Chapter 8: Chapter 5: Departure

The road leaving Gazmere was familiar as few things are. I clutched Azareth with feeble hands while the trees and brush rushed blurrily past. This road, traveled much longer, would lead us toward the Elthysian heartland, to the great golden spires of Orloth. It was a world far beyond my own, but for now, Azareth veered his horse onto the beaten path to my childhood home.

We emerged from the forest and started climbing the hill. There was our cottage, nestled on the hilltop, same as it had always been. To the right, our goats grazed and played, carefree as only animals can be. To the left, crops sprouted, poking shoots out of the earth. I breathed in the earthy smells of the countryside, felt the warmth of the rising sun, and suddenly found it hard to imagine anything other than a pastoral life.

But the die had been cast. The river crossed. The scars had been hacked into my flesh like so many corded binds. I had placed my lot with the necromage. I didn’t know what he had in store for me, but I knew it would be far different from this little plot of land. Him, pleading with Gazmere on my behalf, had been a transaction. Thus, I had a debt to pay. Somehow, even then, I knew Azareth was not someone to help another out of the goodness of his heart.

The horse slowed as it ascended the hill. Azareth dismounted, helped me down from the saddle, then rummaged through his pockets as he spoke.

“I’ll wait out here,” he said, pulling out his pipe and fiddling with flint. “Farewells are an… intimate business, I understand. But do not tarry long. We have many miles to ride.”

I held the cloak tight around my chest. I walked to the threshold and discarded Azareth’s words. I would not rush for his sake. This was my father. My rock. The only one who had ever cared for me.

The only person whom I well and truly loved.

I took a moment to gain my composure… or, at least, a fraction of it. I ran a hand through my blood-crusted hair and knew I looked like death. I felt like death. I couldn’t see my myriad scars, but I could feel them, standing from my skin. Every moment, they felt as though they would burst open again, spilling what little remained of my blood. My body felt… like something not my own. A hot, heavy cloak that didn’t fit my shoulders.

I was in no state to talk, to my father least of all. But I knew that leaving now would bring me nothing but regret.

I eased the door open and stepped inside the only home I’d ever known. The single room seemed so small, then, pressing in on all sides unlike the open world outside. The bed, our closet and drawers, the table, the basin… it felt unreal.

There was motion in the back window, the flash of steel reflecting sunlight. I walked closer and found my father hacking away at one of our training dummies. His teeth were gritted, brows trenched, face flushed red in anger and shame. And in his hand… that pale blade, blue and silver, that had made him remember.

I opened the back door and stepped into the yard. His strike faltered when he noticed me. I stood, head bowed, tail dropping pathetically into the mud. I wilted, hands clenched around my chest, afraid to bare what lay beneath the cloak. I trembled, stringy hair stained by my very own blood.

Silence, for a long while. The tip of his blade dropped into the dirt. He let the rest of it fall, then walked toward me, as if he neared a wounded animal.

“Azareth said—” he started, and something about his gravelly voice broke me.

I lurched forward, arms wrapping around him, fast enough that he lost his breath. I buried my face in his shoulder, dug in my nails, and the tears started to fall. I felt his hand, hesitant at first, brush over the bumps of my scars. He paused, feeling one, then decided to hold me instead.

“Azareth said… he wouldn’t let them hurt you,” my father said. “That… he could convince Gazmere…”

I clenched him tighter. Head to his chest, I felt his heart’s unyielding cadence, its old and sonorous tempo.

I felt his hand, peeling away my cloak. I felt his breath, stopped, when he saw what lay beneath. Then his gentle, burly arms wrapped around me tighter, and I coiled my tail around his legs.

“I’m… sorry, little doe.”

We held each other a while longer, until I stopped my weeping. He loosened his grip and I loosened mine. He pulled me down, to sit in the grass.

“I’ll be right back,” he said. I brought my knees up to my chest and curled my tail around my feet.

Behind me, he stepped into the cottage. A short while after, he reemerged. He set something by my side—a clean shirt of cotton. He removed the cloak from my shoulders, and I tensed when he touched one of the scars.

Something cool touched my back, and I flinched. A wet rag. I stared emptily at the grass between my feet while he scrubbed at the caked-on crimson.

“This is… my fault,” he said, barely heard above the wind. His motions grew slower, less weight behind them. “My past, I… didn’t want to confront it. And… you’re the one paying for it.”

He held a length of my black—now scarlet—hair, and began to scrub it clean. The tip of my tail twitched, and I watched it with wide eyes.

“None of this… none of this is your fault, little doe. I… want you to know that.”

My fist curled. He moved on to clean my flank, then soon after, he was done.

He nudged the shirt closer to me, as if I hadn’t noticed it. I made no move to accept it. He waited a moment, then picked it up with one hand, my arm with the other. He slid the sleeve through, then passed it over my head. I stared, unblinking, as he guided my other hand into its hole.

He knelt in front of me and adjusted the garment so that it covered my whole torso. He watched my unseeing eyes.

“I understand… if you hate me now. You… have every right—”

“Father… stop,” I said.

“...Valhera?”

“Stop,” I repeated, looking desperately into his eyes. “Why, in all creation… would I hate you?”

He looked at his hands. “Because—”

“Stop… please,” I whispered, burying my face in my knees.

And he was silent, for a while. His was a heavy silence, made heavier by all the words unsaid. I could practically hear his thoughts, running like a destrier. Then he stood, grass bristling underfoot as he strode against the yard.

He returned and closed his hand around my wrist. He slipped something cold and smooth between my fingers, furling his hands around mine as if to seal the thing within. It was the pale, blue blade, now in its sheath—black leather lined with gleaming silver. My father frowned, and I knew his next words pained him.

“I’ve been… lying to you for a very long time, little doe,” he said, kneeling next to me. “There are things you should know. Things I never told you, because… I was afraid. And I wanted us to have a simple life.”

He released my hand, and I brought the sword closer to my chest. It was crafted unlike anything I’d ever seen. I eased the blade two inches from the sheath and tested its edge. It was beautiful, ornate… and, I knew, incredibly deadly.

“That was my sword,” my father said. “When I wielded it, I did so in the name of two women. Elthys was the first… and your mother was the second.”

He frowned, remembering. “Your mother was an amazing woman. She was wise beyond her years. She knew empathy unlike anyone else. I knew her many struggles, but… no matter how she suffered, she treated every soul with kindness. It didn’t matter who that person was. It didn’t matter… whether they deserved her love. She saw the light in every single heart, and… I suppose I have her to thank for what light I have within me, still.”

My father watched the blade a while, as if seeing pictures in the metal.

“I never told you her name,” he said. “She was… Sepheline. Forty-ninth Divine of the Rising Sun.”

I froze. I lashed my tail and held my breath.

“She’s the one who brought you to me, all those years ago.”

My eyes closed. “But I’m… a direling.”

He took a long time to respond. I could hear his heart beating slower, maybe from dread, or the peace in feeling a burden lifted.

“You misunderstand, little doe. I… am not your father.”

I tensed, fingers digging into my legs. “Stop, Father…” I pleaded, and he did, for a time. I spent that time trying to ease the pace of my heart, to find comfort in the smells and sights of the countryside.

“I was her paladin,” he finally said. “Her servant. Her bodyguard, confidante… her partner. We wandered Elthysia together. Tried to guide folks to the goddess. She did miracles, and I loved her for it. But over time… the burdens of life wore her down.” He paused, fingers smoothing through his tangled hair. “For all her faith in Elthys, for all the hope she inspired in others, she had no faith in herself. The Divine holds the full power of the goddess in her hands, and for Sepheline… maybe that weight was too much. She was only human, beneath it all. I know it would’ve broken me, long before.”

He hesitated. “She loved me, too. But the Divine cannot marry or have children because… that would complicate things. She was desperate for someone to share her burden. And, for a while, I did. Her faith wavered, and for a while, we grew closer. Bonded over something more than my oaths and her power. But in hindsight, maybe… maybe we only reminded each other of what couldn’t be. So close, but out of reach. The distance between us could only widen, and… eventually, she dismissed me. Then I retreated to the wilderness. I planned to live and die in obscurity, knowing I could never love another woman the same way.”

His voice was gravelly and deep, but gentle as the late summer breeze. “A year passed, maybe more. I kept my prayers to Elthys, but they started to feel… empty. Then one day, Sepheline found me. She showed up at my door with a small escort of knights. None of her regalia. She held a newborn baby in her arms. Told me your name… Valhera. And she begged me. Begged me to raise you, to teach you everything I knew. We’d talked about having a family before… idle romance. But from that first moment, I… considered you my own flesh and blood. I didn’t care about your growing horns. I loved you, little doe,” he said, with a voice like iron, forged. “As only a father can. As much… as I love you now.”

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My eyes, weeping, shut. My hand, trembling, reached to grip his own.

He opened his palm to me, broad and steadfast fingers dwarfing mine. “She didn’t tell me where you came from,” he continued. “I think… maybe she broke her oath, and you were the result. I left that cabin in the woods, knowing that it was no place to raise a daughter. I carried you first to Orloth, where I learned that the Divine had died. That day, when she knocked on my door… I think she’d known that was about to happen. I don’t know if you had anything to do with her death, but the circumstances of it all make me think… there had to be a reason she gave her life for you.”

“A… destiny?” I asked.

“There’s no such thing. But… I know that she would not have broken her oath for impulse, or even for love. If you truly are her daughter, then… I can’t help but wonder at the circumstances of your birth. And your curse… maybe there’s a reason for that, too.”

He was quiet for a long time. I had questions burning within my heart, but was loathe to cut the quiet short. I ran one hand over the bluish sword, sheathed in my lap, tracing the patterns on its hilt.

“That weapon,” he said, “was her gift to me when I joined her personal guard.”

“Not… steel,” I muttered.

“No. Mithril.”

I had heard stories of mithril. It had been the goddess’s creation, incorruptible by rust or corrosion, and capable of holding an impossibly sharp edge. Holding it, I felt that it was lighter than other swords I’d wielded, despite being six inches longer. Elthys had created blades and armor for her closest followers when she’d fought the demon-kings. It was said that only her hand could temper it, and so the few remaining mithril relics were reserved for the Rising Sun’s most practiced paladins.

“In all my years by her side, I never once sharpened that sword,” my father said. “And… not once did it fail me.”

“I’m… no paladin.”

“No. But you're my daughter, and if nothing else… it can remind you of me. I remember Sepheline gave it a name. Elegy. There is something… sad, about a weapon so old, she'd said. Sorrow… in something so bloodied, so cruel.”

My father, gentle, took his hand from mine. He shuffled closer, resting closer to my side. “I don’t know what Azareth plans for you, nor do I understand his magic,” he said, reaching, hesitating, then setting his broad arm around my shoulder. “But the Order deals with the restless dead, and… holding that sword, somehow I know Sepheline never found peace. If you want to know the truth of your birth, maybe… she could guide you on that path. And as necromages deal with the dead, maybe Azareth… could help you find her restless soul.”

I thought of the necromage, his uncompassionate smile. My hand tightened around Elegy’s hilt. I allowed myself to lean further into my father’s form, maybe trying to find the comfort I once had as a little girl. “He lied to me,” I said. “He lied to you.”

“Sometimes… a lie is easier than the truth.”

I looked at him. He seemed… far grayer, even, than he had the night before. His wrinkles deeper, hair losing its color. I saw, in his eyes, the immovable, inescapable weight of a life long lived. I saw, in his weathered face, the toll that life had taken. I felt, in his rough, tempered heart, the wisdom and regret of a tired man.

“Thank you, Father. Thank you… for everything,” I said, the last of my tears pooling in my eyes. “Everything,” I repeated, holding him like a lifeline.

“This is the day… every father dreads. But I know your strength. I know… you’ll be alright.”

We sat on that hillside, together a while longer. The sun rose before us, high above the distant hills. Eventually, my father stood, and I stood with him. We walked, wordless, to the cottage, and he helped me gather my things.

I put on my gambeson, the one he’d had special-made to accommodate my tail. He helped me buckle Elegy’s scabbard to my waist and adjust it for comfort. I put on my fingerless traveling gloves, and my father considered my cloak. Seeing how mine was sodden, torn, and bloodstained, he offered me his own.

I wrapped myself in it and breathed in deep. The coarse fabric smelled like him. Sweat, wood, a hint of old iron. It steadied my heart as few things could.

Next, some food for my journey. Last, my old sketchbook, and a blank one besides. I nestled the first in the crook of my father’s arm. I knew how we would cherish my sketches, now… even those of the Dead God.

Before too long, I was ready to go. In a physical sense, anyway. I felt—I knew that a piece of my heart would forever remain in that cottage. That come what may, a part of me would always be my father’s daughter. Always… the girl from a farm.

“I love you, Valhera,” my father said, words rumbling with the low, sheer adamance of thunder. “Remember that, if nothing else.”

Tears dripped on my cheeks like the previous night’s storm. I parted my lips, but found my tongue unable to form my response. I breathed in deep, then wrapped my arms around my father one last time. One last moment… where the world felt small. Certain. Safe.

But my childhood had long been over, and yearn as one may, no one can retake that innocence. No one can forget… the darkness beyond their cottage walls.

Still, his words had filled me with a certain resolution. So even as I wept, as my scars thrummed with the heat of my deeds, I walked beyond the cottage door. I found Azareth waiting, a single eyebrow raised. With him, I mounted the horse.

I looked back as we moved down the hill. My father, old, gray, alone, looked back. He offered a solemn wave. Then our path veered right, and I lost sight of him among the branches and leaves of Elthysia’s heartland.

“Remember,” he’d said. His parting words. Like mithril, unbreaking.

I would. That fact, even in his absence, would be my steadfast anchor.

* * *

Azareth and I rode for the entire day, setting up camp some thirty miles north of Gazmere. The necromage had bought a second horse on our way out of town—a sturdy brown mare that had carried me this far. As the evening grew darker and the forest filled with the bustle of night insects, Azareth declared that we had traveled far enough. He dismounted and laid out his bedroll while I worked on a fire. Once it was blazing, I settled against a nearby tree, leaning Elegy against the same trunk.

Conversation had been sparse, as I didn’t have anything to say. Still, I was reeling from the shock and sting of my back cut open. Still, I couldn’t comprehend my myriad scars. My home, taken away. My crimes… manifold.

Azareth sat on a folding stool across the fire. He lit his pipe in the existing blaze, then regarded me through the dancing orange light.

“This is difficult,” he said, as I watched the flames. “For you, I mean. Isn’t it?”

I collected my words before speaking. “I don't want your pity.”

“Nor was I offering it. It was… an observation.”

My tail twitched, crunching dead leaves. “Yes, it’s difficult. Of course it’s difficult.”

“I remember when I left home. Or rather, when I left the temple,” he said, shaking his pipe to dislodge some of the ash. “The world is so vast, it can be… overwhelming. What is one to do, when faced with something so large?”

I decided not to answer his question. Leaving home had not been my choice. It had happened suddenly, bloodily, and the reality hadn’t quite settled in. I had much on my mind—the vastness of the world, least of all.

At my silence, he exhaled pungent smoke. The fire crackled, night creatures chirped, and Azareth spoke again.

“Perhaps you feel manipulated. Used. Your situation is… far from ideal.”

I stared him down across the fire. His face was blank.

“Our arrangement benefits us both, you know. I assure you, my order does immeasurable good.”

I showed my teeth. “I’m not looking to be your friend.”

“Be that as it may, it is in our best interests to cooperate. I would like to better understand… you. Your virtues, your vices, your capabilities.”

“I’m the same as anyone else,” I muttered, leaning back so that my horns dug into the tree behind me. “A girl from a farm.”

“Your father told me of his past. He told me how you became his daughter.”

“That was a long time ago.”

Azareth raised his brows. “The past lingers with us, Valhera. A truth… quite literally carved in your flesh.”

I tensed, fingers digging into my arms.

“No one escapes the dead…” he continued, “and no one quite escapes their past, either. No matter where life takes you, you are forever tuned—or twisted—by the places you have been. You… I wonder at your circumstances. Found by the Divine, days before her death. To me, it is clear your blood bears demon-fire, and… perhaps, even some measure of Gilgaroth’s power.”

Even being what I am, I cringed at the mention of the Dead God’s name. And the idea of his power within my veins… I writhed at the thought. Azareth seemed to notice my reaction, and it drew forth a smirk.

“His name is not a curse. No more than Elthys’s.”

I decided not to respond, even as questions abounded in my mind. I had no energy to hear them answered. My hands grew restless, so I began to draw faces in the mud.

“Death need not be unfamiliar, Valhera. Your people are living proof of that fact.”

“And what do you know of direlings?”

“More than you, I’d wager.” He paused, nodding. “More than anyone west of Lesmyne.”

I realized the face I’d been drawing looked much like my father. In two simple strokes, I added horns to his head. I stared at it a moment, then wiped it away with my boot.

“Tell me about them,” I said, holding my knees to my chest.

“Where to begin? How would I describe an entire species?”

He seemed to be waiting for an answer. I made no effort to respond, or even hold his eyes.

“We live in a world divided,” he began, folding his arms pensively. “East, west. Elthysia, Khaldara. The living and the dead. Our world… and the Void. These are all sides to the same coin. Elthysians praise the Mother and will all things to live. But that is folly,” he nodded, pulling the pipe from his lips. “All things, born, must one day die. This is a truth your people know all too well. It is a truth my order knows well.”

He let the silence hang for a moment, watching the flames. “Such is my purpose. I bridge the gap between the living and dead. I understand that a world divided against itself cannot prosper. In that way, perhaps we are similar.”

“My father was a paladin,” I said. “I’m not… a typical direling.”

“No, you are not. But I sense, in you, the things we look for in new recruits. You have long rejected Elthys, and I think it is for reasons beyond your horns and tail.”

I considered my father’s faith. The part of him I had never understood. I felt my grief again, but concealed it, instead locking Azareth’s eyes.

“I see, in you, a mystery,” he continued. “A puzzle, to be solved.”

“Blood… of the Dead God?”

“It is only a theory.”

“How… is that possible?”

He seemed to gather his words. “I pondered it much, last night. My order has heard rumors of heirs before, though never found one of such power. Likely because… your people are rare in this part of the world.”

I shook my head. It was nonsensical. I decided to put thoughts of the Dead God aside, instead thinking of our destination.

“Is that why you’re bringing me to Orloth?” I asked, at last.

“In a way.” Smoke tumbled from his lips.

“I’m only… a girl. I don’t think you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

“It does not matter. I feel we may unravel your mysteries together.”

I was inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt, then. I believed, for a moment, that he wanted to help me. That, perhaps, there was kindness in him that I had not seen before. The tone of his voice carried a certain amount of sympathy, of earnestness.

However, he wore a different sort of face. He smiled at me, half-hidden in the firelight. I saw, in his eyes, a look of indifference, at least toward me. I saw, in his grin, a cold and calculating callousness that undermined his sincerity. I thought about how easily he’d lied to me, my father, to Gazmere. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was lying again.

But he had saved my life. He had carved my penance. He had lied to achieve those things. Maybe… that was justified. Sometimes a lie… is easier than the truth. Maybe this was no different, and he truly would help me find my path.

“Good night, Azareth,” I said, laying down on my bedding. He grunted in return. I decided that I would follow the necromage, at least for now… as if I had anywhere else to go.

The scars on my back burned, as if to recall their fire. Elegy’s mithril almost seemed to hum, reminder of the father I’d left behind.

My world had changed, unfathomably, in only a day. Such things take their toll. It did not take long for the fog of sleep to creep into my weary mind.