Blood and Ember, page 25
“Olvir,” she said, choking on the second syllable of the name. Then she looked up, though the sky overhead was no different from the world in front of her. “Lady—”
I understand, said Letar gently. He went beyond his strength at the last. A shard of our power may burn its vessel, if used too long and hard. But healing is mine to command, and you love him.
She didn’t bother asking, but Vivian said “Yes” anyhow.
Then there is yet work we may do.
“Anything.”
Suddenly, Olvir was facing her. His hands were empty now, but his head was still bent. He stared at his interlaced fingers and the colors shining in the air beyond them. Clearly, he saw nothing.
I have helped to make you a weapon, said Letar. Will you be a vessel for me, in this moment, on this ground?
Vivian wanted to repeat anything, but she recognized a ritual question when she heard one. “Yes,” she said.
It will suffice. Lift his head.
She did it gently, fingers light under Olvir’s chin. There was almost no resistance anyhow, and her heart broke a little more to feel how easily she could move him.
And now, the goddess said, a kiss.
* * *
He was broken. Scattered. Lost, and becoming more so by the minute. His mind was many minds, many pieces streaming off in different directions, following voices that shrieked and babbled. Olvir could almost understand the words. He had almost forgotten his name.
Each fragment of him tried to resist, tried to reunite with the others, but to no use. There was no center to which they could strive to return. Without it, their struggles remained directionless, chaotic, and the voices led them ever onward to dissolution.
Once, he had been different. That knowledge remained, but little more. His name was Olvir. He’d freed somebody. He could remember the mind that had flowered out when all the pieces had broken, the sense of release and reunion he’d gotten. He, Olvir, had done that.
Before, he’d done other things.
He believed he had fought. He was sure he had served.
He knew he had loved.
Suddenly, there was another with him, a sound that was not the screaming voices. At first, that presence was only there, new but familiar. Then it began to call to him.
The voices kept going, shrieking outward to gods knew what destinations, but the scattered pieces of Olvir had another goal. The new arrival had become steady, powerful: a soaring melody laid over a regular drumbeat, calling to mind the best marching songs he’d once learned.
He remembered marches. Training. Singing.
A cave.
Vivian.
The newcomer was her but not only her. A vast power anchored her call, amplifying it and keeping her from losing herself.
If Olvir had possessed a body, he would have been kneeling. He remembered that he was, somewhere.
He gladly turned to answer Vivian’s summons, each piece of him retreating from the voices that had been leading it outward. Those voices didn’t try to reclaim him; they didn’t seem to notice but simply passed further out, heading toward the boundaries of his perception and reason, then beyond.
Free of their grip, with the strong, unwavering rhythm of Vivian and her divine patron to focus him, Olvir began to put himself together.
Vivian was the core: she was there to guide him, reminding him of their moments in the cave, of jokes shared on the trail, of slaying the geisbar and sitting by campfires, of taverns and villages and dark manors. Going beyond themselves, she gave Olvir the memory of the army camp, of long watches staring out over snow. That led to Nahon, to the men Olvir had commanded, and then his own consciousness found a bridge to Tinival’s service and Edda, who had prepared him for it.
Bit by bit, he filled in the gaps. The Sundered Soul went in there, too, part of Olvir even if he’d exhausted its power—his power—for the time being. So did Darya, Emeth, a thousand faces met in the course of duty or pleasure. Songs and sunsets filled him, blood and bread, all the horror and beauty of the mortal world.
He was a mortal man, Edda’s fosterling.
He was the lost child of Verengir, the incarnation of what Gizath had left behind.
He was Olvir Yoralth, servant of Tinival.
Fingers gently tilted his chin up, and a pair of lips pressed against his: warm, soft, yet urgent in, for once, a manner that had nothing to do with physical desire. Olvir recognized the touch and took the only sensible action. He wrapped his arms around Vivian and pulled her close.
He hadn’t thought about his position or hers, and they toppled backward almost immediately. Olvir was briefly surprised that he hadn’t hit his head on the mirrors—the surface beneath him was barely solid enough to hold him up—but Vivian was lying on his chest, kissing him, laughing and crying at once.
Nothing else was important.
Chapter 42
Before Olvir had sufficient presence of mind to try figuring out where he was, he wasn’t there any longer. The yielding surface under his spine solidified at some point while he embraced Vivian, but Olvir didn’t notice the difference until a rock jabbed him just above his right kidney.
“Oof,” he said, and Vivian immediately lifted herself off him.
“Sorry. I should’ve been more careful, considering.”
“You’re not to blame at all.” Olvir sat up. The world was suddenly full of facts: he was sitting, and Vivian standing, on red grass. Overhead, the sky was blue, with a few wisps of white cloud near the mountains. He was mortal, sore, and incredibly tired. “Besides, when it comes to physical injury, you were the worse off by… Should you be standing on that leg?”
She didn’t appear as though it pained her in the slightest. Vivian’s eyes were red and her cheeks showed the tracks of tears, but she looked perfectly happy in that moment, and her smile at the question had more than happiness in it. There was an awe there that Olvir recognized very well.
Remembering the anchoring power he’d sensed when Vivian had brought him back, he wasn’t all that surprised by her answer. “The Threadcutter is merciful.”
“She is.” Reflexively, Olvir made the sign of the Four. “Was She the one who brought us out of the Battlefield?”
Vivian nodded. “She left almost as soon as you came back. You were handling contact with two gods—or one and a half—far better than most humans would manage, She said. There was no sense in risking a third, and the window we opened was closing fast at any rate. The window you opened, really.”
Olvir lacked the strength or the wit for embarrassment. “I’m honored,” he said. “And thankful. And I rather hope the Dark Lady didn’t mean for us to start walking now.”
The air echoed with Vivian’s laughter. “I doubt it. She didn’t give us a schedule, but She did say that nothing in this land would harm us. I interpret that to mean we can make camp as we choose—and I think we’re past the point where a few hours will make a difference at home.”
“You know the storms are gone,” Olvir said, realizing only then that he hadn’t told her earlier. “Did the Dark Lady tell you?”
“No.” Vivian settled herself down onto the grass at his side, sitting with her legs folded and her pack in front of her. “But if you hadn’t, and you were still you—which I have it on good authority that you are—you’d still be trying. Probably while your brain melted in the process. I can’t imagine you relaxing in the face of duty.”
It was Olvir’s turn to laugh. He reached out, although his arms felt limp as dough, and took one of Vivian’s hands. “And you should know, my love.”
* * *
Vivian was content simply to sit there for a while, Olvir’s hand in hers, watching him. His smile and the pressure of his fingers gradually pushed back the memory of his previous vacant expression. Experience said that she’d probably still recall it on particularly restless nights, but experience also said she could live with that.
He was there, after all: body, mind, and soul.
After that fact had finally started to sink in, Vivian leaned back and took a real look around. The grass had dried in their absence to a lighter red, the black and silver outlines of trees rose against a deep-blue sky, and the sun was turning a rich gold as it set in the west. Between Vivian and the sunset, the Battlefield lay, iridescent in the light.
“Odd,” she said. “I would’ve expected it to vanish or change when you freed Veryon.”
Olvir shook his head. “He was only trapped there. He didn’t have much at all to do with creating it. And what—” Modesty still made him clear his throat before he could say the next words. “What I did just set matters closer to right now. Veryon still died there, he still suffered, he’s still changed from it, probably. I couldn’t make that not have happened.”
That is almost certainly for the best, Ulamir put in. I wouldn’t wish pain on the Queen of Death, nor on my ancestor, but the world’s spun itself out quite a length since that moment. To reverse it… I have not the slightest idea what changes it would make.
“Ulamir says that’s a good thing,” she summarized. “He understands magic—and time—better than I do, so I’m inclined to agree.”
“I think I am,” said Olvir. “But I’m very glad I wasn’t in a position to decide. Changing history would be considerably beyond my judgment, even if it were possible.”
“I’m fond of your judgment. But…yes. Above all our pay grades, I’m convinced.” Vivian thought of scars, of memories, of legends. She remembered abandoned caves and a weary, wise voice all around and through her. Off in the distance, the Battlefield glimmered. “So it’ll stay there forever.”
“I can’t see that far. But I can’t imagine any reason it wouldn’t remain.” Olvir studied her expression. “That doesn’t mean we have to stay here and watch it. I can walk now, though I can’t promise I’m good for many miles.”
The strange landscape swirled, colors dancing across its surface, edges melting and then re-forming. Trying to follow its changes hurt, but Vivian no longer felt any urge to try. Neither did she have the dizzy, sick feeling that had come over her when she’d first seen the place.
Scars were always startling. Most were uglier than this one.
“No,” she said. Turning away from the horizon, she focused on Olvir instead and raised one hand to cup the side of his chin. His skin was rough with a day’s growth of beard, the bones of his jaw solid and strong. “No, I think we’re fine right here.”
* * *
Later, under the rich purple twilight of an evening in late spring, they roused themselves enough to spread out bedrolls, to shuck off boots and armor, and to eat. They drank the last of their water too. Olvir luxuriated in the knowledge that the creek was close, just as he did the clean air on his feet.
They would start walking in the morning. Then they’d refill their waterskins, pick some of the silver apples that grew by the stream, and make for the mountain path. Olvir expected the journey back to be faster, with neither storms nor undead bears likely to present obstacles. Whether it was or not, he was content. Speed mattered far less now.
Vivian agreed when he mentioned it. “Without Thyran and the weather, the army should be able to send the Twisted scurrying north, especially with Amris’s reinforcements coming from the west. And if they can’t, the two of us won’t turn the tide. Well, probably,” she added, after a comment from Ulamir. She gave Olvir a curious once-over. “Do you think you could instantly make them disintegrate, like you did Thyran?”
“Sadly, I doubt it,” said Olvir after due consideration. “Thyran was…what I did was similar to your lethal blessing, as a matter of fact. He should have died already. I just cut the ties keeping him alive. The Twisted are what they are. I doubt I could reverse that, any more than I could get rid of the Battlefield.”
“Mmm. I suspected as much. We’ll have to set up watches when this is over—train a new cadre of spies or wizards or I don’t know what, make sure we’re not caught by surprise again.” Vivian dusted biscuit crumbs off her hands. “The Adeptas will have plenty to do, and I’m sure Letar’s priests will take an interest.”
“Oh, we’ll have our fingers in that pie too,” said Olvir. “It’ll be work for everyone, rebuilding—but better work, to my way of thinking, than we’ve had for the last few years.”
“I’d drink to that, if we had wine left.”
“I’d say it deserves better wine than we brought.”
“Another task for later, then.” Vivian tipped her head back to see the stars as they began to come out. “That’s the only reason I’d hurry—that, and I’d like to learn how they’re all holding up in Criwath. Even if I can’t change what happens.”
“So would I,” said Olvir. He thought of Nahon—and almost immediately had a sense of the marshal. It was the same sort of awareness he’d had of the storms, as if he heard a melody from far away. This was more complex than the storms had been, more solid, and so it stood out more despite being smaller. “I…think I could discover that.”
“Without risking yourself again?” Vivian asked sharply, returning her focus to Olvir in an instant. “My curiosity isn’t worth losing you.”
“No danger,” he said, recognizing her worry. It was a good one: the memory of being lost would chill him for a good while. “I’m only observing, not trying to make changes. And I won’t look very deeply at that. I don’t want to read anybody’s mind by accident.”
“You know what you’re doing,” she said and leaned against him. “Tell me if I can help.”
Olvir breathed in the smell of her hair. Her weight rested solidly on his side. Thus anchored, he closed his eyes and sent his mind out again.
Geography wasn’t important or wasn’t the same. Instead of following paths over the mountains, he traced the bonds that connected him to Nahon, to Emeth, to everybody that he’d left behind. He could sense Vivian’s, too, giving him a clearer impression of many Sentinels and their companions.
“Nahon’s near to Darya and General var Faina,” Olvir said, taking in their signatures and learning what he could without intruding. “They’re all in decent shape, more or less. Tired, of course, and wounded. I suspect Darya’s missing an arm, or maybe an ear. It’s odd, but I can’t tell which.” There was an absence, a major one, that she hadn’t gotten used to yet. That was all Olvir could determine without coming too close.
“Under the circumstances, that’s not bad,” Vivian said.
She was holding her tongue, Olvir knew, not wanting to suggest more for fear she’d inspire him to go beyond his strength. He hugged her tighter. “Katrine’s fine. Emeth’s…she’s weak but recovering. A close brush, I think.” The Mourners would have worked hard in a case such as that, whatever had happened, and Letar’s power left its mark when used in great quantities.
Thinking of the Dark Lady drew his consciousness slightly beyond the group he’d sensed before, into another gathering. “Branwyn… You mentioned a letter from her… She’s there. No serious harm, though there’s a Mourner with her, and—” He paused. The man, as tied to Branwyn as Olvir himself was to Vivian, was familiar, yet Olvir was certain they’d never met. “I believe we’re related.”
“Zelen Verengir, I’d imagine. Lord Verengir, if he weren’t a Mourner. Hmm.” Olvir felt mirth shake Vivian. “They may want you to assume the title, you realize.”
“Gods forbid.” Knights weren’t barred from titles as Letar’s priests were, but the idea held no appeal at all.
“Oh, consider it. I’d make a wonderful mistress for a nobleman.”
“Would you want to be?” Olvir had already been drawing his consciousness back. Despite his reassurance to Vivian, his strength was limited, and he had no desire to test it. At her comment, he returned fully to the spot where they sat and opened his eyes to watch her reaction.
Vivian tilted her head upward so that she could meet his gaze. “I want to be with you,” she said, “as much and for as long as our duties allow. I couldn’t care less about the circumstances.”
“Oh,” said Olvir. His chest was too tight suddenly. It was anything but comfortable, and he wouldn’t have changed it for the world. “Then neither do I.”
When they moved to the bedrolls, not much later, Vivian curled up against Olvir as she’d done the first night they’d kept each other warm. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, rested his other hand on her waist, and watched as she yawned and closed her eyes.
He kept his open for a few minutes. He looked from Vivian, rapidly slipping into sleep, up to the star-filled sky over a land that nobody else had seen for a hundred years.
All his prayers were thanks that night, and he knew his dreams would be sweet.
They were going home.
Epilogue
I regret to inform you, my lady, that House Verengir will have to be content with its current choice of leader. Young Danica has my sympathy, I completely understand her reluctance, but the knights have only recently regained Sir Yoralth. They have no intention of losing him to a lifetime of politics in Heliodar.
Besides, the man and his mission have already become the subject of much rumor here. If he can disrupt a camp where everyone should be better occupied cleaning up after Thyran’s defeat, think of how he’d set Heliodar on its ear! I find the prospect almost appealing enough to try and persuade Marshal Nahon, though I know it wouldn’t help, but I doubt you and the rest of the High Council would find it so delightful.
Perhaps I can persuade him and Commander Bathari to come along for a visit when Branwyn and I return. I admit I also would enjoy seeing society deal with two Sentinels.
P. S.: No, I won’t confirm the rumors. Nor will I deny them. I wish you luck in your new role, as I do Danica in hers, but a greater Lady than both of you commands my loyalty now.
