The Knave of Souls - Fantasy - Sequel to The Jack of Souls

Chapter 53 - Lies

Magus Poriggi Carari reports that the north of Arkendia is inhabited by beasts and mythological monsters...including their creator god Arkus, who dwells there, and uses the site for his bath. A curious god indeed, who so values his privacy, and requires such minimal creature comforts! These things are purely Arkendian. In Iberg we would call such a fellow a hermitish crackpot, but in Arkendia he is a god.

—From A Merry Stay in a Backward Land, Iberg tract, circa before the Kwendi Emergence

*

*

LIES

*

Brolli stepped from the World Gate and looked around the slopes of the mossy grotto in which it stood. Darkness cloaked the forest. The moons had set, and the canopy above was near impenetrable. Somewhere in the distance he heard the thunderous croaking of a yoab announcing a period of sleep after gorging. Through the World Gate, he could see Rurgich, small and worried. Rurgich waved, and Brolli returned the signal. When Rurgich closed his side, Brolli grabbed the lintel rod before its bells could ring, and brought it down.

Alone in the silence of the southern forest, he paused, brow bent in worry. Something had happened to rouse the Aerie. Dawn was still far away, so it couldn't have been a Spear Dragon attack.

A voice called, and he froze, listening. Again it sounded, like a bellowing ox. The Stilty priest. He was shouting Brolli's name, along with something else that sounded insulting. Should lob one of Mima's flashers his direction. He'd soil his pants. Not that he'd smell any worse for it.

Cupping his hands to his mouth, he called back and then hoisted his gear and set off at a lope toward the sound.

A thump in the ferns behind him gave him a start. He whirled, cudgel in hand, and saw Harric. The young man knelt at the rim of the grotto, no more than ten paces away.

Brolli's gut tightened. Moments before, the World gate had been there in plain view. Hand tight on the cudgel, he stared at Harric. Harric wore no shirt, just a floppy back-sack. He remained on hands and knees as if he'd tripped and fallen, and stared about, eyes wide and white as turtle eggs. A wave of relief washed through Brolli as he realized Harric couldn't see his hand in front of his face, much less a black gate at the bottom of a grotto.

But what was he doing out here without any light? Possibly his light had gone out and he had no flint and steel.

Or he'd been trying to spy and knew light would give him away...

Brolli shifted his cudgel between hands, eyes narrowing. But as he studied Harric, he realized Harric was weeping. The young man had hung his head. Hair concealed his face, but his shoulders convulsed, and Brolli heard faint sobbing. Harric's fists clutched at the moss as if it were the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

Taken aback, Brolli watched in silence. His supsicions faded, replaced by embarrassment. He could creep away. Harric couldn't see him. Probably didn't know he was there. And this was not the reaction Brolli would expect from Harric if he'd seen the World Gate. Anger, perhaps, but not weeping. Something else must trouble him.

Brolli's instinct was to give privacy, but he couldn't leave without knowing for certain.

"Harric." He spoke his name with as neutral a tone as he could manage. "Are you well?"

Harric looked up as if surprised. Strings of hair stuck to tears on his face, concealing much of his expression. He rose on his knees and tucked the hair behind his ears.

He nodded and wiped his eyes with the palms of his hands.

"Do you have light?" Brolli said. "We must return to camp. Bannus is near."

Harric's mouth dropped open. He closed it and stood. "I—I'm—" His voice was rough, as if he'd just wakened. He swallowed. "Yes. I'll be along. Go ahead."

"Is there anything wrong?"

Harric nodded. He coughed. "Caris. It's nothing."

Brolli winced inwardly, but he felt his shoulders relax. The moon-cursed wedding ring. Will there ever be an end to the misery it causes? Damn Willard's hex for landing it in the boy's hand to begin with. He nodded. "I am sorry."

Father Kogan bellowed like a dying yoab. "Brolli and be hanged!"

Brolli smiled. "Wash your face and come. I think we must ride."

"Tonight?"

"Soon."

Harric nodded. "Thank you." The young Stilty slung his pack from his shoulders and sat to recover his shirt and his boots from it. The fool had been running about shirtless in dirty stockings. Brolli paused. A nagging doubt tugged at the edges of his mind, but he could not put his finger on it.

He shook his head and resumed his lope toward the camp.

Love makes idiots of us all. Stilty and Kwendi alike.