The Price
Caelith stared, his eyes widening in fear and wonder. He could feel Lucian turn a questioning gaze on him, but Caelith did not move.
“Who is that?” Lucian whispered.
“Quiet,” Caelith hissed.
The woman’s once raven hair was now streaked with gray, pulled severely back and knotted after the fashion of the Pir priestesses. Her face looked gaunt as though the years of her life had worn away its flesh and left little to soften the lines of her angular, pale face. Her wide mouth held a determined line though her brow was furrowed with obvious effort. She looked far older than Caelith would have supposed. Yet it was her eyes that called his attention; violet eyes that were still bright windows into a weary soul.
“You . . . you haven’t changed,” Galen spoke haltingly.
The woman drew in a deep breath, then looked away nervously. “Of course I’ve changed. We both have.”
A breeze drifted through the trees; the sound of young leaves quaking drifted through the gulf of years between them.
“Berkita.” Galen said her name with a deeper sadness than Caelith would have imagined. “There is so much to say—so many questions . . .”
“Please don’t,” Berkita said, holding up her hand dismissively. “Twenty-six years; that’s too many questions. The truth is, Galen, that I don’t even want the answers anymore.”
Galen nodded, then turned, gesturing. “It is nice to hear you say my name again. I’ve missed that.”
Caelith froze at the sight of his father’s hand pointing directly at him. He waited to be rousted from his hiding spot only to relax when he realized his father was indicating a large stone nearby on which Berkita might comfortably sit. The woman nodded and took the boulder.
“I was very sorry to hear about your father,” he said with a forced casualness. “I realize it was a long time ago but I wanted you to know that.”
“You heard about father’s death?” Berkita asked.
“Well, yes.” Galen’s smile was rueful. “Word does occasionally come my way and yours was the only family I ever really knew outside the Pir. His death was before its time.”
“He had to take over the forge after you left,” Berkita said, her tones level and dispassionate. “You and Cephas were both gone and I couldn’t go back. I never could decide if we broke his heart or the work did.”
“You didn’t go back? Why not?”
“Well, there were reasons,” Berkita said wistfully as she leaned forward, pressing both her hands down against the stone. “The Pir Inquisitas put my case before the Pir Nobis. The priestesses there took me in for a time and cared for me. I had been told by High Priest Tragget that you and I would be together soon—at first he said we were going to meet you, then he said he thought you would come for me. I waited each evening, looking down from the towers of Vasska’s Temple and wondering when I might see you walking up the Processional. I wept a river of tears, Galen, but one day the river dried up and I found that it had carried away all my hope for you.”
“I wanted to come, Berkita,” Galen spoke quietly. “There hasn’t been a day in all those years that I haven’t thought of you. I would have walked up that avenue for you, Berkita, if I could.” He reached tentatively for her hand.
“But you didn’t,” Berkita said evenly, withdrawing just enough to stay beyond his reach.
Lucian nudged Caelith again but all Caelith did was shake his head. He felt ashamed of being here, of watching his father’s dark past laid bare before him, and yet he could not turn away.
“No, I did not come,” Galen said with a sigh, folding his arms across his chest. “I am sure there were a thousand reasons why—and they all taste like ashes now.”
“And you married again,” Berkita stated flatly.
“You and I were no longer married, Berkita,” Galen said, clearing his throat. “The Pir saw to that.”
“Yes, I know.” Berkita would not be put off. “But you did marry again.”
“It isn’t what we had,” Galen stammered awkwardly. “Dhalia was the daughter of two friends of mine I met after the Election. She is a gifted master of the arts and I married her to prevent a war among the mystics. It was for her protection and the protection of the clans.”
“How characteristically noble of you,” Berkita sniffed. “And you love her now, I suppose.”
“Yes, I love her and have tremendous respect for her—but as I said, it isn’t what we had.”
“Nothing ever is.”
“What of you?” Galen asked quickly. “Did you . . . ?”
“Find someone else?” Berkita smiled and shook her head. “No, Galen. I suppose there were some who tried to catch my eye but I never really saw them. I don’t know. Maybe it was easier just not to let them into my life.”
Silence fell awkwardly between them.
“I think back on that forge in Benyn,” Galen said at last, his voice wistful. “I imagine that I can still feel the warmth of the tools in my hands and smell the air from the bellows. I close my eyes and I can still see our little cottage on the hillside and I see you standing in its crooked door frame smiling at my homecoming at the end of each day. I would give anything to go back to that life.”
“We can’t go back, Galen. None of us can.”
“It was a good life, wasn’t it?”
“Yes—it was.”
Now it was Galen who looked away. “I am so sorry, Kita—so sorry for everything.”
The priestess turned her gaze on Galen. “Look at me, Galen.”
After a long, painful breath, Galen looked into the woman’s face.
“I’m sorry, too,” she said, her voice tightly controlled despite the tears spilling from her deep violet eyes. “More sorry than you will ever know. I loved you, too, Galen, but none of that matters anymore. The fates were seen in the dragonsmoke, and their ends were sealed by Vasska’s decree. I accepted that long ago. I put away those precious and beautiful dreams. Everything I had ever hoped for in life is gone, and it isn’t coming back no matter how hard I want it to. It is better to bury dead things, Galen. Better to let them rest.”
“So this is why they sent you?” Galen forced the words through his lips. “Because you were the one who could hurt me? Isn’t it enough that the Pir hunt us for sport, drive us like animals across the land and starve our children? Now they have to send you to destroy my past as well?”
“No,” Berkita answered evenly, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “They sent me because I convinced them to do so. I told them I was the only one you would see—the only one to whom you might listen.”
Galen stood suddenly, shaking his head in disbelief. Warily he rubbed his chin with his left hand as he considered. After several heartbeats, he turned back to where Berkita sat. “Apparently you were right. You are here and I am listening.”
Berkita took a careful breath. “This war, Galen—for all these years—has come no closer to ending.”
“It was a pretend war, Berkita—an amusement for the Dragonkings paid for with the blood of mystics.”
“Yes, but a necessary one. It kept the Dragonkings’ bloodlust limited and contained. For centuries the Pir struggled to find a way to stop the killing, but the Dragonkings so hated all those who showed even the slightest talent for this so-called Rhamasian magic that they could only be appeased one way. The Election was a regrettable expedience—”
“Regrettable expedience!”
“But compared to open war and genocide? It was a choice, Galen; a terrible choice but one that had to be made. Then you and your clan brought it all down on the Election Fields. All the Dragonkings squabble over the injury they perceived was done on that day so long ago. The Pir have tried to put an end to it but the insult remains.”
“Satinka.” Galen nodded. “She would never let it go.”
“Nor would any of the other dragons,” Berkita continued. “But the Pir may finally have found a way to satisfy Satinka’s insult; more than that—to end this war and perhaps even the Election forever.”
“And just who pays for this little miracle?” Galen asked curtly. “I suspect the bill is about to land in my hands.”
Berkita shook her head. “You always were so stubborn. Just hear me out, Galen. The Pir Inquisitas knows about the different clans’ efforts to find the ruins of the Rhamasian Empire; most particularly, the city of Calsandria.”
Lucian poked Caelith once more. The search for Calsandria has been the most heated subject the Circle of Six had debated in years. Lucian’s Clan Myyrdin in particular researched it extensively and had pushed for a search for the lost city.
“Go on,” Galen said simply.
“The Pir have found it.”
“The Pir have found Calsandria?”
“Yes,” Berkita answered with a nod, standing to face Galen directly. “The Pir have collected scrolls and writings from all across Hrunard. Many of them are heretical from before the fall of the Mad Emperors. Tragget himself authorized the research and now believe they know the location of this mystic homeland you’ve been looking for.”
Galen shook his head slowly. “Four hundred years ago, the Pir and their Dragonkings brought down the Rhamasian Empire and the power of the Mad Emperors. Now you want me to believe that they want to send the very people suffering from the Emperors’ Madness—the Elect they’ve been murdering for four centuries—back to land from where this mystic power supposedly once came?”
“The Dragonkings have decreed in their benevolence—”
“Don’t talk to me of the benevolence of the Dragonkings,” Galen growled. “They made crushing anyone who shows any sign of mystic ability into a religious duty. By the gods, they turned our deaths into a holiday!”
“You don’t understand the trouble you’ve caused them, Galen,” Berkita snapped. “Things aren’t that simple. The Pir Drakonis are in a terrible position. Their Dragon-Talkers and priests are found in each of the Five Domains, but the dragons themselves are at war one with another. All of them blame you and your mystics but are violently at odds over how to deal with your threat. Jekard in Palathia wants to try to flush out the clans by making them outcasts and making her own people do the work for her. Panas, however, makes war on Jekard because he thinks that approach is weak; and he uses the Edict to commit genocide on the Pir and the mystics alike. Ormakh wants the thanes to take care of it for him; Vasska continues the Election and uses his army to battle the thanes; and Satinka appears to be using the mystics themselves against one another. The blood keeps flowing and the wound never heals.”
“Our blood, Berkita,” Galen barked. “Mystic blood.”
“No, Galen—at the cost of the blood of the Elect and the blood of the Pir,” Berkita replied. “We have all been dragged into this but the Pentach thinks that you might be able to solve that problem for all of us. You caused the escalation of the war, Galen. Your use of this so-called mystic power plunged the Dragonkings into unchecked slaughter and all the lands of Hrunard with it. The Pentach wants more than just an end to open warfare—it wants to end the war itself. The raids of the mystic clans in all the domains are only a constant reminder that you brought this down on the citizens of the Pir and perpetuates a conflict—”
“Raids, may I point out, that the Pir made necessary—”
“Raids the Dragonkings made necessary, Galen! Don’t you see, if the clans moved to lands out of the thoughts of the Dragonkings—particularly of Satinka—then the Pir have some hope of bringing the fighting to an end. Each of the Dragonkings accuses the other of secretly supporting you. If the clans are gone—vanished from Hrunard—then we can bring peace to a land that has known none for over four centuries.”
Berkita folded her hands before her. “The Pentach proposes to show you where this Calsandria is located. It is far to the south, well beyond the borders of Hrunard or any of the realms of the Dragonkings. They believe the land about the ruins is fertile and workable for settlement. You conduct the clans to this place and the Pentach will grant you safe passage. All the Pentach asks is that you leave their lands and never return.”
Galen considered for a moment. “What of those born later with the gift?”
“The Election will continue—”
“Never.”
“Let me finish. The Election will continue, but we will arrange to deliver them quietly to you and your clans.” Berkita looked up. “It’s a chance for peace, Galen—a chance for your people to have a home.”
Galen looked into the tree-shrouded sky overhead. The pale blue was darkening in the evening into a more salmon hue. “So after twenty-six years, this is what you have come to tell me?”
Berkita sighed and blinked uncomfortably. “No, Galen, it is not.”
“But you just said—”
“I have told you what the Pentach has asked me to bring to your clan leaders,” she replied, stepping away from him. “The message is what allowed me to come, but not what I came to say to you.”
Galen cleared his throat uncomfortably once more. “I’m sorry, Berkita. Mystics breathe suspicion. For us, trust is too often followed by betrayal; betrayal comes an instant before death.”
“You weren’t always this way,” Berkita replied, relaxing a little. “There was a time when you would believe anything I said.”
“You’re right,” Galen agreed. “Please, what did you come to say to me?”
“The day of your Election—our last day together—do you remember it?”
“Each day I relive it,” Galen answered.
“I was so insistent that you be there on the square.”
“For the blessing—yes, I remember it.”
“Then you were screaming and the crowd took you from me. I was panicked, Galen, and I tried to run from the square looking for Cephas to help me get you back.”
“Yes,” Galen said quietly. “Cephas told me.”
“I didn’t get out of the square quickly enough, Galen,” Berkita said, clasping her hands behind her back and looking down at the ground at their feet. “The coins of blessing rained down around me as I ran weeping from the square.”
“The coins of blessing?” Galen blinked, not understanding.
“Galen,” Berkita sighed as she looked into his aging face. “We had a son.”
Lucian and Caelith held quietly still until they were certain they were alone, Galen and Berkita having moved away separately from the glade.
It was long moments before Lucian spoke.
“A brother?” the Enlund mage said with interest, “and an older one at that, eh? Say, doesn’t that make him the heir to leadership of your clan instead of you? You may need to take a look at a new trade, old boy!”
Caelith barely heard him. All he could think of was his dream of the two shadowed brothers and the dead winged woman at their feet.