Hubris - 52. Commander Gyrell

Crowe gaped at the ghosts of Jalif and Kara. His mind told him it was not possible that they could be standing there - a redundancy it seemed it would never entirely be able to let go of - but he’d seen enough of the world to know anything was possible. They were really standing there. And judging from the smile of utter bliss on her face, they were very real to Gyrell. Her arms around her daughter, her husband's around her to create a human chain bound by paternal love. Who are you to say what is real and what is not?

With Barghast's help, he managed to clamber to his feet. In spite of the conclusions he’d come to, the shock of Jalif and Kara’s appearance made the practitioner's mind continue to spin like an out of control top.

“You're supposed to be dead!” Crowe screamed at Jalif.

At this accusation, Jalif raised his head. He smiled at each other as if they'd always known each other, the laugh lines around his mouth deepening.

“I see you need more wine! Quite good, isn't it?” Don't worry, we have more where that came from! You should visit our vineyard here in Caldreath if you decide to stay!” With this he totteres out of the room with the decanter gripped in one broad hand. His passage from one room to the next was the passage of a man who could not be happier with his lot in life.

Kara lifted her head, blonde curls hanging down past her shoulders. She looked her mother directly in the eye with the sort of intent innocence only a child can possess. “Will you come pick mushrooms with me? I found a big patch of them in the woods.” Her eyes closed with excitement. “You know I love it when you make deep-fried mushrooms, Mama!”

Seeing Loras smile was like witnessing a sexual act one was not meant to see. In contrast to the stoicism she had shown in the stairway, Loras’ face opened to release an inner light. It made Crowe want to look away rather than look into it. It was a private light only meant for Jalif and Kara; it was not meant for him to see. Once again I am standing in a place where I don't belong, he thought.

“I would love nothing more than to pick mushrooms with you!” Gyrell's laugh said nothing could be more true. “But first I have some very important business I must attend to. It won't take long, I promise.”

“You promise?” Kara asked a bit mistrustfully. Apparently this was a promise her mother had made before and not kept.

“I promise. When we return I will show you how to bread and fry them. How does that sound? Would that make you happy?”

Kara beamed at her mother. Her curls bobbed up and down. Her smile was every bit as radiant as Gyrell’s. Gyrell pecked and tickled her until she was a squirming bundle of nerves on her lap, securely held in place by her arms the same way Barghast had done so many times with Crowe; it was the ultimate show of love to protect the person one cares about most with their body. When Gyrell had had enough play she told the girl to run along.

She stared after her for a long time. Slowly her smile faltered. The laughter in her eyes dimmed. We can only lie to ourselves for so long, the practitioner reminded himself. Eventually the truth pokes out its hard little head whether we want it to or not. He had to bite his tongue to keep from pushing her towards the necessary revelations. It was better to let her reach the truth in her own time.

When she spoke the truth was evident in her voice; it made her words crack and waver like eroding rock. “In case you are wondering if I am not going mad. I am not under a spell. I know that is not my husband and daughter. I know they are puppets. Projections. Just like whatever tricks the woods played on your and your lycan companion are projections - the woods played them on us then, too. I will start by saying this much in the hopes that it reassures you I am of sound mind.” Loras climbed out of her chair with a grunt. “Will you and your lycan friend come with me?”

“His name is Barghast.”

The commander nodded hastily in the Okanavian’s direction. “Barghast it is.”

Crowe narrowed his eyes at her. “You don’t remember his name?”

Loras returned his scrutiny with growing impatience. “No. Why would I know his name? I’ve never seen him before - I would remember if I had. I’ve never seen you before either.”

The practitioner let the question drop with a shrug. “It’s not important.”

When the sorcerer did not offer more questions, Loras led them up the remaining flights of stairs to the belltower.

Crowe’s heart swelled the moment he felt the morning light on his face. Not the simulation of light created by a force who could change the environment at will, but the real thing. From where Barghast and he stood they had a better view of the town. On Caldreath’s outer rim to the East he could see the windmill Loras had mentioned. Wooden rotors churned through the small loch that spread out before the village. There were several women who fished along the bank of the loch, wearing sunhats; many had tucked flowers from the woods in the bands of their caps. They’d brought buckets to fill with water and carry back home. Children frolicked above the high grass, their laughter ringing through the gold morning air.

Crowe could not keep a smile from tugging at his lips. When’s the last time you heard the sound of children laughing?

In the square directly below, the streets were alive with its own bustle of activity. Several stalls had been set up, selling pastries and handmade wares. Loras’ back was turned, so Crowe could not see her face, but he could sense the cloak of wistful happiness draped around her shoulders. He glanced at Barghast. As more peals of joyous laughter pierced the air, the Okanavian pressed his ears back, flicking his tail back and forth in irritated arcs. The practitioner’s scowl. There were times when he resented the lycan’s need to keep the sorcerer all to himself. Most of the time it’s nice when it’s just the two of us…but it can’t just be the two of us all the time. The entire land is locked in a bloody, endless war. We need allies. And even if we weren’t at war, even if things happened in the world the way they are supposed to, we still need other people in our lives from time to time. Otherwise I will grow mad from the isolation.

He tucked the thought and the hard kernel of resentment away before the shame could kick in and cause him further harm.

“I am sure it’s not too hard for you to imagine what the conditions were like before we got here. You’ve been on the road. You couldn’t be on the highway and not see it. You’ve seen how merciless and relentless the Theocracy is: the war is everywhere and it will keep spreading until Drajen is dead.” Though she did not turn away from the town, Crowe sensed her words were solely meant for him. She spoke with the clinical precision of a doctor recounting events at a tribunal.

If she had turned to look at him, Gyrell would have seen all the blood drain from Crowe’s face. I do know. I know all too well.

“By the time my troops had reached Poughtown, I’d lost some two hundred men,” Gyrell continued with that same clinical tone. “ I knew I would lose many more before we made it back to Caemyth. It is a fact you learn to get used to. The refugees had already been dealing with the spoils of war. Many of them were already sick and starving from lack of food and resources.” Gyrell waved her hand dismissively; this was something Crowe knew she had seen many, many times. How many times do you have to see a thing before you are completely numb to it? He felt an odd but hopeful stirring in his heart at this thought.

“By the time we reached Fort Teague, we were all on the brink of going mad. Starved, dehydrated, forced to breathe in the smell of our shit with no hope of salvation except to keep forging ahead. The Theocracy wouldn’t let us rest or treat the injured or bury the dead. Many of them we had to leave out in the open, to be picked over by birds instead of a proper burial. I’m rambling. I think I’ve given you enough details, you can see it in your mind…”

Now she did look at him. Not with desperation but something akin to respect if not a knowingness. Crowe found himself nodding. “I can,” he said hoarsely.

“When we reached Fort Teague I had no idea about what you and Matthiesen call ‘the black hole’,” the commander rasped. “All I knew is that we were on our own, in the dark. There was no way to get the message out that we needed help. To try and send a scout out would have been a sure way to condemn the messenger to a death at the end of Elysia’s rope. At least with me they would have a somewhat better chance of surviving. I told myself there would be enough food and supplies at the fort we could replenish our strength. Our will to live. Once we were able to, we could make the final push to Caemyth. Sometimes that’s all you can do when the enemy has you surrounded and you have no other options: Forge ahead.

“Our first night at the fort we were too exhausted to do anything but sleep. Over a dozen refugees and soldiers went to the Eternal City, their hearts finally giving out from the sheer terror of constantly being on the run day after day, not knowing if their children or they would live to see the next day. The next morning we held a ceremony for the dead: the ones we had no choice but to leave behind and the ones we had with this one. We cremated them and let the Southern winds blow their ashes into the sky. The refugees and soldiers sang about how they would reunite with their loved ones and Monad in the Eternal City.” A wry smile twisted the commander’s lips. “I didn’t partake. I never do.”

She waved a hand dismissively a second time. “I suppose you don’t have any interest in hearing more about that, so I’ll tell you about the voice.”

Crowe felt the hairs on the back of his arms and neck stand on end; he knew exactly what voice the commander referred to.

“I was one of the last ones who started hearing it. At first I only heard others talk about it. Usually with wide eyes and fevered whispers. At first it was with the refugees. At night I would find myself restless and unable to sleep and I would walk around the camp to find men and women huddled together like children with a secret to share. Men and women who were of rational mind, who might have told ghost stories to pass the time but did not believe in them. And yet the same name was on their lips - a name I’d never heard before until we reached Fort Teague: the Mother of Caldreath. Over and over again like a prayer. Both with worship and terror.”

Loras paused long enough to swallow and clear her throat. Once more she had turned her back to the practitioner and barbarian. Crowe was certain she was making a concerted effort to avoid their gaze. Perhaps even their judgment. Meanwhile he clutched the railing with white knuckles.

“Towards the beginning of our second night at the fort I put two and two together - it was impossible not to. That I was within days’ journey of where my old hometown used to stand. I told myself it was merely a coincidence. I told myself after weeks, months, years of constant strife, the people I had been charged to protect and escort back to Caemyth had turned to the only thing they had left to them: superstition.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen it: how even the most rational of minds can turn to irrational beliefs, irrational means. I’d seen it mostly amongst other soldiers, who like the sailors on the Gaulhill Sea already have a proclivity for superstition. So it came as no surprise when the troops started whispering about the Mother of Caldreath. The angel of death who spared through the sky, deliver death and justice to those who sought to destroy us. I remember telling myself it seemed perfectly harmless at the time.”

Gyrell let out another bitter chuckle. “I was not able to remain non-partial for long. By the start of our third morning at Fort Teague, I was beginning to experience strange phenomenon of my own. While I never completely fell asleep as one should, I would find myself drifting off during meals and briefings. When I did I dreamed of Caldreath. In these dreams I would be a girl. The same girl who used to visit the well” - Loras pointed to the well in front of the church - “during the early hours of the morning when the first rays of light would appear in the sky. I would bring back water when my mother was too tired to get out of bed or because she was in too much pain because my father had beat after drinking too many spirits the night before. Or I would dream of venturing into the woods to pick mushrooms with Kara. No matter the scenario, whether I was a little girl or a mother, there was always one common factor in the dream: the woman with the headpiece of bone.”

Gyrell gave the practitioner another knowing smile; this time she had seen the blood drain from his face. “You’ve seen her, haven't you?”

Crowe nodded shakily. For some reason the simple movement of raising his head up and down was difficult. He didn't have it in him to offer a verbal response. Sensing his anxiety, Barghast took a step towards him, but hung back just in case his twin o’rre needed space. “What is she?”

Something ominous and cryptic flashed in Gyrell's green eyes. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

The practitioner nodded, hoping he looked more confident than he felt. He was not looking forward to another encounter with the woman from his visions.

“At first the woman only spoke to me in my dreams, but by nighttime of the third day, I was seeing her while awake, too. When I glimpsed my reflection it was her sad face I saw staring back at me. When I patrolled along the walls of the fort, I would spot her walking silently between the tents. Always with the same look on her face. Not just desperation or grief or rage but an amalgamation of the three. Before long I found myself looking for her, hoping even for just a glimpse of her out of the corner of my eye.

“For those first two days in which she appeared to me, I didn't join in the others in the whispers and tales of her even as rumors of sightings continued to spread throughout the camp. I know it sounds petty to you coming from a cold-steel bitch like me, but I wanted to keep her visitations to myself as long as I could.” Gyrell's mouth twisted into another smile; this one was both wistful and sardonic.

“By the time the messages inscribed in red paint appeared on the walls, I simply couldn't keep it to myself anymore. Before I knew it I was recounting tales of my dreams with others. Men and women I had fought with, risked my life for, and for the first time I felt a sense of community that I had thought would be forever lost to me. As those few days became a week, the Mother's call grew stronger, more insistent. She wasn't just calling to us through our dreams, she was calling to us through the paint and we would see her soaring above the trees, a vengeful wraith made of fire. She was calling for us to leave the safety of the fort; she was calling for us to join her. It became a call we simply couldn't resist.

“Make no mistake, the journey through the forest was not an easy one. As with any good thing we had to pay for our passage and the cost was great. Justice is not a blade that cuts one way, but both. Justice does not care who's side you took, only that the tollment in blood has been paid. In this case the Mother's blade struck down both torchcoats and Monad's people. Justice is not kind, but it is fair.

“The forest played tricks on us the way it did you and your lycan companion. I saw Jalif and Kara but they were not the Jalif and Kara from my dreams at the fort…” Gyrell’s voice cracked slightly. “...or the real thing. They locked me. They said things the real Kara and Jalif would never say. They blamed me for their deaths. They blamed me for living when I wanted nothing more than to join them in death.

“I might have given up in the forest. Many of Monad's people did…many of them with levels of experience in politics and on the battlefield equally matched to my own. Subjectively speaking. To have pushed so hard and so far, how could it be expected of them to push any harder, any farther. Alas, the cost of failure to meet those expectations was a painful and miserable death. I could have shot myself. I could have perished in any number of ways, but I kept forging ahead, pushing myself through the various layers of the forest. Fog one moment, fire the next, living trees with a mind of their own.” She pointed at the scratches on the herald's face. “I see the forest left its mark on you as well.

When we left Poughtown I was in charge of over two thousand lives. There were also the refugees and soldiers already gathered at the fort. By the time we escaped the private hell of the forest, there were less than four hundred of us. That number has grown slightly as more of Monad's people continue to trickle in. I think we've stood here, chatting long enough. Let's get the blood pumping through our legs again while we continue to talk.”

Crowe was glad for the break in the conversation. His mind had only begun to spin faster the more Loras talked. Barghast had yet to relax, his displeasure at being in this place unwavering. Crowe wished he could share his absolute conviction. But there's no one shooting at us. Following Gyrell back into the morning light, he inhaled deeply. The sun felt warm and golden on his face. No one's trying to kill us. We can actually stop and breathe and feel the sunlight on our faces.

They were passing the well now, heading in the direction of the windmill. “All of this was here just as you see it when we found the town. And it looked just exactly as I remembered it. Before the Theocracy came and laid ruin to it the way they do with everything.” The resentment in Gyrell's voice reflected the echo in the practitioner's heart. Her voice darkened only a moment before returning back to its clinical cadence. “The windmill. The bakery where Ma and I used to go to pick up fresh baked bread. The church that we went to on every Sabbath day, praying to Monad so that he might hear our prayers within his prison in the Void. Always with the knowledge that the current Sabbath day might be our last, that the Theocracy would come through and burn it all down. Which of course they did.

“My first thought upon seeing Caldreath was that we were not out of the woods yet. We only thought we were. The Mother was still testing us to see if we could earn our keep if it was real. But then I touched one of the buildings…” The building stopped beside a rectangular building with a triangular roof and rested a palm on the wall. “...and felt the wood. Even at that moment I did not want to believe what I was seeing, what I was feeling, but I was well on my way to deniability not being an option. That was when I began to hear someone singing. Not the Mother of Caldreath’s sad, broken voice, but the voice of a child. The voice of a little girl.”

Wistful tears appeared at the corner of Gyrell's eyes. She did not bother to wipe them away. “I knew that voice - could never forget it no matter how much I might want to - and so I followed it to the church. There I saw Jalif and Kara just the way you saw them this morning, herald. They touched me. They held me. They said things they used to say.”

“Are they…?” Crowe began cautiously.

“Real.” The commander shook her head. A wrinkle of sadness appeared between her snowy eyebrows. “They are not the real Jalif and Kara. I know that. I don't trick myself into thinking they are puppets used by this place to keep me here. They are limited in what they say. Kara only wants to grab mushrooms in the woods. Jalif rubs my shoulders the way he always used to every morning at the breakfast table. Alas, it is not true what they say about practitioners. We may live long life spans but we are susceptible to madness and memory loss and after a hundred years of living without them the only time I could remember their face or voice was in my dreams. You don't know the agony of what it's like to forget the face of those you love most.”

Crowe thought of the morning he’d come to the kitchen to find Petras on the floor, bleeding from a gash he’d opened with a piece of glass. He cut the thought off before it grew roots in his mind. “You're right.”

If the commander heard the bitterness in his voice she didn't show it. “I am not the only one who has been reunited with the dead. There are a few others who have lost wives, husbands, and children and have found them here. Those who have been granted sanctuary here - who have earned it - have found only comfort and happiness. Only Monad's people - our people - have flourished. Torchcoats are not welcome here and have only found death. Exactly what they deserve, I say. If you need further proof I think this should convince you…”

They’d stopped outside a wooden two story house that had yet to be painted; Crowe sensed the construction of the house had only just been finished. Loras knocked on the door, fixing on the smile she’d worn this morning. The practitioner looked back at Barghast. The lycan still looked unhappy but at least he wasn't growling and frothing at the mouth still.

“Are you alright?” the sorcerer asked.

“I am fine.” The Okanavian still had his arms crossed stubbornly over his chest. His rifle hung from the strap from his shoulder. He no longer seemed to think they were in immediate danger.

Crowe couldn't keep himself from flinching at the growl in Barghast's voice. He could think of only one time the lycan had growled at him in frustration and that had been when they’d first met, when they couldn't understand each other.

Having seen his reaction, Barghast now turned to the practitioner. “I’m sorry, twin o'rre,” he whined. “I am not upset with you. But I still do not like this place. I want to leave.”

Before the sorcerer could reply the door swung open. A short, narrow-faced man with a bald head and pale blue eyes leaned against the wall. “Hiya, Commander,” Rake saluted with a broad grin. He turned his head and winked at Crowe and Barghast's shocked faces.

Rake’s teeth flashed in the radiant sunlight. He appeared to be completely oblivious to the speechless expressions on their faces. “I was wondering when I would see you two troublemakers.”

The practitioner swallowed. He looked the man up and down. When they’d met, Rake had been huddled in a small inn in a town called Timberford. He had been on the brink of starvation himself. The man Crowe and Barghast had met had been well-meaning enough, but quick-tempered and bitter. Looking back it had been understandable. His village was infected by a plague. A plague that turned the people he’d known and loved his whole life. The matriarch of the village, a woman who was older than the trees that surrounded Timberford, was mutilated. All as a consequence of the Theocracy’s meddlings. This man doesn't look like the man we parted with.

“R-Rake? A-Are you really here?” Crowe stammered. He refused to look at Gyrell. All the blood had risen to his face, turning his cheeks as red as a tomato.

“As real as apple pie.” The rat-faced man sauntered up to the practitioner before slinging a thin arm around the sorcerer’s strength. He had the unexpected strength of a terrier, pulling the sorcerer towards him so that the younger man was half stooped. When Barghast unleashed his warning growl, Rake did not balk away, but turned his sunny grin on the Okanavian.

“It is good to see you, too, my furry friend.” He clapped the lycan on the shoulder as if they had always known each other.

Barghast immediately stopped growling. He blinked. His ears twitched. He looked uncertainly at Crowe. The practitioner shrugged. When it became clear that the sorcerer was not going to offer advice on how to proceed, the barbarian gulped, clearing his throat. “I-it is good t-to s-see you,” he stammered in fits and starts.

Crowe gaped at the lycan. Today is chock full of surprises. On their trek from the Mirror Expanse up until now the practitioner had continued Barghast’s lessons in speaking the northern tongue; it made his heart flutter with pride to see the lycan apply those lessons in social situations. At least he’s trying to be more friendly to others.

Rake unleashed a bray of laughter. The flesh at the corners of his eyes wrinkled up in delight. “I see you’ve been teaching him how to speak. Teaching him some manners as well. Do you like apple pie? How about you, Commander? I have one in the oven now.”

“A-apple pie?” Barghast looked to the practitioner for an explanation.

The sorcerer could feel his embarrassment growing. If he could, he would have sunk through the ground. Did I not tell him about apple pie? “It’s something we like to make in the South during the Harvest months. We make it with apples. They put it in a sort of pastry. A pastry is a type of bread. You’ve tried apples before, remember?”

Barghast’s tail stopped mid sway before speeding up. He panted excitedly, his eyes brightening from bronze to gold. “Yes, I remember when we tried apples. I’ve never tasted anything more sweet or juicy…other than you of course, twin o’rre.”Turning back to Rake, he switched to a semblance of the Northern tongue. “A-apple pie!”

Rake led them into the house. Sure enough the moment they stepped over the threshold, Crowe detected the smell of baking yeast w0ith hints of milk and butter and the sweet aroma of caramelized apples. The sitting area and kitchen were all one big room. The open space and sparse furniture gave the sense that the interior of the house was bigger than the exterior. It was not quite a home yet but with time it would be.

For a reason he could not explain, the practitioner had been trying to avoid the commander. Now their glances collided. It surprised him to find her cheeks were every bit as red as his own. She’s not accustomed to socializing around the kitchen table anymore than I am. The thought calmed his fluttering heart.

A moment later he found himself sitting next to Barghast on one side of the table while Loras positioned herself at the head. Rake appeared at the other end, deftly maneuvering a large pan onto the table with oven mitts. Crowe watched him dreamily. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d worn a pair of oven mitts, or the last time he’d partaken in the pleasure of baking. His mouth watered in anticipation of the taste of apple pie. He wasn’t the only one. Strings of saliva dripped from Barghast’s mouth, sheening the floor. Gyrell and Rake made a point of not noticing.

The pie was divided out onto plates. Rake descended down into the cellar long enough to bring up a pitcher of chilled milk. For the next three minutes the house was filled with the sound of spoons scraping against plates. Barghast did not use his spoon, but picked the piece up and shoved it into his dripping maw.

By all rights Crowe should have been able to put the piece away himself; it had been several days since Barghast had had a decent meal beyond what the surrounding land provided. Leaning back in his chair, his belly felt tight. Swollen. He glanced over at Barghast. Barghast focused intently on the pie. There was still a fourth of it left. Rake pushed the pie towards him with a knowing, self-satisfied grin. Crowe scooted his chair from the scattering of crumbs and apple filling that pattered on the floor.

With another deep breath, the sorcerer managed to get his thoughts in working order; the pie had proved what he thought to be impossible. Rake was really here with them in Caldreath. He wasn't just an illusion. Illusions don't eat pie. “The last time I saw you, you were still in Timberford. Now that you are sitting before me, I recall you said that you were going to Caemyth. We left there a couple weeks ago. I didn't think to look for you there. So much has happened in the last year.”

“You ain’t kidding.” For the first time since he’d opened the door, Rake’s newfound amiability slipped into an expression that was part grimace and part sad frown. His eyes quickly skimmed over Crowe’s crippled hand. “There is nothing left of Timberford. Like the original Caldreath, it’s nothing but a pile of ash. The twist is that the Theocracy didn’t light the oil, we did. The decision was unanimous. We decided no matter what happened - if not a single one of us made it to Caemyth - then at least we weren’t going to let those Elysian bastards have it. Know what I’m saying?”

Crowe nodded, thinking of the day he’d set flame to his own house. Sometimes it just feels good to burn things down. The thought caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end.

“Like the commander here, I am one of the few left of my hometown.” Some of the familiar bitterness slipped into Rake’s voice. “Everyone else is gone. Their blood soaks the boots of every torchcoat as far as I am concerned. I decided when I reached Caemyth I would not stop until every torchcoat was dead, or I was. So I joined the resistance.” His eyes fell to the table. They pierced through it as if it were made of glass instead of wood. His bony hands trembled with the burden of memory. Crowe reached into his pocket for a joint to still his own quaking palms.

After a moment Rake raised his eyes to the commander’s. “There were times when I hated you. When I blamed you for the shit we went through getting to Poughtown and then to Fort Teague and through that fucking forest.” His mouth twisted into a familiar grimace. “It’s pretty, I know. It wasn’t like you dragged me by my cock and pulled me into joining the resistance…”

This colorful admission earned him a throaty chuckle from the commander.

“...but I needed someone to blame for my misfortunes. Having someone to blame - anyone but myself - gave me the will I needed to survive. As arrogant and delusional as I know that is, having someone to blame is what has always given me the will to survive.”

Gyrell raised her empty milk glass. She either did not notice or did not care that she had a ring of white around her mouth. Her smile was not one of bitterness but sad familiarity. “I know exactly what you mean. Any soldier would be a lying fool if they boasted they didn’t have second thoughts about joining the military. Those who keep fighting in spite of those misgiving do so because they are driven by a force that is far stronger than the fear. If you don’t mind my saying, dear, Rake, it sounds like you and I are driven by the same thing: vengeance.” She turned her attention intently on Crowe. “What greater driving force is there than vengeance?”