chapter thirteen
Laen Abor sat on the floor brooding in the sputtering torchlight, cradling Garth Vencher's head and quietly, aimlessly offering variously whispered words of encouragement to the man who had saved his life... if only for a short while. He was thinking of another man who had saved his life, momentarily, and where he might be, or whether he yet lived. Victorious! How it must have broken your heart so to turn your back on your country, on my behalf. On Garth's behalf. May the Five Fathers look after you! Laen winced at the thought of so much courage, and so much blood. On his account.
Two guards stood nervously at either side of the door to this small, cellar room. Bern and Traclin. And well might they be nervous. They had received conflicting orders, to either kill or preserve Laen until either Victorious or Jon Rever should return. The two had literally left, barking their own orders over their shoulders, in the midst of a horrible duel. Laen shuddered at the memory of Victorious, a man of no light prowess on the battlefield, so easily driven back by the impossible assault of the Rider's sword. For a moment it could have gone either way, until thankfully Sergeant Gorgos made his will known that, though Rever claimed to outrank Captain Difont, he had known and served with Captain Difont for seven winters, and had scarcely known this Rider for twice that many moments before the fighting broke out. He would honor his Captain's command, be it his last and without regard to consequence, and with his leveled gaze bade his companions and subordinates to do likewise.
To a man, if not to a man gracefully, they did. So Gorgos and Eolsan took watch outside the door, leaving Laen and the captives with Bern and Traclin here, almost visibly shaking with equal parts hope, that their Captain would return to vindicate them, and fear that Rever would be back and greatly displeased to find that his will had been so defied.
Defied. Denied. He died. Laen shook his head and sent all thoughts of dying away. He looked over at the two Magicians slumped against the wall to his right. They were quietly speaking to one another, often pausing so long that one might think the conversation ended, until one would again lean to the other and continue in their hushed tones. Laen had inspected their wounds and found most of them to be quite superficial. Rever certainly intended to deliver his prize to Godii alive, though how he proposed to leave Siguard City with a Magician under wraps he had yet to explain. Did he intend to sing his way back out, as he had gained entrance?
"Sing wherever you are." That had been his father's favorite saying. Daril Abor had precious few maxims to impart upon his family, but that had been one Laen had always remembered. Sing wherever you are. He looked down at Garth's slackjawed gaze and passed along his father's wisdom. "Garth." Garth did not respond at first, then finally sputtered out again the same question he'd been asking since Vicky and Rever had tumbled out the door. "Not yet, Garth, not yet. Soon. Help will arrive. Until then," Laen closed his eyes and a tear rolled down his cheek. Ashamed at his weakness, when so many around him were so strong, he patted Garth's bare chest gently, and said, "Sing wherever you are, Garth. Sing wherever you are."
Laen then wiped his hand on his tunic, across the jellied, half-dried blood of similar vain attempts at cleanliness, and looked at the third Magician, huddled in the corner. This one sat, as he had since Laen first entered the cellar this morning, eyes fixed on Garth. He seemed oblivious to the pool of blood and bile--all his own, if the stains on his once blue cloak and the recurring fits of wretching were any indication--and behaved as one stricken mad to the point of silence. A pity Rever had already left. Beyond a doubt, if there was anything to Rever's idea of a ruse concerning yesterday's Celebration, here was the Father of the Krysli. The other two Magicians huddled close together and seemed largely undisturbed by their ordeal, matching all Laen had ever observed of these strange people and their flat, unperturbed view of the world. This one here was all wrong, and the other two made no indication he was part of their world. He was different. Hence, he was the Lord of the Krysli. Who else would be so consumed at one brave man's refusal to name him as such, to sit as one touched among his own blood and refuse, surpassing all attempts at conversation?
The room stank of his guilt. He could have stepped forward, and then Garth--
Laen shook his head and rehearsed again what he would say, should Siguardian's come through that door. Not because it was a lie, but because, a lifelong liar, it took a lot of practice to recite accounts honestly without undue embellishment. This truth had to be good. No, better yet, "Bern! Attend, man. It may be that Siguardians will come first through that door. Whatever account shall we give of ourselves?"
Bern looked at him curiously, as one roused from a daydream, and tilted his head slightly to one side. "Sir?"
"Nevermind. It is I who must give the account, and I'd better give it well and fair. No harm rehearsing, right? So here it is. You're a Siguardian thor, or maybe even a soldier. Ask me now, 'What is the meaning of this?' Try it now." Bern looked across at his comrade, then back to Laen, licking his lips. "Oh nevermind, let's pretend you pretended." Soldiers and guards, military men of all ilk, were possessed of very little imagination as a rule, Laen had observed. Just look at Vicky--
Laen winced, cooed a few more words of support to Garth, and looked back up. "Sir, thank goodness you're here! My office was commandeered by a secret agent of Godii, a corrupt man, who took three Magicians and this good man here," at this, another tear streamed down his cheek, unrehearsed. "Took them prisoner and practiced all manner of torture and interrogation, without my knowledge and against all the virtue and law of our People's Charter. Upon discovering his madness, I moved quickly to intercede and make known my desire to see such base villainy ceased at once." Laen paused. Very well, he hadn't moved all that quickly, and had rather pleaded than commanded, but this was his version of the truth. Not Traclin's, who just rolled his eyes ever so slightly, not the two Magicians, who had stopped talking to listen attentively. Laen's. Much more colorful at least.
"When Agent Rever refused, I moved bodily to stop him." Stop rolling your eyes, Traclin. Has it occurred to you that just maybe, we just might get out of this alive and well, and I will again be in command? Oh, the lovely chores I will find for you should we prove so fortunate. "He threw me down despite my best efforts, and turned his blade upon me. That was when..." Laen snorted because if he hadn't he would have burst into tears. When he and the Embassy Guard had come down to check on the prisoners, the sight that met them was truly horrifying. The three Magicians sat with hands bound against the left-hand wall, while in the middle, laid out on the uneven rock floor, Garth Vencher silently suffered a torture of the most extreme nature. Jon Rever huddled over him with a curiously slender curved dagger, and seemed to be carving some mad, ornate painting into Garth's bare flesh with it. Several, sopping, dull red rags and two buckets, one full and one half so, indicated that he had been at this for several hours, perhaps all night. So much for last night's assurance that the interrogation would begin in the morning.
Laen would never forget the sight. Garth Vencher, carved to the brink of death, and three live Magicians, the clearest possible indication that he had said not a word under this cruel punishment. Even as Rever addressed them without looking up, as to a man they stood in the doorway in shock, he carved a new intricate path, almost but not quite connecting several previous scores into the Siguardian's midsection. He carefully mopped up the blood which slowly oozed forth with one of his rags, and mumbled something to Garth. Garth looked once at Laen in a way he would never be able to adequately describe, teeth clenched, pale white, looked back up at the ceiling and gently shook his head.
Laen looked down at Garth now in the dim light. His teeth were still clenched, and as Laen rocked him gently, he seemed to still be shaking his head in calm defiance. Such courage and fidelity exceeded Laen completely, and he loved this giant man. Another tear, now from his right eye, spilled forth to betray his weakness. He blinked several times and cleared his throat.
"That was when Sir Garth Vencher bravely summoned forth the strength to intercede on my behalf, grasping Agent Rever's leg and throwing him to the ground." And the sound that came from Garth's belly, as myriad pieces of a mighty soldier connected now only by threads gave way at once, was terrible to hear. And the blood, so much blood. Laen shook his head again, and looked up with bright, wet eyes. "Thus sparing my life, as you shall see. Agent Rever responded by plunging his blade deep into Sir Vencher's stomach. I would have stopped him if I could. Here is the dagger." Laen held it up. It was a strange blade, like nothing one would see in a soldier's kit. The blade was impossibly sharp and fine. It resembled much more an instrument a healer might use, when herbs and lore failed to cure. Laen set it back down beside him and forgot to continue. That was when he noticed that the Magicians were still listening intently. Not to him, it seemed. What exactly did they hear?
Soon Laen and the guards were listening as well. Only the mad Magician, who continued to stare mindlessly at Garth, and Garth, who continued to ooze slowly into the many rags and makeshift bandages Laen had applied, were unaffected. Everyone else was suddenly seeming aware of something in the air. Almost a hum.
Laen ducked his head instinctively at the horrible sound of violence far above, shaking the walls of the cellar. What was that?
"The doors," Bern offered simply, to no one in particular.
All eyes focused on the door. Outside, Gorgos and Eoslan would surely give battle, should Rever return. Out of the corner of his eye, Laen caught one of the two Magicians nodding toward the other. Laen didn't know whether or not he should take comfort in that. Then all senses were again trained on the shabby, crooked door. Laen realized with a start that Traclin, who wore no helm, looked possessed. His hair was standing nearly straight up. Laen felt a fiery tingling race across his body, looked quickly about the room and even down at poor, unseeing Garth, and saw that everyone's hair was on end. Likely his was, as well. Something was coming down the corridor.
Laen knew an instant before the door blew open in fiery ruin, barely keeping hold of its rusted hinges. He could see now, clearly, in his mind's eye, her fiery descent upon the embassy, no doubt taking stock of the battle between Victorious and Rever, or mending its aftermath. Then her blazened passage lighting the cellar's haunts with a fire they'd never before seen, coming at last to two soldiers standing before a door. He hoped they'd had the sense to stand aside.
Of all the persons who might have been first through this door, how fitting that it would be she. Laen, who considered himself a hopeless romantic, was heartened despite the circumstances. Of course, it should be none other than Lida Vianna who would enter the room now. And so it was.
Laen had never seen her this close, ablaze. To see a creature that could easily bring down the entire embassy with a thought, who was usually aloft and soaring high with the ecstasy of her power, simply walking with deliberate, dreadful stride, almost invisible amidst the blinding brilliance of silver fire, was beyond surreal. It was unimaginable that such a beautiful, dangerous being would simply walk.
A voice of fire and doom filled the room. "Be not afraid. The Rider is slain. Victorious of Godii yet lives. We have received some account of what has transpired here." She stood before Laen and he could scarcely breathe as he looked up at her. He realized he was holding the dagger in his right hand, even as his left cradled Garth's head. He was still rocking the giant soldier on his knee. Oh, how this must look. Laen of Godii, holding the blade that--
And without warning, the light was gone, and Lida Vianna fell to her knees across from him, eyes taking in the horror of Garth's mutilated body without discernible emotion. She placed one hand upon his disfigured chest, then upon his cheek, leaving a delicate, red hand-print. Her voice was as he remembered now, or as close as might be expected. "Has he asked?" She looked at Laen now, and he realized he would do just about anything for those eyes. "Has he asked you?"
"Yes, milady." Laen bowed his head and looked upon Garth's unseeing eyes. He didn't even know that his Lida was here now at his side. "Repeatedly."
"And you denied him?" Her voice was full of dark suggestion.
"Milady, I could not. Not," Laen thought about it, and decided he agreed with what he thought. He braved her eyes once more. "Not as long as there was a chance. A chance that you would come. That he might see you," Laen swallowed back a tear, "one more time. I know," his voice began to quiver, "I know that you two were close." Close. Something Laen knew almost nothing about. Finally it was too much. He crumbled and cried, fully exposed before Krysli, Magician, and soldier, crying like a little boy, scarcely able to speak between sobs. "He saved my life!" He was only vaguely aware that he was wailing, and twirling Garth's hair with his left hand as he rocked him. "He was dying, he was dying and he didn't care and he didn't even like me but he saved my life! Ahh!"
Lida leaned forward and kissed Laen on the cheek, as she might kiss a little boy who had scraped his knee. "Shhh. It's alright, Laen of Godii. You will grieve, we shall all grieve, but now is not the time." She stroked his hair away from his wet, open-mouthed supplication. "His eyes no longer see, his ears no longer hear. He is far gone, yet suffers still. Grant him his wish. It was you he asked it of. So he shows you his honor and his respect for you." She rose, and with the tiniest shudder, turned away. "You must grant him the Red Hand. Release him, Laen. Show him your love," her voice faltered for an instant, and her proud back shook once, then no more. "Even though he no longer has eyes to see it." Then she walked across the room, past guards stunned into mute bewilderment, and into the hallway beyond.
Laen wailed in sheer misery for several tortured heartbeats after her. Words could no longer be articulated. At last, he settled into a low, ominous keening. Lida stood there, in the hall with her back to him, waiting. Long moments passed, until finally, remembering Garth's courage, Laen gripped the dagger, stared at it, stared at Garth's blank stare, looked away, then grimaced and looked back, and--
Outside, Lida Vianna fell to her knees with her head in her hands. Krysli no longer, Councilor no longer, but a woman; no more frail and mortal then anyone present, yet no less either, and softly cried her farewell to Garth Vencher. Then she rose swiftly and was gone as if she had never been there.
Two guards stood nervously at either side of the door to this small, cellar room. Bern and Traclin. And well might they be nervous. They had received conflicting orders, to either kill or preserve Laen until either Victorious or Jon Rever should return. The two had literally left, barking their own orders over their shoulders, in the midst of a horrible duel. Laen shuddered at the memory of Victorious, a man of no light prowess on the battlefield, so easily driven back by the impossible assault of the Rider's sword. For a moment it could have gone either way, until thankfully Sergeant Gorgos made his will known that, though Rever claimed to outrank Captain Difont, he had known and served with Captain Difont for seven winters, and had scarcely known this Rider for twice that many moments before the fighting broke out. He would honor his Captain's command, be it his last and without regard to consequence, and with his leveled gaze bade his companions and subordinates to do likewise.
To a man, if not to a man gracefully, they did. So Gorgos and Eolsan took watch outside the door, leaving Laen and the captives with Bern and Traclin here, almost visibly shaking with equal parts hope, that their Captain would return to vindicate them, and fear that Rever would be back and greatly displeased to find that his will had been so defied.
Defied. Denied. He died. Laen shook his head and sent all thoughts of dying away. He looked over at the two Magicians slumped against the wall to his right. They were quietly speaking to one another, often pausing so long that one might think the conversation ended, until one would again lean to the other and continue in their hushed tones. Laen had inspected their wounds and found most of them to be quite superficial. Rever certainly intended to deliver his prize to Godii alive, though how he proposed to leave Siguard City with a Magician under wraps he had yet to explain. Did he intend to sing his way back out, as he had gained entrance?
"Sing wherever you are." That had been his father's favorite saying. Daril Abor had precious few maxims to impart upon his family, but that had been one Laen had always remembered. Sing wherever you are. He looked down at Garth's slackjawed gaze and passed along his father's wisdom. "Garth." Garth did not respond at first, then finally sputtered out again the same question he'd been asking since Vicky and Rever had tumbled out the door. "Not yet, Garth, not yet. Soon. Help will arrive. Until then," Laen closed his eyes and a tear rolled down his cheek. Ashamed at his weakness, when so many around him were so strong, he patted Garth's bare chest gently, and said, "Sing wherever you are, Garth. Sing wherever you are."
Laen then wiped his hand on his tunic, across the jellied, half-dried blood of similar vain attempts at cleanliness, and looked at the third Magician, huddled in the corner. This one sat, as he had since Laen first entered the cellar this morning, eyes fixed on Garth. He seemed oblivious to the pool of blood and bile--all his own, if the stains on his once blue cloak and the recurring fits of wretching were any indication--and behaved as one stricken mad to the point of silence. A pity Rever had already left. Beyond a doubt, if there was anything to Rever's idea of a ruse concerning yesterday's Celebration, here was the Father of the Krysli. The other two Magicians huddled close together and seemed largely undisturbed by their ordeal, matching all Laen had ever observed of these strange people and their flat, unperturbed view of the world. This one here was all wrong, and the other two made no indication he was part of their world. He was different. Hence, he was the Lord of the Krysli. Who else would be so consumed at one brave man's refusal to name him as such, to sit as one touched among his own blood and refuse, surpassing all attempts at conversation?
The room stank of his guilt. He could have stepped forward, and then Garth--
Laen shook his head and rehearsed again what he would say, should Siguardian's come through that door. Not because it was a lie, but because, a lifelong liar, it took a lot of practice to recite accounts honestly without undue embellishment. This truth had to be good. No, better yet, "Bern! Attend, man. It may be that Siguardians will come first through that door. Whatever account shall we give of ourselves?"
Bern looked at him curiously, as one roused from a daydream, and tilted his head slightly to one side. "Sir?"
"Nevermind. It is I who must give the account, and I'd better give it well and fair. No harm rehearsing, right? So here it is. You're a Siguardian thor, or maybe even a soldier. Ask me now, 'What is the meaning of this?' Try it now." Bern looked across at his comrade, then back to Laen, licking his lips. "Oh nevermind, let's pretend you pretended." Soldiers and guards, military men of all ilk, were possessed of very little imagination as a rule, Laen had observed. Just look at Vicky--
Laen winced, cooed a few more words of support to Garth, and looked back up. "Sir, thank goodness you're here! My office was commandeered by a secret agent of Godii, a corrupt man, who took three Magicians and this good man here," at this, another tear streamed down his cheek, unrehearsed. "Took them prisoner and practiced all manner of torture and interrogation, without my knowledge and against all the virtue and law of our People's Charter. Upon discovering his madness, I moved quickly to intercede and make known my desire to see such base villainy ceased at once." Laen paused. Very well, he hadn't moved all that quickly, and had rather pleaded than commanded, but this was his version of the truth. Not Traclin's, who just rolled his eyes ever so slightly, not the two Magicians, who had stopped talking to listen attentively. Laen's. Much more colorful at least.
"When Agent Rever refused, I moved bodily to stop him." Stop rolling your eyes, Traclin. Has it occurred to you that just maybe, we just might get out of this alive and well, and I will again be in command? Oh, the lovely chores I will find for you should we prove so fortunate. "He threw me down despite my best efforts, and turned his blade upon me. That was when..." Laen snorted because if he hadn't he would have burst into tears. When he and the Embassy Guard had come down to check on the prisoners, the sight that met them was truly horrifying. The three Magicians sat with hands bound against the left-hand wall, while in the middle, laid out on the uneven rock floor, Garth Vencher silently suffered a torture of the most extreme nature. Jon Rever huddled over him with a curiously slender curved dagger, and seemed to be carving some mad, ornate painting into Garth's bare flesh with it. Several, sopping, dull red rags and two buckets, one full and one half so, indicated that he had been at this for several hours, perhaps all night. So much for last night's assurance that the interrogation would begin in the morning.
Laen would never forget the sight. Garth Vencher, carved to the brink of death, and three live Magicians, the clearest possible indication that he had said not a word under this cruel punishment. Even as Rever addressed them without looking up, as to a man they stood in the doorway in shock, he carved a new intricate path, almost but not quite connecting several previous scores into the Siguardian's midsection. He carefully mopped up the blood which slowly oozed forth with one of his rags, and mumbled something to Garth. Garth looked once at Laen in a way he would never be able to adequately describe, teeth clenched, pale white, looked back up at the ceiling and gently shook his head.
Laen looked down at Garth now in the dim light. His teeth were still clenched, and as Laen rocked him gently, he seemed to still be shaking his head in calm defiance. Such courage and fidelity exceeded Laen completely, and he loved this giant man. Another tear, now from his right eye, spilled forth to betray his weakness. He blinked several times and cleared his throat.
"That was when Sir Garth Vencher bravely summoned forth the strength to intercede on my behalf, grasping Agent Rever's leg and throwing him to the ground." And the sound that came from Garth's belly, as myriad pieces of a mighty soldier connected now only by threads gave way at once, was terrible to hear. And the blood, so much blood. Laen shook his head again, and looked up with bright, wet eyes. "Thus sparing my life, as you shall see. Agent Rever responded by plunging his blade deep into Sir Vencher's stomach. I would have stopped him if I could. Here is the dagger." Laen held it up. It was a strange blade, like nothing one would see in a soldier's kit. The blade was impossibly sharp and fine. It resembled much more an instrument a healer might use, when herbs and lore failed to cure. Laen set it back down beside him and forgot to continue. That was when he noticed that the Magicians were still listening intently. Not to him, it seemed. What exactly did they hear?
Soon Laen and the guards were listening as well. Only the mad Magician, who continued to stare mindlessly at Garth, and Garth, who continued to ooze slowly into the many rags and makeshift bandages Laen had applied, were unaffected. Everyone else was suddenly seeming aware of something in the air. Almost a hum.
Laen ducked his head instinctively at the horrible sound of violence far above, shaking the walls of the cellar. What was that?
"The doors," Bern offered simply, to no one in particular.
All eyes focused on the door. Outside, Gorgos and Eoslan would surely give battle, should Rever return. Out of the corner of his eye, Laen caught one of the two Magicians nodding toward the other. Laen didn't know whether or not he should take comfort in that. Then all senses were again trained on the shabby, crooked door. Laen realized with a start that Traclin, who wore no helm, looked possessed. His hair was standing nearly straight up. Laen felt a fiery tingling race across his body, looked quickly about the room and even down at poor, unseeing Garth, and saw that everyone's hair was on end. Likely his was, as well. Something was coming down the corridor.
Laen knew an instant before the door blew open in fiery ruin, barely keeping hold of its rusted hinges. He could see now, clearly, in his mind's eye, her fiery descent upon the embassy, no doubt taking stock of the battle between Victorious and Rever, or mending its aftermath. Then her blazened passage lighting the cellar's haunts with a fire they'd never before seen, coming at last to two soldiers standing before a door. He hoped they'd had the sense to stand aside.
Of all the persons who might have been first through this door, how fitting that it would be she. Laen, who considered himself a hopeless romantic, was heartened despite the circumstances. Of course, it should be none other than Lida Vianna who would enter the room now. And so it was.
Laen had never seen her this close, ablaze. To see a creature that could easily bring down the entire embassy with a thought, who was usually aloft and soaring high with the ecstasy of her power, simply walking with deliberate, dreadful stride, almost invisible amidst the blinding brilliance of silver fire, was beyond surreal. It was unimaginable that such a beautiful, dangerous being would simply walk.
A voice of fire and doom filled the room. "Be not afraid. The Rider is slain. Victorious of Godii yet lives. We have received some account of what has transpired here." She stood before Laen and he could scarcely breathe as he looked up at her. He realized he was holding the dagger in his right hand, even as his left cradled Garth's head. He was still rocking the giant soldier on his knee. Oh, how this must look. Laen of Godii, holding the blade that--
And without warning, the light was gone, and Lida Vianna fell to her knees across from him, eyes taking in the horror of Garth's mutilated body without discernible emotion. She placed one hand upon his disfigured chest, then upon his cheek, leaving a delicate, red hand-print. Her voice was as he remembered now, or as close as might be expected. "Has he asked?" She looked at Laen now, and he realized he would do just about anything for those eyes. "Has he asked you?"
"Yes, milady." Laen bowed his head and looked upon Garth's unseeing eyes. He didn't even know that his Lida was here now at his side. "Repeatedly."
"And you denied him?" Her voice was full of dark suggestion.
"Milady, I could not. Not," Laen thought about it, and decided he agreed with what he thought. He braved her eyes once more. "Not as long as there was a chance. A chance that you would come. That he might see you," Laen swallowed back a tear, "one more time. I know," his voice began to quiver, "I know that you two were close." Close. Something Laen knew almost nothing about. Finally it was too much. He crumbled and cried, fully exposed before Krysli, Magician, and soldier, crying like a little boy, scarcely able to speak between sobs. "He saved my life!" He was only vaguely aware that he was wailing, and twirling Garth's hair with his left hand as he rocked him. "He was dying, he was dying and he didn't care and he didn't even like me but he saved my life! Ahh!"
Lida leaned forward and kissed Laen on the cheek, as she might kiss a little boy who had scraped his knee. "Shhh. It's alright, Laen of Godii. You will grieve, we shall all grieve, but now is not the time." She stroked his hair away from his wet, open-mouthed supplication. "His eyes no longer see, his ears no longer hear. He is far gone, yet suffers still. Grant him his wish. It was you he asked it of. So he shows you his honor and his respect for you." She rose, and with the tiniest shudder, turned away. "You must grant him the Red Hand. Release him, Laen. Show him your love," her voice faltered for an instant, and her proud back shook once, then no more. "Even though he no longer has eyes to see it." Then she walked across the room, past guards stunned into mute bewilderment, and into the hallway beyond.
Laen wailed in sheer misery for several tortured heartbeats after her. Words could no longer be articulated. At last, he settled into a low, ominous keening. Lida stood there, in the hall with her back to him, waiting. Long moments passed, until finally, remembering Garth's courage, Laen gripped the dagger, stared at it, stared at Garth's blank stare, looked away, then grimaced and looked back, and--
Outside, Lida Vianna fell to her knees with her head in her hands. Krysli no longer, Councilor no longer, but a woman; no more frail and mortal then anyone present, yet no less either, and softly cried her farewell to Garth Vencher. Then she rose swiftly and was gone as if she had never been there.
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