A love too great and sadly broken

The healer's past at last is spoken.

Beneath the drifting sun, the breeze raced across the far eastern Outland plains, whipping dust into strange dances as it went, curling around the legs of scrawny sheep scavenging for edible morsels of grass. Picking up speed over the long, empty miles, it was finally caught and slowed in a tangle of cool green hills and sleepy shadows. Here it dwindled to a sigh across the faces of three men whom Fate had thrown together.

Lord Requar, Starshadow Flint and Eltorian Nightwalker made their way at an earnest pace along the winding, hawthorn-lined country roads, heading south-west for the Arlen Plains and the township of Forthwhite. Nightwalker's good arm had been bound behind his back in a simple but effective restraint – a length of rope looped around his neck, wrist and waist. He walked just ahead of Flint on a lead, one of his own knives giving him a warning jab every now and then.

Nightwalker's reaction when Requar had woken him had been predictable. Initial shock and horror at the loss of his arm and the fact that he was now the prisoner of a sorcerer and a traitor quickly dissolved into unrestrained screaming and cursing, and rather graphic death-vows. All pretence of self-importance disappeared.

They let him have his tantrum until Requar eventually lost patience and took his voice out with a spell. Since he was also bound and unable to make rude gestures, he resorted to venomous glares instead.

They searched and stripped him of all his weapons, of which there were many. They decided to confiscate his entire jacket as it contained so many blades secreted in every conceivable hem, pocket and fold that Flint was astonished that the man could sneak around so quietly without clanking like a suit of armour. Once satisfied that they had relieved Nightwalker of everything that could be used to harm them or himself, or free himself with, Requar reluctantly left Flint to guard his former leader while he went back to Hillbank for provisions. He left not-quite-joking instructions to find no further limbs missing when he returned.

Nightwalker remained silent for the rest of the day and the one following, even after Requar had removed the spell. He simmered in his own dark, bitter world for much of the time, responding to questions only with a grunt or further savage looks. However, his dark eyes remained razor-edged, and he tried to escape or hurt Flint or Requar every time they were complacent enough to take their eyes off him. This forced them to watch every move he made in a tiring vigil. At night, Requar rendered him unconscious again to allow them all a peaceful sleep.

So it came as something of a surprise when, on the third day close to noon, he spoke.

"Why did you save my life?"

Requar, walking beside him, did not reply.

"Why did you save my life, you bastard?!" Nightwalker yelled.

Flint struck him in the spine with the hilt of his knife, taking great satisfaction from Nightwalker's stumble of pain. His own ribs ached badly from the Bladeshifter leader's most recent attempt to escape as they were packing up after breakfast that morning.

"Shut up!" he snapped.

Requar glanced sidelong at Nightwalker. "Not because I find your life particularly worth saving," he replied. "I took a pledge as a healer to do everything in my power to help those in need of my services, without discrimination."

"A pledge?" Nightwalker sneered. "Hah! That's a laugh. If you're such a great healer, where are all your buddies, huh? I haven't noticed many other sorcerers around, except that stupid Winter kid. What happened to them? Why'd they all die out? Weren't your powers great enough to save your own kind?"

He looked at Requar to see his reaction, and was surprised to find that the sorcerer wasn't there.

A sharp jerk on the rope brought Nightwalker up short.

Requar had stopped a few paces back, staring at the Bladeshifter leader.

A slow grin appeared on Nightwalker's face. "Ooooh, what's wrong? Hit a nerve, have I? Heheheh–"

Flint glared at him. "Shut up!" he yelled, shoving Nightwalker hard in the back so that he fell to the ground. He was about to land a kick as well, but Requar's voice stopped him.

"Don't, Flint. Don't."

The sorcerer walked slowly towards Nightwalker, and stood looking down at him. "Get to your feet," he ordered quietly.

Nightwalker simply laughed into the dirt.

Flint grabbed the loop of rope around his neck, dragged him roughly to his feet and made him face Requar. When their eyes met, Requar said: "Do not make assumptions about issues of which you know nothing."

There was an uncharacteristic icy coldness within his eyes that Flint had never seen before. A warning chill ran up his spine.

But Nightwalker's eyes glinted with delight at the fact that he had found a chip in the sorcerer's impenetrable defences. "Oh, I think I know all I need to," he replied, smiling nastily. "I'm right, aren't I? Oh, I see now, that's why you act so noble and oh so honourable… you're not good-hearted; you're a failure! You protect people to appease your own selfish, guilty conscience!"

In the blink of an eye, Requar's hand was in front of his face. Nightwalker flinched instinctively, thinking the sorcerer intended to hit him, but what happened instead was in many ways far worse.

The hand burst into white flame. Requar walked forward slowly, keeping his arm extended, forcing Nightwalker backwards until he stumbled and fell to his knees.

Nightwalker's mocking smile had vanished and his eyes were wide, but he managed a defiant sneer as the sorcerer loomed over him. "Y-you're not going to k-kill me! Y-you don't have the guts! You're just like Flint, a w-weaselly coward!"

The flames crackling around Requar's hand suddenly spread up his arm in a roaring conflagration, and engulfed his entire body. Daylight fled from the world in a rush, plunging them into midnight darkness with Requar at its centre, a terrifying, flaming apparition. Strands of blue energy surrounded him like an aura, twisting and flicking like living things straining to break free of some invisible constraint. His cerulean eyes disappeared, replaced by twin holes of blazing white light. The glow was so intense that his skeleton was visible beneath his skin.

Flint dropped the rope and stumbled backwards, consumed with terror. Oh, Gods, he thought. He felt a strong desire to run, to get away from there as quickly as possible, but at the same time was transfixed by the scene before him.

Nightwalker had gone pale, and it was due to much more than the light shining on his face. He backed away, scrabbling on the ground, trying to get to his feet…

Requar's hand reached down, closed around his throat and lifted him effortlessly to eye level. Why should I not kill you? he said.

His voice had changed, taking on a deep, resonant, echoing quality as though they had been transported inside an immense cavern. As he spoke, the words etched themselves in stark, glowing white inside Nightwalker's and Flint's minds.

Fear and doubt crawled across Nightwalker's face. He didn't want to look at those horrifying, blazing eyes, but he had no choice. The sorcerer's grip was so strong that he could not move his head. "I… I d-don't want to die!" he cried.

No one wants to die, but death finds us all, eventually. Even sorcerers. Even you, Eltorian Nightwalker.

His hand tightened around Nightwalker's throat, constricting his windpipe painfully. "No!" Nightwalker tried to scream, but it came out as a strangled whimper. "N… pl…ease…!" He began to choke.

Requar released his grip, and Nightwalker fell into a heap on the ground. He stared down at the Bladeshifter as he coughed and gasped for breath.

You take others' lives and play with them like a cat with its prey, in order to avoid dealing with your own insecurities. That, Nightwalker, is cowardice.

You are right, I do not intend to kill you. But to live alone, with nothing save your own mind as company, is the worst punishment possible. You will discover this, in time.

The flames subsided and sunlight and birdsong returned, to Flint's immense relief. For a few moments, the white glow lingered in Requar's eyes. Then that, too, was gone, and they were once again depthless pools of sky framed by the long strands of his fringe. He turned and continued walking without waiting for the others.

Nightwalker did not resist as Flint pulled him to his feet and set him moving again.

No one talked for a long time afterwards.

They made camp that night beside a wide, slow moving river, shadowed by huge redgums and willows that draped delicately into the water. They ate a silent, fireless meal, avoiding eye contact with each other and especially with Lord Requar. When they had finished, the sorcerer sent Nightwalker to sleep with his usual precautionary spell, and disappeared before Flint had a chance to ask him any questions.

Flint sat in the darkness, staring at the unconscious form of Nightwalker, listening to those questions rolling uncomfortably around in his mind. He was still highly unnerved by what had happened earlier. Just when he thought he was becoming almost comfortable in Requar's presence, the sorcerer had revealed a part of himself that Flint had never seen, but always suspected was there. It was a sharp reminder that Requar possessed an awesome power that was not limited to healing abilities, and that he was not a person to be taken lightly, despite his seemingly placid, kindly nature.

Flint thought the vision of him wreathed in flames, holding Nightwalker aloft like a damp black rag, would haunt him for a long time to come.

Not yet ready to sleep, he got up and wandered over to the river's edge. The sun was an hour below the horizon, leaving a brilliant aquamarine stain beyond the hills, fading to a deep, clear sapphire strewn with stars and silvery wisps of cloud. The water level was quite low, the banks exposed as small earthen cliffs tangled with giant redgum roots, pale and deformed in the darkness like the skeletons of huge, water-dwelling creatures.

Requar sat on a mossy rock amidst the roots, water lapping at his boots, the Sword of Healing held loosely, unsheathed, before him.

Flint hesitated, wondering whether it was a good idea to approach him or not. His haste in leaving immediately after dinner was a clear indication that he wanted to be alone. Flint had the distinct impression that something was troubling him; his demeanour had changed ever since the conversation with Nightwalker…

The sorcerer did not look up as Flint picked his way down through the roots, trying not to overbalance with the Justifier still strapped to his back. He sat down cautiously on a root near Requar, ready to obey at once if he was ordered to go away.

Requar said nothing. He sat as though frozen, his face expressionless, staring at his Sword.

For an uncertain moment, Flint wondered if his mind was occupied elsewhere, as it had been that day in the pine forest when he'd been aware of someone tampering with the magic protecting his castle. He had a similar distant look in his eyes. Flint decided to speak, to voice what was on his mind. If the sorcerer did not respond, well, then he'd simply get up and leave him alone.

"What Nightwalker said earlier," he said tentatively, "there was… some truth in it, wasn't there? Are you… did you really become a healer out of a sense of guilt for what happened at that magic school? For being one of the only survivors? Is that why you're so intent on helpin' people now, 'cause you couldn't save anyone back then?"

Flint had a horrible feeling that he'd said too much and cringed, but Requar made no reaction. Eventually, after a long moment of silence, the sorcerer spoke.

"I became a healer," he said quietly, "to save my mother." He paused, lifting his gaze from the blade to stare across the river. Then he went on: "Nightwalker was right, I do carry with me a sense of guilt for what happened. It eats away at me, every day of my life. But that is not the only reason I help people. I do it because it is my duty, but I chose that duty, because I want to create some good in the world. I do not want people to suffer needlessly."

Flint nodded. "Nightwalker's a jerk," he muttered. "Don't let him get to you."

To Flint's surprise, Requar smiled faintly. "It is my own thoughts and memories that trouble me, Flint, not the words of our sharp-tongued Bladeshifter companion."

They fell silent, watching the flicker of the stars reflected in the river. "So did you succeed?" Flint asked after a while. "Did you save your mother?"

Requar's gaze lowered again to his Sword. He let the blade roll slowly forwards over the edge of his lean hand before grabbing it and plunging it with a surprisingly violent motion into the water, causing Flint to jump.

"No," Requar said softly as ripples slopped against the roots and the Sword wobbled slightly, stuck blade downward in the river.

Flint went cold at the look on Requar's face; a fierce look, fiercely sad and bitter. He was about to get up and call it a night before he said anything further that he'd regret, but Requar continued talking, his expression softening into a look of melancholy recollection. "Though not through lack of trying," the sorcerer murmured, almost to himself.

"I was eleven years old, asleep in my bed, when it happened. A thief broke into our mansion in the middle of the night. My father was away on military duty on the Middle Isle, so my mother got out of bed to investigate the disturbance.

"She encountered a small figure clad in black creeping out of the parlour; by its stature only a child, a street urchin perhaps, searching desperately for valuables. It carried a sack full of expensive crockery and other items that it had pilfered. The thief was startled by my mother's sudden appearance and lashed out with a black dagger, catching her on the arm, then dropped its sack and fled from the house.

"The thief was never seen or heard from again, but we found the dagger abandoned on the front lawn the next morning. It was a slim, sinister looking weapon of a design and material that I had never seen before, but I caught only a glimpse of it before it was locked away out of sight by one of the servants.

"The wound on my mother's arm was shallow, barely more than a scratch. She had it treated and bound and none of my family thought any more of the incident, until a month later, when she began to act strangely.

"We would find her standing in odd places, rigid as a statue, expressionless, staring into space, and she became increasingly forgetful. One day I was helping her chop vegetables when her sleeve fell back and I saw her wound, the one I assumed had healed long ago.

"It had not healed at all; in fact, it had become much worse, surrounded by a vicious dark bruise. When she caught me looking, she covered it over quickly, gave me a reassuring smile and told me that it was nothing to worry about.

"But I was worried."

He paused for a moment, frowning at the sapphires glimmering on the hilt of his Sword, then went on. "Throughout the next few months, her condition gradually worsened. She became ill and frequently had to lie down, but continued to insist that there was nothing wrong with her, that she merely had insomnia and was therefore a little tired during the day. None of the servants believed her, however, and finally a message was sent to my father, Lord Brannon, informing him of his wife's troubling affliction. He came back home immediately, and spared no expense searching out the best traditional healers from all over the country and abroad."

He let out a long, resentful sigh. "Not one of the healers could even identify the disease, let alone treat it. None of their administrations made the slightest difference. If anything, she became sicker.

"After many more months of failed attempts, disgraced medical practitioners, and my father's ever-shortening temper, I could finally stand it no longer. I could not bear to watch my beautiful mother disintegrate before my eyes, so I approached my father with the thought that I had been dreading to speak.

"I suggested seeking help from the teacher of healing at the School of Magical Studies.

"As expected, my father angrily rejected this idea. His dislike and distrust of the SOMS and all things magical ran deep; he believed in good honest steel, he said, he thought that magic was for cowards and bred evil and arrogance.

"I had never disobeyed my father's orders before, nor blatantly gone against his wishes – Brannon was a fearsome man when he was displeased – but I could not accept his stubbornness. I could not believe that he would throw my suggestion aside so carelessly when his wife's life was at risk.

"I did not even bother to argue with him. I left the room silently, went to the SOMS and requested help myself.

"My father was furious when the sorcerer turned up at our front door, and at first refused to let him in the house. Thankfully, Lord Etheron was very persuasive, and after an hour of heated discussion on the doorstep, my father finally, and with great resentment, conceded to let him examine Lady Fyona."

Requar shook his head sadly. "It turned out to be wasted effort in any case: Lord Etheron could do nothing more than any of the traditional healers had done. With all his power, with his Sword of Healing, with his mighty will, he could do nothing to help her."

Requar closed his eyes. "He asked to see the dagger that had cut her. I shall never forget the expression on his face when he laid eyes upon it, for it froze all the blood in my veins. He began to mutter in an agitated manner, running a hand through his hair.

"Upon seeing the frightened looks on our faces, great sorrow crossed his own. He explained that Lady Fyona had been wounded with a trigonic blade. My father demanded to know what that meant. Etheron replied that trigon was a substance of pure evil, an evil that could not be destroyed. She had been infected with this evil and there was no known cure; any further attempts at healing would only inflame the disease. She would eventually die, he told us, and when she did, her soul would be transformed into a demon-wraith, a creature twisted by misery and fed by death.

"The only way to spare her this fate was to release her soul before the disease became too far advanced.

"To end her life.

"I expected my father to start shouting again, or at least to say something, but his reaction was somehow worse: he fell completely silent. He looked shattered, as did the rest of my family, friends and servants gathered in that room. Even my brother Arzath said nothing, his face gone horrifyingly pale.

"To everyone's surprise, not the least my own, it was I who lost my temper. I refused to believe that there was a disease that could not be cured. I had seen sorcerers and their impressive displays of magic, surely power such as that could do anything, could cure anything! I was convinced that Lord Etheron was either an incompetent sorcerer, or had somehow missed a vital piece of information in his studies.

"I was determined to find that piece.

"Shortly after the healer's visit, I quit my regular education and enrolled in the SOMS. In ordinary circumstances, gaining my father's written permission to study as a sorcerer would have been impossible – Arzath had tried this many times, to receive only angry rejection – but father signed the papers without even reading them, too overcome with despair for Fyona to care. She had just recently forgotten his name.

"Arzath seized the opportunity and did the same; father signed those papers as well, which was a sign of just how deeply the situation was affecting him. And so my brother and I both entered the long years of study that would lead each of us, eventually, to become powerful sorcerers, though for markedly different reasons; Arzath wanted power and recognition, I desperately wanted to discover a cure for trigonis to save my mother's life."

He took a deep breath and let it out carefully. "One day at school, five years of intense study later, I received a message that my mother was on the brink of death. I raced home through the streets to find her wasting away upon her bed.

“The arm that had been cut with the dagger had turned completely black and was beginning to putrefy. The disease was creeping insidiously up the side of her face. Her blue eyes were open and serene; long white hair spilling around her shoulders like a silken veil, a sharp contrast to the black shadow upon her skin.

“My heart felt as though it was being torn apart, seeing such evil consuming something so lovely and so dear to me.

"I used what few skills I had learned at the school to try and slow the progress of the disease, but… it was as Lord Etheron had described: the magic had no effect, it was simply enveloped by the trigon, sucked away like leaves in a whirlpool.

"With my enhanced magical senses, I perceived her changing, could feel her soul writhing in torment within her body. She was dying, and I had not found a cure for trigonis.

"I did what I knew I must, although it took all of my willpower and energy to carry out this last mercy. This was not because it was particularly physically demanding, but because I was taking my mother's life with my own hands, and at the same time admitting that I had failed her.

"But I could not let her become a demon-wraith," Requar said, almost in a whisper. "She did not deserve that fate.

"When the task was finished, I was so weak that I could barely sit up. I was not prepared for my father's reaction: realising that she was dead, he exploded. He shouted me from the room, denouncing me as his son and reaffirming his belief that magic brought nothing but evil, before finally dissolving into frantic sobs.

"I did as I was told without a sound, though there were tears in my eyes.

"Arzath was waiting in the hallway outside my mother's bedroom. I did not notice him at first, hidden as he was in the shadows, and I was drowning in grief in any case. Then he spoke, demanding to know what had happened.

"I looked up, unable to speak. But he must have read the answer in my face, because he took two steps forward and hit me.

" 'You're pathetic, Requar!' " he shouted down at me. 'You're a failure!' Then he stalked away, leaving me lying on the floor in the light from my mother's bedroom, with blood and tears running down my face."

He fell silent at last. Flint glanced at his face. There was sadness there, but it was a weary kind of sadness, as though he had replayed those memories over in his mind so many times that he was tired of them.

Flint felt haunted. Images of his sister flashed painfully at the forefront of his own thoughts. You're a failure…

"I have been searching for a cure for trigonis ever since," Requar said. "It has been my life's work. I am determined to fail no one ever again."

"What happened to the dagger?" Flint asked quietly.

Requar looked at him. "I took it and kept it in my possession. It could not be destroyed, and I did not dare to discard it lest someone find it and the misery be repeated. At this moment, it is stowed safely in a hidden room within my castle."

They were silent for a moment further before Flint said: "So you feel guilt for your mother's death, as well?"

Requar nodded. "Yes, even though I know there was nothing I could have changed. I may have been able to forgive myself by now, if that was the least of my shortcomings."

"What do you mean?" Flint asked.

Requar stood up, and pulled his Sword out of the water. Mud and droplets slid off it like oil, leaving it perfectly clean and silver. "My past is long," he answered, "and I have many memories. That was but one of them."

He turned to Flint. "Thank you," he said.

"For what?" Flint replied, surprised.

"Listening." Then he bid the ex-Bladeshifter goodnight and picked his way up the bank through the tangled roots.

Flint watched him go, wondering.