Jeff Salyards - Veil of the Deserters

“Or maybe it’s you who’s not getting it right,” Mulldoos suggested.

“It’s true, I am translating a man’s words a thousand years distant, and he is transcribing or even translating hers. It sounded as if there was quite a communication gap even between them, and it took some time for Anroviak to parse out this much. So these passages are trickier than the rest. I’d need more time to work out the nuances here, but I also know I have the deeper essence right. He was skeptical, and Vella was equally insistent that approaching the Godveil was curing her, at least temporarily.”

Hewspear was chewing on a piece of straw, slowly, thoughtfully. “Does our good underpriest give more specifics? What exactly happened to the young Grass Dog witch when she ventured near the Godveil? How was she able to purge herself?”

Braylar didn’t scold his tall lieutenant, as all three Syldoon looked at me expectantly. Quite a reversal to be the one possessing some knowledge they didn’t, however small, and to be looked to for the answers for once. It was difficult to suppress a grin. The only thing that helped was that I didn’t have an adequate answer. “Whenever Anroviak describes her account, he uses the phrase en bozwek , repeatedly. Which can be interpreted to mean ‘awakening’ or ‘emptying.’ Which is odd, because both could be accurate. Apparently Vella had a difficult time describing what happened-she referred to it as having an awful dream that seemed to go on forever. Walking toward the Godveil was like waking up for her. The terrible dream ended. At least for a while. And when it felt like it was beginning again, she’d make another pilgrimage.

“In any event, her family was driven further west, the remnants of her tribe herded out of the Green Sea and further away from the Godveil. A forced migration. And once they were deep in Anjuria, they couldn’t continue the visits. So her pilgrimages became less frequent. And without a way to relieve herself, or wake up, or whatever we want to call it, she was discovered.”

Mulldoos looked around to be sure no one was approaching, then turned to Braylar. “That’s twice now.”

“What? That you made a cryptic declaration? I assure you, it is far more than that.”

“Two mentions of approaching the Veil.” Mulldoos looked at me. “The other thing you told Cap already, about the warrior with a cursed weapon like Bloodsounder-he walked into the Veil, too, that right?”

I started to answer in the affirmative, but Braylar cut me off. “No, that is a supposition. The text said only that he did not die but left the world behind. That could be poetic license, or a heroic tale, or many things. But the most likely is a ridiculous fabrication.” He turned to me. “So, did this underpriest of Truth put her story to the test?”

“He did. Anroviak escorted her there under guard, and watched as she approached, sure that her parents were ignorant savages and she’d only have her mind and soul blasted into oblivion, exactly like every other person who made the critical mistake of venturing too close. Or she was lying, and would confess before she got too close. But he also vowed to explore and exhaust every possibility, no matter how unlikely. So he and his small group of loyal soldiers watched as Vella walked toward the Veil, and were amazed when she was not struck down, but stood directly in front of the pulsating wall, completely unharmed.”

Mulldoos started to say something, but Braylar hissed him into silence and I pressed on. “She was still lucid as she returned, and exactly as she promised, she was unable to move into another’s dreams or mind. So she alleged. Somehow, she had channeled her power and offered it to the Godveil and managed to walk away. Anroviak had never heard of such a thing, so he immediately instructed some of his underpriests to begin furiously researching, trying to uncover any other evidence, apocryphal, anecdotal, or otherwise of anything else quite like that.

“But before he made any notable progress or at least had a chance to record it, the triumvirate discovered that he had been disobeying them. His last entries, bitter and vitriolic, indicated he was heading to trial to defend himself. But the final lines, scribbled rather hastily from the looks of it, stated that he believed he’d discovered something. If we capture the Godveil, we capture the witches. The Godveil is the key . He jotted down something about ‘frames.’ It could be ‘fence’ or even ‘prison’-I’ll need to reexamine. But he seemed to suggest there was a way to syphon off some of the Veil, some portion that wouldn’t prove deadly. And with that, control the witch. But that was it.”

I looked up from my notes to see everyone staring at me. Vendurro was the first to speak. “That can’t be it. Got to be more, doesn’t there?”

I shook my head. “Not in his account. Nor the remainder of that chest, either. I scourged the other scrolls and books and whatnot, hoping that somehow he had continued recording somewhere else. But that was it. At least so far. I still have a great deal to go through. But it’s pretty evocative, or tantalizing at least. This is the kind of thing you were looking for.”

Hewspear pulled the straw out of his mouth and said, “It is a shame there isn’t more. Much more. It could very well be that this underpriest was mad or grossly mistaken, or taken in by a charlatan. There are a number of possibilities here, and without being able to corroborate… it is a fascinating account, to be sure, and encouraging, but…”

“It is not proof of anything,” Braylar finished. “Just as the other record of someone wielding another weapon like Bloodsounder does nothing more than establish that such a story existed.” He tapped the chains. “Still. It is tantalizing, I will grant you that. That is the right word. Frustrating allusions, but tantalizing just the same. I hadn’t truly expected to find anything even auspicious.”

I replied, “While there have been a large number of allusions to witches, the Godveil, and even a few mentions of cursed weapons, they were always brief and sporadic. These two accounts were the only ones to delve into things at all. I had to sift through a lot of dusty immaterial documents.”

Braylar laid his hand on my shoulder. “You have done excellent work here, Arki.” Then he looked at his men. “I believe a conversation with our tight-lipped cleric is overdue. Vendurro, fetch him please.”

I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to leave or not, but I assumed Braylar would instruct me to if that was the case, at least as soon as he recognized that I hadn’t left. He seemed distant, lost in a thought thicket somewhere as he looked off into the woods, his left hand idly drumming fingers on Bloodsounder’s chains.

Mulldoos and Hewspear had walked a short distance away as we waited, talking quietly amongst themselves.

I felt a bit awkward standing there with my pages in my arms, essentially alone in the middle of the Syldoon, but also filled with a sense of true purpose and usefulness for the first time. While translating in a moving, hot, foul-smelling wagon was far from pleasant, it was exhilarating to do it at all, and to have these hardened soldiers hanging on my every word was strange but wondrous as well.

Hewspear and Mulldoos walked back when they saw Vendurro return with Henlester. The High Priest looked tired, his eyes a little sunken in his sallow cheeks, the lines in his face even deeper and crinklier than before. And yet he still maintained a rigid posture that belied his years and his portly belly, and he seemed just as haughty as ever. “Well, this is a murder of crows, if I’ve ever seen one. What do you have need of me for, Syldoon?” He looked back at the small camp and his dark eyes narrowed further. “And why pull me from the luxurious surroundings of my rolling prison? It does my old bones no good at all.”