The Magic of Recluce - L. E. Modesitt [215]
I did what I had to do.
How long that took…that was how long it took…as long as destroying Frven took my father, for it had to have been him and Justen, the brothers—one building a nation to ensure chaos would never rule again, the other trying to minister to the damned and their descendants in hell. As long as crossing the deadlands…as long as my refusing to understand the eternal penance that had ensnared my father…and Justen, the damned gray wizard, perhaps the only true gray wizard.
One thread of memory, then another, and for all that I did not look as each was replaced, with each thread grew the sadness. With each thread grew the river of tears that should have flowed from the Westhorns to the Easthorns and emptied into the Great North Bay or into the Gulf of Candar.
With the return of each original thread, a false thread floated free, moaning as another part of Sephya died, somehow clutching to remain as I plucked it away from the underlying sadness and the hard-plated gentleness of the redhead I had never really known or seen.
With each thread, I severed my ties to Recluce, for I was destroying a soul to save another.
The last threads I replaced by feel, for even the eyes of my mind were filled with tears.
Then I stepped back into the amber light of that damned white palace. That was all I could do before my knees buckled and my own private darkness buried me.
Yeee—aaaahhhh…
Yee—aaahh…
It would have been nice to be wakened by a beautiful lady, or even a friendly one, but it didn’t happen that way.
Yeee-aaahh…
My mouth was dry, dust dry, and an invisible smith was using my head for an anvil.
Yee-ah…yee-ahh…
My forearm burned and ached simultaneously.
Yeee-ahh…
My knee throbbed, and sent shivers of pain to my already beaten skull.
Yeee-ahhh…
On the roof above the open window, a vulcrow complained that he couldn’t get to the raw meat that was me.
After lurching into a sitting position on the rough marble floor, I slowly looked toward the pile of white garments and the white boots that had been Antonin. The white shoes were gone, and the remnants were still remnants.
Then I looked toward the woman who had been both Sephya and Tamra. She had curled into a ball next to the white-oak table that was already beginning to sag. In the diffused light, her hair was the red I remembered.
A cool wind blew through the open windows, and the weaker late-afternoon light and the shadows outside told me I had been lying on the stone too long. My sore body agreed.
…uuummmmmmmmm…uuummmmm…
The sound of strained stone transformed my too-leisurely observations into motion—slow motion.
First I gathered myself together, standing carefully.
Then, after walking to Tamra, I stretched out a hand, gingerly, and touched the bare skin of her forearm. Nothing. Nothing but the lingering odor of chaos, and an overwhelming sense of pain and loss.
Slowly, gently, I pried her limb-by-limb out of her ball and onto her feet. Like a puppet she allowed me to, her eyes open but blank, almost like a china doll. Such a physical coercion wasn’t a great idea, I could tell, but I could not carry her. With Antonin’s castle sounding near collapse around us, my options were limited.
Together we tottered step-by-step out of the great hall, down the circular staircase, and out the sagging double doors.
Creeeakk…scrunch…creaakkk…
The heavy fir bridge creaked and sagged, but held long enough for us to cross. My heart was thumping loudly enough to hear, and my mouth was so dry I could not close it by the time we stepped back onto the road on the other side of the ravine.
Yee-ah…
I ignored the damned vulcrow and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, taking a deep breath after every other step. My steps got shorter when we reached the slope up between the hills.
Tamra walked more easily, copying my pace, unthinkingly.
The shadowed spot by the brook