The King's Justice: Two Novellas

  At the same time, the tunnels on the far side grow brighter. The brightness emerges in globes of purest radiance. Some are smaller than others, but all resemble instances of the sun’s best light. They float in the air without apparent aim, riding the breezes. Some are carried upward and swept away, funneled into the night above the mountain. Others bob here and there, avoiding only the flow of darkness on the floor. Those that collide with Haul Varder’s fire do not harm him. They are not harmed themselves.

  Driven by fear and eagerness, the hierophant retreats to the wall of the cavern. There he watches to see what his creation will do. He has no need or desire to control Varder. He has written his own protection into the man’s chest. Now he feels a student of power’s desire to learn where his efforts will lead.

  The wheelwright peers at the eerie manifestations. He stamps a foot into liquid dark. He swats at floating bright. Then he laughs like thunder. The sound of his mirth and scorn stuns Black’s hearing. It shakes the organs in Black’s chest.

  “Is this how your King responds?” Haul Varder asks. His voice is sure triumph. “He is a fool! These forces are mindless. They have no purpose. They cannot harm me. They cannot stop me.

  “When I reach him, I will hold his terror in my hands!”

  Sought tastes fulfillment. The King’s powers do not hurt his creation. They cannot.

  Nevertheless Black smiles once more, a smile that would chill the heart of any man able to recognize it. “You are mistaken,” he replies to Tamlin Marker’s killer. “They do not need minds. They have mine.”

  The sound of Varder’s laughter scours the cavern, but Black does not heed him. With sigils, glyphs, and scarifications, the King’s Justice reclaims his longsword. For this sorcery, evaporation and distance are not obstacles. The remaining fragments of his shaping suffice. They enable him to recall his blade from the ether of its dispersion.

  Cooled by the frigid touch of dark, he has strength enough to cut the rope that holds his left wrist. Made brittle by flowing cold, the bonds that secure his ankles part more easily. Though much of his soul and his vitality are gone, he is able to stand.

  Under his breath, he prays, “One last effort, my lord. With your help.” Then he moves toward the wheelwright.

  In a staggering run so that Sought’s creation of fire and stone will not have time to slap him aside, he thrusts the length of his sword deep into Haul Varder’s belly.

  While the transformed man roars heat and fury, Black collapses to his knees. But he does not release his grip on his longsword.

  Too late, Varder reaches for Black. He means to fling his foe into the fissure. He means to pluck the blade from his belly and shatter it. He is strong enough to crumple the finest steel, and his wound is no more than an annoyance. But before he can strike, dark flows up Black’s body and arms, and a globe of bright bursts in the wheelwright’s face. Dark secures Black’s hands to the sword’s hilt. The utter cold of dark follows Black’s longsword into Haul Varder’s vitals. And bright enters Varder’s throat when he tries to roar. A light that lava cannot consume is agony in the wheelwright’s gullet, the man’s chest.

  Stricken by more pain than his made flesh can endure, Varder topples backward. He falls into the fire and fury of his shaping, and does not rise again.

  Black does not hear the old man’s wail of frustration and terror as Sought flees from the cavern. Kneeling near the lip of the rift, Black smiles for the last time. But this smile threatens no one. It is glad and grateful, and it is all that he has left.

  When he falls himself, slumping into the embrace of dark and bright beside the fissure, he is not afraid.

  He does not know that time passes. He does not know how long he is unconscious. Yet by small increments he becomes aware that he is at peace. He has no fears and is not driven. For this he feels gratitude. He does not question it.

  Eventually, however, his pain returns. Blunted at first, then more sharply, jagged distress reclaims the back of his skull. He has been maimed of several of his inlays, some of his scarifications have been damaged, and one or more of his glyphs and sigils have been ruined. His right arm tells him that it has been wrenched in its socket. Also he has many bruises. If his soul is at peace, his body is not. Each beat of his heart forces him to acknowledge that he is alive.

  His hurts are a form of grief. He feels dampness on his cheeks and knows that he weeps.

  Later he finds that he cannot imagine where he is. He lies on softness, is covered by softness. There are pressures around his head and body that suggest his wounds have been bound. But there was no softness in the cavern where Haul Varder suffered and died. There was no one alive to bandage Black’s wounds.

  Someone has cared for him.

  The King? he wonders vaguely. In some way that Black cannot identify, he has been healed. Not made whole, precisely, but more whole than he was. The King is capable of such consideration. Yet Black knows of no sorcery that can transport him from the edge of death in the mountain to a place of comfort. He knows of no shaper who can apply bandages at any distance. And his pains assure him that his wounds have only been tended. They are not mended. If he has been healed, it is not a healing of his body.

  When more time has passed, Black becomes aware that he is not alone. He hears the low murmur of voices. He hears a woman’s muffled weeping, and a man’s awkward attempts to soothe her. He feels a hovering presence.

  Sighing because he has not been granted death, Black opens his eyes.

  As his sight clears, he sees that he is lying in a bed in a small room. The bed and the room are those in which he parted from Jon Marker.

  A man sits in a chair at the head of the bed. It is his presence that hovers. With an effort, Black recognizes Father Tenderson. The priest of Dark Enduring has finally summoned the courage to approach Jon Marker.

  Against the wall where Black can see her when he turns his head, a woman sits with a child cradled in her lap. The woman is Rose, and she is weeping softly, restraining her sorrow as much as she can so that she will not disturb Black. The girl in her lap is her daughter, Arbor. Arbor is wrapped around herself, as rigid as death. A feverish sweat beads on her brow. Her eyes do not open. She does not appear to breathe. Her skin has the stricken hue of tallow. Her mother’s caresses give her no solace.

  Jon Marker stands beside Rose. His good face is twisted in distress, and he wrestles with himself to find words that will comfort Rose, though no one has comforted him. He knows her distress well.

  Father Tenderson sees that Black’s eyes are open. The tall priest leans closer. “Ah,” he begins uncertainly. “Black. Sir. You are awake. Do not try to speak. Conserve your strength.

  “You will wonder how you come to be here. There is much I do not know, but I will tell you what I can.”

  The sight of Arbor in Rose’s arms tightens like a fist around Black’s heart. He finds that some purposes do not end. They are like roads without destinations, or roads where every step is a destination. He twitches a hand to silence the priest. He does not need to hear Father Tenderson. Instead he coughs to clear his throat, though pain claws his chest as he does so. He fights a rawness that reaches from his mouth to his lowest belly until he is able to whisper, “No.”

  Father Tenderson leans still closer. “No? Sir? No?”

  “The girl.” Black coughs again, tearing scabbed wounds. “Arbor. Did she touch me?”

  The priest is startled. His eyes grow wide. “She did. How do you know?”

  Black shakes his head, dismissing questions and explanations. “Then help her.”

  He is too weak to do what must be done.

  Abrupt tears come to the tall man’s eyes. “Do you think I would not, if I could? She is beyond me. Touching you hurt her. I cannot account for it. She is beyond any healer.”

  Black aches for the strength to swear. “Stop,” he croaks. “Forget yourself. H
ear me.

  “Your god does not answer prayer. The King does.” Trembling, he thrusts away the blanket that covers him. “Touch me here.” He shows Father Tenderson the three places on his body that compel the King’s notice. “Hold your hands here. Speak in your heart of what the child has done. You will be heard.”

  The priest stares. Black’s demand, and the sight of Black’s shaping, shakes his courage to its poor foundations. There is a wildness in his stare. He considers himself a coward despite his self-justifications. If Rose had not asked him to introduce her to Jon Marker, and if she had not accompanied him to this bereft house, he would not have come. He would not sit at Black’s side now.

  But he is also ashamed of his weak spirit. He is ashamed of his hesitation. Arbor’s plight is a blade twisting in his heart. Also he knows that in his place Father Whorry would act first and question the meaning of his deeds later.

  Trembling himself, Father Tenderson rests his hands where Black has shown him. He does his best to forget that he is afraid. In silence, he describes what Arbor has done, and how she has been afflicted. As he does this, he feels a rush of weakness. He almost faints. He hears no answer.

  Yet the room is suddenly crowded with light. An unspeakable cold fills the air.

  An instant later, both light and cold are gone. Father Tenderson’s weakness passes. He does not understand what has transpired. He has imagined—

  But he sees Black relaxing. After a moment, he is sure that Black now breathes more easily. Black’s faith is stronger than the priest’s.

  When Rose gasps, the suddenness of her outburst snatches Father Tenderson to his feet. Unnoticed, his chair clatters on the floor behind him. When he turns to Rose, he sees her arms wrapped around her daughter, and Arbor’s arms clutching her mother’s neck. Clinging to each other, both mother and daughter sob aloud. Now, however, their cries are relief and gladness. Arbor has returned from the horror of what she has done for Black.

  Beside Rose and Arbor, Jon Marker kneels. He is unaware of himself as he closes his arms around them both. He shares their surprised joy. He needs it as much as they do.

  After a few moments, the Dark priest retrieves his chair. He seats himself near Black again. He is still trembling, but now he trembles for different reasons.

  He does not ask Black what has just happened. He has witnessed a mystery and will not question it. He has believed that men and women need to share what is in their hearts. Now he has seen his conviction confirmed. He calls it worship.

  He cannot find words to express his appreciation. Also he suspects that Black has no use for it. “If you wish it,” he says instead, “I will tell you now how you come to be here. I have no other gift to give.”

  When Black has considered his circumstances, and his desire for an end to his journeys, he manages a slight nod. Though his concern for Arbor is eased, he remains confounded. Why is he not dead? Why has he not been allowed to pass away? Whispering again, he admits his curiosity.

  Father Tenderson replies with a smile that mixes rue and wonder. “Much,” he begins more briskly, “I cannot explain. I do not know what you have done. I do not know how you have survived it. Still a cloud has been lifted from my heart, and perhaps also from Settle’s Crossways. Some questions I can answer.

  “That you are here is Blossom’s doing. To account for herself, she said only that she knew you were in danger. When her caravan left for the east, she halted in the place where she had last seen the hierophant Sought and his guards. With two of her men, she left the train and entered the forest to search for you. She did not know where you had gone, but she guessed that Sought’s purpose, and yours, would take you to the mountain.

  “Her guess was confirmed when she discovered Sought’s corpse on the mountainside. She could not determine the cause of his death, though by appearance he died many days ago. Yet”—the priest takes a deep breath, holds it to steady himself, then releases it slowly—“he was neither decayed nor eaten. Rather he was clad in a thick hoarfrost despite the preceding night’s warmth. Perhaps the cold preserved him. Certainly it preserved his last expression. He died with astonishment on his face.”

  As the servant of Dark Enduring speaks, Jon Marker rises to join him. Tamlin’s father knows Kelvera’s account. It was to him that she gave it. But he has embraced Rose and Arbor, and has found solace. Now he feels a need to gaze upon Black.

  “Knowing then,” continues Father Tenderson, “that she had guessed correctly, Blossom pursued her search. And after a time, she found you. You were being dragged among the trees by a horse. With what must have been your last strength, you had hooked your arm through one stirrup. By that means, the horse was able to pull you toward Settle’s Crossways.

  “Confident that the horse was yours, obedient to your bidding, she and her men lifted you onto their own mounts and followed the horse to this house. She could not explain the horse’s choice, or yours. And she did not remain to hear what you would say when you awakened. If you awakened. When Jon Marker had helped you to his bed, she informed him that she was required by her caravan. Having told her tale, she and her men rode away.”

  Now Tamlin Marker’s father speaks. He knows that he is in Black’s debt, though he cannot explain the debt’s terms. Certainly Black saved him from Ing Hardiston’s ruffians, but his life is a small thing, and he places no great value on it. His sense of indebtedness is deeper. It is as the priest has said. A cloud has been lifted from his heart. He owes Black some acknowledgment.

  “I was at my wit’s end,” he confesses. He speaks haltingly, unsure of what he must say. “I was able to bind your wounds. I settled you as comfortably as I could. But I did not know how to succor you. Did you need food or drink? I could not rouse you. Did you require a healer? I could not imagine a healer in Settle’s Crossways who would know how to mend a man so cut and scarred and”—he falters until he finds a word—“and embellished from neck to foot. I floundered until Father Tenderson brought Rose and Arbor to aid me.

  “And then—” His voice breaks. “Then I thought—”

  The priest intervenes to spare Jon Marker. He has listened to the many woes and hurts and angers of Dark Enduring’s worshippers. He has learned to keep his composure.

  “By chance, however,” he says, “or perhaps by some form of providence”—he smiles crookedly, knowing his role in his temple—“yesterday Rose asked me to introduce her and Arbor to Jon. In my timid fashion, I agreed to do so this morning. You know why I have not come before. We arrived to find this good man growing frantic.

  “At once, however, other matters became more frightening than your straits. Seeing you, Arbor broke from her mother. ‘He has holes in his soul!’ she cried. ‘He will die! I can heal them!’

  “I was of no use. I did not understand. Nor did Jon. Before Rose could prevent her, Arbor ran to your side and placed her hands on your chest.

  “At once, she screamed, a howl too fierce for so small a girl. Then she collapsed. She became the lost thing you saw in Rose’s lap, a child overcome by who you are. By what you have done. By what was done to you. It was more than she could bear.

  “We do not discount what you have endured. We will not. Still I say that her suffering was greater. You do not act in ignorance. You are able to estimate the cost of your deeds. She is not. She cannot prepare herself for the price of what she does.

  “For that reason, I—” He glances around. “We?” When both Jon and Rose nod, he declares, “We will treasure what has been done for her above what has been done for us.”

  Black does not reply. He has no words. Indeed, he hardly attends to the priest. He approves Father Tenderson’s sentiments. He wants no gratitude. To his way of thinking, he deserves none. He has merely served his purpose. But now a choice awaits him. He was not permitted to die. Therefore he is now free to determine how he will live. His wounds will heal. The remains of his shaping will suffice to
mend him. And when he is well, what then?

  He can attempt to make a home for himself in Settle’s Crossways, or perhaps in some nearby town that is ignorant of him. He can join a caravan and accompany it wherever it goes. Or he can return to the King, where he will be shaped anew and dispatched to resume his purpose.

  While Black searches himself, Father Tenderson and Rose agree to depart. The priest has his temple’s duties, and Rose does not wish to tempt Arbor with Black’s nearness. The mother promises Jon Marker that she will return later with food and better bandages. She smiles easily at his embarrassed thanks. Then she and Arbor are gone.

  While Father Tenderson speaks briefly with Jon, Black rouses himself to forestall the priest’s departure. The priest is as ignorant as Rose of Arbor’s gifts. They will need a measure of guidance.

  “Father,” he says hoarsely. “Hear me a moment longer. I cannot explain Arbor’s gifts. She will need her mother’s protection, and yours.” He has not strength enough to name Father Whorry also. “But when she is well again, she will be able to heal you. No harm will come to her.”

  Nor will she be harmed by giving her gift to Jon Marker, a man whom she will not be able to resist.

  The priest is surprised. His head jerks up. His eyes grow wide. Is he in need of healing? Truly in need? He knows that he is, for the weakness in his soul when he touched Black, and for the weakness of his courage. But he does not know how he has become transparent to Black’s discernment.

  Another mystery. This one also he will not question. Instead he makes what he will later call a leap of faith. Bowing to Black, he says, “You have done enough. Settle’s Crossways no longer needs the King’s Justice.”

  He feels that he is fleeing as he leaves the room, the house. He wants time to think. More than that, he wants to consult with Father Whorry. He needs to hear his friend’s simpler judgments of what he has seen and learned.

  Alone, Jon Marker remains at Black’s bedside. The wounded stranger’s plight still perplexes his kindness, though he has been relieved by Black’s awakening, and by Arbor’s recovery, by Rose’s generosity, and by the priest’s easy spate of talk. He has not repaid his debt. He shifts from foot to foot. Stilted in his courtesy, he asks if Black needs water. He asks if Black can eat. He offers to make soup when he has fired the stove.