Those who are lost may yet be found
By lies or truth on hellish ground.
The inside of Requar's head was hellish.
Blackness mingled with livid red; glowing, swirling, bloody, raw. The trigon had devoured much of his thoughts, his memories, his essence, leaving little behind save a kaleidoscopic maelstrom of pain.
Arzath felt his physical body lurch and reel with the horror and burning agony that passed through him in waves. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to maintain the link. The trigon had retreated for the moment, gone to defend the heart, the lifeblood, keeping the body alive until it had finished its transformation. Arzath knew that he had to make the most of this opportunity; futile though it may be, he would not get another chance.
Desperately, fighting nausea, he looked around, searching. Searching the vast, swirling, crimson-black cathedral of agony for any glimmer of memory that might have survived.
Then he saw them. One or two, sparkling in the chaos like diamonds drowning in an ocean of blood.
He moved toward them, as quickly as he could manage, but they disappeared before he could get to them.
Frustrated, he spun, searching again.
He needed just one memory: but it had to be a particular one. If that one had been destroyed, then there was truly no hope. All other memories were inconsequential, it did not matter if they were consumed.
But one memory was significant. One memory could begin to bring Requar back together, no matter how ruined the rest of him may be.
Arzath hoped with everything in him that it was still there.
He spent a long time searching, or so it seemed. He could feel himself growing weak, energy draining out of him, the constant barrage of pain wearing him down. More than a few times, he felt his own mind trying to pull back, to escape the torment, but he endured it, because his fear was greater than the pain.
He could not pull out now, not before finding the memory. If he did, then everything was lost.
When he did, eventually, find what he was looking for, he almost cried with relief.
Not much of Requar was still intact, but this memory was. It had survived the onslaught, perhaps because it was the most powerful memory that Requar possessed; one that had sunk deep, that had speared through the entirety of his being.
It was also the last one.
Arzath found himself back in the frozen foyer of his brother's castle, just after the fight. The scene was hazy and filled with a silvery light; objects were indistinct, blurry shapes, dreamlike and prismatic.
Arzath caught his breath. Requar was seeing this through his Mind Vision, because Arzath had destroyed his eyes.
His brother knelt on the floor. Arzath could feel his despair; a flood of sadness, hopelessness, self-pity and guilt that had built up over two centuries, and had finally been released like a broken dam. It was drowning him.
He watched as Requar looked down at the black shard, then up at the tormented shadow on his left side.
Arzath felt stricken, looking at his own anguish through the Vision of his brother, but he made himself walk forward and kneel in his own sobbing shadow.
Requar picked up the trigonic dagger and held it out in front of him. He was saying something as he did so, but the words were no longer important.
Please forgive me… for this…
Arzath wanted to stop him, wanted desperately to reach out and grab his hand, to prevent what would happen… but he restrained himself. This was a memory, and he could not change it. He could never reverse what had been done.
But he COULD alter Requar's perception of it…
He didn't want to look as Requar turned the dagger in his hand and plunged it into his own heart, but he forced himself to. This was the critical moment.
Requar's Vision warped and went dark at the edges. Quickly, Arzath lunged out of his shadow, ignoring the ghostly echo of his own cry, and grabbed the dagger.
Not to pull it out, however.
Firmly, Arzath wrapped his hands around his brother's. This is not a dagger, he told Requar intently. You are NOT stabbing yourself with a trigonic dagger. This is your Sword of Healing. You do not want to die. You want to live!
Requar did not respond. Slowly, he went limp, his head rolling back, and he collapsed onto the floor.
Arzath continued to grip the dagger, crushing Requar's hand to the hilt. You are NOT dying! he said fiercely. You are healing yourself! This is NOT a trigonic dagger! It is your Sword of Healing!
He continued repeating the words until darkness claimed them both.
Arzath retreated from Requar's mind and slumped on to the bed, clutching it for support. He took a few moments to recover, to let his own mind rest from the shock and pain.
Then he pushed himself upright, arms trembling, and wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve. “You may… stop now,” he told Flint.
On the other side of the bed, the man in the hat sagged in relief, letting his huge crossbow slip from his hands on to the carpet.
“Hand me… the Sword,” Arzath asked wearily.
Flint picked up the Sword of Healing where it lay on the floor and tossed it to Arzath over the bed. Arzath caught it in one hand, spun it and laid it on top of Requar's body. The trigon had withdrawn back into the wound and Requar once again lay still and silent. Arzath reached up and untied Requar's left wrist from the bedpost.
“Help me untie him.”
Flint obeyed wordlessly.
Arzath took the lifeless arms and placed the hands over the jewelled hilt, where it rested at Requar's throat, the blade lying over the black wound in the middle of his chest. He curled Requar's long fingers around the handle.
For a moment he paused, with his own ruined hands on top of his brother's, just staring down at him. He felt abysmally tired. He wanted nothing less in the world than to go back into that horrific wreck of a mind, but he wasn't done yet.
Finding the memory had been the first part.
The real struggle was yet to come.
Closing his eyes, he wished dearly that he could rest, just for awhile, for some relief from the torment. But he could not afford to wait. If the trigon consumed that memory, then it was all over.
He opened his eyes and stared dismally at the wound. He could not cure Requar. He could not remove the trigon from his body. Perhaps no one could.
But he sure as hell was going to fight it.
Steeling himself, stoking his magic, he turned, gripped Requar's head again, and went back in.
He was afraid that he wouldn't be able to find the memory again, but his fear was needless.
It was right there, in front of him.
Right where he had left it.
Somewhere in the background he could feel the trigon returning; slowly, slowly through Requar's mind, like viscous ink, but he ignored it.
Once again, he was back in the icy entrance hall of the white castle.
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He walked over and knelt on the cold floor in his shadow, surrounded by the flickering colours of his own aura, and watched the scene play out again.
Once again, he felt Requar's overwhelming sadness mingled with his own anguish and regret. Once again, he grabbed the dagger as his brother tried to take his own life, and once again, told him lies as he lay dying. Lies so passionate that Requar could not fail to believe them.
And when the memory ended, he returned and did it again.
And again.
He continued reliving the scene, over and over, until he started to believe it himself.
A lie told often enough was indistinguishable from the truth.
And at last, after an eternity of time, it did, indeed, become true.
Arzath walked numbly over to his shadow, and fell to his knees on the frosted marble floor. He felt sorrow and pain wash over him, the only things left in all of existence. He turned to look at his brother, kneeling beside him, shoulders slumped, long white hair trailing down his back, eyes ruined, face streaked with blood and tears. Saw him pick a blade up off the floor.
But this time, it was not the trigonic dagger.
This time, Requar held the Sword of Healing in his hand, sapphire hilt sparkling, blade shining like moonlight on water.
And he turned the blade in his hand, and ran himself through with it.
Arzath released his hold on Requar's mind. When the darkness cleared from his vision, he realised that the room was lighter than it had been. The sky outside the window was softening to a lavender colour.
Dawn was about to break over the mountains.
The room swayed as he turned his head, and his vision was blurred and fuzzy around the edges. But he could see Flint sitting on a chair opposite him, leaning over the bed, staring intently at something.
Arzath looked down.
The Sword of Healing still lay upon Requar's chest, his brother's hands still wrapped around the hilt.
But now, the Sword was glowing.
Eyes widening, Arzath bent closer.
Yes. It was not a trick of the light or his failing eyesight. There was a very faint, delicate, but definite blue light sliding down the length of the blade.
He smiled, and then began to laugh. “Yes!” he panted. “Yes!”
He laughed, and his laughter followed him into unconsciousness.
* * *
A large crowd had gathered outside the gates to Sunsee.
Commander Wen Tarrow of the Blue Watch was irritable. He stalked around the edges of the throng, and sometimes through it, his long, shining halberd held before him in both hands. He was finding it increasingly difficult to resist lopping someone's head off with it. Beneath his polished armour he was soaked in sweat from the oppressive afternoon heat. His blue cloak dragged at his back.
All day he had been yelling at these people to move along, but everyone was ignoring him.
He gritted his teeth.
The merchants, he could understand. They had goods to deliver. But half of the people gathered here were simply sightseers, come to collect gossip about the King, rather than any real concern about His Majesty's wellbeing.
“Move along!” he yelled again, giving the nearest person a shove, just because he could. “The City of Sunsee is closed at this time!”
Ever since King Neodine had arrived in Sunsee the previous evening, hastened to the infirmary on horseback, the city had been in lockdown. Personally, Tarrow did not believe the allegation of an attempted assassination by sorcery: he found the notion absurd. It was more likely to have been a tragic, freak weather event. He did not believe that any sorcerers had existed for decades. It was disappointing to hear that Coastland folk were just as superstitious and irrational as their vagabond Outland cousins.
However, Commander Tarrow took his job seriously, and if there was even the merest sniff of a sinister plot afoot, he would do everything in his power to ensure the King's safety.
If that meant closing the entire city until some real facts could be established, so be it.
He was glad that the Darorian Army shared his opinion. Soldiers were at this moment patrolling the streets and guarding the infirmary, along with the Watch.
“Only those with urgent business may enter!” he yelled, pushing himself through the middle of the crowd. “The rest of you: move along!”
He was standing in the space that he had cleared, glaring around him, when a figure in white approached, leading a chestnut horse. Tarrow took in her uniform at a glance; white with gold trim, a stiff, curving headdress and the royal emblem on her left breast.
His eyebrows raised. It was one of the King's personal medical retainers.
“My lady,” he said, bowing.
“I have urgent business here,” the woman said curtly. “I must attend to the King.”
“Of course,” Tarrow replied at once, then hesitated. “Apologies, my lady,” he said, “but I must inspect your satchel. It is protocol.”
The woman's face was young, but her grey glare could melt stone. Tarrow swallowed. Something about those eyes was disturbingly familiar, but he couldn't place it.
Sighing with impatience, the woman opened her satchel. Tarrow stepped forward and peered inside. It was filled with various jars and vials of herbs and other unidentifiable substances. He pulled one out and examined it.
“If the King dies,” the woman told him angrily, “while we are out here fussing about, let it be on your head.”
“O-of course,” Tarrow answered, hastily stuffing the mysterious jar back into the satchel, glass clinking. He had no idea what was in it, but it wasn't his place to question a healer who was here to save the King's life.
Spinning on his heel, he strode forward, shoving people out of his way. “Move aside!” he yelled. “Make way!”
Reaching the gates, he rapped on the door with his halberd. “Open up! Official healer for the King!”
There was a rattle of the locks being thrown back, and the door opened. Tarrow stepped aside.
The woman paused before entering, and turned to him. “There are refugees at the crossroad to Tulstan,” she told him. “They are in need of aid.”
“I will see to it at once,” Tarrow replied.
The woman gave him another of her mountain-rock stares. “See to it that you do.”
Then she disappeared through the door, leading her horse.
Tarrow frowned as the door closed behind her. He was sure he had seen that woman somewhere before, and not in the King's entourage. Something bothered him about her. A gut feeling...
He spent the rest of his evening duty trying to figure it out.
Grisket Trice sat on a white stone bench on the boulevard above the sea wall, looking out over the small, sandy bay where Aari had been laid to rest. Before him, the ocean spread out like a glassy, endless mirror, the air sticky and still. The sky was hazy, filled with sea mist. Opposite him, the sun was dying; a huge, red, baleful eye, staining the entire sky crimson, as though an Aegis covered the entire world.
Perhaps it does, he pondered cheerlessly. Perhaps we are all prisoners.
A little further to the north-west, the real Aegis had disappeared into the haze.
At least, Grisket hoped it was just the haze that had caused it to vanish from sight.
He felt tired, and drained of all purpose. His right leg was still splinted, stuck out uselessly in front of him on the sand-dusted cobblestones. It was mending, slowly, the healers had told him, but he would never again be able to use it properly.
He gritted his teeth. The loss of his leg did not bother him as much as the loss of Aari and Sirannor did. His friend's lives were not replaceable, were not a part of him that he could learn to live without.
And perhaps now Hawk and Ferrian had gone to join them.
Without him.
Bitterly, he reflected that he had broken every promise that he had ever made. He had not helped Ferrian. He had not looked after Aari, as he ensured Mekka he would. His two young sons were gone. They'd never had a chance to return to Skywater, to snag that huge fish they had tried so hard to catch...
He had failed to fix the wagon, when it had broken down on the road. He had promised his wife that they'd be on their way again in no time.
Then the sorcerer had come, and everything had fallen apart.
He closed his eyes. Now even the Outlands were in imminent danger. When the Dragons broke free of their thousand-year prison, there would be chaos. There would be vengeance, he had no doubt of that. He had sworn to protect people, but now he was no longer capable of fighting. No longer capable of standing on his own, even.
Now, he could do nothing.
When he opened his eyes, he became aware of someone watching him from a few yards away, to his left. He looked up.
A woman stood there, quietly, in the red light of the sun, maintaining a respectful distance. She wore a practical riding outfit; brown leather pants and boots, and a leather vest over a dark maroon blouse that complemented her stunning bright red hair, which fell loose about her shoulders.
She looked like an incarnation of the setting sun itself.
And her eyes… they were just like Sirannor's, but with a fiery glint to them, like newly forged steel.
Carmine.
Sirannor, Grisket thought to himself ruefully, how could you possibly have rejected a daughter so beautiful?
He reassured the woman with a gesture that she was permitted to approach. Picking up his crutch, he struggled to his feet.
“I'm glad to finally meet you, Commander,” Carmine said softly.
“Likewise,” Grisket replied, shaking her hand in greeting. Then he shook his head. “Your father is an idiot.”
Carmine raised an eyebrow. “An idiot in a new, interesting way that I'm not aware of, or just the usual, stubborn Sirannor?”
“For distancing himself from you,” Grisket answered, lowering himself gingerly back onto the bench, and waving her to take a seat beside him.
She did so. “Really?” she replied drily, folding her arms. “I could have told you that!”
They fell into silence for a moment, and Carmine's face became serious. She leaned forward on her knees, staring down at her hands clasped before her. “I'm sorry about your Sergeant,” she told him sincerely. “Hawk told me what happened.”
Grisket did not look at her, just nodded, wordlessly accepting her condolences. After a moment, he changed the subject. “Did you manage to find out anything about what has happened to Sirannor?”
The young woman stared out at the darkening sea. “I hung around the Watch House for awhile,” she replied. “But I didn't overhear anything interesting.” She scowled. “They were all talking about the King.”
Grisket scowled, as well.
“But...” a small smile crept onto her face. “The soldiers were more useful. Some of Hawk's friends were willing to talk with me. They were fairly certain that a prisoner was transferred onto one of the supply ships heading for the Middle Isle.”
Grisket's scowl darkened further. “Just as we suspected, then,” he muttered. “General Dreikan has taken him.”
“But… for what reason?”
The Commander shook his head. “Nothing good.”
Carmine stared at him, perplexed.
“Sirannor and Dreikan have been enemies for a long time,” he explained. “The General isn't satisfied with the Captain simply being imprisoned for the rest of his life. He wants revenge. He wishes Sirannor to die… but not just to die. He is trying to destroy the man's reputation as well, to ensure he is remembered as a despicable villain, not a hero. Not someone worthy of the admiration that he himself wasn't ever able to achieve.”
“But…” Carmine insisted, “why? I know they have a history, but what happened between them that would cause General Dreikan to hate my father so badly?”
Grisket saw the frustration in her eyes, and felt sorry for her. But he could not tell her; he would not break yet another promise. He had precious few of them left.
He merely shook his head sadly. “It isn't for me to say, lass,” he told her.
Carmine slumped back angrily against the seat, sighing. “Does everyone know except for me??”
Grisket remained quiet, watching the last rays of the sun slowly disappear, just as he had watched the embers from Aari's pyre fade away on the same water. “Are you sure you want to know the truth?” he asked after awhile. He shook his head. “Sometimes, it's better to remain ignorant.”
Of course, he knew that Carmine would never accept such an answer, that it would do nothing but stoke the fire inside of her, make her more determined. But he felt it ought to be said, regardless.
Sirannor's daughter did not reply. Instead, she stood up. To his surprise, there was a smile on her lips.
He frowned. “What do you intend to do?”
Carmine stood staring out at the shadowed ocean, her grey eyes directed to the misty horizon where the distant Aegis lay hidden. “I intend,” she said, “to get him back!”