The Pleasure of Memory (56 page)

It was exactly as Chance expected. “That’s unnecessary cruelty,” he said, “You should know that better than anyone. It’s a horrid thing to inflict on another soul.”

“So is getting punched to sleep!” Beam replied. He spit a wad of bloody phlegm into the dirt and carefully probed his bruising jaw with his fingers.

Chance thought about that. As thoroughly distasteful as he found such barbaric behavior, as much as it went against his nature to leave anyone in such a wretched state, he knew Beam was right. They were both exhausted. They needed sleep more than anything else on earth right now. They were both on the verge of collapse. Left to her fear, she’d eventually sink into a state of oblivion that was something akin to a coma.

In the end, he reluctantly agreed. “We’ll make her as comfortable as we can,” he said, “We’ll revive her in the morning.”

“You’re d-damned right we will.”

“Here, strip those waterlogged leathers off and cover up in this,” Chance said, handing Beam a blanket, “It’s wet, but the wool is from the Highbridge goat herds, so it’ll dry fast and still keep you plenty warm while wet. We'll dry our clothes by the caeyl light.”

He turned to the Vaemyd. Due to the genius of their Vaemysh design, her clothes were already drying. The mud meshed into the grass woven through the fine rings of her mail had nearly washed out during her time in the water. Her bare arms were white as fish bellies. Her face was a maze of cuts and bruises, much like Beam’s, though not nearly so dramatic. He folded the other half of the blanket she was laying on up over her.

“Why can’t you just dry our stuff out with that staff of yours?” Beam asked as he worked free of his wet leathers, “I’ve seen you boil flesh and coax water out of rocks, so why can’t you pull the water out of our clothes?”

Chance began stripping out of his own clothes. He was surprised Beam was asking questions about the caeyl now. It was a good sign. Perhaps the skeptic was reconsidering.

“Fifty years ago I could’ve done exactly that,” he said as he undressed, “Used to be I could will the water out of a sponge. These days, I’d be more likely to incinerate it. The caeyl energy’s been dying for centuries, and it’s accelerated over these last fifty years. I don’t possess the finesse I did even twenty years ago.”

Beam tossed his clothes carelessly to the dirt beside the meager flames. When he’d stripped down to his long undergarments, he dropped to the gravel across the fire from Chance with his blanket cinched tightly around his shoulders. He pulled the sword up across his lap. He was shivering so hard Chance feared he’d fracture a tooth.

“I’ll take the f-first watch,” Beam said, “You get some s-sleep.”

“Are you joking?”

“I’m f-feeling just f-fine to—”

“Absolutely not!”

“I’m perfectly capable of t-taking watch!”

“I said no. You look like misery incarnate. And anyway, the last couple times you took first watch didn’t work out so well.”

“Fine,” Beam said as he dropped to his side in the gravel, “I’m too damned t-tired to argue.” True to his word, he’d barely hit the ground before he was softly snoring.

Chance pulled his own blanket around himself and sat back against the craggy tunnel wall. He wasn’t surprised Beam had gone out so quickly. The man was a mess of bruises and lacerations. If he’d suffered no more than a few loose teeth and a broken nose, he was in better shape than he looked.

He dropped his head back against the stone and watched the Caeyllth Blade resting beside Beam. The half-breed hadn’t been asleep five minutes before the eye in the pommel of the sword began to glow. As he watched, the red light quickly swelled. Then the sword itself shimmered briefly and became translucent. In a blur of metal and light, the sword rose up onto its point before Beam with the crimson eye gazing down at him.

As Chance watched it standing there over the half-breed, he considered how it was possible that it could operate exactly as his sentries did. This was a Blood Caeyl, after all. It influenced the forces of life. His own stone was a Water Caeyl, influencing the forces of the earth and matter. A red caeyl should never be able to stimulate either animation or the motion of physical objects any more than his blue caeyl could heal the sick. It ran contrary to everything he knew of the world and caeyl energy. It was just another anomaly, another mystery, another violation of what he knew to be reality in a week already crowded in them.

The sharp tingle of energy filled the air around him. He could feel the pins and needles tickling at his skin. He turned his head away and covered his eyes. The flash of light that followed was brilliant enough to pierce even that preparation. When he thought it safe to look back, he found the tunnel thoroughly illuminated in red.

A beam of light erupted from the eye, pouring down on the half-breed like a stream of water shooting from the mouth of a fountain. As the radiance struck the half-breed, it rushed across his skin like molten steel filling the grooves of a mold. It completely consumed him, sealing him beneath a red skin that was more liquid than light. It wrapped him as tightly as a stick dipped in tar. It took his shape. It clung to his form like a glowing red membrane. The details that defined the man’s individuality were missing beneath the red light, but his form was as perfect as a statue carved from garnet.

Chance held a palm out toward the sword. There was no tingling, no burning sensation. His stomach wasn’t even roiling. He sensed no defensive reaction from the sword at all. Since that first night, he’d kept his distance when the light came to life, but now he understood. Aggression triggered the reaction, not simple proximity. If no ill intent were present, no ill reaction followed.

He lay back in the dirt and made himself as comfortable as he could. As he laid there studying the craggy ceiling above him, he reached back and pressed his fingers against the caeyl embedded at the base of his skull. When the uncomfortable sensation of linking passed, he closed his eyes.

The sense of relief he felt as he detected Luren’s life force was nearly unbearable. The boy was alive, and his essence was strong. At first, Chance found deep and profound comfort in that knowledge, but his pleasure quickly devolved into anger. Alive or no, even safe or no, the boy was in the possession of that maniac, Prae. He may be safe now, but he wouldn’t be for long, not once Prae’s true nature took hold.

The moment they were free of this prison, Chance swore he’d go south. He’d recover Luren from that monstrous place, and then he’d kill that bastard, Prae. He swore it now before the gods of Pentyrfal. He’d kill that vile bastard dead. He’d rid this earth of his foul presence once and forever.

XXVIII

STRANGE COMPANY

ELL, BE’AHM? ARE YOU READY?”

“How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me that?” Beam snapped back.

The Vaemyn laughed. “Many, I think. I’m unreasonably stubborn that way. I fear you inherit that same trait from me.”

Beam squeezed the throne’s arms in frustration. The man stood over him, smiling in his usual patronizing manner. He wore the same blue, gilded tunic, just as before. His pale hair poured down over his breast, just as before. He bore the same aggravating, condescending grin, just as before. And just as before, it was all Beam could do to resist reaching up and slapping that grin off his face.

Beam looked out into the great chamber. The essence of the crystal glittered all around him. The dais, the pillars, the artifacts lining the distant walls, everything but the bottomless black floor shimmered in white light. As he considered this absurd scene, he realized he had no memory of walking into the cave this time. There’d been no conversation with Dael, no passing through the cave wall, no preparation for another irritating encounter. He’d simply awoken here, sitting in this damned throne while the bastard hunkered down over him with his face an inch too close to his own.

He looked up at the Vaemyn again. “How about you give me a little breathing room?” he said.

The Vaemyn proffered him a most annoying grin and then nodded. An instant later, he was standing back at the edge of the dais, leaning into the front right pillar with his arms crossed and a foot cocked up on its bare toes.

Beam glanced around the dais. They appeared to be alone. “Where’s Brother Dael?” he asked.

“He’s here with you. And he’s also quite not here.”

“Is that supposed to mean something?”

“It means you don’t need him anymore, my boy. You only need his memory.”

Beam again squeezed the glassy armrests. He’d only been here one minute, and he already wanted to scream. “That’s not what I asked,” he said carefully, “This is my dream, so I guess I can decide what I need and what I don’t.”

The warrior laughed again. “It’s not a dream, my boy.”

“Bullshit.”

The Vaemyn pushed away from the pillar. He walked over to Beam and resumed his previous pose, leaning in too close to Beam with his hands propped on the armrests. He pressed in closer until their faces were nearly touching. “This is no dream, Be’ahm,” he whispered, “This is your life.”

Beam retreated as far back into the throne as he could. “I suppose there’s no tunnel, either,” he said, twisting his face away, “And, damn me, probably no monk, either? I suppose this is the real world, and when I sleep I dream about the tunnels?”

“That is a most intriguing concept, Be’ahm. Do you think that’s possible? Or are you simply being contrary?”

The bastard’s grin was unrelenting. “Look, friend,” Beam said carefully, “Unless you’re going to kiss me, how about pulling back a bit?”

The warrior’s face didn’t waver. “You have quite an opinion of things, Be’ahm. I rather admire that. It reminds me so of myself.”

“I told you—”

“To stop calling you Be’ahm,” the Vaemyn said, laughing, “Yes, I know.”

“Do you have a problem with your memory?” Beam said sarcastically.

“No, Be’ahm, but I believe that you do. In fact, that would be precisely why you’re here with me. Your memory is not nearly as robust as it should be.” He laughed at that.

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Beam demanded, “You’re starting to sound like Chance. You remember him? He’s the guy in my other dream.”

“This is no dream, Be’ahm. This is a memory.”

“And so the riddles persist.”

Beam clenched his jaw and counted to ten. The Vaemyn was a monument to frustration. The monotony of this dream made his time with Chance seem like an episode in joyful meditation.

“I pose you no riddles, my boy. I only give you facts. What you make of those facts is your decision and yours alone. You may opt to learn from these memories or you may simply be vexed by them.”

“So, this is no dream,” Beam said with a forced laugh, “This is a memory. Well, maybe you’re right! Maybe this is the memory of another dream I had. A dream I had just last night, in fact!”

He tried to stand, but found he couldn’t leave the chair. It felt like he was strapped in, though his arms and legs appeared unrestrained. He tried to move again with the same results. It was some kind of paralysis.

He scowled up at the Vaemyn. “What’ve you done now?” he demanded, “Let me out of this goddamned chair!”

“Hm, I think not.”

“You son of a bitch! I swear, you’d best—”

Everything abruptly changed. The throne was glowing brilliantly around him. A pure white light flowed up through the legs, into the arms, and up the back. His skin felt on fire. He could feel his hair rising up around his head.

“What the hell is this?” he said as he struggled to get up, “Goddamn it! I just want to wake up!”

The warrior finally pulled away from him. He stood and backed a pace from the throne. For a moment, he only watched Beam. Then he turned and stepped down off the dais.

Beam noticed with some alarm that the Vaemyn appeared different now. He was wearing a suit of silvery armor with golden lace so that he simmered like rusting moonlight in reflection of the chair’s light.

“This is important, Be’ahm,” the Vaemyn said, “You must strive to listen. This is not a dream. This is a memory, your memory. I’m going to continue to tell you that until you understand.”

“This is no goddamned memory!” Beam yelled as he struggled against the chair’s ethereal restraints, “You’d best let me out of this bloody trap! I mean it, you son of a bitch!”

“The problem is the wall.”

The words struck Beam as oddly familiar. He stopped struggling. He looked at the Vaemyn and tried to make sense of what he’d heard. “Wall?” he asked, “What damned wall? What are you talking about?”

“The wall around your memories. The wall blocking you from the truth.”

“What truth?”

The armored Vaemyn now stood on the icy black floor below the dais, though Beam didn’t see him move. He was leaning onto one leg. His arms were crossed and he was watching Beam and absently stroking his smooth chin.

After a few moments, he dropped his arms and said, “Yes, that’s it. That’s it, indeed. The wall is fully in our path. We must remove that wretched wall if we are to proceed any further.”

“Wall?” Beam said, “What wall? What are you—”

The chair shifted violently beneath him. Beam’s stomach lurched with the motion.

Beam fought back a surge of panic. He twisted against the chair, tried to break free of the ghostly bonds locking him in the seat, but it was useless; he couldn’t break them.