The Pleasure of Memory (64 page)

“Forget it,” Chance said, “I expect that’s going to have to serve as good enough.”

Beam picked his torch up from the floor and slung the weapons belt over his shoulder. “Agreed,” he said, “Let’s hit it. I want out of this hellhole as soon as possible.”

“Agreed,” Chance said. He sounded like he meant it.

The metal flambeaus lining the corridor were identical to those they’d taken from the mage’s sanctuary, except that they were twice as big and the flames twice as bright. The light emanating from these torches lit the corridor as clearly as a royal hall. As Beam studied them, he estimated that their combustion life must be shorter since only about every third or fourth one still burned.

Chance removed one of the extinguished torches from its wall sconce and stuck it into his belt. Beam considered doing likewise, but decided against it. He didn’t want to risk offending any of the creatures sleeping behind those lifelike faces. The Vaemyn at least had the courtesy to hide their dead in crude stone boxes, which were typically bereft of detailed likenesses of the occupants. The dead he found inside those boxes were little more than bones, bits of hair, and rotting fabric; they were all identical. There was no personality discernible between corpses.

In contrast, the distinct faces of these Baeldons staring down at him felt too personal by miles. They watched him too closely as he passed beneath them, and each face seemed just on the verge of speaking to him. He knew it was an illusion brought on by the dark and the confinement, but that knowledge did nothing to ease the pressure of their stares. He just wanted away from them.

∞

They’d been walking for hours through the ranks of the dead, and despite the pleasant, almost regal surroundings, the boredom was becoming unbearable. Beam needed something to alleviate the agony. He wanted a distraction, some conversation, a witty repartee, anything!

“So, tell me, Brother,” he called out to Chance, who marched just a few paces ahead of him, “What exactly are you going to do when we reach the hatch?” His voice echoed on forever through the marble-decorated tedium.

Chance glanced back at him, but didn’t stop walking. “I am most genuinely not in the mood for your games, Beam.”

“No games, Brother,” Beam said as sincerely as he could manage, “Just wondering what happens next, that’s all.”

“You’ve made it quite clear where your priorities rest, Beam,” Chance said without looking back, “So I see little to gain from discussing it further.”

“Oh, I have, have I?” Beam said, laughing.

“I would say so. You’re planning to beat a hasty retreat back to Parhron City, correct? You have a palace to purchase, as I recall. Perhaps some long overdue whoring to engage in?”

Beam winced at that. He glanced over at the Vaemyd walking beside him and hoped she was unable to interpret that last remark. Nice shot, he thought as he looked back at Chance. He was beginning to appreciate the man’s darker side. Under the right circumstances, he could be a fit partner for a good banter.

“Well,” he began, though with some reluctance now, “You apparently didn’t hear me as clearly as you give yourself credit for. I asked what are
you
going to do?”

At that, the mage stopped and turned. He seemed surprised. “My lords,” he said as he studied Beam, “What an odd question, especially coming from you.”

“It’s just a question,” Beam said as he walked up to the man, “Don’t go rubbing yourself over it.”

“Rubbing myself,” Chance said seriously, “Are you actually interested, or is this just a set up for some dramatic bit of humor?”

Beam looked up at him. “I asked, didn’t I?”

Chance’s eyes studied him from their dark pits. Then he said, “No changes have developed in my plans, Beam. I’m going to Barcuun, precisely as I’ve said I would from the beginning. I have a duty to make certain they received my message. Moreover, to ensure they took it as seriously as it merited. After that, I need to notify the other members of the Circle of Twenty.”

“I thought you’re the big holy man in these parts,” Beam said, grinning, “Surely they’d never disregard the message of a man of your...” He paused to examine the state the man had fallen into during their travels. His hair was a tangled mess, his once sharp leather britches now scarred, scraped and scuffed, and his shirt so dirty it could never have been white. He opted to finish with, “Well, a man of such obvious rank and importance.”

“Do you ever let up?”

Beam didn’t even try to suppress his humor. “Depends on my mood.”

“You’re a real work of art.”

“So you’ve said.”

Chance turned away and resumed his walk. His heels clacked coldly against the marble floor as he marched deliberately away.

Beam gave the Vaemyd a warning look, and then hurried to catch up with Chance. “And after that, though?” he said as he shuffled to a stop beside him, “After you parley with the Baeldons?”

“After Barcuun, I’m going south.”

“South? What’s south? Mobs of savages. Not much else.”

“Prae is south. Luren is south.”

The image from earlier flared through Beam’s mind, that of the blonde boy in the bright clothes. It arrived on a pang of guilt that he didn’t deserve. “The boy,” he said as he drove the face from his mind, “Of course.”

“Yes,” Chance said back, “The boy.”

Beam glanced back at the bound Vaemyd, then leaned closer to Chance and whispered, “I told you, Brother, I wouldn’t hold much hope for anyone taken by the savages.”

“Yes, you have told me that. Again and again.”

“I’ve mentioned it once.”

“I’m confident your plans haven’t changed?” Chance asked, looking down at him, “You’re going to make your way back to Parhron, melt down the Caeyllth Blade, live that well deserved life of luxury after so many burdensome years robbing the dead.”

Beam’s humor drained. “That was beneath you,” he said.

“That’s a Caeyllth Blade?” a different voice asked.

Beam and Chance stopped and turned in tandem. It was the Vaemyd. She stood a few yards back, staring at Beam’s hip.

“That’s a Caeyllth Blade?” she asked again.

Beam didn’t respond.

“I thought they were myth,” she said, “Where did you find it?”

“Yes, Beam,” Chance said, turning toward him, “Where exactly did you find it?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Beam said.

“Did you steal it from our dead like you did our Blood Caeyl?” she asked him. She was wearing a look suggesting her binds wouldn’t be nearly strong enough if she got the wrong answer.

Beam steadied himself. Though his impulses pleaded with him, he knew slapping her up would be a dishonorable act, no matter how satisfying it’d feel. He couldn’t do it. At least, not with Chance watching. “This would be a good time for you to go mute,” he said instead.

“No, tell us, Beam.” Chance stepped closer. “Tell us, it’ll help pass the time. Where did you find the sword?”

“What is she, your new pal?” Beam said, “She’s a prisoner, for Calina’s sake. Whose side are you on?”

Chance planted his staff between them and leaned closer. “There are only two sides now, Beam,” he said with his face pressed against the wood like he was peering out from a cell, “You’re going to have to pick one sooner or later.”

“Two sides?” Beam said sarcastically, “Yours and mine?”

“Can you just once strive to not be an ass?” Chance said seriously, “You know exactly what I’m talking about. How long are you going to stand aloof, pretending you don’t care?”

“Gods almighty!” Beam said with a roll of his eyes, “Here we go again.”

“I’m damned sick of your derisive attitude,” Chance snapped at him, “Sick of your denial of the obvious. How a man who professes such adoration for the objectivity of science, and yet so effectively refuses the facts standing directly before him, defies logic.”

“Well, that’s just a load of—”

“You found the Blood Caeyl because of a message from your dead mother!” Chance said sharply, “And you found the Caeyllth Blade because of the Blood Caeyl. You put so much energy into pretending you’re some hermit with nothing but disdain for the world, and then you rush headlong into the fracas when it suits you. You’re a hypocrite, Beam. You’re a half-bred Vaemyn who thinks the world owes him—”

“The prophecies,” Koonta’ar said suddenly.

“Yes,” Chance said, still looking at Beam from behind his staff, “The prophecies.”

Beam sent the Vaemyd a warning glare, but it felt just as hollow as he was sure it came off. “I’m not in the mood for this, Chance,” he said, turning his eyes back to the mage, “Or for your lectures. I was just looking for a little conversation, something to break the damned silence. If I’d known it was going to reopen that emotional tar pit of yours, I wouldn’t have said a goddamned thing. Forget I brought it up.”

Koonta moved toward him. He threw a hand to his sword hilt and turned to meet her full on. Her face brought him another pang of guilt that he couldn’t explain. Maybe because, unlike her traumatized face, his own face showed no memory of the same fight, courtesy of last night's sleep under the sword's light.

“I was right,” she said, “I knew it this morning when you pulled me from the fear. I knew something was different as we fought last night. A Parhronii wouldn’t have lasted as long as you did. You’ve done something to your oteuryns, much as I suspected, but the truth of it remains. You’re a half-bred Vaemyn. Why, you’re practically family.”

“Don’t pride yourself,” Beam said to her, “I didn’t need my savage half to beat you. You’re not as tough as you think.”

“The legends say the Caeyllth Blade will be raised from the earth by a Vaemyn and Parhronii together,” she said, looking up at Chance.

The reverence in her voice was too syrupy, too full of faith and fire. “Here comes the drama,” Beam said sarcastically, “You two are like a couple of midwives gossiping over a weaving bee.”

“She’s right,” Chance said, “Those mages who survived the Divinic Wars a thousand years ago knew it hadn’t ended cleanly. There’d been no victors. The wyrlaerds were dispatched, but not destroyed. They’d simply been sent back to the Wyr. Those old mages knew it was just a matter of time before the whole nightmare came around again. The Caeyllth Blades have returned, much as they were foretold to do.”

“Could it be true?” she said as she stared at Beam, “He’s half-bred Vaemyn and Parhronii, and he’s in possession of one of the Caeyllth Blades. It aligns with every story our people tell about those times.”

“Yes,” Chance said to her, “And there’s more. The caeyl takes him when he sleeps. It cocoons him in its light. I’m absolutely sure it’s speaking to him through his dreams, though he’s not much inclined to discuss it.”

She stepped closer to Beam. She studied his face too closely. “I can see that,” she said, “The sword did something to him. It …healed him. Is it changing him in other ways?”

“I believe so,” Chance said, joining her examination of Beam’s face, “I don’t know it beyond doubt, but it would appear so. He’s more volatile than before. He has moments of compassion followed by moments of anger followed by moments of kindness. It’s strangely cyclic, like he’s fighting with another side of himself.”

“At least that offers some hope,” she said, “It seems to me that any change would be an improvement.”

“He’s had a hard life,” Chance said, “He didn’t ask for any of this.”

She laughed at that. “What kind of excuse is that? We’ve all had hard lives. It’s the way of the world.”

Chance shrugged his brow. “Well, that’s as true a statement as I’ve ever heard,” he said, “But, I’m hopeful he’ll come around. I’m hopeful the Blood Ca—”

“For the love of gods!” Beam yelled with his arms thrown wide, “Hello! I’m standing right here! Stop talking about me like I’m off taking a piss! Good gods!” He cursed himself for ever having started the banter to begin with. It was just another stupid decision in a long line of them.

For a moment, they simply looked at him. Then the Vaemyd shook her head. “No,” she said, “It can’t be true. We’re wrong. The gods would never curse us with so low a standard for so great a cause.”

“All right, that’s it!” Beam said sharply, “That is just about all I’m inclined to take. I’ve had my fill of your assessment of my moral character. You’re both full of shit. Besides, neither of you even knows what the hell you’re talking about!”

Chance nodded at that, saying, “Oh, I see. The skeptic’s now an expert?”

“Apparently more than you.”

Chance laughed mockingly. “Seriously! Well, please, then. Do enlighten us.”

“Fine!” Beam belted back at him, “First, there’s only one goddamned blade, not two, not ten, not a hundred. There’s one! Your
legends
are abundantly full of shit. Second, that entire story about the survivors of the Divinic Wars knowing anything is also complete bullshit. There were no goddamned survivors except
him
. Do you hear me? There was no
they
, there was only
he
. There’s always only been
he
.
He
was a Vaemysh mage, and
he
planned …”

Beam stopped. He pressed a hand against his temple. His head was suddenly pounding. He didn’t know if it was the change of air in this new corridor, the infuriating tack the conversation had taken, or maybe just simple fatigue. Not that it mattered. Regardless of the cause, he needed to get the hell away from these fools and their drivel before they gave him a brain seizure.

He opened his eyes to find Chance studying him like he’d suddenly grown an extra eye. “What now?” Beam asked him, “You don’t like the answers?”

“I believe you’re making it up,” Chance said carefully.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Beam said without enthusiasm, “I probably did make it up. I’m nothing but a stinking liar, so you’d do well to just ignore everything I’ve said.”

“But, I don’t understand how you could—”

“You goddamned right you don’t understand!” Beam said harshly, “You don’t know what in the hell you’re talking about, and damn me if I’m not good and bloody well done listening to you.”

With that, Beam turned away and marched off into the shadows. He was disappointed to note that his hand was trembling, while a cold trickle of sweat snaked its way down his spine. His fingers crawled across the hilt of his sword until they found the caeyl, which he locked onto for safety.