a line of blood formed on the Akalian’s throat.
Aaron jumped up from his chair. “Just hold on a damn minute,” he said. “Just re—”
“Stay out of this,” she said. “I don’t know what lies he’s told you, but this man is a monster. The cruelties he’s done, that he’s allowed to be done—one such as him deserves to be killed.”
Aaron held up his hands, showing her that he meant no harm. “Maybe he is a monster and maybe he isn’t, but either way, you would have been dead without him and the other Akalians.” He gestured around the room. “We all would have. And I might know more than you think.”
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