David Dalglish - The Shadows of Grace

“No,” Velixar said at last. “I gave my word. Jerico is Tessanna’s to kill.”

Krieger slowly sheathed his swords, furious.

“Bloody and painful,” he said, glaring at Tessanna. “If it isn’t, and soon, you’ll have my blades to worry about.”

She smiled at him.

“I never worry,” she said. “Not about one such as you.”

As the dark paladin stormed off, he gave a look to Velixar, one the man in black well understood. Krieger’s confidence in him was broken.

“Take him and go,” Velixar said to Tessanna. “Twice now I have put my trust in you, girl of the goddess. Do not make me a fool.”

He left for the village, determined to add more to his ranks of undead. Karak’s servants followed, leaving Qurrah and Tessanna alone with the bloodied paladin.

“Is he worth that much to you?” Qurrah asked her.

“He is my toy, my plaything,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ears.

“Is that all?” he asked. He left without giving her a chance to answer.

T hat night, Tessanna stirred Jerico from his fitful sleep. He sat up, crossed his arms, and stared.

“What?” he asked, his body rocking side to side. She was sitting cross-legged before him, a strange look of contemplation on her face.

“I asked you once if everyone deserved forgiveness,” she said. “You couldn’t answer. Now you can. You’ve seen what I’ve done, what we do. Do I deserve forgiveness?”

Jerico swallowed, ignoring the pain it caused his swollen tongue.

“No,” he said. “You don’t.”

She frowned at him. “But you offered it to me anyway.”

He nodded. “Aye. I did.”

“Why?”

At this he chuckled. “That’s what we call grace.”

“I’ve killed people,” she said. “Tortured them. Stole the blood from their bodies. I am everything Ashhur hates.”

“Listen, Tess,” Jerico said. “Either everyone deserves grace, or no one. There’s no rankings, no greater and lesser sins. Either we do Ashhur’s will, or we don’t. Either we love him, or we don’t. That is the simple truth I offer. And you can accept it or reject it. Your choice. If Ashhur forgives you, then I must as well. I don’t have a choice in the matter.”

She looked down at the scars on her arms. She ran a hand over them.

“My father,” she said. “You say I should forgive my father?”

“Yes,” he said.

“You don’t know what he did,” she said, her voice growing soft, quiet.

“It doesn’t matter.”

She looked up at him. The soft voice vanished in the blink of an eye.

“I’ll tell you anyway,” she said, standing. “He raped me. Just a child, but I was his toy. You want me to forgive that?”

She drew her knife. Jerico closed his eyes and lay back down. He had seen this before, granted not in someone so wild and dangerous.

“I killed him,” she said as she approached. “Shoved glass down his throat and sewed his lips shut. Think he’ll forgive me?” She giggled, but it was joyless and frightened. She knelt beside him, the knife edge resting on his neck.

“Your hurt is great,” Jerico said, his eyes closed. “You let it shape you, justify what you are. Who would you be without it, Tess?”

She leaned down, and he felt her hot breath on his ear.

“I wouldn’t be me,” she whispered. “And I like me.”

The knife cut into his skin.

“I like me a lot.”

B y the third day of flight, Harruq was aching for the good old days of skulking around the streets of Veldaren at night on some odd job Tarlak had given them. The air was brutally cold against their skin, and the few blankets they’d packed did little to help. Seleven did his best, carrying them on wings that took hours to tire. Sometimes he’d snort, and Aurelia would lean down to whisper to him. That was always a sign for Harruq and Haern to grab on tight and pray to survive the upcoming roll, spin, or dive.

They stopped often to eat, rest, and take care of the normal needs of nature for both horse and rider. For the most part the ground was hilly and rough, the grass a thin carpet over dirt so rocky farmers had abandoned trying to use it. By the fourth day, however, the landscape changed below them. A great river slowly drifted south, and when Harruq turned, he saw an enormous lake rimmed by high, sheer rock walls. Trees surrounded it, their branches hanging low as roots grabbed and clawed for a foothold.

“Wow,” said Harruq, awed by the sight.

“That’s where the Kinel River empties,” Aurelia said as she tapped on Seleven’s neck. They swooped lower for a look. The tree branches were a barren, interlocking weave. Harruq found himself wishing they’d come sooner, when the leaves were still changing their colors. Seleven skimmed atop the river, then soared across the lake, its surface rippling from the air of the horse’s wings.

“What’s that called?” Harruq asked, pointing to the lake.

“Beaver Lake,” Aurelia answered.

“Why’s it called that?” he asked.

Haern smacked him across the shoulder.

“Why do you think?”

Just to show him anyway, Aurelia leaned closer and shouted something to Seleven in elvish. They swooped lower, angling southward. Sure enough, at its southern edge was an enormous construction of wood and mud.

“The beavers dammed it a century ago,” Aurelia said. She pointed past where the Kinel River resumed from waters trickling atop the half-mile long dam. The drop down on the other side was frightening.

Haern shouted something, but Harruq had a hard time hearing it over the wind in his ears.

“What?” the half-orc shouted back.

“I said do you want to go for a swim?”

“Ha, ha, ha.”

They turned north, then slowed. Finding a smooth ledge where they could touch the water with their hands, they landed.

“Why are we stopping?” Harruq asked as he hopped down. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“We need to decide what we’ll do,” Aurelia said.

“Isn’t Tarlak normally the planning guy?”

“He’s not here,” Haern said. “Though your powers of observation are honed to a shocking degree.”

“Harruq is right, however obvious,” Aurelia said. “One of us must talk to Lord Sully when we reach the Green Castle. Only he can mobilize the defenses of the Hillock. The question is, which of the three of us has the best chance of obtaining an audience?”

“Let me think,” Haern said. “An outcast elf, a warrior of orc-blood whose brother wages war upon the world, or myself, son of a dead thief guildmaster…”

“You’re also the King’s Watcher,” Harruq said. “Surely that means something.”

“That king is dead,” Haern said. “And Lord Sully and Vaelor didn’t exactly get along.”

Obtaining wood for a fire was easy enough, so Aurelia wandered closer to the trees and began collecting fallen branches, Harruq helping her. Haern only crossed his arms and looked across the lake.

“Still think you’ve got the best chance,” Harruq said to Haern while he snapped a few branches in half and tossed them into a growing pile.

“It needs to be Aurelia,” Haern said, shaking his head. He reached into one of the saddlebags and pulled out some wrapped meat. When Aurelia snapped her fingers, igniting the campfire, he unwrapped the meat and began preparing it for cooking.

“Why is that?” the elf asked as she sat down beside her husband.

“You can claim to be an official envoy of the Dezren elves,” Haern said. “You’re of their blood. They will have no reason to deny you. Besides, of all human leaders, Lord Sully is the warmest toward elvenkind.”

“That’s because he doesn’t have to live next to them,” Harruq said, ignoring Aurelia’s jab to his stomach.