The Wounded Shadow Read online

  “Apt,” Pellin said. “She’s just an empty vessel now, or nearly so. What would you have me do?”

  To his surprise, Mark shook his head. “Nothing. If you will allow it, Eldest, I will tend to her on the journey south.”

  “No,” Allta said stepping forward. “This I will not allow. We cannot afford the attention she will bring. Her screams and flailing will draw eyes and questions. The Eldest of the Vigil is in my care. The girl dies tonight.”

  Instead of answering Allta directly, Mark turned to Pellin. “What if I can keep her quiet?”

  Pellin sighed. “If you can, then you will have bested the Vigil’s efforts. Even that was beyond us.” He nodded. “A day. I will give you a day to bring her mind under some sort of control.” He would have stopped, wanted to stop, but his heart grieved what Mark intended, and he would save his apprentice this defeat if he could. “Please, don’t do this.”

  Mark faced him, his face as resolute as any Vigil guard. “If it is alright, Eldest, I would like to keep her sleeping until dawn. I will take her outside the village once she wakes so that her screams will attract less attention.”

  “Until tomorrow, then,” Pellin nodded. “Allta and I will take our meal downstairs. We will bring food back to you. You will call us if you need us?”

  Mark nodded and pulled a chair to sit in front of the girl.

  Outside the room, Pellin turned to Allta. “Let the innkeeper know the girl has a sickness that’s causing her some pain. There’s no need for specifics. Perhaps that will cover whatever noise she makes until we leave.”

  Oddly, despite the circumstances and struggles with Mark, Pellin’s heart felt light, lighter than it had in some time, and he smiled as he realized the reason.

  Allta caught the change in his mood. “Eldest?”

  Pellin gripped his arm. “I believe that Mark will be my apprentice in truth, Allta, not just in name.”

  His guard’s eyebrows registered his surprise. “He doesn’t care much for the church, Eldest, and his belief in the reality of Aer is impersonal at best.”

  “Hardly,” Pellin said. “I’ve finally divined Mark’s greatest struggle. His belief in Aer is so viscerally real to him that he can’t understand how a church professing those same beliefs could be so consistently indifferent.” He nodded. “Come, we will bring dinner up to our room. The three of us will share our meal tonight and hold vigil over the girl.”

  “And tomorrow?” Allta asked.

  Pellin sighed, shouldering his burden of past failures once more. “Tomorrow, despite what I just told Mark, I will offer my utmost effort to saving a girl who cannot be saved. Only such extremity of effort will convince Mark of the church’s good intentions. After that, he will grieve the girl’s death, but not our failure.”

  Pellin woke twice that night to see Mark watching the girl sleep, the somnal-infused cloth held ready in one hand, a single candle flame keeping watch with him. In the morning, Pellin stirred to see Mark bent close to the girl who still slept, his mouth next to her ear, speaking in low, steady tones. Allta stood by the door.

  They left the inn, Allta carrying the blindfolded girl until they mounted their horses to continue to the port, but Mark steered them west, directly away from the village and Cynestol, until they’d left the densest portion of civilization behind.

  The girl stirred where she sat ahead of Mark on his horse. Instead of bringing the sleeping cloth to her face as he’d done before, his apprentice dismounted and helped the girl down.

  She reached toward her face, her motions jerky, uncontrolled.

  “Don’t,” Mark said.

  The hands stopped, fluttering in the air as though the girl couldn’t decide whether to obey. They started toward the blindfold again.

  “If you can understand me,” Mark said, “then I want you to lower your hands.”

  For a moment, they continued upward, as if their momentum was too great to be halted by mere words, but they stopped just short of the cloth before dropping heavily to her lap.

  “Good,” Mark said. “I have you blindfolded because you’ve been injured. Nod if you understand what I just said.”

  The girl nodded.

  “Can you speak?” Mark asked.

  Her mouth opened, but she exercised even less control over her tongue than she did her arms. “Ahhh!” Thrashing, she struggled to rise, but her arms and legs refused to cooperate. Mark moved behind her and folded her in his arms. His touch only made the struggles worse, and several times her flailing hands caught him in the face, leaving marks that would purple within a day.

  “Shhh,” he whispered. “You’ll be alright.”

  Something in his tone or touch must have gotten through, the girl ceased her struggles to begin weeping softly instead.

  “Let me tell you a story,” Mark said. “Once there was a young woman who sat with a storyteller who repeatedly told her a tale of hatred and revenge. At first, she was pleased that the storyteller would make a story about her, but as time went on she noticed that more and more of her real life slipped away, until all that was left was the tale. Filled with a false desire for vengeance, the storyteller sent her out to do his bidding, to kill.”

  “But a brave man, a man of great years and wisdom, saw her and took away the lust for revenge, giving the young woman a different story. The man of great years and his friends hoped this would heal the woman, but it wasn’t to be. The memories weren’t really hers. When she tried to move, everything felt as if it belonged to someone else, and her arms and legs jerked like a marionette’s.”

  Pellin stood transfixed as the young woman, cradled in Mark’s arms, cocked her head, intent on each word.

  “Yet the woman survived,” Mark continued. “And after a time she learned how to speak and move and discovered that there was a life waiting for her that was all her own.”

  For a moment Pellin dared to hope that Mark’s story and physical presence might be enough to calm her, but when he loosened his grip, she flailed, throwing him loose. Convulsions gripped her, and the sound of her head and limbs beating against the ground wrung his heart. Allta stepped forward, but Mark recovered and waved him back.

  Like a fighter beaten but undeterred, Mark came within the circle of the girl’s convulsions, accepting blows until he could gather her in his arms once more. Blood ran down his chin from a split in his lip, but he ignored it until the young woman quieted, her chest heaving. Only then did he duck his head to wipe the blood away.

  “I think she might be thirsty,” Mark said to Allta. “Would you give me my waterskin?”

  Only years of familiarity allowed Pellin to understand the emotion locked behind Allta’s expression. He handed Mark the skin, then turned quickly away to scan the surroundings for any signs of danger. They were still alone.

  When Mark held the spout to her lips she started, jerking away, but soon she drank, her neck cording with the effort.

  Pellin went to his pack and retrieved a loaf of honeyed bread. “Here,” he said. “She must be hungry, and this will sit easy on her tongue, even if she doesn’t remember the taste.”

  Mark nodded. One eye was beginning to swell shut. “Thank you, Eldest.” He took the bread and broke off a piece without any crust and held it carefully to her lips. When she took that, he repeated the process, intermixing sips of water until she showed no more inclination to eat or drink.

  When she started to struggle again, Mark repeated the story he told her earlier, rocking back and forth, though the young woman he held matched him in weight and size. She drowsed in his arms and fell asleep.

  “How did you know holding her like that would calm her?” Pellin asked. He still didn’t believe the girl could be saved, but her extremity served to reveal aspects of Mark’s character he had only glimpsed before now.

  “I didn’t,” Mark said, “but there have been children who have come into the urchins over the past few years who were in similar straits.” He stretched his face, working to open his swollen eye.
“Though none of them were as big as Cerena, or as strong.”

  Allta rejoined them, the reins of all three horses clenched in one fist. “Can she ride?”

  Mark nodded after a pause. “I think so, but if I release her, she’ll wake and probably start struggling again.”

  With a nod, Allta handed the reins to Pellin, then scooped both Mark and the girl in his arms to set them atop Mark’s horse.

  Chapter 6

  They turned south and rode at a brisk walk toward the southern coast. Whenever Pellin checked on his apprentice, he saw the boy’s lips moving, but the words were too soft to hear. Sometime between dawn and noon, the girl stirred from her sleep, her limbs jerking at first with the startlement of consciousness before settling under Mark’s reassurance.

  “Eldest,” Mark’s voice called to him. “How far are we from Cynestol’s port?”

  “At this pace we will arrive just before dusk. Too late to take ship, I’m afraid,” Pellin said.

  Mark nodded as though that information somehow suited him. “With your permission, Eldest, can we stay at an inn with baths?” He wrinkled his nose. “We both need it.”

  Pellin nodded in appreciation of Mark’s discretion. His nose had told him as much as his apprentice had admitted to. “Frequent bathing in Cynestol is a more accepted practice than it is in the northern climes. Every inn has public baths—and private, for those willing to pay a bit extra.”

  For the first time since Mark had entered Pellin’s service as apprentice and guard, temporary or otherwise, embarrassment discolored the boy’s fair skin. “Will they have attendants, Eldest? Women, I mean.”

  Pellin nodded. “No doubt.”

  They hit the coast road a few miles east of Port City and came in sight of the harbor just before dusk. The docks were still a couple miles distant, but the sprawl of the continent’s largest city and its shipping center had spread here as well. Everywhere he looked, carts rumbled past in both directions filled with goods coming from or going to the ships that awaited them, and people from every kingdom of the northern continent and even a few merchants from the southern continent roamed the streets.

  They stopped at the first inn they found, a two-story structure of weathered wood and heavy beams that might have been salvaged from a ship. The girl started at the noise, but each time Mark spoke into her ear and she stilled.

  “Why does it look like that?” Mark asked, pointing at the inn.

  Pellin took in the ponderous sight of the Fair Wind and laughed, remembering. “Storms from the southern sea are rare,” he said. “It’s known for being placid, but on occasion, especially as winter approaches, they can be quite severe.”

  They rode around back to the stable yard, where Allta lifted Mark and the girl down to set them standing on the ground between the inn and the long, low shed of the stable. A woman came out of the back of the inn, her nose wrinkling as she passed by Mark.

  “I’m Misara Anan. You’ll be needing rooms, then?” she asked. “And baths?”

  Pellin nodded. “One room, please, large enough for the four of us, and private baths.”

  She looked at their plain clothing. “That’ll be one silver half.”

  He put two silver half crowns into her extended hand. “And we’ll need a change of clothes for the girl.”

  She nodded. “She’s about my daughter’s size.” She pointed to the blindfold. “What’s wrong with her eyes? I don’t allow guests with the pox to stay here. I don’t care how much money you have.”

  A cloud passed over the sun, throwing the portion of the yard where Mark supported the girl into shadow. Mistress Anan looked up and made the ancient sign against evil. Pellin stifled his instinct to speak against her superstition and forced himself to don a comforting smile. “She has a condition that affects her vision. I assure you, the girl is not carrying any malady into your inn.”

  The woman’s face darkened to match the shadow in the courtyard. “An innkeeper hears everything, Master Pellin. I’ve heard tell of people who come back from the forest. They can’t abide the light, and when the sun goes down they kill.”

  Pellin nodded. “An interesting tale indeed, but I assure you, the girl is no danger.”

  “Do you have an attendant who can assist her with her bath?” Mark asked.

  She looked at him, her expression curious. “Why don’t you do it?”

  Pellin interrupted before Mark could respond. “The girl is somewhat modest.”

  The innkeeper shook her head. “Northerners. Aye. Take the room at the far end of the inn on the first floor. I’ll send my eldest, Nosura, along.”

  Mark guided Cerena to the inn, the girl stumbling with every step as Pellin and Allta followed. For a wonder, she didn’t cry out or fall as they passed through the taproom with its noisy patrons. They entered a room with five large beds and a large copper-lined bath that could accommodate three or four people. Pellin breathed a sigh of relief, nodding toward a privacy screen that could be used to shield the bathers. “Mistress Anan seems acquainted with the customs of the north.”

  Allta moved to answer a knock at the door a moment later, and a girl of fifteen or sixteen entered. “I’m Nosura. Mother said you needed assistance.”

  Pellin nodded. “Yes. This is Mark”—he pointed—“and his sister, Cerena.”

  Nosura wrinkled her nose. “She’s soiled her clothes.”

  “Yes,” Mark said, his voice even.

  “Not to worry,” Nosura said. “I have a cousin. She had an accident and we helped care for her. Let’s get her undressed and bathed.”

  Mark guided Cerena toward the bath with Nosura following. All went well until Mark attempted to disengage himself from Cerena’s grasp. Cerena clung to him as she made desperate noises like the whine of an animal.

  “Shh, it will be alright,” Mark said, crooning to her over and over again.

  But no amount of reassurance could calm her. After half an hour of trying to persuade Cerena to release Mark, Nosura shook her head. “I’m sorry, Master Pellin, but I have other duties in the inn.”

  He waved her away. “Thank you for your efforts, Nosura. We will handle Cerena’s bathing.”

  After the door closed behind her, Pellin turned back to Mark to see his apprentice, stiff-postured and dour, in Cerena’s grip. “I suppose you’ll say we need to kill her.”

  Pellin shook his head. “By no means. You’ve made more progress with Cerena than anyone ever made restoring a dwimor.” He sighed. “However, we must find a solution for her current state. If she cannot adopt the rudiments of her morning regimen, crossing the strait to the southern continent will be difficult.”

  Allta nodded his agreement. “Sailors are not known for their patience.”

  Mark nodded, guiding Cerena toward the step leading up to the bath. “Alright. I will get her cleaned.”

  “Well and good,” Pellin said. “But how will you keep her from soiling herself?” As soon as he asked, he regretted the question, seeing Mark bow beneath its weight. “Never mind, lad. One thing at a time.”

  Mark managed to get his boots off along with his cloak, but any attempts he made to disrobe for the bath sent Cerena into a panic, her mouth open in a rictus of horror. “Why is she doing that?” Mark asked.

  Pellin opened the door to Cerena’s memories, sifted through them before shutting them away again. “The priest who took her against her will possessed a particular appetite. He always had her bathe first.”

  Mark loosed a stream of heartfelt curses that Pellin thought impressive, given that their intended target had been dead for almost seven hundred years.

  “I hope neither of you are in a hurry,” Mark said after he’d run out of imprecations. “Her baths are going to include me in my clothes.”

  “You’ve done this before,” Pellin said.

  Mark nodded. “Yes, Eldest. The urchins didn’t have access to baths, but we made generous use of the Rinwash in the poor quarter. There were quite a few of the younger ones who were i
n similar shape to Cerena. She’s not the first girl I’ve had to bathe.” He took a few steps into the bath. The progressive touch of the water agitated the girl, but each time Mark would speak in her ear until she calmed. Hints of past lives intruded on Pellin, images of similar, poignant moments, moments of sacrifice. “Perhaps I can help,” Pellin said, leaning over the water as he removed his gloves.

  The proximity of his voice sent Cerena deeper into Mark’s embrace until his apprentice could hardly move. “How, Eldest?” Mark asked.

  “I’m going to look into her mind and see how much is there. Perhaps she has enough accumulated memories of you to allow me to excise those responsible for her fear of bathing.”

  Heedless of the water, he reached out to touch Cerena’s arm. She jerked at the unfamiliar contact, but not so much as to break the delve. Pellin rushed into her mind and stood as before in a cavern without sides or roof. Only the sensation of insubstantial ground below his imaginary feet provided any spatial orientation.

  Strands comprising her river of memories flowed past him in colors that spanned everything from gold to black, testaments to the nature of those remembrances. That there should be any memories comprised of gold astounded him, and he bent to touch one.

  His awareness dropped away and he became Cerena. A woman held by the voice that spoke to her in long dark nights of terror comprised of blindness, unfamiliar limbs, and a past that carried disjointed memories. Over and over again the voice—more than a child’s but less than a man’s—spoke to her, keeping the darkness at bay.

  “Once there was a woman who went to a storyteller,” the voice said, and the familiar tale covered her with warmth like a blanket in the midst of winter. At the end the voice changed, becoming quieter, but no less insistent for that. “Remember,” the voice said, “you are loved.” And the arms around her gave her a comforting squeeze. “No matter what has happened in your past, no matter who you might have been, this day is yours to start anew. More important than any man or woman or storyteller is this: You are loved and cherished. Not for how you look or what you can do, but simply because you are.”