Jadde - The Fragile Sanctuary (2 page)

     They covered Halle’s wound with thick
moss, bound it in leather cord and carried him back to his family’s hut.
Malkrin felt a pang of guilt. Halle would go hungry, his wife Desira and child
Seara would live on beggars’ rations until his wound healed. Halle was one of
the most skilled bowmen among the hunters. Many a time he had downed a bear or
a leaping deer with a single arrow – thereby saving a poor hunt. Only Malkrin
had bettered him in accuracy. That was when his first arrow had taken a wildcat
in mid leap, saving Halle when he was pulling a spear from a dead bear.

     Malkrin resolved to pay Halle’s meat
tax to the Brenna himself and to supply his family’s living needs for as long
as they needed assistance. It was the least he could do – if he survived the
trial imposed by the Brenna Council of Elders.

     For many lifetimes the Brenna had
interpreted Jadde’s laws mercilessly. If a convicted highsense holder was
judged to have lost his gift completely he was always sentenced to roam the deadlands
of Monjana until he regained his highsense. Monjana was the great unknown, its
vast lands stretched away down beyond the misty foothills toward the peaks of a
long line of distant mountains. Malkrin knew that everyone that had returned to
attempt renewed citizenship had been retested, rejected and sent back into
exile. Where they went no one knew as villagers never ventured past the stockade
barrier below Edentown. They just disappeared into the cursed lands beyond. The
priests taught that only death from starvation or execution by starving bandits
awaited them beyond the Seconchane’s fertile valleys and forests. Everyone
assumed they were not lying.

But Malkrin had spent a day chasing
mountain goats in these deadlands and he suspected far off bandits clad in wolf-pelts
were a lot better fed than the priests claimed. He also knew he could only be
convicted of temporary highsense loss and he was confident he would emerge with
his membership of the Seconchane intact.

Malkrin counted the hunting parties on his
fingers six times. They were all back and there had been no further injuries.
The piles of game had built into sizeable heaps as the butchers started taking
apart the carcasses on bloodstained benches.  He watched them divide the produce
while tribes people kept dogs at bay lest they steal prime cuts or offal. A Brenna
officer with a highly visible curved sword in a scabbard across his back kept a
close watch on the division of the meat. His guards watched for misdemeanours
as they guarded their cart which already contained heaps of the best butchered
game. Idly Malkrin noted the blood seeping from the cart and trickling into the
weed filled gutter.

He should have been hungry for the meal Cabryce
would be cooking him, but his stomach boiled like storm clouds beyond Great Mountain.
How was he going to tell her the moment had finally arrived?

The butcher Beavertail handed him his share
of the hunt, prime segments of deer and turkey wrapped in a stained canvass
cloth. He acknowledged people with a slight nod as they slapped his back,
thanking him for the produce that would keep the townspeople fed. His hunt was
presented with their share and they wound their way back to their wives and
children. Little Alder Gullwing ran from his mother’s side and ran alongside Malkrin
hoping for some acknowledgement.

‘Take me tomorrow Sire?’

‘Go home Alder,’ Malkrin snapped. ‘You have
four summers before you can be of use to the hunt.’ He thought the young boy would
slink away with the rejection. But Alder just smiled and followed Malkrin.

‘Sire – please take me along next season.’

‘No, just go,’ Malkrin growled. He was more
intent on predicting Cabryce’s reaction and didn’t want to be bothered. The boy
looked crestfallen and slunk off. Malkrin felt mean, scolding a small boy of seven
summers – after all he had been that boy once.

He stopped and looked for Alder in the bustling
crowd. He spotted him turn as he weaved between a squad of Brenna meat-guards.
The boy beamed, revealing his child bright teeth as he waved to his hero.

Malkrin forced a smile and waved back as he
walked into the alley containing his cottage.

Back in the familiar smells of his home he
sunk into his favourite chair. Its ancient frame creaked under his weight.

‘Good hunt my love?’ Cabryce swung quickly
down the creaking stair ladder; her usual bright dress had been replaced by
practical leggings for walking the muddy alleys. She had the same beaming smile
as Alder. For an instant Malkrin resented it – knowing what he was about to
tell her.

‘Yes Jadde was with us.’

‘Good.’

Malkrin hesitated. She read his body
language as he gripped the wooden chair-arms and lent forward. Her lips firmed,
and she stared into his eyes.

‘However . . . Jadde was not with me.’

‘Has the worst finally . . .’

A disrespecting thump vibrated the door
latch. Not a friend, Malkrin thought, and glanced to Palerin on the shelf – one
short step away.

He flung the door open and Beartooth’s
leering face glanced beyond him. Malkrin knew Cabryce stood behind him anxious
for him to give her details of the hunt.

Beartooth lifted his gore-smeared hands for
Cabryce to see. ‘Fisheye’s blood,’ he snarled. ‘He’s at home, laid on his bed
in agony. His wife and child are weeping –
because of you Owlear
.’

‘I will look after his family,’ Malkrin snapped
back.

‘Not enough.’ He stabbed a finger at
Malkrin, ‘People’s favourite no more . . . just a lowly hunter like the rest.’

Malkrin batted the accusing finger away,
his highsense had felt Beartooth tense ready to prod him.

Beartooth’s face formed a deeper leer. ‘After
the elders have finished you, I’ll take –’

‘Shut up.’ Malkrin did not want Cabryce
learning of events before he had a chance to tell her.

 ‘I look forward to Cabryce sharing my –’

‘If I go to exile then I swear I will
return to tear you apart.’

‘Threats Owlear, I’ll have –’

Malkrin had had enough after all that had
happened that day. He raised his fist. A hand grabbed it.

‘Enough – both of you.’

Cabryce forced herself through the door and
between them in a colourful blur.

‘Go find your own wife Beartooth,’ she
stated assertively.

‘Once he’s gone. I will . . . for sure.’

Beartooth ran his eyes over Cabryce once
more and Malkrin emitted a roar similar to a wildcat giving warning to an
adversary. He clenched both fists and Cabryce snatched each clump of rigid
fingers.

‘Indoors Malkrin.
Now
.’

But first Malkrin watched Beartooth
disappear down the lane toward his elderly parents’ hut. Then he allowed
Cabryce to guide him back to his chair. She latched the door tight and stooped
before him with arms around his neck and gently caressed his rigid shoulders.

‘Do we need to pack our things . . . To
travel?’

He let out a deep breath and shrunk into
the seat cushion.

‘No. No. They’ll just take one highsense sun
from me.’

He gripped her hand as she stared with
glistening eyes. ‘
I’m sure
, my love, it has always been so.’

‘I would have come with you Malkrin.’

‘I know Cabryce, but whatever happens you
cannot.’

‘I will. If your highsense finally leaves you
– I will.’

‘You must promise me you’ll stay. It’s safe
here. I must search for Jadde, to ask for her to return her blessing.’ He
reached behind his shoulder and gripped her hand. ‘And I must do it alone.’

Long seconds passed then reluctantly she
nodded. ‘I promise. Now tell me what happened today.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘
M
alkrin Owlear you have been found guilty
before the Council of Brenna. Your fellow hunters have testified under oath to your
crime.’

The ancient Brenna warrior Bredon the Fox
stared with cataract misted eyes to Malkrin.  He forced himself to stare ahead,
refusing to meet the Fox’s gaze and so to respect his authority. He looked
instead to the solemn Council, appearing impassive although below the surface he
seethed with injustice. The assembly of eight decrepit and wizened elders were dressed
in their leather ceremonial finery.  They eyed Malkrin intently, the gravity of
his crime written on their time-worn faces.

     Malkrin returned their stares coldly.  He
was numbed at how quickly his failure had escalated to the trial in Jadde’s
Great Hall of Justice. This was the only crime warranting a full session of the
council.  The Goddess Jadde had written the laws all those lifetimes ago, when
she had the survival of the Seconchane foremost in her thoughts. Malkrin was
sure the Brenna had distorted her laws, how could it be this serious to have a
few breaths lapse in his highsense? After all he could just become an ordinary
hunter – and still be a good one he was sure.

     His father had taught him many skills
and he was certain some of them no one else knew. This hunting lore had added
to his hero status because Malkrin had kept the tricks to himself. He
remembered his father saying; it’s all passed on from Owlear father to Owlear son
and it is part of your inheritance. It will help save a hunt on days the game
is spooked. He had taken Malkrin into the woods and grassy mountain plains to
practise. Malkrin had been a willing learner and aided by his developing
highsense had quickly picked up the lore.

     Now in Jadde’s Great Hall black
thoughts engulfed him. Would he be outcast and not able to help his friend Halle
after all? Could the hunt feed the whole of the Seconchane without him? He
created a small highsense to watch the confidence leave him like steam from a cooling
meal. What is the use of a highsense that could do that – none, he thought
angrily, and refocused on the wrinkled face of Bredon the Fox. The old man pointed
a gnarled finger at Malkrin, and then cleared his throat to announce the Council’s
verdict.

 ‘I sentence Malkrin Owlear to losing one
of his two highsense lives.’ The Fox wheezed and coughed, ‘for a fading talent
is a grievous loss to the Seconchane.’ The finger trembled as if Malkrin was floating
before his fogged vision. ‘Any further lapse will be your last Malkrin Owlear.
Be warned, next time your highsense fails, banishment to the deadlands of Monjana
awaits you . . .’ The Fox wheezed, and for a moment appeared to forget the ancient
ritual’s words. ‘. . . You will then only be eligible to return when your highsense
gift returns to you.’

Malkrin bowed. The verdict was no surprise.
He had conditioned himself to its inevitability these last four days. Jadde had
taken a prized highsense from him, and the Council were about to take one of
the gold suns pinned to his tunic. It could have been worse; he still had half
of his authority. But under his relief a sad wish that he usually kept
carefully suppressed surfaced to drown him. He wished he had never been gifted
by Jadde. He could have just run off with Cabryce and hunted just for the two
of them. Higher in the mountains they could have created their own tribe. They
could do it now, and build their home next to a full stream of leaping salmon
and a meadow full of tamed mountain goats, and . . .

No, it was not for him; he had to hunt to
help the ordinary people of the Seconchane. Some were here now, at the back of
the hall, seated on benching brought in for the trial.

He tapped his temple for the secret
highsense boost that his once mentor Josiath Nighthawk had taught him. His
hearing increased as if he’d put a hollow rams horn to his ear. He was
comforted by the beat of the two hundred hearts his highsense picked up in the
huge stone hall.

The heart beats turned into a single,
thump,
thump, thump
. He realised it was his own.

A court attendant strode over with a padded
cushion for the confiscated gold insignia. Malkrin ceremoniously removed the
golden sun from his tunic and placed it in the centre.

Thump, thump, thump.

He left the second insignia still pinned
over his heart. The attendant stepped back and turned toward the Brenna Council.

The Fox jerked upright, as if the trial
wearied him. As tradition decreed he completed the trial. ‘If there is a second
appearance for you here Malkrin Owlear; you will face the trial of Jadde.’

Thump, thump, thump.

Malkrin dared a glance at Jadde’s altar, and
his highsense tingled for a fraction of a moment. The altar was pivotal in
Jadde’s second trial. The rectangular stone was framed by chiselled pillars
supporting a marble top. Its time-worn edges sat imposingly on a raised dais
before the Council seats. It looked dead with its contours smoothed by many
priests admiring hands over countless lifetimes. The altar was endowed with her
lost magic and during a serious trial it came to life. Jadde’s presence
returned to it to deliver her verdict. He sincerely hoped he wouldn’t suffer
her judgment . . . ever.

T
hump, thump, thump. H
e placed a
hand on his chest hoping to slow his heart before it burst.

He nodded grimly and clasped hands before
his face in the traditional response. A mix of emotions swirled in his mind,
somehow enhanced by his highsense. He felt shame, defiance, and then vengeance.
This turned to misgiving as he strode toward the crowd. They parted respectfully,
he still commanded some authority. His highsense peered within the sea of faces
as he walked slowly past. Some revealed sadness, compassion, others anger or
resentment. A few faces gloated with fiery eyes at his partial downfall. On a
couple he noticed a combination of all the lowly emotions - they were the
dangerous ones. In many minds he caught a whisper, an echo of fact;
none who
have begun to lose highsense have ever recovered it.

Malkrin shunned the face-images and their
whispering thoughts; and pictured his beloved Cabryce. A slight smile returned
as he thought of her bright face and their wedding last fall. His heartbeat
slowed.

He walked out of the great hall into the roaring
winter gale and straight past the meandering rows of the ordinary folk’s huts.
Past all the broken cart wheels, piles of bleached animal bones and mounds of
stones removed from impoverished vegetable patches. Then downhill along the
cobbled road to the stone built residence of Josiath Nighthawk. The verdict had
been passed and his old mentor would be allowed to council him again to bolster
his onetime pupil’s highsense retention. Malkrin thought hard; perhaps he could
refocus his inner ear with more advice from Josiath. He would have to admit to all
his lapses to benefit from the old man’s instruction.

Only Cabryce knew of his lapses but Malkrin
knew his wife had kept them to herself. She had sympathised, and then as her
mood darkened she had maintained a moody silence. He knew she was anxious not
to lose her husband and the trappings of their elevated status. Her loyalty
humbled him; she was loyal and dismissive of being an accessory to his crime. But
he dreaded her being punished if she ever lost her own highsense. The Brenna
would be as harsh to her as they were to any man. With his hunting and tracking
skills he could possibly survive in the deadlands. But could Cabryce? She had
none of his hunting lore or related gifts.

But it wasn’t just highsense loss that the Brenna
punished harshly. They did not need to consult Jadde for all other crimes.

Often he’d seen a townsperson dragged away
for misdemeanours and punished by a month’s hard labour for petty offences.
These included theft of food or livestock, drunken fights or not promptly
paying taxes. The graver offences involving assault, fraud or adultery meant
the culprit disappeared into the dungeons beneath the Brenna homesteads – usually
never to return. A deliberately vague proclamation of guilt was then announced
in the town square the Sunday after the offender was hauled away. Occasionally
a bowed and wrecked scarecrow would totter back to Edentown as a warning – an
example of the cruel punishment that would befall anyone for serious crimes. The
offender having completed his punishment was then tended by family or friends
but was seldom able to resume a place in the Seconchane community. Most died
soon after.

     He forced away the grim memories as he
approached Nighthawk’s abode. The elderly priest preferred to inhabit this building
in the centre of town. He had always proclaimed he was one of the people and chose
to live amongst them. Malkrin let himself in through the creaking entrance
door; Sire Josiath was waiting in his accommodation, warming in front of his roaring
peat and log fire. His shadowed form melded into his favourite high-backed chair
made from the warped timber of a dwarf oak tree. The darkened room allowed the
glow emitting from the soot stained hearth to flutter shadows across his face.
His expression was unreadable and his body indistinct in a thick wrapping of
bear furs. Malkrin sat next to him on a low rickety seat, ignoring the bear fur
draped over the back that would have kept the chill from him.

     He knew to wait patiently for the priest
to speak.

     As Josiath Nighthawk practised this
authority Malkrin drifted to carefree days when the whole world seemed vast and
exciting. He had been nine summers old and was sitting on a hard wooden stool
before the priest. He still remembered the smell of cooked broth and the old
man’s welcoming speech.

     ‘A highsense talent is very rare.
Master it well and you will be rewarded so highly that ordinary people will
think you elevated to sit beside Jadde herself.’ The priest had smiled at
Malkrin’s look of awe. ‘Invariably the holder is discovered, like you, at a
youthful age and needs to be assigned a priest mentor skilled in highsense
education.’ He had leant forward and ruffled Malkrin’s hair and smiled a
welcome, ‘to help the newly confirmed high-person cope with his elevated
status.’

     Over the subsequent years his mentor
had coached him on how to focus his talent. He had deliberately not mentioned directly
the negative aspects until the last days of Malkrin’s training. By then Malkrin
had puzzled them out for himself.

     ‘It’s a huge responsibility for any
young adult.’ He had begun intensely; ‘but be warned young man, the downside is
all too frequent. Often the highsense becomes such a burden it’s lost during
adulthood - seared into lifelong oblivion.’

      Malkrin had been lucky. Until four
days ago he had kept his highsense lapses secret by keeping a cool head and not
allowed the intermittent flaw to overwhelm him.

     Back in the present Josiath yawned and
rubbed his chin. Malkrin remembered it was a sign he was about to acknowledge him.

     ‘Welcome High Person Malkrin, I’ve
been expecting you.’ The priest spoke in his deep gravelly rumble.

‘I have lost one highsense life,’ Malkrin
admitted bluntly.

     ‘I know. It was the only punishment
they could administer.’

     ‘Jadde’s justice has been done,’
Malkrin chanted respectfully.

     T
hump, thump, thump.
Malkrin
consciously calmed himself.

‘A just judgment,’ Josiath gave the intoned
response the priesthood expected of him. Malkrin’s highsense told him it was
uttered through clenched teeth.

Then Josiath stared intently at Malkrin with
the eyes of a trusted old friend. ‘But is it a just punishment?’ He sidetracked
his own question. ’Let me tell you a tale.’ He looked down at his soft fingers
and turned his instruction to an earlier time.

‘Many years ago there lived a young man; tall,
long legged and very bright, named Jak Dawe. He showed he had a talent for
creating gold from rocks, and silver from the bones of rats. He produced the
treasure from his hut on demand, but no one witnessed him actually creating the
precious metal. He said he needed solitude on the Snow-mount of Prathar to
magic them. All accepted this, and he was assured by priests that his highsense
recognition was very close. Until one night he was secretly followed by the Brenna.
And in a rift in the snow-mount he was seen entering a hidden cave. Later he
emerged with gold moons and silver stars and strange bulbous glass tubes
containing metal vines. He had dishonoured himself and the Seconchane. He was
put to trial for fraud against Jadde and was banished.’ Josiath paused to look
steadily at Malkrin. ‘Another high status man in my childhood had the highsense
of hunting fish by standing in murky water and attracting them to his hands.
Apparently he stroked them and they allowed themselves to be flicked from the
water. He had the honour of holding a highsense for the longest ever.  Then he
lost the talent.  He was elderly by then; his joints stiff and unable to feel
the fish. But they still banished him.’

     ‘I know the story of the Fish Flickerer.’
Malkrin was agitated, where was this leading?

     ‘Good, but here’s another tale. Habby
Jaywing had an ability to snap sparks from her fingers. She could create a fire
without a flint. But as she grew so did the cases of mysterious fires burning
people’s homes to cinders. Habby was a jealous girl and all her friends who had
fairer looks attracted every husband she sought. The girl had snapped sparks from
afar into her rival’s grass roofed homes. She’d hoped her competitors would
burn in the blazes. She was caught creating fire in a roof. Habby admitted to
the misuse of her highsense and was banished.’