Lightblessed
Chapter 46

Struggle epitomized the seeming indefatigability of life in the endless battle against death. From this conflict came phrases such as “Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” and “Life replaces the means.” More appropriate would be the saying: “Life is a matter of will.”

***

Trynneia’s hands still gripped the blade as it fell from Shallin’s numb grip. Loosely it rested, the practice-nicked edges still sharp enough to have left jagged cuts in her palms and fingers. She sucked in a breath, then another, blinking bloody tears from her vision. Shallin stood dumbly above her as the wind ceased and the dirt fell back to the ground.

Lady Desdemona rushed to her brother, feeling for the pulse at his neck. He moaned softly, reaching for his throat where Trynneia had bit him, and found his flesh whole once more. The door unlatched, and several servants rushed in to aid their masters, while three Hunters pulled Shallin away and surrounded Trynneia. One tried to wrest the sword from her grasp, but failed.

“Leave it,” Shallin said weakly. “It’s hers now.”

Cradling her brother, Desi looked at the two younger women and just nodded, giving assent or agreement. Trynneia was unsure which.

Shallin extended her hand, pulling Trynneia up. “Your Grace,” she said. “I think…we…Should we?” She looked at Lady Desdemona and Lord Elanreu, but Desi held her brother tight, whispering words neither of them could hear.

Both were still in shock, not sure what had happened. Memories curled in strange ways, and Trynneia could not dislodge the feeling lingering in her chest. Something betrayed her, or she betrayed someone, or she had failed in some way.

“Sure,” she agreed, and allowed herself to be led away by Shallin, the sword’s handle dragging in the dirt until it thumped onto the wooden floor inside the estate. There its dull weight marred the floor with their passage. Two Hunters followed them to Shallin’s room.

“She won’t harm me, not now,” Shallin said to them as they tried to enter as well. “Look, you can guard my room if it pleases you. Her Grace is safe with me,” she persuaded.

“Shallin, I’m not sure-” one of the Hunters objected.

“Rex, it’s fine.We’ll be fine. She’s my charge, I’ll take care of it. Of her.” Rex and his companion didn’t look convinced. “Lady Desdemona let us go. If there were a problem, she would have said something.”

“The Lord is injured-”

“And we’re not going anywhere. Okay? If they need us, we’ll be here, ready to answer.”

Shallin prodded Trynneia into the room and latched the door behind them.

“What the fuck just happened, Your Grace?” she whispered, slouching with her back at the door.

Trynneia stood in the middle of the sparse room, her shallow breath sucking in and out as she slowly lost her grip on the sword. It clattered to the floor, prompting a fresh knock from one of the two Hunters. Blood dripped from the blade.

“It’s nothing, Rex! Just the sword!” Shallin explained to them. “She dropped it.” The two girls heard only a grunt for a reply.

“I’m not one of them, I’m not one of them,” Trynneia muttered, her eyes widened, bloody dots throughout her amber irises. Delirious, she didn’t recognize where she was, and didn’t care. Shallin took her hand and led her to the bed and coaxed her to sit. She continued to repeat herself as she sat.

“Your Grace? Your Grace,” Shallin said, seeking attention Trynneia didn’t have available to give. All Trynneia could see was the bloody head of her mother, laid sideways on that throne of rock and dirt. White light, so bright, everywhere. Tears of blood dribbled down her cheek. “Trynneia?” she tried, breaking her own protocol. Trynneia blinked at her name, seeing her.

“Shallin? Where are we? We were…we were sparring. Then…and then…I…” Trynneia trailed off. “I’m so tired. You’re so strong.”

“Not as strong as you,” Shallin returned. “Just sit here, alright? Let me get something for you. You’ve cut your hands,” Shallin said, retrieving a wide bowl from her wash basin and setting it on a low chest nearby. She rummaged through her drawers to replace some fresh cloth, pulling out some small washcloths and setting aside a few outfits for the two of them.

Feeling cold water dabbing her cut palms, Trynneia flinched. “Ah…what?”

“Shh, Your Grace. You don’t remember, do you?” Daubing the blood, she wound some bandages she kept around the fresh gashes on both of Trynneia’s palms.

“My head’s fuzzy, and…Oh Light, I’ve got blood on your sheets. I’m sorry, Shallin,” she apologized. As Shallin wrapped, she saw the patterns marking Trynneia’s fingers, coming up to stop halfway up her palms. Blood runes that dissolved through brown into blackened capillaries that continued up her gray forearms. A quick glance up at her face revealed that Trynneia had seen them too.

“I was just fighting you. But I’ve got them. The marks, same as you. Not as many. Did I…did we?” Trynneia worked it over. “I killed a shaman.” She paused, then said “No, wait.”

“It’s okay, don’t worry about it, Your Grace,” Shallin said, wiping away the bloody stains trickling down Trynneia’s cheeks, as well as the crustiness around her mouth.

“So much blood. Did I hurt you?” -she is your death- -destroy her- -life is the love is the Light- “Maybe we shouldn’t go all out like that for a while.”

“It was just a sparring session, Your Grace. It got a little…got a little out of hand.” Shallin’s hands shook at the memory, unsure how much to bring up. Whatever shock she felt, it was obvious to her that Trynneia had blocked much of what had happened somehow, or forgotten entirely.

Shallin finished binding her hand, and Trynneia flexed her fingers, testing the wrap.

“Lord Elanreu pressed you. Attacked,” Shallin said. “He forced you to defend yourself.”

“He was watching us?”

Shallin nodded. “He and Lady Desdemona both watched us spar. You don’t remember?”

“No,” Trynneia replied. All she could remember was her mother’s head bleeding onto the stone slabs. In her mind’s eye, it began to rot as the light grew and grew. Blood trickled off into the void, coiling unerringly for her, and she reached out for it…

“You shouldn’t be possible, Your Grace,” Shallin admitted. “I had my doubts.”

“I think you still do,” Trynneia observed. “I’m sorry for our fight earlier. I was harsh. I don’t know what came over me,” she continued, changing the subject. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Your Grace. It’s just…you’re likable. And yet. And yet.”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to be anymore, Shallin. I’ve been beaten, tortured, and abused at the hands of Modius and his band. Treated with equal parts horror and deference at being Lightblessed by the Regency. Now I have to face my own revulsion at being…one of them. A shaman.”

Shallin nodded knowingly. “I’ve seen for myself. Of course Lord Elanreu was right about it. He’s always right.”

“He knew?”

“He did,” Shallin affirmed. “He also-” She paused and looked at Trynneia’s blood seeping through her torn tunic. “You shake my faith in the Light, Your Grace. My training and experience war with my knowledge of you. We’ve both seen the madness.”

-blood in the night- -taste us, seek us- -there is nothing for you here- Trynneia trembled, clasping her hands together before her. “Maybe that’s what I have to do then,” she whispered.

“Your Grace?”

“Give myself to the Light,” she replied, looking at the door. Someone knocked.

“What is it, Rex?” Shallin called.

Regent Torvas entered and shut the door behind him, Rex shrugging apologetically as the door closed him from sight.

“Regent Torvas,” Shallin greeted him, kneeling. He towered above the young women, his riding cloak dusty at his shoulders, matching the grime on his boots. Giving Shallin a passing glance, he fixed his attention on Trynneia’s bloodied form.

“It appears life here has treated you well, Your Grace,” he mocked, affecting a brief bow before tugging his gloves off.

“The Light is a wonder, and it provides,” Trynneia said, unsure herself if she meant it with sincerity or sarcasm. “Does Lord Elanreu know you’re here?” she asked, concerned.

“His knowledge of my whereabouts does not concern me, nor should it concern you whether he knows or not. The fool has had you here over a month and has not responded to our queries in that time. Our patience is over.”

“You have no authority here,” Shallin said.

“Your Lord serves at our will. Favor for past services rendered can be revoked.” He walked over and picked up the fallen sword. Turning it over in his hands, concern knit his brow. “This blade has a story to tell, and I like none of it.” Tucking it between his elbow and ribs, he extended his free hand to Trynneia. “Come, Your Grace. Your time here has reached its end.”

“You can’t command her,” Shallin replied again. “You needn’t go, Your Grace.”

“You are arrogant and prideful, Hunter. Leave us.”

Trynneia simply listened to the short exchange, pressing her hands to her witch’s mark, grasping at the totem that miraculously escaped the blade. No aura surrounded the Regent, no floating colors, no whispers. Torvas simply stood before her, a man pompous and arrogant in his own right. She laughed weakly.

“It’s alright, Shallin. I was just saying I needed to give myself to the Light. Regent Torvas has come at just the right time,” she explained.

“You’ve barely begun your training, Your Grace.” Shallin looked between the two. “Lord Elanreu-”

“Shh,” Trynneia put her finger to her lips, silencing the Hunter. “Elanreu knew you were coming, didn’t he, Regent? That was you I saw coming up the road earlier.”

“He did,” Torvas admitted.

“That’s why he forced the confrontation,” Shallin realized. “He knew he was out of time.”

“Is that why Your Grace looks like…this? Bloodied and ruined?” Torvas asked, looking at Trynneia. “I haven’t got enough prayers for you.” He helped her stand. “What was this confrontation she speaks of?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, staring at him for any sign of Light. “Regent.”

Torvas clasped her shoulders. “Well then,” he said, shifting his tone. “It would please us to extend an invitation for Your Grace to join us at the Atrium at your convenience” he declared, his stiff formality clearly at odds with his desire to command her immediate departure. Shallin glared at him.

Trynneia smirked at his discomfort. “That wasn’t hard for you, was it Regent?” He returned only a grim stare, eyes hard as he swallowed words he knew he must resist saying. “As your luck would have it, I am tired of all this. I can’t lie to myself anymore about what I am,” she sighed.

“Lord Elanreu brought you here for your safety, Your Grace. You can’t go with him,” Shallin objected. “You know what this estate is for.”

Trynneia looked at her sorrowfully. “Are you trying to command me too, Shallin?” She asked sadly, glancing at the Hunter. Regent Torvas twitched his lip smugly at her retort. A series of coughs spasmed through her, leaving Trynneia breathless. “Even now, an illness claims me. Digs deeper. If that is my fate, I want to face it with a clear conscience.”

Shallin knelt beside her, whispering. “Your Grace, what you think you seek from them, I do not know. But this much is true: You threaten their rule. I beg you, please don’t go with him.”

“I’m no ruler, Shallin. You all treat me like a queen, and I’m just a girl. A horrible, abominable, Lightblessed girl. A shaman. Light, I don’t even know anymore. Look,” she said. “We’ve had our differences. I want to hide in the pain you give me when we train, but it’s always here,” Trynneia pointed to her head, “and here,” she said, pointing to her chest. She sighed. “Ever since I’ve left home, the Judgment of Light has hung over me and I keep accepting and then rejecting that fate. No amount of training has changed that.”

“Don’t go with him,” Shallin whispered desperately. “We can use your powers to train, to fight against other shaman.”

The prospect tore at her and she seethed inside, even as she gripped the totem that soothed her shaman whispers. Her vision of Ditan’s ribs caving in merged with her memory of it, hating him with such passion for what he was, how he corrupted and ruined the light. How she was capable of the same, now. The knowledge that she trained to hunt other shaman tormented her due to the hypocrisy of being one herself.

“I want to hunt, Shallin. But I can’t until I can purge myself of this corruption.”

“Light’s Judgment can free you, Your Grace. If you’re brave enough to accept it,” Torvas intoned, slipping back into their conversation. “Shaman or not, Your Grace is Lightblessed and belongs with us. Your place in the Light is assured.”

“Is it, Regent? I wonder.”