The Legend of Broken

minister, Caliphestros, and his acolytes, as well. Where, then, was the grievous error? Why should we have been so reduced?

But Baster-kin knows full well the individual steps that have led his family to this crisis, and he feels, in some private portion of his heart, enough pity to want to sit — for a time, at any rate — by Chen-lun’s side, to comfort and above all quiet her. At the same time, however, he inwardly knows his true practical reason for visiting his wife: in his heart, he has grown — until only the last day or two — to despair of any hope for the future of the clan of which he remains chief; indeed, of which he may well be the last unchallenged leader. And there might be justice, if I were to suffer that ignoble fate, he muses. But the recent news from the provinces has brought something like hope, if a dark sort of hope, to the Kastelgerd’s master; and so, as Baster-kin watches the pompous but well-bribed Healer Raban gather his calming and palliative drugs, he makes sure the greedy, ambitious Kafran man of “medicine” also conceals the additional ingredients that Baster-kin has contracted with Raban to slowly mix into her ladyship’s medicines. The healer then silently leaves the room, leaving his lordship to glance again at his wife, still writhing upon the bed, and then at Chen-lun’s sole remaining personal servant, the marauder woman Ju, who, as always, stands as if made of stone in the shadows of one corner of the room, comprehending few of the words, but much of the behavior, of the people of Broken. And, as he goes to his lady’s bedside and waits for her to acknowledge him before taking her hand, Baster-kin silently determines:

Nay, I can no longer lie to myself about these things; for if condemning my second son to the near-perpetual darkness usually suffered only by prisoners in dungeons, as I did when Klauqvest became a youth wise enough to be of use as an advisor, was an act made more bearable by Kafran tenets, I cannot help but wonder if the order concerning my third child has not placed me beyond the pale of any true forgiveness or peace. And even if it has, what of my “merciful” intentions toward my wife: am I so certain that they are the righteous course?

And who is there who could argue with the man’s doubts on these subjects? For Baster-kin broods, in the first instance, upon his long-ago yet constantly remembered order that Radelfer take his daughter Loreleh — that same Loreleh who was once the greatest joy of her father’s life, but who had begun, late in her childhood, to show tragic signs of the onset of physical deformities all too close to Klauqvest’s — into the deadly wilds of Davon Wood, and abandon her there. The mang-bana had been forced upon the girl that Baster-kin saw as his greatest hope simply because the city and kingdom were aware of her, and could see the deformity growing. As for his second cause of self-torment, Baster-kin struggles over the deadly course he has lately embarked upon regarding his wife: a woman who, he has been told, no longer has any hope. Yet even if he counts his deadly plans for her a mercy, will his god judge them thus, as well?

“Rendulic,” Lady Chen-lun says, seeing him at her side, and then feeling his touch on her own hand. “I heard Raban,” she almost whispers. “Speaking in the hallway. Someone said that you might not come, but Raban said that you must; and I knew you would. But — here is the strangeness of it, Rendulic—” Her eyes suddenly grow wide with emotion and she arches her back in torment as she says more urgently: “I knew who he was speaking to; I knew the second voice! It seemed I did, at any rate — and it was him—our child, Rendulic. But it cannot have been; I know this, husband, for I know that you saw to his exile; I know that he is no more, that he was taken by the Wood. And so, it must have been … someone else …”

“Calm yourself, my lady,” Rendulic Baster-kin says softly, holding her right hand tighter. “It was but Radelfer, whom I earlier ordered, as I ordered all of the household staff, to speak in whispers, so that you will not be disturbed.”

Nodding her head nervously, wishing to preserve this moment of peace and affection, Chen-lun responds, “Yes, husband. No doubt it was just as you say. Would that you could always command my mind to be so still …”

“But you do grow still, now,” Rendulic says, as soothingly as he can manage. “Raban’s medicines make you so — you must allow them to do their work.”

“Yet I would not have it so, Rendulic — I would remain awake, to be with you, to lie with you, to be the wife I once was—”

“We are none of us what we once were,” Rendulic answers with a small smile, putting a hand to her brow and using his fingers to comb the long, moist strands of her black hair back on her head — and pretending, for the moment, that he cannot see that the ulcerations in the skin of the neck, as well as the lumps beneath the surface of the chest, are daily growing larger.

Wiping at drops of sweat that have appeared on her brow without being aware of the movement, Chen-lun answers, “The night is so warm—all nights seem so warm, this year; yet not so warm as the nights we passed in this bedchamber, when first we were betrothed.”

“Indeed, wife,” Baster-kin says, moving to get to his feet. “And if you are a calm and obedient patient, that warmth may someday fill this chamber once more …”

Chen-lun looks suddenly alarmed at the thought of Rendulic’s leaving. “You return to your duties, my lord?”

“I do,” Rendulic replies, now standing and releasing her hand. “With the greatest reluctance … But you must have peace, my lady; and the enemies of this kingdom never cease to plot against us.”

Chen-lun’s countenance grows a bit more pleased. “They say you have dispatched an army against the Bane, at last?”

“We have, wife,” Rendulic answers, surprised at the question. “And with Kafra’s aid,” he says, stepping away and toward the door, “their defeat and your recovery will come at one and the same time. And then, we shall indeed know happiness, once more. Therefore, be calm — and sleep, my lady; sleep …”

Chen-lun only nods for a moment; for the drugs she has been given are by now overwhelming her senses. “But do you never wonder, Rendulic?” she murmurs weakly, as Ju appears again, to neaten her bed coverings. “If all that we have endured in the years since has not been a result of it—of sending a second child to the Wood? She was so young … and had been so beautiful … Loreleh …”

Standing in the doorway, Rendulic Baster-kin watches as his wife is overcome by slumber: a far more dangerous slumber than she, or Ju, or anyone, save her husband and Healer Raban, knows. And he can feel his own features harden as he replies silently, Yes, Loreleh was beautiful — until she was no longer …

Finally free of his duties of state and family, Rendulic Baster-kin leaves his wife’s bedchamber, pulls a pair of black leather gauntlets from his belt, and strides purposefully toward the great staircase of the Kastelgerd, pausing briefly when he passes a large mirror. Satisfied with the image before him, he proceeds, pausing once more behind the first column of those that run from the front edge of the gallery to the ceiling it shares with the great hall, and peers downstairs:

She is here, he realizes, as two figures come into view at the base of the grand staircase; actually here, within these walls …

Rendulic Baster-kin finds that his blood runs faster and hotter as he begins his descent, and the fine, healthy woman in the gown of green comes into clearer view. In her arms she holds a cloak, of the same color that she was accustomed to wearing when she and Gisa were treating him; and one that (as Baster-kin did not know then, but is aware now) he could insist she cast off, if he were to be scrupulous about Kafran law. For it is the dark blue-green cloak with which healers of the old faith, in Broken and surrounding kingdoms, identified themselves to the people. Of course, it could be pure coincidence that Lady Arnem favors this color; but ignorance of the God-King Saylal’s deep strictures against any hint of the old ways among his people is no excuse for flaunting them …

“Lady Arnem,” his lordship calls, in as courteous yet commanding a tone as he can manage, still pulling on his impressive gauntlets; although he fears that his voice betrays too much excitement, when he does say the name, and he tries hard to calm both his heart and his voice as her face — that face about which he has wondered for so many years — turns up to meet his gaze.

By Kafra, he declares to himself in the half-light; how beautiful she still is …

“I hope you will forgive my delay in greeting you,” he says, still worried about the tone of his voice.