The Burden of the Protector (11 page)

Naéd paused. I kept looking away and knew I had to leave. I had stayed too long already. My absence would be difficult to explain.

“Maéva and Vìr also want the same,” added Naéd. “Theirs is an honourable quest and one that could help bring the League back to its former nobility.”

It was not the answer I had been looking for. I knew of the coming of the Sy’Iss, of the many lives lost and how the League had taken on a responsibility no one had dared accept until then. I knew of the knights and their dedication in facing the dangers of Ul Darak. I was myself dedicated to the cause. I would only realize later the clear distinction Naéd made between the A’ra and the Sy’Iss.

That day, I understood that Naéd was, in some indirect way, doing all this for Maéva and for Vìr. And I was doing the same. It sufficed.

“I’ll go now,” I said, uncertain what else to say.

“Vìr mentioned one last thing,” said Naéd, “to ask of you. It is a strange request, but he insisted you would know what he meant. He said to tell you only once he was gone, at the last possible moment.”

I waited, a foot already outside the door.

“He asked that you write a journal.”

Afire 1, year 3001, Dàr is 60.

At first, depriving myself of food and drink seemed to have the desired effect. My body started to feel normal again, alive. Then a series of undesirable consequences surfaced.

I became extremely irritable, going as far as snapping at the knights guarding me and feeding me. My muscles started to grow weak, forcing me to write from my bed, lacking the energy to get up. My fingers swelled, making the handling of my quill difficult, which in turn resulted in illegible words. I threw away many pages. The fire stopped warming me as sickly chills became more and more common. My thoughts turned toward food and my need for it, and the facts of the past became blurry. The images in my head went rogue, scrambling here and there, changing constantly without my consent.

I had no choice but to start eating again.

But I am now in worse condition than I was previously. I have wasted many good days and am rushing to record the last events of this dark tale.

*

Afire 2, year 3001, Dàr is 60.

My son agreed to listen to me. He is my last hope. I will ask him, as I did Sia, to take the pages away, outside of Jarum. He will not be able to deny this last request, the last wish of a dying father. He has been supportive until now.

Faron, my son.

In two days, my burden will pass on to you.

I can feel the poison gaining again, becoming stronger and dragging me down. This will be my last entry. My story is almost spent.

*

Falling 8, year 2967, Dàr is 26.

It was a year later. The sun floated in the west. In front of me, the high mountains of Ul Darak rose and fell, a tapestry painted on the cerulean canvas that was the sky. So close and yet so far, so untouchable, so eternal. Frightening.

I was standing in the middle of the bridge of Saril, under one of its many arches. I had not yet found the courage to cross the suspended bridge. Just a few more minutes, I told myself, just a few more. I was looking east over the highlands and searching but knowing I would not see them, hoping I would not see them and that they were safe.

The escape had been successful.

Vìr and Maéva were gone.

The day after I saw Vìr for the last time, Maéva’s disappearance was discovered. The Sy’Iss dispatched knights, protectors and soldiers in pursuit, including myself. As instructed by Naéd and Vìr, I had created a false trail leading from Maéva’s house toward the north. So most of the search effort initially went toward the Darani Lowlands, away from Vìr and Maéva.

There are so many places one can hide in the vast expanse of the Yurita Highlands. Vìr had some tracking skills and knew how to cover their trail. He would not be surprised this time. With his talent complemented by Maéva’s knowledge of the flora and wildlife of the region, the pair would be impossible to find.

The Sy’Iss eventually asked me to help retrace the route we had followed the first time Vìr and Maéva had been apprehended. This time around, I took a few wrong turns, slowed the pursuit, but still brought the group to the camp. It was deserted and had not been used since our previous visit. Of Vìr and Maéva, there was absolutely no trace.

We returned to Ta’Énia empty-handed. All were greatly disappointed, while I kept hidden a sense of relief. Patrols were reinstated, with twice as many protectors, in the hope of finding a hint of where the traitors had gone.

A year later, standing on the bridge of Saril, I still yearned to get but a glimpse of them. I missed Vìr deeply and secretly. When in Ta’Énia, I could put most of my feelings away and live unaffected for a while.

But not this day.

Alone, high above the valley floor, I grieved.

When the Sy’Iss realized the impossibility of its quest, it changed strategy. Rumours and dark tales circulated. At first, they attacked Vìr’s past. But then, the slurs included Maéva as well.

It started with tales of a dark-skinned warrior from Toria in the west, leading a rogue company of insatiable brutes, bloodthirsty, rampaging across the open country, evading the real war, taking cover behind it, traitors and deserters, pillaging one defenceless village after another. A tale of horror. Poor families ruined, innocents killed, no exception, women…children. Vìr portrayed as the leader of this ragtag band of killers.

Vìr was described as a savage, without morals, without honour, a man who abandoned the soldiers fighting to free his country. It was said that following the end of the war, he looked for a place to hide. At first, he found nowhere to go. But then his long search led him to an isolated place along the feared Ul Darak: Ta’Énia.

This is where the tale takes an even more horrendous turn. To find his way to Ta’Énia, Vìr had needed support, so stated the Sy’Iss. And he received that help from Maéva. All knew this. But it went further. Maéva had not been alone. Her family were accomplices.

The Sy’Iss wove the tale so seamlessly, so perfectly, feeding it bit by bit, that the populace, enthralled, became a raging mass after a few months. If not for fear of the Sy’Iss, they might have taken justice in their own hands and committed the unthinkable. I struggled to understand the magnitude of what was happening.

All knew, though, that something needed to be done and that was when the Sy’Iss, having gained the support of Ta’Énia and most of Jarum, stepped in to put an end to it all.

*

I grabbed hold of the column beside me with two hands, squeezed until my fingers hurt. Tears in my eyes. I hit my head against the rock, punishment, although I knew I could not have done anything to stop what happened.

The Sy’Iss had gathered all those closely or loosely related to Maéva. They were taken from Ta’Énia, easily, but also from Vi’Alana and Za’Ina, from Ta’Oros and Vi’Télia, all over Jarum. Each one was a link in the chain that had forged Vìr’s path through Jarum, all the way to Ta’Énia. They were all branded as traitors.

Twenty-four in all.

Maéva’s relatives, her uncles and aunts, her cousins, nieces, and nephews…and a few others, maybe distant cousins, probably unrelated innocents. Nobody really knew…or cared.

All twenty-four were put into the caves, some of them probably in the same cell as Vìr. No food. No visit. This time, no one to help them. No escape. It was almost a blessing to know that Maéva’s parents had gone several years before. But not so for the elder man whom I had met briefly on the day Vìr left.

Naéd. I learned he had been Maéva’s uncle…

Early one morning, as the sun appeared over Ul Darak, cries and screams echoed from the deep tunnels. All ignored them or pretended not to hear them. After a few days, the lamentations were, for the most part, gone.

An eerie silence fell over Ta’Énia. All knew something wrong had happened, but none dared talk about it.

And then, quite timely, two bodies were brought back to Ta’Énia. A large black man and a fragile young woman…Vìr and Maéva. They had been found close to Ul Darak at the foot of Mount Fara. When cornered, they had fought back, killing two knights. All remembered Vìr’s sword. It was put on display.

I made my way to the village’s center, where the bodies were burned. I needed to see Vìr one last time. I got close to the front by pushing and elbowing, immune to the screams, shouts and singing. The populace was happy, so very happy to celebrate and put behind them the disturbing tragedy that had happened in the caves. I got so close that I was able to get a glimpse of Vìr’s and Maéva’s faces, just before the fire consumed them completely. Both their heads had been bashed in and were covered in dried blood. Vìr and Maéva had been deemed unworthy of being cleaned and so would burn in their current state. They were unrecognizable.

What was recognizable was Vìr’s blade, lying at the foot of his roped and charred body.

And it wasn’t his.

There was absolutely no doubt in my mind. I had touched the blade, caressed it, looked at it all night before bringing it to the hidden stash.

This sword was a masquerade!

I started to scrutinize the bodies, without moving, not wanting to alert those around me. The flames were devouring them quickly, but not before I ascertained what the blade had just told me.

Like the weapon, the bodies were a decoy.

*

Even if it was a relief to know that Vìr and Maéva had escaped, the other victims had not. Naéd had not. Only in death was I able to stop doubting and hating him.

I crumpled on the bridge, sobbing.

*

Like the others, I was a prisoner of the Sy’Iss’s web. Even I, who’d had the privilege of being called friend by Vìr.

And so, following that day, I returned to Ta’Énia, to Eriéla and the baby growing in her womb. I returned to being a knight protector, a good one.

I chose to forget.

I chose the life expected of me.

Alone to the End

His eldest son shook his head. A single tear, maybe two, trickled down his cheek. He had the manuscript in his hand, held it with two fingers, as if it was cursed. In many ways, it was.

For a single moment, it seemed the son was about to take the journal with him, but the hope was false. With a flip of his hand, he threw the papers back toward the old man seated on the bed. They bounced and rested on the pillow.

Faron left without another word.

The old man didn’t move for many moments. His frail body trembled, maybe from age, maybe from pain.

Then he took the bow resting against the bed and lay back down, crawling slowly under the covers, keeping the weapon close, pulling the roll of parchment closer. As he deposited his head on the pillow, he closed his eyes.

The thin and aged body had nothing left. No tears and no strength and no will…

Many years later…

She scanned the surroundings, but she saw no other building. The small house was by itself, located on the outskirts of the village.