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4

Everman’s story.

T anis!” called Caramon’s voice.

“Berem!” Suddenly remembering what he had done, Tanis turned and stumbled over the rock-strewn ground toward Caramon and Tika, who were staring in horror at the blood-smeared rock where Berem’s body lay. As they watched, Berem began to stir, groaning—not in pain, but as if with remembered pain. His shaking hand clutching his chest, Berem rose slowly to his feet. The only sign of his hideous injury was traces of blood upon his skin, and these vanished as Tanis watched.

“He is called the Everman, remember?” Tanis said to the ashen-faced Caramon. “Sturm and I saw him die in Pax Tharkas, buried under a ton of rock. He’s died countless deaths, only to rise again. And he claims he doesn’t know why.” Tanis came forward to stand very close to Berem, staring at the man, who watched him approach with sullen, wary eyes.

“But you do know, don’t you, Berem?” Tanis said. The half-elf’s voice was soft, his manner calm. “You know,” he repeated, “and you’re going to tell us. The lives of more may hang in balance.”

Berem’s gaze lowered. “I’m sorry … about your friend,” he mumbled. “I—I tried to help, but there was nothing—”

“I know.” Tanis swallowed. “I’m sorry … about what I did, too. I—I couldn’t see … I didn’t understand—”

But as he said the words, Tanis realized he was lying. He had seen, but he had seen only what he wanted to see. How much of what happened in his life was like that? How much of what he saw was distorted by his own mind? He hadn’t understood Berem because he didn’t want to understand Berem! Berem had come to represent for Tanis those dark and secret things within himself he hated. He had killed Berem, the half-elf knew; but in reality, he had driven that sword through himself.

And now it was as if that sword wound had spewed out the foul, gangrenous poison corrupting his soul. Now the wound could heal. The grief and sorrow of Flint’s death was like a soothing balm poured inside, reminding him of goodness, of higher values. Tanis felt himself freed at last of the dark shadows of his guilt. Whatever happened, he had done his best to try and help, to try and make things right. He had made mistakes, but he could forgive himself now and go on.

Perhaps Berem saw this in Tanis’s eyes. Certainly he saw grief, he saw compassion. Then, “I am tired, Tanis,” Berem said suddenly, his eyes on the half-elf’s tear-reddened eyes. “I am so very tired.” His glance went to the black pool of rock. “I—I envy your friend. He is at rest now. He has found peace. Am I never to have that?” Berem’s fist clenched, then he shuddered and his head sank into his hands. “But I am afraid! I see the end, it is very close. And I am frightened!”

“We’re all frightened.” Tanis sighed, rubbing his burning eyes. “You’re right—the end is near, and it seems fraught with darkness. You hold the answer, Berem.”

“I’ll—I’ll tell you, what I can—” Berem said haltingly, as if the words were being dragged out of him. “But you’ve got to help me!” His hand clutched Tanis’s. “You must promise to help me!”

“I cannot promise,” Tanis said grimly, “not until I know the truth.”

Berem sat down, leaning his back against the blood-stained rock. The others settled around him, drawing their cloaks close as the wind rose, whistling down the sides of the mountains, howling among the strange boulders. They listened to Berem’s tale without interruption, though Tas was occasionally seized by a fit of weeping, and he snuffled quietly, his head resting on Tika’s shoulder.

At first Berem’s voice was low, his words spoken reluctantly. Sometimes they could see him wrestling with himself, then he would blurt forth the story as if it hurt. But gradually he began speaking faster and faster, the relief of finally telling the truth after all these years flooding his soul.

“When—when I said I understood how you”—he nodded at Caramon—“felt about, about losing your brother, I spoke the truth. I—I had a sister. We—we weren’t twins, but we were probably as close