Rise (War Witch Book 1) (30 page)

Chara eased Imicot onto his bed, steadying the old man as he lay back, fumbling with the blankets. As she helped him, he sighed heavily and smiled.

"It doesn’t look as if we'll be getting that rematch after all."

Chara shook her head as she poured him a glass of water. "Of course we will. Don't say that. You've got time still."

"No, I don't think I do," he said, shaking his head. "It's drawing near now, and I admit, I am rather glad. Better to go now, forgiven, happy, surrounded by friends and family, and having met the greatest Masters prodigy I've ever seen."

"Now you’re just flirting," Chara told him, blushing.

He grinned. "Perhaps a little. Forgive an old man."

"I already have," she said, leaning in to kiss him on the head. "Flirt away."

"Ah, Chara," he sighed, gripping her hand loosely. "Would that I had more time. I'm thankful to know you, and Ramora as well."

Chara looked away. "I can only speak for myself, but I’m blessed to have gotten to meet you, too."

Squeezing her hand, he motioned for her to sit, which she did easily. "Forgive her, dear. She tried to tell you. Every time she tries to write her name, she's flooded with horrible memories. I don't know what they are, but her hand shakes so violently, she cannot do it."

"It's not that I didn't figure that out," Chara admitted after a moment. "It's that she didn't tell me. She never told me."

"Some things are too terrible to speak of," Imicot pointed out.

Chara nodded slowly, feeling tears in her eyes again. "I know. And I know what happened to her. I understand it. It's just that, every time I look at her, I feel so angry, all over again. I thought she needed me to stand by her, to be her voice."

"One does not simply carry paper and ink around for every little thing, you know," he said with a smile.

"That's the whole thing," Chara replied, exhausted. "I know that, too! I don't know why I'm so mad at her. No matter how I look at it, or think of it, she's done nothing wrong. Still, I just can't bring myself to forgive her. It doesn't make any sense, but I've not made any sense, even to myself, in weeks."

Feeling there was more she wanted to say, Imicot urged softly, "Go on. I'm listening."

"When I first met her, she saved my life from Demon Seed," Chara said slowly. "She was the most amazing, wonderful, beautiful thing I'd ever seen. I caught myself looking up to her, lusting after her a bit, or more than a bit, and the thing of it was, I wanted to be more like her, and less like me."

"That doesn't sound so bad," he admitted. "I can see it."

"Yeah," she nodded. "But then, before I knew it, I felt like I was falling in love with her. That doesn't make sense though, even though she helped me get out of an arranged marriage my mother had planned for me. It was so fast, so sudden. Thinking about it now, it seems absurd."

Imicot frowned a little. "Not really. It isn't that uncommon to feel like we love the people we idolize."

"No, it isn't, I know," she sighed. "But since we got here, it seemed like maybe she felt the same way one minute, then not the next. It doesn't make sense. Everything was just so chaotic. I can't even sort out how I really feel about anything, and honestly, if she really knew me, she wouldn't want me around anyway."

"I doubt that," he told her. "It's clear she cares for you a great deal."

"Maybe," she agreed. "But she doesn't know the real me. The girl from Rheumer, who didn't want either life she was offered."

"I don't understand," he said.

She smiled bitterly. "Wife and mother, that's the life we're told all women want in Fival. That's all we need. It's that, or it's a life as a whore. I didn't want to choose between the two. I wanted something else, even though I didn't know what it was. I struggled with it, made mistakes, did things I'm not proud of, with people I'm not sure I should have. That's the real me. A farm girl who can't stand her own life, wants to be free, and doesn't even know what the word means."

Imicot felt for her. So much sorrow at such a young age. Yet, so self-aware, enough to be able to criticize her own actions, choices, and thoughts. Again, he saw that wild streak in her, the one that refused to be penned in, sought new avenues where others might not see them, and boldly chased them even though most would play it safe.

He found her wonderful at that moment.

"Chara, may I offer the advice of an old man who has made his share of mistakes?"

Suddenly aware of herself, she grimaced. "I'm so sorry, Imicot. Here I am, complaining about such small things, when you've known real grief. Forgive me, please."

"Oh, now, never mind that," he chuckled. "Our own grief always seems to be the worst when we speak of it, because we experienced it firsthand. Think nothing of it, child. You have nothing to apologize for."

"Still," she hesitated.

"Trust me on this," he pressed. "You were never meant to choose between two such simple lives. I see it, all around you, and in your eyes. You are greater than you think. Forget where you come from, dear, and think of where you want to go. Life is a game of Masters, and you will excel at it, if you only let yourself."

Bowing her head, Chara stared off at nothing. "Maybe. I just don't know how to make the opening move. I thought Ramora was it, but now, I don't know anymore. Farm girl or not, I'm no Blessed, and what she's chasing, I don't know if I can follow her all the way."

"Then make your own path," he said.

"Easier said than done," she told him, shaking her head, voice rueful. "A woman alone can only go so far."

Imicot smiled at her. "Who said you had to be alone?"

"Um, I guess I did," she replied, startled. "Why?"

"My son, Esteban, will be alone in the world soon, as well. A Werefolk, in this world, he will not fare well, I fear. Even in his home realm, he would be a stranger. With you, however, he could see the world, be safe from those who would harm him, and know a true friend."

Chara thought about that for a moment, the feelings she'd been having for him swimming up again. "You want him to leave with us?"

"I do, you mostly," he nodded. "As you said, where Ramora seeks to go, I do not think he can follow. You, on the other hand, well, think of it a moment. A young woman traveling with a Werejaguar would need fear little. A Werejaguar traveling with a young woman would be taken as a bodyguard. Together, you could both go further than you ever could alone."

"That's true," she said softly. "How does he feel about this?"

Imicot shrugged. "He has refused to deal with my impending death. I doubt he’s thought much of what will come after."

"Of course," she nodded. "Why would he?"

"Perhaps you could broach the subject with him," Imicot suggested, following the script Rakiss had given him. "Take him by the hand, as it were, love him in my stead? Show him the ways of the world as I never could?"

Chara felt a pang deep down. "If that is what you want, I will do it."

"It is my deepest desire now, that my boy be well, and loved," he smiled.

"Then I swear, I'll be there for him," she said.

Imicot sighed, relaxing back in the bed. "Thank you, Chara. The last of my worries are lifted."

She smiled, holding his hand until he drifted to sleep. Leaving him to rest, she started down the steps to her room. She paused midway, thinking of what Imicot had asked. The pang went through her again.

So, there really was no path open to her save wife or whore. He had, even if he hadn't realized it, asked her to be Esteban's mistress. Tears burned their way through her eyes as she accepted it. He was a kind old man, a doting father, and what he’d asked, it wasn't something she wasn't already familiar with.

It was what she did. It was who she was.

Rakiss nudged the emotion, his face sad and weary as he spun her heart.

Chara nodded, wiping her eyes as she sniffed down the pain. If there was no other option, no other road, then at least, with Esteban, she could make everyone who had demanded she find a man eat their words. At least with him, she could pretend to be happy.

Maybe, she might even come to love him. There were worse things than having that and a way to make those who had tried to force her sorry for ever doing so. It was all she was going to get in this life, she knew. May as well try to enjoy it.

Bowing his head, Rakiss watched her march down the stairs. He hadn't wanted to play that gambit, didn't want her to feel that way. He loved her, and had hoped she would come around, but she hadn't. Already, her incredible will was undoing all he had put in her aura, her heart moving back to Ramora with a steadfastness he found remarkable.

There was nothing left for him to do. It was this, or lose her forever. Still, he watched the crimson of self-loathing spread through her aura like a wildfire, and for the first time since he had found her, wished he’d never heard her name.

“This is for the greater good,” he assured himself. “All of this, it's for the greater good.”

Esteban growled softly, rubbing his eyes. Across from him, Ramora looked up in concern. He shook his head and leaned back with a heavy sigh, offering her a smile.

"It's nothing. Just my eyes. Reading too much is apparently something even I can do," he told her.

She grinned a bit, leaning back as well and rubbing her face, indicating that she understood. Looking at the book she had set to the side a bit ago, she pondered it a moment, wondering if she should ask about it. Finally, she slid it over to him, wanting to know more than she did.

Esteban took a single look at it and sighed again. "So, you've learned of that, have you?"

Ramora shrugged a little, giving him an apologetic smile.

"No, no," he said, waving it off. "I know father meant to tell you of it. He just hasn't found the right time or way. Still, you may as well know about him."

She watched as he picked the book up, thumbing through it slowly, frowning as he did. She hadn't read all of it, but enough to get the general gist. Clearly, it was a sore spot for Esteban and Imicot as well.

"Deacon Rillian," he said slowly. "He came here about fifteen years ago, seeking father, petitioning to be his student. Apparently, he hadn’t gotten along well with the Masters of Sorcery in Qur, and his education was only half finished. He wanted, or so he claimed, to learn from a true master of the art."

Ramora leaned back a bit as the Werecat lost himself in the memories for a moment.

"He was an apt pupil, too," he told her. "Very bright, eager to learn, and quite skilled. However, there was something always off about him. We never could figure out what it was, at least, not until it was too late. By then, he’d learned far too much, and had become a danger."

She’d picked that up from the diary she found, detailing Imicot's attempts to train the young man. What she didn't know was what had happened. Imicot had either left that out, or written it elsewhere. She only knew he’d found his student turning dark.

Esteban set the diary aside. "Father learned that Deacon had a fascination with the darker aspects of sorcery. The profane blood magics and rituals. Those were what he truly sought to master. He was hungry for power, you see, and believed he'd found a shortcut to attaining it. Eventually, father had no choice but to banish him from the keep, though he vowed to return one day and seize this place as his own, when he was more powerful than father."

Not liking where this was going, the Blessed leaned forward.

"Return he did, too, about eight months ago," the Werecat continued. "He wasn’t more powerful than father, though. More than he had been, enough to get past the barrier outside that prevents evil from entering, but not enough to best father, even in his weakened state. Worse, he’d fallen to worship of the Demon Gods."

Ramora sighed heavily, bowing her head. She really wished Imicot had told her of this sooner. Looking back up at Esteban, she motioned for him to go on, to tell her everything.

He nodded slowly. "Yes, it’s as you fear. I can see it on your face. He is a Dark Blessed."

Slamming a hand on the table she rose, kicking over a stack of books in her fury. This was the sort of thing she should’ve been told much sooner. A Dark Blessed, the Demon Gods’ answer to people like her. Mortals granted Demonic Power, bearing terrible Gifts. They were difficult at best to defeat, and at worst, had slain many who carried the Divine Mark as she did. The Generals of Hell, they often called themselves.

"Father meant to tell you, but he hoped that you would be gone before Deacon returned," Esteban explained. “After he’s no longer with us, father instructed me to seal the keep. There’s a spell on the wall outside that will shift the entire tower out of our reality. Only a powerful sorcerer in service to Heaven will be able to find it, and pull it back."

Snatching up a quill, she quickly jotted out a note asking what they would do if he came before Imicot passed.

Esteban sighed wearily. "I don’t know, though father has taught me to use some of the weapons he developed in his lab. If all else fails, I will kill him myself."

Ramora slammed her hand on the table again, shaking her head. Gravely, she pointed at the Divine Mark on her brow. A Blessed of Ramor, a servant of Heaven, a soldier in the war against the Demon Gods. It would be she who ended his life.