Solitudes and Silence
Chapter 7
Solitudes and Silence
Terredor kept to himself that night, in the woods near the cottage. He slept restlessly, anxiety anchored to his spine, unable to find a comfortable position. He rehearsed arguments to convince Waimbrill to stay, but none seemed likely to work, and he didn’t want to reduce himself to begging
He considered becoming a Soulclaine himself, but doubt deluged his mind. He had never known a Delver to join the church, except for the legendary Mortiss Hapcort. Soulcleaving was not easy, this he knew even before living with Waimbrill, and he was unsure he could handle it. He had heard most Modrobenians commit suicide before finishing their training, though Waimbrill said that wasn’t true.
Soulcleaving never ceased to amaze him. As a boy, growing up in the sparse vagrant lifestyle of his clan, priests of Modroben were regarded with an intense emotion between awe and panic. Terredor remembered his first experience with cleaving, after the death of a neighbor when he was young. She had fed him often, comforted him when his father was cruel, and Terredor remembered sharp pangs of sadness at her loss. His grief was offset by the Soulclaine who absorbed the brunt of his pain.
The first time he witnessed a cleaving was when a neighbor, an old man with a wispy silver mustache and haggard brown cheeks, one eye fogged with the milk crust of cataracts, passed away in the night, and Terredor awoke to hear the bustle outside. The local Modrobenian then was Mortiss Panthrull, a stocky man of middle age with deep wrinkles, deeper eyes and a flat nose against brown skin. Terredor remembered most clearly the gleaming of his vulture beak in morning sunlight, the sharp crack of the man’s skull, the relief that washed over him, and the Soulclaine’s thick, callused hand, which he laid upon Terredor’s shoulder. He smiled, opened his mouth as though about to speak but then didn’t, and walked away, likely overcome by the intense emotions that came with soulcleaving an elder from a populous clan, leaving behind numerous bereaved relatives.
The next morning, Terredor returned to the cottage, rehearsing the words he had planned. But when he got there, he saw Waimbrill sitting alone, eyes closed, meditating, and Terredor’s mind blanked. He suspected Waimbrill heard him approach and chose to ignore him, and Terredor stormed away, filled with mounting, burning bitterness.
Terredor didn’t see him again until the early evening, after roasting an opossum caught in one of his snares. They ate together and Waimbrill spoke only to laconically compliment him on the opossum. Terredor wanted to break the silence, but the words had flown from his mind
The next morning, Terredor was interrupted while cleaning up. A trio of vultures landed in the front of the cottage, and Terredor watched in awe as the great beasts cawed in unison from their crooked beaks. The burnt smell of lightning strikes filled the air and the vultures turned into three men, dressed in a bizarre formal suit Terredor had never seen before. It was dark burgundy, open at the front, with a plain black shirt and ebony pants that ended at the ankles. They wore brilliant yellow sashes adorned with embroidered symbols.
“Mortiss Waimbrill, lad,” said one of the men, but Terredor stood motionless, surprised at the transformation.
“I think he might be dull,” another said, and the first one stepped forward to look into the cottage.
Terredor ran to the back, where Waimbrill sat crosslegged before a small statue, his eyes closed in meditation.
“Men from the church are here to see you,” Terredor said.
Waimbrill didn’t react at first, but then his eyes flashed with excitement. He jumped to his feet. He had already passed Terredor and was trotting through the vegetable garden when he turned around and let out a dismissive thanks.
Terredor walked slowly, stopping to brush off the soil and rocks Waimbrill had absentmindedly kicked onto the fruiting tomato plants, snapping some stems. Terredor expected that this was it, that Waimbrill would be leaving now, without him. It was funny, he thought, because he had never realized Waimbrill was a normal person, with parents, and brothers and sisters, and a real home.
But when he saw Waimbrill, rushing back into the vegetable garden as the trio of vultures squawked and flew into the sky, Terredor knew that the message was not what Waimbrill wanted.
Waimbrill stomped towards the meditation garden with the statue of Velteris behind the rows of tomatoes. He said, through tightly pursed lips and grinding teeth, “They assigned me here again. Another five years. Then maybe I can go home.”
Terredor’s blood pulsated with anger as Waimbrill kneeled before the statue, clenching his hands into fists, his face flushing. A succession of thoughts crowded into Terredor’s mind so quickly he couldn’t process them all. He wanted to shout that Waimbrill shouldn’t see Crikland as a punishment, that he shouldn’t see Terredor as a punishment, that there were a thousand reasons to stay. He screamed in his mind that he didn’t need Waimbrill, he could run from the Elderlings and survive on his own in the Northern Kingdoms, change his name and tell everyone he was from a distant land. He wanted to reject Waimbrill so badly the words danced on the tips of his teeth, but his tongue only tossed and turned in his mouth as his throat choked and he spat gobs of spittle onto his chin and the ground at his feet. The part that made him angriest was that he knew he had no leverage: Waimbrill had no reason to stay with him, no reason to have ever saved him from Lord Porthos. He had risked nothing to gain everything for Terredor, and now he was trying to abandon him.
Terredor choked and stammered, grabbing Waimbrill’s attention, his eyes flowing with tears as Terredor screamed at him. “You know, people like you here! They like you better than the last Soulclaine. Everyone hated him. I thought we had a home, you and me. But you were just using me to keep you company while you wait for your real home, and as long as you get to leave so you don’t have to see what happens to me, you don’t care, do you? You don’t care about anything but seeing your stupid parents! Well, I didn’t ask you to pay my debt. Lots of us Delvers work for the lords. But that’s it, right? I’m too much of a Delver to be your real family!”
Before Waimbrill could respond, Terredor turned and fled into the woods.