David Dalglish: The Cost of Betrayal

“I don’t think I should be giving a eulogy,” Tarlak said. He glanced around, tucked his arms, untucked them, and then continued. “But someone should say something, and it always seems to be me that does. So I’ll do it again.”

He turned to the parents, their arms wrapped about each other’s waists for support.

“I’ve never been around a baby,” he said. “Never. The crying, the feeding, the constant yelling at you to take care of her, Ashhur spare me such a fate. But we loved her here. I was hoping one day she might grow up and, well, learn a little from me. I wanted to show her a thing or two, and be there when she cast her first spell. I’ve never had a student, but I’m sure she would have been a great one. I know you two loved her, more than us. My hurt, I’m sure it pales, but it’s there, and Ashhur help me should such a day as this come to my heart. But to Ashhur she has gone. He has always said the lives of children belong to him, and to each one he will open his arms and embrace. If Ashhur grants me the same welcome, the first person I’ll ask to see is that little brown-haired girl, to see how she’s grown. To see…”

He stopped to swallow, and then stared into the fire.

“Thank you,” Harruq said. “For everything.”

“We owe you two for all of it,” Delysia said. “For the time we had with her, on behalf of us all, thank you.”

Two tears, running twin paths down each cheek, lined Aurelia’s smile.

“You’re welcome,” she said.

“It’s dark enough,” the wizard said. “It’s time.”

H arruq demanded the task be his. He dipped a branch halfway into the fire, letting it heat and burn for several minutes until it was solidly lit. His heart in his throat, he turned to the pyre. The rest of the Eschaton surrounded it, their faces somber. He wiped his sniffling nose on his other sleeve and then, slowly, reluctantly, lit the fence of twigs lining the outer rim of the pyre. As it caught, he stared at the face of his daughter. The feeling was surreal, but he knew whatever it was that had made his daughter able to love, to feel, to cling to his leg and look up with an emotion purer than anything in the world, was gone from that body. For the first time, he saw her truly dead.

He dropped the branch into the fire, put his arm around Aurelia’s waist, and stood straight. He watched the pyre burn. He felt his wife’s head rest against his shoulder, and the wetness there he knew was tears. All about, the others watched in silence. Brighter and brighter the fire grew. Smoke poured up, first light, and then a heavy billowing shield, protecting him from the sight of that little angel, chubbier than most elven girls, taller, her skin soft and her smile innocent and wonderful, being consumed by the fire. No animals sounded in the newly come night, and it seemed even the stars watched in sorrow at that small flicker of flame.

Harruq swore upon the pyre to avenge the loss of his daughter. He hated the bitter feeling welling within, but he could not deny it, only succumb and feed the entity. Under red visions of rage, he imagined killing his brother, ramming his sword through his forehead, shoving every shred of pain he felt into a crimson blade drenched with blood. Vengeance. Gods help him, it was all that gave him comfort.

But for the first time the images broke, unable to stand beneath their horrid weight. He was not a monster. He was not what Qurrah thought he was. He leaned his neck atop Aurelia’s head, their arms holding each other tight as they swayed in the heat of the pyre. In his heart, he cast aside his vengeance.

“It’s all right,” he whispered. Aurelia did not know to whom he spoke. “It’s all right. We’ll be all right. Everything will be all right.”

She turned away from the fire and buried her face into his neck.

They stood before the flame for more than an hour. At last, Tarlak put a hand on their shoulders and led them back to the tower for the rest they so desperately needed. Delysia went as well, preparing their bed and doing her best to remove bits and things of Aullienna’s before they arrived.

Brug and Haern, side by side in the orange light, held their solemn stand.

“What kind of man can kill another’s daughter?” Haern whispered to the pyre. “What kind of monster?”

“It doesn’t take a monster,” Brug whispered back. “It’s the act that makes you one.”

From his pocket, Haern pulled out the green ribbon he had offered Aullienna on the day of her birth. On it was the vow of the Eschaton to protect her. Haern dropped it into the fire, wondering how he had so miserably failed such a vow. Brug saw and clapped the assassin on the back. They left without another word. Unwatched, the ribbon burned and blackened until nothing but ash remained of the love that had made it.

Q urrah Tun stood below the star-filled sky, his body a motionless statue, his arms out at his sides and his legs stiff. His neck ached, and his clenched fists trembled with each ragged breath he took.

He wept, the stars his only witness.

Q urrah slept outside, shivering as the chill sank into his bones. He was a cold, blue-lipped, and miserable. Even when shame overwhelmed his tears, he could not enter the cabin. He knew Tessanna awaited him, probably needing his arms… Or did she? He never knew with her. Never. So out in the dirt he huddled, his penance for hurting the girl she loved.

He thought of his days as a child, huddled against his brother for warmth in the slums of Veldaren. Now he had no brother to comfort him. If anything, Harruq would greet him with drawn swords instead of open arms.

“Go ahead,” Qurrah said to a phantom Harruq, clenching his jaw to stop the chattering. “Condemn me if you want.”

He drifted in and out of sleep, slowly growing aware of a slight rain. His robes were pitiful protection against it. The cabin tempted his mind, flitting in and out of his self-pity. Guilt rooted him firm. He dreamt, just a little. A spider hung above his head, dangling by a silver-glinted thread. Eight eyes sparkled violet, and from its fanged mouth he heard words but did not understand.

He awoke to the touch of feminine fingers against his arm. He kept his eyes closed as Tessanna knelt beside him, curling her arms about his waist. She pressed her body against his, her face nestling into the nape of his neck. She said nothing. Neither did he. Her warmth was not great, but it was enough. His great convulsions slowed to constant trembling. Together they rode out the cold suffering they shared.

T he damned persistent sun ripped open Qurrah’s eyelids with its light. Water rimmed his eyeballs, so he turned away and buried his face into his arm. A cold wind blew against his back, and he realized his lover was not with him. A burning stirred within his turmoil, one he must obey. He had to make sure nothing changed. Despite his broken promise, despite his grotesque error, he had to know something remained stable.

He stood and shook the dirt from his hair. Inside the cabin, Tessanna sat beside the fire, shivering in wet clothing. She glanced up at him, her face ragged and tired.

“Sleep well?” she asked.

He pulled her to her feet. Off went her wet rags she called a dress. When she started to protest, he rammed his mouth against hers. His clothes went next. She was like a doll, weightless, obedient. He threw her against a wall, her hands pinned behind her back. His tongue and teeth nipped and flitted across her neck.

“Am I still who I was?” he hissed into her ear.

“You always will be,” she said, her bottom lip trembling. “Always.”

It should have been enough, but anger stirred where there had once been guilt. He took her on their bed, his motions seeming of vengeance rather than love, but she cried out just the same.