Chapter Twenty-Seven

 

 

Alesh studied the glowing flame of the candle on his desk, watched it dance and flicker mockingly. Some people said that a flame seemed alive, and that was true. Others that a candle or lantern flame seemed to dance, and that was true too. But if it was a dance, then he thought it must be a somber dance of grief as the Welians were said to do at funerals, and if flames were alive, then that also meant that they all died, sooner or later.

Not a pleasant truth, maybe, but then he was discovering that very few truths were. He found himself thinking of Katherine again, as he had almost without surcease for the last three days while sequestered in his rooms. Specifically, he thought of her expression when he’d ordered the archers to fire. A terrible expression that had been, one that had seemed to grab Alesh’s heart and twist. An expression of betrayal, of horror, and disgust. All directed at him.

But, of course, you deserve it. Deserve far worse, in fact. Not an easy thing to accept, maybe, but there it was, too big for him to ignore any longer. He wondered if he had always been a monster. He thought probably he had. Certainly, the children, when he’d been young, had thought him little better than a beast, throwing their stones and calling him cursed. If only they’d known just how right they were, they wouldn’t have settled, wouldn’t have stopped until he was dead.

Those kids…but no. He wasn’t thinking of those children, not really. He was thinking of the prisoners, of the way they’d screamed as they died, and of how Katherine had looked and how he’d seemed to feel each arrow pierce his own flesh when it struck home.

The prisoners. The arrows. And Katherine. Those three things. They were nearly all he’d thought about over the last few days. Each thought not one of those three was no more than a slight branching in a path which inevitably lead back to that horror on her face, to the sound of the arrows thudding into flesh again and again and again. The clatter of the shafts filling the air, the swooping whoosh of their descent as each dove on its hapless prey like some cruel, malicious bird, not looking just to kill but to wound. To hurt.

A terrible thing that had been done, a terrible thing he had commanded to be done, and the most damning part of it was even now he knew of no other option, could think of no other path he might have taken. No option but the killing of more than a hundred people. Was that how a man became a monster? Never making a conscious decision to be cruel or evil but simply becoming twisted enough, his sight ruined enough, that he was unable to see any option or any choice that did not end in death and pain?

He had given some thought to that over the last few days, and he thought maybe it was. He knew that he was in trouble, felt as if he had stumbled into quicksand and was slowly, inexorably being pulled farther and farther down into despair. And when that sand covered his face, his nose and his mouth, and he could not breathe, what would happen then? Would he be consumed by it? Would he die or go mad? Sometimes he thought that he would—thought, too, that it wouldn’t be such a bad thing. After all, the dead felt no pain or sadness, and the mad had no regrets.

He’d done his best, he’d tried, but he had been doomed from the start, a monster from the start, one who had hidden so well that even Amedan, the God of Fire and Light could not see him for what he was. But he saw now, that much Alesh knew. Saw and was ashamed and would have taken back all the time and effort he had put into Alesh, if he could.

But the past was immutable, unchangeable even by the gods themselves, and so those who had become damned would remain so, and what time and energy was spent on Alesh would remain spent. Yet, there were still ways in which Amedan might make his displeasure known, and so he had.

Alesh sat in his chair, slumping and wiping a weary hand across his dried lips. He studied the candle again, its swaying dance somehow seeming to mock him, to taunt him, and he was only barely aware of his upper lip raising in a silent snarl. Then, he took a slow deep breath, holding out his hand to the flame, his fingertips hovering in the air no more than a foot away.

He called on his gift, called on the power given him by the God of Fire and Light, the power which had saved him from certain death too many times to count in the last few weeks and the one with which he was supposed to lead Valeria and the world back into the Light. He called on it as he had at least a hundred times since the execution of the prisoners. And as each time before it, the gift, the power, did not answer.

He gritted his teeth, searching for that feeling of peace, of quiet contentment he often felt when calling on the power. But he had no peace, no contentment, only rage and fear and pain. He tried harder, every muscle in his body tensed, sweat beading on his forehead, his hand twisted into a ragged claw. And still the gift, the power, would not come. Finally, he collapsed in his chair, his breathing ragged, his face flushed and feverish.

“What am I to do now?” he asked, looking toward the ceiling. There was no answer, just as there had been no answer for the last several days. Amedan, it seemed, had abandoned him the way a beast, seeing that its progeny was malformed would rid itself of it. “Why will you not answer me?” he demanded.

Nothing. He was alone, as he had been so much of his life, as he had been meant to be. He was destined to be alone. One needed only look at those who had befriended him to see that to do so was a curse. Abigail, Chorin, Olliman, Larin, they were all dead and all because of Alesh. But that was only the beginning of his crimes. Darl had lost nearly his entire tribe, and Sonya was missing. Whether the girl who had been like a sister to him was dead or alive, he did not know, for he had received no ransom from the Broken.

Neither were they the only ones who had suffered. Tesharna was dead, Sevrin was dead, and so were many others. One might say that they were evil, and deserved it, and Alesh had believed as much once. Now, though, he wasn’t so sure. Now, he was beginning to think that it was he that was evil, that maybe it always had been. He had believed Tesharna bad, someone that needed to be stopped, but so far what good had killing her done? Only led to more killing and more after that with no end in sight.

All the killing he’d done, all those things he had justified to himself, telling himself there was no other way, had, in the end, accomplished nothing. The Darkness was coming, a long night which would sweep aside all lights gathered against it. Despite his and the others’ efforts, the city wasn’t ready. They could have had another year and still they wouldn’t have been ready. Even if they did somehow manage to hold the walls against an army of far greater size, it would make no difference. The reports Katherine had sent him showed that Valeria’s supplies were almost nonexistent. If the Broken’s armies couldn’t force their way in, they could just wait a few weeks, and starvation would do their job for them. Alesh had failed. In the end, all his efforts, all his struggles, meant nothing, had achieved nothing.

With a growl of frustration, he snatched the glass candleholder and the stubborn candle it held from the desk and threw them across the room, where they shattered against the wall, the crystalline pieces scattering about the floor. But instead of making him feel better, staring at those broken remnants of something that had once been beautiful and fine only made him feel worse. All I do is destroy. Everything I touch is doomed, and all I do is destroy.