Something was very wrong.
The moment Andre felt the impact with the ground things changed. At first he thought the change in color resulted from his seeing stars, a side effect of his collision with the archer and subsequent fall. But the reddish brown glow did not flicker or spark the way one might expect from a hand hit. It shone out as steady as the sun, a constant presence casting the whole cavern in its dull, unnatural hue.
The light was coming from a place just over Andre’s left shoulder. Positioned as he was, tangled with the soldier, he had no view of what the new source of illumination in the grotto was and he couldn’t quite extract himself to look. He felt rigid. So did the conjuror he’d just tackled to the ground, as if his limbs had all seized and would never move again.
Andre, isn’t it? I did not expect we would meet again.
The sound that filled the cavern formed words but didn’t have the pitch or tamber of a human voice. It screamed and groaned like a dying man. It was punctuated by the clash of swords, the shriek of metal on metal, the crunch of horrible impacts and the tears of the wounded. It came from the source of the unnatural light. That much Andre knew with certainty. Other memories floated up, images and whispers long forgotten, things his own mind may never have really registered when they happened. He knew what he would see before the thing stepped in front of him.
It was a towering figure, shaped like a man but filling the grotto from top to bottom, shedding rusty illumination as if lit from within. Within the figure there were no distinct features like a face, clothes or jewelry. Instead it swirled with chaotic images that shifted faster than human eyes could follow, though they left Andre with a sinking impression of violence and death. Over the figure’s head the light seemed arranged in a great crown, except the points drifted lazily back and forth. It looked more like ribbons or hair than a true crown.
As if recognition changed something Andre found he could move again. Scrambling to his feet he squared up against the creature and said, “Have you come for me, King of Scars?”
The figure raised one hand and waved it in front of its chest, unfurling a long scroll that hung in the air in front of it. Your name is not on my list today, Andre.
It was true, from what he could see. The names on the scroll were plain to see, though there were dozens if not hundreds of them and most were written in languages he’d never seen before. “Then why are you here?”
Why do you think?
The King of Scars traditionally came to guide souls that died of violence, at least by Neronan reckoning. So the answer to the question should be obvious. “What I mean is, why can I see you? The Kings at the Corners appear to those on the edge of Eternity, to usher their subjects into the beyond. If I’m not on your list there’s no reason for us to meet.”
The figure rolled the scroll in its hands until it reached an empty spot just below a name. It’s in my nature, Andre. I made a promise the last time we met and I’m here to keep it.
“Promise?” Another wave of familiarity washed over him, a sensation that he knew something about what the King spoke of but couldn’t place why. Andre rubbed his face in his hands, trying to clear his head. Instead he found he could see through his hands.
He jerked upright and stared about, finding that no one in the grotto was moving. Fabian was mid stagger, his hands cradling his head, while his other guard was still in the process of heaving. Up slope, Erasmus and Ragi were in the middle of some kind of exchange of blows. Electricity arced from Ragi’s hand towards the thin man’s arm, reaching out with bright, blinding tendrils that should have finished their journey in the blink of an eye. Instead they hung in the air as if waiting. Within all of the people was a dimly glowing essence, almost impossible to see in the brighter light shed by the King of Scars but still there, if he looked.
Andre looked down at his hands again and understood it was the light of the soul. His own body was a few feet behind him, on the ground with the archer he had just bowled over, but it didn’t glow because Andre’s soul had risen up to meet the King.
The archer’s body didn’t glow either.
His voice a whisper, Andre asked, “What promise are you here to keep?”
The figure held the scroll out for him to read the name written just above the open spot. Giovanni Conjure. It was written in a firm, precise hand with Neronan letters. I promised that, so long as it was in my power, I would allow you to live a life free of violence and blood guilt.
Andre turned his attention to the place where the King’s face would have been, had he been a normal person, and immediately regretted it. For a brief second he thought he saw the moment Giovanni’s head struck the cave floor. His stomach clenched and Andre had to take a few deep breaths before he could speak again. “So long as it was in your power. But you can only touch the lives of men at the moment of death. The omens, the incense, the prayers of the Heralds… those are just us begging for your attention or imagining we’ve found it. This is the first time you’ve been able to keep that promise.”
The figure cocked its head to one side, as if studying something it hadn’t expected to find. Strange that you remember that detail but not so many others. Still, you are correct. I am here because you have killed a man, Andre, and that put him on my doorstep, under my jurisdiction.
“So what?” Andre yanked his gaze away from the creature before him, turned his attention back to Ragi’s duel, as if the blinding lightning could purge the figure from his vision. “Are you saying I’m guilty of that man’s death?”
Of course.
It was such a blunt, direct answer Andre nearly laughed at it. Nearly. His stomach clenched, the air came up his throat, but somehow the sound emerged in a groan instead. “Then you can’t do much to keep me from blood guilt, can you?”
On the contrary, it is a simple thing to do. You remember much of my nature, don’t you? Every soul that is ready to pass beyond must go through one of four gates and I guard the gate of Scars. When their time comes I send them through… or return them to life, if their reasons to remain are just.
“Odd that the four of you return so few, then.”
Is it? There are vanishingly few just things in this, or any world, Andre.
“I suppose you’ve already heard Giovanni’s reasons to live?”
I have.
“Then it seems he was lacking as well.”
No more so than anyone else who has died today, or most days.
“Then what is there for -”
I made a promise, Andre. It is within my power to allow a trade, one for one. It’s a rare gift, you know, and an opportunity that most people will never see in their lives. The King of Scars tapped one finger on the scroll. For a brief moment it looked like a human hand, old and weathered and wrapped in bandages, the finger trembling with age and exhaustion, before it returned to its luminous form. This is the only avenue I can offer you to escape blood guilt. Write your name here and I will return him, then you will be free of guilt and we will depart for Eternity.
Andre stared at the figure in horror. “How?”
It is within my power.
“How can it be in your power?” Andre demanded, a familiar warmth building up within him until it overwhelmed the guilt in his stomach. “How can it be just? How can you so casually offer to trade lives like they are coins, fit to be swapped back and forth for favors or promises?”
Does it make a difference?
“Of course it does! How are you any different from him?” He jabbed a finger at Fabian. “He dragged Giovanni here so he could drag Charissa off to.. I don’t know where they were going but he plans to keep her from her family! Plus whatever the Borgias are planning to do with Belladonna! You cannot treat lives so cheaply!”
You think I find them cheap?
“They don’t seem to be any more than names on a list to you! How is that any different from the way Conte Vallemarmo treated Oliviamonde?”
He did not know their names, for one thing. He did not speak to them before they passed to Eternity, as I do. In truth, he was much like you.
The wrath building in Andre’s gut was snuffed out in an instant. “What do you mean?”
Why does Grigori Borgia desire Belladonna Vinoverde and Charissa de la Rhodes?
“I…” Andre cast his gaze about the cavern, hoping to catch a glimpse of the women in question and gain a burst of insight. Yet even in his current state he couldn’t see them. “I don’t know.”
Why does the Magistrate of Fionni tolerate the Borgias working against the interests of his liege, the Prince of Torrence?
“How could I possibly guess?”
Why did Giovanni Conjure choose to fight on behalf of the Blind Man, rather than employ his talents in much safer ways?
Andre reluctantly turned to look at the man he’d just slammed to the ground. He looked shockingly normal, frozen in the moment of his death. His mouth was slightly open, perhaps still gasping with the force of Andre slamming into him, and his eyes were wide in surprise. But the back of his skull was pressed against a stalagmite that Andre hadn’t noticed behind him. There could be no doubt about how he died.
Or who had done it.
“I don’t know. How could I know?”
Then you know even less than the Conte knew when he put Oliviamonde to the torch. I know this. Vinchezo Vallemarmo has long since passed through my gate into Eternity.
Andre looked back at the King of Scars. “Then what should I do?”
I cannot tell you what you should do. I can only offer you the choice of whether you wish to ransom the life of Giovanni Conjure or live with his blood guilt. You chose the actions that brought you here. You must choose how you will go forward. That simply is. Whether men should or should not be burdened with such choices is not for me to say.
Andre considered the man he had just killed. Then he looked up at Ragi, still fighting for his duty to his family and Bella, and Sophia, struggling to remain upright against the debilitating power emanating from Fabian. He never meant to hurt anyone when he decided to help them. Certainly he had no desire to bear the guilt of killing anyone.
Yet he couldn’t leave them to finish their task alone, either.
“I cannot take his place.” Andre took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “So I will have to bear the guilt.”
Good. The King of Scars rolled up the scroll and it vanished.
Andre goggled at the figure, trying to find something to say.
I made a promise, Andre, and I have kept it. I have done all in my power to keep you from blood guilt but now that you bear it the thing cannot be undone. That does not mean I believe the I was asked to do was wise. I have brought countless people into Eternity and I believe there are worse things they can bear into the beyond than blood guilt. I hope that when your next time comes you will not be burdened with one of them.
The figure turned to go but, before it could vanish Andre said, “What kind of promise is it that made you do all this?”
Any promise would have been enough. Yet it is rare for a person to be given the chance to trade their life for another’s and even rarer for the person to accept that offer. When a promise is made as part of that trade it is all the more important to uphold it.
The unnatural reddish light dimmed, then vanished as the towering figure of the King of Scars faded from view. For a heartbeat Andre caught sight of a man within it. Then the King was gone, its voice calling one last message back to him.
I will tell your mother you are living well.
