Chapter Forty-Three: Paradise Lost

“If only I knew as a child what I know now.”

—Aedrasil, Protector of Man

Evaine was dreaming about the man with the seaweed-coloured hair again.

In her dream she was back along the Brackenburg, in the dreaded cavern where Aren and Herod and the Children of the Wind lay in pieces around her. Draurig danced by her ankles, splashing through the water, singing songs with its nasal voice.

Her dreams had been growing more frequent ever since she’d taken up instruction at the Clock Tower, forced to use her Soulsong over and over until her throat was hoarse. She’d never forgotten what happened in that grotto, the day she’d found the entire troupe dead, the day she’d almost been swallowed by the creature known only as ‘Graendal.’ It had taken almost a week for the nightmares to stop and for her to go back to her normal self.

But now they were back, and more vivid than ever.

She felt her voice well in her throat as the next phase played out in her mind. Draurig turned on her, gripping her ankles with its clammy hands, pulling at her dress, dragging her into the water. More hands appeared, white and sickly from the depths, grabbing her by the wrists, by the hair, submerging her.

She sank deeper and deeper, her lungs burning. Bubbles escaped her lips. She grew faint, dizzy and heavy all at once, thrashing at the river children until, finally, the man appeared.

He was just as he always was, sun-tanned skin and angular features, limp hair like seaweed running down his neck. He opened his mouth and, even though they were underwater, she heard him sing. Thin lines rushed through the darkness and cleaved the hands. She saw the water clear, felt it grow thinner until it was as light as air.

Evaine opened her eyes and found herself kneeling atop a silver pond, watching ripples dance across its surface. Beneath her was the man, staring from a realm that mirrored her own, taking the place of her reflection. He was handsome in a rugged kind of way, the way Aren had beenwas, the way Ein and Bran weren’t.

“Fateweaver,” he greeted, breaking into a wide smile. “It is good to see you.” His voice was heavy with accent, though she couldn’t quite pick out where from.

“What are you?” Evaine asked.

“I am your Wyrd,” he responded. “The Lord of the River. I am a part of you, as you are a part of me. I am your sword and shield.”

Wyrd, Evaine thought. My Soulsong taken form.

She’d heard about Ein’s Wyrd during their travels, albeit briefly. The Lady of the Storm, the Stormdancer, Reyalin the Lightning Blade. A Hero of Faengard who’d had such a large influence over the Winds of Fate that she’d transcended time, summoned to the Hall of Heroes to be reborn again and again. Each rebirth saw a new vessel, a new string of stories and legends left behind in her wake. This man, the Lord of the River, was like her.

“Who are you?” she asked.

The man laughed. “Ah, to think you had known me for your whole life and yet you still know not my name. I have been watching over you for a long time, child.”

It was the longest conversation they’d ever had. Usually her dreams ended within the first few words, but this time was different. The more he spoke, the stronger the sense of familiarity she felt. He was right; she did know him. But from where? From when?

“You are learning, child. You are growing, like the trickling that widens into the stream and the roaring river. Very soon, you will find out what you are truly capable of, and you will act out your role.”

“I don’t understand. Aren’t I’m doing that already? I’ve joined the Legion to fight the relicts, haven’t I? I’m learning magic!”

“Oh no.” The man chuckled. “Not yet—far from it. Soon, child. We watch you, myself and the other legends from the Hall of Heroes. Yours will be the final battle to the cycle, the battle to end all battles and begin the world anew. The Oathbreaker stirs, and with him his servants. The Faceless and the relicts, the Aldereich and the Apocalypse Knights, they are rouse from their short-lived slumbers. But they are not alone, for we, the Heroes of Faengard, are reborn. As a Fateweaver, you hold our power in your hands.”

He reached out to her.

“The Heroes of Faengard will ride again. Let the sun rise, and the world be reborn through the ashes of war.”

The man’s hand broke the water, entering her realm. With a gentle tap, it left a mark on her forehead.

A flood of energy rushed through Evaine, a waterfall crashing down the mountain. She was a pebble at the mercy of the raging river. The blood in her veins quickened, sweat leaking from her body. Tears sprung from her eyes, followed by memories—of quiet baths down by the Brackenburg, swimming lessons with her mother, trips to the riverbank to search for mudcrabs. Water lapping at her ankles as she watched the fish weave patterns through the rocks. Splashing Bran and Ein as they played by the shoreline in the summer heat. Loud complaints as her father fished, waiting for a nibble.

When the flood of memories stopped, the man was gone. She was kneeling alone atop the pool, staring into her own reflection. Her heart thumped in her ears, flooding her veins with raw power.

The man with the seaweed-coloured hair had disappeared without leaving his name. But she recognized him. He’d indeed been by her side from the day she was born.

His name was Brackenburg, and he was the Lord of the River.

#

That very morning, Evaine graduated from the rank of Novice.

“Don’t get full of yourself,” Kedryn said. “You’ve still got a ways to go in terms of controlling your Soulsong. But we need more hands, and the fastest way to get them is to promote those we already have.”

The Minstrel took her through the barracks to one of the infirmaries. The common rooms were nigh empty, most of the soldiers away on patrol or training. Coals glowed dimly in the fireplace, the guard following their every move from behind his desk as they walked past.

The smell of stale flesh and copper hit Evaine as she entered the room. Rows of beds lined either side of the wall with men and women atop them, bandages around their heads and bodies, limbs bound to splints. Flesh wounds and broken bones formed the majority of injuries, though there was one man who had a nasty rash spreading down his chest. All around them rushed the healers and medics, white-robed figures with pens and notepads boiling linen and salves, offering words of comfort and advice to those in need.

Kedryn took Evaine to where a woman lay with her face contorted in pain, a gaping arrow-hole in her thigh. The medics were binding her leg tightly with cloth as blood continued to ooze.

“Minstrel Kedryn,” one of them exclaimed, as she mixed a salve in a mortar and pestle. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Good morning,” the Minstrel said. “How fares the patient?”

“Not well, I’m afraid.” The medic shook her head. “Her wound clots too slowly. We fear death by blood loss.”

“Gods be damned,” the bedridden soldier rasped. “To die of a pinprick wound of all things…” She squeezed her eyes shut as another wave of pain racked through her leg.

“Is there anything you can do, Minstrel?” the medic asked.

“Nothing that hasn’t already been done, no,” Kedryn said, “unless you need an extra set of arms on the pestle. But I have with me a young talent, the Journeyman Evaine, who wields the essence of water.” Evaine resisted the urge to brag about the true nature of her Soulsong. “She is still inexperienced and incredibly naive, but perhaps she can help.”

The medic’s eyes brightened. “That would be very kind of you, Journeyman,” she addressed Evaine. “Sisters, let us give the two some privacy. Perhaps they can work some magic for us.”

The other medics nodded and filtered away from the injured soldier’s bedside, moving to other patients. Kedryn took her place before one of the basins of water.

“Come closer, Journeyman, so I do not have to shout.” The big woman was more reserved, respectful even, as she gazed at the bloody mess before her. Sensing the mood, Evaine quietly obeyed.

“You are incredibly lucky to be gifted with the aspect of water,” Kedryn said. “It is one of the most versatile elemental Wyrds one can possess, second only to earth. After all, it is water and earth that make up the majority of our bodies—not fire or wind, or lightning and ice and light and shadow. Fire Wyrds are many; in fact, the King’s army is primarily made of flame-wielders. Fire is hot. It is angry and untameable, and knows naught but destruction.”

She pointed to the injured soldier now, more specifically at her leaking wound.

“Water is its opposite. Water is cool. It is calm and controlled, and like earth, it can repair. Blood is like water, Journeyman. Anything that flows is like water, and so you can repair it. Water carries the things that make our bodies well, the things that heal it. It carries away waste when we go to the latrines. A man can go for weeks without food but only days without water.”

Kedryn pushed the basin towards Evaine. “I am not a water-wielder, so I cannot teach you exactly how to do this. But I trust in your instincts. Stem the bleeding, Journeyman, and we will fight our own battle against the relicts.”

Evaine swallowed and nodded. She’d thought of the concept herself once before, when she’d seen Alend’s wounds in the house of Lord Drakhorn, but she’d been too weak and unlearned back then. She could barely lift a goblet’s worth of water, let alone manipulate it as if it were blood.

But she’d spent the past few days filtering salt from seawater, and she was much more confident in her ability. There was that, and also her dream of Brackenburg, which was still fresh in her mind. It was as if a gate had been opened, as if she’d been walking around with weights on her ankles and had finally been allowed to removed them. She sang loudly, clearly, lyrics with no particular meaning that held the essence of water in their timbre. The water in the basin rose effortlessly, and she directed it so it formed a smooth bubble over the bleeding thigh.

The woman’s grunts of pain lessened, and her eyes rolled slightly into the back of her head. A small breath of relief escaped her lips. Red began to mix into the water, colouring it like a cloud of smoke.

Evaine concentrated and redirected the blood back into the wound, keeping the bubble pure. The patient’s breathing grew more even as Evaine continued to press, weaving the wound shut as if she were stitching a dress. She thought of baths as she sang, cool, refreshing baths washing summer sweat and grime off her body and hot, steaming baths on winter nights. She thought of the time she’d burned her hand on the stove and her mother had poured cool, running water over it. She thought of those lazy afternoons she’d spent with Bran and Ein, splashing across the riverbank in their bare feet.

A firm hand on her shoulder stopped her. She looked up and realized the bleeding had stopped. The patient was sleeping peacefully, sweat drying on her forehead, a thin brown spot holding the puncture wound closed.

“Good,” said Kedryn, nodding. “Now let us move on. There are many more that require your service.”

Evaine looked at the clean wound in wonder. It was a strange feeling, to know that it was her power who had saved the woman. Perhaps that was what it meant to be a Fateweaver—one who held influence over the fates of many.

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#

They sent her out to the war camp the very next day, after she’d spent the entire afternoon treating simple burns and bleeds. Minstrel Kedryn rode with her alongside twelve other Songweavers, mostly Journeymen and Adepts, and a small group of runner boys on a wagon. That would have been well and good had Gerrard not been sent as well.

“It’s unnerving,” the Adept said, riding beside two robed women. “The scouts have reported relict numbers nearly doubling over the past week. Every time a new portal opens, the Blight gains ground on the city.”

That was indeed true. Past the immediate woods and the green grassland, the Blight had steadily begun its conquest up the hill. Evaine could see every small detail as they descended, from the streams of campfire smoke wafting in the distance to the portals, shimmering like slashes of violet upon the black earth.

“Can’t we just take the fight to them?” one of the women asked. She was fair-haired with an airy voice, one that Evaine thought paired well with the inside of her head. “My uncle always says the best defence is offence.”

“They outnumber us by far,” Gerrard replied, losing himself in his analysis. “We have supplies of salt and oil which we can use to fuel fires, but we can’t take them on in a frontal assault. The most we can do is hold them by the Arrien, though as you can see we won’t be able to do so for long.”

Even after the High King had bolstered his defences, the skirmish overnight had blown them a tattered hole. The Songweavers were on their way now to perform healing duties and take back the wounded. They had with them five water-wielders of which Evaine was one, three earth-wielders, a time-wielder in Gerrard and five all-rounders including Kedryn who were trained in basic healing arts and surgery. The bulk of the treatment would fall upon the specialists.

The runner boys, or the ‘cleanup crew’ as they were known were also there to collect the bodies of the dead. Evaine had studied them all in turn as they boarded the wagon back in Aldoran, but she hadn’t spotted Bran at all.

“If we can’t win any battles, why even station them in the first place?” the woman continued. As airy as she was, Evaine had wondered that same question herself. Why not hole up in the city where it was safer?

“We hold the higher ground,” Gerrard replied. “By keeping them back, we open up trade routes between other towns and cities. Aldoran receives many of its resources from the neighbouring towns like Caerlon and Oster. If we were to surrender the frontier we currently hold, it would allow the relicts to expand even further and possibly threaten other settlements, like Tarinth to the south. Besides, it also gives us more intelligence on how they live and fight. For instance, did you know that every species of relict observed so far has a purpose they are built for?”

Evaine lost interest quickly after that. Her mind began to wander, to thoughts of Ein and her mother and father back in Felhaven. They must have finished rebuilding by now, she thought. I wonder if the village will still look the same.

It was a useless thought when she remembered she’d never be allowed to return.

They reached the camp shortly afterwards, funnelling in through the tents to where the infirmary had been set up. It was a bustle of activity, with soldiers both wounded and unwounded moving in and out, doing their part for everyone else. A Kingsblade in Rhinegold armour met them, saluting Kedryn with a mailed glove.

“How many?” the Minstrel asked.

“Thirty dead,” he said. “A further fifteen unaccounted for, probably dead also. And more than a hundred wounded. They’ve been triaged and treated with basic first aid, but we only have so many medics, and there’s not much we can do without healers.”

“Well, you’ve got healers now. Go,” Kedryn ordered in her authoritative voice. The Songweavers and the runner boys scattered. Evaine stayed.

“Who’s this?” the Kingsblade asked.

“My apprentice. She’ll be helping me with the worst of the bunch.”

“Looks a little young to be helping out,” he said. He was a kind-faced elderly man, the type Evaine could picture rocking in an armchair by the fire. “Some of the injuries out there aren’t for the faint-hearted.”

“She’ll be fine,” Kedryn smiled proudly. “She’s only been working for six days, but I’ve already shaped her into a fine Songweaver.”

He shrugged. “I suppose the young can’t be underestimated these days. Why, just the other day we had a runner boy slay a Bloodmane.”

At that Evaine perked up.

“For real?” Kedryn asked. “One of them lion-men relicts, the ones that give you so much trouble?”

“Aye. It was a straggler from the skirmish three nights ago left forgotten under a mound of corpses. Lad finished him off with a couple of well-aimed shots. We’ve got him at the camp now as a scout—can’t let that talent and bravery go to waste. He’s a young ‘un, too. Not a day past his man-year, I’d say.”

Evaine slumped. It couldn’t possibly be Bran; he would never be capable of such a thing.

Kedryn whistled. “Sounds like real fighter. Look after him, will you? In times like these, it’s the young ones who carry the hopes of us all.”

“Oh, stop it. You’ve got years in you yet, Kedryn. Now, off you go. We’ve stood around chatting for long enough.”

“Of course. Journeyman!”

Evaine snapped to attention and darted after the Minstrel.

The first man they treated was absolutely hysterical. He bawled and screamed like a newborn, wailing for his mother, pleading to the gods for mercy. Evaine grimaced at his desperation, but she couldn’t look away.

“Chances are we probably can’t save him,” Kedryn said, “but we have to try anyway.” There was a blanket draped over his lower half, one stained scarlet with blood. Around them the other Songweavers worked with the medics, singing their magic in tandem with the grinding of poultices and the bubbling of water over fire. Evaine was as silent as a rabbit, listening to the cacophony of coughs and screams that pierced the air.

Kedryn pulled back the blanket. Evaine covered her mouth.

The man’s lower leg was attached to his knee by a sliver of bone, blood oozing from black-red flesh, yellow pus festering around the edges. The medics had bound a strip of linen tightly above the wound, a tourniquet that choked the flesh purple.

“His leg can’t be saved,” Kedryn said. “They’ve decided that already. We’re going to amputate it and hope he lives.”

Evaine nodded, not daring to open her mouth. She didn’t want to taste the smell of rank flesh on her tongue lest she started throwing up. She knew if that happened, she wouldn’t be able to stop.

It’s completely different, she thought. Seeing a live person in this state compared to a dead one.

“Journeyman!” Kedryn snapped. “Pay attention.” A red-hot poker had somehow found itself into her hand. “I want you to stem the bleeding and numb the area above the knee. Lower the temperature to freezing if you can.” She held a great big cleaver in her other hand, one with serrated edges made for sawing bone.

It took everything Evaine had to simply keep the contents of her stomach down and do her job. As Kedryn began the surgery, shearing through flesh and bone, augmenting the cleaver with her Soulsong, Evaine focused on taking away the pain. The man continued to howl, begging the relicts for mercy, screaming at his company to fall back. Quite soon, another smell joined the already overbearing stench. It was the smell of burning flesh.

“Not hot enough,” Kedryn murmured, and sang a quick chord. The poker in her hand flared red. “Move the bubble up so I can finish sealing the wound! Quick!”

Evaine stumbled over a word and the water collapsed. She swore and tried to recover, starting up her singing again, but it was too late. The man’s shrieking reached a new level as water and blood spewed across the table.

“God damn,” roared Kedryn. “You dunce!’

She pressed the steel deep into the stump, searing flesh, keeping it heated with short, sharp words. The man was thrashing now, trying to break free of the straps that bound him, his face a beet red, tears flowing, saliva frothing, mucus dribbling into a mess onto his sheets. Some of the other patients watched, transfixed.

Kedryn finally removed the implement and stepped back, panting. The man had fallen silent, his eyes staring unblinkingly at the ceiling.

“He’s dead,” she said quietly.

Evaine drew a sharp breath. “I’m sorry—”

“It wasn’t you. He lost too much blood, that’s all.”

A moment passed, and then Kedryn was moving again, dashing to the next patient, roaring for Evaine to follow.

#

Of the twelve injured they tended to, only six survived.

Kedryn had done most of the work—Evaine could restore most cuts and slashes, but she was inexperienced and knew nothing of surgery. All she could do was watch as people continued to suffer and scream, and eventually die.

When it was over, the Songweavers went outside to eat in morose silence. Kedryn had forced a meat skewer into Evaine’s hands, telling her to eat and restore her strength, but she’d tossed it away at the first opportunity she had. It pained her to waste food, especially during the Great Winter, but even the mere smell of meat was enough to traumatize her. She could still hear their screams in her head, smell the blood and the searing flesh. Every time she blinked she saw red and black and yellow.

She found a secluded corner of the camp behind one of the storage tents and threw up until her mouth was dry. Then she sat with her back to the tarp, hugging her knees to her chest. It had been so easy in the Clock Tower, healing the injured. She’d even begun to think herself a messiah, a gift from the gods to the world who would save lives and end all suffering.

What a joke.

This was the real world. A world that spared no mercy to men or their feelings. One where everything could be done for a patient, but he would still die. One where nothing could be done for an enemy and he would live. What a cruel world it was.

They knew, she thought. Alend and Koth and Helda. Mother and Father. Even Ein. She’d gone on an adventure, far away from the Sleeping Twins to Aldoran where all tales began. She’d started her legend in the Clock Tower, as a Novice Songweaver in service to the High King. She was a Fateweaver.

She was a naive little girl who’d thrown away her paradise. So what if she was Brackenburg’s vessel? What use was that if she couldn’t even save half the people who needed help? Her Wyrd would find so much more use in the hands of someone more capable, like Gerrard or Kedryn. How cruel the Winds of Fate were.

Trumpets began to blow, sad and sombre. They played a tune of soldiers marching to war, bidding their wives and children goodbye. They played a tune of laughter, of music and tankards of ale shared around a fire, games of cards and dice passed under grey skies. Of honour between men, pride between blades, heartfelt conversations deep into the night. Hands shaken, rising to salute, the cheering crowds that awaited their return.

The trumpets shifted in their pitch. There was violence now, blood and gore, the chaotic din of the battlefield. Still the men found opportunities to laugh, to drink and play. One man fell, and the entire squad went back for him. No man left behind. For the King. For Faengard, and for the smiles that prayed for them every night.

Soldiers, chests swollen with pride, bidding their weeping mothers goodbye.

Soldiers, bidding the world goodbye.

A thick pillar of smoke rose into the air, carrying with it the dreams and aspirations of the fallen—among them, those she was unable to save. Evaine wiped her tears on her robe and looked up. A man was standing beside her, smoking a pipe. He was big and tall, but wore the plain garb of a runner boy. A bandage was wrapped around his thigh, tinged a faint red.

“Minstrel says eat.” There was an accent to his voice. He held a loaf of bread in his hand.

“I can’t,” Evaine shook her head. Her stomach growled, but she didn’t dare take it. “I’ll just throw it up again.”

“Take.” He proffered it, nudging it in her direction. “Take.”

She sighed and took the loaf. It was dry and hard between her teeth.

“Minstrel says do not dwell on your failures,” he continued. “Dwell on success. Six lives lost. But six lives gained.”

“How do you deal with it?” she asked.

“Deal with?”

“The bodies. You’re part of the cleanup crew, aren’t you? How do you cope with heading out there and collecting all those dead bodies? How do you deal with those that are still alive but can’t be saved, those who you can only comfort with false words as they lie dying?”

The man took a moment to process what she’d just said. “Bodies usually dead. Rotting maggot flies. Very few alive.”

“I see.”

“We not like you. You better than us; you hold power to restore. For that I respect you.”

“No,” said Evaine, resisting the urge to laugh. “Not me, I can’t do anything. Minstrel Kedryn was the one who did all the work. All I’m good for is closing small scratches.”

“Everyone start somewhere. Do not be discouraged. What will happen will happen. It is will of the wind.”

Evaine sighed. “The world is a cruel place, isn’t it?” she murmured.

“No,” the man shook his head. “World not cruel. War cruel. Relicts cruel. Al’Ashar cruel.” He nodded at the horizon, past the campfires to where the Blight was. “You make world good for six people. Even one person saved is good. Friend once tell me this: only one person saved, still hero.”

There was a scuffling of boots against gravel. The man blew another mouthful of smoke from his pipe and then pocketed it. “He comes now,” he said. “He is brave man.”

“Harren?” It was the last voice Evaine expected to hear. Bran emerged from the side of the tent, sleeves rolled up. “Have you seen that loaf of bread I left—” He locked eyes with Evaine and froze, jaw dropping open.

“I leave you two and go,” Harren said. “I mourn for dead. But I also pray for future.” And he left.

“Evaine,” Bran said. “What are you doing here?”

“I could say the same thing,” she said, her voice sounding cracked. “I’m one of the healers they sent. They sent runner boys too, but you weren't among them. I didn’t know you were already here.”

“They decided to keep me as a scout from the last cleanup crew,” he said sheepishly. “After they discovered I could shoot a bow and arrow.”

“You mean… you were the one who killed the Bloodmane?”

“I… it was already wounded,” he mumbled, flushing. “I just finished it off.”

Evaine suddenly found herself laughing. “You and Ein are both relict-slayers now. I guess that only leaves me, huh?” She patted the ground next her. “Come, sit. I could use some company before I head back in the morning.”

Bran looked surprised but sat down. They spoke of small things at first, as the night grew steadily darker around them. Evaine did most of the talking as she always did, saying whatever came to her mind, and Bran listened. As the conversation picked up she began to reminisce, dreaming of home, of better times. Not once did she mention what had happened during the day, and not once did Bran ask.

Once her throat was dry and she’d run out of things to say, they sat in silence for a while, simply listening to the wind. It was a comfortable silence, a calming silence. Like the silence of a baby resting against the rise and fall of its mother’s breast.

That night, as she lay in one of the stuffy tents alongside the other Songweavers, her sleep was dreamless.