Suddenly, Gerolf Gledgesa’s impassioned plea sends him into a paroxysm of coughing. The attack becomes so severe that he slumps to the side of his stallion’s neck, then slips off his saddle altogether. He slams to the ground on his shoulder, screaming once in uncontrollable pain. His daughter’s face grows terrified, and she quickly dismounts, sliding down the side of her pony and, as she does, loosening the bandages below her chin. With her attention desperately fixed on her father, she does not notice as those bandages fall away—
And when they do, the whole of her lower jaw begins to come away with them. The rot in her body has destroyed those joints altogether, as well as much of the skin of her lower face; but this is not the most astounding thing about the condition, for all its horror. No, even more amazing is that there is no evidence the girl feels what is happening at all.
Arnem, who has rushed to Gledgesa’s side, glances up at his friend’s child; but Visimar hurriedly limps to the girl, and deftly relocates the jaw, rewrapping the bandages more tightly. Weda herself is no more than embarrassed by this event, and with her hands and a few plaintive moans urges Visimar to help her father. The cripple obliges, seeming no more concerned for the child than she is for herself.
“What are you doing, old fool?” Arnem nearly shouts. “Gerolf has only fallen, but the girl’s face—”
“He has not ‘only fallen,’ Sentek,” Visimar answers evenly, his thinking never clouded. “His ribs have begun to collapse, and if he is not rushed to a resting place, he will die in a very short time.” Arnem looks to his old comrade, who is barely conscious: so labored has his breathing become that it seems he is being strangled from within. Yet, despite this plain truth, Arnem’s own fatherly instincts will not allow him to simply ignore Weda, and he moves toward her, forcing Visimar to roughly grasp his arm.
“Wait, Sixt Arnem, wait!” the old man whispers. “Look at her, look at her — she feels no pain!”†
The sentek looks into the girl’s placid eyes — and sees that the cripple is correct. “No pain,” he murmurs, stunned and saddened. “But, then …”
“Aye,” Visimar replies. “The fire wounds have reached their last stages.” Putting his mouth close to Arnem’s ear, the old man whispers urgently: “They will both be dead before nightfall — and we must away, Sentek, — look at the soldiers above. They believe we attacked their commander, who I fear may be little more than their prisoner, and are preparing that machine again, and bringing a second up—”
Arnem’s reaction is predictable: “No, Visimar! I will not allow a collection of maddened renegades to doom one of our greatest soldiers!” The sentek cups his hand: “Niksar! Akillus! A fauste of cavalry, quickly!”
Both young officers have been awaiting such an order: for they have gathered a group of hard-looking horsemen, who thunder out onto the plain before the city. Gledgesa grabs at the sentek’s shoulder.
“Visimar!” he seethes, choking up blood with every word and breath. “Did I hear that name, Arnem, or have I finally lost my mind altogether?”
“You have not, old friend,” Arnem says gently; and then he looks up when he hears the thunderous sound of the long-barred western gate of Daurawah being drawn back. “It appears your men intend to rescue you, Gerolf,” Arnem says, chuckling in what he hopes will be a reassuring way: a reminder of their old campaigns, when it was common to laugh in the midst of great danger. “So I must be quick. I found Visimar, or rather he found me. He was alive, and in Broken — and I brought him along on this campaign, not least with you in mind.”
“Visimar … If only it were possible — there is much I would say …”
“It is possible, Sentek Gledgesa,” Visimar answers, kneeling as best he can by the dying man. “And you have said all you need say, as has Sentek Arnem. I forgive you for any part you played in my torment, and rejoice that you risked so much to oppose the mutilations.”
“And you accept my — apologies?” Gledgesa forces himself to ask. “Inadequate as I know they are?”
“I do. And now, you and your daughter must rest, Sentek, and prepare yourselves. You must give her courage as you both cross the river …”
“Then you can help us embark upon that journey?” the blind man asks.
“Fear not, Gerolf Gledgesa, for yourself or your daughter. You shall mount and cross the Arch of All Colors that spans the Waters of Life, and Geldzehn the Guardian shall take you both into the Hall of Heroes. Hel shall not use the crime against me that you and Sentek Arnem witnessed, when you were both mere servants of the Kafran priests, as a justification for dragging you to her terrible realm — I release you, in the presence of your gods and mine, from that burden.”
“River?” Arnem is confused. “But, Gerolf, you said the rivers are—”
“We speak of another river, Sixt,” Gledgesa replies, in an uncharacteristically gentle way. “Another river altogether. Visimar knows it … And I thank you, old man. Sixt — put my daughter’s hand in mine, and put me on my feet. Then go, old friend.”
“Damn it, Gerolf! There may yet be something Visimar can do, I have seen his healing skills—”
“There is naught, Sixt — no help of that sort, I mean …” Arnem helps Gledgesa up and Visimar guides the girl Weda to his side, again making certain her bandaging is sound as Arnem puts the girl’s hand into her father’s. “I trust those are your horsemen I hear,” Gledgesa continues. “We ate all but a few of our mounts long ago. So — let me return without your life upon my conscience.” The blind man reaches into the air, not expecting Visimar to touch him, but signaling his contentment, and urging the cripple, too, to go. “And thank you again, old man, for removing our part in your torment from my shoulders, where it has weighed heavily for so long …”
All that happens next happens too quickly for the grief-stricken Arnem to comprehend fully; unable to watch Gerolf Gledgesa attempting to mount his horse on his own, he helps his comrade, while Visimar does the same for the almost weightless Weda. Father and daughter begin to walk their horses to what must be their ends in Daurawah, the city’s commander calling out as best he can to his own troops, ordering them to halt. Akillus and Niksar arrive with their determined horsemen to guard the sentek as he mounts the Ox, and to help Visimar get astride his mare. Then the ride back begins, Arnem’s face a mask, not only of terrible sorrow, but of contrition.
“I am as ashamed as I can ever remember being, old man,” Arnem says. “I pray your judgment was correct.”
“About this moment, it was, Sentek, although your shame is understandable,” Visimar replies. “But for now, you must steel yourself — bend that shame to other purposes. For, when you fully understand the injustices that lie beneath these ugly circumstances — then, Sentek, you will find answers, and true justice.” He pauses, seemingly awed by the magnitude of the task he himself has described. “Let us only hope,” he murmurs in conclusion, “that we survive to witness it …”
II:
Fire
{i:}
Heldo-Bah stands before an ancient ash tree, the bark of which is so deeply wrinkled and roughly surfaced as to remind him of the dried, grey skin of a hag seeress, to whom he once traded a fine seksent knife for what proved to be the woman’s utterly worthless assurance that a half-marauder whore with whom he had passed a recent night near Daurawah was clean of disease, and that his chafed loins had actually been caused by riding a stolen Broken warhorse back to the Cat’s Paw. He allows his rigid body to fall into the bark of the ash’s trunk in such a way that his head strikes first: such has been the effect on his mind and spirit of an argument between Keera and Veloc that has raged since he himself ran back into their camp the day before to relate the news of his rediscovery of Caliphestros’s place of exile. Keera is convinced that she must go to meet this all-important character on her own, worrying that Veloc and Heldo-Bah will bungle the matter if they accompany her. For his part, Veloc is concerned, not only for his sister’s safety, but for her soundness of mind, as well; while Heldo-Bah has by now reached the simple hope that someone — a noble, merciful tree, if needs must — will knock him unconscious and end the wretchedness of listening to his friends debate again and again the same points.