Mortality Clarified

Ignoring the ghost of Hodar who insisted he didn’t need burying, Gilvantes sliced out large chunks of earth. Skyrend, just as it was when Wodan was there, was weightless again. More importantly, it shielded him from all emotional noise, forging his focus into an icy needle.

Linsk laid his brother into the crater. While the rain washed away his silent tears, there was no hiding his ashen face and hunched figure. Instead of burying Hador, he sat at the edge of the pit, staring at the wound. The flesh around the gash had turned black. Poison.

“Linsk,” said Lisharotte, laying a hand on his shoulder. “You said your goodbye?”

He sniffed and nodded.

Gilvantes and Lisharotte began heaping mud blocks onto Hador. By the time the downpour eased to a drizzle, they had built a sizeable mound. Linsk, rising to his feet, sank a spear into the tomb. He then glared at the bound Phantom who watched all this with a lifeless indifference.

“Hey,” she taunted, smirking. “At least you have a body.”

Gilvantes jumped in front of Linsk, who had drawn his sword.

“Gil,” he snarled, his face a furious crimson. “I don’t care if you’re the embodiment of Urzu, get out of my way and—”

The Najar woman stood up, marched forward, shouldered Gilvantes aside, and pressed her breast against the falchion.

“Go on!” she screamed. “Kill me!”

When Linsk lowered his weapon, she spat at him in disgust and advanced on Lisharotte.

“Come on, Captain! Kill me like you killed my sister!”

Much to everyone’s surprise, Lisharotte gave the Phantom a resounding slap, flooring the woman.

“If you’re not prepared to die,” bellowed Lisharotte, “then don’t ride into battle! How could a warrior skilled enough to kill a Walthurian Knight disgrace herself so?”

Initially stunned, the Phantom touched her cheek and slowly got back up.

“What will you do with me?” she asked, her voice barely louder than the drizzle.

“We’ll let the Karambell court decide,” answered Gilvantes. “Until then, I’d like you to answer my questions. Understood?”

“They did say the third prince was a soft boy,” she chortled. “Fine, but I’m not giving away my liege—”

Gilvantes gave her a mournful smile. “What’s your name?”

Her name was Zafini. Misha was her baby sister. After a bloody tribal feud orphaned the girls—a common occurrence among the Najars—they sought refuge in a local militia band. Within a few years, Zafini had turned every manner of steel into an extension of her arms. Misha, who wove spells before she even uttered her first words, was a sorcery lecturer. Before long, a Phantom arrived, inviting the sisters into the secretive rank of the Walthurian Knights.

“I take it you’re not working for Favrok,” deduced Lisharotte.

Zafini snorted. “The fat Lamak?” she replied, then barking a laugh. “Our assignment was to ensure Favrok Kimaja gets credits for your death, prince.”

“Why?” asked Gilvantes.

The Najar shrugged. “Why do you think a Phantom does anything?”

“How would I know?”

“Didn’t you have a dedicated squad?”

Now that he thought about it, Gilvantes distinctly recall that both his brothers, Damur and Bronvael, had their own private squad of Phantoms. All the maids who carried platers but no utensils, cleaners not covered in grime, and gardeners content to admire the flowerbeds made sense now. How had he missed all this? And why had he never received a personal detail when he was the heir to the throne?

“Where are my brothers?” asked Gilvantes. “Are they even alive?”

Zafini shrugged. “Don’t know. And if they were, they’d be playing dead.”

Stonewalled again, Gilvantes cast a look at Lisharotte and Linsk, both of whom shook their heads.

“Sorry, Gil,” Hador piped up. “Horsebacks don’t breed cunning and deception.”

Wiping wet hair from his brow, Gilvantes readied himself for the next question.

“Is my father dead?”

The Najar’s flippant indifference vanished. “Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“Melzuriam is still in mourning.”

“Did anyone see it?”

“Unless the emperor had a double.”

Lisharotte knotted her brows. “Who controls Melzuriam now?”

“Cardinal Arminton,” replied Zafini, “he has tried to form an interim council.”

The thought that a familiar pillar in his life was still alive warmed Gilvantes. Virajamund Arminton, or Vijay, the old man with a permanent smile on his face, was the one who witnessed the moment Skyrend chose him. Together, they read the Scriptures of Life and sang hymns—

“Wipe that silly grin of your face,” snapped the Phantom. “Urzu’s foot, boy. Can you not see the problem?”

Gilvantes gazed into the distance and sighed. The closer he got Melzuriam, the harder the questions became.

“You are close to him,” asserted Zafini. “Best cure yourself of that.”

“Can I hide nothing from you?”

“It’s my job.”

No longer pursued, the pilgrims set up camp that night. Slivers of moonlight slipped through the thinning clouds, dotting the dark pasture with silver specks. While Lisharotte and Linsk lit a bonfire, Gilvantes searched the tallgrass for the hares. Without Wodan’s guidance, however, all he found were trails and droppings.

“You move like a hunter,” said Hador, glowing. “You’re full of surprises, Gil.”

“Learned a few tricks from Wodan,” replied Gilvantes wryly. “Not enough, as you see.”

“Draw Skyrend,” suggested Hador. “Come on. Let me show you.”

Hesitant at first, Gilvantes drew the blue blade, washing the plain in its azure light.

“The easiest way to do this,” said Hador, “is close your eyes and imagine you’re looking down from above. Try it.”

Gilvantes closed his eyes, his forehead creasing with concentration. Gradually, the darkness gave way to the scenery, only this time, he was looking down at himself from high above. Feeling dizzy, he teetered and the landscape faded away.

Hador glimmered. “I did that too.”

Inhaling, Gilvantes tried again. The hawk’s-eye perspective returned, sharper and more focused this time. He quickly turned on a stirring behind him and hurled a rock in the direction. Despite the weight of the projectile leaving his hand, he felt removed from the motion, as if he had become a puppeteer. Queasy, he blinked, and was back in his body again.

Following the plaintive screams to a hare, Gilvantes flipped the wriggling critter and delivered a killing thrust. The prey now raw meat, he picked it up by its hindlegs and bounded back to the fire.

“Gil,” said Hador. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“It’s about Linsk…”

His rabbit at dinner did much to improve morale, earning even a compliment from their Najar captive. Zafini then blamed him for not catching another one, upon which Lisharotte threatened to tip out her bowl. That was the last time anybody complained.

Linsk volunteered for the first watch. Gilvantes, exchanging a knowing look with Lisharotte, joined the knight outside their tent. A sweeping gust forced the prince to pull his coat tighter.

“Is this your first camp?” asked Linsk.

“Yes,” said Gilvantes. “Hador has a few things he’d like to tell you.”

The Mengot looked to Skyrend. “Let’s hear it.”

“He said you may collect your winnings from Moran once you get back to Northwall.”

Linsk guffawed. “I haven’t won yet.”

“He has an outstanding tab at the Rowdy Sailors. He thinks its three empresses.”

This time, Linsk made a face, then laughed in good nature. “Well, I’ll have those barmaids to myself now.”

“There’s a packet of hashish sleeping inside his pillow. He wanted you to have them.”

“And here I thought I found all his stashes.”

“Finally,” said Gilvantes. “He wants me to give you reading lessons.”

Smothering his face with both palms, Linsk bawled.