CHAPTER FIVE
"...but the Great Schism would not be the last internal war of the Children of the Light. The significance of the four schisms is not as just one of the bloodiest conflicts in the Westlands since the Hundred Wars, but the secret was that no outsider has ever heard of it."
- recovered manuscript of The Secret History of the Children of Light. Author unknown.
Halfhand sat stiffly at a long mahogany table draped in fine cream linen set beneath the massive high arched hall under rows of glittering crystal chandeliers. The walls were decorated with thick wall hangings of plush green with bright yellow trims. Golden bees were stitched masterfully in the tapestries as if they were ready to take flight at a moment. From wall to wall sat rows of long immaculately set tables lined with chairs for the illustrious guests of this feast. Around him sat nobles in richly brocade coats with high upturned collars and ladies in impractably garrish dresses and impeccably coiffed hairstyles. Beautiful servants walked gracefully behind the guests, pouring out bright red wine from tall decanters into high-stemmed crystal chalices. Black flies danced through the air, their faint hum a backdrop to the dim of celebration. Halfhand watched one fly crawl on the face of his neighboring diner who was too busy guzzling down his refreshment to notice.
There was light banter around him from the guests as they generously sipped endlessly refilled wine. There was a palpable excitement in the feast hall as the army of servants in billowy blouses and trousers began to deliver their main feasts to the waiting gourmands.
Halfhand felt a deep hunger within him, saliva building in his mouth in anticipation. The beautiful servants gracefully carried silver domed plates that were polished until they shined like ornaments. A youthful servant with a cold smile and dead black eyes set down a large silver dome in front of Halfhand. Tendrils of steam drifted out from under the silver cover, sending out whafts of delicious aroma of spices and meat. The Child leaned forward as if pulled by the smell of hidden culinary treasure.
There was a brief silence in the feast hall and then in unison, the servants lifted the covers with a flourish. There was an instant waft of delicious stream escaping into the air to reveal the delights underneath.
Human flesh piled each polished silver plate, lovingly stewed or boiled. There were thin almost transparent slices of raw liver to be dipped in spicy sauce. There were whole haunches and ribs, generously carved from the massive roasting spits in the kitchen. And for the lucky, jellied brain served with mother-of-pearl spoons. The nobles around him dove in immediately, tearing at the flesh with hands and mouth, yellow grease dripping down elbows and chins in glistening rivulets. Two ladies at the next table in the finest silk fought over a bowl of lovingly candied lady fingers.
Halfhand turned to his own plate of a perfectly braised human arm, lying on a bed of blanched rose and amaranth. The skin was properly crisped like the finest pork belly, and the exposed richly marbled meat bespoke of a pampered origin. Its delicately manicured fingernails were still painted crimson red.
Yet instead of immediate revulsion, Halfhand only felt intense craving as the aroma and the saliva filling in his mouth in anticipation. Joining the greedy patrons around, he lunged forward to sink his teeth into the intoxicating feast before him.
Halfhand lurched violently awake, gasping and drenched in sweat. The crackle and pop of the small campfire drew him back into reality. The bracing night air in his lungs and the touch of the hard dirt beneath him finally yanked him fully from his confused reverie.
He touched his clammy face, and felt the saliva still trailing down his chin. There was still a faint taste in his mouth, sweet and lingering like the memory of a dissolving caramel drop. His headache pounded like a drum, a souvenir of Tefike that refused to be left behind.
He saw Viellain sitting across the fire, watching him with his unreadable eyes. The Hand of Light danced a dagger in his hand as is his habit, its steel surface flashing red in the camplight. Viellain gave him a smile, full of teeth like a shark. "Bad dream again?"
"Yes, a bit." Halfhand slowly stood up, consciously working to slow down breathing. He peered into the surrounding clearing where they had camped, finding solace in reality. He ignored the faint gurgle of his stomach. He did not want the Inquisitor to see how shaken he was. He could feel Viellain's thoughtful stares ever since Tefike. "I think I shall stay awake for the rest of the night."'
Viellain continued to watch Halfhand, narrowing his eyes briefly. Finally, he flashed him a grin, "Suit yourself. One does not argue with a chance to sleep." The Hand of Light turned over, pulled his blanket over him and was soon asleep. That one never had a sleep issue.
Halfhand restlessly paced the campsite's perimeter. His temples continued to pound like a drum and his muscles whined from fatigue. He could feel the weeks of sleep deprivation etched in his muscles and nerves.
He needed to find solace in routine. He unpacked his saddlebags and carefully laid the pieces in front of him. He polished the individual piece of his armor with an oiled rag and checked the fasteners and joints. He sanded down the edges of the gash on his burnished breastplate that was starting to show a thin layer of rust.
Next he turned to his collection of weapons. He gently polished the short silver gauche blade, using a small brush to clean the socket that allowed it to be attached to the spring mechanism of his left gauntlet, then wrapped the silver attachment carefully in oilskin cloth.
He drew his steel rune sword and sharpened the edge with the whetstone. He cleaned the fine serpinguous grooves on the steel surface with the wire brush. The delicate carving of Solon's Tree was designed to align the structure of the steel with the inner Light of its wielder, but the intricate designs also attracted grime. When this tedious task was completed, he finally turned to the iron war hammer, which he scoured the surface with a thick steel brush until fine rust flakes drifted to the ground like a light snow. It was a constant struggle to keep the rust at bay on the wrought iron surface, but there was no substitute for elemental iron in his craft. After he was satisfied, he rubbed a thick protective layer of grease over the black warhammer.
But the most important part of his routine was to prepare his mind. He sat down cross legged in front of the campfire and started his ritual. He dabbed a drop of sanctified oil onto his finger and traced the symbol of the Seeing Eye to his forehead in three practice strokes. He closed his eyes, forced his exhausted body to relax, and began to speak his litany.
"I am the Fire of Righteousness.
The Bane of Chaos,
I walk the Path of Order
I speak the Word of Truth
In the Creator's Shelter
I Fear No Shadow or Evil
I am a Child of the Light."
As he repeated his litany, he could feel the stress and strain flow out from the muscles as if given as sacrifices to the fire. The vice-like headache began to ease. He could still feel a dull ache in his temple and he could feel the heaviness in his muscles but they no longer affected him. His mind felt more clear, rededicated to its purpose, and the lingering doubt sealed harmlessly away.
With his emotions in check and wrapped in the comforting protection of his battle meditation, he turned to the irksome question of the dreams that have now plagued him. It has been three nights since Tefike, and a vivid nightmare each night that wracked him awake. He was not a stranger to nightmares in the last few years, but these new dreams were vivid amalgamations of unmentionable depravities. And unlike normal dreams, these intense scenes lingered on in his consciousness like they were true experiences lived. And in between the otherworldly tableau was the brief visions or memories of the Presence of Tefike, of that wide chasm of formless maw that seemed capable of consuming the heavens.
Yet as he studied that strange vision, it seemed oddly familiar. And in his state of meditation, the Child of Light stepped into his memory palace in search of the reason for this sense of familiarity. He walked through the hallways of his mind's eye, rifling through the faint echoes of past dark encounters. He dug deeper and deeper, peering into memories locked away in the dark recess of his mind. And there, he finally found it. In a shard of memory from decades ago that had been long isolated in a mental cage. It was of his own beginning. It was the beginning of everything.
The secret chamber was like countless identical rooms in the depths of the Fortress of Light, unyielding windowless walls with a claustrophobic air. In the middle of the room sat a box of sandalwood, the size of a wardrobe trunk, with the corners etched in filigree bronze. A black near transparent sash was draped over the box and flowing down the front. A yellow outline of the Seeing Eye within a sunburst was embroidered on the sash. A circular opening was barely visible behind the sash, big enough for an adventurous hand.
Two Children of the Light stood on each side of the box. Each was armored in the burnished armor of the Order. But instead of the conical helm, each wore a veil over their face with the Seeing Eye embroidered in gold thread. Each held a long thick-bladed sword in their right hand at ready, with the weapon's spine resting on the cradle of their elbow.
The young acolyte entered, scalp shaved and oiled, and wearing only a plain white uniform without armor. The two witnessing Children began to intone in the Old Tongue, an alien melodic language that the Acolyte did not know.
The young Child of Light looked at the golden gilded box and approached without hesitation. There were no questions, for he knew that any doubt would lead immediately to failure and death. He was prepared for this. This was about pure faith in the Light and Order.
He kneeled before the box. The two Witnesses raised their blades and crossed it above the young supplicant's neck. Ignoring the heavy blade hovering behind his neck, the acolyte studied the box before him. The box was shackled to the ground by eight silver linked-chains. The top of the box was engraved with a scene of a blindfolded man holding a scale, to his right a sunburst over roses, and his left, a black hound over thorns. The Child's eyes slipped to the sash and the opening.
Without hesitation, he took his left hand, sliding it past the silk sash and into the inside of the mysterious box.
Initially, he felt...nothing. Confused, he carefully opened his fingers and stretched deeper, when sudden excruciating pain lanced up his left arm as if sharp fangs had sunk deeply into his fingers. Reflexively his body tried to pull back from the source, but he forced his arm still against the shrieking protestation of his burning nerves. He had bit his tongue as he could feel the salty wetness in his mouth through the haze of pain. The agony chewed up his arm, consuming him as if hot molten was injected into his veins. Yet, he held his arm still. It may have been that frantic focus on holding that allowed him to remain conscious through the white hot pain.
And then the sharp needle like pain vanished from within the box. He pulled his arm out, raising it up to his face. The hand was mutilated, blood streaming down his arm in warm rivulets, his thumb was a stump at the knuckle and his ring and small finger hanging on by jagged tendons. His wounds pulsed with intense waves of pain, sending lancing arrows of agony radiating to his shoulder.
The two Witnesses retracted their swords and reached down to pull him up to a standing position. The acolyte stumbled as they led him to a hidden chamber at the end of the room that was now open. It was a lightless room the size of a closet. As soon as his escorts let him go, he collapsed to the stone floor within.
The door closed behind him with a grim finality, leaving him in utter darkness and the debilitating pain of his left hand for company.
For some time, he could lay curled, holding the remnant of his left hand as the warm blood seeped into the cold stone floor. His face was wet, although he could not remember crying. The overwhelming pain transitioned into a numbness and his body began to function again.
He grasped against the stone wall with his right hand, and pushed him back up to a kneeling position. There, he knelt in the closed darkness, the heaviness of the Fortress pressing down on the man buried alive in stone. His only sensory input was the pain in his hand and the unyielding hardness of the stone on his knees.
He remembered the litanies, whispering and chanting them into the blackness. And those words of promises and hope served to distract him just enough from the pain of his wounds.
And he kneeled and whispered until the hours bled into days, until his throat and lips cracked like parchments, and his knees ulcerated and bled and scabbed.
His left hand stopped bleeding, but began to blister, swell, and seep. The numbing pain of injury was now replaced with the growing gnawing of infection and rot. The infection chewed up his arm, toxins and evils flooding through his lymphs and bloodstream until his body was a boiling war zone. The fevers and chills burned through him until he could no longer remain kneeling. His body no longer listened to him, as the rigors sent his body contorting like a marionette controlled by a sadistic child. He would scream hoarsely as the uncontrolled spasms of his muscles seemed on the verge of snapping his back like dry twig. He felt simultaneously as if his body was on fire and frozen as his body was torn apart at the smallest level.
The only way to survive was to retreat from the prison of his corporeal body. He found he could let his consciousness drift, disconnected from his physical being. Or perhaps he was untethering his soul. But, it freed him. And there he found the visions.
There were glimpses of divine light and radiance, of transcendental Oneness with the land and every life, of being filled with belonging and love. There were worlds of alien beauty and infinite possibilities.
But interspersed with those visions of wonders were the omens of nightmares. There were bloody wars, famines of millions, of death and decay. Visions of the Dome of Truth collapsing as the Seanchan invaders topple the Fortress atop their flying monsters with lances of fire. Millions of black-veiled Aiel leaving a city of tall unfinished towers in flames and surrounded by thousands of skewered bodies. Armies of hulking creatures of horrors leaving bones and ashes in their wake like an infinite wave of locusts. There was an ocean boiling in black flames. A massive winged man rising in a city square. A hand rising from a pile of bones, dripping in blood. And always, no matter the images, it always flashed to the same vision.
There his light of consciousness floated In the infinite night void of countless stars. But before him the stars began to blink out of existence until there was a chasm of darkness that stretched to both horizons of infinity. And in that maw was only oblivion where not even light could escape and existence was consumed. And no matter how much he fled from that, no matter the brightest dream of wondrous utopia to which he fled, he would always be dragged inevitably back before that black consuming Presence in a cycle of inevitability.
In one last attempt, he flung himself back into the last bastion, his dying corporeal body. He found it in that tiny speck of insignificant dust floating in space, flowing into the heavy flesh. Instinctively now he let the Light of his soul pour into his flesh container, burning through the virulence like fire, and forcing his lungs to suck in the breath of stagnant lifegiving air.
The burning air in his lungs woke him up once more to the choking darkness of his cell. But now he no longer felt infections raging within him. He flexed his now useless mutilated hand, but the wounds were healed now although raging in pain. All he could feel was intense hunger and thirst. He rolled against the cold stone wall, licking the surface with his desiccated tongue trying to capture some condensation to quench his thirst.
He felt against the wall until his hands traced the door frame, and he pounded the door with as much of his strength as he could. It came out as a small thump. He leaned against the door and waited.
There was a long pause, and blinding light flooded into the room as the door opened. He shielded his eyes until they adjusted. Leaning against the wall, he pulled himself to stand, nearly toppling on his atrophied legs. But he willed them to work, and they reluctantly agreed, as he stumbled out into the main chamber, his right hand desperately holding to the doorframe. He could feel his skin hanging loose on his frame.
A Child of Light stood awaiting him, almost just appearing as like a glowing halo to the acolyte's weakened eyes. "Your sacrifice is acceptable. Your eyes are opened, and your vessel primed. You are now the Twelfth Conduit, touched by the Light. You will be known as the Halfhand. Know your manifest strength in the Light is limited only by your devotion and faith." The unknown speaker's voice seemed to be so distant, without a trace of warmths. The speaker lowered his voice. "But remember always your vow of silence on this matter of secrecy."
And with that, after weeks of starvation, infection, and visions, Child Halfhand passed out in exhaustion, collapsing bonelessly to the ground.
That was the start over so many decades ago. In that secret room, he was given both a gift and a curse. The twelfth of his kind. And likely the last. A week after Halfhand left that room, he had heard a terrible fire had blazed through the bowels of the Fortress, and before it could be finally stopped, had burned through that room as well as countless other irreplaceable artifacts.
Halfhand left his meditation as the ancient memories poured back in. The campfire was dwindling to embers as the soft pink of dawn was creeping through the treeline. He looked down at his left hand of sacrifice. The skin has scarred well over his wounds, but left his hand in a perpetual sign of benediction. The nerves were permanently damaged by the infection, but in the presence of evil, it ached as if it remembered the pain of its marking. Right now, the hand was silent, but a clear reminder of how he was inexoriably connected to the darkness that has taken root in Illian.
The Presence at Tefike could not be a coincidence, something so linked to his own creation decades ago. The Wheel of Time did not have coincidences. It Weaves as it Wills.
Was it the Dark One himself? How can one human defy such a thing of eternal vastness?
But now, seeing the undeniable connections, he was only more certain now that it was destiny that waits for him in Illian, where everything was to come in full circle.
He hummed to himself as he began to repack his gear. As he hummed, he thought the song was catchy although he could not quite remember where he picked it up.