Fires of Justice

Part 13:  Penitent – The Last Rank

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The High Priest of Khodanra shoved the huge, ornate dagger he carried into Naliara’s chest, missing her heart only barely – but cutting one of the major arteries that came out of it.

Naliara knew that she would die – and decided that, no matter what else happened, this . . . creature would not harm Geoniss, after all the effort she had gone to in order to rescue the young Priest of Arteneh.

She grabbed robe of the High Wizard of Khodanra, and spat the last word she would ever speak in this world, right in his face, spraying her blood in his face as she did so.

“Bragala!” Naliara said, the word half-prayer, half-weapon.

On “Bra-” the High Wizard’s flesh was flayed from his face.

On “-ga-” the bones in his head shattered, driving spikes of bone into his brain.

On “-la!” the High Wizard of Khodanra’s body flew backwards, out of Naliara’s grip, and slammed into a nearby tree, hard enough to bend the tree to a thirty degree angle, shatter the man’s remaining bones, and gel his organs.  His corpse fell to the ground, barely recognizable as human.

Naliara was on her knees, clutching at her chest, gasping, and trying to breathe.  She was dying, she knew – but the body tried to live on, anyway.

She didn’t even hear Geoniss’s frantic cries, asking if she was all right.  She was too busy saying her final prayer.

Oh, Lord Bragala!  Naliara prayed silently.  Please, Lord – whatever you do with me, whether or not I’ve earned to right to sing in your choir – do not let Geoniss come to harm!  He is a good man, and deserves better.  If Arteneh is somehow unaware of the fate of his follower, please – make him aware, or protect Geoniss yourself, until Arteneh becomes aware!

I know I must be a disappointment to you, Lord Bragala.  Pride in my voice cost a life, and I have not learned what you needed me to learn, I do not think.  Not fully, I know.  Please, Lord, even if I must bear the Cacophony . . . let Geoniss be safe!

And then Naliara of Dalenvar did die.

She felt her life draining away, as well as the curse that her God had laid on her for her pride.  There was only time to think once more of Geoniss, and his safety – and then she died.

And, as suddenly as saying it, she was whole, and standing . . . somewhere else.  A vast stage, it seemed, perhaps, though she couldn’t decide if that was right.  The floor under her feet was black, yet, a ways to either side, and in front of her, it turned white.  It was hard to be sure, but she thought that they were vast squares of black and white – like a chessboard.

“Naliara,” said a deep, rich, musical voice from behind her.

Naliara turned slowly unable to be certain whether it was dread or anticipation that she was feeling – for she knew, from that perfect voice, that she was about to face her god. She turned, and it was indeed Bragala, looking as the statues she had seen depicted him – only far more beautiful.  She could not look at his face without feeling faint.

“Lord Bragala!” Naliara choked, falling to her knees.

“Rise, child,” Bragala told her, brushing her head with his fingers.  “We must talk, you and I.”

Naliara did as she was told, and stood, waiting Bragala’s words.

“Naliara,” Bragala said softly.  “Do you know why you were cursed? Do you really understand it?”

“I . . . Lord, I think I do,” Naliara stammered.  “I let my love of a gift you gave me – I let my love of my voice cause a little girl's death.  I let something given me for joy’s own sake cause me to let someone die.”

“Yes, Naliara,” Bragala said sternly.  “And you have been taken from the life that you owed that child – before you had completely atoned.  You have done much good, Naliara. But why did you do it?”

“To atone for my sin, Lord,” Naliara said in a tiny voice.

“That is all?”  Bragala sounded disappointed.

Naliara wanted to say no – but he would ask her why else – and she could not answer. She whispered, “Yes, Lord. That is all.

“At least . . . until the very end.”

Bragala’s head came up, and he regarded his follower with something like hope, in the eyes that she dared not meet.

“How do you mean, Naliara?”

“I . . . Lord Bragala, I saw something in my last days . . . .”  Naliara hesitated, trying to find the words that she needed, desperately afraid that she would fail.  “I saw something, and I think . . . I think it was what I needed to learn, but – but I didn’t have time to learn it, only to realize that I should.  I tried to emulate it, Lord, I did!  But  . . . I fear that I tried too late!”

“Explain what you tried to emulate, child,” Bragala said.

“I saw the Priests of Arteneh, Lord,” Naliara said, slowly, searching for words.  “I saw them . . . doing good.  Not because it was demanded of them, or expected of them, but only . . . only because it was good!  And . . . they didn’t care, Lord, if I thought it was good.  Or if the people around them did.  They cared only that they thought it was good, and that Arteneh thought it so.

“I wanted . . . I tried to do things that way, Lord.  At the end.  I know I failed, but – “

“Failed?” Bragala said, sounding amused.  “Daughter, you did not fail, in this.  Had you failed, we would not now be speaking.”

“I . . . didn’t fail?”

“Naliara, do you remember what your last thought was, before you appeared here?”

“No, Lord.” Naliara said, blushing.  “It hurt, so!  I only remember worrying about Geoniss, an—”

“Geoniss . . . .”  Bragala sounded intrigued.  “Were you in love with him, Naliara?”

“With Geoniss?” Naliara asked, surprised.  “No, Lord – he was a friend, or nearly one, but I didn’t care for him in that way.”

“Yet you spent most of your last prayer on him,” Bragala said.  “You did not beg for final forgiveness, or for longer to make up for your sin.

“You asked me to protect, or see protected, a man that you considered ‘a friend, or nearly one’ – a prayer I answered gladly, I should tell you.  Geoniss will be found, unharmed, and he will grieve you, as would a man who was nearly a friend, and whose life you saved.  He will speak at the ceremony at which the harp made from the sky-stone is presented to the High Priest of my Temple – and Geoniss will weep, child, when Adric of Jerasenn is handed that harp – and plays it, and sings the tale of your last adventure – a tale he will call Naliara’s Lesson.”

Very suddenly, Naliara’s eyes were filled with tears, and it was all she could do, not to sob – and then Bragala’s hand landed, ever-so-gently, on her shoulder.

“Let go, daughter.”  His words were soft, and his voice gentle.  “Let go.  You have earned the right.”

For a long time, Naliara wept, unsure of what she wept for – the life she had lived, or the afterlife she faced, knowing she had failed, whether Bragala forgave that failure, or punished it.

Or perhaps she wept in relief, for Geoniss, and for Adric, knowing that they went on, that they lived, and would remember her – would find her worthy of remembering!

When her tears dried up, she realized that Bragala was still there, and that one of the a capellas – the little fairy-like creatures who served him – was standing beside her, holding a tray with a goblet, and a towel.

Blushing, Naliara dried her face, and took a drink of the clear, sweet wine that was in the goblet.  After a moment, she dared straighten her shoulders, and turn to face Bragala, though she still dared not look at his face.

“Daughter, let there be no mistake,” Bragala said, as though he had been uninterrupted by her tears.  “I am proud of you, for your concern over the young priest.  You could have told yourself that the sky-stone was more important – but, you did not.  You saw that the stone was well protected, and you followed your heart – which led you rightly, Naliara! – to the rescue of Geoniss.

“In this, you demonstrated the qualities that I was looking for, to cause me to release you from your curse – but, child, you demonstrated them very late in the game.”

Bragala sighed, and reached out to take the goblet that the a capella who had appeared next to him was holding out to him.

 “Naliara,” Bragala continued, “You have things yet to learn.  You are not ready to sing in my court – yet.  But, you have done more than enough good to assure your freedom from the Cacophony.”

Naliara shuddered at the thought of the Hell reserved for lovers of music.

“So, I will offer you a choice, Naliara,” Bragala said.  “Your first option is reincarnation.  A return to the world, to live again, to learn more.

“The second option . . . child, do you play chess?”

“Yes, Lord,” Naliara whispered.

“The square you were facing,” Bragala told her, “the one directly behind you – is the last rank of a chessboard, of sorts, Naliara.  The chessboard that the other gods and I play on.  What happens, Naliara, when a pawn reaches the last rank?”

“I . . . it is promoted, Lord.”  Naliara began to tremble, hoping past all hope.

“Yes,” Bragala said softly.  “Naliara, if you turn, and step upon that square, you will be promoted – into a new game, one where you will be, for all of the promotion, weaker in some ways, than you are now.  Your curse will return, after a fashion, child.  But it will be weaker.  No longer will a single syllable cause mass destruction – your voice will still be a weapon of destruction, one that must be guarded against . . . but, you will no longer be able to shout down walls, as you did at Halgyronn, last year.  Yes, you will still need to be very, very careful – but, not so terrified of slipping as you were before.”

“I . . . Lord . . . .” Naliara tried to speak, but couldn’t.

“Before you choose, Naliara,” Bragala said in a much lighter voice.  “I am not known, in the world you will be entering, should you choose promotion.”

“Not known, Lord?” Naliara said, puzzled.  “I do not understand.”

“The world I would send you to, to learn your final lessons,” Bragala said, “and to teach lessons, as well . . . in that world, Naliara, they have no God or Goddess who represents music.  Music . . . it is a province of all the gods of Good temperament, there.

“And yet . . . those Gods are willing to give up their dominion over song, be it small, as it is for Davanek, who is God, there, of honorable warfare, or be it a notable part of their worship, as it was with Mysarra, the Goddess of passion and pleasure.

“They give up their dominion over song, that they might draw me in, as an ally in the conflict they face.  Their enemies . . . the Dark Gods . . . they so underestimate the power of song, of music . . . they think that I can make no difference, in the conflict.

“And that . . . well, there is but a single way to remedy that, child.  People must be reminded that music is a kind of prayer, and a gift of the gods . . . .”

Forgetting the power of his face, Naliara looked up, suddenly, hardly daring to hope. She looked back down quickly – but not before she saw his smile.

“Yes, Naliara,” Bragala said.  “You will still be forbidden to speak, without harming others – but, to remind the people of that world of the power of song, the beauty of music – you may sing to your heart’s content!”

Had he been anything less than a god, Naliara would have leapt forward, and hugged him.  Instead, she knelt, and bowed from there. “Thank you, Lord Bragala! I choose promotion!”

“Very well, Naliara.”  Bragala actually helped her to her feet!  “Turn, and step to the square behind you, and you will enter a new game.  When you arrive, follow your heart . . . and begin looking for the man who bears the mark of Alethanna.  Him you must follow.  His task will teach you . . . what it is that you must learn, to finish your atonement.  And I do not believe it will take long, Naliara.  Not long at all!  Go, child . . . and take my blessing – and my song – with you.”

Naliara rose, bowed again, and, without another word, turned and stepped on to the white square behind her.

The chessboard dissolved, and she found her self in a moonlit clearing.  Her backpack, with all the things she’d packed that morning, was resting against her feet, and her waterskin rested against that.

The night was clear, and chilly.  Naliara got a heavier tunic out of her backpack, and changed, before kneeling in the center of the clearing, and opening her mouth, for the first time in over six years, she opened her mouth to sing.

What came out was a prayer, of sorts, that she had heard not long after she had entered Bragala’s Temple at Jerasenn.

“Life is over, new life begins

“What have I learned lord, from all my sins?

“Life was wasted, behind these bars

“I had forgotten the night and stars

 

“You made them for us, in the sky

“But I never stopped, and wondered why

“I let my life to pleasure go

“Always the player, never the show

 

“My heart, it lost the perfect sound

“Of all the joy that once I had found

“From knowing you watched over me

“Now when you look, I wish you could see

 

“How I’ve missed you, Master of Song

“Your notes gave me hope, words made me strong

“I’ve let all that go, and I pray

“Still to sing in your choir someday

 

“Bragala, whose music is life

“Place me once more on the wheel of strife

“I’ll try to do better, I swear

“Should you let me, nothing I won’t dare

 

“I want to have song in my heart

“And from Bragala to never part

“Master of Song, I do pray

“Just one more chance, Lord, I will not stray!”

She had only just finished her prayer when there was a crashing in the nearby woods, and then, even as Naliara rose to her feet, a girl came running into the clearing.  She was young, 13 or 14, small, and slender, though still definitely a girl, by her shape, and never mind the once-fine, now-tattered dress that she wore.  Her honey-colored hair was tangled, and falling out of what looked to have been an elegant hairstyle, once.

One of her brown eyes was swollen mostly closed, and freshly blackened, and a streamer of blood ran from one nostril, and over her mouth and chin, down her throat.  Despite this, and the several small scratches on her face, she was very pretty, with gently angled features, and a mouth that looked as though, under normal circumstances, it smiled a lot.

“Please!” the girl cried, staggering forward, and falling into Naliara’s arms.  “Please, he’s coming!  Help me, he’ll kill me!”

Naliara had never been so frustrated in all her life, by an inability to speak.  Taking the girl gently by the shoulders, she squeezed, gently, to reassure her – then pointed back in the direction the girl had come from, and spread her hands in question.

“You – you want to know who?”

Naliara nodded, grateful that the girl, even in her state of panic, had grasped the question so quickly.

“My father,” the girl said quietly, her voice fairly oozing shame and hurt.  “My father is coming, and he wants to hurt me!”

Naliara stared for a moment, uncomprehending.  Her father . . . ?

Then Naliara heard a voice, a distant shout.

“Palenna!” the voice roared.  “Come back here, girl, or so help me your beating won’t stop until you die!”

Naliara shuddered, at the thought that someone could even say something like that, to their own child – let alone mean it.

The owner of the voice was coming closer, by the sound, was nearly here, already.  Naliara pushed the girl behind her – and turned to face the child’s father.

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