Ruler With the Spear

1010 A.D.
The Realm of Wyn Avuqua

“She is here,” Corey says as he enters the cave and lowers himself to his knees.

William’s attention is still fixed on the Red Notebook. “A visitor?” he says.

Corey nods. “A visitor, indeed.” Loche notes a peculiar tone in Corey’s voice. It carries a sentiment he cannot quite place.

“And who might it be?” William asks turning toward the entrance. Outside, the silhouette of Vincale has been joined by a cloaked figure carrying a high, straight staff. “I sense from the chill in my skin that it is a Godrethion.” Curiosity floods his face as he shifts his body a little further to the side to get a better look. “Though, there is something…”

“A bridger, true,” Corey answers. “Yet she is somehow separated from the unwholesome Godrethion brood we just left. That sort call her Lakewoman. Vincale tells me the Wyn Avuquain’s call her,” he pauses, “they call her Lornensha,” Corey waits another moment watching William closely. “It was she that grew the herbs that have provided young Edwin such a sound sleep.”

William nods thoughtfully, “Lornensha, you say? An Elliqui name meaning ruler with the spear.”

Corey studies William’s face. “That is correct.”

Loche asks, “Has she come to wake Edwin?”

“No,” Corey answers. “Edwin should wake any time now. And he will be quite all right and well rested. She has come at Vincale’s request. She has come to aid in your healing, Loche.” Corey gestures to Loche’s left ear and the various wounds he received from the Godrethion guards.

“A healer?” William says. “A healer and a god? A rare thing. I’ve known only a few through these long years.”

Corey turns to William with another expression that is difficult for Loche to read. He opens his mouth to speak but says nothing.

William says, “One woman in particular—”

“My friend, I—” Corey’s interruption dies. He stares at William for a few moments and says nothing more.

Blinking, Loche sees text. A hundred or so lines stack behind closed lids. He sees his hand scribbling the name Corey Thomas. Sentences describe Corey’s long four-hundred plus year history, and many detail his enduring friendship with William Greenhame. Though Loche never wrote of how the two immortals met, he had outlined many adventures they shared prior to the events depicted in the Priest Lake Journal. These writings, likely in the hands of Albion Ravistelle at present, were scrawled into notebooks when Loche found time to write in his office tower in Sagle, Idaho.

While watching the two maintain eye contact for a few seconds, Loche is reminded of their close bond—or at least the close bond he recalls crafting into their relationship with his words. Infused in their brief exchange are centuries of heartache, victories and losses, kinship and memories—memories well beyond the planting of Loche Newirth’s story seedlings. Though Loche may have written it—they lived it. Centuries. It occurs to Loche, What haven’t these two seen? What have they not experienced?

“You must listen carefully, my friend,” Corey says to William, gently. “Though you’ve heard me say it already—and you, too, are quite cognizant of our actions in this place and time, but we must not alter—”

“—alter what is to come, indeed.” William finishes.

Corey reaches out and rests his hand upon William’s shoulder. William’s grin disappears.

Another blink and Loche sees the text of a story he wrote involving Corey and William in New York City at the apex of prohibition, 1927. The two went in search of a man named Frank Valennte, a Cosa Nostra soldier under Salvatore Maranzano whose operation ran booze from the Canadian border into the city. As for Corey and William, such law breaking was just fine by them. However, Frank’s other activities included murder, extortion, prostitution and a list of atrocities he had perpetrated during World War I. Even those occupations, though despicable, were of no import to Corey and William. The real concern, of course: Frank Valennte was a bridging god on Earth. A particularly evil Godrethion at that. All told, to an Orathom Wis Itonalya, Frank’s business and his seraphic trespass sadly canceled out the glory of delivering spirits to New York’s speakeasies. Valennte’s sordid past also provided a certain job satisfaction to the assassins within both Corey and William: the darker the god, the greater pleasure in sending it back across the gulf.

But the crux of Loche’s recollection of this story is not Frank Valennte, nor is it the bridger’s eventual death at William’s hand—instead, it had everything to do with the short part of the tale when William and Corey, at a speakeasy, had each finished their fourth Vesper Martini, and were ordering their fifth. Blurry and drunk, William shared with Corey his earliest memories of childhood; of his parents, Geraldine and Radulphus. He told of how his mother was murdered by the Bishop of London and his sentinel monk Cyrus, how William learned that he himself was an Itonalya, and of the meeting of Albion Ravistelle and the death of his father, Radulfus. William told the story brimming with tears, and Corey listened to his friend intently. The martinis intensified his empathy and compassion. When two yellow ribbons of lemon peel lay in the bottom of their empty conical glasses, the two cried together. A pair of drunk friends lamenting the circling seasons, the missing of loved ones, and the passing of joy to tragedy and back again. William had just ordered more drinks, when Frank Valennte entered the dimly lit speakeasy. The gangster was then not-so-cleverly dispatched by an incredibly drunk and emotional William Greenhame.

And now, over a century later (or, given their current position in time, several centuries before—Loche shakes his head at the thought), the two immortals exchange a look filled with much more than Loche can read, or write. But he knows the real depth of their friendship. What haven’t they seen together? Loche considers again. What haven’t they encountered?

With his hand still on William’s shoulder, Corey watches the visitor at the cave entrance. “This is something rather unexpected. When was the last time you heard me say that, William?” His forehead scrunches as if struggling to understand something. “I think you’ll agree this is a tricky one, but you must heed our mandate. We cannot alter—”

William raises his hand and silences him. “The suspense is killing me. Won’t you end it?”

“Very well.” Corey then stands and gestures to Vincale to enter. Vincale, in turn, bows to Lornensha. She quickly steps inside and into the ring of firelight. Her staff is in fact a tall spear with a leaf shaped head of tarnished, sharpened steel. Its tip glints in the orange light. When she throws back her cowl, woven coils of hair drop down, framing her pale, caring gaze. Loche is immediately struck by a sudden, puzzling familiarity: her elegant high cheekbones, deep brown irises and luminous expression of both curiosity and concern force Loche’s focus to slide from her to William and back again. Then he notices that William’s eyes are thrown open like lit windows.

Lornensha does not speak, nor does she offer any gesture of greeting. Instead she sets her spear beside the fire and brings her face close to Loche’s. With a gentle touch, she nudges his chin to the side, inspecting his injured cheek and ear. Strangely, Loche does not feel uncomfortable with her proximity. She smells of pine and some sweet herb that Loche can only guess at.

He hears William speak her name. “Lornensha.” But his inflection does not sound as if he is calling to her or asking for her to acknowledge him. His intonement denotes a kind of wonder, as if he is again considering the name’s origin to himself. “Lornensha,” he says again. Both Loche and the Lakewoman turn to him.

William’s eyes are spilling long streams of tears as they flit, searching every feature upon the woman’s face. His mouth is slightly open. She stares back at him—a sad question shadowing her expression. “Lornensha,” he says, but this time his muttering quavers and ends with a whisper. His hand raises as if to caress the woman’s cheek, but he stops himself and withdraws it.

Corey is suddenly kneeling beside William. “My friend…”

William stands abruptly, strides quickly out of the cave and disappears into the dark.

Corey bows his head. Lornensha watches William exit and then immediately returns to Loche’s wounds. A moment later she rummages in her satchel and produces a flagon and a pewter cup. Into it she pours what looks to be clear water. She places it on a stone adjacent to the glowing coals of the fire. Her hand reaches back into the green sackcloth satchel searching for something more.

“What happened?” Julia asks.

“I don’t understand, Corey,” Loche adds.

“Nor do I. Nor could we ever understand such a thing,” he says quietly. “How we drift in circles…”

“Was it something about her name?” Julia asks.

“Her name, yes. And her face,” Corey answers without raising his head.

“Lornensha is an Elliqui name, right?” Julia asks.

“It is.” He pauses and looks into the fire for a few moments. “In a couple of centuries a Germanic tribe will have a different name with the same meaning—for the same person. For this person…”

Lifting his gaze from the flames he tells them, “That name will be Geraldine.”

From her satchel Geraldine of Leaves raises a dried leaf of deep green. She crushes it to pieces and then stirs the flakes into the steaming cup of water.