David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

“Forget manipulators,” said Vulfram. “You don’t understand what you are saying.” He put his hand on Darkfall’s hilt. “I think you may have lost your mind.”

Bracken cackled, a sound so mad that the very air seemed to vibrate. He shot up and stormed around the table, making Vulfram brace for conflict. But instead of assailing him, Bracken fell to his knees, gazing up at him with crazy, pleading eyes.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Kill me like you killed my son and father. Kill me because you were instructed to do so. Because that is why you kill, is it not? Because you are told to? ”

“Bracken, man, stand up.”

“You kill because it is Karak’s will. But why would Karak wish the murder of his own creations? He is a god that walks among us! Any faults we possess, he gave to us! Can no one else see that? Any criminal, any blasphemer, he could counsel with a snap of his holy fingers. So why, I ask you again, would he order us dead? ”

“Because we are to make our own way in the world.”

“A fool’s errand. Would you set your infant alone in the woods with wolves so he could do the same?”

Vulfram backed away a step. “What are you getting at?”

Bracken stumbled to his feet, moving like a drunk himself. Now that Vulfram got a good look at the man, he could tell that he hadn’t slept for days. Whatever it was that afflicted him, be it grief or anger or doubt, it was degrading his body along with his mind.

He shuddered, for he felt as though the same thing were happening to him.

“I am saying we are all puppets,” said Bracken. “Puppets in a game much larger than any we could ever understand. My father was tricked, as were my son and your daughter. As were you .”

Vulfram dropped Darkfall to his side. “These accusations are not to be made lightly, Bracken. Son of my old friend or not, you will not be saved from the executioner’s stone should I find you guilty of blasphemy.”

Bracken cackled again, his insane grin spreading wider.

“Of course not, Lord Commander . I think you proved that when you beheaded the people I love most.”

The words sent a knife twisting through Vulfram’s heart. He grimaced and nodded for Bracken to continue. Bracken’s demeanor shifted when he realized that Vulfram would give him an audience. He took a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his fists. When he spoke again, it seemed as though a measure of control had taken hold.

“I was in abject misery, as you might expect, having lost both Kristof and my father on that dreadful afternoon. Penelope was as well, of course, and she left Erznia to rejoin her parents in Brent. She left me because I was a shell of a man. And it did not take long, in my loneliness, for my sadness to turn to hate. Hatred for you, Vulfram. I wanted you dead. I went so far as to prepare Weston to venture out on the Gods’ Road in search of bandits or sellswords who might take what meager coin I have in exchange for your head. It never came to that, of course-Weston would never have done it, and besides, I knew asking any standard thug to cleave your skull was akin to asking him to commit suicide. Instead, I ventured into the garret and sat there for days, shunning food and sleep while I wept. Many of my parents’ things are stored there, and I took to combing through their old chests. For the first time I truly missed Mother. She died six years ago, stabbing herself through the heart. It took Father many moons to become anything close to himself again. Did you know that?”

Vulfram shook his head. All the while a new river of guilt overflowed the levees of his soul. He hadn’t known, and given the duress he’d been under, it hadn’t occurred to him to ask his old friend about Katherine’s whereabouts.

Bracken waved his hand. “It doesn’t matter. But though old wounds heal, they are always tender, always ready to break anew. My father once said to me, ‘It is not her fault. There is always a reason when people act against their nature.’ Mother had been suffering with the Wasting, you see. The pain that mounted each day became too much for her to bear, no matter what medicines or herbs or treatments we gave her. The only recourse she could find in the end, the only way to stop the pain, was to take her own life.

“When I thought of that, I knew,” Bracken continued, pacing around the library with his head down and brow furrowed in deep concentration. “Something was wrong. Father was a man of responsibility, of dignity and honor. He loved his god more than any other. None of us dared contradict him, and we passed those lessons on to our own. And Father adored his grandchildren. He strove for nothing but the best for them. He was as much a teacher of morality and decency as I am, perhaps more so.

“Do you see? I am no fool. I can understand my son surrendering to his urges and bedding your sweet Lyana, but what my father did? I couldn’t believe that a man of morality and religious fervor would choose to contradict our god’s decrees in such a heinous way. I thought it a lie, a ploy, a falsehood. I tore through the garret in search of clues that might explain why he was foolish enough to offer crim oil to that frightened pair. By Karak, I didn’t even know what I was looking for.”

Bracken looked up then, and his eyes were utterly sane now. The new Master Renson circled back around and picked up a curling parchment off the desk.

“I nearly gave up. I nearly believed that I didn’t know my father as well as I’d thought. But it’s when you stop looking that the answers come to you. Three days ago, I started to feel better, more like myself. I gave up any mad thoughts of attempting to end your life and instead decided to used my solitude to read. The first tome I lifted was a collection of poems compiled by Eveningstar. The First Man had traveled here, to Erznia, during one of the first harvest festivals. He wrote down every word of every poem spoken by the townsfolk that night. Do you remember hearing stories of that?”

“I was there. Young, but there.”

“That’s right,” said Bracken with a shrug. “I tend to forget that you are much older than you appear. Well, Father was there too, and Eveningstar handed him the tome when he was finished, as a gift.”

“I remember that.”

“It was Father’s favorite book. He would often sit for hours and pour over every verse of all two hundred and seventy couplets. He loved poetry, even though his own was rather…lackluster.” He shook his head. “I’m getting distracted. That night three days ago…I came to the library. I’d begun to hate my father, to believe him a liar and a hypocrite, and that’s why I wanted that tome. I wanted to remember who he really was, remember the man who raised me and taught me how to live with decency and honor. But when I opened the cover, I found something strange inside. I found this.…”

Bracken extended the parchment, which Vulfram hesitantly took. The paper was thin yet sturdy, the tender of vintage used for royal documents. It was face down, and he could plainly see the waxen seal, split in half, that decorated the top and bottom edges. He folded the parchment over and connected the two halves, revealing the image of a snake wrapped around a lion, the sigil of House Crestwell.

Vulfram’s eyes widened. He peered up at Bracken, whose expression managed to convey both horror and victory.

“Read it,” he said.

Feeling nervous, Vulfram flipped the parchment over and read. The message was a thank-you note, the final link in a chain of unknown correspondences, the words simple yet menacing in their ambiguity.

It is the mark of the faithful that we accept our roles without question, and yours is perhaps the most important one of all. Now that you have seen the seed planted, it is time to offer a choice. Whatever choice is made, find peace in the knowledge that the Divinity will hold you in his highest regard when he returns and will ensure that no ill befalls you.