The Divided Knight - Chapter Sixteen

Garrold came awake with a start. At the same time, lightning flashed outside the window of his bed chamber, accompanied a few moments later by a vicious crack of thunder.

The dream had been a bad one, this time, the worst Garrold had had in months. In it, he had stood before the headsman's block in the courtyard of the royal palace, listening as King Lyrian read off a series of charges from somewhere behind him. The charges had been oathbreaking and treason, the two most serious offenses in the entire kingdom, and the only offenses for which the accused was not permitted to plea for mercy from the King. Once the charges had been read, the King had ordered the accused to kneel, and it was only when he'd felt the headsman's boot in his back that Garrold had realized the accused was him. Having no choice, Garrold had knelt, turning his head to the side and lowering it until it rested against the cold stone of the block.

Once Garrold had in been in place, King Lyrian had proclaimed his sentence, and there had been a ring of steel as the headsman lifted his sword. Garrold had attended two executions in his lifetime – experiences he hoped, one day, he would figure out how to forget – and, in each instance, once the King had proclaimed his sentence and the headsman had made ready to strike the blow, the crowd in attendance had roared. This had not happened in Garrold's dream, however, and there had been no sound at all until the split second before the headsman's sword touched his neck. The sound that had come, then, hadn't been the roar of a crowd – it had been cruel, echoing laughter.

Garrold turned on his side, watching as another flash of lightning illuminated the unused pillows on the other side of the bed. Therese, along with the baby she had been carrying, had been gone almost a year, now. Garrold always missed her the worst after one of his dreams, missed her arms and the soothing words she would whisper in his ear to help him fall back to sleep. I wonder what kind of child we would have had? Garrold wondered, not for the first time. Would it have been a boy? Would he have made a good duke?

Getting out of bed, Garrold went over to the window, staring out at the storm-lashed night. For so early in the season, the storm seemed a powerful one, and Garrold was sure that, somewhere out there, a farmer was losing his life or livelihood to a whirlwind. Garrold would hear from that farmer, or from his widow, sometime in the next few days, pleading for help so that their children wouldn't go hungry. Garrold would give them money, of course – as much as he could spare – but that wouldn't restore what had been lost. Would that I could have prevented the loss in the first place, he mused.

A mage could have prevented that loss. Not a mage like the ones who had belonged to the Conclave – they had all been full of themselves, imperious and self-serving creatures who looked down on the world around them, never lifting a finger to help those who really needed it – but a mage like the ones from the stories, a mage who truly served the people and never asked for anything in return. If the stories could be believed, all mages had been like that once, even the ones who'd ruled, and Garrold was sure that he would never have feared a mage like that. There were no mages like that, anymore, if there ever even had been. There were no longer any mages, at all.

Garrold's thoughts turned once again to his dream. He knew what it all meant, of course, as, in the days to come, he fully intended to begin implementing his plan to defy King Lyrian's decree calling for the destruction of the Order of Catharzen. Garrold intended for Telvany to become a stronghold for the Order, a place where they would be safe from the depredations of Lyrian's King's Guard, and where, once everything was ready, a counter strike against the King could be mounted. Doing this would make Garrold an oathbreaker and a traitor – it would make him a rebel – and, if he wasn't successful, it would mean the loss of his head. And, if he lost his head, he was sure Atraxos the Black would revel in it, becoming a whirlwind that would destroy not just a single farm, but the entire world. I can't allow that to happen. But I don't know what to do.

“You'd know what to do, Resey,” Garrold whispered as rain and wind beat against the glass of the window.

“You are not alone in your fight, my love.”

Garrold turned away from the window with a start, his eyes going wide at the sight of the spectral form he found floating in the air between him and the bed. It was Therese. She was wearing the gown she had been buried in, and was lit from within by a soft, blue glow. It was the first time Garrold had ever seen a ghost – up until now, he'd never really believed they existed – and, while shocked at who it was, he found he was not afraid. “Resey?”

Therese smiled. “Hello, my love.”

“But, how can you be here?”

“I have always been with you, my love. Don't you remember how I told you that not even the grave could keep us apart?”

Garrold remembered her telling him that very well – it had been the last thing she'd ever said, right before her eyes had drifted closed and her hand had slipped from his. And, now that he thought about it, hadn't he always felt that, even though she was gone, he had never been truly alone? Hadn't there even been a couple of occasions when he'd thought he'd felt her touch? But why hadn't he seen her, before? Why had she waited until now to reveal herself to him?

“You know . . . you know of the troubles I am facing?” Garrold asked.

“Of course I do. They are troubles that threaten everyone, even the souls in the Spirit Realm. Atraxos the Black has always been a powerful necromancer with strong ties to the Lords of the Damned, but now, it seems he has somehow strengthened those ties to make himself even stronger. But, as I said, you are not alone in your fight, my love. Even now, the first Battlemage in three thousand years has arisen, and he is accompanied by a Priestess of Adarion. They will be the ones to bring the fight to Atraxos directly. All you need do, my love, is become what you have always been meant to be and remake that which was destroyed.”

“I . . . I don't understand, Resey. What do you mean, become what I have always been meant to be?”

Therese drifted toward Garrold, reaching up and brushing his cheek with her fingers. Her touch was not cold – Garrold had always heard that a ghost's touch was as cold as ice – but it did cause a feeling not unlike an electric shock to pass through him. As the feeling passed, new sensations replaced it, a sixth sense that, for the first time, allowed him to see the connection he shared with Therese's spirit – a connection that originated from him, and not from her. Magic! It's magic, and the spell connecting me to her is one I created!

Therese was smiling at him. “For too long, you have allowed your fear to blind you to the truth. It's a truth I always knew, though. I sensed it in you when I first met you – I was always sensitive to magic, though I had no skill of my own – and I always hoped you would someday open your eyes to it. My only wish is that I was still alive so that I could share your gift with you. You will do well, my love, so long as you never again let fear cloud your vision.” Therese's expression grew solemn. “And now you must sever our connection.”

“What? Why? I want you to stay, Resey. I need you to.”

“It has become too dangerous for me to stay, my love. If I stay, Atraxos will find me, and if he finds me, I will never again be free.”

“Surely there must be some way I can protect you from him.”

Therese reached up, again, cupping Garrold's cheek in her hand. Though she was only a ghost, Garrold thought he saw tears in her eyes. “You are strong, my love, but you aren't that strong. Not even the Battlemage is that strong, for he, himself, is not yet all he must be, despite his being in the presence of a Priestess. Let me go, Garrold. But never forget me. I will always love you. Always. And, one day, our souls will be reunited.”

“Our child, Resey,” Garrold said. “Before I let you go, tell me of our child.”

“He would have made a good duke,” Therese said. “Just like his father.”

Garrold knew how to sever the spell that connected him to Therese. It was like he had always known. All he had to do was speak the words. “Goodbye, Resey.”

As soon as the words had been spoken, Therese's spectral form drifted away from him and began to fade. “Farewell, my love,” she said. And then she was gone.

There was a chair near the window, and Garrold made his way over to it. Sitting down, he put his head in his hands and wept harder than he had since Therese's funeral. The storm of tears ended at almost the same time as the storm outside, but, when it was over, instead of feeling drained, Garrold felt full of a new – and quite unexpected – resolve. Therese had come to him just when he'd needed her the most, and right when he he'd been most likely to accept her presence. And, because of her, Garrold now knew what he needed to do, what he needed to be. I will be like the mages in the stories, he thought. I must be!

Garrold stood and left the bed chamber. He needed to find his brother and tell him what he'd learned. Would Wilem be surprised when he told him? With a laugh, Garrold realized he doubted very much his brother would be.