David Dalglish - The Shadows of Grace

Jerico struggled with what to say. So much of her struggle was beyond him, but her grief was real enough. He offered the only thing he knew he could give.

“I could pray for you,” he said, his voice a whisper.

She leaned away from him, sniffing and rubbing her nose with her arm.

“No,” she said, looking so sad and terrible and beautiful. “Not for me. For my daughter. For Teralyn.”

Jerico opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He nodded. Slowly Tessanna leaned closer toward him. Her fingertips traced along his arm, then wrapped about his neck. Her head tilted. Jerico closed his eyes. Gently her lips pressed against his, and as his mouth opened he felt her tongue pressed between his teeth.

The kiss ended.

“I’m scared,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “I should hate you. I don’t, and that scares me so much, so very much…”

“This is wrong,” Jerico whispered back. “You have to know that.”

“I do,” Tessanna said. “I don’t care.”

She sat atop him, her legs straddling his waist. Her arms encircled his neck. Jerico tried to remember the wild look in her eyes, how she’d thrust her dagger into his flesh, how she’d twisted and cut and bled every bit of pain out of his body. The memories were dull, like his flesh to the snow.

“I need comfort,” she whispered. “Qurrah judges me, but you don’t judge, you don’t hate, you’ve loved me all this time and now I want to love you.”

The vows he’d made screamed protest in Jerico’s mind. Love. She didn’t know. She couldn’t know.

Damn it all, Jerico thought. Stop yourself, Jerico. Stop yourself. Stop. Now.

He didn’t. Arm in arm, she gently rocked back and forth. Tessanna laughed as she cried. At his climax, she gasped openmouthed, then smiled as the tears curled toward the edge of her lips. Jerico gently lifted her off and fixed his clothes. He sat hunched over, as if a great burden sat upon his shoulders.

“Never again,” he said, refusing to look her way. “We can’t do this ever again.”

“You know you will,” she said. “With you, I’m…”

“No,” he said. “Just stop. I can’t do this. I can’t fail you like this. I’m sorry, Tess. I’m so sorry.”

No matter what she said, he kept his eyes to the ground, and long into the night he stayed awake and miserable, staring at the fires burning in the conquered city, for once feeling like he deserved the miserable cold as more snow fell from the sky and bit into his flesh.

They stayed a week, gathering supplies and setting up a small garrison to hold against any of the rival lords that still remained in the land. Fresh with rest, food, and sleep, the army marched out of Kinamn, once more giving chase after the remnants of Neldar.

I t seemed years since Qurrah had looked upon the gods’ bridges, but there he was, standing before the simple but elegant structure spanning the Rigon River. He and Tessanna had been alone then. No army, no Velixar, no priests or gods. Just the two of them. They had been cold and hurt, the death of Aullienna still a fresh wound on both their souls, but with each other to hold, they had survived the pain.

“Would you even let me hold you now?” he wondered aloud. The rest of the army still slept, the sun having not yet banished the stars and moon. Whatever closeness he had with Tessanna was gone. Something was in the way, and he needed to figure out what. Was it something he had said or done? Was it the paladin?

“Solitude is often the best way to solve one’s problems,” Preston said, approaching from the direction of the slumbering army. “But discussing them with friends also helps.”

“I would hardly call you friend,” Qurrah said, pointedly keeping his stare locked on the bridge. “I hold better friendship with the worms beneath the soil, Preston.”

Preston chuckled, not bothered by the refusal to use his adopted name.

“You don’t like me. Fair enough. Your loyalty to Velixar is near unshakable. I understand, I really do. For years we treated a single message from him like the divine word of Karak himself.”

“I was his apprentice,” Qurrah said. “And I assure you, Karak speaks through him.”

“How do you know?” Preston asked. “He has set himself as ruler of an army that will soon crush all resistance. If he closes the portal after Mordan’s destruction, who will stop him from emerging King of all Dezrel?”

Qurrah crossed his arms and glared.

“You’re a fool if you think that is what he desires,” he said. “Why are you here?”

“The paladin,” Preston said, glancing back to the camp. “He still lives. We both know he should have bled out months ago.”

“He keeps Tessanna happy,” Qurrah said.

“I’m sure he does,” Preston said with a smirk.

“What are you implying, priest?” Qurrah asked, his hand gripping the handle of his whip.

“I have watched carefully,” Preston said. “And they are often alone. Very often. Why is it you no longer sleep at her side, Qurrah? Is it because someone else has taken your place?”

The whip lashed the ground, erupting in flame. The half-orc’s look promised death.

“You insult me with your insipid logic and blatant lies,” he said. “The maggots in the fields hear Karak’s word more clearly than you. There is more wisdom in a pile of shit. Be gone from me, or I will tear the bones from your flesh and cast them into the river.”

Preston laughed.

“Such anger,” he said. “Is it all for me?”

Qurrah watched him return to the camp. His whip burned the cold earth, charring black the remaining bits of grass. His entire insides heaved and spun. The idea of losing Tessanna to another man infuriated him. He had avoided the idea, but now it was in the open and he could not deny it. He was losing her. Just how far from him she was, he didn’t know.

He put away his whip, hoping Karak’s vengeance would soon fall upon Preston. If it didn’t, then he himself would have to bring forth punishment. First, he needed to make things right with Tessanna. He hurried back to their camp, where Tessanna huddled before a fire on the outskirts of the encampment. Jerico slept next to her. The very sight of him so close to her filled his heart with jealousy.

“Morning, lover,” she said, no emotion in her voice.

“It is time,” he said, pointing to the paladin. “He needs to be dealt with, one way or the other.”

Tessanna drew her knife and twirled its point against her finger.

“Are you telling me what to do, Qurrah?”

The half-orc snarled.

“Damn it, Tess! Why are you doing this? Why do you keep him alive?” His voice softened. “What does he offer you that I do not?”

At this, she tilted her head and stared as if perplexed. She seemed completely unaffected by his rage.

“He speaks of things I’ve never believed,” she said. “He offers things I don’t understand. But I want to break him, make him as I am. And I intend to take pleasure in the making.”

“You’ve slept with him,” Qurrah said, quieter. In the silence that followed he begged for denial, firm and sincere. But Tessanna would not give him even that.

“Does it matter if I did?” she asked. Still apathetic. Still emotionally dead. Qurrah could not take any more. He knocked the knife from her hand, grabbed her by the neck and lifted her to a stand.

“Don’t you dare treat me like this,” he said, his face inches from hers. “Not after all we’ve lost for one another. The sacrifices we’ve both made.”

There was a time she would have been excited by such a display of domination and power. But not anymore. Anger flared in her eyes, and rage replaced apathy.

“Let go of me!” she shrieked. Her hands slammed against his chest, magical strength flowing through them. He dropped her as pain spread throughout his body. He doubled over onto his knees, unable to stand. Tessanna’s whole body shook as if unable to contain her emotions.