Penric's Mission

XVI

Nikys clutched Penric, whose mumbling had drifted into well-enunciated but not particularly sensible rambling, and watched Adelis’s figure move methodically around the slope below. The sun had retreated behind the hills, leaving the sky still luminous, only a few stars pricking through, and the dry ground drenched in shadowless blue. Adelis had chased off the only two swordsmen still willing to stand up and try to fight after the landslide. Both of them cut and bleeding, their considerable courage had broken, and they’d turned to run down the trail after their fleeing comrades while they still could. Nikys was relieved.

Adelis paused at an indistinct shape at the bottom of the slide. Muffled voices, a cry of protest, a meaty thunk. Silence. Nikys shuddered, inhaled, looked away.

Penric convulsed up in her lap. “What was that? He’s not dispatching all the wounded, is he? I have to stop him—”

“No. Or only one, I think. Lie still. How badly are you hurt?”

He sank back. “Not too badly, I think.” His inner twin’s voice overrode this, puffing, oddly, more: “Nearly killed just now. Would have been, except for me.”

“Des!” objected Pen, and shut his jaw on this.

What did it say that Nikys had better luck getting a straight answer from a chaos demon than a man? Nothing new, more’s the pity. “Desdemona, what’s really going on? Tell me!”

Penric clenched his teeth, but then gave up, or gave way. “That accursed Bastard’s divine tried to rip apart his heart, by forbidden magic. I have it under control for now, but Penric should stay flat in bed for the next week.”

Nikys stared around the dusky hills at the marked absence of beds, and sighed. “Was that… normal magic?”

“No,” said Desdemona, and Penric, one hand wavering up to touch her face, added, “No one should be allowed to break my heart but you, Madame Owl.”

Her breath caught, but before they could continue this promising exchange, Adelis came clumping back. He paused below to study the unconscious sorcerer half-buried in the scree, then bent to wipe his sword clean on the loose sleeve of the man’s white robe, and sheathed it. Mounting the hill to Nikys’s side, he let down a pair of bows and a quiver of arrows. With a tired grunt, he dropped next to them and gazed out over the unexpected battlefield.

Penric levered up on his elbow. “What all has happened? Is happening…?”

“The sergeant, two archers, and two men ran off, for now. And the two wounded, after. The rest are half-buried in the rubble. A few may get out without help, and help the others. I expect their comrades will come creeping back to their aid by-and-by. The horses tore loose and ran off during what I take to be your landslide. At least one fell. Broken neck, fortunately. Broken legs would have made for a messier cleanup. For somebody, not for us. We need to move along.”

Penric’s brows pinched. “What about Velka?”

Adelis shrugged. “He’d tried for me twice. Three times, if what you say is true. I decided not to give him a fourth chance.”

“Oh.” Penric sank back, signing himself. “I regret… not doing better with him.”

“Well, he’s his god’s problem now. Don’t promote your troubles beyond your rank.”

“That is actually theologically sound advice.”

“Works in the army, too.”

“Ah.” Penric hesitated. “Did you ever find out his real name?”

“Didn’t ask. Didn’t care, by then.”

“It seems strange to kill a man without even knowing his name.”

“Seems usual to me.” Adelis rolled his shoulders. “Though in his case, we may find out later. Anyway, with the head cut off, the body will thrash. Best guess it will take this lot some days to dig themselves out and limp back for help. More confusion after that. Unless that one”—he nodded downhill to the pale lump that was the Patos sorcerer—“recovers faster than I think. Which, given his demon, your god only knows.”

Penric, who had slumped into Nikys’s willing lap, struggled up again. “I should try to treat the wounded—”

“No, you shouldn’t,” said Nikys, pushing him back.

“No, and I won’t help,” Desdemona put in. “I have other priorities right now. They’ll all live if their friends return.”

“I agree with the demon,” said Adelis, unexpectedly both for the agreement, and for spotting just who had spoken the words coming out of Penric’s mouth. “I swear the thing has more sense than you do, Learned Fool.”

Which was, all right, a small step toward acknowledging the truth of Penric’s account of himself. An Adelis-inch. Nikys bent her face and smiled.

“Any being learns a lot in two hundred years,” Penric conceded shakily.

Adelis picked up one bow and tested it. “You said you could shoot flaming arrows, sorcerer. How about regular ones?”

“Usually. Maybe not right now.”

He handed the bow to Nikys. “Check the draw for you.”

Seated on the ground, she took it a little awkwardly, twisted and pulled, and grimaced. “It’s fairly hard for me, but I could do it in a pinch.” She leaned over and set it with the other.

“We’ll keep both, then.” Adelis turned and shifted his gaze upward. “I’m not sure how much steep we have left, but if we can get through that narrow place before full dark, we should be able to stop safely till moonrise.”

Nikys bit her lip, wondering how this squared with Desdemona’s recommendation of rest for Penric’s safe recovery. It did not sound good.

The pile of pale cloth below them shifted, then moaned.

This time, Penric rose in greater determination. “Help me. I have to get some water down that one, or he won’t last till morning. It matters, trust me.”

“Jumping demon problem?” inquired Adelis, in a kind of wearied concession.

“At the very least. Not that he deserves to keep his.”

Nikys hoisted the leather bottle, and Penric. They slid down the few yards and settled by the half-buried sorcerer.

Penric took the bottle and dribbled water over the man’s head, rubbing it into his hair. “I need to cool him down the hard way, if he’s still too stunned to shed chaos,” Penric told her. “Here, Learned Kyrato.” He patted the man’s bearded cheek. “Wake up, now. You have to drink this.” He tilted the spout to the man’s lips.

Kyrato swallowed, choked, spilled, and seemed to come back to full consciousness. He heaved his trapped body, without effect.

“Stop struggling,” Penric told him, a stern hand to his shoulder. “You’ll just make yourself hotter. I haven’t much time—”

Kyrato’s voice went sharp in terror. “I won’t tell you anything!”

“Good, because I only want you to listen,” said Penric.

“Is this safe?” asked Nikys in worry. “If he just tried to kill you?”

“Now that I’m on my guard, yes. …Maybe. You’d best sit back a way.” Penric gestured.

Nikys retreated perhaps two feet, and felt around for a good big piece of scree, ready to knock Kyrato in the head with it again if he made some sudden move. Although it wasn’t the moves she could see but the ones she couldn’t that were the real danger, she supposed. She’d have to trust in Penric and Desdemona for those. This was… curiously not-hard.

Kyrato’s eyes flickered from her back to Penric.

“The fight’s over,” Penric informed him. “Your side lost. You have surrendered.”

Groggily, Kyrato said, “No, I haven’t.” He mustered resolve. “You may get away this time, but the Bastard’s Order will track you down.”

“Which will be ridiculously easy, as I work for the Bastard’s Order. And the white god.”

Kyrato managed a shaky sneer. “Who are you to speak for the white god? Have you met Him?”

“Once, about eleven years ago. Not an experience a man forgets.” He shrugged. “Nor does a demon. You can call me Learned… Anonymous for now, although if we ever meet again in less troubled circumstances I promise I’ll introduce myself properly.”

Kyrato looked as though he didn’t believe a word of this. No—as though not-believing was less frightening than believing. Most curious. Nikys watched in increasing fascination.

“I have not much time,” Penric went on, “but I need to speak to you about the way you are treating your demon. Because it’s both theologically incorrect—and rude and cruel,” someone added aside, “and very poor management, frankly.

“Your demon is a gift of the god and the Temple, you know, an elegant opportunity for mutual growth, not a beast to be dominated, imprisoned, and enslaved. To it, you are model, mentor, and the only parent such an elemental being can have. As the holder of a Temple demon, you have an obligation to pass it on at the end of your life improved, not ruined by your selfishness, inattention, or, as in this case, fear, bad judgment, and panic.” Penric waved a hand. “Although I grant you were led astray.”

Learned Kyrato’s stare of terror was slowly transmuting to a stare of utter disbelief. Oh good, thought Nikys, it’s not just me. Even the Temple-trained found Penric confusing.

“I don’t know if or how you will be able to make things right with your demon,” Penric went on, “although I would certainly suggest repentance, prayer, and meditation for a start. Forgiveness will likely be beyond it until it is not beyond you, and as for absolution, you’ll need to petition a higher authority. But I would suggest, by way of a first apology, and also a good idea for your future association, that you start by gifting it with a nice name.” Penric sat up and smiled cheerfully at the trapped divine. Kyrato responded by heaving again against his stony prison, to no effect. No—heaving away from Penric.

“You are mad,” choked Kyrato.

“My brother says he’s as mad as three boots,” Nikys put in from the side, agreeably, starting to get into the spirit of this. “But he’s also a very learned divine, with a very wise demon. You should attend.”

In a hoarse voice, Kyrato said, “It is ascendant!” Then a rather cross-eyed look. “No… but it is monstrous dense. I thought it must be ascendant.” His voice rose sharp again. “Why isn’t it ascendant?”

“That’s just what I’m trying to explain,” said Penric patiently. “Now, names. Can you think of one you’d like?” He looked hopefully at Kyrato, who was starting to wheeze. Penric frowned and forced him to swallow another drink of water.

Abandoning the divine, Penric turned his expression inward. “Des, do you have any ideas for naming a young fellow demon?” A pause. “That’s absurd.” Another pause. “And that’s obscene.” And another, “No, we’re not naming it after me, either.” He sighed and turned to Nikys. “Madame Khatai? What’s a Cedonian name that you like?”

Nikys, in your mouth, she thought, but offered aloud, “Reseen? Kuna? Sarande?”

“Des,” said Penric, “does Learned Kyrato’s demon have a preference? No?” He frowned again at Kyrato. “Really, how long have you possessed the poor thing that it doesn’t understand the simplest of nomenclatures?”

He appeared to think, although not very long, then sat up. “All right.” Penric signed himself and placed his hand on Kyrato’s brow, following to do so again as the man recoiled. “In the white god’s name I bless you and name you Kuna. A somewhat catch-as-catch-can name-giving ceremony,” he added aside to Nikys, “but you and Des are two adults and can bear witness, so it’s sufficiently sanctified.”

As Kyrato was no longer struggling to escape, or much of anything apart from lying there limply in a state of receding heat stroke and advancing Penric, Nikys retreated uphill while Penric continued sermonizing. Adelis had finished organizing their belongings.

“Does he ever shut up?” Adelis inquired in mild gloom.

“I think he talks more when he’s tired. Makes less sense then, though.” She collected the few undamaged arrows that had fallen in their vicinity, adding them to the quiver.

Penric finished his lecture at last, signed the distraught man, tapped his own lips twice with his thumb, and climbed—well, crawled—back up to them, where he lay on his back and tried to catch his breath. Adelis studied the too-rapid rise and fall of his chest, and shook his head ruefully. “Aye. I see the problem.”

“Shall we each take an arm?” asked Nikys.

“Better, I think, if you take the food, water, bows, and… yes, my sword.”

“And his case?”

“If you choose. I’ll lug the blond fool for you. Consider it your belated Bastard’s Day present, sister.”

“Ah, yes, you missed the last one, didn’t you?”

“Busy with a war at the time, which I’m sure your god would understand. I almost dedicated it to Him.”

Penric argued, but he was outvoted three to one, and at last he was coaxed up onto Adelis’s back. Adelis’s legs bent a little, then straightened. “Heavier than he looks,” he grunted.

“I’m sure I could make it on my own—” Penric began, to which Nikys and Adelis replied in unison, “Shut up, Penric.” Nikys thought Desdemona would have chimed in to the chorus if she could.

In the defile, the shadows were growing purple. This stretch, rough underfoot, was a hard slog by any standard. Nikys and Adelis saved their breaths, although Penric was still talking, going on about something in Wealdean until Adelis threatened to drop him back down the hill. His head drooped to Adelis’s shoulder, and then there were only the deepening twilight sounds of the hills: small insects, a nightingale calling, the crunch of the dirt and gravel below their feet, and then the faintest flutter of a bat. As they came up out of the winding rift, an owl swooped by not ten feet overhead, wings spread in vast silence, and Nikys could see the white glint of Penric’s teeth as he looked up and smiled.

A question occurred to her. Happily, she had just the person to answer it right here. “Desdemona,” she said, “if Penric had been killed”—horrid thought—“and you had been forced to jump, where would you have gone? If the demon always chooses the strongest person in the vicinity, it would have had to be Adelis, right?”

Adelis jerked, then paused to heave his slipping passenger back up and labor on. It was too dark to see his expression, but Nikys imagined it a study in dismay.

“No, child,” said Desdemona. “It would have been you.”

At this, Adelis stopped short. Nikys stopped with him. “Me! Why me?”

“We have been with Penric for eleven years, and are now well imprinted with him. We could have made no other choice.”

Penric breathed out, and Nikys could see the faint sapphire gleam of his widening eyes, but for once he was struck silent. After a moment, they hiked on.

No sounds of pursuit arose behind them.

A prayer of supplication to the Bastard was begging for trouble, in many people’s views, but Nikys thought a prayer of gratitude for His better gifts was not likely to go wrong. She hummed the old hymn of praise under her breath as they reached a flatter trail. “Sing it aloud,” entreated Penric from his perch. “I’ve never heard it in Cedonian.”

She looked up to find no up left; before them, now, the land fell away in velvety darkness. A hundred miles distant it rose again, like a black blanket rucked up upon the horizon, the promise of Orbas.

“Far enough,” huffed Adelis, and let down his burden. They all found seats upon the stony ground, under the sweep of the stars. She shared the water pouch around.

Then Nikys straightened and took up the old words, as Penric had requested. Adelis came in on the chorus in a bass harmony, as he had not done since they’d sung in the temple as youths, before… everything. Penric murmured in a pleased way, and then, at Nikys’s demand, offered up a hymn of his own in his native Wealdean, in a breathy but surprisingly true baritone.

His words fell strange and sweet upon her ears, and so, trading mysteries, they sang up the moonrise.