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IN A SHROUD OF VELVET-lined mink fur, Ifhrd's body was slowly lowered into the grave within the grounds of Sylvendene. The wizards had felt the thought of death somewhat distasteful, and so had not properly planned a tomb for themselves.
Numbed by the loss of Ifhrd, Jorlon shared much of the deep woe of the brutish Ethrail. Ethrail's unaligned teeth bit into his misshapen lower lip, from which dribbled a long stream of saliva. Holding back his tears, his whole distorted frame shook uncontrollably with sorrow, making a smooth descent of Ifhrd's body difficult for Jorlon to manage.
Jorlon wished he had been more considerate and kind to this wretch. Only Ifhrd had ever shown him kindness and compassion. This home was Ethrail's only sanctuary, Ifhrd his protector and guardian. The relationship had been perfect. Ifhrd had been kind, and Ethrail needed a master and custodian. Jorlon winced, thinking that he had often gone too far with tormenting Ethrail, and now he felt glad to have suffered beatings from Ifhrd in Ethrail’s defence. What was to become of this fellow? Jorlon was certain the only reason the children of the household's men and women dared not stone Ethrail was for fear of Ifhrd's curses.
“'Tis a cryin' shame.” Ethrail finally swallowed. He and Jorlon looked down upon the shrouded body in the presence of the household. They stepped back as each witness dropped down a handful of earth into the grave. It was all too much for Ethrail, and he began to weep even louder. “Ifhrd!” he cried. “How you do it? Why you go from me? What becomes of you?” He wrung his hands in wretchedness.
Jorlon felt as if he was intruding upon Ethrail's most inner being, and he marvelled at the compassion of this creature, who could barely ever string more than six intelligible words to a sentence. “Ethrail?” he said.
The hunchback dropped a handful of earth on the shroud, and at Jorlon's voice he paused, metamorphosed as it were. He was poised, as though about to throw himself into the grave. The people drew their breath. For a moment, all was still, and slowly the hunchback stood, as well as he might. Blinking back tears, Ethrail looked pathetically at the apprentice through red, squinting eyes.
Jorlon cast down another handful of earth and smiled kindly, although he felt sickened by the disfigured creature. A retainer's child patted Ethrail gently upon the hip. Ignoring the young boy, Jorlon said, “Ethrail, I'm sorry.”
The apprentice looked at the hunchback's twisted feet, whose sandals could barely contain them, and was quite unable to explain himself. He cast his eyes above Ethrail's head. He was rarely brave enough to look at the disfigured man properly, and now he still had not the nerve to do so. “Come inside, Ethrail. Come in and drink some wine in memory of Ifhrd.” He sniffed and wiped his nose upon his sleeve. “Otherwise I don't quite know what to do. Oh! Ethrail, our flowering days are finished. We embark on dark days and winter nights.”
“Sun won't shine so bright. Not now.” Ethrail groaned, overtaken again by tears of mourning and anguish. He fell to his knees and lay prostrate upon the ground, crying and moaning, pummelling his fists into the soft dug soil.
Jorlon walked away to the tower. He had changed his mind about reciting a eulogy for Ifhrd. The castle servants and guards stood about aimlessly, uncertain of what to do next; Jorlon didn't care. ‘Let them do what they think is best,’ he thought to himself. He barely resisted the urge to run, although he was overwhelmed—might as well be about to walk 1001 leagues from the grave to the tower.
Mordrak sat in the room where they usually took their meals, idly rolling his wine goblet between his hands. He had been assigned a room which he mostly kept to as no one wanted his presence. He did not look up as Jorlon entered. The apprentice could see Mordrak's thoughts went no further than the rim of the ruby-studded vessel.
“Why are you under my feet?” Jorlon snapped at him. “Two days—two long days here you act like a guest, and I've barely space to breathe even in my sleep!”
Unabashed, Mordrak gently set down the goblet. “I watched you just now. I could barely stand it.” He looked sombrely at his clenched hand. Now Mordrak stretched his fingers.
He wondered that Mordrak should count them, and he wished it were the number of days, or even hours, left to him. Jorlon saw him grimace, and he supposed a youth in his head must be laughing. Mordrak had briefly spoken of his haunting, and Jorlon found that he could not generally sense them. Standing eerily still, Jorlon glowered at him. “What do you mean, ‘you couldn't stand it’?” His words were poured contemptuous and menacing. “Even your squire has the good sense to keep his distance!”
Mordrak played nervously with his fingers. “The pain. Knowing the pain and failing my King. People will die if I don't get this task successfully completed. I must find a wizard!”
There was a short silence that hung in the air between them.
“Pfft!” Jorlon sat down heavily upon the bench opposite Mordrak, his body turned aside from him. He poured himself a wine and another for Ethrail too. He did not expect to see the wretch for a while, but he considered the gesture a small beginning toward a new regard. Besides, he hoped Mordrak would reach for it and give him an excuse to punch him on the nose. Mordrak otherwise seemed caught in an anguish of his own.
“Pain? Whose pain?” Jorlon continued. “What do you know when you won't even believe your sister's safe? I tell you, it had to be Astocath!
“Look at Ethrail. Look at him,” said Jorlon, watching the hunchback kneel over the grave. Though to be true he was sick of looking at the man. “What can you say for him? That is pain.”
Mordrak looked as if he were about to say something truculent, instead he poured wine into his goblet. “We can trample the wine-press, you and I. We can make better things for our lives, eh?”
An uneasy silence fell over them. Jorlon knew them both to be characters alike; he gifted with sorcery, the other with sword; their needs were desperate and with their blood and iron they were at odds with the rest of the world.
Finally, Ethrail lumbered in as the bare warmth of the day mellowed. He sat himself down upon a stool in a corner of the room. Squinting at them, he said, “Well Master Jorlon. I stay. See things aright, eh?” He bowed his head at Jorlon's silence. “Master?”
“Yes, of course, Ethrail.” Jorlon replied at length, uttering his words quickly. He handed Ethrail the filled wine goblet. Then he finished his wine with a deep gulp, and reached for the jug for a refill.
“Me not happy, no more.”
“Be happy to stay,” Jorlon passed the jug to the hunchback. He wondered how the wretch could ever feel happy and saw much the same question surface upon Mordrak’s face.
“I try.” Ethrail looked dour as he contemplated his goblet.
“And I'll try,” Jorlon seemed to promise sincerely. “Ifhrd would expect as much from us.”
“You make me happy, Jorley. You wizard now.” Ethrail drank deeply from the goblet.
How forgiving, Jorlon considered blandly. His past misdemeanours came to mind; how many transgressions had he accumulated against the brute? Suddenly and spitefully poking him with a stick through the window, Ethrail would seize up with shock, and would be surprised by it every time. He had even taken to mixing piss and dog’s excrement with his food: which Ethrail had eaten just the same - in ignorance without a doubt. Jorlon had thrown up the first time with the thought of it, but his stomach became used to the jests.
“I cannot claim to be a wizard yet, Ethrail. It’s kind of you to think of me being one.” He took a deep draught of wine, and he supposed Ethrail's simple expectations would associate the kindness of Mage Ifhrd to be anything like the kindness of another.
“You be powerful wizard one day. In short time, you will.”
And that thought landed upon him with a forlorn sense of desolation. Such reasoning would be reassuring from anyone but Ethrail. Poor half-wit, as if more power equated to more kindness; the world must seem very finite.
“Have you thought much about Astocath?” Mordrak asked Jorlon testily. "And my sister—where is my sister?” Jorlon had been sent home.
Jorlon stared hard at Mordrak. “And if I had given much thought to it? Not as much time as wondering why Mordred and then Mordrak. Astocath is far away and as for your sister, what is she to me? But as I can only guess he saved your sister, which is more than you did. What is more, do you truly expect me to journey to him with you?” He could barely believe the look of annoyance that crossed the knight's face. “Astocath lives south across the sea. So you might just as well leave in the morning, as if that is none too late. You are free to go.” He paused to let his words sink deep. “There you have it—”
“Is there nothing you want from me?”
“Nothing,” came the reply. “Like I said. You’re worth nothing,”
As he said this, Ethrail interrupted: “Astocath was good friend to Ifhrd.” He stared vacantly at the table.
“Go on,” prompted Mordrak, “you were going to say more.”
“Don't know.” Ethrail shrank away.
“Ignore him.” Jorlon instructed one as to the other. He suspected Ethrail was unnerved by Mordrak’s zealous quiz. He poured himself more wine, hating Mordrak’s sense of self-importance now that he was safe. It was as if this intruder regarded himself as a welcome guest. Mordrak drank gloomily deep into the night, thinking again that perhaps by staying he could work something out to sort this mess.