in her belly. Eyes closed, she thought of the bandit woman as her mace struck her face.
“I’ve never killed anybody before,” Sandra said, feeling as if she’d drunk too much of Griff’s personal stash of hard liquor. “I’ve seen people die; saw plenty after the Green Gulch…but never killed before.”
“Don’t dwell on it,” Jerico said as he pressed his palms against her abdomen. She screamed, but wasn’t sure why. All she felt was a sharp pressure.
“Can’t…help it,” she said. White light shone, and she relaxed. The healing magic would flow into her, banish the pain like it had the past several nights. She was safe with Jerico. Safe…
“Sandra,” he said after several minutes. Sweat lined his forehead, and he wiped it away with his wrist. “I don’t know what’s wrong. I’m not sure I can heal this.”
She swallowed, tried to remain calm. Panic swelled in her breast, coupled with anger.
“You’ve healed worse,” she said. “I’ve seen it. I’ve seen it! Why me? Why this?”
Jerico grabbed her hand and clutched it with both of his.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I can do this, but I need you to stay with me. Can you do that, Sandra? Talk to me, Sandra. Sandra!”
A river ran through her mind, softly swaying side to side, and in it she was free of the pain, the fear, and the anger. She closed her eyes and let it carry her away.
Sandra!
Sandra…
She opened her eyes, that river suddenly gone. She knew time had passed, dimly aware of it in some instinctual way. Jerico knelt over her, and she saw his hands pressed against her stomach. His head was bowed, his eyes closed. Guilt washed over her, for she realized he was praying, and it felt wrong to be present in a moment so private. But his words struck her, and she realized he was crying as he spoke.
“Don’t let me fail her,” Jerico said, his jaw trembling. It seemed like every part of him was fighting against losing control. “Don’t do this to me. I don’t know what I’ve done, where I erred, but don’t let her suffer for it. I can be stronger. I can do better. Please, your strength, not mine. Your strength, not mine…”
She reached out and touched his face. He stiffened, then looked to her, eyes red. He smiled.
“Sandra,” he said, and it seemed as if her very name swept away his sorrow.
She kissed his lips, then held him tight against her as the pain in her stomach slowly returned, and she was once more aware of the chill of the night, the soft cries of the crickets, and the way his strong arms kept her close.
“What happened?” she whispered.
“I don’t know. I think you were stabbed with a cursed dagger. I’ve done what I can. Everything else is in Ashhur’s hands.”
“Am I cured?”
“I don’t know. I’d need to examine the wound to be certain.”
She kissed him again.
“Not now,” she said. “Let me sleep without knowing.”
He gently lowered her back to the grass, then lay beside her, his arms carefully wrapped about her chest, his face pressed against her neck. The heat of the fire washed over her face.
“Thank you,” she said.
He gave no answer, only kissed the back of her neck. She fell asleep not long after, the rhythmic warmth of his breath against her ear.
8
Cyric helped his master and teacher prepare for departure, and did his best to hide his excitement. It wasn’t that he bore any ill will toward Luther-far from it. But this meant a chance to finally be on his own, to have a measure of trust placed upon him. With it came expectations, but he felt confident he could handle whatever the world threw at him. His faith in Karak was strong, after all.
“Remember to keep your patience when speaking to Daniel and Sir Robert,” Luther said as he folded together similar colored robes, then cinched the container tight. “They will never be faithful to Karak, but they can still be of use in our crusade against chaos.”
“They should be replaced if they will not bow to the true god,” Cyric said, hoisting a trunk of Luther’s things onto his shoulder.
“In time, my student. In time, all the world will bow. But it does not yet, and expecting perfection from this chaotic world will only lead to disappointment.”
Cyric led the way down the stairs to the outer wall, where the wagons waited.
“What you say sounds like defeat,” he said. He didn’t like arguing with Luther, but today he felt confident, proud. Luther was to leave fifty men in his care. He had every intention of using that gift to its utmost potential.
“Defeat and acceptance are not the same thing,” Luther said. Cyric could not see him, but he heard the impatience creeping into his voice. “You’ll understand one day, when you have walked across Dezrel as much as I.”
Cyric put the chest into the wagon and shoved it into place, then took Luther’s bag and gently tossed it in as well. That was the last of it, and all around them the armed men of Karak prepared to leave. Luther crossed his arms and looked Cyric over. The younger man held down a shiver. He hated when his master analyzed him so.
“What will you do?” Luther asked. Cyric stood up straight, and did not hide the pride in his voice.
“Continue to spread the faith. Weaken Sir Robert’s control over the Blood Tower until he acknowledges our right to rule over him. With that done, I will find the remnants of Durham. They will learn the folly of accusing a paladin of Karak of causing chaos and destruction.”
“And how will you do that?”
Luther’s voice had grown quieter, more guarded. Cyric knew he was treading on dangerous ground, but didn’t care. He’d put much thought into this, and it was time to reveal the truths he’d uncovered.
“I’ve read the older tomes,” said Cyric. “There are spells in them, rituals of such power and strength it overwhelms the mind. That strength will be mine. With it, I will renew the faithful, and crush those that worship the false god, or deny Karak’s power. It is time to bring the old ways back to the North.”
“I told you to avoid those tomes,” Luther said. “Our council has deemed them too dangerous to the cause of Karak.”
“But why? With them, I can force the will of Karak upon all chaotic life!”
“You would enslave them, Cyric! Don’t you understand? We must use a firm hand when reshaping this world, but we must also ensure that there is still a choice, no matter how illusionary it may be. Man will struggle against foreign chains about his neck, but if he binds himself willingly, humbly, he will remain free of chaos forever. That is why you must not use the old ways.”
Cyric felt his temper rise at such a rebuke, and his pride stung deeply.
“Not all the priesthood feel as you do,” he said, trying to stand tall before his imposing master. “Hayden often laments the loss of the old ways, and I’ve read Pelorak’s teachings from…”
“Enough,” Luther said, striking the wagon. Dark magic flared across his fist, and the wood splintered from the blow. “You are my disciple, not theirs. How can I pass on my wisdom to you if you would ignore me, and go only by the books you read and the dreams that fill your head? If you resurrect the old ways, you will bring about terrible ruin, to yourself, and to the North.”
He stepped into the wagon and called out for the rider to begin.
“You may not approve,” Cyric said, walking behind it as it started to move. “But I am yet to hear you forbid me from doing so.”
Luther leaned back, his arms crossed.
“It is still your choice,” he said. “I will not deny you that. Be mindful of your prayers, and listen for the whispers of Karak. I trust he will dissuade you from this naive hope. If you find yourself lost, trust in Salaul’s advice.”
