L. Modesitt - Wellspring of Chaos

In a moment of clarity, Kharl recognized the speaker. “Sanyle?”

“Yes. Father asked if I’d help. I’ve been cooking for the boys and watching over you.”

“Thank…you…”

“Just try to lie still. I’m mostly finished. Then I can clean out the rest of the wounds. Father gave me something that will help numb your back when I’m done.”

“Go…on…”

Agony alternated with blackness until he finally succumbed totally to the darkness. Even then, the darkness was filled with unseen flame.

When Kharl woke again, he was lying facedown on his own bed-the bed he and Charee had shared for so many years. He swallowed, thinking, for there had been good times, if few in recent years. The thoughts of what had happened so suddenly and for so little reason swirled through his mind. At the same time, his back was still a mass of pain, and even the slightest movement intensified the agony.

Between the two kinds of pain, it was a while before he realized someone else was in the small bedchamber. Even so, he had to squint to make out the figure sitting on the stool opposite the side of the bed his head faced.

“Warrl?” Kharl croaked the single name.

“It’s me, Da.” Warrl stood and went to the door. “He’s awake.” Then he returned and sat back down.

Kharl said nothing. What could he say?”

“Da…Sanyle said…she said…they hung Ma…Why did they do it? Ma didn’t do anything.”

Kharl tried to speak, but all he could do was cough, and for a moment, or longer, blackness washed over him.

Warrl was still sitting there when Kharl could see once more.

“Da?”

“They…discovered…no way…I could have…killed the blackstaffer…wanted someone to hang…tell the black demons…”

“Why didn’t you stop them? Why didn’t you…?”

“Warrl,” came a voice from behind Kharl, Sanyle’s soft voice, “your father tried. My father saw it all. Your da struggled against the armsmen, but there were scores of them. That’s why they whipped him so badly. He tried to stop them, and they whipped him more.”

“…why? He didn’t kill anyone. Ma didn’t, neither…”

“Let him rest, Warrl. He did the best he could. He did more than most men in Brysta would ever try.”

Before the blackness reclaimed him, Kharl could hear Warrl sniffling, and he wanted to reach out, to say more.

Kharl woke abruptly, at the sound of voices beyond the closed bedchamber door. From the light coming through the windows, and the damp warmth, it seemed to be late afternoon or early evening. Slowly, he managed to stand, even though every movement hurt, even after three days when he’d done little except eat and sleep. He made his way to the door, putting his hand on the latch-lever. Then he stopped as the words in the main room began to make sense.

“…he’d never understand…”

“…sees more than you think…” Kharl thought the voice was Sanyle’s, but it was hard to tell because she was speaking much less loudly than Arthal.

“…never done except what he wanted…never listened to any of us. He should have listened to Ma…he should have…” Arthal’s voice was loud and angry.

“…done more than you’ve seen, Arthal…”

“…you’re just sweet on him…Ma not even gone an eightday…”

“…who would cook and take care of him? You? You can’t fire the stove or boil water.”

“…can, too…”

“…not that I’ve seen…”

“Why should I…after what he did…hasn’t even written Aunt Merayni…”

Kharl winced at that. He should write Merayni, or even take a day to go visit his consort’s sister. The thought was painful, because Merayni would blame him. She had a tongue far sharper than Charee’s had ever been.

The words died away.

Kharl coughed, then rattled the latch-lever before easing the door open. He stepped through the doorway, then stopped. The two who had been arguing were Arthal and Sanyle. Tyrbel’s youngest daughter, more than two years older than Arthal, was slim and dark-haired, but with overlarge eyes and a nose slightly larger and sharper than her face merited.

“Da…?” began Arthal, looking toward Kharl.

“It hurts,” Kharl admitted. “But lying around isn’t going to keep the cooperage going, or bring in coins.”

“I suppose not,” Arthal replied.

“Doing too much too soon won’t help much either,” suggested Sanyle. “Why don’t you sit down at the table? Supper’s almost ready.”

“Where’s Warrl?”

“He was checking the door bars down below,” Sanyle said. “He should be back here any moment.” She turned back toward the stove.

Kharl eased his way into the chair where he usually sat, but he had to sit on the edge so that his shoulders wouldn’t touch the wooden spokes. He glanced toward the stove, where Sanyle was standing and where Charee had so often stood. For a moment, his eyes clouded, and he could not even see. His lips tightened. Charee had been right about Jenevra bringing trouble. Charee had been right about many things. But what was he supposed to have done? Let the blackstaffer die?

The door from the shop swung open, then closed with a thud.

“Everything’s barred up, and I closed the shutters, too,” Warrl announced even before he stepped into the main room.

“Thank you,” Kharl said.

“Da…you’re up.”

“After a fashion,” Kharl admitted. “I’m slow. Probably be a few days before I can do much in the shop.” Or anywhere else, he suspected.

“You going to keep on with the shop?” asked Warrl.

“I’m a cooper. What else would I do?”

“Without Ma…?”

“It will be hard,” Kharl admitted.

Sanyle carried the stewpot to the table, setting it on the old wooden trivet.

Kharl just looked at the pot, but his eyes blurred, and he couldn’t really see. After a moment, he said, “Sanyle…best…you serve…”

“It’s the best I could do…and the bread’s a little too crisp…”

“Be…fine…” Kharl choked.

“Father sent over some ale. Said it would help you. It’s in your mug.”

“You…thank him…” Kharl reached gratefully for the mug and the ale it held. The ale might help. It might.

Two mornings later, Kharl donned just an undertunic-a soft and old one-above his heavy brown boots and trousers and made his way down to the cooperage. He slowly walked around the shop. The coals in the forge, banked so many days ago, had long since turned to ashes, and the hearth was covered in a fine film of ash powder around the fire pot. There was a film of dust over everything.

He walked toward the wall where the apprentice’s pallet had been. It was gone, and someone had scrubbed the floor planks. He leaned over. Set on the bottom of the finishing bench were the black staff and Jenevra’s pack. He wondered why the staff had been left. Because no one wanted to touch it? Or had it just been overlooked and forgotten?

His fingers brushed the staff. For all that it had lain under the bench for more than an eightday, the wood still felt warm to his touch. So did the iron bands. He picked up the staff. He’d initially thought that it had merely been stained dark, or that it was black oak. When he studied it and held it, he could see that he’d been wrong. The staff was lorken, fine-grained, and almost as strong as iron, if far lighter. The bands on it, one near each end, and the other two equidistant between those at the ends, were also not plain iron, but mage-fired black iron, the black iron that could only be created in Recluce. Or so it was said.

“…a warrior’s staff…” He shook his head and leaned the staff against the wall. Then he stooped and picked up the canvas pack and set it on the finishing bench.