Hubris - 54. The Hour of the Herald

I shouldn’t have lost my temper with Barghast. Not only does he have a right to be scared, but he’s right.

But once more his words failed him. It was something that had been happening more and more lately. It was best to keep going. Best to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Because when you stop, the bloodhounds chasing your heel always catch up and they always make you bleed.

Whether Commander Gyrell was a bloodhound, he could not say for sure. It was clear to see that she had fallen in love with the illusion of the place; an illusion that proved to be more and more real the longer they were here. And yet while hardened by her experiences of loss both familial and in battle, she was clearly sane minded. She did not talk as someone who could not tell reality from delusion. She herself had admitted she knew her husband and daughter were still alive. Someone who is insane would not be able to tell the difference. Their mind would do everything it could to protect them from the truth.

Delusions may not be a sin, but weakness certainly was.

Barghast is not the weak one. Barghast is not the one who is afraid. I am.

While he feared being the fool who fell for another trap, there was another greater fear. Up until now it had been satisfied with lingering on the fringes, but now it reared up its head as they traveled deeper into the house. Though several candles had been lit, Loras summoned a ball of flame. She did not use a staff or a rod the way Crowe did, but her own hand. Crowe had always feared using mana without a tool to channel it for fear that it would spread out of control and wreak havoc. Gyrell did not need such precautions. She’d done it with a single wave of her hand.

The interior of the house was almost identical to Rake’s. The sitting room space and dining room were combined into a single open space. His eyes swept across the fireplace, the staircase that led up to the second floor. The place smelled pleasantly of wood.

“Why did you bring us here?” He did not look at Loras.

“You know why,” she said from the drawer.

“Was this house always here or did it just ‘pop’ up?”

“Does it matter? It’s yours if you want it.”

Now he did turn around to glare at her. He planted his hands firmly in his hips just so his hand was close to his rod. Butterflies fluttered inside his stomach. Barghast took a cautious step closer to him. His bulk blotted out the candlelight. He looked even more imposing in the house; the tips of his ears almost brushed the ceiling. He would have to stoop and tuck his shoulders in to squeeze himself through the door.

“What makes you think we want it? What makes you think we want to stay?”

“I know you don’t want to go back out on the road.”

Her words were like steel blades slicing into his heart. When he did not offer an argument she said, “It’s smart of you not to deny it. Every thought and feeling going on inside of you shows on your face. I can help you with that.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“But you need it. I don’t want your help either, but I need it as much as it pains me to say it.” She pressed her hand to her bosom. “I am not someone who is usually disposed to asking for help. When you open yourself up you make yourself vulnerable and when you are vulnerable you make it easy for someone to strike you where it hurts most. But I have been fighting this war for a long time…long since before you were born…and Monad help me, I am mighty tired.” She looked away, but it was too late. He’d already seen the tears in her eyes and she knew it. But there was also calculation there, quick as a bullet. She’d been alive for centuries. She was not just dangerous because of the levels of her powers, she was a master tactician. A master manipulator. A force to be reckoned with in her own right. “Aren’t you?” She put just the right amount of pain in her voice. It was effective.

“I am,” he conceded.

“I can see it in you,” she said. The reproach in her tone said this was more than just a manipulation tactic; she was also being genuine. “No practitioner lives an easy life. We are slaves to the Theocracy. We are slaves to the power we possess and we are slaves to our own emotions. That is why the Theocracy has always feared us. We are volatile, which is why we have always stuck to the mountains. Which is why, like the lycans…” She nodded at Barghast. “...we just want to be left alone. We just want to live our lives in peace. But the Theocracy won’t let us have it. We’ll have to fight for our freedom. Every bit of it. Look at what they’ve done. Look at the means they’ve forced us into in order to survive. If you need no further motivation then look at your own hand. It's not easy to come back from losing two fingers. You can certainly learn to make do, but it will never be with the ease you had.”

Crowe looked at his hand. At the empty space where his fingers used lto be. He felt tears spring to his eyes unbidden. Rather than turn away from her he met her eyes. Whatever she is, whoever she has aligned herself with, she has one thing in common with Barghast and I: she knows the pain of loss well.

“There is only one way out of this,” she said, her voice rising in a plea. “Together. It is well known in past Iterations

that the herald has always needed followers. These people have been waiting for you. Praying for the day when you would show up. They would follow you anywhere; they would follow you into the depths of Inferno. With me you would have a mentor. A mentor of great value. You have the instincts of a leader, I can see it in you already. It shines through like steel. But you are still young with a lot to learn. My knowledge combined with your power…you could be a formidable force.”

Crowe's mouth twisted into a cynical sneer. “And all I have to do is take this house?”

“It's a start. A home where you and your lycan friend can find stability while you train. Far better to train in a place that feels like home than in a muddy field.”

“Are we chained to it?”

The commander waved her hands around the room. “Do you see chains?”

No, but you are, he thought. He glanced at the fireplace. I fear I might be as well.

As this thought passed through his mind, the fantasy of having a home - even if it was a temporary one - came to life around him. It wouldn't be the house he would have inherited from Petras. It will truly be ours. Every morning Barghast and I could have breakfast together. I’ll introduce him to coffee. He ran a hand across the bench that was large enough for the lycan to sit comfortably. He dreamed of making rabbit stew during the long nights.

Now he walked up the stairs. He wanted to see the rest of the house. He walked down the hall. He explored its rooms: the library full of his favorite books; books he’d read over and over again because it had been the only way to escape from here…

“You could have anything you want…”

…the bathroom with a large basin in the center of the room where Barghast and he could spend long nights soaking in perfumed water…

“You and Barghast can be comfortable…”

…the bedroom where there was a bed he and Barghast could fit in together.

It wasn't until he came down the stairs that woke up from his daze, cheeks glowing with pleasant fantasies, that he realized Loras had not moved from her post at the front door. “You don't have to make a decision now,” she told him gently. “You still have the dinner to think about things.”

She offered him a tightly rolled aether joint. She struck a match and lit the tip of the joint for him before tossing it carelessly out into the night. He inhaled deeply. Smoke curled in his throat, filling it with the familiar taste of honey and pine.

This place has chains, indeed, he thought. And they cut deeper than steel.

                           …

The people of Caldreath were seated at tables that had been stationed on a grass field; the tables had been pushed together end to end. Fireflies flitted amongst the trees. Children chased them with outstretched hands, their laughter rising above the joyous laughter from the tables. Crowe found himself searching the crowd for torchcoats and bad omens. Even now I can't fully let myself relax. We’ve been on the road too long. We’ve been on the run too long. He glanced at Gyrell as she was surrounded by men and women eager to snatch a fragment of her attention. Now that she was back “on the stage” she was all smiles and laughter, rubbing shoulders and putting backs. She had traded grandiosity for something more subtle and down-to-earth. She found peace here. Why can't Barghast and I? Would that really be such a bad thing? Or are we now so adverse to peace it's now impossible to find?

Barghast stood to the practitioner's left, his arms crossed over his chest. The moment he caught the sorcerer watching him, his perpetual scowl turned into a grin. He's doing his best just like me. Just like all of us. Crowe leaned towards him. “Everything’s going to be okay. As long as you and I are together, that's all that matters.”

The Okanavian returned the wink. “That's all that matters.”

They grinned at each other, waiting for the commander to return beneath a large tree. Barghast became fascinated with the stage that stood several meters away from the cluster of tables. Men and women danced before it to the swell of violin music, tambourines, and drums. “It looks just like the stage from my clan!”

Crowe grinned. Was it too soon to hope that Barghast would try to see past his misgivings and give this place a chance?

Do you really want to stay here? a voice whispered slyly in the back of his mind. He shoved it away viciously, hiding his doubt behind a laugh. “Do you want to step closer? We could get a better look. We could dance together.” His pulse quickened pleasurably at the thought of dancing with the Okanavian.

The lycan eyed the couples of swaying and spinning dancers with cautious fascination. When he looked back at Crowe he lowered his head. “I would like to…but I don't know how. No one ever taught me.”

Crowe bit his tongue to keep from laughing. He didn't want the barbarian to feel more embarrassed than he already did, but the tortured expression he gave the practitioner made it a challenge. He scratched at Barghast's chest fur until the tension drain from his shoulders. “I like it that no one’s taught you.”

The lycan’s ears perked up. “You do?”

The sorcerer nodded. “It means I get to be the one to teach you.”

“Nothing would make me happier than for you to teach me to dance.

The practitioner and the lycan were so intently focused on each other they didn't realize Loras had come up behind them until she cleared her throat impatiently. The brackets of tension around her mouth eased with a cynical smile. She nodded in the direction of the tables. She leaned conspiratorially towards Crow; her eyes lit up with something akin to mischief. and good humor. “As you can see I do more than just protect the people who count on me to keep them safe. I am more than just a warrior, more than just a guardian. Leaders - real leaders - wear multiple hats. My duty is not just to protect them, but to guide them when I can and to make the hard decisions when I cannot. The role of commander is a balancing act. It's walking on a tightrope. There are no straight lines. You will find this out soon enough.”

“What if you can't be all things to all people all at once?”

She didn't answer. She waved at the two chairs stationed at the head of the table. To the left of Crowe was another bench, no doubt provided for Barghast. The lycan eyed it mistrustfully before seating himself. Around them the dancers ceased their spinning, the musicians their playing. Crowe watched them converge around the tables. Watch them turn from individuals and couples into a single body. It was a choice they made willingly, not with the air of the bewitched or the coerced. The momentary tension that had settled back into his shoulders eased.

Loras raised her hands diplomatically. The last of the chatter died. All eyes turned to her. The look she gave them was not the look of a soldier charged with their protection, but a mother who is happy to be with all her children. They in turn watched her with calm excitement. With love. Crowe ached to feel such love.

“We have paid much to be here. For many of us, the price was more than we could bear.” Gyrell's smile faltered enough to convey her grief and gather nods of sorrow. “No one will know how much we paid in sweat. In tears. In blood. And so it has been this way with the passing of each Iteration; our suffering and our triumphs will not go down in the pages of history. Before we reached Fort Teague, I was the lowest I could remember being since the day the Theocracy took my husband and daughter from me and burned the only life I’d ever known down to the ground. That was over a hundred years ago…”

Members in the audience stirred. A single breath of sympathy rolled through them like a wave that traveled back to Loras.

“I must admit I was not as ready to trust the Mother as you lot were.” The commander’s smile was humble. Apologetic. She waved her hand in a silent plea for grace, a woman who has finally come to grip with the errors of her ways. Several heads bombed up and down in validation. “But soon I heard the truth in her call. I realized the gifts she has granted us is worth the price of admission. And that this place of sanctuary is meant for us.” She thrust her hands towards the stars. She dropped her head back so that her face was awash in silver moonlight. “Not for Drajen and his torchcoats. Not for the Whore of Creation, Elysia, who they worship with such blind devotion!”

This time the audience didn't just murmur in adoration, they cheered. Men rose to their feet with such force they knocked their chairs back, clapping each other on the back. Women sobbed into their handkerchiefs. Gyrell let the commotion play out out for a moment before quelling it with another wave of her hands.

She doesn't have to scream or use acts of violence to get their attention, Crowe thought. He watched her with fascination. Like Matthiesen in Caldreath, she's already won their respect. Their love.

Gyrell cleared her throat before continuing. “With that said all good things must come to an end. Peace simply does not last no matter how long we might want it to. The arrival of the herald has always been both a symbol of hope and change, and for true everlasting change to occur, we must first push through the flames of chaos. The era of the herald is here at last!”

Every eye in Caldreath turned to Crowe. The commander nodded at him. Her smile prodded him to do his part in the performance. He stood on shaky legs. They smiled at him. They blamed at him with respect. With reverence. Even Barghast was standing now, his tail wagging, his eyes glowing with pride. The air had become so quiet all the practitioner could hear was the wind stirring through the trees and the racing of his heart. Is this really happening? Or am I dreaming?

“We have reached a turning point in our cycle!” Gyrell proclaimed. Now she spoke solely to Crowe though her voice was loud enough for all to hear. “You are here, herald. Here to guide Monad's people out from underneath the shadow of oppression. All that you see before you has been placed here…for you. To prepare you. So that you can take what is yours. So that you can lead Monad's people back to the Eternal City where we belong. So that you can end this loop of eternal suffering once and for all.”

She held up a goblet made of silver. Veins of dark red threaded from the mouth of the cup to the bottom. Inside was a silvery substance Crowe recognized immediately: aether.

“Aether wine,” the commander told him with that same wicked smile the practitioner was becoming more familiar with. “Not only do we have our own aether grove…which you will soon see…but we manufacture and store the wine at our very own windmill.”

The moment the commander raised the goblet to her lips, Crowe realized his hands were no longer empty. He looked down and saw he held a cup that could have been an exact replica of the commander’s.

“How…?”

The question died on his lips unfinished. He soon discovered they were not the only ones who held cups full of aether wine. Every villager in Caldreath had one. Even Barghast. The lycan looked every bit as surprised as the practitioner felt. How are we all holding goblets? They weren’t on the tables a moment ago and I didn’t see anyone pass them out…So where did they come from?

His thoughts returned to the house Gyrell had shown Barghast and he. It looked new, like they'd just finished building it! As if it sprouted right out of the ground! The Architect is doing this…She’s the one making all this happen…

Gyrell was not the only one drinking from her goblet. The men and women and even the children were doing the same. They drank deeply, their eyes closed in rapture. They almost looked sleepy.

“Twin o’rre?”

Barghast had not drank from his goblet yet.

Before the voice in his mind could ask more questions, the practitioner silenced it by raising the goblet to his lips. He did not stop drinking until he emptied the goblet of its contents.

The taste of aether mixed with grapes and honey flooded his tongue. It was so overwhelming his body fought to expel it. His throat tightened. He gagged. Don't spit it out! Tears streamed from his eyes. He clamped his lips shut. Don't spit it out! Drink it!

He did drink it. Through his tears he could see that Barghast had done the same. The Okanavian's overturned cup laid on the table but none of it had spilled into the grass.

Currents of lightning crackled through the sorcerer's veins. His skin buzzed. The world glowed as if everything harnessed an inner light that could only be seen by ingesting aether. The people of Caldreath glowed. They laughed, pointing at the swarm of synchronized lightning bugs that undulated through the air in a wave. He blinked. He looked down at the table. Other changes has occurred while he'd been distracted.

“May you find splendor in the Eternal City, indeed,” he whispered.

The table was covered from end to end with silverware, pitchers of chilled aether wine, and platters piled high with food. There was so much it was impossible for his overstimulated mind to give name to it all. There was every meat and delicacy he could think of - and many of which he’d never encountered before. Beef, duck, fish - Mercius, help me, there's fish! - roasted vegetables, fresh baked bread, and pastries.

“No one touch anything!”

Gyrell's voice rang through the night as powerful and commanding as a gunshot. Over four hundred heads turned to look at her with the guilt of children who have been caught in the act of doing something they are not supposed to be; their hands hovered over the platters of steaming food. Gyrell smiled as if t,I say, I won't scold you this one time. “We must restrain ourselves only a moment longer. An edge of steel slid into her voice like a blade. “We are not barbarians. We are not animals.” She glared at Barghast. A string of bloody meat hung from his muzzle; the lycan flashed Crowe a guilty look before he gulped it down. “We must first respect our guest of honor.”

Again, all eyes turned to Crowe.

I feel like a bug pinned to a board for observation. For a moment he was a child again, sneaking into Petras’ study while his mentor was away, watching the unmoving butterflies through the dusty glass with a mixture of terror and fascination. He pushed the memory away as quickly as it entered his mind. He turned sheepishly to Gyrell. The air smelled thickly of fresh meat pulled from the fire, aether wine, and pollen. The spicy smell of sweat underlying perfume. The perfume of summer. It seemed even the stars held their breath in the cosmos, their attention fixed on him.

“What do I do? Do I serve myself?”

“For now…nothing. You are our guest of honor. You shall be treated as such. We will serve your lycan friend as well.”

“His name is Barghast,” he murmured because it was the only thing he could think of to say. It was hard to think, hard to speak, hard to do anything but feel. He gaped at her, noting the way her eyes caught the light. He had never seen such luminous green eyes.

One day she will have the eyes of a silver fox…

He shivered in spite of himself.

Gyrell settled a palm on his shoulder. “Are you alright, herald? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Not a ghost. Just your future.

“I just had a cold chill. It must be from all the excitement. Has anyone told you, you have the most beautiful green eyes?”

She grinned. “I didn't think women were your type, herald.”

His cheeks burned. “They aren't. But your eyes are still really pretty.”

“That would be the aether wine talking. Hand me your plate.”

No sooner had Crowe handed the commander his plate, it seemed she was passing it back. Two more plates followed.

“I can't eat all this,” he told her stupidly.

“Then eat what you can. Nothing goes to waste here in Caldreath.”

He was not the only one who’d been served. Half a dozen plates had been set before Barghast. The lycan's shoulders shook with the effort to keep from gorging himself. After a moment he looked up at the practitioner. His tail wagged with renewed vigor. His eyes look like tiny suns, the sorcerer thought.

His skin still buzzed. A dragonfly zoomed towards him. He felt its gauzy wings brush his cheek as it passed. He lowered himself into his seat, still blushing. He felt more self-conscious than ever. He picked up the knife and fork that had been set out on a napkin. When’s the last time I used a knife and fork? When's the last time I enjoyed a meal, not just ate because I needed to survive? He picked up the silverware. He cut into a sausage. The blade of the knife made a satisfying crunching sound when it punctured the meat. The meat scalded his tongue, but he didn't care. He chewed a few times, then gulped it down greedily.

He was vaguely aware of the clatter of cutlery and chatter. The rest of his focus was on his meal. He devoured sausage, beef, pork, chicken. He feasted on vegetables, boiled potatoes awash in butter and herbs, and rolls. He emptied his goblet of aether wine only to find it full again when he reached for the pitcher. He was halfway through his second plate when he leaned back in his chair, so full he thought he might vomit. You're not used to eating like this. It's been months since you've had a full meal.

Barghast eyed the remainder of his meal. He'd emptied all six of his plates. “Twin o’rre…?” he whined.

Crowe pushed his plate to the lycan. “Have all you want.”

It was the last thing he remembered saying; he’d drunk too much aether wine. He was floating. Floating through a half-realized world full of strange voices, faces, and colors. When awareness returned to him he was being led away from the tables, towards a tall tree. Somewhere behind him he could hear the violins and tambourines; the musicians had returned to the stage. Did that mean the meal was over? The tree bent towards him, seemed to reach for him with questing branches. This was not like the trees he’d encountered in the purgatorial woods. The kind of trees that wanted to kill everything. This tree was friendly. The tree whispered to him in the language of leaves. “Herald,” it whispered. “Herald, herald, herald…”

His hand was engulfed in Barghast's paw. The lycan moved slowly, pulling him along. His eyes danced like the lights flickering in the lamps dangling from the branches over their heads. Barghast sat on the ground. Crowe went willingly into his lap; it was something they did so often he didn't have to think about it anymore. The lycan's arms wound around him. His tongue lapped at the practitioner's forehead. His breath smelled of aether wine and honey.

“I am a fool,” the lycan said.

Crowe's eyes widened. “You are not a fool…”

Before he could protest further, the barbarian placed a paw firmly over his mouth. “Let me finish. I am a fool because I judged this place too harshly. I think…I think we could be very happy here…”

For a moment Crowe felt such relief, such excitement he could have shrieked with laughter. Yes, they could find a life here! Yes, they could learn to be happy here! It would take adjusting and there was a still a war to be fought but they wouldn't be fighting it alone anymore. But even now a voice of caution spoke in the back of his mind, trying to break through the haze of aether wine. He reached up, passing his fingers through the fur between the Okanavian's ear.

“You are not a fool, Barghast. I should not have lost my temper with you earlier…simply for trying to express valid caution. You are right to question this place. You are right to be cautious. There is still a lot we don't know about this place. So at least remain a little cautious in case…”

…in case I’m not able to. In case I fall for this place. In case I am too weak. I need you to be my anchor.

The words were there in his mind but they were too complicated for his drug-addled tongue.

“I keep thinking about what you said,” the Okanavian rumbled. “About how you are tired. About how you need something different. I think we both do…even if it's only for a moment. Long enough to regain our strength at the very least. There is food and wine and dance and music and no one here is shooting at us. We should take advantage of it. Are you happy here?”

“I think so. It's the closest to happiness I've felt in a very long time. The closest to feeling safe. I can't remember the last time I felt at home. The last time I felt like I was where I belonged. I know I belong in your arms, but I mean in an actual place.”

Barghast tucked Crowe's head in the valley between his shoulder and his head. “I know exactly what you mean, my beloved. Do not fret on this anymore tonight…or tomorrow. Let's just rest. Let's just be together. Let's listen to music. Teach me how to dance. Let's kiss all night, well into the morning. Let me hold you. Let me love you.”

“Okay,” Crowe said, surrendering himself to Barghast's embrace. “Okay.”