The Wounded Shadow Read online

  Pellin let go of the memory, dizzy with its remembered intensity, and looked down. There still wasn’t very much of a river to comprise the girl’s consciousness, hardly more than a newborn’s and most of the memories he did see, didn’t belong to the girl, but to long-dead Cerena.

  Perhaps Cerena’s memories were more of an impediment than an aid at this point. He bent, searching through the river for those memories of Cerena that were tied to her physical presence. If he could have sighed in the cavern that comprised her mind, he would have. It was the nature of memory that each recollection was tied to physical being. If he destroyed all of them, the girl would be reduced to nothing. Response would be impossible.

  But perhaps there was another way. Thrusting his hands into the river, he removed those memories of Cerena that were connected to speaking. The task required a finer touch than he had ever used before. For the girl to make the quickest recovery, memories of language must not be destroyed. Only those memories that tied Cerena’s expression of language to speech, those very memories of her moving her mouth to make sound, only those could be destroyed. Over and over, he let the river of memories cascade through him until he’d removed every memory that might keep the girl mute.

  He broke the delve. Despite the chill of the water, sweat cascaded down his face, and he turned to find Allta next to him, concern on the guard’s face mirrored on Mark’s. He put his hand on the edge of the tub to steady himself. “I’m well.”

  “You were in the delve for over an hour, Eldest,” Allta said.

  “Ah.” He took a breath, the sensation unfamiliar after so much time in another’s mind. “So long?” They nodded. “Well, it was more than a little difficult at that.” He went on to explain what he’d done and his reasoning behind it.

  Cerena still stood in the water, shivering though Mark held her, letting the water wash away her indignity. Sometime during Pellin’s sojourn in her mind, Mark had managed to wash her hair despite the presence of her blindfold, and deep red highlights revealed themselves in the brown color.

  Pellin accepted Allta’s hand and stepped away from the tub. “If this works, you’ll have to give her a new name, of course. Cerena will be a thing of the past. It may be that Cerena’s memories are keeping her from reconnecting with her body.” He sighed. “It wouldn’t be the first time my preconceived notions have been wrong.”

  Mark guided Cerena from the tub and wrapped her in one of the blankets. He would have let go entirely, but she clutched at his arm, wrapping her own unsteady limbs around it. “Will this work, Eldest?” Mark asked.

  Pellin laughed, amused at his own ignorance amid the boy’s assumption of wisdom. “Mark, you’ve done more with that poor broken girl than any of the Vigil were ever able to do with the dwimor we created. Not once were we able to come close to restoring them.” An idea began to form in his mind, a terrible risk. “Let me ask you, is she getting any better?”

  Mark shrugged. “I don’t know. I think so, but I might just be trying to convince myself.” He turned to face Cerena, his expression somber. “There was a girl in the urchins a few years younger than me who got a cough one winter. We all took turns caring for her, and I thought she was getting better right up until the morning I went to wake her and she didn’t move.”

  Pellin nodded. “What will you call her?” he asked. “She deserves her own name.”

  Mark nodded. “I’ve never named anyone before.” Pain filled his light blue eyes. “It seems very important to me somehow. Will you help me?”

  “Of course,” Pellin bowed. “I would be honored. You know, our language covers a long, long history.” Cerena’s gilded memory returned to him. “I know a name I think you would like. It hasn’t been used in very long time. Elieve.”

  Mark tilted his head and his lips moved, testing the sound. “What does it mean?”

  Tears stung Pellin’s eyes and he had to swallow twice before he could muster the strength to answer. “It means loved.”

  Mark put his ear by the girl’s head and spoke, but not so quietly that Pellin couldn’t hear him. “Your name is Elieve. You are loved.” He repeated this perhaps a dozen times as his charge stood unmoving at his side.

  Quiet hung over the room as they dried themselves. Tomorrow they would board ship and cross the sea to the southern continent, the origin of man.

  Mark had knelt to dry Cerena’s feet, and so didn’t see, but Pellin did. The girl’s lips moved, working, and even through the cloth of the blindfold, the acuteness of her effort was plain.

  Pellin didn’t breathe or move for fear of disturbing her, but a moment later, Mark must have sensed her struggle. He rose.

  “E-el-el-li,” the girl stuttered, then stopped, her mouth tight with frustration.

  “Elieve,” Mark said, his voice thick. “You are loved.”

  Chapter 7

  Pellin, flanked by Allta on one side and Mark with Elieve on the other, surveyed a three-masted ship the following day. The captain—a broad bluff of a man with stump-like legs and the light olive coloring of those from Caisel—looked as though he could have weathered the worst of storms without a thought. As they approached the boarding plank, the captain called imprecations on a poor unfortunate sailor who been a shade too slow to obey an order.

  “Curse your worthless, maggot-ridden hide, Jory! The next time you hear me repeat myself it will be because I thought throwing you overboard was so funny I had to laugh twice. You understand me, yah?”

  “Aye, uncle.” The boy was faced the other way, and his reply barely made it to Pellin’s hearing.

  “Call me Captain Onen, boy, or I’ll have you on kitchen duty for the next year.” He turned to Pellin, still wearing the sneer that had sent Jory scrambling into the rigging to help unfurl the sails. “My sister’s son,” he growled. “I love him dearly, but the lad’s never going to make a good sailor. The call of the sea is just not in him.” He took in Pellin’s clothes and stance with a quick glance. “Who are you?”

  Pellin nodded. “I understand the boy’s plight, Captain. It took me a long time and many trips before I acquired my sea legs. My name is Pellin. I’m looking for passage to Erimos.”

  The captain scowled as he pursed his lips. “Are you telling me I need to be more patient with the boy?”

  “Ah, no, Captain,” Pellin smiled. “When I say a long time, I’m not measuring it in years. Do as you think best. I understand you’re bound for the southern continent.”

  “Aye, but I don’t usually take on passengers.” He shot a pointed look at Mark, who still held Elieve close. “They’re fussy. I don’t like the smell of vomit on my ship.” He waved a hand at his nephew. “It’s bad enough I have to put up with Jory’s puking hide, yah?”

  Pellin felt for his purse. “I heard you were the best captain with a fast ship.”

  “Aye, but travelers to the southern continent usually go farther east. Erimos is a trading port, and you don’t have the look of a merchant.”

  He ignored the implied question. “I’m prepared to make it worth your while, Captain Onen.”

  “Humph.” Onen looked at the weight of Pellin’s purse. “And how would you know how much my while is worth?”

  Pellin smiled. “I’m counting on you to tell me—though I expect you’ll try to deprive my descendants of their inheritance if you can, yah?” He smiled with his brows raised.

  “You’ve been to Caisel, then?” the captain asked. “You have the look of a Cynestol man.”

  Pellin nodded. “I’ve done more than a bit of traveling, Captain. I’ve probably spent more time in Caisel than you’ve lived. Do you wish to negotiate the terms of our passage with or without bargaining?”

  “Without. It’s faster.” Onen’s eyes narrowed, and he shook his head. “One silver crown each to the south and back.”

  Pellin stared at the captain. “My compliments, Captain, on your house. I haven’t seen that ruse used in some years, agreeing not to bargain and then using an inflated price anyway—high, b
ut not so high to arouse suspicion from most. That bit of trickery is old enough that most men wouldn’t recognize it.”

  Onen smiled. “My granda taught it to me when I was a lad. You must be older than you look.”

  “We won’t need passage back, Captain,” Pellin said. “I don’t know how long we’ll be there.”

  The captain shook his head. “Have you not heard? The leaders of the one church down there have shut off the interior. No one from the northern continent is allowed to travel past the ports.”

  A fist closed around Pellin’s heart. “Have they said why, Captain?”

  Onen scowled as he shook his head. “The southern churchmen keep their own counsel. They have no need to explain it to a grizzled seaman like me.”

  Pellin took in a deep breath laden with the smell of salt and seaweed. “Three crowns to the south, Captain, for the four of us. If needed, we’ll pay the same rate for passage back.” He looked at the ship. “How heavy are you running?”

  Onen’s gaze turned speculative. “Three-quarters of the holds are filled with wheat.”

  Pellin checked the waterline on the ship. With a decent wind, it would make the trip at an adequate pace. “Two weeks, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Aye,” the captain said. “You’ve served on board, then, yah?”

  “No, Captain, but I have an appreciation for the gifts and talents, however they’re shown. You have a talent for nature, and you love the sea. May we board?”

  At the captain’s nod, Pellin waved at Allta and Mark, and together they descended to the cabin set aside for passengers. Allta looked at the compartment—functional, if a bit worn. “It seems the captain offers his ship to passengers more than he lets on.”

  “Yes,” Pellin said. “Mistress Anan told me as much.” He spied a pitcher and water along with a chamber pot. Sleeping would prove to be a tight affair on board a ship where space came at a premium. “Mark, do you have everything you need to tend to Elieve?”

  After a moment, he nodded. “Yes, Eldest, though I may need more water to keep her clean.”

  Pellin frowned. “Try to get her to use the chamber pot. The captain is likely to be stingy with his fresh water supply. If you can’t, use as much seawater as you can before using fresh.”

  Mark nodded, looking uncomfortable. “How long do you need to wait before removing the rest of Cerena’s memories?”

  “I don’t know, lad. We’re in uncharted territory. For all our centuries of experience, there is much of the mind that remains a mystery to us. I’m afraid if I take too many of her memories from her, Elieve will slip into breostfage.”

  Mark frowned. “Slip into what?”

  Pellin shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mark. That word probably hasn’t been heard since I first joined the Vigil. It means mind death. The mind must have a certain amount of memories to be able to function. Even in the act of creating a dwimor, the creator must be careful to provide enough memories so that the assassin can accomplish their mission.”

  “How do you know how much is enough?”

  “By the river within the mind. Gaps within the flow cause the river to slow, become sluggish. If the gaps become too large, it shuts down completely. Dwimor live on the edge of mind death.” He waved one hand to dispel memories that accused him. “That’s one of the reasons we went through so many when we first created them.”

  Mark nodded, his face creased in concentration. “What’s the fastest way to create memories?”

  Pellin nodded his approval. “You have a keen mind. That question has been studied much by the Vigil over the years. I don’t think the answer will surprise you. Of the five senses, the eyes provide more input than any of the others, but because of that, the memories they create are the weakest.”

  He watched his apprentice, saw him sorting through the unasked question, considering. “Smell?”

  “Yes.” Pellin nodded. “Or touch. They create the strongest memories because they connect to so many others.”

  For the first time, Mark appeared uncomfortable with Elieve’s ever-present clutch, but with a shake of his head, he straightened. “So if she’s to heal, I need to have her experience as many strong memories as I can so that when Cerena’s are removed, Elieve will remain.”

  “Makes sense, lad,” Pellin said. “I doubt any of the Vigil could reason it out better. The journey to the southern continent should take about two weeks. Halfway there, I’ll delve her again. Then we’ll just have to see.”

  He turned to Allta. “I need to speak to the captain. Let us leave Mark here with Elieve.”

  “Le-Elieve,” the girl stuttered, her voice raspy with effort.

  Pellin stopped, turning to the girl. “Yes,” he said. “Loved.”

  Allta climbed the stairs to the deck, preceding him, but when they reached the open air, Pellin caught him with a hand on his arm. “We may have a problem I hadn’t considered before.”

  “Eldest?”

  “The girl, Elieve, was chosen to be an assassin.”

  Allta nodded. “Yes.”

  “That means she is possessed of at least a partial gift of devotion. It’s the presence of that gift that allows one of the Vigil to create a core of blind, excoriating hatred within their mind.” He shuddered at his own memories, wished they belonged to another. “Without the violent target for her devotion, Elieve’s soul will find another focus for her gift.” He sighed. “Indeed, I think she’s already found it.”

  “The boy.” Allta nodded in understanding. “Is it dangerous?”

  Deep within Pellin’s chest, but not so deep that he could deny it or rationalize it away, lay the fear the twist of Elieve’s gift would yet bring grief. “I don’t know. When the time is right, we must attempt to place some emotional distance between the two of them. After that, I’m afraid Elieve’s ultimate healing is still in the hands of Aer.”

  Allta nodded before changing the subject. “If the ports are blocked to the inland passage, Eldest, how will we get to the southern Vigil?”

  He sighed. “I have means of sending word, but it will mean a delay.”

  His guard stood next to him at the rail of the ship, unspeaking, but Pellin could sense a tension in him that heightened with each passing moment until Allta turned away from the rhythmic swell of the waves. “Eldest, why did we bring the girl?”

  Standing this close to his guard forcibly reminded Pellin of just how big Allta was. Thick shoulders from countless hours of training stretched his shirt and cloak, and he stood on legs as sturdy and strong as tree limbs. Yet for all of that, he moved with the grace and quickness of a dancer. The deadliest man alive.

  “Why should we not?” Pellin responded. “The girl is in need, and Mark seems able to fill it.” He considered his guard. “I could ask you a similar question. Why did you allow Mark to bring her? So long as his attention is divided, the boy will be less likely to spot dwimor coming for us.”

  Allta nodded. “I already defied you once, Eldest, on the edge of the Darkwater.”

  “I remember,” Pellin said.

  “Defiance is a habit unsuited to a Vigil guard,” Allta said. “Plus, I do not see how any dwimor could track us. The threat seemed to be minimal.”

  Pellin turned to survey the passing sea once more, but Allta refused to be deterred. “Why is she here with us, Eldest?”

  After a pause he said, “Something amazing has happened, Allta. Mark has managed to bring a dead girl back to life.”

  “Hardly dead, Eldest.”

  “You think not?” he asked. “Perhaps my gift and time in the Vigil have given me a different perspective. When does a person die?” Without waiting for an answer, he went on. “The healers would say it’s when their heart stops beating or they stop breathing, but I’ve seen death from the Vigil’s perspective.”

  “What does it look like, Eldest?”

  “It’s a cavern, dark and empty, where a river of memories should run, a flow filled with the colored strands that make up a person’s life. It�
��s a wellspring run dry, never refreshed, never renewed because all their memories have been destroyed.”

  “From what you’ve said, that doesn’t quite describe Elieve.”

  He mused. “Doesn’t it? You weren’t there when we created the first dwimor in desperation and death during the Wars for the Gift of Kings. We were going to starve, and Agin had us bottled up in the north. We were desperate.” He struggled to take a breath as if the sea air had suddenly become too thick to breathe. “We tried to save our early failures, Bronwyn and I, but to do so we had to completely erase the memories that drove the dwimor to kill and replace them with memories delved from others.

  “But the link between body, mind, and soul was and is more complex and delicate than we understood.” He shrugged.

  Allta nodded, but whether in agreement or simple acknowledgment, Pellin couldn’t tell. “Then how could Mark succeed?”

  Pellin eyed his guard. “How could a boy succeed in saving a dwimor when all the skills and effort of the Vigil failed? If you know enough to ask the question that way, then I suppose you know that answer already.”

  “He loves her,” Allta said.

  “Yes,” Pellin nodded. “I’ve suspected for some time that Mark held within him a capacity for such extravagance. It was his heart that guided him to Elieve’s rescue. Think of it, a young woman with no past, given a second chance at life.”

  He turned to face his guard, surprised at the clarity of conviction that came upon him like a thief. “What is your primary purpose, Allta?”

  “To safeguard the Vigil, no matter the cost.”

  “Good.” Pellin nodded. “Then perhaps you will understand my next command in that context. You must keep Mark alive above all else. My heart tells me the future of the Vigil rests with him.”

  “He does not hold the gift, Eldest.”

  “A temporary deficiency that I intend to correct when the time is right. Do you understand and agree?”

  Pellin waited until the growing silence coerced Allta into giving him one slow, grudging nod before he returned to his contemplation of the sea.