Ричард Кнаак - The Veiled Prophet

“This will definitely do,” the younger brother finally decided. They had first carried the bodies out of the encampment, then, one at a time, brought them to where Mendeln believed he could best work. They stood in a slight clearing, perhaps ten minutes away but still too close for Uldyssian’s tastes. A stream flowed nearby, and thick, bushy trees draped over them. The dense jungle hid them well from the sight of the edyrem, although some of the more sensitive would likely notice the unsettling energies Mendeln summoned. That, unfortunately, could not be helped, as his brother had already informed him that any notion of shielding their work from the rest would interfere with his questioning.

Mendeln solemnly adjusted the bodies so that they lay side-by-side. They had their right hands on their hearts and their left on their foreheads.

“Why so?” Uldyssian found himself asking.

“Rathma and Trag’Oul taught me that the soul touches both the mind and the heart. I seek to call the souls of these two, and this strengthens that call. It is not necessary for what I seek to do, but it should help simplify matters…as I know you wish me to finish as quickly as possible.”

“That would be preferable.”

Nodding, Mendeln again brought forth the ivory blade. Uldyssian could feel its wrongness, as if it were not entirely of this world. He was repelled by it yet knew the good it had done for him and his people. Mendeln had sent to their deaths—again—morlu after morlu during the final great battle against the Triune’s warriors. So many lives had been saved because of that…

And yet Uldyssian all but recoiled in the dagger’s presence. It dealt in death and that which lay beyond death, the latter a thing into which no human should ever delve.

With the blade pointed down, Mendeln leaned over the chest of the first body. In life, it had been a middle-aged man who very likely had been a farmer, just as Uldyssian had. Balding, with a slight paunch but strong shoulders and arms, he looked as if he had merely fallen asleep.

Mendeln brought the tip of the blade directly over the heart. Uldyssian caught his breath, but his brother only began drawing runes over the chest, runes that flared to life in a blaze of white light before settling down to a dull silver. Mendeln drew five more in all.

When that was done, the black-clad figure repeated the process over the forehead, but with different runes. From there, Mendeln slipped to the second body, that of a woman perhaps only two decades old. She was thin, pinch-faced, but still too young in Uldyssian’s mind to have been caught up in all of this. Was she truly what she seemed, he wondered? If so, the implications bothered him more than ever.

“Please take a step back, Uldyssian.” When the older brother had done that, Mendeln took up a stance at the feet of the two corpses. Now he held the blade up. Words in the mysterious language he had magically learned through Rathma began spilling out, raising Uldyssian’s hackles.

Small flashes of magical energy erupted above the two bodies. Still chanting, Mendeln knelt. As he did, he stretched far enough to touch the hand that had been set over the male’s heart with the blade’s tip.

Uldyssian started as the dagger drew a faint line of blood. He had no longer expected blood. Before he could say anything, though, Mendeln repeated the deed on the woman’s hand. Oddly, the glowing dagger looked unstained when Mendeln pulled back.

His brother uttered something else, then waited. The wait was not a long one. A mist suddenly formed over the bodies, one that could not be at all natural. Tendrils grew from it, several darting down to each of the bleeding hands.

The blood just starting to pool over the hands dwindled as if rapidly drying up—or being absorbed.

“Mendeln—”

Muttering again, his brother waved him to silence. More and more of the half-congealed blood dissipated, until nothing remained but the open cuts.

And as the last of the crimson liquid vanished, the mist began to form into a shape—no, two shapes.

One vaguely male, the other possibly female.

The two men stood silent, Uldyssian relying on Mendeln for direction. The misty forms coalesced little more, which seemed to frustrate his brother.

“It should have done better,” Mendeln reproved himself. “They should have become more distinct, more semblances of their former selves!”

“Can they answer us?” Uldyssian interjected, wanting this to end. “Isn’t that the only point?”

“It is the most relevant point.” Having conceded this much, Mendeln shook his head at his success, then pointed the dagger at the male shadow. “By what name were you known?”

At first, there was only the hiss of the wind, but then that hiss became words.

Hadeen…Hadeen…

Satisfied by this result, Mendeln continued. “From what place did you hail?”

T-Toraja…Toraja…

“Toraja?” Uldyssian frowned. “All the way from there?”

“It is some distance, I agree.” To the spirit, the younger brother asked, “What was your calling? Were you a disciple of the Triune?”

There was a hesitation, as if Mendeln’s questions had proven complicated for the shade. Then: I tilled the land and grew wheat upon it…my father did, and my grandfather did, and my—

“Enough! Answer now about the Triune! Were you a disciple?”

No…

“He must be lying, Mendeln; otherwise, why would he have come so far with such dark intentions?”

Shrugging, Mendeln asked of the spirit, “Why did you come with the others to attack us, if not to serve the Triune?”

Again came hesitation…then: To save the land…to save all Kehjan…

His answer sounded absurd to Uldyssian. “He wanted to save all Kehjan…from us? We’re the ones trying to save everyone!”

“Patience, patience.” Despite his response to his sibling, Mendeln, too, obviously did not understand the shade’s reply. Mendeln scratched his chin, then turned to the female shape. “You. What name did you bear?”

Vidrisi…

“And did you come to save Kehjan from those in the encampment?”

The answer was as immediate as it was damning. Yes…

Before Uldyssian could interject again, Mendeln asked Vidrisi’s specter, “What urged you to this course? What made you join with all these others?”

We knew…we knew that we had to—

“No! What I ask…what I ask is…who was first to suggest it?”

The shade did not answer. In fact, both spirits lost much of what little definition they had. Mendeln quickly began muttering more unintelligible words.

“What is it?” Uldyssian demanded. “What’s wrong?”

“Not now!” His brother drew several symbols in the air, focusing most of them at the female shade. Her shape defined again, this time more distinct than before.

But Hadeen’s spirit faded back into simple mist, which then dissipated.

“I have lost the one,” Mendeln admitted angrily. “But she is still bound to the spell.” He all but growled to the specter, “Who instigated this march to battle? Who first set you on this course?”

There was no answer at first, but neither did Vidrisi’s shadow vanish. Mendeln drew more runes and muttered more words.

At last: I recall…I recall the missionary…he said it was so tragic…what the fanatics had done…how many innocents were slaughtered—

“Innocents?” blurted Uldyssian. “The Triune?”

So many innocents…caught up between the evils of the fanatics and the treacheries of the Triune… I remember the missionary mourning…and wishing something could be done…

“Enough,” commanded Mendeln to the specter. The shade stilled but did not depart.

The brothers gazed at each other, the answer now known to both.