Chapter Twenty-Two

 

 

Larin had never been good with people. In truth, he was just about as far from it as anybody could be without being an outright murderer. Normally, he understood very little of people’s emotions, their motivations or why they did the things they did, and normally, he cared even less. His was a mind that appreciated the straight-forward path of crafting, that yearned for the creation perfectly made, a thing destined to never happen, of course, for where men were concerned—or gods, too, judging by what his life had shown him—there was no perfection, yet he always reveled in the attempt.

He had always preferred his tools and his craft to people with their manipulations and needs, always wanting something. Brent Olliman, leader of the Chosen during the Night War, had always been impressed by Larin’s skill at crafting, at working metal and heat and fashioning something out of nothing. But in truth, Larin had always been stunned by Olliman’s ability to lead men, to empathize with those men and say just what they needed just when they needed it. For among his greatest gifts, Olliman had been kind and wise, understanding people often better than they did themselves, and in that way was the complete opposite of Larin.

Yet, a man did not need to be wise, did not need to be Olliman, to understand the mood of Valeria. Even Larin, for all his inability to empathize with others, could see it written across the faces of those he passed who looked at him with suspicion—and sometimes outright hostility. People were afraid, and as always, their fear made them angry, and their anger made them foolish. Larin had seen it before, hundreds, thousands of times, and he did not like to see it here, not now. The battle for the city had not even begun, not yet, and already those he passed looked ready to give up. Not that Larin could blame them.

After all, there were real, living monsters coming their way, and people who wanted only to hurt, to kill, led by the dark goddess herself. Larin was no military tactician as Tesharna had been before she’d given in to the temptation of the Dark, but he knew enough to know that, as much as he respected smiths and other crafters, it was not swords and shields, not bows and arrows that won battles. At least, it was not only those. For to win, a person—a city—had to first believe he could, and right now Valeria’s people looked as if they’d lost already and were only waiting for the nightlings or the Broken’s men to come and kill them.

They needed something, someone to believe in. They needed to be reassured, to be told that everything would be okay and never mind whether it was a lie. Alesh could have been that person—had been from all that Larin had seen—but since killing the prisoners days ago, since walking back to the castle surrounded by Valeria’s citizens stunned to silence, not sparing so much as a word as he and his escort of guards moved past, no one had seen the man. Or, if they had, they weren’t speaking of it. It seemed that he had disappeared, sequestering himself in the castle or, according to some rumors—rumors that were growing more and more common the longer the man went without being seen—he had abandoned them altogether, fleeing before the approaching army.

It was ridiculous, of course. Larin didn’t know Alesh well—most of their time together had been spent running for their lives—but he knew enough of the man to know that he would never run from what he considered his duty. A duty that, judging by the expression Larin had caught on his face the day the prisoners had been given their bloody choice, was taking its toll. Larin knew the anguish he’d seen there, the pain, had seen something similar on Brent’s face more than once. It was the face of a man, of a leader who believed he had done the wrong thing, had perhaps done something so terrible there would be no coming back from it.

Had Larin been able to speak to Alesh then—an impossibility considering the crowd which had been so packed in the surrounding streets it was a wonder any of them had even had enough room to draw breath—he would have told him the truth, a truth he had learned long ago. Sometimes, in war, as in life, there were no right answers, only answers. All a man could do, when he had no idea which path to take, was to focus on the next step, the next thing, and do the best he could. Larin didn’t know if he would have done the same; likely he would have had the prisoners killed outright without ever giving them a chance to change sides. But he knew that Alesh had done what he believed best just as he knew that the man’s absence was a strong indication that he was torturing himself over that fact.

Larin decided then that it was time to make a visit to the castle. Partly because he wanted to stress the importance of Alesh going out and being seen by his people. But the mood of the city wasn’t the only reason Larin wished to visit the castle. The last time he’d seen Alesh and Katherine, they had thought he was dying—Larin had thought it as well—and he found that the idea of seeing them again pleased him. He had not cared for many people in his life, but he was surprised to realize that he did care for Alesh, for Katherine, Darl and Rion, even the strange girl, Marta. And especially for Sonya who had called him “Uncle Larin” without any sarcasm. Sonya who had believed him better than he was and, in doing so, made him better than he was. He cared for them all, and he thought that now Alesh needed his help, needed to talk to someone. Brent would have been better, far better, Alashia, too, but they were both dead and gone, and a man must use what tools as he has at hand.

Very well, he decided. He would go to the castle. But first, he had to pick up the supplies he’d come into town for, and show Ralt and his boy Odrick as much as he could about the creation of the Evertorches—and a few other surprises he had in store for the Ekirani exile and those who followed him.

There were several leatherworkers’ shops in Valeria, but only one that he trusted, ran by the son of a man he’d known long ago, during the war. Unfortunately, it was on the far side of the city, and reluctantly, Larin started toward it.

He passed several businesses that were closed, their windows and doors boarded up as the owners prepared for the coming siege. He hadn’t been traveling long when he heard the distant sound of shouting. He considered ignoring it. After all, he had a lot to get done and little time in which to do it…but he found that there was an angry, almost frantic quality to the shouting that he didn’t like. So instead of ignoring it as he might have done, as the old Larin certainly would have done, he sighed, frustrated, and started down an alleyway leading toward the main thoroughfare of the city from which the shouting came.

The source of the sound was easy enough to find, would have been even had he been deaf, for Larin needed only to follow the steady stream of people all moving and whispering among themselves. In time, he reached the bulk of the shouting to see the side walks of the street crowded with men and women. This close, their anger was almost a palpable thing, though who or what they were angry at Larin couldn’t tell, even his height not allowing him to see over the masses packing the street.

Probably nothing, he told himself, wishing he could believe it. Certainly, those around them who were shouting curses and throwing pieces of rotten fruit—and more than a few stones, if Larin’s eyes weren’t fooling him—didn’t think it was nothing. Craning his neck, he managed to catch sight of some men wearing the uniform of the city guard on either side of the road, their drawn blades the only thing managing to keep the crowd back and even that, it seemed, was a close thing. He realized after a moment that the guardsmen were escorting someone, the route they were taking eventually terminating at the castle, but who that someone was he couldn’t see past the guards surrounding them and the angry crowd that was quickly becoming an angry mob.

Seeing the approaching danger, Larin pushed his way through the crowd. He slid in between small, open spaces when he could, excusing his way past them, but when he could not, he made use of his height and size to shove people out of his path as he struggled to catch up with the knot of departing guardsmen.

Finally, he managed to get close enough to see that the guards were escorting what appeared to be two children and a man. Their backs were to him, so Larin could make out nothing of their features, but some unexplainable worry began to niggle at his mind, and he increased his efforts to make it through the crowd, heedless of those he sent stumbling and falling in his sudden need to see who these prisoners were.

When he finally came even with them and caught a glimpse past the guards surrounding them, Larin’s breath caught in his throat. It can’t be, he thought. Yet, it was. The little girl who was being marched through the city, whose clothes were splattered with the juices of rotten fruits, was Sonya. Sonya, the sweet young girl who had called him “Uncle Larin.” As if thinking of them drew them, more rotten fruits began to fly at the prisoners from the crowd, and to his surprise the man, whose face Larin still couldn’t see clearly from where he was standing, used his body to shield the girl and the young boy from the worst of it, a kindness which, judging by the amount of stinking offal covering his cloak and hair, he had performed more than once.

The sight of Sonya as she was, her shoulders hunched under the weight of hate and vitriol the crowd was spewing at her and those with her, stunned Larin like a physical blow. But it did not do so for long. The next thing he knew, he was shoving his way into the street. One of the guards surrounding the group tried to say something to him, no doubt to tell him to get back, but Larin never gave him the chance. Instead, he planted his hand on the man’s chest and shoved, sending him stumbling into the crowd.

Then he was standing in the street, blocking the way of five armed guardsmen, not counting the four who were escorting the prisoners themselves. The crowd, which had been so loud a moment ago, had grown silent, so Larin could hear the metallic whisk as the guardsmen slid their swords from their scabbards.

“Out of the way!” one of them barked, the tone of his voice making it clear he wasn’t planning on asking twice.

Larin felt the eyes of several hundred men and women on him like a physical weight, one he did his best to ignore as he studied the guardsman who’d spoken. “My name,” he said, “is Chosen Larin, one of Amedan’s Seven, known as the Builder, and I want to know why these people have been taken prisoner and what it is you intend to do with them.”

The man sneered. “Chosen Larin’s dead, friend—everyone knows that. He’s been dead for years. Now, get out of our way.”

“U-uncle Larin?” a voice said in little more than a whisper, and he met Sonya’s eyes.

“It’s me, little one,” he said, giving her the best smile he could.

“Look, you son of a—” the guard began, but cut off as one of the four guardsmen surrounding the prisoners stepped forward.

“Wait,” he said, studying Larin carefully with a look somewhere between awe and disbelief. “Chosen?” he said. “Is it really you?”

There was something vaguely familiar about the man’s face, but Larin couldn’t place it.

“Sergeant?” the guardsman who’d been speaking asked. “You know this man?”

“Yes,” the guardsman answered, his voice taking on a breathy quality. “I know him. We have never met, yet I know him well.”

The other guardsman frowned at that, an expression that Larin was forced to echo. There was something familiar about the man, of that much he was sure. “We’ve…never met?” he ventured. “Forgive me, lad, but if that’s the truth, how can you know me?”

The guard blushed, fidgeting and refusing to meet Larin’s eyes as if embarrassed. “I apologize, Chosen, if I spoke out of turn. I meant only that, thanks to my father, I feel like I know you, like I’ve known you all my life. You see, my father served in the Night War, and he talked about you all the time while I was growing up. A lot of the kids back then, their fathers served, and they all knew about the Chosen, of course, heard the stories of the great things you all did, and when we got together to play, the games inevitably turned to each of us choosing which Chosen to pretend to be. Most picked Chosen Olliman and more than a few fist fights broke out over deciding who was the most Olliman-like. The girls, of course, fought over pretending to be Chosen Tesharna, and if anything, they were more vicious than the boys.”

He smirked at the memory then grunted, shaking his head as if to clear it. “I wasn’t either, though. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for Chosen Olliman and Tesharna, what they did…before Tesharna…anyway. I’m grateful. But I never fought the other kids over who I was going to be. I was Chosen Larin, the Builder. Always.”

It was Larin’s turn to blush uncomfortably, and he decided to change the subject. “Your father, what unit did he serve under?”

The guardsman puffed out his chest, his back straightening with obvious pride. “The First Guard, sir.”

Larin grunted in surprise. The First Guard had been the most elite soldiers the army possessed, men and women who had proven themselves to be not just exceptional warriors, but also able to think on their feet, to adapt and overcome. He frowned, peering closer at the guardsman, his mind traveling back through the years trying to put a name to the familiar features. Then, it hit him. “Randall Quinn, wasn’t it?” Larin asked. “Captain Randall Quinn?”

The guardsman’s face lit up as he grinned widely. “Yes, sir, Chosen. Captain Quinn was my father.”

Larin smiled. “Randall’s a good man. How is the bastard, anyway?”

The sergeant winced. “He uh…that is, he died, Chosen, some years ago.”

Larin grunted, feeling as if he’d been punched in the gut. “Gods, I’m sorry, lad.”

The guardsman shook his head. “Please, sir, don’t be. The fever took him, that’s all. Anyway, he said you were the finest man he ever met. I knew it was you on account of we used to have a portrait of you over our dining table. My father said that, if it weren’t for you, he never would have made it home to my mother and me.”

Larin remembered the captain well, remembered that the man had been a terrible hand at cards but brave and loyal. Particularly, he remembered a time when Quinn had saved his life from a nightling leaping at him from behind. “Always was a humble bastard, your da,” Larin said, shaking his head. “You want to know the truth, lad, he saved me just as I saved him.”

The guardsman smiled wider at that, nodding as if in gratitude, then he seemed to remember where they were, to notice anew the crowd gathered in the street around them and the guardsmen—and prisoners—who had been listening to the conversation, some with obvious impatience. “Perhaps, sir, I could speak to you more later? About…about my father, I mean.”

Larin gave him a nod. “That sounds like a fine idea, lad.”

“Thank you, Chosen,” he said. Then, he winced. “I…if you don’t mind my asking, what can we help you with right now?”

“I want to know for what cause these here have been imprisoned,” Larin said. “Particularly, that one there.” He gestured at Sonya and gave her a wink, watching as she smiled, all fear seemingly gone, banished by her trust in him. A hard thing, to be trusted like that. A hard, wonderful thing.

“You know her, sir?”

“Sure, I do,” Larin said, his face expressionless. “I’m her uncle.”

The guardsman’s eyes went wide in surprise. “I see…well, Chosen…” He paused, glancing around at the people in the street before moving closer to Larin and speaking in a low whisper. “She was with him,” he said, indicating the robed man with a thumb. “The boy, too. I thought it best to bring the lot of them to Chosen Alesh.”

Larin studied the man the guardsman had indicated. His face was covered by the hood of his robe, so he couldn’t see him clearly, but there was something about the way he stood, the way he held himself, that told Larin—who’d spent a lifetime around dangerous men, dangerous creatures—that this wasn’t a man to be trifled with, not if you could help it. Still, the hushed tones the captain had used regarding the man had aroused Larin’s curiosity, and he walked toward the figure. With each step, he expected one of the guards to shout a challenge, to warn him away, but they said nothing, seemingly put at ease by their sergeant’s recognition of him. A portrait over the damned dining table, Larin thought, shaking his head. Gods, I’m too old.

The man’s face was down and so Larin, standing in front of him, could still make out nothing of who he might be, but he could tell that the stranger took note of his approach by a slight tensing of his muscles, like some beast preparing to pounce on its prey. If he did pounce, though, he would discover that Larin was no easy meal, whether he was fully recovered from his injuries or not.

But when the figure finally raised its head, and he saw the familiar face with whirling, swirled tattoos covering it, saw the eyes, unafraid, that looked back at him, Larin’s breath caught in his throat, and he felt a fool for his thoughts a moment ago. It did not matter whether he was injured or well, did not even matter that the man’s wrists were bound. Against this beast, few, if any, could stand their ground. “I know you,” he rasped, meeting the man’s eyes.

The Ekirani inclined his head. “The man of the desert,” he said, inclining his head. “Our paths have traveled far to intersect once more.”

Larin’s throat was unaccountably dry, and he could barely swallow. “Not sure what I expected when I stopped you all,” he said, “but it wasn’t this.”

The Ekirani said nothing, only watching him, perhaps knowing what he would ask but waiting for him to ask him.

“What…what do you intend? Why have you come?”

“Tried to sneak in,” one of the guardsmen said, the first who’d challenged Larin when he’d stepped from the crowd. There was a sneer on his face, and he gripped his sword like it was all he could do to keep from charging at the Ekirani and cutting him down. “Attacked someone in line, the savage.” He hocked and spat. “Surrendered easily enough, once he faced some real guardsmen though, and that’s a fact.”

“That’s not true!” someone shouted, and Larin turned, surprised to see Sonya scowling at the guardsman. “That man was trying to hurt Pierce. Tarex helped.”

Larin glanced at the youth standing beside Sonya, raising an eyebrow. The boy was clearly uncomfortable being the center of attention. His face flushed a deep, blotchy crimson, but he nodded to confirm Sonya’s words.

“Tarex?” Larin asked. He had not heard the name before, knew the Ekirani exile only as the rest of the world did. “I thought you went by ‘The Broken’?”

The man met his eyes, and although his expression was calm, there seemed to be a storm of emotion behind his unblinking gaze. “What is broken might be mended by one with the proper skill. I would think you, Man of the Desert, might know that better than most. I was The Broken, but I am broken no longer.”

Larin narrowed his eyes, studying the man who had very nearly killed Alesh and Darl, the same man who, with the help of the Redeemers, would have broken into Larin’s home, slaughtering not just him but all the others, searching for the truth. If there was deceit in him, Larin could not see it. To him, it appeared as if the man genuinely believed his own words. Of course, that meant little. Reading people had been a gift of Brent’s and Alashia’s. It had never been his. “So what brings you here?” he asked.

The Ekirani inclined his head to Sonya. “She did.”

“He’s telling the truth, Uncle Larin,” the girl said. “He helped me, he helped Pierce, too. He’s good now.”

He’s good now. Hundreds, perhaps thousands dead, most of the Ferinan wiped out, butchered like cattle by the Ekirani and the Redeemers he’d brought with him. People across the breadth of Entarna living in fear of an army, one that he had formed, yet to the girl, it was as simple as that once he had been bad and now he was good.

“Honest, Uncle,” Sonya persisted, perhaps seeing Larin hesitate. “He’s good. He can help us.”

“It’s not that easy, little one,” he said softly, studying the Ekirani. If the man felt any trepidation or fear at what might become of him, he hid it well. He did not look nervous or anxious, and he said nothing to attempt to convince Larin one way or the other.

“Why not?” Sonya asked.

“Because…” Larin began, hesitating when he couldn’t decide how, exactly, he might answer that question. Because men can’t change. But, then, that wasn’t true, was it? After all, he had changed—and more than once in his life. From a simple man who’d loved to build things to a Chosen of the father of all the gods to a selfish hermit who had allowed his experiences during the war to rob him of that love of building, who had hidden in the desert and continued to build things not because he loved it, not anymore, but simply because he knew nothing else.

Yes, men could change. They just, in his experience, never wanted to, and more often than not, the catalyst of that change was pain. The kind of pain that warped and twisted and made of men monsters. He had been through such a shaping before, a shaping that had continued working on him each day as he toiled away in the desert, alone and lonely. That hermit, in the desert, had known much about that pain, that change. “It isn’t that simple,” he answered weakly.

“What will you do then, Man of the Desert?” the Ekirani asked, not because he seemed particularly interested one way or the other but seeming, more than anything, as if he was just being polite.

“My name is Larin,” he said softly, meeting the Ekirani’s steady gaze again. “You say you are no longer The Broken…” He gestured around at the city streets, at the crowd watching them, hanging on their every word, an eagerness for bloodshed in many of their eyes. “Well, I am no longer the man of the desert. After all,” he said, turning back to Sonya, “what is broken might be mended, by one who has the skill.”

The tattooed man inclined his head as if he were a fencer acknowledging a touch, but he said nothing, waiting for what decision Larin would make. The Larin he had once been, that bitter man in the desert, would not have cared one way or the other, would have washed his hands of it. But he was that man no longer, had been changed not by pain, not this time, but by the young girl standing protectively beside the Ekirani. But if he was not the hermit, then who was he?

He missed Brent then. Not just Chosen Olliman, the almost godlike figure who had led the armies of men against the creatures of Darkness and won, the man whose name, to many, had become synonymous with Amedan, the God of Fire and Light himself. Instead, he missed Brent Olliman, a young priest who had been his friend, a man who had always seemed to know exactly what to do and never mind how humble he had been, one of those very few who seemed to be able to see past all the confusions and distractions, past the mists of uncertainty and emotion that clouded the visions and choices of so many, cutting directly to the truth of things. A man who had not boasted or been proud but had always possessed a quiet confidence that his self-deprecating manner had not been fully able to hide.

A man whose wisdom, more than his strength or power, had guided the world of men back from the brink of destruction, who had stood like a banner behind which armies had gathered, a banner which they had held aloft in pride and admiration. Those people had believed—and Larin along with them—that it did not matter whether or not they knew the right course of action, for Brent would know it, would choose it, for them all. Larin had once thought the man naïve in many ways, with an innocence, a faith, that few but the world’s children could claim, for as men aged they, like trees that had once been alive and in that way, vulnerable, hardened and calcified over the eons, slowly turning to stone, becoming tougher but in many ways more fragile. He had thought the man naïve and, in truth, he still did. But perhaps that kind of naivety, that kind of innocence, was the only thing in the world that was truly worth fighting for.

And the girl standing there watching him, Larin realized, had that same innocence, that same naivety. It had been that faith, that had made Larin choose, without even realizing he was choosing, to become something else, to become something better, sacrificing the crude, poor life he had made for himself in the desert to help people he had never met on an errand he had thought doomed from the start. And had that same naivety, that same innocence, changed not just him but the Ekirani exile standing before him? Had it somehow made of his cruel, cold heart a thing of warmth, of beauty once more, as it had Larin’s?

He thought that, perhaps, it had. Certainly, the man standing before him seemed altogether different from the one that had done battle with Alesh and Darl outside his desert home. On the outside, he was the same, of course, marked by the Ekirani, on his flesh written the story of his life up to and including his exile for any with the knowledge to read it. Yet, he was not the same person. A change had happened in him, a significant, powerful change, and the man who stared out at Larin from behind that steady gaze was one he did not know. One who, perhaps, was only beginning to know himself.

“I cannot let you go free,” Larin said finally. “You understand that, don’t you?”

“But, Uncle Larin—” Sonya began, but cut off her protests as the Ekirani raised his hand.

“I understand,” the tattooed man said softly, and in those simple words, Larin saw that he did, understood that Larin must bring him to the castle, understood, too, that such a journey would likely end in his death. Alesh had struck Larin as a compassionate man, driven by his need to protect those he cared for, a burden that even weeks ago, when Larin had met him, had weighed heavily on his shoulders. Yet, the man had lost much, had had much taken from him, and the Ekirani had been one of those who had taken it. How could such a man as that be expected to forgive the author of so much of his pain, of so much of the pain of his friends?

Larin knew they needed to leave, to make for the castle. The crowd was growing restless, those eager for bloodshed beginning to think they would be cheated of what they had come to see, and muttered whispers had broken out among them as they eyed the Ekirani with undisguised hatred. He knew that to take the tattooed man to Alesh was the right thing—the only thing, really—yet knowledge of what would happen when he did caused him to hesitate, a hesitation that the Ekirani seemed to pick up on.

“A man must always pay his debts,” the tattooed man said softly. “One way or the other.”

At first, Larin thought he must be speaking to Sonya, trying to comfort her, but then he realized the man wasn’t looking at the little girl at all but at him, in his eyes something that could only be described as understanding and, more than that, forgiveness. He forgives me for what comes, Larin thought, a shock running through him. Oh, gods, Brent, but we need you, I need you, now more than ever. Tell me what to do—what is the right thing?

But Brent Olliman, his friend, was dead and gone and could not answer. Yet, thinking on it, Larin understood the man had answered already, long ago, during a drunken night—drunken for Larin, anyway, for, as with all things, Brent had only drank in moderation—when he had questioned their course, his course. He had been worried about it, doubting himself and the army and their chances, when Olliman had only smiled. Do the best you can, Larin. It’s all any of us can do. Two sentences, simple enough, but in that he had given an answer not just to Larin’s troubles of the time, but to his life, though he had been too drunken—and too foolish, anyway—to have noticed it then.

Okay, Brent, he thought, taking a slow, deep breath. Okay. “Let’s continue to the castle,” he told the sergeant. “You were right—Chosen Alesh needs to know of this.”

The sergeant bowed his head, motioning to his fellows and, in moments, they were pushing their way through the crowded streets once more.

Larin moved to walk beside Sonya, seeing a troubled look on the young girl’s features, disturbing on one so young. Children, he thought, should be allowed to be children, their biggest worries about how to avoid becoming “it” in the next game of tag or which toy to play with. They should not have to worry about watching their friends die, watching their friends killed. In a perfect world…but no. Larin cut off the thought. The world was what it was, and wishing it different would not change anything. Wishing never did. Pain might be a catalyst of change, the gods knew it was, but it wasn’t the only one. Courage, faith, kindness. Those things too could change the world, could change hearts. Or so he had to hope.

“Will Alesh understand, Uncle?” Sonya asked from beside him as they walked, her voice so low he could barely hear it. “Or will he…” She trailed off, rubbing an arm across her nose and visibly holding back the tears that threatened. Larin met her eyes, met the eyes of the other youth, the one she had named Pierce, who also watched him, seemingly as intent on his answer as Sonya.

Children should not have to worry, he told himself, putting on the most confident expression he could manage, giving the two children a small smile. “Alesh is a great man,” he said. “It is no wonder Brent chose him to be his successor.”

It wasn’t an answer, and the two children knew it, sharing a look before turning back to him, wanting, needing more. “What happens…if he doesn’t?” the boy asked.

“He will,” Larin said, careful that none of his uncertainty and doubt showed on his face. “We will make him understand.”

He looked away from the children then, scared that they might see some of his worry in his eyes, and his gaze locked on the Ekirani who was watching him. The man gave him a small smile and inclined his head, as if he knew the truth all too well and approved of Larin’s words.

He’ll understand, Larin thought again as he turned back to the road, and if it was a lie, this time it was one told only for himself. He has to.