Darkblade avenger, p.114
Darkblade Avenger, page 114
part #1 of Hero of Darkness Series
He couldn't look at her eyes--too bright, too many colors dancing at once--but he forced himself to smile. He wanted to speak, but nothing came out. He had no words to tell her he was happy to see her.
Addara stepped forward and placed a bowl on his bed. "Brought you some of my special porridge. With a pat of butter and a pinch of cinnamon, just the way you like it."
He tried to speak. Couldn't.
She turned to his painting. "Another one?"
He nodded.
"Beautiful, this one."
Does she see it? Maybe she could.
She faced him, and daylight shone on the left half of her face. Cerimon had spoken of the acid attack that left her disfigured, but he saw only beauty in the strange lines and whorls of flesh on her face. He traced the patterns that danced through his mind the same way the pictures did. The patterns changed every time he saw them. He loved them. She was the only one who had them. The only one who interested him. He loved to follow the shifting, swirling shapes and lines, watching as they painted the story of Addara.
"I'll be back in a bit for your bowl. Need to eat to stay strong, eh?"
Don't go! Stay and talk with me. Nothing came out. They never did when Addara was around.
With a bright smile that made the lines in her face curl like a golden rope around a pillar of diamonds, she left him alone to his breakfast.
* * *
Errin clung to the jerking paintbrush as the picture took shape on the canvas.
Not even the flickering glare of the candle beside his bed could deter him. The force within his mind, whatever brought the images to life, compelled him. It had come in his sleep. Woken him with a scream. Pushed him out of bed to get up, to paint.
He didn't need light to paint. Better in the darkness. Easier to see the picture as it took shape on the canvas.
The paintbrush fell to the floor, and he sat hard on the bed. He would rather ring the bell a hundred times than see the image on the canvas.
Addara. Golden sunlight, white robes, brown mud, black hoofprints, red blood. The colors in her eyes had stopped playing. The lines on her face stopped dancing.
He gritted his teeth and pulled on the rope. The bell attacked his head with its metallic ringing, but he kept pulling.
Footsteps. One, quick shuffle, two, quick shuffle, three. Cerimon flung open the door, candle in hand. "What?"
Errin pointed to the canvas. Look there! Can't you see what happens? No words came out.
"What is it, lad? What did you see?"
"A-A…" Nothing. His mouth refused to form the words. He pointed and waved at the painting. See it, damn you! See what happens to Addara!
Cerimon studied the painting and shook his head. "I can't see it, Errin. It's all black. It's always all black." He gave Errin the same look--sad, disappointed, pitying, not understanding--he always did. "Eminentus says it's the Illusionist's gift to you, the ability to see what no one else can. Those pictures--they're for your eyes only."
Errin shrieked, but no words came out. His breath caught in his lungs. Fire burned in his mind. He ached to tell someone, to explain what he saw.
"Get some rest, Errin. The sun rises in an hour. We can go out after dark, I promise."
He couldn't let Addara die--not her. He'd seen too many others, borne the burden for far too long. If Cerimon couldn't see, couldn't understand, he'd do it himself.
His fingers closed around the fallen paintbrush and he stumbled from the room. Cerimon called out after him, but he didn't stop. He needed to find Addara and stop her from becoming one more image on the canvas.
* * *
Errin ached to flee back to the safety of his cell. Too many sounds battered against his ears, an assault from all around. He wanted to adjust the thick fabric covering his eyes, but he couldn't take his fingers out of his ears. Shouting, laughing, screaming, screeching, cursing--he fought to keep the sounds out. Can't let head explode! Keep going.
Even through the cloth, daylight hurt his eyes. The sunshine burned even through his heavy cloak. His skin crawled, scorched by the unforgiving sun.
Cerimon touching my arm. Don't like it. He would endure the man's touch, needed it to stay upright. The cobblestones--uneven, can't walk straight--tugged at his feet with every step.
He squeezed his eyes closed, and the numbers flowed through his mind. Five thousand, six hundred, eighty-eight. Five thousand, six hundred eighty-nine. Turn here. Five thousand, six hundred ninety.
The numbers helped him get around. One hundred twelve steps from his cell to the temple stairs. Twenty-five thousand, two hundred and fifty-six to the gardens of Maiden's Fields. Four from his bed to his easel.
He remembered the details of his painting. Grey stones beneath Addara's white robes. He'd walked on those stones before. From gold stones of Temple District to red stones to black to grey. Six thousand, four hundred and eight steps to grey stones. Almost there.
"Sure you're up for this, Errin?" Cerimon's voice, quiet and worried. "We can do this later. After dark."
Errin tried to speak. Nothing. He shook his head and thrust a finger ahead. We have to keep going until we find Addara. It's important!
Someone bumped into him, and he shrieked. Too many people. Too much touching.
"Errin, you have to go back. We can't go through this crowd."
"C-c-close!"
His legs, clumsy and weak, tangled as he picked up the pace. He squeezed his eyes tight and leaned harder on Cerimon.
Six thousand three. Six thousand four. Six thousand five.
He hunched his shoulders and made himself as small as possible to avoid the jostling crowd. He wanted to scream, shout, tell them to stop touching him, but he had no words. Had nothing but a picture in his mind of Addara's red-stained robes.
Six thousand, four hundred and three.
He pulled Cerimon across the street--grey stones, close to finding her--and into the shade of an alley. Out of the burning light!
Gritting his teeth against the sounds battering his ears, he tugged at the blindfold and looked around. Too bright, hard to see. Too many colors and sounds. Too much of everything! Every part of him wanted to return to the safety and darkness of his cell.
He saw her. She stood across the street—thirty-six steps--a basket under her arms. The light glinting off her white robe hurt his eyes. Still standing.
He'd always arrived after the pictures formed. Only saw bodies, unmoving, red-stained, pale-skinned. Not Addara. Not too late for her.
He turned to Cerimon. She's going to be run down by a horse and carriage! Hoofprints on her white dress, red leaking from her head. We have to stop it. He screamed and cried, but nothing came out.
"What is it, Errin? What are we looking for?"
Errin's mouth worked without a sound. Words refused to form. "A-A-dd…"
Lines appeared in Cerimon's forehead. "Point to it!"
Errin's finger darted toward Addara. Cerimon followed it. "Addara?"
Errin nodded. In lieu of words, he waved his arms.
Cerimon shook his head. "I don't understand. What about her?"
Errin's head swiveled. People milled around the market, but no carts or carriages.
His gesticulations turned frantic. Make her come here! She's not safe there. "C-c-come!"
Cerimon quirked his head. "You want her to come here?"
Errin nodded wildly, waving his arms with increasing frenzy. The burning in his mind had nothing to do with the sunlight or assaulting sounds. Golden sunlight, white robes, brown mud, black hoofprints, red blood.
"Easy, Errin. I'll be right back."
Cerimon crossed the street--You're too slow! Move faster--and tapped Addara on the shoulder. The young woman turned, smiled at Cerimon, and followed his pointing finger. She waved at Errin, and he gestured for her to come. Together, she and Cerimon returned to where he stood hunched in his cloak.
"Hello, Errin. Didn't expect to--"
Screams filled the marketplace, and Errin shrieked and clapped his hands over his ears. Cerimon and Addara crouched over him as he buried himself in his cloak, rocking back and forth, keening quietly.
He flinched from a gentle hand on his shoulder, dimly heard Cerimon say, "The boy don't like to be touched." The hand left, and the painful sounds faded. Shoulders hunched, Errin peered out from beneath his hood.
Golden sunlight, green robes, brown mud, black hoofprints, red blood. Someone lay on the ground. Dark hair, pale skin, and crimson dripping from her forehead. Neck twisted at an awkward angle.
Not Addara.
Cerimon's eyes flew wide at the sight, and Addara paled. Errin smiled, watching the lines in her face shift and swirl. He liked how they twisted just so when her mouth fell open. His favorite pattern. Comforting and soothing.
"Blessed Illusionist!" Addara climbed to her feet and rushed toward the fallen woman. People crowded around, but she pushed through the throng.
Cerimon didn't look away. He stared at Errin. "You saw that happen?"
Errin nodded. I painted it in my picture. Didn't you see it?
The man sat back on his heels, his face ashen. "Keeper's teeth!" He pushed his hair back from his eyes. "No wonder you were in such a hurry."
Couldn't let it happen. Not to Addara.
Cerimon narrowed his eyes. "But now what? You stopped it, so is that it?"
He didn't know. Never done this before. Always too late.
"H-h-home…" Away from the sounds and light. No one would touch him there.
Cerimon nodded. "Of course." He reached down a hand and helped Errin stand. "Let's get you home, lad."
Errin craned his neck, but couldn't see Addara.
"She'll be well. You saved her, you know."
Errin replaced his blindfold and returned his fingers to his ears.
Six thousand, four hundred nine. Six thousand, four hundred eight. Six thousand, four hundred seven...
* * *
Errin dropped to his knees, using mud as paint and cobblestones as canvas. Cerimon's voice and the battering sounds of the street around him faded beneath the rushing of blood in his ears.
The blindfold hindered his vision, but his eyes didn't matter. His fingers, hands, and arms moved of their own accord. His brush dipped time and again into the muck as the image--no, please not again--burned in his mind. Addara, Cerimon, and him, lying crushed amidst a throng. Dark boots stained with bright blood.
"Madman!" Harsh, angry voice. Unfamiliar. Hurt his head.
Something bumped into him, and he fell. He curled up, rocking, hands covering his ears.
"You dare profane one of the Illusionist's own?" Cerimon. Angry too. "May the Mighty One fill your purse with dust. May he give you the success you crave, and rip it from your hands. May your mind wither to an empty husk!"
Panting, Errin lay atop his fresh painting of mud and stone. The image refused to leave his mind, and his head threatened to burst from the mounting pressure.
"Errin!" Cerimon crouched over him, shielding him from the bright daylight. "What did you see?"
Words caught in his throat. He waved his muddy hands back in the direction they'd come.
"Back there?"
Errin nodded, seized Cerimon's robe, and dragged himself upright. "A-Ad-da…"
Cerimon's dark eyes flew wide. "Addara?"
Errin's head jerked up and down.
"B-But…" Cerimon gaped. "I thought…"
Errin didn't wait for Cerimon, but stumbled down the street, back toward the market. Hated the noise, the people, the light. Couldn't stop. Addara!
He remembered High Illusionist Eminentus' words, from long ago. "The Long Keeper comes for all--men, women, and children alike. You are a witness, nothing more."
So many dead. Too many paintings. Three hundred eighty-two. He hadn't tried to change it before. Hadn't thought it possible.
Useless. Hopeless. I can't fight the gods. But he had to try. Addara.
"Errin!" Cerimon's hand on his arm. "There's a thick crowd ahead. You won't--"
Go straight, seventy-six steps. Errin shook his head and waved to one side. Four hundred and eight more steps to the bridge.
Sounds hammered his ears. People. Animals. Shouting. Laughing. Talking. He would go around. Move quickly, get to her sooner.
He seized Cerimon's robe and dragged him down the side street. His feet shuffled over the stones that tried to trip him.
Find Addara.
People touching him, bumping him, shoving him. Couldn't stop to paint. Had to save Addara and Cerimon.
Cerimon beside him, strong arms holding back the people. "Come on, Errin! We need to get out of here!" Fear in his voice.
Errin shook his head, stabbed a finger at Cerimon. "S-S-Stay!"
Cerimon's mouth opened. "But, Errin--"
He screamed and tapped Cerimon's chest. "D-Die!"
Cerimon flinched. "You saw that? My death?"
He nodded and tapped his chest.
"Yours, too?"
He pointed in the direction the crowd had taken Addara.
"All three of us?"
With a nod, Errin pointed to Cerimon and to the ground.
"You sure?" Squirming lines--a funny pattern--appeared in Cerimon's forehead.
He wasn't. He didn't want to go alone. He had no idea where to go--too far from the temple--to find Addara.
Sounds grew louder. More people bumping and touching him. He wanted to scream, to shout for them to go away, but he had to find Addara.
Have to get through! He pushed forward, wormed his way through the press of people. Every touch elicited a wordless cry, but he kept on.
Twenty steps. Nineteen. Eighteen.
Someone pushed him back, knocking him to the ground. "Watch yerself, nutter!" Angry.
Errin crawled forward. Sixteen. Fifteen. Fourteen.
So close. Addara stood with her basket under her arm, bent over a pile of fruit. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her hard.
She whirled--strange burning colors in her eyes--but her face softened as she recognized him. "Errin? What are you doing here?" The right side of her face turned up into a smile, but he couldn't tear his gaze from the swirling patterns--beautiful--etched into the left side. His heart danced in time with the shifting colors in her eyes.
He pulled harder.
"What is it?"
He couldn't let go of her wrist. He wanted to tell her what he'd seen, what he'd done, but his voice remained locked away.
He didn't want to go farther--nine thousand, three hundred, ninety-eight steps--from the temple, but had no desire to push through the people on the bridge. Better find an empty street. No people there.
Around him, everything grew too loud, like a screaming storm inside his head. With a keening cry, he pressed his free hand over his ear. Someone hit him and knocked him to the side. Away from Addara. He shrieked and flailed for her. People rushed past. Cries of "Down with the Bloody Hand" pounded into his ears, tearing his head apart. He wailed, but the tumult swallowed his voice.
Clenching his fists, he pushed into the crowd. No time to paint. No time to think about the people touching, jostling, shoving him. Saved Cerimon. Have to find Addara.
The picture had to change. It did. Burning, piercing, etched into his mind.
Line of bright red men with dark sticks. Screaming, shouting people. Body on the floor.
Not one picture, but two.
In one, white robes, long hair, and eyes that no longer danced. In the other, dark cloak, pale skin, broken paintbrush.
Addara dead. Him dead.
Never two before! He had been given a choice. Turn and run, flee to the safety of his cell, or stay and face his fate. He knew which he would take.
The sea of people--touching me!--swarmed around him, pushing him toward a line of red-robed men. Angry, pale faces. Dark sticks.
"Cease this at once!" Deep voice, commanding, scared. "Disperse, and return to your homes!"
The bright red men grew larger as the people shoved Errin forward.
"Heresiarchs, hold the line. Let none through!"
He looked around, desperate. Addara! Near the front of the line, basket crushed against her. Scared.
He shoved and squirmed his way toward her. He couldn't let her become another of his paintings.
Someone pushed him, and he fell against a red-robed man. He didn't let go of his paintbrush, couldn't. Needed it to paint.
"He's got a knife!" The man he hit, angry, scared.
Something smashed down on his hand, pounded his head, his legs, his back. More hits. Pain now.
Had to move. He crawled forward, didn't let the blows stop him. Addara's voice. Screaming. Afraid. Have to get to…Addara!
Too many hits. Boots hitting his ribs, sticks striking his arms, hands, and face. Too much pain. Couldn't…keep…moving.
He curled up into the darkness of his cloak. No more light. He wanted to put his hands over his ears, but they didn't work right. No more sound, please!
A new sound. "Stop!" Addara. Afraid no longer. Angry. "You're hurting him!"
"He's got a knife." Red-robed man. Hesitant.
"He has a bleedin' paintbrush, you fool!"
He opened his eyes. Addara, crouching over him.
"Can't you see he's touched by the Illusionist?"
Errin relaxed his head. The picture burned in his mind, but the pain grew faint. He lay on the ground, beside the line of red-robed men. Him, not Addara. His choice had been accepted.
"E-Errin?" Addara. Colors in her eyes swirled, lines in her face sad. "Why are you here? Why didn't you go back to the temple?"
He lifted his hand. His fingers looked like the paintbrush-- bent, broken.
"Y-you…painted me?"
Errin nodded. He opened his mouth and, for once, the words finally came. "H-h-had to…stop it. Not…you."
His eyes closed. Too much light. Sounds fading. Too tired. Cooling, relaxing darkness. Comfort and safety, like in his cell.
Addara's hand warm on his shoulder. He didn't flinch or move away. Her touch didn't bother him this time. It felt…right.
The Goddess' Gift
"My friend, the Lonely Goddess would hear of your pain and bring you peace."
