Chapter 9 "Fists on Air"
He could hear voices. They were far away. They didn't matter. They were only echoes, bouncing back and forth down the canyon of his despair until the words were hardly discernable from the black sounds of his mind. He wasn't sure if he could remember his own name; if you don't even know your own name, how important can the echoes of others really be? He let his attention drift away from the echoing words from far away. He tried to concentrate on where he was. It was dark. He couldn't feel anything. He thought that was a good thing; he remembered there was a lot of pain waiting for him at home. That was as far as he got before the thought occurred to him that he did not really care where he was. He thought that maybe this echo-riddled black canyon might be a place that he could live with. There were bad things in other places that did not seem to be here. He would stretch out in here for a while.
"He just needs some rest." The voice was familiar. The words were still garbled, from their long journey down the canyon to reach him, but he was sure he knew the voice. It seemed to be a young man. He tried to think about young men that he knew. He could not place the voice: he could not think of a single person that he knew, so naming a voice was outside the scope of his abilities.
"He is rested already, yes?" That voice was less familiar, though not alien, "His body does not need rest, physically he is fine. The Wisdom is right, his mind is injured, not his body." He wondered how one injured one's mind. The echo person made it sound different from a head injury, something that damaged the brain. He could tell that, to the echo man, the mind was much more…personal. Like the difference between being in a fire and burning your left foot and having terrible scars, or burning your entire face and having terrible scars. Both injuries were similar, but one was much more…personal…emotional was maybe a better word? He wasn't sure; he would ask this echo man if he ever came down into the canyon for a visit.
"Can you fix him? Like you fixed me?" The young man again. He decided to call him the echo boy.
"I would hesitate to try this on my own, after what almost happened with you, yes? I am loathe to risk another web that I am not very familiar with."
"But it worked with me! You can help him too, I know you can!" This time echo boy came reverberating down the canyon on top of echo man. Both voices bouncing around him at the same time was…unsettling. The echo boy quieted and echo man continued, one voice he could make out, two was just too much.
"I am sure that I can rouse him, this is just unfamiliar to me, not unknown as your sickness was. I can rouse him, but I think that he will not love me for it." He began to wonder what drama these echo folk were caught up in, he didn't feel interested, because he didn't really feel anything here, but he could tell that the echo voices held emotion; that the echo people cared about what was going on very much, they were very intense, as echo voices went.
"Then please, rouse him! Do not wait, do not simper! I cannot lose him too!" Silence rushed in as echo boy's words died out. He guessed the conversation was over. The silence went on. He began to think about whether or not he had ever had a voice. Did his voice echo too? Was he an echo person?
"Very well."
Then came the light. It was so wrong. Light did not belong here, even he knew that much. He did not like this new light very much at all. It disturbed him. The light spoke to his soul of impossible things. It spoke of home, and life, and his son. The light told him that he had a son, waiting for him. It told him that he needed to leave the canyon and face life. For his son. A name floated through him. Jorle. It told him that he had to climb out of the canyon for Jorle.
The light that had intruded into his solitude stopped talking. It began to surround him, to warm him. He knew that if he took one step in the right direction that this new companion would carry him the rest of the way. The light urged him, beckoned him home. But it would not, or mayhap it could not, drag him unwillingly. He had already decided, he knew what was waiting out there for him, there was devastation out there. The knowledge had reawakened in him with his son's name being whispered to his soul. Out there was hopeless, irreconcilable, unforgiving devastation.
He had already made his decision. He could not feel the things that were waiting for him out there, but now he had knowledge of them. The light was pleading with him to come out of this canyon, to come home, to face what he had done. And live with it. He could not feel derision, but he knew that was the right response to this bright energy that wanted so much from him. He had already made his decision.
Going home meant that he could never again forget. He would have to leave forgetting here, and go on to remembering. He had already made his decision.
He moved forward and embraced the Light forsaken light around him. For Jorle.
DDDDDDDDDD
When Wyland's eyes blinked open, then shut, then blinked open again, it was all the signal that Jorle needed. He bounded from the armchair near the fireplace, making very sure not to jostle the Servant, to the bed. He grabbed his father's hand, and in the next moment his father's eyes opened and stayed open. Jorle grabbed Wyland up in a fierce hug. He didn't care if this Servant was a stranger, it didn't matter who was in the room. The Dragon could have been there, his Da was alright. His father didn't say anything he just raised his arms and encircled Jorle in return. They sat there silent, for what seemed a Light-blessed eternity while it lasted, and too brief an instant when it was over.
"Da! They're all gone Da!" He was getting almost hysterical, "Mom, Avilene, Shaundi, and I thought I would lose you too. Da, what is happening?"
"Jorle, you may want to give him a moment, yes?" The Servant stepped forward, closer to the bedside.
He was wearing a white shirt today and brown trousers; his own black attire had been peeled off of him and was now drying after a good cleaning. The man himself had been so exhausted that he had remained asleep longer the Jorle had. Jorle had woken early that morning with a hunger in his stomach that growled in disbelief at the beef broth that Marlie had Jolene Turalde bring up. After he had finished the broth, asked for a meal, been rejected, allowed his stomach to growl at the wisdom in response, and finally haggled out a light meal at midday and a real dinner, she had sat him down and explained how the Servant Prosht had saved his life, and then she had told him about his father.
Running upstairs to shake his father, to scream at him, to wake him up, had ultimately only scared him more than he already was. He didn't understand how his mother could be gone. He could not believe that his sisters wouldn't be there to tease him anymore. It was not possible. His Da's head rolling around limply as he shook his shoulders had been too much. He had backed slowly out of the room and sat down hard in the hallway. Helplessness had seized him then. He started choking on his breath, sobbing. The tears ran down his face hot and steady. He didn't know how long it had taken him to recover himself, but when he did he remembered the Servant that had Healed him was still in the inn. He ran up and down the hallways yelling "Servant! Servant Prosht!" up the stairs, down the hallway, down the stairs. Marlie Cawthen had caught him by his elbow and nearly jerked him off his feet. She had agreed to set a chair outside the Servant's room, and forced him to agree to wait there for the man to wake instead of going in and forcing him awake.
"Of course, Mast…er…Servant Prosht." He stepped back away from his father, not very far, and the Black Brother with a white shirt on stepped back in and looked at his father for a long moment.
"Master Ibara, are you steady? Can you sit up?" Wyland obliged, silently, though the look he directed at the Servant was decidedly not friendly. "Good, are you groggy? Are you able to speak?"
Jorle was sure that the Servant was not expecting it when his father leaped at him from the bed and grabbed his throat with two large and calloused plowman's hands. Jorle was surprised for certain sure. The two men crashed to the floor, his father landing astride the channeler's chest. He found himself unable to move as the man who had never picked or risen to a fight in Jorle's memory kept a crushing grip on the Servant's throat with his left hand and began to punch the man's face repeatedly with the other. Jorle stood in a daze, watching the terrifying violence that was erupting out of his Da. His hand moved faster than Jorle would have thought his Da could move, and each blow landed with a force that gave Jorle gooseflesh. He shook himself and stepped up and grabbed Wyland's right arm with both hands, trying to stop it from plowing into the Servant's face once more. He felt himself lurch forward and stop suddenly. He knew that the blow hadn't landed because Wyland realized Jorle was there trying to hold him back, and not because Jorle had restrained his arm. His Da craned his neck around to look at him, and the eyes looking out of that face were colder and harder than his father's eyes had ever been before.
"Jorle," His neck was strained and bulging, veins throbbing from where they burst out onto his neck, to where they dove into the base of his skull or into his jaw. "Go wait outside." It was a moment that showed Jorle how very little he knew about his father. The smiling giant who had tossed him into the air and caught him back out of it was nowhere to be seen. The ever-patient teacher who always saw a lesson through to the end, and always had another lesson ready to teach, might not have ever existed to look upon this man in front of him.
"Da, no! He saved my life! He saved your life!"
"He didn't save my life son." He paused then, turning to look down at the Servant. Jorle looked down then too. He was sure that he felt his eyes pop out of his head then and bounce back. The Servant did not have a mark on him. "It looks like he saved his own, though." Then he looked up at Jorle again, "Maybe he spared my life, just now. He could have done several things instead of just deflecting my fist, or whatever he did. Spared my life; maybe. Saved my life? No."
Jorle released his father's arm and sat down hard on the bed. His head was spinning.
"Are you finished Master Ibara?" Servant Prosht said from his back. There was a definite stony edge to the man's northern accent now. "If you are, you will get off of me now, yes?"
Jorle's father looked down at the man for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether there was any way he might be able to get around the channeler's defenses. Finally, he must have decided against trying again. He rose and towered down at the Servant. "I suggest you leave, Servant." He spat out the word with disgust, as if saying it dirtied everyone within hearing. "If you stay you will have to watch your back day and night, or you will have to kill me. I am not stupid, I know what you will do to me, but I cannot stomach your presence here, so leave, or kill me now, or wake to find yourself dead one morning." Wyland grabbed a shirt off the washstand next to the bed and threw it on over his head as he stalked out of the room. Servant Prosht's eyes had gone from surprise, to confusion, to thunderheads during Wyland's tirade and exit.
"I do not know what it is that your father thinks of me, but it is not true." Servant Prosht rose to his feet, and straightened his shirt and trousers before continuing. "I assure you there is some sort of misunderstanding; I am here to help your father. I have no ill will toward him. Know this however, I will not be assaulted at every turn, and I will not suffer threats with patience unending, yes? If he tries to kill me again I will bundle him off to the Towers for trial on charges of Assault on the Light."
"JORLE!" His father bellowed from down the hall.
"I have to go." Jorle looked at the ground really hard, trying to figure out what was going on as he shot out the door, trying to catch up with his father.
DDDDDDDDDD
"Da!" He could hear Jorle hurrying down the hall after him. He couldn't talk right now, so he stormed on down the stairs. He kept fanning the flames of his ire. That goat-licking northern murderer! He had sat right here in the common room of this very inn and said, 'Walk the path willingly, or suffer the Wheel's forcing.' He hadn't believed it a threat at the time; who would from a Servant of All? But what else could have happened to his little Avilene? That had not been his daughter! The look on her face was so strange…so greedy…so scary he couldn't even believe her face was capable twisting into such an ugly feature. She had been under the power of some outside force. That…Prosht, he would not call him by the title of Servant, had used the One Power to twist his sweet little daughter! O Light! Detra! All three were gone! Avilene! Shaundi! Avilene forgive me! O Light why?
He came off the bottom stair and exploded into the common room, making straight for the bar.
"Brandy Trin. Three brandies. No, Jorle is right behind me, make it four, the boy could use one too."
"Wyland! The Servant was able to Heal you too!" The Innkeeper's face showed joy, surprise, and something hidden. "I'm—"
He tried to continue, but Wyland cut him off, "He didn't Heal me." He growled.
"What? Then how? What happened Wyl?"
"He invaded my mind and reminded me of something I needed to be reminded of. He wanted me to follow him to Althoran. What good would murdering my family be if all he had to show for it was an empty husk of a man who refused to wake up?"
"Murder?" Trin's eyes were truly peeled back in surprise; this wasn't the feigned interest that he donned to wheedle more drinks into travelers with. "Wyland think what you're saying. He is a Servant of All. They are supposed to protect people, aren't they? Servants are sworn to serve the Light! How does that come into murder Wyl?" Trinl Turalde sometimes wore a façade that he felt would improve his business, but when it came down to winnowing out the weevils, Trin always got down to the core of a situation quickly. "I cannot imagine what you are going through Wyl, I won't pretend to. But you cannot go mad. Don't accuse a Servant of murder! He'll tie you in knots with the Power and hang you from one of your own apple trees to die of hunger."
"Accuse!" Jorle had finally made it down the stairs. "Da just tried to pound his skull into pudding!"
"Jorle!" Wyland tried not to be harsh, but he needed silence from his son just now. He turned back to Trin, "Are you going to pour the brandy or aren't you?"
"Sure Wyl. Sure." Trin's hands were shaking as he set four brandy glasses on the counter. As he poured the drinks he spilled brandy all over the counter. Trin never spilled a drop-not a drop-of his wares.
"Trin, what is the Dragon in the room? You've been holding something back. Now you're shaking like a leaf. What is it Trin?"
His old friend looked up at him, and Wyland could see fear in his eyes.
"Light Trin! What's the matter with you? "
"L-l-look Wyl, I didn't want to tell you…I thought you could use few days first…to…well you know, to…Oh burn me! Wyl, some folks in town are calling you a murderer." He may have seen Wyland's face darkening at that because he rushed to follow with, "Not everyone Wyl, not many really. But the thing is, it started getting around and now some folks who thought it was ridiculous are starting to agree that there should at least be a trial. And then Jorle comes down here saying that you were up there trying to kill the Servant that saved his life! It just sounds bad Wyl."
Wyland stared at him in silence for a long time. Then he reached out and grabbed a snifter of brandy and gulped it down. Then he moved on to next, and the next, and he even downed the one he had ordered for Jorle. After he set the last empty back on the counter he finally spoke, "I am a murderer Trin. I walked into my kitchen to find Detra lying, shoved under the dining table, in a pool of her own blood."
Tears were welling up in his eyes, he didn't even try to hold them back, "As I knelt down beside my dead wife, my Detra, I heard someone sneaking up behind me, so I reacted Trin. I spun and I killed in an instant; I spun around and I murdered my Avilene." He broke off then, unsteady, unsure if he could get out another intelligible word. Then it burst forth out of him "I MURDERED MY OWN DAUGHTER! There should be a trial Trin! And there should be an execution, maybe two."
"Father stop that! I was there too, you know." Jorle was yelling at him, "You were not the only one involved in what happened that night. I was almost killed too. I saw what was going on better than you did, you saw the result: I witnessed the act. There was something wrong with Avilene, Da"
"I am sorry son, I don't mean to-"
"Let me talk! Mom and Avilene were in the kitchen starting dinner. I was standing in front of the mantle, trying to decide on which book to read again. I felt a warm wet flood seem to spread from my neck to my groin, I tried to look down to see what was happening, but instead I collapsed in a heap.
"My head hit the chair, the one you liked to sit in when you read to us out of 'The Tales of Olver Two-Hilts and Birgitte Goldenbraid'. I ended with my head facing the hall to the back of the house and my chin tucked into my chest. I heard Avilene whisper in my ear, 'Sorry brother, I really am. This is the price he set.' Then I watched her feet walk over to the hall and wait against the wall. She called out for Shaundi, and when my baby sister came into the room, she froze. Our eyes locked. I tried to scream at her! I tried...but… but I…" Jorle choked back a sob.
"It's okay Jorle, you don't have to do this right now son." Wyland reached over and placed and his left hand on his son's shoulder.
"Yes I do! I do have to get it out. You sit there saying horrible things about yourself. People sit out there with their families, whole and safe, and they say bad things about you. You are the only person I have left, and I will not let anyone call you a murderer. Not even you." His voice was thick with emotion, Wyland could tell that every word he got out was a victory. "I tried to call out to Shaundi, tried to warn her. I was helpless, I couldn't move, I couldn't speak. As a final cruelty, though, I was conscious. I watched as Avilene slid from the wall, up behind Shaundi, while she was frozen in shock at the sight of me crumpled on the floor."
He paused, taking a deep breath and steadying himself. "I watched it all, it happened so slow. It was the worst thing ever Da. Avilene's arm rising from her side, slowly, slow like a flower turning to face the sun. It was so slow that I could have stopped it a hundred times over. I tried to stop it Da, I tried a thousand times...I...I…"
Wyland pulled Jorle into a hug, "I know son. I know." That was all he said, all that he thought he could say. He wanted to run upstairs and rip that Servant's head off of his shoulders. If he thought he could have succeeded he would have tried. If he thought that the Servant would at least retaliate and end things, he would probably try. But to try to kill someone and then to get held out at arm's length like a child swinging his arms through the air, he couldn't handle that man making so little of him and his suffering again. He felt a rage boiling up inside of him. He felt anger like nothing he had ever felt before. It threatened to sweep him away.
"Wyland Ibara." Wyland spun to the sound of Prosht's voice. He saw him standing at the base of the stairs. He had changed back into his black shirt, pants, and coat. Wyland felt himself coiling to spring. He leapt forward, forgetting his earlier failure and disgust. He grunted, loudly, as he hit an invisible wall about a span away from where Prosht stood. "You will listen to what I have to say, Master Ibara."
Wyland turned to leave, and felt invisible…ropes?...encircle him from ankle to neck. He opened his mouth to shout his hate at the man dressed all in black. As his lips parted he felt his jaws forced open, and then felt his tongue forced down as some unseen force gagged him. Unable to move, and unable to speak, Wyland stared his hate at the northerner.
"You will listen to me Master Ibara." The man reached beneath his coat and pulled out a dagger. It had a curved blade the steel grip was painted red on the butt-end. "This is the dagger that was found in the hand of your daughter, Mistress Cawthen just showed it to me." Wyland had never seen the dagger before. "It is at once unique, and all too common, yes? Master Ibarra, this is the dagger of a Shadowfriend."
Wyland struggled against his bonds. He tried to twist free, tried to force the gag of nothing out of his mouth. Tried to throw the lie back in the man's face. Tried to leave. Tried without success. "Master Ibara, the truth is hard to deal with, and Light, but we all know you have plenty to deal with right now, yes? Here are the facts: We know of these blades from the mouth of a Shadowfriend who was caught fleeing the scene of a murder in Mayene. These are delivered to people upon their acceptance of the Dark One as their 'Great Lord'. They are both a symbol of devotion to the Dark One, and a tool to carry out his will.
"Your eldest daughter killed your wife and your younger daughter with this dagger, and almost succeeded in killing your son with it as well." He stopped then, looking into Wyland's eyes, as if to mark there whether his audience was registering with his speech. Wyland closed his eyes after a moment and began to cry. "I am so very sorry for your loss Wyland. I truly am. Believe me or don't, that is your decision. But you will not accuse me of using the Shadow's tools for my own ends, yes? It smacks too much of being called a Shadowfriend."
Wyland felt the pressure on his mouth disappear. He felt his weight back on his feet as the invisible force binding his body withdrew. He stood silent, staring at the man dressed in black. "My daughter was not a Shadowfriend." The words came out measured, clipped, terse. "There haven't even been any real Shadowfriends for thousands of years, surely you of all people know that. Not since the Dragon killed the Dark One at Shayol Ghul."
"But there have been, Master Ibara. You may still think that I was spinning a fantasy for you when I told you that you were needed in Althoran, but the Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills, and the Wheel requires balance, yes? The Towers have been recording evidence of Shadowfriends for the last century and a half. Something wicked is coming this way Wyland, it is coming from Shayol Ghul, and it is not like anything that any living person has dealt with before.
"A few years ago towns and villages along the northern border started disappearing. Whole towns, every man, woman and child within the town, missing. The buildings remained, but no person to recount a tale, yes? There was human blood smeared across the walls of houses, runes and words scrawled out in blood; some language that we still haven't been able to translate.
"You, Wyland Ibara, are meant to be a part of this, and if we figured that out, I would bet gold to silver that the Shadow has too, yes? You make your own choices, but if that beating that you tried to give me up there was for revenge sake, then you had the wrong side under your fist: the Shadow did this to your family, for the Light does not work in such ways. I will stay here in my room upstairs for a while. I will not come searching for you again, if you want to find me, I will be here."
Wyland looked through Prosht for a moment, thinking about what he had just heard. And about what had just happened to his life. "Where are my girls, Trin?"
"They are at your farm, yeaterday morning Marlie sent up to Ahmerlins Field for Harrol Congar. He's out at your place getting them ready now."
Wyland gave one last look over at the Servant, "Let's go home Jorle, we have a job that needs doing."