Pellin shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mark. That word probably hasn’t been heard since I first joined the Vigil. It means mind death. The mind must have a certain amount of memories to be able to function. Even in the act of creating a dwimor, the creator must be careful to provide enough memories so that the assassin can accomplish their mission.”
“How do you know how much is enough?”
“By the river within the mind. Gaps within the flow cause the river to slow, become sluggish. If the gaps become too large, it shuts down completely. Dwimor live on the edge of mind death.” He waved one hand to dispel memories that accused him. “That’s one of the reasons we went through so many when we first created them.”
Mark nodded, his face creased in concentration. “What’s the fastest way to create memories?”
Pellin nodded his approval. “You have a keen mind. That question has been studied much by the Vigil over the years. I don’t think the answer will surprise you. Of the five senses, the eyes provide more input than any of the others, but because of that, the memories they create are the weakest.”
He watched his apprentice, saw him sorting through the unasked question, considering. “Smell?”
“Yes.” Pellin nodded. “Or touch. They create the strongest memories because they connect to so many others.”
For the first time, Mark appeared uncomfortable with Elieve’s ever-present clutch, but with a shake of his head, he straightened. “So if she’s to heal, I need to have her experience as many strong memories as I can so that when Cerena’s are removed, Elieve will remain.”
“Makes sense, lad,” Pellin said. “I doubt any of the Vigil could reason it out better. The journey to the southern continent should take about two weeks. Halfway there, I’ll delve her again. Then we’ll just have to see.”
He turned to Allta. “I need to speak to the captain. Let us leave Mark here with Elieve.”
“Le-Elieve,” the girl stuttered, her voice raspy with effort.
Pellin stopped, turning to the girl. “Yes,” he said. “Loved.”
Allta climbed the stairs to the deck, preceding him, but when they reached the open air, Pellin caught him with a hand on his arm. “We may have a problem I hadn’t considered before.”
“Eldest?”
“The girl, Elieve, was chosen to be an assassin.”
Allta nodded. “Yes.”
“That means she is possessed of at least a partial gift of devotion. It’s the presence of that gift that allows one of the Vigil to create a core of blind, excoriating hatred within their mind.” He shuddered at his own memories, wished they belonged to another. “Without the violent target for her devotion, Elieve’s soul will find another focus for her gift.” He sighed. “Indeed, I think she’s already found it.”
“The boy.” Allta nodded in understanding. “Is it dangerous?”
Deep within Pellin’s chest, but not so deep that he could deny it or rationalize it away, lay the fear the twist of Elieve’s gift would yet bring grief. “I don’t know. When the time is right, we must attempt to place some emotional distance between the two of them. After that, I’m afraid Elieve’s ultimate healing is still in the hands of Aer.”
Allta nodded before changing the subject. “If the ports are blocked to the inland passage, Eldest, how will we get to the southern Vigil?”
He sighed. “I have means of sending word, but it will mean a delay.”
His guard stood next to him at the rail of the ship, unspeaking, but Pellin could sense a tension in him that heightened with each passing moment until Allta turned away from the rhythmic swell of the waves. “Eldest, why did we bring the girl?”
Standing this close to his guard forcibly reminded Pellin of just how big Allta was. Thick shoulders from countless hours of training stretched his shirt and cloak, and he stood on legs as sturdy and strong as tree limbs. Yet for all of that, he moved with the grace and quickness of a dancer. The deadliest man alive.
“Why should we not?” Pellin responded. “The girl is in need, and Mark seems able to fill it.” He considered his guard. “I could ask you a similar question. Why did you allow Mark to bring her? So long as his attention is divided, the boy will be less likely to spot dwimor coming for us.”
Allta nodded. “I already defied you once, Eldest, on the edge of the Darkwater.”
“I remember,” Pellin said.
“Defiance is a habit unsuited to a Vigil guard,” Allta said. “Plus, I do not see how any dwimor could track us. The threat seemed to be minimal.”
Pellin turned to survey the passing sea once more, but Allta refused to be deterred. “Why is she here with us, Eldest?”
After a pause he said, “Something amazing has happened, Allta. Mark has managed to bring a dead girl back to life.”
“Hardly dead, Eldest.”
“You think not?” he asked. “Perhaps my gift and time in the Vigil have given me a different perspective. When does a person die?” Without waiting for an answer, he went on. “The healers would say it’s when their heart stops beating or they stop breathing, but I’ve seen death from the Vigil’s perspective.”
“What does it look like, Eldest?”
“It’s a cavern, dark and empty, where a river of memories should run, a flow filled with the colored strands that make up a person’s life. It’s a wellspring run dry, never refreshed, never renewed because all their memories have been destroyed.”
“From what you’ve said, that doesn’t quite describe Elieve.”
He mused. “Doesn’t it? You weren’t there when we created the first dwimor in desperation and death during the Wars for the Gift of Kings. We were going to starve, and Agin had us bottled up in the north. We were desperate.” He struggled to take a breath as if the sea air had suddenly become too thick to breathe. “We tried to save our early failures, Bronwyn and I, but to do so we had to completely erase the memories that drove the dwimor to kill and replace
