The Past The Testament
The Immortal Marshalls of the Blessed were in an unusual position during the surrender to the Hierarchs.
They were sworn to uphold the faith of Thosaren, and advance the cause of justice in the Well’s name.
In practice, they were subject to the Patriarchs’ whims, though perhaps not as much as the Lesser Blessed, since martial prowess, strength, and power to access the Well were required to be made a Marshall.
A few objected openly to the capitulation and were made examples of …
—The History of the Hierarch War: Volume Two: An Introduction to the Civilizations of the North and East by An Interested Yet Unbiased Party
Their late afternoon arrival in the encampment was quiet, and they slipped through the ruined paddock gate and into the shelter of the tumbled walls.
Kai sent the weary vanguarders back to their tents, keeping only Nirana and Telare with him to help their exhausted guests stay on their horses.
Ziede said, “We’ll take them to the physicians, you go report. ”
Kai gestured an acknowledgment in Witchspeak and started to break off.
Before his horse could get more than a pace away, Raihar stretched to grab Kai’s coat sleeve.
She had one of the children bundled against her, and her expression was panicked.
He signed in Witchspeak, It’s all right.
They’re taking you all to food and medicine.
I have to report to my captain, then I’ll find you again.
She blinked, as if coming back to herself, then released him with an embarrassed nod. She followed the others, and Kai headed for the horselines.
Bashasa was there as he expected, sitting in a circle of camp stools with one of the older drovers from the supply train, next to a wallwalker’s palanquin. The harness that normally attached it to the beast lay in coiled piles beside it, in the process of being cleaned and repaired.
Kai handed his horse off to another drover and walked over. Apparently the two were trying to figure out if they were related, because Bashasa was saying, “My second great-uncle married an Ileshar, and it isn’t a common name.”
“Was this in Benais-arik proper?” the drover asked. “Because my grand-aunt Ileshar—” She looked up at Kai’s approach. “Here’s your Grass King now.”
Bashasa jumped up. “We will continue this later!” He turned to Kai. “Fourth Prince! All was well?”
“We got them out,” Kai said as they started to walk. Bashasa led the way to the shortcut path through the outguard camp. “Two Witches held prisoner, with five hostages, probably mortals.”
“Good, good.” Bashasa nodded. “Your speculation was correct. Did you encounter the Doyen?”
“Yes, and that was as odd as you thought it would be.” Kai described the encounter, the strange controlling effect the Doyen had exerted, apparently through her voice alone.
“Concerning,” Bashasa commented, his brow furrowed in thought.
That was putting it mildly. Kai’s skin itched from the dust, and without the pins his hair was a tangled mess, sweat-plastered to his forehead. He shoved it back and shook it out.
“We will have to see what—” Bashasa glanced at him, then stopped abruptly and faced him. “You’re bleeding.”
Kai stopped too, and realized Bashasa had seen the blood stain on his shirt.
The wound had closed before the ride back to the encampment, but the blood had soaked the light-brown cotton from just above his hip halfway across his midsection.
He pulled the fabric tight to see the extent, and he had to admit, it did look bad. “It’s not bleeding anymore.”
Bashasa was not reassured. “You’re injured. You should have gone to the physicians too.” His eyes widened as he took in the size of the blood stain. He reached for Kai, as if to support him. “Kai, this is a stab wound!”
“No, no, it’s fine.” Kai tried to elbow Bashasa off without hurting him.
“It is not fine. You’ve lost a great deal of blood—” He was distressed, confused. “Doesn’t it hurt? Is it gone numb?” He touched the back of his hand to Kai’s forehead. “You aren’t feverish—”
“Bashasa.” Kai lowered his voice. They were still in the outguard camp, on a path wide enough to walk fractious horses between the lines and the supply train.
Most of the soldiers were on watch or patrol or sleeping, but a few scattered groups sat outside cleaning weapons and gear. “It’s how I use intentions.”
“What?” Bashasa’s quick mind answered his own question before Kai could. Fortunately he lowered his voice too. “The expositors, the intentions that you take from them. The ones you make.” Alarm gave way to consternation. “They need blood?”
“No.” Kai hesitated. But having started this explanation, there was no stopping now. “They need pain.”
Bashasa stared at him for a taut moment that stretched almost long enough to make Kai fidget. Then Bashasa turned to the soldiers sitting outside the nearest tent, who were uncomfortably pretending not to watch the altercation. “Is anyone in your tent? May I borrow it for a moment?”
The soldiers assented readily, jumping up to move packs out of the way and shifting some drying laundry and scrambling to find something to do to make them look busy and totally uninvolved in whatever was happening. Bashasa put an arm around Kai’s shoulders and walked him into the tent.
It was the same size as Kai and Ziede’s, bedrolls and belongings neatly stacked, smelling of the soap and oil the Arike used to clean and condition leather.
Bashasa sat down on the battered mat that covered the dirt and flattened grass, drawing Kai down with him. “It’s not still bleeding?” he asked.
“No.” Bashasa hadn’t asked him to prove it, but Kai pulled his shirt up to show him the wound, covered with dried blood but obviously already scabbed over, healing far more rapidly than a wound on a mortal.
Kai tried not to sound exasperated by all the fuss.
“You know it doesn’t affect me like a mortal. You’ve seen it.”
“I’ve seen it, but the other wounds you’ve taken have never bled like this,” Bashasa pointed out.
Kai wasn’t going to mention that it wasn’t usually this bad but that he had been in a hurry and worried.
That seeing the dustwitches hold mortals as hostages like that, using them against other Witches, had rattled him and he hadn’t realized it until later.
Lying didn’t feel right and the only defense against Bashasa’s perspicacity and persistence was to not talk, something that the other Prince-heirs hadn’t figured out yet.
So he said nothing. Bashasa asked more gently, “Do all Witches do this?”
Now that was just annoying. “Only me. They get their power from other places. I thought you knew that.”
“I thought I knew several things I apparently do not,” Bashasa retorted. He shook his head, clearly reevaluating some assumptions. “You did this to destroy the bridge? You did this to flood the Summer Halls?”
“Yes, the bridge,” Kai admitted. “A legionary stabbed me for the Summer Halls. I didn’t ask him to, it was in the back.
” He rubbed his face, tired and not sure how he had gotten into this conversation, if they should have had it earlier or if he should have tried harder to avoid it.
“How did you think I was doing these things?”
Bashasa sat back, gesturing as if it was self-evident. “Because you were a demon!”
“Power has to have a source.” Kai dropped his hands. “Witches use the spirits that live in the earth, the wind, the water. The dustwitches use decay. The Immortal Blessed use the Well of Thosaren.”
“Expositors and Hierarchs use their Well, created by who knows how many years of death and pain.” Bashasa’s tone hardened into anger. “Your source. Is stabbing yourself.”
“It’s pain.” Kai stiffened, tried and failed not to sound defensive. “Hierarchs kill mortals for power. I’m using my own pain.”
“I am not questioning the morality of it, Kai. I am questioning…” Bashasa said wearily, “Why someone who means to do good should have to hurt themselves in this way. It’s…”
Kai felt the tension drain out of him. It was a relief, that Bashasa didn’t see it as something worth condemning.
There was no other choice. Using the Hierarchs’ Well would mean being enslaved to it, or worse, becoming like a Hierarch himself.
Torturing and killing legionaries and Hierarch servant-nobles was certainly an option but Kai felt too much of it led to the same place in the end.
Besides, there weren’t always going to be legionaries available whenever he needed them.
Using his own pain was the only real choice.
And it was his, to do with as he wanted.
He healed so much faster than a mortal, it was an ideal solution.
He said, a little wryly, “Are you going to say it’s unfair? ”
“Do not make light of this, it is a terrible thing to go through.” Bashasa stood and went to the door flap. He leaned out and Kai heard him quietly ask the soldiers for water and a clean cloth.
“No,” Kai corrected, unwilling to let it go. “Because it’s my choice. Terrible things are when other people stab you.”
Bashasa turned back with a flask of water and a bowl full of folded pieces of toweling. “I am not going to debate the philosophy of self-stabbing with you. Much as I might want to.”
“Good,” Kai muttered.
Bashasa sat down and arranged his supplies, and gestured for Kai to lift his shirt again.
Reluctantly, Kai did, and Bashasa gently sponged away the dried blood, with movements as careful as if he was trying to clean an open wound.
It didn’t hurt anymore, except for a mild ache in the flesh behind the scab.
Kai could have taken the cloth away from Bashasa and briskly cleaned it up himself. But he didn’t.
It had been a bad day, in many ways, and this was … nice.
“Is it because this person, this body, was an expositor?” Bashasa asked, most of his attention on his task. “Does it help with using the intentions?”