The Shadows of Grace (12 page)

J
erico stirred awake as the door opened and Tessanna stepped inside. His arms and legs grumbled with dull throbs of pain from the bonds around his wrists and ankles. His stomach growled, and he wondered how long it had been since he had a drink of water or a bit of food. He saw Tessanna’s hands empty and knew it would be even longer.

“Welcome back,” Jerico said. “I would stand to greet you, but…”

“Shut up.” Tessanna sat on the bed and stared at him. She was angry, although he could only guess why.

“Where’s your lover?” he asked. “Asleep again?”

“He needs rest,” she said. “And I said shut up.”

The paladin shrugged his shoulders, a motion that popped his back. He grunted at the pain. For a moment he rested his head on the stone and stared at the girl, who stared right back.

“Can I help you?” he finally asked.

“Why did you apologize?” she asked. “Tell me, honestly. I will know if you lie.”

“Lying’s not my style,” Jerico said. He glanced to the floor, then closed his eyes. “And I apologized because if anyone needs grace, it’s you.”

“Grace,” she said. “I don’t understand.”

“Most don’t.”

She stood, biting her lip and turning her back.

“You have no right to apologize for the deeds of another,” she said.

“I can still feel the shame, though,” he said. “And I can still wish it undone.”

“You wish to hurt me!” she suddenly shouted. Ice and fire sparked about her fingertips in a wild, random pattern. “You just want me to stop your torture.”

Jerico looked up at her face, her beautiful features etched with sadness.

“Believe what you want,” he said. “But I do not lie, and I do not fear your torture. Do what you need to do.”

There was no joy in her eyes, no temptation on her lips as she drew the knife. Without a word, she stabbed it into his gut. As he cried out in pain, she twisted the hilt.

“I forgive you,” he said as he felt his blood run down his abdomen. She yanked out the blade and stabbed it through his hands, pinning his palms to the floor. Tears filled his eyes, yet still he said those horrible words.

“I forgive you.”

She waved her hands, and a spell of silence overcame him. She could not hear his screams of pain, or his sobs, or even his breathing. She slashed his skin, thrust the knife into his stomach, and ran her fingers across his flesh, burning it with fire. She could not shut his eyes, though, and each time she met their gaze she heard his words in her head.

I forgive you.

She lashed out, furious at the audacity. People were not that good. No one was. She had felt the rough hands of too many, seen the deplorable and the despicable. With pure rage she assaulted him. Silent scream after silent scream died in his throat as she worked her knife like an artist. When she plunged it deep into his thigh she kissed him, drinking in his scream, but it did not have the tingle, the exhilaration, that she expected.

At last she fell back, the knife limp in her hands. She had hit nothing vital, and she knew the paladin was tough enough to survive. Tears ran down her cheeks.

“Forgiveness,” she said, her voice quivering. “You think everyone deserves forgiveness?”

Jerico shook his head. He tried to speak, but the spell kept him silent. Tessanna wiped away her tears, remembering her father’s face. She remembered the way he used to look at her right after he was done. Like an animal, but worse. An animal that disgusted him, sickened him in a way no other animal could.

“You don’t live in my world,” she said. “You don’t live in any world. You forgive me, do you? We’ll see.”

At last apathy stole her away. She put away her weapon and licked the blood off her fingers.

“You taste good,” she said, a small smile creeping at the corner of her mouth. “And don’t worry. I’ll be back tomorrow. And the day after. Until you break. I’ll fuck you until you hate me, Jerico. I promise you that.”

She left the room, still covered in his blood. He passed out soon after. When he dreamed, it was of darkness and blood. The darkness shrunk, and then he was swimming in shadows, and the darkness wasn’t darkness but Tessanna’s eyes.

Paladin…

Jerico moaned and turned, his dreams breaking.

Wake up, paladin.

“What now?” he murmured. In his head he heard Ashhur’s warning, strong and consistent. Danger was close, and powerful. He stirred, his gut sinking at sight of the man with the ever-changing face.

“First the girl, now you?” Jerico asked, closing his eyes and laying his head back on the floor. “Just use something different than a knife, will you? It’s getting old. Maybe a whip or an axe, something fun.”

“You’re a stubborn one,” Velixar said, standing over him with his arms crossed. “But of course, you’d have to be. You wouldn’t have survived so long if you weren’t. And faithful too, aren’t you? Very faithful.”

Jerico popped an eye open and looked at Velixar. “Is this an interrogation? If so, I think you’re supposed to be a little meaner, and ask better questions.”

“I will,” Velixar said. “But that leads to another question. Will you answer truthfully? To me, perhaps not, but to yourself? That is what interests me.”

A jagged fear burned Jerico’s heart, and suddenly he preferred the girl. She was wild, she was vicious, but she was filled with pain and confusion. Karak’s prophet, however, leered down at him with a strange look of desire and hunger.

“I know you have the innate ability to sense truth,” Velixar continued. “So when I say I never lie, you should know I mean it. Remember that.”

He began pacing the room, examining the curtains and bed sheets, all soft and silken.

“Do you think Ashhur has abandoned you?” Velixar asked as he rubbed fabric between two pale fingers.

“At all times he is by my side,” Jerico said.

“Even when Tessanna buried her knife in your flesh and carved into you like butcher’s meat?”

“Even then.”

Velixar laughed, and the sound made Jerico want to vomit.

“A sick god, wouldn’t you say?” Velixar asked. “One who would watch your torture, your pain, your seeping blood, and do nothing. Did he steal away your pain? Heal your wounds? Strike down your torturer? He just watched, didn’t he? An impotent god, powerless in this world.”

“Only a fool questions the wisdom of one infinitely wiser than he,” Jerico said, closing his eyes and trying to pray for strength and guidance, but the very presence of that man in black disturbed his prayers and made Ashhur seem distant.

“But you
are
a fool,” Velixar said. “Ashhur and Karak together made man, and both are seeking to rectify that mistake. What makes you sure an eternity of happiness awaits you? You are a failure, nothing more.”

“A failure made holy,” Jerico said. To this, Velixar laughed.

“Holy? You are a wretched pile of flesh and desires. Your thoughts race beyond your control. You think things you should not think, you do things you should not do. Do you honestly believe pretending to be holy will lead to actual holiness?”

The paladin did not answer. Velixar sensed weakness and closed in. He knelt beside Jerico and wrenched open his eyes with his bony fingers.

“You parade about as a man of good. How many have you killed? More than my paladins of Karak. If all life is sacred, how are you better? Hypocrite! Liar!”

Jerico felt anger boil in his chest. The anger was not just reserved for Velixar, but himself as well. He didn’t know what to say, how to counter. He had hid in the wilderness, avoiding civilization for years. He knew damn well he had killed more than he had brought into Ashhur’s fold.

“Ashhur has abandoned you,” Velixar said, his words salt in a newly-opened wound. “But all is not lost. You preach that Ashhur accepts you as you are, but then he demands change, sacrifice, pain and loss. Karak accepts you as you are, and then glorifies it. Your faults, your weaknesses, they are symptoms of humanity. Why should you be condemned by the very nature you were born into without choice?”

Silence followed, clobbering Jerico with its weight. He shook his head, wanting nothing more than Velixar’s fingers away from his face. Their touch was poison, death personified in a dark package. He opened his mouth to speak, but everything he’d say felt contrite.

“I trust Ashhur,” he said at last. “And I will until my death. I cannot answer you, but I don’t have to.”

“I told you already,” Velixar said, heading for the door. “It is not me you must answer. Cling to your unfounded trust, if that is all you can offer me and this world. We will move on without you, and leave you to rot in obsolescence.”

Karak’s prophet shut the door behind him with a loud thud. Jerico pushed his face to the cold stone and broke, his tears pouring down his face. He prayed for forgiveness for his doubt, but all the while he heard a nagging voice in the back of his head which told him again and again that he was alone.

L
athaar followed the forest’s edge with aimless determination, only vaguely aware of its towering presence. Craggy, leafless branches grew tall and interlocked together, a natural gateway barring entrance into the gloomy dark within. Lathaar kept his swords sheathed, not for lack of enemies but for lack of caring. The ground was rocky and uneven with many roots breaking through the cold surface. He had hoped to remain alone; solitude was a treasure amid the thousands of displaced people of Veldaren. He was not granted his desire.

“A moping paladin,” Tarlak said, stepping out from a blue portal behind Lathaar. “Now I’ve seen everything.”

His yellow robes and hat seemed comical in the cold winter. His red beard flapped in the wind.

“I am in no mood,” said Lathaar. “Not today. Please, I need to be alone.”

“Don’t give me that,” Tarlak said. “What did you always tell me? ‘With Ashhur you are never alone?’”

“Yeah,” Lathaar said, smiling bitterly. When had he said that? While he was comfortable in Tarlak’s tower, safe and warm? “I say a lot of things.”

Tarlak sighed. They had camped for two days outside the Quellan forest, having had contact only once with the elves within. A single scout had promised to relay message of their desperate need for aid and council. Lathaar, normally a beacon of hope and strength, had sulked much of the time, turning away from any efforts to comfort. At last Mira had gone to Tarlak, begging for help, and the wizard was happy to oblige.

“I know Jerico was a friend,” Tarlak said. “And yeah, you do say a lot of things. You also say we mourn for our loss, not his. Jerico has gone to a better place. We both know that.”

“Do we?” Lathaar asked. He immediately looked to the ground, ashamed. “And of course I mourn for my loss. I have watched my brethren slaughtered, and when I am finally given hope, a friend who has also survived the struggle, that hope is torn and broken and slaughtered.”

“Pray for strength from Ashhur,” Tarlak said. “Pray to him, and…”

“And what?” Lathaar asked, cutting him off. “Hope? Cling to faith? What difference does it make if I wish upon a star or pray to Ashhur when the chance of an answer remains the same?”

“The difference is, the stars don’t love us,” Tarlak said. “Wallow in self-pity if you must. Those who love you await your return.”

The mage spun his hands and in a shimmering explosion of mist was gone. Lathaar shook his head, furious with himself. He felt similar to when the Citadel fell, sad and lost and lashing out at anything that once offered him comfort. He was foolish then, and he knew he was being foolish now.

“Forgive me, Tar,” he said, rubbing his eyes with his fingertips. “Paladin or not, I’m still human.”

He heard the twang of a bow, but Ashhur offered no warning in his mind so he remained still. The arrow struck the ground by his foot, half the shaft burying into the dirt. Lathaar turned to the forest, where an elf in camouflage stood just within its border.

“Can you speak for the men of Neldar?” the elf asked in the human tongue.

“For most, yes,” Lathaar said.

“Whoever leads your rabble, tell them to prepare for an escort. They are to be unarmed, and no more than five. We will come at dawn. Is this acceptable?”

“It is,” Lathaar said.

The elf nodded, saluted with his bow, and vanished.

A
n hour before the setting of the sun, the powerful leaders of the Veldaren refugees met to decide who the five would be. Antonil, former Guard Captain and newly named king, was the obvious choice. After a little prodding, Tarlak agreed to represent the Eschaton, his band of mercenaries, which had inflicted immeasurable damage against the invading army.

“I don’t want to go alone, though,” Tarlak said. “I’d prefer a friendlier, and prettier, face.” He pointedly glanced at the beautiful elf sitting beside him.

“Flattered,” Aurelia said. “But don’t hold any illusions. I will have very little sway.”

“At least we’ll have someone who speaks their tongue,” Antonil said. “I agree with Tarlak. Aurelia should go as well.”

“If we are to continue aiding you, then I go as well,” Deathmask said. He was the leader of the Ash Guild, a band of thieves that had saved hundreds from roving packs of wolf-men. “I promise to behave.”