“But she isn’t here,” Thom said, gritting his teeth.
“No. She ain’t. But she ain’t dead either, and neither are we, not yet. There’s still time for this ship to right itself, Thom, but you gettin’ yourself killed ain’t going to help nobody.”
Thom sighed. “I hear you, Blunderfoot. I do, but I won’t sit back and watch her die, that much I promise you.”
“None of us are,” Balen said, squeezing the man’s shoulder. “You know that. Now, why don’t you go on below decks and check on Michael and Bastion?”
Thom scowled. “Alright, but we ain’t done talkin’ about this.”
“No. No, I don’t expect we are.”
Balen and Captain Festa watched the first mate shuffle toward the stairs, looking as if he’d aged twenty years during their conversation. “You think he’ll be alright, Captain?”
Festa grunted. “If I got anythin’ to say about it he will be, I’ll tell you that much.” He turned and bellowed at two nearby sailors, “Eric, Pater, get over here!”
The two men hurried up, but Balen didn’t miss the nervous expressions that appeared on their faces before they managed to banish them. “Yes sir?” one asked.
“Eric, I want you to go into town and find the swordmaster, Darrell. You know the man I mean?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good. He might not be too easy to track down—the gods know the queen’s soldiers haven’t managed it yet, though I suppose that ain’t sayin’ much. Stuffin’ their heads in those tin cans like they do, it’s a wonder they can see to take a piss. Anyhow, find him and tell him that whatever he needs from me to help our mutual friend, he’s got it. Let him know we’ll be here when he needs us.”
“Yes, Captain,” the man said, then he started away at a jog.
“Eric,” Festa yelled, and the man stopped and turned. “Find him, you understand? And if I learn you been lookin’ for him in a whore’s bed, I’ll make sure it’s the last one you’ll ever need visit. Ain’t no part of a man can’t be taken off with enough determination, you hearin’ me?”
The sailor swallowed hard. “Yes sir.” Then he was off again, running faster than what Balen thought was strictly necessary.
Balen glanced at Festa in surprise, and was about to say something, when the captain went on. “Pater, I want you to visit some of the city’s taverns,” the man’s eyes lit up noticeably at that, and Festa frowned. “Go ahead and have yourself a drink, if you’ve a mind, but no more than one, for if you draw any attention to yourself I’ll use you for practice for the operation I intend for Eric, should he fuck it up.” The sailor sobered at that, his face growing pale. Festa studied him for a moment, then, apparently deciding the man was properly chastised, he continued. “You go find you some of the queen’s soldiers—I gotta think they catch quite a thirst walkin’ around in those ovens all day. You chat ‘em up good and find out all you can about where they’re keepin’ the lady May. Make a friend—Pater, shit, make a few of ‘em. You clear?”
“He makes friends easy enough, Cap!” another sailor—Balen couldn’t help but notice he was well out of throwing range if Festa decided something needed throwing—yelled. “You can ask Benjy’s sister about that.”
Another sailor—Benjy, Balen assumed—snarled and gave a scowl at Pater that said the one who’d shouted wasn’t just yelling nonsense, and whatever wound he’d exposed wasn’t healed quite yet.
For his part, Pater’s face went a deep shade of red. “It was only the one time, Cap,” he said to the frowning Festa, “and I didn’t know it was his sister, honest to the gods. She was—”
“I don’t give a damn what she was, or if she was Nalesh, the Father of the Gods, own sister, Pater. Far as I’m concerned, you can swab her deck all you want to, on your own time—though seems to me Benjy might have a bit to say about it. But on your own time, you understand?” The sailor nodded, risking a glance at the still scowling Benjy before deciding that, between the two, Festa was less likely to kill him out of hand just now, and turned back. “If you fuck this up, Pater,” the captain went on, “I’ll make what Benjy aims to do to you look like a holiday by comparison. Now, get your ass on before I decide to send him with you.”
The sailor took off at a run, and Balen watched him go, amused and confused all at once. He turned back to Festa who was staring after the man, a troubled frown on his face. “I thought you told Thom you weren’t going to help.”
The captain hocked and spat. “And probably we won’t be no help at all, Blunderfoot, so it weren’t no lie. Like as not we’ll all end up gettin’ our fool asses killed, buried in some field full of worms and what all, and wouldn’t the Sea Bitch be pissed off about that? Anyway…” He shrugged, fidgeting uncomfortably, an embarrassed expression on the his face. “Thom’s a good man, a good mate, and that woman of his is filled with fire to match her hair—a good match for that old bastard, if ever there was one. Had my way, I’d keep her around just for the way she makes him squirm.”
He grunted a harsh laugh at that then glanced to where Balen stared at him with open surprise and more than a little gratitude on his face. “Well?” the captain demanded. “What the fuck you lookin’ at, Blunderfoot? If you ain’t got nothin’ to keep you busy while your own Captain Leomin’s off on holiday wherever the shit he went, I imagine I can find you somethin’.”
“No sir, Captain,” Balen said quickly, but he was unable to keep the smile from his face, “I suppose there are some things I need to be about.”
Festa gave a sour snort. “Well then?” he said. “Get on about it, Balen, ‘fore I decide to throw your grinnin’ ass overboard.”
Balen laughed. “Yes sir, Captain. And…Captain?”
Festa raised an eyebrow, and more than ever he reminded Balen of some great big bear, hard and temperamental, but kind enough when it came to her cubs. “Just wanted to say…you’re a good man. Sir.”
Festa barked a laugh. “Gods forbid,” he said. “Now, get on Balen before people start believin’ your bullshit, and I have to kill half my crew to convince ‘em otherwise.”
“Yes sir,” Balen said, bowing his head, but he didn’t miss the slow, pleased smile that rose on the captain’s face before he turned and hurried away.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Her face was soft and peaceful in her sleep, and from time to time she made almost imperceptible, contented sounds in her throat. Whatever dream she dreamed, it was not the visions plaguing Aaron, that much was sure.
The sellsword stood in the doorway of Adina’s room, a storm of emotion raging inside him. It should have made him feel better, to see her there, peaceful and safe, but it did not, for the image of her lying in the street, begging her killer—begging him—to stop was not so easily banished.
He had thought—had hoped—that the irrepressible rage created by his bond with the Virtue had been quelled, that he had somehow mastered it. A fool’s hope that had turned out to be, and he needed only remember how he’d felt in the clearing when facing Kevlane’s creatures, thirsting for slaughter, to know it. And according to the Speaker, the rage wasn’t the fault of his bond with Co at all, not really, but a fault within himself.
He wanted to argue, to tell the Speaker he was wrong, a fool, but he found that he could not. After all, had anger not been the driving force of his life for as long as he could remember, ever since his parents were murdered? He saw now that it had been. He had thought that, perhaps, by stepping into the light, by finding those people for whom he’d grown to care so deeply, that he had somehow slain that beast within him, had somehow vanquished the fury that had controlled him. He had been wrong. And his vision, as brutal as it had been, had been a much needed reminder of the truth of that.
It had been nice, believing he could be a man who loved and was loved, to imagine there was a world, a future, in which he could become a man of peace, one who was known for more than just his ability to kill. But as nice as the dream had been, it was only that, for though even monsters
might, from time to time, step out of the shadows to feel the sun upon their skin, that did not change what they were, who they were.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, though whether he spoke to himself, to Adina’s sleeping form, or the world in its entirety, he could not have truly said.
But Aaron, Co said, you have done nothing for which you must apologize. They love you. She loves you.
And that is, perhaps, my worst sin, Firefly. There are insects whose shape and features allow them to blend in to the world around them, to look like a leaf or a twig, and it isn’t until their victims draw close enough, sure of their safety, that such creatures strike.
And you think that you are like those insects, then? Co demanded.
Yes. I did not set out to be, but then neither did those creatures—they are, in the end, only as nature made them. I have seen such insects when they turn on their unsuspecting prey, Firefly, and it has always seemed to me that the ones doing the killing are often as surprised as those being killed. For a time, we monsters think we can be just a leaf, can be only a good man, but the truth of what we are asserts itself, sooner or later.
Then become something better, Co said. If you believe yourself to be a monster, Aaron, then change. And if you want to speak of insects, then what of caterpillars and butterflies? Or do you only pick and choose your truths to suit you?
Aaron frowned. “Change?” he whispered. He considered that then finally shook his head. “I don’t know how.”
Yes, you do.
Through the bond they shared, Aaron knew the meaning of her words, and he grunted. “You mean Tianya.”
Yes. She is one who has caused you nothing but pain and grief, yet you have a chance now to help her, to bring her back from that world of darkness she has erected around herself. You can save her, Aaron. It would be a mercy for her, but for you as well.
Aaron nearly laughed out loud at that, would have, had he not been aware of Adina sleeping peacefully only feet away. Save her? Firefly, I can’t even save myself, and whatever world she has made for herself, I would be doing her no favors to rip her from it—even if I could—only to bring her into mine. That would be no mercy. There is always a darker place.
And always a light with which one might banish the darkness.
Aaron sighed. They’re nice words, but that doesn’t make them true. If pretty words ruled the world, Firefly, then poets and philosophers would be kings and treated as such instead of spending their hours in dusty libraries reading through moldy books and writing words that only a few—if any—bother to read.
So what then? the Virtue demanded. If you’re a monster then will you go and fight for Kevlane? Will you make your vision a reality in truth and kill all those who depend on you?
“Of course not!” Aaron growled, and Adina rolled over in the bed. He winced. “I’d never do that, and you know it,” he said, keeping his voice lower. “I’d never—”
Exactly, the Virtue said. You’d never. The vision was only a projection of your own fears, nothing more. You are no monster, Aaron, unless you choose to be. Monsters are not born—they are made. If our dealings with Kevlane have taught you nothing else, they should have taught you that. Now, are you done feeling sorry for yourself, or do I need to slap you to make your brain start working?
Aaron grunted, surprised by the grin that rose on his features. Slap me, eh? That’d be a trick considering you have no arms.
And most of the time I’m sure you have no brains, so yes I imagine it would be tricky indeed. They need you, Aaron—not a man too scared of what he might do to do anything, but a leader, a friend who will walk before them and show them the way.
And if I get us all lost? If I fail?
Then we were lost already so what difference would it make? And if you fail—though I am confident you will not—then you will not be the first. Good men fail as much as evil men, Aaron. But good men try.
Aaron watched Adina sleeping, thought of Gryle, Leomin, and Caleb, even of Sergeant Wendell and the Speaker’s daughter, Seline. He thought of all those thousands back in Perennia who did not flee despite the threat they faced, of all those hundreds of thousands throughout the world,few of whom knew how close they stood to destruction. He could tell himself that there were other, better men who should be in his place, and he knew it was true, but they weren’t there to take it, so what difference did that make? Good men try. He took a deep breath and let it out. “Alright,” he said, turning away from the princess’s room. “Let’s go see Tianya.”
***
The Akalians had obviously done what they could to take care of the wielder of the Virtue of Perception, cleaning the walls and feeding her, but for all that there was a slight odor of sickness in the room. He walked to the side of the bed where the woman lay, her eyes open but seeing nothing, her wrists and ankles still manacled. He studied her, frowning. He had only seen her a day before, yet it seemed to him that she had somehow withered in that time, as if whatever madness infected her was eating away at her body with each passing moment. “She’s dying.”
Yes, the Virtue answered. Hers is a sickness not just of the body but of the spirit.
Her voice was full of sympathy for the woman, and despite the fact that Tianya had done her level best to have Aaron and his companions killed, he found himself sharing it. After all, Tianya may have acted like a fool, but she’d had good intentions, however misguided her actions might have been. And how many could actually claim even that much? Not Aaron himself certainly—or, at least, not for the majority of his life.
We are what we choose to be, he reminded himself. “What do I do?” he said. “I don’t know how to help her, Co. Somehow, I don’t think a rousing speech is going to be much use here.”
“You must touch her,” the Virtue responded. “That will be a link enough for you—for us—to travel into her mind. But Aaron…” The Virtue hesitated before continuing. “There is danger.”
The sellsword grunted. “Of course there is,” he muttered. “Like maybe she’ll break loose of her bonds and decide that killing me is still the best option.”
“No, you don’t understand,” Co answered. “It is more than that. When you open yourself to her feelings, her emotions, you will become part of her world, her madness. There is no telling what threats may present themselves in such a place. You might…become lost.”
Aaron didn’t much care for the sound of that, but he only nodded, staring at the skeletal woman in the bed. Losing her Tenders, those she had led, had been too much for her, and she had chosen madness instead. He owed her nothing, and if he somehow did manage to save her, she would most likely thank him for it with a knife in the back. All that aside, there was apparently a very real chance that he would fail and be stuck in whatever nightmare world she found herself in—not exactly a pleasant thought. Good men try.
He sighed heavily. “You better not make me regret this,” he said to the senseless woman. Then he reached out his hand, gathering the power of the bond around him. And he touched her.
***
It felt as if he were plummeting through space. Wind buffeted him as if in an effort to push him away, to drive out the unwelcome stranger who had come to its world. Darkness gathered around him as if trying to smother him. And he fell. He saw nothing, and he heard nothing but the wind in his ears, felt nothing but the touch of the darkness, tangible and somehow greasy, unclean.
The darkness was more complete than any he’d ever experienced, without even the vaguest hint of light to give the world shape or substance. Yet, for all that, he felt despair well up in him, a terrible, crippling sense of loss, for which he had no explanation. He cried out in surprised pain as talons—shaped from grief and self-loathing—tore at him from out of the shadows. And he fell.
A second could have passed, or an eternity, for time had no meaning in that place of darkness and despair. It was if he existed inside a void, one which held no future, no present or past. In such a place, nothing seemed real at all, and so
on he began to feel as if he was not even real himself, could almost feel himself drifting apart in the persistent rush of wind, pieces of him falling away like tattered rags from a beggar’s cloak.
He began to feel light-headed, his limbs growing numb as if from cold, and still the talons reached out of the shadows, pulling at him, tearing at him. No matter how he flailed in an effort to defend himself, the talons—and those to whom they belonged—always seemed just out of his reach.
You must hold on to yourself, Aaron, the Virtue said, a desperation in her voice he didn’t like. You are being torn apart.
“Yeah,” Aaron said through gritted teeth, the word falling dead into the air as if the sound even of his voice was somehow dampened, weakened, in this place. “Got a…knack for pointing out the obvious, don’t you, Firefly?” Another clawed hand shot out, another piece of him fell away, and Aaron gave a shout of anger, reaching for the offending limb only for his grasp to come up empty, holding darkness and nothing more.
Her world, her despair, asserts itself. You must hold on to who you are. You must keep yourself!
“And just how the fuck do I do that?” Aaron snapped, swinging his arm wildly in a vain effort to keep his unseen attackers at bay. Another piece of him was snatched away, this one bigger than those that had come before it, and he felt some of his unease fall away as a great hopelessness settled over him like a cloak. There was no point in fighting. The darkness would consume the world just the same—had already consumed it, and what light remained was only an echo, only the final, dying spark from a campfire that had long since been snuffed out.
You must remind yourself, Co screamed, and even her voice seemed smothered and weak, as if it came from a great distant away, you are Aaron Envelar. Say it!
“I’m…Aaron Envelar,” he said past lips that had grown numb from some inner cold, but the words held little feeling, little meaning.
A Sellsword's Mercy Page 15