Brine
made a frantic look to the woodsman, his need to connect so desperate that he
was willing to try with anyone, even the scruffy-looking man who acted nothing
like his brother. At this point, if the other person had a heartbeat and a
working set of eyes, they were fully qualified in Brine’s book. But as simple a
criterion as that might be, Jaysh still wasn’t qualified. With his head tilted
down and his arms flailing madly, he wouldn’t have noticed Brine lighting his
wauk on fire, let alone turning to face him.
And what is he doing? Brine
wondered, watching as his brother’s hands reached for the furry bundle and then
quickly withdrew.
From where Brine stood, his
brother appeared to be playing the Slapping Game with the little beast, a game
of speed and dexterity where one party held there hands at chest height with
palms up and the other party held their hands above them with palms dawn, the
object of the game being for Palms-up to reach over the top of Palms-down and
slap the top of their hands before Palms-down could pull them out of the way.
Needless to say, being the smallest and
the slowest, Brine had never cared for the game. For him, it would have been
easier simply to have Jaysh beat the tops of his hands and get it over with,
which—judging by the look of big brother’s tattered arms and bleeding
knuckles—would have been a better option for Jaysh as well.
Fine, Brine thought, turning back
to the bed. I don’t need him. I can do this. I do this all the time.
But as he leaned over the
bed and peered down at the withered old face within the blankets, he realized
that he had never done this. He knew this because at no time during his
stay at the monastery had his heart raced so fast and at no time as he tended
to the sick had his mouth felt so dry.
Part of this, he knew, was due to his
familiarity with the patient on the bed, but another part had to do with the
patient’s wasted features and emaciated frame, a degenerative condition that
went far beyond the normal limits muscular atrophy. It was no wonder that Brine
hadn’t seen the body until now. There wasn’t enough mass here to constitute a
body. There was barely enough to make a face…
If a face is what it is, he
thought, sourly.
Along the dead thing’s pasty forehead, its
hair clung to its scalp like matted grass and upon its age-spotted cheeks and
chin, its skin sagged like wet paper. The eyes were open, but they were glassy
and cold and it didn’t take the disciple long to realize they could not move.
But worse even than the eyes and skin was the dead thing’s mouth. With its
teeth missing and its chapped lips dropping, its face appeared to be collapsing
in on itself like a pasty and whisker-clad hole, so far gone that even its days
of sinking had passed.
Brine put his monocle away.
Across from him, something moved in the
shadows and he lifted his gaze.
Jaysh stood on the other side of the
mattress with a cat-thing in his arms and a bulge of chew in his cheek. The
former appeared to be calmer now—their brief game of Slap-Hands finally
over—and the latter, if possible, appeared to be larger.
As a child, Brine had never touched
vine—and neither had his brother, for that matter—but from what the disciple
had learned from his studies and from the villagers he served, the pulp could
have a relaxing effect on some users, especially heavy users.
And right now it looks like Jaysh could
use a little relaxation, Brine thought, registering the look of despair trapped
in his brother’s eyes.
Under circumstances when
Brine didn’t know the deceased and wasn’t a blood relative with the grieving,
he would say something comforting at this point, something about Owndiah or
Glory or faith in general. But since he did know the deceased and his
mind was a swirling vortex of unresolved emotion, he simply opened his mouth
and let the words fall out.
“I think we’re too late,” he whispered,
searching his brother’s ashen face. “What do you think?”
Jaysh kept his eyes on the staring face in
the blankets, his jaw working slowly. Eventually, he shrugged.
Brine said, “I think he’s passed on. I
hate to say it, but I think we—” missed it, was what he’d intended to
say, but those words never sounded. They evaporated like smoke as he watched
his brother go springing from the mattress. Without knowing why, Brine did the
same, unsure of what he was evading, but eager to evade it all the same,
skipping from the bed and catching only a glimpse of the movement in the
sheets.
Once at the wall, he grabbed his wauk and
crushed it to his chest, unable to breathe. On the bed before him, the
wriggling thing peeked from the blankets and went still. Brine shivered
involuntarily and heard himself groan.
At first glance, the thing on the bed
resembled an albino serpent slithering through the sheets, but at second glance
he saw it was actually a skeletal hand draped with damp white paper. He
watched it rise from the mattress and trembled in the air.
Somewhere on the bed, something said,
“…brine…,” and the hand fell back down.
Brine went sliding along the wall, shoving
the monocle in his eye and jerking the lens towards the headboard, the
direction of the speaker. As he did, the glassy eyes of the cadaver twisted
round to find him.
“…brine…,” the voice croaked again, and
this time Brine could tell it was coming from the face on the bed. The thing’s
chapped lips never moved, but its chin seemed to drop in time with his name
and, seeing this, Brine felt his head begin to shake and heard his tongue begin
to mumble. “Not possible,” he said. “It’s not possible.”
But possible or not, it was happening. The
thing’s eyes staring, the thing’s chin tottering.
“…brine…”
Brine steadied himself with a breath and
forced himself to the bed. “I’m here, father,” he said, kneeling down and
taking hold of the cold, hard hand.
“…wayward…child…,” the dead thing said,
speaking without inflection, “…he…returns…”
Brine didn’t move. “I have,” he said,
thinking he should say more, but finding his words had failed him, the thing’s
hand seeming to suck the thoughts from his head. Quite literally, he knelt
there on the floor, his father hovering near the precipice of death, and all he
could think of was how his fingers felt like a handful of cold, dry
kindling.
“…he…has…,” the cadaver said, its milky
eyes finding Brine’s scalp, “…the…look…of…disciples…”
Brine tried to smile, but found he could
not. He nodded instead and hoped it was enough. It seemed to be.
The thing said, “…it…suits…you…”
Brine nodded again. “I’m glad you think
so,” he said, managing a grin. “There are some who have not approved.”
“…yes…,” the dead thing said, “…much…has…
changed…here…”
To this, Brine gave a regretful nod and
thought back to the shepherd boy and the castle guards and the way they had
stared at what, to them, was a most peculiar cut of the hair. But worse even
than their reactions to his hair, were their reactions to his religion.
When Brine was a boy, the temples were packed
on holy days and anyone not in attendance was either deathly ill or an ignorant
heathen from a faraway land. So to describe the temples as cold and empty?
And to not know the look of their caretakers or the name of their God?
“Yes,” he said at last, offering a rueful
sigh, “much has definitely changed.”
“…but…not…brine…,” the dead thing said,
“…your… studies…are…well…”
Interpreting this as a statement, Brine
said, “Oh, yes. Very well, yes. I’ve always been blessed in His eyes when it
came to that sort of thing, reading and such.”
The thing that had been Samrod Denbauk let
its eyes drift to the ceiling. “…I…knew…this…,” it said. “…I…knew… this…would…be…”
“Did you,” Brine said, uncertain of where
this was going.
“…yes…,” the thing intoned,
“…as…a…child…your… studies…excelled…,” it paused to wheeze, then said,
“…upon…my…visits…home…the…council…would…
tell…me…of…this…,”
it paused again, staring blankly at the rafters, “…you…chased…them…with…books…,”
it said, “…you…begged…them…to…read…”
“Um…father,” Brine said, feeling
uncomfortably about the excessive praise, especially since the dead thing had
yet to even acknowledge his eldest child. “Jaysh is here,” he said,
stealing a glance at his brother.
“…any…magic…” the dead thing asked.
Brine searched his brother’s face, looking
for some sign that he was offended, or that he wished to join the discussion.
But in many ways, Jaysh resembled the inert corpse on the mattress, and Brine
could read nothing in his eyes.
Lowering his gaze, Brine said, “Well,
there is one spell, father, but…but it isn’t much.”
The dead thing said, “…show…me…”
Brine shot another apologetic grimace at Jashandar
and sighed theatrically, one of those what-can-you-do sighs. But again, the
sigh was wasted on his brother. Jaysh didn’t appear the least bit offended by
this lack of attention.
“All right,” he said, turning to the dead
thing, “but don’t expect much. This is a very simple spell. The elders can’t
teach us the powerful spells until after we’ve mastered the teaching of
Amontus. It’s sort of a…sort of a failsafe, I suppose.”
He freed his right hand from his father’s
fishy grasp and lifted it into the air. The sleeve drooped to his elbow as he
held the palm out to the dead thing and hardened his face in concentration, his
lips uttering a beautiful, yet meaningless phrase and a white pinprick of light
forming in the palm of his hand.
Immediately thereafter, the pinprick
spread out and filled the rest of his hand, flooding his wrinkles and pores
with pale ivory light and giving his thumb and fingers the look of an
incandescent cave mushroom. He waggled his fingers at his father, then uttered
another beautiful nonsense word and the glowing began to recede, draining from
his fingers and back into his hand.
“I warned you,” Brine said, resuming his
grip on the dead thing’s hand.
“…no…matter…,” the dead thing croaked,
“…you… will…learn…more…”
“I sure hope so,” Brine said, smiling
cordially as a stunning silence swam out of the darkness and settled on the
bed. He shifted uneasily and waited for the shade of his father to say
something, but the shade never did. It merely lay there on the bedding and
stared into Brine’s steadily widening eyes.
Say something, he thought with a
tinge of alarm. Say anything, hum a lullaby if you have to, but no more
silence, please. And just then—just as Brine began to consider prying his
hand from the dead thing’s grip and scrambling for the exit—the silence
scurried away as the remains of the king twisted in his bed.
“…it…is…time…,” the thing said, fixing its
gaze on the ceiling. “…the…raya…beckons….”
Brine dropped his eyes to the faint glow
at his father’s throat. He held only meager knowledge of the amulet and its
power, but he had read the basics. In the texts on Jashian history, for
example, he’d learned that Arn had stolen the amulet during the adventurous
days of his youth, though it did not say from whom or from where.
In
any case, the records went on to say that the amulet itself emitted a soft
violet light and, more or less, did nothing for the wearer until the day of his
passing. Only then, as the wearer’s mind and body lost their ability to sustain
life, did the amulet compensate the wearer for bearing its weight, only then
did the magic of the stone come to life and offer the wearer a day without pain
and a day without fear, a day, in effect, to prepare for the end.
“…is…he…here…,” the dead thing asked.
Brine couldn’t help but frown at such an odd
question. There were only the three of them—father, eldest, and youngest—and
surely his father had seen his two sons enter. But when his father failed to
repeat the question, Brine lifted his gaze to Jaysh and shrugged, a gesture
that said, What now? Ignoring the gesture, Jaysh continued to chew his
vine and stare cautiously at the cadaver.
Leaning close to the dead thing’s ear,
Brine said, “Is who here, father?”
“…the…other…,” the dead thing said, “…your…
brother…”
Brine pulled back, lifting his eyes to the
woodsman. “He, um…yes, he’s here.”
Writhing in its bedding, the dead king
twisted its head and laid cold eyes on its eldest. “…you…are… aware…,” it said,
“…of…your…kingship…”
Jaysh stopped chewing, and as he did the
silence swam back out of the shadows and pooled around the bed. Brine could
actually hear it as it came, the sound of mute pressure falling from an
oily space, the sound of swimming to far below the surface and wondering if you
could ever make it back, which was exactly what he was wondering as he watched
his father and brother staring into each other’s eyes.
I’m going to break my father’s hand,
he thought, morosely. If Jaysh doesn’t speak and I don’t relax, I’m going to
snap every bone in his baby-bird hand.
Speaking over the bulge in his cheek, Jashandar
said, “Ye’sir.”
Brine relaxed a little, but only until he
heard the next word that exited the dead thing’s gullet. For even though his
father’s body did not move—continuing to drill his eldest with those ghastly
gray eyes—it was now speaking to him.
“…brine…,” it said, coldly.
Brine swallowed. “Yes, father?”
“…the…council…ages….,” it said.
Frowning slightly, Brine said, “Yes,
father.”
“…each…is…old…,” the dead thing said, its
fried-egg face burning into Jaysh, “…and…soon…they…die…”
To this, Brine could only nod.
“…after…your…studies…,” the dead thing
said, the purple light dimming at its chest, “…you…should…settle… here…as…learned…adviser…”
The dead thing paused, possibly so Brine
could consider the offer. At that moment, though, Brine was having trouble
breathing, let alone pondering the intricacies of his future. His heart felt
like it was going to explode and he was almost certain he’d heard one his
father’s metacarpals snapping in his grip.
And what of Jaysh—poor, poor Jaysh—what
must he be feeling right now? Part of Brine wanted to look—to see if he were
hurt or incensed—but another part of him, the weaker part, kept his
uncomfortable gaze locked upon his father, watching as a softer purple light
began to bathe his pustuled face. After what felt like forever, it turned its
dead eyes to his.
Brine exhaled sharply and, from across
the bed, Jaysh began to chew.
“…what…say…you…,” the dead thing asked.
Giving his father a pensive expression,
Brine said, “I will considered it, father. There is definitely a religious
need in Jashandar, and I could definitely see myself pursuing such a need, it’s
just that…”
From the walls, the silence slithered back
out.
“…yes…”
Brine clenched his teeth in indecision.
“It’s complicated,” he said.
“…is…there…someone…special…”
Brine wrinkled his face to show almost as
many lines as his father, then realized what his father had asked and the lines
disappeared, his face going taut with dismay.
“Actually father, we aren’t allowed to
engage in such relationships at Valley Rock, what with the laws of Amontus and
the sacred teachings and the pursuit of a pure mind and a wholesome body and,
to be completely honest, we’re so busy with studies and worship and the needs
of the local villages that—”
“…her…name…”
“Miriana,” Brine said, panting and out of
breath, “she’s very nice.”
“…miriana…,” the dead thing said,
“…should…come… here…”
Brine didn’t know what to say. In truth,
Miriana would play a large role in where he one day settled, but there
was also his dream to consider, and so far that had held more sway over him
than his special friend.
He thought of the feeling in his dream and
the feeling he had while reading the letter from Kowin and the feelings he had
now as he thought of all the people in Jashandar who did not know Owndiah or
Amontus or the joys of worshiping at temple.
“I have this…this thing, father,
this task I must perform.” He tried to gauge the disappointment in the king’s
pasty flesh, but quickly gave it up. As before, he found only torpor and
disease in that flesh. “Afterwards, though,” he said sympathetically, “I
promise to consider it. I do.”
The dead thing lie there, its dead eyes
staring, its dead mouth apart, and Brine felt certain it would speak, felt
certain it would tell him how pleased it was with this news and how wonderful
it would be for his youngest to come back.
But as it turned out, the dead thing said
nothing. It never had the chance. For as Brine made his promise to consider its
offer at a later date, the light of the Raya faded from the stone.