Orb and arrow, p.13
Orb and Arrow, page 13
Elden tried to take it in. The rightful home of the rightful lord, now dead, behind Harrolen. The dozen archers he could see and the others he knew were behind him. A crying man on the stairs? Perplexed, Elden ventured loudly, “Then why are we here?”
“Because you left me!” was the screamed answer as Harrolen shot upright, still shaking. ”Twice, you left me! Yes, yes, you think I’m mad. But cunning enough to bring you here, once sent by the Brotherhood,” the words were spat out, “and now by lure.”
Elden took several steps back. Madmen are dangerous, and this man was clearly mad.
Harrolen advanced no closer. “Brother,” now Elden could see tears, “you left us, abandoned Parday and me, to Lord Celbex over the sea.”
“What are you saying? Yes, I left you,” he sneered the words, despite the danger. “You loved killing so much; you took such joy in it. When he said we should clear villages, you laughed with him, and I escaped that night. If that was a leaving, then I left you.”
There was mad laughter in answer. “You fool! Didn’t you know we were watched? Listened to? Followed? I joined in with the laughter and the drinking, not knowing what you planned. Thinking we would plan together to run for the sea, all three of us. And you left us to him. After you were gone, they took my Parday! Took her and my unborn child, hid them away. I saw them only when it was permitted and under heavy guard. I killed for him to save my son! To watch him grow when I was allowed to see him. And there was no escape. There were two guards with me day and night, her death and his if I tried to leave them!”
Elden felt a chill, a shock of disbelief. He shook his head. Had he left them to that? To grief and agony?
Harrolen was pacing now, ranting, “What I have suffered… the blood of men and their wives… of children, yes, of children. Soldiers raping women and girls, tortures, and I had to smile. I had to drink the blood wine that I would vomit out in secret after all were in a stupor, the blood wine, wine mixed with the blood of children,” he sobbed, seeming near collapse, “blood only my death can wash away.”
“And the family here?” asked Elden, wondering if they were alive after all. He was now wildly uncertain.
“A ruse! They’re on my ship; I grew rich while I protected us, becoming a minor lord in my own right. My son holds those lands now and Celbex is dead. My wife is gone, lost to years of suffering, and there must be a balancing of the scales here and now. These men around you,” he gestured to them. “when I die, they will have a share in my ships and my riches.” He gestured again, and the archers stepped back, lowering their bows and setting them on the ground. The guard holding Brillar set keys to her shackles, but she remained where she had been left, barely aware. “These men were selected to look hard and frightening. The few who touched people in the town were punished.”
Elden stood transfixed. “A hoax? A wild hoax? Then why not reveal yourself to the Brotherhood, to your friends?”
“And let you off so easily? No, no, there had to be more, a balance for me, for her. I won’t be shut away as mad. There will be more. I can’t remove the blood of the innocents,” he rubbed his hands on his arms, “but the Brother who kills me will bear its stain! That is your punishment.” He was trembling again, fighting to remain standing. ”You, you who left me. You will bear its stain.”
“You wanted me alive then?” Now Elden was angry and shouting. “You gave a dimlock to your bounty hunter! You would have had me dead for all it mattered to you.”
Through fog and pain, Brillar heard shouting and the words “dimlock” and “dead.” She began to gather strength wordlessly, without moving, breathing in deeply, fighting the pain in her body, the fog in her mind.
“It was only to be used if needed,” was the shouted reply. “I expected them to take you sooner and closer. I suspected that you wouldn’t come willingly to kill a Brother, even one such as I have become.”
“I would not,” Elden shouted back. “I’ve not killed in many years. I want no killing!”
“That one,” Harrolen gestured toward Brillar, “has killed, and for your aid. That much, I had from her.”
Elden stiffened again. “She was attacked by your man. The kill was in self-defense.”
“As you say, Brother. No matter, it’s time for you to do a kindness for a member of the Brotherhood. I will not defend myself.” He came down one step.
Elden stepped back again and tripped, falling to one knee before recovering.
Brillar saw him fall through swollen eyes, closed them, and drew in more strength, reaching almost unperceptively for what the archer had left behind, drawing it toward her.
“You will kill now!” Harrolen screamed.
“You have archers,” Elden began.
“They are innocent!” another scream, “the blood must be on a Brother’s hand.”
Brillar, hearing the screamed words, readied, drawing in more strength, praying to the Light that they wouldn’t notice.
“You will kill me; you must,” Harrolen ranted. He sent a sudden bolt of lightning at Elden, who was forced back but turned it aside. A second bolt, this one of fire, singed his clothes but was turned before there could be more.
Hearing the screaming, smelling the smoke from the spells, knowing their attention was on each other, Brillar made one great effort, pulling bow and arrow to her hand, drawing in strength as she could. A deep cold blanketed the room briefly and was gone. She was nearly ready…
Harrolen howled again, filled with anger and frustration, “It must be your hand!”
“Not my hand, Brother.” Elden stepped back finally, submitting, eyes closed, spreading his low-held arms at his sides, knowing it could mean two deaths.
Seeing him through a haze, Brillar pulled herself to one knee, drew the bow, and let fly.
Harrolen crumpled to the ground silently, an arrow deep in his neck, as Brillar wavered and collapsed on the stones.
Opening his eyes at the sounds of the falling bodies, Elden stared, first at his Brother, then at Brillar. He rushed to her, already chanting the few words of healing he knew she must need. As he reached and gathered her, a man stepped out toward them, hands raised in friendship.
“He knew he would die here today, by some means. I’m his lieutenant. His instructions were clear. You’re free to go. Horses are being brought to the plaza, or there’s a cart if she can’t ride.”
At Elden’s first spells, Brillar had strengthened a little, and now she could faintly hear the arcane words whispered in a string. She stirred a bit.
“A cart, I think, and many thanks,” replied Elden, blinking rapidly, still bewildered. The lieutenant left without a word.
“Is,” she choked and swallowed. “Is—”
“It was a true arrow, fast and true.” He nodded, tears in his eyes.
“Then,” he could barely hear her, “you must be alive.” She sagged in his arms.
Part II
None who have killed man can return to us.
Law of the Sisterhood
Symbol of the Sisterhood
Teachers of Healing, Life, and Item Magic
*** 10 ***
Harrolen was dead. His lieutenant and men wrapped him in rich cloth and prepared to carry him to his ship.
Elden could hear the men moving around him, someone shouting orders. He could even hear the sound of a cart being brought to the plaza, but he couldn’t seem to move, couldn’t seem to think clearly. He knelt with Brillar where she had fallen, muttering spells, drawing in mana as he needed it. With all that he could do, her face was still swollen and pale.
Finally, he felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up at Harrolen’s lieutenant. “Her cart is ready. We’ll take our lord back home by ship; that was his final wish.” At Elden’s uncomprehending look, the man nodded. “You are free to go, truly. You are in no danger from us.” The man smiled. “You must wonder what happened to your messenger. He and his family were taken, but they have been released.”
Edlen looked at him uncomprehendingly.
“You should know that he is a good friend and true. He offered to kill our lord for you.” The lieutenant gave him a final grim smile and turned away.
Elden tried to rise, still holding his apprentice, and staggered. A hand was under his arm at once and he managed the few steps to the cart, placing Brillar on piled blankets in the back, noticing that her foldbox was there. He looked around, confused; the plaza was full of people all standing quietly. They parted as he moved to the horse’s head, taking the bridle and moving forward.
“She killed him then,” someone ventured, and he nodded. There was an odd stillness about the crowd. Harrolen had taught them to fear his power, the power of a madman seeking death, and their fear for his soldiers lingered even as those faithful men gathered to take his body away. He had kept the town in thrall, and they knew and resented it. Elden could sense their anger, their confusion. The crowd parted and he walked toward the gate with the horse’s hooves and the cart’s wheels making the only sounds.
Elden had only gone a few hundred yards past the gate when he lost Control and broke down, sobbing for his lost Brother, for Polsen, and for his apprentice who might also be lost. How long he knelt in the dust, he didn’t know, but there was a sudden nudge at his shoulder and a soft snuffling at his face.
Elden looked up wearily at Jez, with Bright by his side. He stroked the stallion’s long face with astonishment and rose unsteadily.
“You were told… you were sent,” he began and was nudged again, “and I am glad you didn’t go.” He struggled to his feet and wrapped his arms around the strong neck, finding renewal in the familiar.
He went to the rear of the cart. Brillar was resting comfortably but unconscious on a pile of blankets; he covered her lightly. Food, water, and other items had been placed in the cart. He took a cup, filled it and held it to her lips. She squirmed away until he splashed a bit on her mouth, then she drank greedily, choking a little, then sank back. Elden reached out again with what he knew of healing others and found only the unknown. This was not a simple bruise or break; potions had been used, and he knew nothing about them. He went back to the cart horse and led it back to where he had left the saddles and bridles.
“A great shame on you, Jez, you disobedient brat,” he scolded, putting the saddles and bridles in the cart. He had to shift Brillar a bit to do that and she moaned. She was pale; the skin around her eyes and lips held a greenish tinge that he feared and could not reach. He gave her more water and drank a cup himself while sitting on the back of the cart. Looking through what had been stowed there, he found something more satisfying—several bottles of wine. Removing a cork, he poured himself a cup, then a second, and suddenly found himself laughing. He had gone to Lands-end expecting to die, half expecting Brillar to die with him, and they were alive. The thought made him giddy; then he sobered. She was alive for now but so badly used that he feared for the future.
The best place for her now, for both of us, is Laurenfell, he thought. She needs more healing than I can give and the Great House of the Sisterhood is there. They’ll have the healing she needs; they must know about potions and poisons there. He turned the cart to the southwest.
It was a three-day journey to Laurenfell and the House of Life. His skills in the healing arts continued to be insufficient for her and Brillar remained lethargic; she could take only water. Her fall, the many potions, all different and used carelessly, had all taken their toll. The greenish tinge he had first noticed had spread, creeping along veins in her face and now in hands and feet. For most of the journey, he trotted at the horse’s head, afraid to let go of the cart’s reins, worried about the road and how much it would jar her. He had nothing but what was in the cart and ate when he remembered to eat, usually at dawn and when it was too dark to see the road ahead and judge its condition.
He was consumed with dread; whatever she had been given, the drugs had clearly poisoned her. What people thought as he hurried the cart horse forward, he didn’t care. He answered none of their hails. When the road was suitable, he climbed aboard the cart, urging the horse into a faster pace. He covered the distance more quickly than he expected and with little sleep.
On the afternoon of the third day, he came upon a farmer near the edge of a town and asked its name.
“Laurenfell,” was the answer, and Elden closed his eyes, swaying with relief. He felt a steadying hand on his arm and opened his eyes.
“And the home of the Lady Darwallen?” he insisted.
The farmer pointed to the east, “Ah, the Laurenfell House. A few hundred paces is all. And do you need help, then?” Elden shook his head and dragged the horse forward.
The massive house of quarried stone was close to the town, set in a grove of trees by a lake. A long tree-lined lane led to it, and his approach did not go unnoticed. He barely glanced at the lake, concentrating on reaching the house. The dogs that came out to bark at a stranger quieted quickly, finding him no danger.
As he came to the broad steps, a servant came out to greet him, bowing slightly at such a rough and dust-covered guest but politely asking his need.
“I am Garnelden,” he hoarsely answered the polite inquiry. “I bring the Lady Brillar to her mother and the Sisters for healing.”
Astonished, the serving-man glanced into the cart and rushed back into the house, calling out wildly that it was Brillar, injured, shouting for Darwallen, but it was Prendar who bolted from the house and down the stairs first.
“My daughter?” he questioned, demanded.
“In the cart, Lord Prendar,” was the unsteady reply. He held the cart horse’s reins for support, casting another spell for strength.
A red-haired woman came flying down the steps as Prendar gently lifted his daughter. Brillar stirred as he did and called for Elden, then seemed to focus.
“Father?”
He carried her inside, followed closely by his wife. Elden turned away, but a young woman he hadn’t noticed came up beside him, laying a hand on his arm. “Come inside. There must be a tale here. I’m Alliana, and with my sister, there is always a tale.” She was not smiling.
Obediently, he followed her in, aware of his dusty clothes and muddy boots but too tired to care. The house was in a frenzy. Servants rushed about, one to fetch another healing Sister, one to find the sons of the house, others to the storerooms for herbs. In the kitchen, there was a great noise of pots being brought down. Through all this, Brillar’s sister led him calmly, taking him to sit in a quiet room where she closed the door and offered him a glass of brandy.
“We have stronger in the house if you prefer,” she said and sat down, composed, waiting for him to speak. She was dressed for summer, in a blue shift that matched her eyes. Her hair, like her father’s, was a soft yellow. He took her in briefly, noting similarities to her sister, and drank the brandy gratefully, then leaned forward on his arms, drained.
“I think the story should wait for everyone,” he said finally but straightened when a youth brandishing a short sword flung open the door.
“If you have harmed Brillar—” he began and was interrupted.
“Terol! Stop at once,” said his sister. “He did her no harm; he brought her home!” The lad looked confused but hesitated.
“I was just about to get the story, although he is correct; everyone should hear the story from him. Sit and have a brandy or go and see her for yourself.” She turned to Garnelden. “Please excuse my brother; he has always been fonder of my sister than of me,” Alliana said with an indulgent nod to Terol.
Embarrassed, Terol muttered, “Untrue, and you know it.” He left in consternation.
“A moment, please, while I have a room readied for you and the animals cared for.” She went to the door with easy grace and called to a servant. “Our guest will be staying for a while. Please have the animals and cart taken care of.”
Elden looked at her admiringly, to remain so calm when all else was a frenzy. She was slender like her sister and composed, but there was a softness to her, and he saw no hint of the steel he had found in his apprentice. She poured him another brandy.
“Supper, I think, will be later than usual as the story of Brillar’s return has, I am sure, already spread. We have a fine bathhouse should you care to freshen yourself.”
Well, he thought, time to see if this one can be startled.
“No need, thank you,” he said, uttering spells that cleaned both himself and his clothes.
Surprised, and then laughing, she responded, “Leave it to my sister to bring home a mage or to be brought home by one.”
The door opened once more, but quietly, and Darwallen entered, distressed but composed. “Thank you for bringing my daughter home. Sister Rodenis is with her. We were fortunate; she was visiting us when you arrived and was quick to attend Brillar. She’s unconscious,” Darwallen bit her lip, “but if you’d like to see her?”
Standing quickly, he put the brandy glass in Alliana’s hand and followed Darwallen to a room on the main floor of the house. It all passed in a blur for him until the door to the sickroom was opened.
Brillar was lying on a small soft bed, with an older healing Sister to one side. The Sister was passing an orb over her patient, murmuring cleansing spells and spells to draw out poisons; dark oily stains were spreading beneath her patient. Elden had never heard the incantations before.
“That,” said Darwallen quietly, “is Sister Rodenis. Her skills are above any in the Sisterhood. My daughter was poisoned, she thinks, by a combination of potions that might have otherwise cleared quickly. They were worsened by a heavy blow to her head.”
He nodded, unshed tears welling in his eyes. They stepped outside and closed the door softly. He leaned against the wall, eyes closed, and she waited for him to compose himself. “I didn’t have the spells, the herbs. All I could do was give her water. I thought we would… come too late.”
She took his arm. “But you’re here, the Great House is here, and Rodenis will heal her if any can.” He only nodded.
