The World of Layonara
Character Development => Development Journals and Discussion => Topic started by: Carillon on October 27, 2008, 10:42:34 am
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For your reading pleasure ... excerpts from the journals of Jaelle Thornwood and other assorted writing relating to this series!
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... On the subject of enchantment spells and bending minds, I shall have to speak to Aryell about something the next time I can catch her for a lesson. I have been meaning to ask her whether there is any way to tell whether someone's mind is truly bent to your will, or whether they are merely acting the part. I helped deal with a bandit problem very recently in Vehl, and one of the bandits proved blastedly strong-minded. Incredibly so, actually. And a cursedly good actor to boot. Not only did my enchantment spells not take, but he was able to pretend they did and it was very difficult for me to be certain. That just will not do. When I enspell someone to get information from them, I need to know that information is correct. Luckily I caught most of his lies before we left him hidden and bound, drugged by one of my sleeping draughts, but it made our task much more difficult and was embarrassing.
I do not like to be embarrassed. He paid later, for that and for other things. His superior had captured four children, two boys and two girls, and was holding them hostage. He proposed a trade: us for them. Unfortunately, there were too many arrogant fools in our company who don't understand the principles of negotiation and bargaining. There is a time and a place for bargaining, but there are some people who are too mad, too powerful, too arrogant or too desperate to bargain. When dealing with them, persistent attempts to take control of the situation will only escalate tensions. Tensions escalated, alright. Due to the bumbling efforts of several of our would-be negotiators, including the Ilsaran cleric Alleina and Brian's father Rain, all four children were killed. One of the girls had her throat cut first, and then the other three were slaughtered during the ensuing struggle.
The first child's life being lost was a tragedy, but perhaps can be excused by my companions not realizing how serious the situation was. They thought they could outsmart our foe. It's a flimsy excuse, but it is an excuse. The other three are inexcusable. Their selfishness and stubbornness cost those children their lives. Throats slit and necks broken, they were cut down because we were too proud to bow our heads. Even I would have done it, I think. Traded myself for ransom, I mean. I am sure there is a price you can set on a child's life. Everything has a price. I reckon the price as considerably higher than my own pride, though. All the bandits were killed, but it is little consolation. I heard the children were taken to the temple in Vehl and raised, and are being kept there until they are claimed or someone decides what to do with them. I plan to go and visit on the morrow.
The bandit I had drugged paid some of the price. I admit, I was angry, and the others had forgotten him. I hadn't. I went back, and waited until he awoke. I am quite certain my face was not a welcome sight, pretty as it usually is. I had no looking glass with me, nor would I have stopped to check if I had, but I believe I looked quite frightening. My blood boiled with rage and I could feel the magic crackling all around me. Lightning magic has been my focus lately, and I could feel the hairs on my head lifting a little into a wild black mane as I sought the power within me. That would have been too easy, though. I didn't want it to be easy. And I wanted information. We took it slow. Very slow.
I expected to feel something afterwards, but I didn't. Not what I was expecting, at least. I just felt rather calm. His soul was black, as was his heart, and his mind was twisted. I have no doubts about that, so I do not feel bad about killing him. It made me think about Steel and his Dread Blade axioms though. I am not sure he would approve. Maybe he would think it was unfair to keep the thug restrained with a spell while I hurt him. No matter--I didn't feel like giving him a sporting chance.
He talked, in the end. Nearly everyone will, unless they are so crazy their minds have already broken. Senseless tragedy. The children's father crossed his boss, and he killed the man and took his offspring. There were other details too, all worth knowing though none important enough to mention here. I did not enjoy his pain, though I expect he enjoyed it less. By the time he was done talking he was already broken. I just killed him. A light touch, almost a lover's caress, and he burned from the inside out. Perhaps Steel would approve of the fact I met his eyes as he died, at least, cupping his face gently with both hands to fuel the fire, feeling the Al'Noth pour through me ... Fire magic is so easy when you are angry. My own protections and resistances protected me from most of the heat so I held my hands there and watched the flesh burn from his face, layer by layer, until there were no more screams and even the bones were nothing but dust.
I scattered the ashes so no one would look askance if people remembered him and came looking for him. No one even asked, though.
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Jaelle hesitates outside the temple, pacing back and forth restlessly. She hadn't gone herself. Not at first. She hadn't come until she had heard from one of the others that the children were still withdrawn and traumatized.
Why she had chosen to come even now, it was difficult for her to say. She suspected it had something to do with the memories that came flooding back when she pictured the terrified eyes of the boy and girl she had seen alive, and the wave of sick, crushing guilt and pain and anger she had experienced when she saw them laid out with their brother and sister, all four bodies bloodied and broken. There were older memories mixed in too, of a little dark haired girl in a lonely swamp missing her father. Of the same child, barely recognizable as a younger, innocent version of herself, clutching her mother's dead body and weeping. Of blood seeping into the black mud of the swamp ground, and her mother's dead eyes staring back at her. She knew what it was like to be afraid as a child. She knew what it was like to have seen terrible things, and to have had terrible things happen to you.
She glances up at the gold dragon outside the temple, wishing for the umpteenth time they had taken them anywhere else. She has no love for the Rofireinites, but this was more important. Finally, she picks up her packages and enters the temple.
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I've been visiting the children in the temple. It took me a while to get there, in more ways than one. For one thing, I've never liked the Rofireinite temple. I avoid it whenever I can. I always feel like the dragon's eye is on me, boring into my soul. For another, I do not have fond memories of this place. I remember coming here with Muireann to answer Jennara's questions after the fiasco with Kali's little thug. We may not have lied, but nor did we tell the whole truth, and I can't help but wonder if that will come back to haunt me one day.
I suppose if I am being honest, it is also because I knew it would hurt, to see them. My preliminary inquiries revealed they were traumatized by their ordeal. It is no little thing, to die and be brought to life again, and it takes a heavy toll on the spirit. Some spirits or souls seem to endure it better than others, but if children are resilient they are also fragile, and the scars they acquire in youth will not be easily shed later in life.
I speak from experience. I know that now.
I spent a long time, thinking about how I would do it, and what I might do once I was there. Praise the stars and sky that the temple is by the ocean. Listening to the waves go in and out, I was able to think clearly. Still, it hurt. It hurt to remember.
Is it in our nature to impose our own stories on others, as if they were so many blank pages to be written on? These four are not me. They are a story unto themselves. And yet I can see the dark thread of my own childhood caught up in the pattern too, and the memories flood me. I hear my father's voice in the waves, and I see my mother's eyes and that beautiful face, so like to my own, twisted in death.
I did not expect it to hurt so much still, after so much time. I thought I had become numb to it by now. Perhaps it is because their loss is so fresh, so raw still, the wound still weeping freely. Perhaps that is why their pain tugs at me so, and why I see so much of my child-self in them. Little lost children, all alone now, their world as shattered as their broken hearts. Oh, they have had company. They have had no end of company and visitors, all of whom come with loud voices and cheerful smiles and toys and messages of hope and joy and comfort. Or so I have heard. I wonder how many of them realize how quickly children learn to wear brave smiles as masks. I did it once, when father did not come back, to protect my mother from my grief while she dealt with her own. Our silence protected us from each other's pain for the most part.
It shows most when they are alone, or when they do not know anyone is watching them. The older three forget to be brave then, and the masks slip a little. You can see it happen, if you watch closely. I may not be good with children, but I know how to watch. They curl up within themselves again, pulling away from the world. I think I know where they go. There is a place somewhere deep in the mind, made of numbness and soft grey hues. I remember that place. It is the place you go when it hurts too much and you think you will die from the pain and the sadness and the fear. I think the little one, Liam, went to that far away place and never came back. A whispering voice inside my head worries he may have gone too far, far enough no one will be able to bring him back.
There is a difference between grief and this kind of wound. Grief is present in our everyday lives. We are saddened by the deaths of friends, and by bad news. It is a pain born of loss, and one that will heal in time. It does not change who we are. This other pain is a wound that can fester all too easily, though. It is a pain that goes beyond loss, and into the realm of terror and irrationality. This wounding pain is worse than grief, because it reminds you that you are helpless. I know no other way to describe it but as trauma, pure and simple.
When I finally went I went quietly, aiming to be unobtrusive. The first day, I brought herbs with me, and a mortar and pestle. I remember pacing outside the temple, back and forth, under the dragon's eye. When I asked for the children and told him I had been there when they died, the priest did not seem surprised. Other visitors had come before me. He led me to their room, and left me there with them.
I remember hovering on the threshold for a moment before entering, watching them. There they were, all four, just as I remembered. Except I hadn't seen all of them in life. The oldest, who I guessed to be around eleven or twelve, looked sullen and defiant. His brown hair looked shaggy, like it needed trimming. He looked like he wasn't paying attention to anything, but I could see the tension in the lines of his body, in the way he held himself. Poised for flight.
His sisters were beside him, their faces like the dark and light sides of a single coin. Two girls cut from the same cloth, but very different. The older one had sharper features and dark hair. Her eyes were dark too, and full of anger. She reminded me of nothing more than a black cat, claws extended and ready to hiss at anyone who got close. The littler one was fairer, in both senses of the word. Pale hair and blue eyes. A pretty child, and softer than her older sister. Quieter, too. She lacked the older one's restlessness. Her grief was pretty too. She made you want to reach out and cuddle her, to comfort her. I remember thinking men would want to comfort her when she was older, if she couldn't heal and leave some of her wounds behind. They would be drawn to her like moths to a flame. I knew that one from experience too. There is a powerful allure to a wounded woman. Men always want to save her.
It took me a moment to see the youngest one. He was curled up in the corner, a little ways away from his siblings, his jaw slack and his expression distant. For a moment I thought he was staring at something. Then I realized there was simply no one home. His eyes were almost as empty of life as if he had still been dead.
I didn't need to make much noise to alert them to my presence. They were already watchful, more alert than other children would have been. Jumping at shadows. I remembered that too. I forced myself to smile and say hello softly, and then I did something much harder: I forced myself to ignore them. I found a little corner in the room to sit in, and unpacked my herbs and mortar and pestle and went to work. It was difficult not to look up, not to watch them. I could feel three pairs of eyes boring into me, but that was alright. I was an intruder in their little sanctuary, and I suspected it would take a while for them to become accustomed to my presence. In all honesty, it was the absence of the fourth set of eyes that bothered me more.
The first afternoon was the hardest. They were uneasy with my unfamiliar presence, and I didn't blame them. I let them watch me, and tried to relax into my work. My pestle scraped against the mortar again and again, pounding the little dried leaves into fine dust. Every so often I would tip the contents into a little folded envelope or funnel them into a vial and put a few more dried leaves in the bowl. The fair-haired girl--Lissa, as I later learned she was called--showed interest first, but her older brother and sister held her back from investigating, I think. They were suspicious of my presence, and protective of their little sister. I didn't blame them.
Things had settled a little by the time I left. I got a lot done, in those few hours. That first afternoon they relaxed just enough to whisper amongst themselves, but they kept their distance. I didn't mind. I have spent a lot of my life in the solitude of the swamps with only my own thoughts for company. An afternoon of quiet is no great trial to me, and I can be patient when I want to.
The second day was easier. I brought the herbs again, and also some sheets of parchment and inks and quills. There are a few runes I have been having trouble with when scribing, and practicing their forms in mundane ink would do me no harm. They noticed me right away when I came into the room. Well, three of them did. Again, I greeted them quietly, pleasantly, and then got right to work. I could tell they were already more accustomed to me by the way they spoke more freely with each other. I watched them out of the corner of my eye. All three older children were curious today. I tried to hide my smile and waited. It didn't take very long.
What are you doing? I looked up to identify the source of the soft voice. It was the younger girl, Lislea. Lissa, as her siblings called her. I wasn't surprised she was the first to speak to me. Lissa, don't talk to her! the other girl hissed. Rhiannon. Rhia. I am drawing pictures, I told Lissa, ignoring Rhiannon's whispered warning. Do you want to see?
She did.
Every day since has been a little better. I try to go each afternoon, choosing the quietest time of the day. I bring herbs with me, and parchment and inks, and objects I have picked up in my travels. They are responding, slowly. They are no longer wary in my presence, at least, or as guarded. And I can watch them now.
Lissa likes to draw pictures on my parchments in all different colours of ink. They are just a child's drawings, just pictures, but you can read the meaning in them like the symbols on a scroll or a message written in code. Her bright, cheerful butterflies have sharp teeth, and she draws the sun in dark colours. They are troubled pictures. When she draws herself or her brothers and sister, the figures are shaky, as if she is no longer quite sure how to represent them, or herself.
Rhiannon likes to help me with my herbs. I talk to her about them, explaining what each one does and how to use them. I am not sure it matters to her. I think she just likes being able to pound them into dust. She is full of anger, full of more rage than a ten year old child should have to know. Her rage overwhelms her fear, hiding it, but I think it is still there underneath. She is as fierce as a tigress, always talking about revenge.
Finn, the eleven year old, still doesn't quite trust me. He keeps his suspicions largely to himself, but they are there, under the surface. When his parents were killed, he tried to protect his siblings. When they were all killed as well, I think perhaps his faith in humanity was severed for good. He tolerates me ... even seems fond of me. He likes my little illusions, and all the sleight of hand tricks Elmater taught me during our sessions. We have had a little fun together, even. But he is always waiting for the knife in the back, watching for the betrayal.
And Liam, little Liam. He was the first one I saw, the one the half-orc held over the cliff, the one whose neck was snapped with as little remorse as one might slaughter a fowl for supper. The trauma was too much for him. It broke him. Not once, in all my visits, has he said a word or shown any interest in what is happening around him. Most of the time, he is like a silent, living doll, a constant reminder of what the children have endured. I have taken to sitting next to him so he can at least feel my presence, and to signing to him as well as speaking to him. If he ever chooses to communicate again, I am not sure he will use his voice. At least this will give him another option. Right now, the hurdle is not communication of any sort, though. It is sitting up on his own, and chewing his food rather than letting it run down his chin. If there is truly hope for Liam, recovery is a long way away.
And so it goes. I visit nearly every afternoon, not knowing what the day will bring, or if today will be the day they choose to talk about what happened, or their parents. For now, I hope my quiet presence brings them some comfort. At the very least, I will settle for doing these children no more harm.
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... Seeing the children again was a strange joy. I found myself thinking of them often when I was in Spellgard, and I think they were part of the reason I made such haste to return. I find myself growing rather attached to them in a strange sort of way, and I think they have grown attached to me too. The older ones seem to look forward to my visits now, and one of the priests said they asked after me when I was away. I did tell them I was going, to be fair. I thought it best to warn them, as they have had enough cruel surprises in their short lives.
I think they are mending, slowly. It is so hard to tell, because it is such a gradual process and there is so much healing to be done. They still don't like to talk about it much, but every so often there's a little hint at how much they keep to themselves. The priests tell me they have nightmares from time to time and still have trouble falling asleep, but I haven't pushed them to talk about it. Finn and Rhiannon are especially reticent, in some ways. I suspect it's harder for them, being older. They don't want Lislea to see their fear or their weakness so it's never discussed. Their unspoken fears coalesce into a big dark demon that lurks in the shadowed corners of every room, watching silently over everything they do. Actually, that's almost how Lissa drew it, the one time she did: a great dark shape surrounded by smaller shapes. It wasn't until I asked her about it and she told me that they were the “bad men who killed mummy and daddy” that I noticed the little figures in the corner of the parchment. Even the smallest of the dark shapes was much bigger than the huddle of little stick people trying to scramble off the page.
I worry for them all, but I worry for Liam the most. Not that the other three don't have their own issues still. Lissa wants to be touched all the time, as if she is afraid of being alone. She seeks comfort wherever she can find it, even from near strangers. And Rhiannon has grown no less angry with the world, and Finn no more trusting of strangers. Liam is without doubt the most wounded, though. He still has not spoken, nor responded to anyone's attempts to communicate. What progress he makes is painfully slow and to strange eyes it must look like he hasn't changed at all, but he has. He does more than lie on his side now. He sits on his own. If you spoon food into his mouth, he will actually chew and swallow without prompting. Small measures of healing, but after fearing there was no hope at all they are like giant leaps and strides ...
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The sun was shining as Jaelle shifted the leather bag on her shoulder. The gold dragon statue watched her do so, and she fought back the urge to stick her tongue out at it, or make some rude gesture. After so many weeks of daily visits, she had finally grown more comfortable with the Rofireinite priests and they seemed to accept her presence in the children's rooms, but still she never lingered there after her time with the children was done. Their temple would never be a place in which she would feel at home.
She thought about the last few weeks as she mounted the steps to the temple, and how much the children had changed. They seemed better now, and those odd strained moments were becoming less frequent. One of the priests had also told her that the nightmares were coming less frequently now. Liam still hadn't spoken or showed interest in anything around him, but there was change in him as well; it was merely that the change came more slowly. Observing it was like trying to watch a tree grow or a flower blossom: one only noticed the difference when one compared it to what it had been a week or a month or a year ago.
She was looking forward to her visit today, even more than usual. She had perfected her latest illusion last night, and was planning to coax a smile out of Finn with it. She had also brought a little wooden carving with her that Oriana had sent from Corsain, along with her latest gown. It depicted one of the Corsainese cities before the fall—though Jaelle did not know which one—and she thought the children would like to see the slanted roofs of all the buildings.
These were Jaelle's thoughts as she crossed the temple threshold. So absorbed was she that she didn't hear the priest call her name. He had to hurry over and touch her arm as she walked toward the corridor leading to the children's room, and at first she couldn't make out what he was trying to say. An uncle? Impossible ... they had no family in the city. (She had inquired, of course.) That Liam had shown the first spark of interest last night ... her heart quickened a little at that, and she forgot the other thing for a moment, distracted by the happy news. That he was sorry that she had not had a chance to say goodbye ... and then she realized what he was telling her, and her eyes widened in surprise: the children had been claimed.
The first suspicion was like an icy blade through her gut. Later, she would not be able to recall exactly what the priest had said, but she would remember the strange feeling of dread and certainty. The uncomfortable sensation that made her suspect the bottom had fallen out of her stomach only deepened when he handed her the letter. Some distant part of her mind registered his words as she unfolded it. He was saying that the uncle had specifically left it for her when he had heard how much time she had spent at the temple with the children. He had told the priests he wanted his gratitude to be known.
And then she heard nothing more from the priest, and knew only the words on the scroll that shook in her hands as she read:
Rarely have so few caused me such bother.
As such, though I usually take no pleasure in the pain of innocents,
I shall spare these four children no hurt, no pain ... no suffering will
remain unknown to them.
Know this: that my words are truth—not threats, just promises. And
this burden shall be yours to carry evermore.
As the Rofireinite priest watched her reaction with growing concern, Jaelle uttered a heartfelt curse and stared at the letter in disbelief.
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Lady of Storms bring a curse upon that villainous, treacherous, deranged, truculent half-orc bastard! And the entire Rofireinite church with him! How? How could this have happened? How could even the sniveling, rules-bound Rofireinites have been this utterly foolish and careless? Of all the times for senseless bureaucratic restrictions and useless regulations and endless paperwork to have had a cause, this would have been it! Could they not have at least checked that the half-orc was who he said he was before handing over the children to him?!
I still cannot believe it is true that they are gone ... slipped through our fingers somehow. I sensed some form of enchantment or charm on the priest, though my mind was too clouded by anger to fully puzzle out the details of how he had done it. That he was intelligent, we knew. That he was this cunning and damnably hard to kill, I had no idea. He was dead. I saw his body on the hill, bloody and lifeless, and was glad of the sight.
Bound. He was bound to the stones—it's the only answer that makes any sense at all. Why we didn't take precautions against such a possibility, I don't know. But it is too late now. He has them, and he taunts me with the knowledge. He even had the audacity to leave a letter for me with the priest, bragging of his triumph and the cruel fate he had in store for them: "no suffering will remain unknown to them." I shudder to imagine the horrors they will endure for our foolishness, and our carelessness. That it is our fault, he left no doubt. He said as much in the letter, which I read as the priest stared at me in shock.
I have done everything in my power to rectify this grievous error on our part. I thought to scry the children's location, but I was not certain our bond was strong enough. Instead, I went to their room in the temple, looking for some belonging that might serve as a focus. Too late—that room he had utterly wiped of their presence, as if they had never existed. Indeed, I might have doubted I had the right room, so empty was it of evidence of their presence, save the scrap of paper I found in the corner: "I've made the one mistake you'll ever see. You'll find no more here."
Curse his blackened soul, and may it rot forever in the Pits. I'll not give up so easily. A few hours on the docks and a lot of coin later, I found my first solid lead. A dockhand saw a half-orc escorting four children onto a small craft, bound east. I could feel the surge in my blood at the news. If he wants a fight, then I will bring one to him. This will not go unchallenged. I will call upon the aid of others and make certain the children are brought back safely, and then I will find a way to destroy him. I will end him, if it means dragging his twisted essence down into the Pits of Strife myself, and binding it there.
Since that first lead and the accompanying surge of hope, I've managed to track the boat's passage to a wreck east of Vehl, near the border between Co'rys and Ulgrid. The wreckage was spotted by locals and reported, and my inquiries confirmed that the description was close enough to match. They found it still smoldering, and the bodies of the crew discarded on the beach, throats slit or otherwise murdered. I did not linger over the details, but I can imagine the scene. The charred hull of the boat would protrude up into the air, like some strange corpse washed ashore. It still bothers me that boats have the names of body parts: ribs, knees ... in this case it bothers me because I can imagine the ruined remains of the fishing boat and picture instead a small child's body.
I have sent the Rofireinites, frantic to make amends for their mistake, to secure the scene, and have sent for a tracker. We fight the hourglass though; the rain and the elements will soon wash away their tracks and leave no hint of their passing. I refuse to let them disappear entirely, and have written to those responsible for their initial death, as well as those I trust most, beseeching aid. Connor and Anna came to the temple during their stay and spoke with the priest, so I have sent for them as well. I pray they come swiftly. I fear we do not have much time. I do not think he will kill them right away—no, he will make their suffering as prolonged as it is unbearable. Still ... how long will their young spirits endure the tortures of the flesh? And what will happen if we cannot find them in time?
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She lay in the bed by the little window and listened to the anxious tap-tap-tap of rain against the glass. Or almost. Her body lay in the bed, but her mind was wandering elsewhere, far away. In her mind's eye, she was on a beach. The sea was behind her, and allies around her, and the snow-capped mountains before her. The tracker was at her side too, pointing out the sign of the children's passage. Child-sized footprints in the ground, crushed over by much larger prints, or perhaps snapped twigs or a brightly-coloured thread snagged on a gorse bush—these were the ways in which they would find them.
She reminded herself that it was not her fault. It was not her fault that her current condition prevented her from travel. It was not her fault that she was confined not only to this house and this room but also to this bed while Finn, Rhiannon, Lislea and Liam were out there, dying by inches every day. She had done all she could. She could not go herself. The clerics had said it was too dangerous at this point in the pregnancy. She had been set to defy them and go anyway, but then there had been a scare and a lot of blood, and she had finally accepted that it was as they said: if she went, she would lose the child. They could heal her, but she would have to stay in bed for at least a week while her body gathered its strength again and fought to keep this tiny babe, so bent on survival, alive.
The raindrops beaded down the window, and she watched them fall like tears. She shed no tears herself, though. Her tears would do no one any good, would make no difference at this point. Over and over like a mantra, she told herself it was not her fault. That she had done all she could. When the words lost their meaning and guilt threatened to claim her anyway, she began to pray.
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I do not know how to write this. It has all gone wrong, worse than ever before perhaps. I still remember the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach when I learned that the half-orc had come for them, and then the quick-blossoming hope at tracking them to that boat wreck on the border of the Ulgrid Kingdom. But now ... what is there to hope for now? I did what I could but it was nowhere near enough. I sent the rangers after them and wrote letters to all who I knew would aid us, but my delicate condition prevented me from following in person, though my heart ached to do so.
And they bogged it up.
I want to think I would have been smarter, that I could have navigated the twisting path through the half-orc’s mind and won his game. That I could have controlled Alleina’s foolish, impetuous and costly temper tantrum ... but likely I could no more have saved them this time than the first time, when he held Liam over the cliff and snapped his neck because I could not rein in my compatriots. I now doubt my presence would have made a difference.
Connor and Anna sent for me as soon as they arrived back and I was well enough to travel. Seeing Finn sleeping safely in their bed my heart began to race, and I looked around for Rhiannon and Lissa and Liam. They were not there, and I tasted bitter fear.
They told me what had happened, more or less. It is difficult to remember the precise words. I remember them asking me things, and not hearing. I remember going outside and blasting fire into the sea until I shook with the power flowing through me, but it was not enough. My rage was like a living thing, fueled by fear and, I now realize, guilt as well. Guilt for not being there. Guilt for not being able to save them.
I tried to harden myself when they told me. I used to have such a thick shell for these things. I should have been able to hear it without reacting, but I could not. Not for these children, these four, these ... I love these children. I do.
I emptied the contents of my stomach into the sea when Connor told me how the half-orc had voewed to have one of the girls abused and defiled and then drawn and quartered for Alleina’s actions. I do not remember the path that took me from the couch to the edge of the sea outside the front door. It was instinctive flight, pure and simple. I needed to run from that knowledge, for I know this creature and he keeps his word.
Connor shamed me out of that grief, out of that expression of rage and fear and guilt and pain. He apologized for it later as we stood by the scrying pool, the touch between us somehow awkward. He spoke of his son, and I understood his fear. He trusted Alleina. He should have trusted me. He should not have shamed me out of voicing my grief in whatever form it took, but in doing so he gave me a way back to my older self, the one who screams in silence. I heard the rest of it, and fed Finn soup later. I let myself be angry with Connor but other than that I pushed all emotion so deep it could not show.
Anna and Connor took some air then, while I watched the child. The [very foul expletive] poisoned him, and though they gave him the antidote he is still weak. Worse, he wakes in terror in the night, screaming and lashing out. At least he wakes, though. One of his sisters will soon not draw breath, if she has not already met the worst end that [another impressive expletive] could conceive of in his twisted mind.
I know Anna is grieving too, as is Connor. She tried to make excuses for him as I sat with Finn. Later, while they walked and Finn slept once more, I found myself wandering their house. I could find no purpose for my motion, so I let myself drift from one object to another. I touched the keys on the piano, washed a few dishes, read the titles on the spines of the books on the shelves. I ended up at the scrying pool, beneath the statue of Lucinda, Lady of Magic. I thought of how many times Connor had stood with me at that pool, directing and guiding my magic. I wondered what I would see if I tried to scry on the others.
What happens when you try to scry on the dead? Would I know from my attempt which of them he had killed? Or would I become an accidental witness to either Rhiannon’s or Lissa’s last moments on this plane, and find myself confronted with an image of a broken body as it struggled for air, struggled for escape, struggled for life? Would Lissa struggle? I do not know. She might go gently, cowed into submission by pain and horrors she should never have had to experience. Rhiannon would fight to her last instant, I want to believe. She has a strong spirit that would be hard to break. I like to think she would take her anger and outrage at what was done to her and press it into a hard little stone or a hot ember to keep at her core, hidden. I hope she would hold this secret defiance until the last beat of her young heart, and that they would have nothing from her that they did not take.
It is foolish to believe that one cannot be broken. Anyone can be broken. I broke the half-orc’s man when we first claimed the children, when I went back and tortured every last shred of information from him. There are things that a living body and a living spirit cannot endure. It is only a matter of pressing hard enough upon these points, and waiting. They would have broken her, before the end.
Even these last futile hopes quickly perish, and leave only the gaping hole inside me where the monster lives. I want to hurt them for hurting these children, and far worse than whatever torments they have inflicted on others. I want to challenge the limits of my creativity and take them to the brink of madness and death, over and over. I scare myself with the depth of my bridled rage. I do not know how to be good in a world that contains so much evil.
-
Jaelle sat bolt-upright in the bed, startled out of reverie and back into consciousness. She remained frozen, listening, trying to determine what might have woken her. For a moment, her eyes struggled to make sense of the geometry of the dim room, lit only by the moonlight that filtered through the small window. Then she remembered where she was, and sighed. Pushing the quilted cover off the bed, she stood as quietly as possible, taking care not to let the floorboards creak under her shifting weight. She reached for a shawl from the back of a chair and wrapped it around herself. The fire had died down in the other room, and the night air was chill against her skin.
Pushing the door of the little guest room open, she tiptoed into the main room of the Krandor house. She paused at the hearth, deliberating whether to add wood to the fire which had been banked for the night. It was cold in the house, but not cold enough to really bother her. The notion that years of easier living had begun to make her soft passed through Jaelle's mind and she almost smiled. She had endured far colder nights alone in the swamp.
Passing the fire by, she tiptoed into Connor and Anna's kitchen. The hinges of the well-oiled wooden door barely groaned in protest as it swung open to accommodate her. A pot of cold tea stood on one of the surfaces. It had not been there when Jaelle had retired for the evening, which meant that someone—probably Anna, Jaelle thought to herself—had made it at some point during the night. Jaelle swirled the dark liquid in the pot, trying to assess its age, and then decided that she simply didn't care. She found a clean mug in one of the cupboards and poured the cold tea into it, then cupped the mug in her hands.
She wondered, briefly, whether her small use of magic would wake Connor in the next room. Probably not, she decided. The three of them had been taking turns with Finn during the night, and all three were beginning to show signs of exhaustion from lack of sleep. Closing her eyes, she poured heat energy into the mug of tea until it was a more palatable temperature, and took a cautious sip. Not bad. She paused again to assess the sounds of the house, judging the timbre of the silence to determine whether Connor had woken. No sound came from the bedroom to suggest that he had and she relaxed.
Cradling the mug of tea in both hands, she wandered out of the kitchen. To a human, it would have been very black. To her elven eyes, the dark room was more of a grey, twilit hue, easily navigable. The bookcases stood in silent vigil, observing all that took place. Lucinda bowed her head slightly in Connor's shrine, and Jaelle's eyes softened a little as she imagined the goddess gazing down into the scrying pool, watching over her faithful. Outside, the wind crooned and whispered like a restless lover, caressing the sleeping city. Jaelle closed her eyes as she sipped the tea, opening her senses to the night.
The sound of the scream was so jarring that she nearly dropped her mug. For a moment it didn't sound human, so deep was the panic woven into it. Then it resolved itself into the frightened sobbing of a young boy, and Jaelle was rushing toward Finn's bedroom, the mug forgotten on a table. She could hear someone groan softly and start to get up in the other room, but her thoughts were already elsewhere, directed on the huddled figure in the mess of quilts, the one that she was now enveloping in a tight embrace. Rocking the child gently and stroking his hair, she heard herself murmuring that everything was alright, that he was safe, that everything was fine ...
A shadowy figure, silhouetted in the doorway, noted her presence in Finn's room, and exchanged a nod with Jaelle before padding off back to bed. Jaelle watched the figure disappear as she continued to whisper comforts to the frightened boy. A small part of her mind detached and marveled that she could do this at all. Finn's form was growing heavier in her arms, lulled back into the seductive embrace of sleep by her soothing and her enchantments.
If only it were so easy for her, she thought to herself. If only someone would tell her that it was all going to be alright. If only she were still ignorant and innocent enough to believe such loving lies.
-
It was a hand. Only a child's hand that they found, hacked off crudely at the wrist and nailed to the Rofireinite temple door. Surely a hand does not mean that one of them is dead. Surely he values them more alive ...
*the entry trails off abruptly, like the author could not summon the will to finish it*
-
The woman's green eyes flashed with rage, all of it directed at the increasingly distressed young corporal. Very quietly, her voice deceptively soft, she asked.
“What do you mean, disposed of?”
Her dark cloak hung around her and at the moment she seemed much taller than her petite elven stature allowed for. The corporal stuttered slightly as he explained himself again. It might have given Jaelle some small amount of pleasure to see him so discomfited on any other day, but not this day. She had come to claim a body, or at least parts of it, and his answer had not made her happy.
She did not even consider feeling guilty for venting at him for the better part of half an hour. Shock, grief and rage combined to make her feel a little unbalanced, like the edges of her body were blurring. She badly wanted to hit the man, or set something on fire, or better yet kill something. Finally, sensing her self control was wavering and her tantrum, satisfying as it was, would have no real value, she stalked out of the Leringard building towards the docks.
There was still a small crowd gossiping near where the bag of bloody flesh had been found, nailed to one of the pilings. She gave them dark looks and moved around them. She stared at the dark stain on the weathered wood, then forced herself to look past it, out towards the sea and the temple island.
One of the gossiping Leringard housewives watched the little elven woman curiously. She noted that Jaelle's lips were moving as she pushed back her hood, letting the breeze catch her hair. Whatever was said at the edge of the sea was inaudible though; the winds quickly stole the words and carried them away.
-
Author's Note: Jaelle's rudimentary understanding of Layonara metaphysics should not be construed as accurate in an OOC context. These are merely her desperate and disjointed thoughts.
My futile rage and despair have combined into a bitter concoction which I constantly struggle to swallow down these days. As predicted, the half-orc kept his word. One of the girls is dead.
First he nailed her hand to the door of the Rofireinite temple in Vehl. Next it was a bag of bloody bits, in Leringard on the docks. I did not see it, but many of those who claimed to would not speak of it in any detail. I do not know whether this was because their claims were exaggerated, or because the sight was so deeply disturbing they cannot put words to the memory. I suspect it is a little of each.
I went to claim the body, or what parts of it they’ve found, but there was nothing to be claimed. It took me a couple of hours to track down the constable who had handled the remains, and he told me that they had been “disposed” of, since there was nothing more that could be learned from them. Some pressure in the right spot yielded that “disposed of” meant dumped off the end of a pier to feed the fishes.
I chewed the constable out for some time over this, but if I am honest with myself I do not know why it bothers me. That magic three day window has almost certainly passed, and that little girl's soul will never inhabit her mortal body again. What does it matter if her flesh and blood feeds the fishes or the worms? After the connection is severed, what is our body but an empty shell?
I have been pondering the nature of shells lately, too. I find myself walking the shores of Krandor a lot these days, now that I am staying with Connor and Anna while Finn is under their care. Lindel and Merlin are both home too, which means the house is crowded. When the crush of people is too much for me or I need to be alone for a while, I seek solace in the ocean by walking her shorelines. It is on these solitary walks that I find myself picking up shells and considering the nature of the connection between our souls and bodies.
A shell is what? A hard white casing for a living thing? Far too often that living thing perishes when it is removed from this protective shelter, but is this always the case? The industrious hermit crabs are quick to exploit the vacated abodes of sea snails and whelks. Could this be the case with souls too? Or if not quite the same, could this at least explain why Connor’s son still lives, or why Muireann is dying? Is it possible to share our mortal shells with another soul, either for a short time or indefinitely?
I found myself asking about Merlin after I brought news of the find in Leringard to Connor and Anna. This was before Merlin and Lindel arrived, but after Anna threw a good deal of cast iron in the kitchen. Poor Anna. I know she is sensitive to these things. Connor and I have grown thicker skins, but everything she feels still shows. Merlin’s soul drifted for a year before Connor sheltered him, and Connor carried him for five more years. And Muireann’s strange bonded passenger puzzles me still, though I think he is a creature of a fundamentally different nature. Still, the possibility exists. Souls can perhaps persist beyond the moment of death, if something interrupts their passage to ... wherever it is we go when our threads to this place are severed. Of course this must be true. If it were not, where would ghosts and allips and bodaks come from? Muireann still sees her first lover in the mists on cliffs during storms. Perhaps there is some reason to hope yet.
I cannot explain my need to find the girl's soul and offer it shelter. It burns through me, a deep yearning desire that I cannot pin down. I have always been a solitary creature, and yet I am contemplating a sharing more intimate than any coupling I have ever experienced. I have not dared voice this weak hope to Connor, for fear he will consider it foolish or tell me why it cannot succeed. All I know is I would go to great lengths to offer any of these four children whatever meager comfort I can conjure for them. Three. Three living children, one gone forever.
Four. She is out there somewhere, in this place or another. We do not cease to be when our ties to life are severed. She is somewhere and she is alone, and hurting. Her parents were killed, and horrible things were done to her, but she struggles somewhere yet. She is but a child, nothing but a little girl who does not deserve her circumstances or the pain and horror she has experienced, but there must be hope for her. I need to believe this.
Lady of Storms ... am I still trying to save myself along with the child?
-
She was in the kitchen when the message came, kneading bread. The little dark-haired baby with the golden eyes sat beside her in a basket. They had named her Aislin: vision. Why she was kneading bread, she couldn't quite say ... except that there was something soothing about the rhythmic motion of it, of the slap of the dough on the floured board and the way she had to throw her weight into each movement. One thing was for certain: it wasn't because she was hungry. She hadn't been hungry in a month.
A premonitory prickle went up her spine when the courier knocked. She could hear the muffled voices in the other room through the door, and someone paying for the letter or perhaps tipping the courier for his haste. Something about the tone of the voices made her set down the dough and pick up the basket. She tiptoed out of the kitchen to find one of the “boys”, as Connor and Anna referred to their sons. Boys indeed—they were both taller than she was, and looked her age or older. But then, elven ages are ever deceptive things, and human blood ran in both the boys' veins. She knew instinctively that she had at least a century on both of them.
As she scooped Aislin out of her basket and cradled the babe to her chest, she stole a glance at Connor. His head was bent down to the parchment as he read, and she misliked his expression. She hurried off to find Lindel and offer a hasty and half-hearted explanation.
By the time she returned, Anna was at Connor's side. She tried to assess Anna's expression as she accepted the letter Connor handed her. She read quickly, her eyes skimming the parchment. She felt cold as she read. Yes, she would come with them. Though no one had really had to ask. Somewhere in the haze of her suddenly numbed mind, she could hear Connor talking, telling them both that they would go the quick way. He beckoned, and she followed instinctively.
-
As Jaelle watched, Tarkus lifted the handkerchief once again and pressed it to his brow. The small white square of cloth was already nearly soaked through even though the day was not overly warm. Frantically, he shuffled through a large pile of papers, mumbling to himself. “... quite certain it's here somewhere! Just indulge me a moment ... yes, one moment more only!”
Jaelle wasn't listening. Mostly she was thinking about the dark, staring eyes of the little girl's severed head. They had been allowed to view the “evidence” after stating their relationship to the deceased. Actually, that had been rather easily accomplished. Connor and Anna could be as persuasive as she could--if not more so--when they wanted something. They had both spent some time examining the note that had been stuffed in the girl's mouth, too, but Jaelle had spared that only a cursory glance. It had been the head that had captured her gaze, and the eyes ... those dead, unseeing eyes ...
Overwhelmed again by the image and her grief, Jaelle turned and snapped something at the constable. The beleaguered looking man mopped his glistening brow again and nearly dropped a stack of documents. She managed to make out the words “two days” and gave a curt reply before turning on her heel and leaving the Port Hempstead office. She pushed her way out of the building with such haste that she collided with a sailor coming up from the docks. She didn't pause to apologize.
Two days ... in two days they would at least have the remains, or some piece of them, to lay into a cold grave in the earth. She thought, quite clearly, that such a mercy would be small consolation indeed for what they had seen today.
-
It was Rhiannon. They found her head, on the Hempstead docks, a bloody note stuffed into her mouth.
I was at Connor’s when the word came. He, Anna and I set out for Hempstead immediately. Thank the stars that Lindel and Merlin were there to watch over Finn and Aislin, for I do not think I could have withstood being left behind after the news came.
When we arrived, the docks and the city were still abuzz with talk of the gruesome sight. After ascertaining that the authorities held the head and the note that he had stuffed into her mouth, we went to them to try and claim the remains and find out anything else that might help us. They were reluctant to divulge anything at first, but Connor, Anna and I can all be quite persuasive in our own ways, and once we claimed to be warding the girl’s brother and the nearest thing she had to a guardian at present, they spoke more frankly.
We were shown the note, and after some persuasion the constable, a man by the name of Tarkus, agreed to oversee the release of the remains to us. I was prepared to bribe him to obtain them, but it seems it was not necessary. Still, bureaucracy demands a great deal of paperwork and wait time, it appears, and we have been told it will be two days before we can take Rhiannon’s severed head home with us.
Having seen the evidence of the violent means of her passing, I worry more and more for her spirit. How can the soul witness such trauma and still pass gently beyond this life? Rhiannon was so full of anger after her first death that I worry she will somehow transmute the anger she feels now into something ugly and evil. Connor told me how Merlin nearly became a revenant. It is from a fate like this that I wish to spare Rhiannon.
It has occurred to me that I may not be handling this situation well. Analytically, I can determine this, though I know not how to remedy the problem. I cannot reverie without waking to horrific scenes peopled by laughing half-orcs and crying children, and grisly piles of child-sized remains. I have seen what I believe must be every variation on how Rhiannon might have met her end, more clearly than any image through a scrying pool. I am haunted by the knowledge of her suffering. Surely this means her soul yet lingers, and I might do something to aid her?
I am losing weight. I have no appetite for food, though I ply it upon Finn and gently chastise him when he does not want to eat either. I am hypocritical in my grief. More worrying though, I have noticed a dwindling appetite for life. I feel set apart from things, as if there is a veil between me and the rest of the world. I push against it, but it is like trying to swim through quicksand. Even the simplest tasks seem to involve colossal amounts of effort now. More and more often I find myself leaving Aislin with Connor or Anna or Lindel or Merlin, or even Elgon. It is as if what has happened to these children is affecting my ability to care for my own child.
I know not what to do.
-
Time seems to be moving very slowly right now. We claimed Rhiannon’s head. Connor and I preserved it, mostly through abjuration magic. It will keep until the rest of her remains can be recovered, or until the other children are found and can attend a burial. Connor seemed happy to give it over unto my keeping, so after we had worked the preservation magics to keep it from rotting or decaying, I wrapped it in cloth.
It was so surreal, to look into those dead eyes and touch the waxen skin. It was her, and yet it was not. The shell in death does not resemble what it was in life. I have seen so many dead bodies in my lifetime ... thousands at least. I looked into the unseeing eyes of my own mother as I burned her flesh on a pyre. And yet, somehow this one still touches me. Perhaps it is because she is a child. I have not yet seen thousands of dead children, I think. Or perhaps it was that I knew her, and cared for her.
After I wrapped the head in cloth I put it in a carved wooden box I bought in a market long ago. The box is very beautiful, and it will serve as a temporary resting place for this child. A magelock, coupled with more conventional means, secured it. I do not want Anna or Finn or one of the others to stumble upon it. I do not think they would be quite so cavalier about a severed head as Connor and I seem to be. The head and the box now rest beneath my bed, until a more permanent resting place can be found for Rhiannon.
I still have trouble making it through a day. I feel like I am sleepwalking, or what I imagine sleepwalking might feel like. My body goes through the motions of life but I am somehow absent from it. I sense this and wish to spare Aislin from this strange absence on her mother’s part. Ironically, my solution is to absent myself from her altogether some days, leaving her in the care of friends as I wander and try to deal with things as best I can. I practice the violin every day by the ocean. I have become very competent, technically speaking, but something is missing. Something is wrong with the music, just as something is wrong with the world. I just cannot put my finger on it.
-
The vial made a clear chiming sound as it struck the edge of the desk. Jaelle would later think that was ironic, but in the moment she merely watched in shock and dismay as the glass struck the floor and shattered and the current of warm air carried colourful grains of sand to pool in front of her. They shifted and danced in the breeze until a vague but familiar image resolved itself.
Jaelle listened with growing consternation and amazement to the clear, sing-songy message, then watched the grains of sand wink out one by one like stars from the night sky. All that remained was the spreading puddle of the decoction she had just spent an hour preparing. She jumped to her feet, crying out in pain as she managed to slice the sole of one foot on a stray shard of glass.
“If this is her blood price ...” she muttered darkly as she carelessly poured a potion over the wound and shoved her feet into a pair of leather slippers. She winced as she put her weight down onto the foot and it throbbed obediently in response. “That is it! I am going to kill that bloody ...”
The rest of whatever she had been about to say was lost as she stalked out of the room, limping, to look for someone.
-
Plenarius’s storytelling stretched over several days, and each time I went I met someone I needed to talk to. The first time I was there, I ran into Steel. I’d been meaning to consult with him. He has a level head on those blue shoulders of his, and he doesn’t let his emotions get in the way of his work most of the time. This case would be an exception, I knew, but that would work in my favor. Steel’s protectiveness when it comes to children could only help me in this. As I had expected, he had already heard of the murder and asked a few questions. Apparently when he heard I was looking into it or involved he left off nosing around and resolved to seek me out. Perhaps there is some merit to the truce between us that prevents us from sticking our noses too far into one another’s affairs without informing each other.
I think he will aid me. Actually, I am certain of it. I am merely worried he will act without realizing what kind of creature he is dealing with. I tried to impress the gravity of the situation on him, and enlighten him with regards to the nature of our foe. His immediate impulse was to scry upon him. I quickly informed him that this would be foolish, and would likely lead to bloodshed. He agreed to inform me if he found any leads, and I agreed to do likewise.
Later that night, I received a sand message from Acacea, back in Krandor. To say I was surprised would be a rather remarkable understatement. Not only did her message specifically reference the murders and my involvement in the matter and Steel’s involvement in the matter ... well, it was sand. Appearing rather suddenly and resolving itself into a face and talking to me. I’ll never get used to that. I was mad when I heard the message, and not just because she blew sand all over my books and papers and mortar and pestle and a half dozen medicinal teas I was preparing. I wanted to wring her little halfling neck for scrying on me without my permission. How else could she have known I had spoken to Steel? Connor confirmed, as much as he could, that the message was from Acacea. He seemed vaguely amused at my irritation, which only infuriated me more as I had been taking pains to conceal it from him. I left him to what he had been doing with alacrity.
The very next day, listening to more of Plenarius’s stories, who should I stumble across but a little halfling bard? After the stories were done, we found a quiet spot to talk and I told her what she wanted to know of the children and their murderer. I also learned that she had not scryed upon me, which gave me great relief, nor spied upon me. She had learned that both Steel and I were following up on the trail through good old fashioned bribery and asking the right questions. Somehow that makes me feel better.
Acacea is an odd little thing. I like her, very much, but I do not understand her. We talked for hours, and I found myself opening up to her. Perhaps it is that we technically live together, though we are both gone from the treehouse so frequently that we rarely see one another. I confessed my worry about the state of Rhiannon’s spirit, and she not only agreed with me, she fully supported me. Together we have forged the beginnings of a plan to see if the girl’s soul yet lingers in this world, and if so what we might do. She has warned me, however, that there are symptoms to carrying a spirit within you. This I knew. It cannot be worse than the sicknesses I endured while I was being poisoned with negative energy every day. I still thank Mist, Lucinda, and a cleric named Sam that Aislin was born free of that taint.
Acacea and I spoke of other things, too. She counseled me a little on the nature of my music, and guided me to that missing element: freedom of emotion and, for lack of more precise and accurate language, the magic and soul of the music. I play too technically. Just as my grief for Rhiannon wells up in me until I choke on it but I cannot let it out, so too do I choke my music. When Acacea sang that strange, keening music out over the water I saw what my own music lacked: a kind of courageous willingness to be imperfect but honest, perhaps. It is very difficult to describe. She guided me as I played The Curvaceous Lady and made the violin cry instead of sing for a change. I cannot explain what she does with sound ... it is so subtle, and yet profound. I felt at once better and worse after having played, for in a way it was a small release of my grief. I realized that I am afraid to mourn Rhiannon, as if my mourning will make this all real in a way it is not already. She is dead, but I am not ready to set her memory to rest and give up hope for her.
We spoke of many other things, Acacea and I. Mage-locks and rites of passage among her people. When they stand upon the precipice of adulthood, apparently one ritual among their people is to have an anonymous member of the tribe guide them through a first joining of flesh and the intricacies of physical intimacy. This usually precedes their spirit dream, which I understand to have great significance. I admit, I do not see the correlation between the two.
Perhaps the most important thing we discussed was where to go from here. Having obtained word from Vehl of a meeting time with the mysterious “S”, I know where I am bound. Acacea is going to consult with an ally about calling spirits who might be lost. I didn’t pretend to understand the details, just nodded. Call me a fool, but I trust her to get it done. I told Steel of the meeting too, by letter. I included a warning that if he spoke rashly or screwed it up, that we would have a problem. It probably wasn’t necessary with Steel, but having already lost these children twice and Rhiannon thrice, I will take no more chances. I will do all that is within my power to see the other two brought back safely.
-
Lightning flickers over the water and Jaelle mentally counts the seconds, waiting for the accompanying boom she knows will follow. One, two ... the thunder sounds as her lips begin to form "three". Although she knew it was coming, the sound is still startling in its volume, and it takes a moment for the echo to fade from her ears.
She is standing on the edge of the cliffs on the island that houses Mist's temple, offshore from Leringard. It occurs to her that currents and sea creatures may have carried some piece of Rhiannon's remains this far from the docks they were so callously dumped off of, into the churning sea. She imagines a leg bone or a rib, or something more delicate like a piece of a hand, worked clean by crabs and other ocean scavengers. She pictures these bones, made ivory-pure again in death, rocked by the sea in some macabre imitation of a lullaby.
She reaches, outwards, blindly. She is searching for something, but doesn't know how to find her way. With her inner voice, she calls to the spirit of the dead girl, waiting to see if an answer comes. The only reply is another rumble of thunder, fainter and more distant this time.
After a few moments Jaelle sighs, focusing once again on the feeling of icy rain pricking her skin, of the way the wind turns her hair into a mass of seething snakes, coiling and recoiling around her as the fickle breeze shifts direction. She looks back towards the temple standing in the middle of the island and the priestesses and the odd priest moving through the brewing storm. One of the priestesses, standing a little apart from the others, she recognizes: an attractive human woman some thirty years of age, with hair like flame and cool blue eyes. It is a harsh, strange beauty, and a little jarring--fire and ice at war with one another for dominance. She tries to remember the woman's name, and for a moment draws a blank. Then it comes to her: Iona. On a whim, she turns and approaches the priestess.
Iona doesn't move as Jaelle approaches. Jaelle didn't expect her to. She does turn her head slightly so she can see Jaelle out of the corner of her eye though. This is promising. Iona waits expectantly.
Slowly, haltingly, Jaelle talks. The storm picks up around them. The words come slowly at first. She and this priestess are familiar with one another, have passed each other on this island for years now, but have rarely exchanged more than a few words. Still, it is the priestesses who understand necromantic magic, and who hold greatest sway over life and death. If any can answer Jaelle's questions, she thinks, it will be one of the chosen servants of a god or goddess. And this one is here, right now.
The priestess listens. Jaelle notices her blue eyes have a grey quality to them in the darkening light of the storm ... really almost silver. She marks the small white scar on the woman's collarbone as she explains her situation and asks her questions. She does not give all of the details, but she gives enough for the priestess to grasp the crux of the matter. Mostly, it is questions. How resurrection works. Where souls go. How to call a soul that has lost its way, and whether it is possible to shelter one. The practicalities of doing so. The origins of ghosts and undead. There are many questions, because they are all part of the same question. The whole thing is one big question for Jaelle, a dark void where knowledge should be so it will all become clear. So she will know what to do.
The sky above the priestess and the sorceress is dark and angry. Another flash illuminates the clouds and the two figures on the edge of the cliff. Red hair and black whip out behind them and tangle together as they speak, standing close to one another to hear each other over the rising wind. No one is counting seconds. After a moment, the thunder sounds anyway.
-
The Krandor house is too small for such a tedious wait. Biding our time until the meeting – two more days! I can scarce believe it as truth – has made the quarters cramped. Sorting beds has been a challenge. Lindel and Merlin and Finn and Aislinn and I are too many house guests to accommodate comfortably. I think the only advantage to the excess people is that Anna's meals seem almost appropriate in scope. Or they would, had she not adjusted her cooking as well. I swear, the woman thinks she is feeding the entire Kuhl army!
Still, I think Connor and Anna are glad to have their boys near them. And I, I am glad of the company as well. Most of the time. Almost all of the time, even. And yet, there are still moments when the house seems entirely too crowded to bear and I long for solitude. Living with anyone for an extended period of time opens one's eyes to the most irksome of their habits, and I have not escaped this unfortunate consequence of cohabitation. There are times when I want to hurl objects and shout obscenities and scream the most loathsome, awful things I can think of at Connor, just to see if I could shatter that calm, cool disposition and finally find out what lies beneath. His self-control is unnatural. I swear to Mist, I have seen golems show more emotion! The only thing that prevents me from doing all this in my moments of weakness is the knowledge that he would look at me with disapproval and disappointment, like a parent scolding a misbehaving child.
And Anna ... gods above, Anna! I know the woman means well, I do. And yet if I have to hear her tell me I look tired and should rest, or that I am looking too thin these days one more time, I swear I will set a fire in her kitchen! It is as if she thinks I don't know how this has worn me down, or how hollow my reflection looks in the glass each morning. She treats me like a child, and I chafe under her stifling and cloying compassion and kindness. Why can she not realize that if I had appetite I would eat, and that if I could reverie without living through nightmares I would rest? And she moves too quietly! It is ridiculous. The woman tiptoes through her own house! I will be trying to think or read a scroll or tome or mixing a potion or practicing an illusion and like an unwanted summons she's suddenly there at my elbow, mug of tea and plate of food in hand.
Those are precisely the moments I find someone to foist Aislin off on, and disappear to walk the shoreline. It is that, or hurl Anna's crockery across the room. The ocean brings me peace, as it has for so many years now. Next to that wide, horizonless expanse of blue, I am nothing. It could swallow me up and leave no trace of me, and remain utterly unchanged by the act. Jacchri once told me he hates the openness of the ocean because there is nowhere to hide, but it may be precisely this that endears it to me. There is nowhere to hide, and nothing I could do to save myself should the sea attempt to claim me. How odd, that I should find that consoling.
-
Neither Acacea nor Steel was at the meeting. More surprisingly, neither was the half-orc. Or rather, not the half-orc we expected. It seems “S” isn't working alone, and sent a minion--another half-orc who seems quite loyal and intelligent, though not as cunning as the other one.
He didn't bring the children. I am not certain now whether I expected this or not. I no longer know what to expect, so numb do I feel these days. The deal that he did propose frustrates me: Strike against Dorand's church, and he will watch and judge our efforts. Employ our creativity and full effort, or Lislea will suffer a far worse fate than Rhiannon. It is vague, and I have no idea what he expects of us, but I have to try. We have already begun to plan.
There is only one thing left noting about the meeting, and that is my desire to draw, quarter, dismember or otherwise murder a Rofireinite by the name of Maximilius. Not only did he accuse me of being in league with the half-orcs (I have never seen Anna want to hurt someone as much as when she heard those words from his lips!), he couldn't hold his tongue. Because of him, S's minion has promised that Liam will lose an eye. Having grown accustomed to these half-orcs and the consequences of stupidity in their presence, I have no reason to disbelieve him.
-
I do not think any of us were surprised when the letter came from the temple, three days after the meeting. I was in the middle of feeding Aislin, and finished with alacrity. I did not want to be left behind.
Reus bid us welcome at the temple. I think he spoke more to Connor than to me, but it matters not. Rarely have I seen him look so grim. These horrors haunt him too, I think. How many more like this has he likely endured over the years? He ushered us into a private antechamber, and showed us the message.
If I don't make good on my threats, what confidence might you have with my promises?
Save your demands for when you have satisfied mine.
S
Connor's bargaining for “undamaged goods” had, as I knew it would, failed utterly. Whatever else he is, S seems to keep his word. Next to the letter was a little scrap of bloodied flesh. I did not need to look overlong to know it was Liam's eye.
Connor's visage when he saw the eye ... I have never seen his face flush and darken like that. It was like a storm cloud passing over the sun. He took two breaths, and looked steadier for them. I recall him saying something to Reus about Maximilias Pretorius, and his inability to hold his tongue, but the precise words elude me now. Anna ... I dared not even look at Anna. My memory tells me that she fled the temple quickly. If she said anything before she did so, the words left no imprint in my mind. Connor followed her, bearing the note.
And I ... I who had known this would happen and who had had time to prepare myself ... I already had the icy mask in place, and my emotions under control for once. There was no surprise for me—only a possible mistake for S.
I stayed and claimed the eye, and saw it preserved with abjuration as the head had been. When we have nothing left to lose, we will have a means to scry on the child now. And if he kills him ... well, I heard once it takes naught but a scrap of the flesh for a resurrection spell, once the soul is split from the body. I do not know if Liam could endure another raising, but I will try to find meaning in this, and something to be gained from the cruelty.
-
The windows were illuminated by candlelight. It was very late, but no one drew the curtains and snuffed the wicks. Inside the house, quiet voices concocted plans, debated strategies, amended lists and plotted. The discussion went on for a long time. Finally, just before dawn broke, a hooded figure slipped out into the street.
~~~
She didn't let the illusion drop until she had rounded three corners and was quite certain she wasn't being followed. Only then did she pause to sift through the folder of documents she had purchased. She smiled, looking them over. Orders for weapons, letters between crafters, a few official looking documents from the Hempstead guards and council ... and the most expensive of her purchases, a book on weaponsmithing, scribed by a follower of Dorand. As she glanced over the pages, she was already looking at the shape of the letters, the degree of slant and height of loops, the size of the script ...
~~~
They haggled, but she had already decided. They were perfect. They looked the part, and they'd keep their mouths shut. They had no loyalty to the church, but she judged that they'd keep their bargain with her. As she listened to a counteroffer, she calculated how many of them she would need and compared the number to the size of the camp. She multiplied it by the last figure she'd heard and added the cost of the costumes and props they'd already acquired. An even ten thousand or so. She liked the number, and before she could stop herself she heard herself saying “Done,” and shaking a beefy hand.
She pictured the surprise this would engender if they pulled it off right, and her lapse in concentration caused the illusion to shimmer slightly. None of the mercenaries noticed, and she quickly reasserted magical control. The tedious business of payment negotiations done, they quickly worked out the rest of the details. She smiled as she walked away, and dared to hope.
~~~
She stared accusingly down at the page, knowing right away it was all wrong. The link of the last ligature was too long, and the supralinear and infralinear portions were too short. She caught sight of a flourish that had snuck in – her own script sometimes contained them, but in this matter-of-fact dwarven scrawl the small extraneous stroke stood out like a sore thumb. The majuscules were the worst. They always were.
Angrily, she crumpled the sheet of parchment and pitched it off the desk and into a corner. It bounced off another crumpled ball and rolled a few inches before coming to a stop. She was rushing. She wasn't ready to start the freehand practice. And yet she was impatient – they were running out of time!
With a sigh, she lifted a piece of vellum off a thick stack. That had been expensive. Each piece of the animal skin parchment was so thin it was translucent. It was necessary, for what she needed it for. She rubbed her eyes, already strained from the tedious work, then dipped her quill in the ink. With painstaking care, she started at the beginning, carefully tracing the letters, and mimicking their forms ...
-
She hovered in the doorway like a spectre, watching the boy sleep as she rocked Aislin back and forth. His nightmares came less frequently now, though they had not disappeared entirely. Her elven eyes cut through the dark and traced the shape of his form. Even in sleep, she could see faint signs of strain on Finn's face, and she mentally amended her label—this was no boy. There was no trace of childhood left in his eyes. Not after they had told him about his sister.
Aislin thrashed a sleepy fist and pressed her hot, sticky cheek against Jaelle's breast. What was it some wit had said? Love was staying up all night with a sick child, or a healthy adult. She murmured words of comfort to her daughter and slipped away from Finn's bed, back to the ewer of water in her own room. Gently, she sponged Aislin's skin with the tepid liquid, assessing the fever. It was breaking, she thought. The baby's beautiful pale skin was less flushed, and she was breathing more easily now. Nonetheless, it wouldn't do to have her take a chill.
She kissed her daughter and lowered her into the cradle. She paused for a few moments, stroking the wood and admiring the detailing. Whatever else one might say about the man, Sallaron knew what he was doing in the field of carpentry. Then, she turned back to the desk, and the neat piles of papers. She picked one up at random and analyzed the text, then set it down again. They were as good as they could be, and she could make them no better. She left the other neat piles undisturbed.
Tomorrow ... tomorrow she'd find someone to watch Aislin. She hoped the fever was entirely gone by then. It was never easy to leave her daughter, but leaving her when she was sick was far more difficult. Nonetheless, they had little choice. They had taken a long time to plan it all out and set it into motion, and she needed to deliver the papers tomorrow or the next day. She wondered who would be watching her do it, and whether they'd be caught. She realized that she wasn't afraid—or at least not enough to hesitate.
Unable to reverie, she wrapped her favourite shawl around her shoulders and settled into a chair beside the cradle. The shawl was a deep crimson silk from Corsain that Oriana had sent a year ago, along with a letter in her beautiful ink-and-brush calligraphy. Jaelle had written back, thanking her for the shawl, and paid her more generously than usual. Her petite, businesslike couturier had been a godsend of a find, and over the years they had also become good friends.
Jaelle closed her eyes. She saw red blood, and a child's dead eyes, and opened them again. She tried to count backwards from a thousand, first in elven and then in common. When that failed, she tried reciting long passages of Runic Sequencing and Surface Enchantments in her mind, willing the jargon to weigh her down enough to rest. Her mind still raced, so she pulled out a folder of papers and sat and studied them in the flickering candlelight. If she could not reverie, she would do something useful. She sat curled in the chair, and chased the slippery, serpentine consonants of the dragon-tongue around in her mouth.
The hour-rings of the candle disappeared, one by one, and the dark sky through the windowpane bleached in anticipation of the coming dawn. Still, she did not sleep.
-
It is done, or as near to done as I can make it. There is nothing to do now but wait and be judged, and show up in Leringard on the appointed day. To find what? A living, breathing child, returned to us, or another bloody sight that will haunt me all my days? That will suppose on whether the bastard half-orc is satisfied with our paltry efforts, I suppose.
I thought about going further and doing much more. Someone—I cannot now recall who—argued that a life was a life, and that if the cost of Lissa's freedom was more than one life, it was a bad bargain. I do not agree. Yes, I am hypocritical, but I value some lives far above others. My own life, the lives of my friends, children's lives ... Aislin's life. There is no limit to the number of lives I would end if Aislin's was at stake. And for these four children, I would have razed a temple, murdered priests ... stained my own soul that theirs might continue to inhabit their bodies. The connection between the flesh and the soul is so fragile. I see that now.
But it is too late for second thoughts. We have done what we have done, and I must live with it. We go on, and keep pressing forward, no matter how much it pains us to do so. I pray to Mist that he returns Lissa to us alive and unharmed, but if [strike]all we receive is another bag of bloody scr[/strike] he does not, there is still Liam. I will not throw away Liam's life if we have failed to save Lislea. And perhaps by then, we will have a better chance of success, or know something more.
Anna has uncovered a lead. She made sketches of the two half-orcs we had seen, and traveled the countryside, showing them to locals and passersby alike. It was in Vehl that someone recognized them both. A farmer, come quite a distance to sell his wares. He recognized them as brothers, and knows their mother, a somewhat reclusive woman named Rellak. Apparently there were three of them, fathered upon her when she was taken by force by an orc raider and left for dead. He made a point to note that though she raised them as best she could, she was never the same afterward.
The time until the meeting is too short. We've not time to follow this lead before claiming Lissa, but it won't be forgotten. Perhaps they aren't even the same men. Half-orcs look much alike, and his description of them—quiet, never any trouble, and smart as whips—only fits insomuch as it describes their intelligence. He didn't know their names, either, or even an initial ... though perhaps “S” means something else? The mother will be able to answer better. Perhaps she will even know where they are holding the children.
Aislin is crying to be fed, and in truth there is little else to write.
-
The smell of blood hung in the air. It assaulted her nostrils as soon as they turned the corner, and for a moment Jaelle thought she would retch. Normally the scent didn't bother her, but she knew too well whose blood this might be.
When they saw the butcher, she relaxed for a moment, able to rationalize the source of the smell and connect it to the neat sides of meat hung on the iron hooks of his wheeled cart. The moment lasted as long as it took her to notice the watchful demeanor of the man, and the way he scanned the crowd. The second his expression changed as his eyes touched Connor's blue coat and she realized he was waiting for them, all her calm dissipated.
She heard the words he spoke to them, and she didn't. Her mind was already racing as the butcher stepped forward and greeted Connor. Her eyes were on the package in his outstretched hands, the offering ... if questioned later, she would not have been able to say what had passed between them.
Her stomach twisted and she thought seriously about being ill right there on the cobblestones. She could feel the tension in the air. Watched Connor open the box. Heard the deafening drum of her own pulse in her head as he revealed three neat packages of flesh, and the butcher wheeled his cart away, task completed.
She stood and stared, her expression frozen. This was not the time. Later, when they were alone. Later, when her temper would not jeopardize the last living child he had taken. She tried to silently recite the entire scrying ritual that she had been practicing to keep her calm—backwards. It wasn't working.
And then he stepped out from behind a building, laughing at them. “Forgive my little joke, but you should have seen the looks on your faces!” She wanted to punch him. She wanted to kill him. She wanted to unman him. Unable to do any of these things, she ignored him and focused instead on the child beside him.
If it were possible to communicate through one's thoughts alone, Jaelle still believes that she would have done it that day. She worked on making her gaze gentle and reassuring. Everything about her body was meant to calm the frightened girl—her smile, the way she held her hands, the way she held the girl's gaze. She tried very hard not to notice the half-orc's touch on her fair skin, or when he bent his nose to her golden hair and sniffed, as if catching the bouquet of a delicate perfume. She knew he was taunting them. She still wanted to kill him for it.
And then it mattered not at all, for he was letting go and sending her over to them. The terrified seven-year-old fairly flew across the gap between them, and buried her head into Jaelle's skirts, shaking. Jaelle's arms were around her, and her voice whispered in her ear. Dully, she knew that Connor and the monster were still talking, were beginning the dance of bargaining that would secure the life of the youngest boy, or declare it forfeit. Lissa trembled and clung to her, and Jaelle tried to make a shield of her arms, and to block out for the child what the half-orc was saying about the fate that might await the boy, or how he had forced Lissa to cut out Liam's eye herself.
She would snap if she stayed. In a moment's certainty, she knew this. Connor was there, and Anna, and Argali and all the others. Someone would finish the negotiations. She trusted Connor's control far more than she did her own. In a flash, she scooped the little golden child up into her arms. She was seven, and no longer light, but she found the strength. She murmured a meeting place to Connor and saw him nod out of the corner of her eye. She didn't wait for him to reply. She was already turning, carrying the child away from the docks and from the monster she already knew would haunt her nightmares.
-
We have done it. I carried her small, fragile body away from the docks and to the Twin Dragons Inn. She was quiet when I first picked her up and carried her out of the half-orc's sight, but she cried afterwards. I think it was when she finally realized that she was safe that her shoulders began to shake and the tears came. As hard as I tried, I could not make out the words that were interspersed with her racking sobs. I do not know that it mattered, though. I just carried her, her arms and legs wound against me, and ignored the stares of those we passed on the streets.
The woman tending the inn that day was kind to me, and found me a quiet place by a hearth to wait. She brought broth and a blanket, and I held Lissa and rocked her like she was no more than a babe Aislin's age. I do not know yet how bad it is, or how bad it will be. If there are nightmares, I do not yet know the precise triggers, or the demons that haunt her sleep, but I will. I will make it my business to know, just as I made it my business to check her over and assure she was in good health. Though ... not all scars are visible. I do not yet understand all that she has endured.
She ate a little broth, but mostly she just seemed exhausted. I thought of getting a room for her, but she did not want to be out of my presence or my arms. And so we sat together by the hearth, the warm wool of the blanket drawn around both our bodies, and waited for Connor and Anna and the others to return. I told her a tale as we waited. Strangely, it was the one that Razeriem had scribed into a book for me while I carried Aislin. It was the only story I could summon to mind. I admit, I cheated a little when I ran out of words—she seemed so tired, but too frightened to rest, so as I rocked her I murmured an incantation and stroked her hair. I soothed her to sleep with my enchantments, her golden head cradled against my shoulder.
I kept her that way, slumbering peacefully, after the others came back. Some wanted to question her, but their questions could and would wait. They told me, in fits and starts, what I had missed, and what the price for Liam was set at. When I heard it, I wanted to laugh—one of those bitter, jaded laughs. A million true. One month. He knows we will fail. He expects it, perhaps counts upon it. I just do not know his purpose. Does he merely want us to know the child's life was laid in our hands, and we let it slip away? Does he truly need the gold, and acts out of desperation? His motivations are still incomprehensible to me.
No one will pay the blood price for him; this I know. Connor sees no way to obtain so much gold, and will not even try to pay him off. Others refuse to pay him out of principle, arguing that it will teach others that this is an effective strategy. That they may merely kidnap a child whenever they want gold, and the heroes of the land will happily pay. I do not know quite what I think. If it were not so much gold and the others so unwilling, I would do it. I would find a way, even if it involved robbing a bank or begging or selling my services to those with the taste for them. It would be easier to give Liam up as a lost cause, I know, but I cannot. I do not know how to willingly fail at this. More frightening, I am unsure how far I would go to save him.
Everyone was talking at once. It is well that the inn was quiet, or we would have attracted many eyes that day. Some wanted to hunt him, and some wanted to track him backwards and retrace their steps to his campsite. Others were suspicious of the closure of the Hall of Dorand and wanted to investigate, and a small group set out for Lyn, or so I heard. I stayed at the inn, holding Lislea in my arms, and thought about the one lead that was not shared: the mother. It says something, that we have become cynical enough to keep such information to ourselves, lest others ruin that chance.
Anna took her from me before we left the inn. I did not want to let go, but I could sense that she needed to hold the child and feel the tangible evidence that she was safe. I gave her up, and went to talk to Connor and the others, detailing plans. Caerwyn wanted me to point out the site of the original camp that we found the children in, and I sketched the route for him on his map. I badly wanted to take Lissa back into my arms as we set out to leave but I did not know how to ask, so I let Anna take her all the way to the house.
When we arrived, I took Lissa to the hearth while Anna and Connor prepared Finn. We hadn't dared tell him everything, though I expect he could read the nervous energy of the household before we left. I woke her as gently as I could, assuring her that she was still safe and with friends. I asked her whether she wanted to see her brother Finn and her eyes widened as she nodded. While we waited for Connor and Anna to bring Finn I made small talk to her—did she want anything to eat, did she know I'd had a baby of my own since we had last seen one another, and did she want to meet her later, was she warm enough ... I cannot even recall it all. It was trivial stuff, meant only to fill the silence and soothe while we waited.
It is heartbreaking, the small details I found myself watching for. To touch lightly when I woke her, not knowing how she had been woken or by whom since she was taken. To specify which brother was safe and waiting, lest she think Liam was here as well. To phrase everything as choice, knowing she likely had too little of that as of late. Still, to watch them reunite, brother and sister ... I am not a woman much given to displays of emotion, but if I was I should have needed a handkerchief. She took two steps towards him, and he stood waiting. I wonder what Anna and Connor told him? To go slowly and gently, suspecting how much she had endured, I imagine. He stood there, and one didn't need to be talented at reading the language of the body to see how he yearned to go to her. He had grown since she saw him last, and stands on the awkward precipice between childhood and manhood. No longer a boy, but not yet a man. He should have been a boy a few more years, but that was stolen from him along with so much else.
She took two steps, and then flung herself into a run, and he moved forward as well, and she made a sound or cried out like a little sigh as his arms went around her. They held one another for a time, and I slipped away to find Aislin, down for her nap. I do not know what it was about the sight of them clinging to one another that made me long to have my own child in my arms so badly, but I knew I could not deny the urge. When I returned with her, they were huddled by the fire, heads bowed together, talking like ... well, children. Everything from the most trivial—things Anna had made for dinner that Finn had not liked—to the horrific. Things no child should have to endure.
Unobtrusive, I watched them for a long time and listened. I know already that I will have to question her, and that it may not be easy. She may not want to speak of it, or recall in detail her experience, but her younger brother's life may depend on it. Still, it can wait. We are leaving now for the mountains, to question the mother. Perhaps we shall have all the answers we need from Rellak, and Lissa will be spared all inquiry and left to mend. Somehow, I do not think we will be so fortunate.
-
She cradled the mug in her hands and listened to Anna talk. It was actually interesting to watch—she'd never seen Anna like this before. The woman teared up when Anna showed her the sketches. She hadn't expected that. Hadn't expected three monsters to have a mother who still loved them, and hadn't seen them in years. She was glad Anna was handling this. She knew that she could not have been so gentle.
Jaelle stared down into her cup, swirling the dregs. Something about the colour and the simple earthenware reminded her of home—or rather that earliest of homes, and her mother's silent presence. The shape of the cup and the wide bottom was just right for a reading. Spurned by a memory floating to the surface of her mind, she drank the liquid down until only a little remained, then took the cup in her left hand and swirled it quickly three times, left to right. Normally she would invert it now, as her mother had taught her, until all the liquid drained away. She was reluctant to draw attention to herself and disturb Anna's questioning of Rellak, though, so she merely inverted it quickly onto the saucer and then righted it and held the cup gently so as not to disturb the pattern of leaves left in it.
Past on the bottom, present on the sides, and future about the rim ... that was the way of it. She glanced up to see if any had noticed her gesture, but Anna and Rellak were deep in conversation, Anna listening sympathetically to some tale of the triplets as boys. Connor was listening too. She tried to listen, but she was too angry. At least she could stop calling them the half-orcs and name them truly after today: Segemek, Vargen and Nestor. She had names to put her curses to now.
Forcing herself to relax again, she turned the cup in her hands, examining the distribution of the leaves. She remembered her mother's explanation, given in graceful hand gestures that didn't quite translate into words: It is important to observe the leaves from all angles. There are many angles from which to view a life, and each must be considered. We must sometimes look at things from all sides before they become clear. Remember this. The remembered scent of a soup of roots simmering floated through her mind as she found the shapes among the leaves. Good fortune and bad usually balanced each other, or one sign might strengthen another. Sometimes, it behooved one to gloss over an ill-luck reading and focus instead on the signs of coming fortune--especially with paying customers.
She read her own cup, turning it until the meaning was clear. It was not difficult. The past, at the bottom: an owl, a broken ring, a ship, and a fan. The present, around the sides: a candle, an anchor (slightly obscured), a knife and a mountain. The future, at the rim: a lock ... a forked and wavy line ...was that an hourglass there, by the handle? An eye ... and she caught her breath as she turned the cup and the last sign became clear. A cross, where two leaves overlapped, emphasized by another leaf slightly off to the side.
It was the dominant sign, and the one her eyes were drawn to like a moth to a flame. She stared, and forgot to listen to the conversation around her. The meaning was so clear she wanted to cry, or to drop the cup and watch it shatter and scatter her destiny on the flagstones. An eye for danger, an hourglass and the forked line ... a decision coming, and soon. And the crossed leaves like that ... sacrifice. Suffering. She quickly covered the cup with her hand, hiding the reading. She swallowed hard, and tried to focus on what Rellak was saying, but had to fight back bile. The tea and the divination had left a bitter taste in her mouth.
-
We met with Rellak, in her little farmhouse in the Brech Mountains. Anna did all the talking and asked the questions. I was glad of it. It was odd to sit in front of her and drink her tea and listen to her talk of her sons with love. They are monsters, but she sees them only as her boys. We have left open the possibility of bringing her to our next meeting. I believe she could be of use. If nothing else, perhaps her presence would distract the triplets long enough for us to snatch Liam away and be gone.
Rellak told of us the boys. Apparently Segemek was schooled by Aragen's priests and came back to claim his brothers. Rellak never saw them again, nor knows what became of them. She doesn't know what monsters they became, or that they have kidnapped, robbed, murdered ... mayhaps worse.
Connor is gone—checking records at the Aragenite temple. Anna and I are left behind at the house, caring for the children again. Finn and Lissa are well, though there are still nightmares and bad days. I think there will be for a long time still. Aislin is growing too; she grasps at objects, can hold up her head, and is showing as much curiosity as her mother possesses. I fear it will bring her trouble as she grows—and likely to me as well, by proxy. She is still a shy little girl, and often disturbed by loud or dissonant sounds. She adores Nida, who has taken to watching her while I am away. The feeling is clearly mutual. Lissa and Finn have become fond of my familiar as well, though Lissa was rather dubious when they were first introduced.
Of Liam, we have heard nothing. I already know that we will not have the true in time. I have begun to quietly move funds of my own, freeing some up. I found a buyer nearby for a large order of poison, and sold a few scrolls. The poison I sold even more discreetly than usual. I am quite certain Anna would be positively apoplectic, did she know of my penchant for the killing draught. But there is something so elegant about it, or at least the best poisons. The ones that take pains to conceal their nature, and leave no trace of themselves in scent or taste. The ones that you never feel working, until it is far too late. Yes, I enjoy working with poisons, perhaps moreso than I should. Though I do not make a habit of using them myself, there is an artistry to the making, and besides which they are lucrative. I cannot summon up a million true coins, but perhaps I can gather enough for a shallow bluff or to steal a few precious moments.
I have a dark feeling about this. Most believe Liam is lost to us already, I know. I cannot believe this, but if we do not pay for him in coin we will pay another way. I hope we can be clever enough that the cost is not too dear, but I fear if Connor's search bears no fruit that we may end up paying in blood. The only question will be whose blood ... and how much.
-
The crash of the waves against the rocks was rhythmic and soothing. Each violent surge sent white spray flying up into the air. She could taste the salt of it on her lips. The wind whipped at her and threatened to steal the ribbon that she had tied into the girl's hair that morning. Lissa was balancing on a rock, peering into the tidepool below.
“Jaelle! Look, a crab!” The child's head snapped up, searching for Jaelle, her face full of wonder. A moment later, more disappointed, “Oh ... he went away again.”
The elven woman moved forward, hopping lightly from one rock to another. They were slick with seaweed under her boots but she was agile here, at the edge of the sea. She had walked this beach many times herself and didn't fear for her balance. Finally, she reached the same rock the girl was crouched low upon, and moved forward to look over her shoulder.
“It's alright, love,” she whispered into the child's ear. “He has gone to hide under the rock there. Be still with me, and we shall see if he will come out again.” Jaelle drew the girl closer then, wrapping her arms around the child's waist and pulling her cloak around the smaller frame to shelter them both before settling onto the rock, Lissa in her lap. When they were both cocooned in the cloak, safe against the wind, she murmured into the girl's ear again: “That is the secret of tide pools—patience and the ability to be still. Let us see if it will show us its secrets, hmm?”
Cuddled together on the rock, the woman and the girl thought very different things. Lissa's eyes searched the tidepool impatiently, wondering where the small crab had disappeared to. Jaelle, however, was thinking of the girl's brother and the days left in a month, swiftly dwindling away. The plan in her mind, half-formed that morning when she had escaped with the child for a walk, solidified. She was sorry, knowing what she would have to ask, but she knew the knowledge was necessary. Still, she could make it as minimally traumatic as possible. But for that, Lissa would have to be relaxed.
As Jaelle was forming her plan in her mind, the wind finally had its way with Lissa's ribbon. The breeze carried the scrap of blue up and out until it disappeared into the surf. Lissa made a distressed sound as she caught sight of the fabric snaking away, and Jaelle murmured soothingly into her ear again. “Never mind, sweetheart. We shall find you another later.” She ran her fingers through Lissa's golden hair, collecting the windblown strands and cradling the girl's head. Lissa went back to looking into the little miniature sea, trapped in the cauldron formed by the rocks until the the tide came back in. After a minute of watching, she began to protest.
“Jaelle, I don't see him ... where did he go?” Her voice was petulant, almost a whine. Jaelle had to fight back a smile as she hugged the little warm body closer, resting her chin on the girl's shoulder.
“Look again,” she whispered. “You are looking, but you are not yet really seeing, little one.” Freeing one hand from the golden tangles she guided the girl's finger to the icy surface of the pool and a creature below. “Look again ... see there? An anemone. See his little green hands, grasping for a meal? He wants that sculpin there for his supper, I think, but the sculpin is too quick for him.”
The child exclaimed in wonder and Jaelle fought back another smile. “And see? Your friend the crab has come out again ... he is among the snails there, scuttling over to the edge.” Removing her hand from the child's, she went back to stroking her hair and whispering, soft and soothing. “Now he is by the purple seastar there. Do you think those are the seastar's arms or his legs?”
Jaelle started humming, low and soft, listening to Lissa's excited commentary on the tidepool drama. Her fingers ran through the hair again and again, soothing against the scalp. Slowly, she began to exert a little will and began to weave the enchantment. It was a gentle one ... more charm than domination, and a good portion of it entirely non-magical. She could feel Lissa happy and relaxed against her, enraptured by the tide pool. She worked on matching her movements to the rhythm of the waves on the rocks ... in and out, fingers gently stroking, soothing ...
Slowly, Lissa's excitement ebbed like the tide and her giddy energy faded away. The sense of safety and contentment remained behind, and Jaelle's murmured incantation, barely audible above the wind and the surf, worked to amplify it. Lissa's body grew slack against hers, the tension melting out of it. Jaelle kept the cloak wrapped around them both, not wanting the seven-year-old to take a chill, nor sure how long it would take to find out what she needed to know.
“Jaelle?” Lissa's voice had become softer, almost sleepy, like it was at night time after a warm bath when the promise of bed was near.
“Yes, my love?” she whispered into her ear.
“Do the fish and the crabs worry that the sea will forget to come back for them?” Her voice dreamy, like someone who had had just a little too much wine late at night.
Jaelle waited a moment before replying. “What do you think?” she murmured.
She waited a few minutes, but there was no reply. When she looked though, Lissa's blue eyes were open, mesmerized by the sway of the seaweed and the dark ruffled water as the wind dipped low. Her breathing was soft and even. It was time.
“Lissa?” she asked gently. The child made a little “mmm?” noise by way of reply. “I'm going to ask you a few questions ... about the time when you weren't with us, before we came to get you again. Would that be alright?”
She concentrated on the thin trickle of magic flowing through her fingers as she continued to stroke the blonde head. Lissa made another wordless noise, this one clearly an assent.
“Good,” she said, pitching her voice low and hypnotic. “I want you to think back to the temple, with your brothers and sister. Do you remember staying there, and me coming to visit? We used to draw on my parchments together, you and I. I still have some beautiful ones that you did for me, tucked away. Do you remember afterward, when you went away from the temple? I want us to think about that day ... when the man came to get you ...”
Jaelle caught motion out of the corner of her eye—a gull rode the breeze, floating lazily past them. Below, in the microcosm of the sea, the shore crab scuttled from rock to rock, evaluating hiding places. Two hermit crabs battled one another for a prized shell, both looking for a new home. The green tendrils of the anemone waved its prey towards it: Come closer, come closer; the sea urchin's spines cried the opposite: Stay away! Stay back! The starfish inched its way toward a cluster of blue mussels while a barnacle tasted the water with a long feathery yellow appendage.
Below them, the water crept closer and higher as the sea came in, gaining ground with each fresh assault on the shore. All around them, the wind whispered and snatched at the cloak with cold fingers. And perched on the edge of the rock pool, Jaelle held the child against her and soothed her with the charm, and began to ask her questions.
-
I have done something that I do not think Anna will like. I have questioned Lissa several times, each time under enchantment. The first time was almost a whim—I honestly did not plan it all out. I told Anna I needed some air and invited the girl to come down the the beach with me. Once I had her there, I wove my magic around her and asked my questions. It was easy enough—she has a child's mind yet, and though children can be stubborn they are also more malleable in many ways. I do not know for certain that the spell was necessary, but I feared there would be things she would be loathe to remember. I needed honesty from her, and also wanted to spare her as much trauma of the recollection as possible. Gods know it is hard enough to hear some of the things she remembers. I can only imagine what it is like for her to relive them. Perhaps Anna would understand that. I think Connor will.
He is due back any time now. I hope he has something to tell us, but if not at least I have something to tell him. It took a few days, to get the whole tale from her. Mostly, it is because we went slowly. Details are important, and children are more reliable than many give them credit for. They will not remember everything about a situation, but what they do remember is almost always truth. Very rarely do they display the kind of false memories adults do, and a few years ago I think I finally figured out why. The child has experience less of the world. The gaps in her memories are just that—gaps. Give her a few decades and she begins to fill those gaps in with her own details, based on expectation. The child may see the shadowdancer disappear and tell the truth: that it seemed they were gone in less than the blink of an eye. That they were looking right at them, and then they were gone. The common adult who is not accustomed to this uncanny ability will find other ways to explain it, rationalizing what they do not understand and forcing it to fit their perception of the world. They looked away for a moment, and the figure disappeared into a doorway perhaps. They blinked. The man or woman slipped away, but they must not have been paying attention. But far more rarely will they give you the honest answer, and the one that cannot be easily explained away.
Lissa's tale is truth, as best she remembers it. Of this I have little doubt. Any bias or error within it is the fault of her own limited perception. She cannot remember how she or the other three were taken from the temple, nor anything about the chartering of the ship. She remembers being kept below decks, but cannot recall direction. I do not blame her—a seven-year-old can make little sense of sun and stars glimpsed through a porthole. By probing deeper, by following the little details, though ... well, that is how we will find him. There are clues in her story that she does not recognize, things she observed that seem meaningless to her, but I can take those details and put them together like so many pieces of a puzzle, until I grasp the larger pattern.
The ship sailed east from Vehl. This I gleaned from a dozen little details. Land glimpsed briefly, and how rough the sea felt—whether they stayed close to land or left it. Things I know about the wind and the sea in that region, and what side of the ship the sun set on. And of course we have the site of the boat wreck, where Finn was separated from them, just east of the border of Co'rys and Ulgrid.
She told me how she and Rhiannon and Liam were marched for many days and nights east. Most of the time she remembers going along the beach. She did not like the way the stones crunched, and she kept getting pebbles in her boots but they wouldn't let her stop and take them out. “They” were ten to twelve half-orcs, as far as I can tell from her description. She remembers them as big. “Bigger than Connor” was how she described it, though this is not actually so helpful. Connor is only five and a half feet tall—most humans would be bigger than him. Still, tall to a child. It was something in the way she said it and the look in her eyes that makes me think it was half-orcs. I am frustrated by the lack of proof I have of this, but I will trust my intuition in this case.
She remembers the mountains to the north the entire way. She remembers their white tops. She does not have a firm grasp of how long the journey took. I expect it seemed endless to her child's sense of time. She does remember that they finally came to a cabin, not far from the beach. She remembers the sun rising over the ocean each morning, and setting in the mountains. They were on an eastern shore.
She told me how she and Rhiannon and Liam were ignored for the most part, though they were fed and given warm bedding. She said they spent most of their time huddled together in it—the cabin is bitterly cold in her memory. The half-orcs who had taken Finn rejoined the others a couple of weeks after Finn disappeared. Many of the half-orcs came and went, especially the three who seemed in charge. One she remembers everyone deferring to, and from her description this is undeniably Segemek. However, she remembers Vargen as well, and Nestor. All three triplets had a measure of power in the group, though Segemek ruled them all.
Nestor, the triplet we have never met, seems a psychopath from her description. He is volatile, as dangerous as alchemist's fire. The stories she told me made me shiver, and I am hard to unnerve. She described him as large, too—much larger than the others. She said that she had never seen a giant, but that she could not imagine one could be bigger than Nestor. This matches what we know of him. She spent some time describing him to me, before she got frightened and didn't want to continue. We stopped for the day at that point, and I held her and rocked her until she stopped shaking and was ready to head home.
There were other times we had to stop too. Their captors, from what I gathered, were not particularly cruel most of the time. However, it seems Segemek had to exert a fair bit of his power and take a firm hand to keep some of the men away from the children. She will not talk about it except to say the men had nasty eyes, but it was getting dark by the time she was calm enough to take her home. I was certain that Anna would find us and tear my throat out for making her tell me about it. I shudder to think what it would have looked like without my enchantment magic.
There were other things, of course—many details, and one in particular I must tell Connor. She told me how Segemek would often share their room at night but never seemed to sleep. Whenever she awoke during the night, no matter the estimated hour, he was reading scrolls or tomes by candlelight. She told me what he growled one night, after slamming a book shut. I am still mulling the phrase over, but I think it is a key to unlocking something about this man. She told me she feigned sleep and Segemek never knew she was awake. She believes this, but I am not certain. All I can say for sure is that if he knew she was awake, he did not acknowledge it.
A few things I will not tell Connor, nor Anna. I will not tell them of the afternoon she spoke of her sister, or how Rhiannon was taken away from them, screaming, never to be seen again. I can guess what tortures she endured after, and am glad Lissa has been spared this knowledge. I will not tell them of how she confirmed what Segemek told us, either: that he forced her to cut out her brother's eye. I nearly lost my grip on the enchantment when she told me this part in detail. I know I ground my teeth and clenched my jaw when she told me what he said to her. What unspeakable things he threatened Liam with if she did not do it. How he told her she must not blame him for this, or blame herself. That she was being forced to do it because of the deeds of others. He told her this more than once, but I can tell it was lost on her. Perhaps a minor blessing—she is still too young to make the distinction, or to have grasped his meaning. She blames no one but Segemek for what she was forced to do.
Like I noted before, there are differences between children and adults. Lissa's blame is whole and large, and placed firmly on Segemek's shoulders. Mine is more fractured. Oh, I blame the half-orc, but I have found other places to put my blame as well. Perhaps I have too much of it, and have been forced to spread it around. I know I blame Alleina's impetuous actions for Rhiannon's death. I blame the Rofireinite loudmouth for the loss of Liam's eye. I have half a dozen targets at least to blame for the children's initial deaths. I blame the Rofireinite church for losing them to the half-orc a second time. I blame the clerics who ordered me to bed, because I was not there to help Finn or to spare Rhiannon.I blame the gods for all the cruel little twists of fate that have made this worse. I have realized that I even blame Connor a little, for not being able to handle things when I was bedridden. More than anything, though, I blame myself. That is the darkest truth I have found: that I hold myself accountable for the fates of these children, and for the wounds they have endured and may yet be forced to suffer anew.
-
They were seated on the rug by the fire when he arrived home. Finn and Lissa were playing with Aislin while Jaelle looked on. Aislin was on her tummy, working on holding herself up and rocking backwards and forwards. Anna had told her that it meant she was getting ready to crawl. Should she not have been crawling months ago? Jaelle wondered to herself sometimes. She was so small for her age, and seemed to do everything at her own pace, which was often slower than Jaelle's expectations. Still, there was plenty of time ... and so many other things to worry about.
It eased the bitterness inside her a little to see the children smile, and to hear her daughter laugh. The baby was the only member of the household who was mostly oblivious to the painful absence of two children who should be there but weren't. Nonetheless, Jaelle had noticed Aislin was sensitive to mood. Often, she would become fussy or start to cry if Jaelle's thoughts drifted to Rhiannon or Liam or the half-orcs when she was feeding or holding her, and she would rarely settle down if Jaelle was already upset or angry.
Jaelle looked up as she heard Connor's footsteps, and met his eyes for a moment. One look, and she felt a chill forming deep in her gut. He didn't look happy, which meant he hadn't found Phillis, or he had found Phillis but hadn't found his answers ... or even that he had found both Phillis and his answers, but that the answers weren't the ones they had been hoping for. With a few murmured words, she asked Finn to mind Aislin for a moment and pushed herself up off the rug to go find out which it was, and to start planning again.
-
For all their record keeping and bureaucracy, it seems the Aragenites are still ignorant. Phillis is dead, and his journal left no clue as to what the chink in the armor of his student might be. Like any good little Aragenite, he kept diligent and detailed notes on his travels. It is too bad his years of scribblings aren't worth the parchment they were written on when it comes to Segemek.
Connor tells me they remember the half-orc. They remember him as a diligent student, but not exceptional in any way, save his curious heritage. He studied eclectically, learning mathematics, theology, languages, philosophy, studies of the nature of the world, geography ... all manner of things. They cannot recall any interest that was pursued with more passion than another. Phrased alternatively, save for his pig-face, Segemek was wholly unremarkable, although bright.
How can this be? Surely they didn't lie to Connor—and yet their version of Segemek is too different from mine to bear much resemblance let alone give us the key to his undoing. There is nothing unremarkable about the monster's intelligence. I have known “bright” people. He is not bright. His wits are as sharp as a lethal blade.
The Aragenites told Connor nothing else that was helpful. He never returned after he went to collect his brothers. They do not know where he went. They do not know what his intentions were. They do not recall him showing an inclination to become a priest. They cannot fathom how a crate of records of his studies during his time with them became empty. Really, the scope of their ignorance is astounding.
It is disheartening, to know Connor's search yielded almost nothing. It is terrifying, to know how short we run on time and to know we do not have any viable plan to save him. And yet, truth be told, none of it is surprising. I think by now I have realized that if we are to save Liam, we will be on our own and at the mercy of our wits, cunning, magic and good fortune.
-
The candles flickered and the night pressed into the bedroom as Jaelle walked around, setting things straight. Aislin watched her mother from the cot in the corner—watched her make the bed and pack the vials of her alchemy away in their carved wooden boxes after checking each cork to make sure they were tightly sealed. The child watched as her mother put away silk and slippers, warm cloaks, jewelry ... garments were laid to rest in chests after they were folded carefully in protective cloth. The scroll folder was reorganized, each parchment of intricate runes in Jaelle's elegant script laid between protective vellum, then the whole folder bound shut with a leather thong. Jaelle tucked it into the drawer of the small desk she had bought and moved into the room when her stay in Krandor had become more permanent. Her hand paused over a letter in the drawer and she picked it up, unfolding it. She looked across the room at her daughter and felt an ache inside deepen as she set the letter back down. The ache had been growing for a while now, but had worsened tonight when it had all become real. When she had said it all out loud.
It wasn't likely, she told herself. They had a half-dozen other plans, all of which they would attempt before it ever became a possibility. They had talked until her throat had hurt that night. Tomorrow was the appointed day. Tomorrow they would go by portal to Leringard where Segemek would be waiting, holding a little boy hostage for a million true coins. Coins which they did not have. Her green eyes darted to the sack by the bed, full of appraised gems, banker's notes and the valuable mithril coins she had managed to collect. She had totaled it up that afternoon. Thirty-five thousand true. Less than a twentieth of what he had demanded. There was no way the sum would ever appease him, but she didn't need to appease him. All she needed was to buy a little time.
Her ears caught the sound of strained voices in the other room. They were still fighting. Connor's reaction to Anna's proposal had been of the same nature as his reaction to hers, just more vehement. She could clearly see the look in his eyes as she had told him, calmly, what she would do if all else failed. She had been unprepared for the surge of protective anger that had been his reaction. Or perhaps anger wasn't the right word. In fact, now that she thought about it, it wasn't the right word at all but she couldn't think of a better one. Language had always failed her when she tried to define her relationship with her teacher.
She thought about Anna as she began to pack her bag. She too had been a little surprised that Anna was as willing to sacrifice as she was. Both of them knew the risks, knew the expectations ... in short, had a good idea what they might suffer if they were forced to act desperately. The difference, Jaelle thought, was that Anna had more to lose. She knew the little half-elven woman was stronger than she usually gave her credit for, but she still wasn't certain how much something like that would damage Anna's spirit, or her relationship with Connor. She caught another snatch of hushed but strained voices and knew they were trying not to wake Finn or Lissa. Would their love endure that kind of trauma? She didn't know the answer, so her choice was clear.
But how could she possibly explain that to Connor? She couldn't. It was that simple. There was no way to explain that she would risk herself at the hands of the half-orcs not only to save Liam, but to protect Connor and Anna from the same horrors she would willingly face. She thought of Connor's words at the dinner table that night, and knew they were true for her as well. Still, truth be told, there was as much logic as emotion in the decision. She looked at her daughter and knew she was no martyr. She fully expected Connor and Anna to plan a rescue, and knew that Connor's head would be more level if it was her being held and not Anna. She needed his cool logic on her side, and the cold reality was that he would be less affected if it was her being hurt.
A quiet tapping against the glass and a sense of impatience through their empathic link alerted her to the presence of Nida at the window. She thrust it open and the little bat swooped in with the cold night air. One of the candles sputtered and went out as Jaelle pulled the window shut again. Her familiar circled the room twice, then hung upside down from a protective charm over Aislin's cot. Aislin cooed and gurgled with delight as Nida stretched her wings, one at a time, before wrapping herself in the leathery skin. Jaelle watched them both and tried to be calm. Her nerves were already on edge and as always, Nida was sensing it and responding.
Outside her door the tense voices had become quiet whispers or silence ... which, she knew not. They seemed to have made peace, and Jaelle was glad for it. She looked around the room for something else—anything else—to occupy herself with. Her violin sat in its case on the bed. Music might ease the knot in her heart or the twist in her gut but she couldn't play right now and wake the children. She opened the case anyway, running her hands over the smooth mahogany of the violin. The Curvaceous Lady gleamed back at her, but she took out a soft cloth and a gentle polish and worked on her anyway. She checked and straightened the bridge, examined the strings, and wiped any trace of rosin away with a dry cloth. She took up the bow and made sure the horsehair was loosened, then put them both away, drawing the thick red cloth over them before closing the case. The abjuration she had ensured permeated the cloth and case would protect the violin in her absence. She put the case away where it would be safe, already missing the instrument.
The dark sky was lightening outside the window, and she glanced around the room a final time. Her gaze came to rest on the letter on the desk. She didn't have to think about it to know the date in the corner: Oclar 26, 1436. To my daughter, on the day of her birth ... the letter began. She looked once more at Aislin, trying to grab Nida's wings as her familiar dangled over the crib, playing with the little girl ...
She couldn't do it! How could she leave her child? She cared for Liam, yes, but he wasn't hers. Not like Aislin was. How could she go, not knowing for certain that she'd come back? Her bare feet made almost no noise on the wooden floor as she crossed the room and took her child into her arms and cradled her to her breast, rocking her back and forth. The baby, startled to be so suddenly deprived of her leathery plaything and also by the urgency she sensed in her mother, cried out in protest but quickly hushed when Jaelle started to sing wordlessly to her. The familiar bond between them pulled tight—mother and child had done this many times before.
Nida stirred, flapping her wings as she sensed her mistress's rush of emotions. Across the room, a surge of emotions washed over Jaelle. She recalled how she had sung to her daughter when she had carried her within her, and the way she had rested one hand on the gentle curve of her swollen stomach, feeling the child move within. She thought back on their entire history, holding each memory to her like something very precious: the storm and the night of Aislin's conception, the moment she had cried in her arms after those terrifying minutes of silence when she was born, the feeling of the small warm body pressed against hers ... a thousand small details that only Jaelle knew. This is what she risked, and it was too much. She would do what she could for the boy, and hope for the best, but that was all.
She expected to feel relief at her decision, but instead she suddenly felt the weight of the wooden box under her bed—the carved box that contained a child's severed head, carefully preserved. She remembered the tea leaves, and that this plan had been simmering under the surface for weeks.
Ah, no ... she thought. It is too much to ask! You cannot demand this of me. There are other ways, other plans! They are good plans, and they will work. There will be no need for this, so it won't matter that I cannot do it.
She pleaded silently, though whether to the gods and goddesses or Segemek or Rhiannon's unseen spirit itself, she could not say. And with each thought and the answering stillness in the room, her path once again became clear. It made her want to weep, but like so many times in her life the tears did not come. Instead, she bent her head to Aislin's and closed her eyes, taking deep breaths.
A few minutes later, she carried her child over to the desk and weighed down the letter with a paperweight. The orb was made of glass, and depicted a little village and its miniature residents under blooming cherry trees. She had found it in Creedo and had been astounded by the detail—you could see the pattern of the sloping roofs, and of the blossoms on the trees. One could almost imagine the figures were real people, frozen forever in time in their protective bubble of glass.
Ah, to be able to stop time! Aislin's warm body had relaxed in her arms and the sleepy child had finally drifted into reverie. The room was no longer dark, and morning was fast approaching. Swallowing her sorrow, Jaelle carried her daughter over to the comfortable chair by the cot in which she had spent so many sleepless nights and prepared to wait for the dawn and their departure. She knew she wouldn't have to wait long.