Disclaimer:
Lodoss isn't mine, nor are any of the Lodoss characters. The title of this chapter is also, of
course, the title of one of the Lodoss episodes, which I also don't own. The name, I mean, not the episode – I do
have one of those.
Warning:
This chapter contains some slightly disturbing material…so…read at your own
risk! Thanks. ^-~
Chapter
Fourteen: The Grey Witch
Veris
swept the last of the broken glass into the dustpan, and looked around at the
infirmary with a critical eye. Most of
the shelves were nearly bare, and the dried herbs were gone, but it looked a
bit more like a clinic than it had before.
Feeling
slightly better that she had actually accomplished something useful, Veris
sighed and put the broom away. She
looked out the window. The sun had set
and night had stolen the twilight.
She
realized the house was quiet. Veris
walked out into the kitchen to find Ashuram still at the kitchen table,
apparently lost in thought. He was
alone, resting head in hands, and did not look up as she entered.
"Where's
your friend?" She asked curiously.
Ashuram,
without moving, looked up and gave her
a supremely contemptuous glare.
"The
Grey Witch is no friend of mine," he said, and she could almost hear the steam
rising off of the scorn in his words. "Nor yours, neither," he added. He was frowning ferociously.
"Be
that as it may," Veris said after a pause.
Ashuram looked
up at her and shrugged. Veris realized
he either did not know where the mage had gone or was not speaking of it –
regardless, she wasn't going to get an answer from him.
"Well, good
night then," the Healer said, starting to leave.
"Wait," Ashuram
said. She turned and raised a gold
eyebrow at him archly. Was this man
allergic to saying please? She crossed
her arms impatiently.
"Yes?"
"Your sword,"
Ashuram said, gesturing with his sharp chin to the sword that rode beside her hip. "Where did it come from?" Veris almost chuckled, shaking her
head. Such restraint, this one! She had the feeling he really meant to be
asking what the hell happened with you and that sword??, but he
didn't. It was against his nature to
show that much interest.
"My father made
it," she said, lips curved up into a gently amused smile.
"Ah," he
said. "He must have been quite a
metal-smith."
"I suppose,"
Veris said with a shrug. "He made it
long before I was born."
"Ah," Ashuram
said again, then narrowed his eyes thoughtfully at her. "I wonder what other things remain hidden
about you, Healer. There is certainly
more here than meets the eye."
Veris felt a
rush of apprehension go through her. I
just want to be a small town Healer, she found herself thinking
suddenly. Nothing more than that, no
more than meets the eye. I want a
simple, easy life-
But-
"Perhaps," she
was forced to concede quietly. "Although you telling me that is certainly the pot calling the kettle
black."
Ashuram gave her
the closest thing to a smile he'd offered since she had lain eyes on him. He looked sorely out of practice.
"Perhaps," he
echoed her. "Good night, Healer."
"Good night,"
she replied. "I'll see you in the
morning." He nodded once, and then
resumed his thoughtful pose, chin resting on his fist as he gazed into
nowhere.
Veris climbed
the narrow stairs to her room, realizing how exhausted she was. I'll sleep well tonight, she thought,
unbuckling her sword and propping it beside her bed. And perhaps I won't even remember my dreams…
She changed for
sleep and crawled into her bed, pulling the covers over her against the
slightly damp spring chill in the room. She lay back against the pillows, closing her eyes and sighing softly.
What a mess
life has been these days, she reflected wryly. Between the Black Knight and the Orcs and…Karla, or whatever
his name is, I've certainly had plenty to deal with.
She found
herself thinking about Ashuram. It
really was incredible to believe he was the Black Knight. She supposed she ought to feel some sort of
undiminished hatred for him, disgust for his very presence, but she did
not. She wanted to, but she couldn't. Before he was Ashuram, he had been simply
Ash – dirty, starved and hurt, no different than any other patient she had
treated. Yes, he was demanding and he
had an ego the size of a barn, but she could see he was human – not the monster
legend made him out to be. Really, he
was quite a shabby personification of Lord Beld's dark General, if she used the
legends built up around him as a standard.
Veris shook her head. Villains were supposed to be villains. Evil was supposed to be easily
recognizable. Ashuram had fought for
Marmo – the wrong side – and she felt as though she should naturally recognize
him as her enemy. But he wasn't her
enemy. In fact, hadn't he helped defend
Vesper from a near army of Orcs? Vesper, Veris thought, a pang of
remorse spearing her. It was hard to
believe the whole thing had only taken place the night before. Instead of lying lazily in bed, she ought to
be helping the villagers. However, she
knew them – after such a thing, they wanted time to lick their wounds and to
regroup in private. She had already
Healed as many of the mortally wounded as she was able. The rest…well, Vesper would want to bury
their dead in peace, and they certainly didn't need her getting in the way
while they went about the business of grieving.
She wondered
what had prompted Ashuram to volunteer to help. Saving small backwater villages certainly didn't seem to be
something the Bearer of a demon sword would be prone to doing. Yet, he had thrown himself wholly into
fighting Orcs, looking alive as he had not before, his dark eyes alight with
some inner heat, deadly purpose to his movements. She could remember vividly seeing him loom before her, firelight
caught in the depths of his eyes and tangled in the long length of his hair, as
he stretched his hand out to her to help her to her feet. This after he had killed two Orcs seemingly
in one fluid motion, apparently without effort.
Perhaps that was
it, Veris reflected. Rather than a
desire to save Vesper, perhaps it was the battle itself he loved. If that were the case, did that not make him
exactly the monster he was alleged to be? Yet I too am driven by the love of the sword, Veris found herself
thinking with the old self-doubt. Aren't
we the same, then, for loving the same thing? Although it isn't death I crave…just the clash of swords. Is it that he enjoys bringing death?
And then, the
thought slipped in before she realized it, if Valis had used him to their
advantage…if we'd had something like that on our side…imagine how fast the war
would have ended…
Veris shook her
head at herself. She knew her feelings
about the war with Marmo were still confused, and Ashuram tied into that
confusion. As usual, she was
over-analyzing and over-interpreting.
In the long run,
she knew, it didn't matter what she thought. They'll be gone tomorrow, she told herself, snuggling down into
the covers and nestling her cheek against the pillow, and my role in their
story will be finished. She knew
she was not a hero – she wasn't destined for greatness, nor did she desire
it. She was Vesper's Healer, and that
was fine with her. What she felt about
Ashuram and the mage would ultimately mean little, for she would never see them
again. Thank the Goddess.
However, she
couldn't help feeling a niggling doubt, a strange feeling of foreboding. The sword, she thought drowsily,
exhaustion pulling her towards sleep. Someday,
I really ought to find out how my father made the thing, and why it bathes me
in green fire every time there's magic
around….
Her thoughts
trailed off, and soon Veris was asleep.
* * * * * * *
She dreamed, of
course.
She hadn't
dreamt of Valis in a long time. It was
a dream, but it was a dream of a memory, one that was like looking into a
window on her childhood.
"Concentrate." That was her Teacher's voice, showing her
the way to Heal a burn. She could
recall the old woman in perfect detail; the ageless, round-apple face, two
bright eyes like currants set in the deep folds of old laugh lines. Those eyes almost disappeared when she
smiled, and she smiled often for Veris, her young pupil.
"Veris, pay
attention," the old woman's voice came again, admonishing. Her voice was like the crackle of willow
wands bending, kind but firm.
"I am," Veris
replied, trying to capture the spell in her mind. She remembered many long hours spent thus with the old Healer:
kneeling on the dusty oak floor, brows creased in concentration, the day
slipping slowly by outside while she mastered the old techniques.
Suddenly there
was a scream from outside, followed by a tremendous bellow of rage, the sound a
crazed animal would make. Something
huge, a bear perhaps, or – worst of all – an Orc.
Veris looked up,
spell flown from her mind, the blue glow beginning to form around her
fingertips extinguished.
"What, by
Marfa's blessed robe, was that?" the Teacher asked, getting to her feet. Veris followed, heart pounding, hilt of her
father's sword digging in to her ribs where her tightly-clamped elbow pressed
it against her skin painfully.
There was a
flash of bright red in the sunlight, and Shiriss was standing in their doorway,
panting, her eyes huge and her face pale.
"Orson," Shiriss
said between breaths, "It's Orson! One
of the kids teased him about being so tall and threw stones…Veris, come quickly
and help me! You know how he gets!"
Veris did,
indeed, know how Orson got. She had
grown up with him; she knew one simply did not make the tall, soft-spoken
orphan mad. Ever. He went into a killing rage. He was a Berserker, and for a long time
people had merely assumed he was crazed, good for nothing but warfare and
taking care of animals. In fact it was
her Teacher that had passed the diagnosis that Orson was not crazy at all, but
rather possessed by the spirit of Hyuris.
Veris ran out
after her friend, across the field to the tourney grounds where the soldiers
practiced. Yes, there was Orson, in the
middle of the practice field, sword drawn and muscular shoulders hunched. He already had the height and width of a
full-grown man, which fooled people into thinking he was no longer a boy – but
it wasn't true, he was just as young as any of them, and he could not control
it when Hyuris took him.
As they drew
closer she saw that his hair was standing on end and the telltale red glow was
bright in his eyes. A line of blood was
beading on his dark cheek, probably where he'd been nicked by the stone.
"Orson," Shiriss
called, in her sweetest voice. Somehow
he always responded better to Shiriss than he did to anyone else – Veris
included. He and Shiriss were very
close, so close that sometimes Veris envied them. Orson turned towards them, head lowered and red gaze seeking
blindly, like a bull about to charge. Veris felt the sudden rush of fear she always felt, the knowledge that
he could kill them in a heartbeat resting heavily on her.
Suddenly, Veris
felt the hilt of the sword pressed against her ribs jerk. She froze. It had moved, by itself. She looked down at it, distracted. The hilt moved again, shuddering, and Veris could see a green glow
beginning to rise up from it like smoke.
"What
the-?" Not thinking, she drew the
sword. The lightly etched runes on the
blade were glowing fiercely.
"Veris, what are
you doing?" Shiriss demanded. "You know
what the sight of a sword does to- Oh holy hell, Ver, run!" Orson had seen the sword, and he howled now
in new fury, starting to charge towards them.
"Run!" Shiriss
told Veris again, pulling on her friend's arm.
Yet something
happened. Orson slowed and at last
stopped, sword lowering slightly, to stare at them in confusion.
"What…what's
going on?" Shiriss asked.
"I don't know,"
Veris replied truthfully.
"By Falis' iron
balls," Shiriss swore breathlessly, "what the hell is happening with your
sword?"
"I wish I knew!"
Veris said. "It's never done this
before!"
"Well, you
usually have better sense than to wear it when Orson's like this!" Shiriss
retorted, and Veris knew it was true. She hadn't worn her sword before when Orson had gone Berserk. Was it his going Berserk that made the sword
glow like this?
"Look!" Shiriss
said, pointing to Orson. His sword was
touching the ground, his head lowered in confusion and the red glow less
violent in his eyes. Shiriss ran
forward, talking to him in a soothing voice, reaching her hands out to touch
his face and to ease the sword from his hands as she always did when it was
apparent the Berserker rage was leaving him.
As the red glow
died from Orson's eyes, the green faded from the slender Elven blade. The runes still have off a glittery light,
but that too diminished until at last Veris was looking down at a very normal
Elven sword, lightly etched with runes she could not read and in need of a good
polishing.
Veris saw that
Orson was leaning against Shiriss, exhausted, and she struggled to hold his
weight up. Veris approached them, and
Shiriss turned to look at the Healer-in-training over her shoulder.
"Okay," she said
in her blunt, no-nonsense voice that later Veris would emulate so well, "what
the hell just happened there?"
"I have no
idea," Veris repeated, with a shrug. "It just…all of the sudden…"
"I remember that
sword," Orson said suddenly in his quiet, deep voice. "I saw it…in the rage." Shiriss and Veris just stared at him for a moment. He had always sworn he could remember
nothing after the rage had passed him. The actions that he performed when Hyuris had hold of him were lost to
him when he came back to his rational mind. Yet he remembered the sword?
"What do you
mean?" Shiriss demanded, impatient as always –especially against something she did
not understand. "You never remember
anything."
"I know," Orson
agreed, speaking in his measured way. "But I remember the sword. Everything was red…but the sword, it was all green. The red was pushed out by that sword and the
rage went away." It was a long speech
for Orson, but he looked strange - moved somehow. There was something profound and heartfelt in his clear brown
eyes.
"Why
didn't you tell us?" Shiriss asked Veris.
"I didn't know!"
Veris said for the third time. "I've
never seen anything like that happen before."
"Hmph. Likely story," Shiriss said, but now she was
teasing, grinning broadly. "Jeez, Ver,
we know who to call next time Orson cracks up," she said, making a twirling
gesture next to her head.
"Thank you, Veris,"
Orson said solemnly, almost bowing to her.
"Don't thank me,
I didn't do it," the young half-Elf protested earnestly. "Crikey. Doesn't anybody listen around here?"
The glowing
sword…Veris had asked her Teacher about it, but she didn't know. No one seemed to. It happened if Veris was wearing the sword around Orson when he was possessed by Hyuris, and
every time he saw the fey bright runes , it calmed him down.
The first time
she got a glimpse of the Marmoan mage Wagnard, the sword glowed brilliantly. It had almost jumped to her hand, then,
rattling in the sheath as though it were alive.
It happened
again when she fought off a Dark Elven mage during the war. He had muttered something in Elven upon
seeing the sword and promptly disappeared.
It was magic
that triggered it, that much she knew. It didn't happen when she fought against normal people, only when there
was magic in the vicinity, especially that which might be trained against her.
Dream…memory…it
all mixed together here, but her mind could not find the answer it sought in
either place, and the Healer slept on.
* * * * * * *
Veris came awake all at once in the
darkness, heart beating quickly, her palms and soles of her feet clammy. No matter how many times it happened to her,
she still would never grow used to being woken up in such an abrupt, unpleasant
fashion.
This time,
however, it hadn't been dreams that had driven her to wakefulness. No, something had awoken her, something
outside of her dreaming mind. But
what…?
Veris sat up,
rubbing her eyes and peering around herself in the darkness. Her darksight pierced the night easily, but her room appeared empty. She couldn't make out anything that seemed
to be out of the ordinary. Yet unease
sat heavily in her belly and the strange sense of foreboding she'd had earlier
was heavier now.
Suddenly, she
heard a quiet rattling sound, a clatter as of metal on metal. Veris glanced down at the sword. It was beginning, just barely, to glow with
that faint green aura. As she watched,
it rattled again, jerking as if some unseen hand were pulling on it. Veris looked up, frowning fiercely. What was going on?
Purple eyes
seemed to materialize out of the darkness at the end of her room beyond her
bed. Veris gasped in shock as the
outline of the mage came into view. She
pulled the blankets up reflexively in a protective gesture, earning herself a
low chuckle.
"What the hell
are you doing in here?" Veris asked the mage angrily. "This is my bedroom!"
"I am aware of
that," the mage answered, stepping out of the shadows as if through a
doorway.
"Do you always
go where you are not welcome?" Veris snapped, gauging the distance between her
and the sword briefly.
"I go where ever
I choose," the mage replied, voice lofty and cool. He took a step forward towards her.
Veris could only
think one thing. Male mage in my
bedroom…this man means me harm. She
lunged for the sword quickly, her fingers just barely closing around the
sheathe before her limbs froze, spell-caught. The sword flung itself out of her hands to tumble across the room and
clatter against the far wall.
"That is quite
enough of that ridiculous sword," the mage said, sounding contemptuous. He advanced towards her, and Veris, frozen,
could do nothing but watch.
"How beautiful
you are," the mage murmured, and Veris felt a cold shock of fear go through
her. "Such a lovely half-Elf…and with
magic ability as well. Yes, I will
enjoy this very much." Veris tried to
get away, to fight the spell that held her, but she was caught like a fish in a
net.
The mage reached
for Veris' face, bringing his face very close to hers.
"What are you
doing?" Veris managed to gasp as the mage pressed his forehead against hers
ungently. Purple eyes stared into wide,
startled green ones, and a low chuckle wrapped itself around Veris, seeming to
echo in her own head.
"Moving," the
mage replied with a feral grin, and then everything went dark.
* * * * * * *
Ashuram came
awake with a start, disoriented and groggy. He had fallen asleep leaning across the kitchen table, and his face hurt
where it had lain pressed against the wood for so long. He blinked, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and
looked around.
A noise had
awoken him. As he listened, he heard it
again, a thump and sudden clatter from upstairs.
He could hear
the Healer's voice, saying something. She sounded angry. And…fearful.
Ashuram suddenly
remembered the Witch.
Karla.
He wondered
where, exactly, the Witch had gotten to. Picking up the sword he had lain beside his chair, Ashuram ran up the
stairs to the Healer's room, flinging open the door.
He blinked
several times, trying to get used to seeing in the dark. Suddenly a dark shape pushed past him, and as
Ashuram was moved roughly aside, he could see the moonlight catch the
weasel-like profile of the thief. Was
that the Witch? Where was she going? As he listened, he could hear her run down
the stairs and slam open the front door.
"Veris?" Ashuram
asked quietly, at last able to make out her form on the bed. Something very strange was going on
here. "Are you all right?"
"Better than
ever," she said, standing up from the bed and walking towards him. He could see her hair had come loose from
the braid and cascaded over her shoulders in a pale red-gold flood. Her nightgown was in disarray, and the sword
she normally wore was nowhere to be seen.
"Healer, are you
sure?" He asked.
Then he saw
it. The gold and purple diadem sitting across her forehead like another
pair of eyes, the ornate circlet attached to her as though it were part of her,
the sides of it disappearing into her hair.
He almost
groaned but caught himself just in time, anger making his jaw clench tightly. He should have expected something like this,
of course – but he was far too late now to make a difference.
"Very sure," the
Witch replied through Veris' mouth.
The familiar,
hated chuckle filled the room.
* * *