Novels2Search
The Wyrms of &alon
132.4 - Ghosts

132.4 - Ghosts

Geoffrey sat at his brother’s bedside. “What happened to you?”

Harmon didn’t respond.

“Harmon, look at me,” Geoffrey said.

But Harmon merely stared at his twitching fingertips.

Geoffrey raised his voice. “Harmon!” But then he flinched and shook his head in shame. He didn’t want to be yelling at his own brother.

I’m not the victim here.

Harmon’s eyes quivered as he focused on Geoffrey. “What is it?” he asked. His voice was tired and heavy, like a muggy wind.

“Sakuragi crucified you…” Geoffrey said, barely able to voice the words. “Why?”

Harmon stared at his fingers, which he tried to control by clenching his hands into fists. He looked back at his brother, tears welling in his eyes.

“I preached,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I went to the Mewnees and preached.” Then his lips pulled into a rictus grin and he laughed. “Sakuragi didn’t like that, oh no. Oh no.”

He laughed so hard, he groaned in pain.

Twitching fingers, I thought. Mood swings?

Being able to remember the symptomatology of every condition ever made it that much more difficult for me not to automatically diagnose any oddities that I happened to notice.

Geoffrey shook his head in dismay. “Why…?” he muttered.

Harmon had no excuse for this. Everyone knew that it was forbidden for Lassedile preachers to proselytize in the Mewnee settlements.

Geoffrey bunched up some of the bedding and squeezed it with his hand. “Why would you do that?” he said, repeating his disbelief. “You know the consequences of proselytizing in the Mewnee quarters!”

Harmon softly wept. “Because what they’re doing to us is wrong,” he said.

“You think I don’t know that?” Geoffrey said.

“Then join the cause. It is good to help those who suffer. I… I’m too weak to aid the Third Crusade,” Harmon replied.

“Is that what they’re calling it, now?” Geoffrey tried to dismiss it.

But Harmon kept his resolve. “What else should we call it?”

Geoffrey put his hand on his brother’s hand. “You’re a light, Harmon. You’re a light for the faithful. For all of us. We need you now, more than ever. Why would you throw away your life like that, and risk it all? The world needs people like you, brother. You keep the dark at bay.”

Geoffrey knew it was shameful for a man to cry, but he cried all the same.

“I don’t want to lose you. That’s the selfish truth. I want my daughter to be able to have pride in her name as she grows. I know my place in history. I have no illusions that I will amount to anything. The best any of us can do is be a stepping stone for someone better than ourselves. Someone like you. When my little girl grows up, I’ll point to you and tell her that that’s who she should strive to be. Angel’s breath, Harmon, you’re the only one of us who turned out right! You have to take care of yourself, for all our sakes. Your life has value!”

The corners of Harmon’s lips twitched as he chuckled in mania. “I just wanted to do what’s right, Gof. The way to Paradise is long and narrow.” He shook his head. “I am a sinner, brother!” His voice became a plangent cry. “I am not a light, I—I—”

Geoffrey opened the door to the kitchen. Piquant spices caressed his nose: cloves, ground bell peppers from faraway Maiko, and ever-precious cinnamon. A headless ram hung from a hook on the wall, its blood dripping into a wooden bucket down on the floor. It looked like Mr. Burnsley was in the middle of butchering the creature. Behind the smell of blood, Geoffrey noticed they were baking bread. He could almost feel the heat flowing off the kiln in the kitchen’s back room. It was a comforting sensation on this chilly morning.

Jennifer—now a scullery maid—and Mr. Burnsely stood at attention the instant Geoffrey stepped into the kitchen. Setting the washing bucket down, Jennifer dried her hands on the apron she wore over her faded, light blue skirt.

“Your Lordship,” she said, with a reverent curtsey. “You’re early.”

“Has my brother come by? He usually eats a bit of bread first thing in the morning.”

Mr. Burnsley flicked the blood off his carving knife. “No, sir.”

“Has anyone caught wind of him?”

Jennifer looked at the cook, who then shook his head.

“No,” she said, “I’m afraid not.” Her kind, green eyes bore into Geoffrey’s. “Is something wrong?”

Geoffrey shook his head. “Harmon isn’t in his room. He must have fallen asleep in the library.”

Mr. Burnsley pulled the ram off the hook. Its blood had fully drained into the bucket below. He smiled. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Forgive my intrusion, then,” Geoffrey said, closing the door behind him as he left.

The library was on the other side of the long hall that ran along the front of the castle. Walking down the corridor gave Geoffrey a clear view of the gardens through the row of windows on the wall. The library’s entrance was next to the landing atop the short flight of stairs at the far end of the hall. From the landing, the stairs branched left and right, leading into the castle’s upper reaches.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

“During his recovery,” Geoffrey said, speaking in the now, “Jennifer helped Harmon regain his strength by taking him up and down the stairs. She was always fond of him, even when we were children. An ordinary man would have taken advantage of that—of her—but not my brother. He was a shard of the Angel’s Light, through and through.”

Geoffrey’s thoughts wandered as he walked down the hallway.

It had taken a fortnight for Harmon to rise from his sickbed. As the week passed and his strength returned, he walked with a cane, as if all his vitality had been drained away. He’d spend time in the gardens, marveling at the roses, watching the hummingbirds buzz, sipping from the red nectilias or bathing in the fountain.

Geoffrey remembered waking up early one morning to find Harmon kneeling by the fountain, like a ghost in the morning fog. His hands trembled as he muttered prayers. His white robe was soaked, and grass stains and mud were caked at his knees. Cupping his hands, Harmon had scooped water from the fountain and poured it over himself. He scraped and scratched at his skin, as if to clean it, but he didn’t stop, not even after he was raw and red and bleeding.

Genneth, Brand thought-said, are you seeing this?

I am.

The library door was ajar. Geoffrey’s lungs filled with the scents of paper, parchment, ink, and wood as he stepped inside.

But he also smelled something else.

A bitter scent.

The library had two floors, with a walkway wrapping around the room on the upper floor, and stairs leading down to the ground. Its steeply pitched roof was held up by ancient wooden hammerbeam vaulting. Both floors’ walls were lined bookcases, stuffed to the brim with volumes new and old.

He’d found Harmon. His brother lay on a thick, pattern-woven rug, with a candle at his side. The candlestick had toppled over, smiling melted wax onto the wooden floor.

“Harmon!” Geoffrey yelled.

Harmon didn’t move.

Geoffrey ran as fast as he dared, sliding his hand down the banister as he descended the stairs. “Harmon, it’s time to—”

—On the last step, Geoffrey’s blood froze cold. He nearly tripped.

He stared in shock.

Harmon’s curdling blood spread in a wide pool on the floor. The color blended with the wood’s.

“No… no!”

The priest’s throat had been slit, and a bloodied knife was in Harmon’s own hand.

“What?” Yuta asked, in the now, horror-struck. “What is this…?”

Yuta felt Geoffrey’s pain as if it was his own.

The four of us stood over Harmon’s corpse. We watched the memory’s Geoffrey scoop up his brother’s body and hold him close, and weep.

Geoffrey answered Yuta’s question without turning to face him. “Harmon took his own life. My brother’s body might have healed, but his mind? His soul…?” He trembled with emotion. “I never found out what Sakuragi did to him. My nightmares have tried to answer that question, but to no avail. All I know is that it broke him.”

Yuta lowered his head in a look that could only be shame.

“Sakuragi is…” he shook his head, “was a vile, twisted man. In all likelihood, he raped your brother. You were fortunate that he did not take Harmon into his torture chamber.” Yuta lowered his gaze. “No one but Sakuragi himself leaves that room alive.”

“Beast’s teeth…” I muttered.

Geoffrey whipped around. His eyes glistened like sapphires, maddened with pain and grief. His voice cracked. “What did you say…?”

Yuta stepped back and gave a deep bow.

“I am sorry. His pain must have been…” he shook his head, and then turned to me. “Dr. Howle, your faith’s holy men take vows of celibacy, correct?”

“Yes.”

Yuta closed his eyes for a silent moment. “Daikenja preserve us,” he muttered.

“Why?” Geoffrey croaked. “What would possess a man to do that to someone, let alone a man of the cloth?”

“Above all else, Lord Sakuragi believed in his own power,” Yuta explained. “Munine nobles are given great leeway to express their… desires. Men. Women. Children. Every conquest is a display of their potency. It is an intoxicant, and it makes men into monsters. Even Ichigo had difficulty accepting my counsel on this matter. His father was…” Yuta sighed. “He spread himself far and wide.” He clicked his tongue. “I wanted Ichigo to be better than that.” He looked us in the eyes. “But, even by those standards, Sakuragi was beyond the pale. Though, outwardly, he was cultured and refined, within, he was nothing more than a depraved killer. He would have been burnt at the stake long, long ago had he not ensconced himself in the halls of power.”

Geoffrey staggered back, phasing through his remembered grief. He fell to his knees.

“All this time…” Geoffrey shook his head. “I never knew. That was why he was always so desperate to clean himself. That was why he couldn’t see his own Light. He… he was violated. Oh Angel, Angel…” Geoffrey leaned over and wept. “I’m sorry, Harmon. I—I should have… Godhead, I…”

I took a deep breath, and then willed the scene to freeze. Everyone but Brand and I turned motionless.

We looked each other in the eyes. “Do you want to go first?” I asked him.

Brand nodded. “Harmon had late stage Engoliss’.”

“I agree.” I nodded back. “In that flashback, he had all the symptoms. Mood swings, mania, twitching in the extremities.”

“I’m willing to bet that some of the welts that looked like ‘burns’ were actually ulcers caused by the parasite,” Brand said.

“Where do you think he picked it up from?” I asked. “Sakuragi?”

As far as I knew, there was no record of Nighttouched Sakuragi having displayed the symptoms of chronic Engoliss’ Disease, though, given his importance in Munine history, if he had had Engoliss’, it wouldn’t be a surprise that any mention of it had been stricken from the historical record.

Whitewashing was a universal temptation, after all.

Brand shook his head. “Not possible. The gap between the initial acute phase of Engoliss’ immediately following infection and the terminal chronic phase is too long; thirty years, at least—though, there are some rare cases where the chronic phase starts earlier.”

Suddenly, Brand’s eyes bulged. “Holy shit,” he muttered.

“What is it?”

“I… I think Harmon was homosexual,” he said, averting his gaze. “If…” he sighed, “if Harmon was anything like me, he’d have had his first sexual experience in his teens, maybe earlier—they were a lot more lax about age of consent back in those days. If one of his partners’ mothers had had Engoliss’, they would have had a congenital case, and could have spread it to Harmon. Timetable-wise, it’s still something of a long shot, but it’s at least plausible.”

I clenched my fists. “Fudge…”

Looking back on what we’d seen, it made sense. I know it wasn’t right to lean into stereotypes, but… Harmon fit the bill. It would explain why he thought so poorly of himself. Joining the clergy would have been the safest choice for him.

I ran my hand through my hair.

“How are we going to break this to Geoffrey?” Brand asked.

“No idea,” I said, “but… that can wait for later. He’s got all eternity, after all.”

Geoffrey’s weeping resumed as I unfroze time.

Yuta surprised me by speaking up. “Let me guess,” he said, addressing Geoffrey, “after this, you swore revenge and joined the rebellion. Is that about right?”

Wiping his hand on his sleeve, Geoffrey rose to his feet and barked. “Are you mocking me!?”

“You caused the deaths of my loved ones,” Yuta replied, sternly. “Your tactics killed so many—and all of it, in the name of hate.”

Geoffrey looked down on the ground. “You think I don’t know that!? You don’t know my nightmares! You don’t know what I’ve endured!”

Geoffrey motioned to unsheathe his sword, but I preëmpted him, dissolving his blade—and Yuta’s—into nothingness.

“Geoffrey…?”

The knight turned to face me.

“Is it alright if I show him your memory… of the pile?” I asked, trying to broach the issue as delicately as I could.

I knew how deeply it pained him.

Geoffrey let out a snort and then chuckled, bitterly. “Be my guest, Dr. Howle. It’s not like I can stop you.”

Then the knight glowed with a light that soon washed away our surroundings, and we found ourselves somewhere else.