Short Story: That Which Plagues the Soul

Who among us may judge that which is evil, and that which is not? Absolution; there is none in this life, nor any other. We are the sum of our actions, of our experiences. There is the virtuous idealism of good and the unholy malignance of evil. Between these two abstract philosophies lie all reality.

Prologue: A New Life

In the darkness, there was only the consuming fire. He could feel himself thrashing, and slowly, the memories began. His body torn, the torment and vulnerability of his crawl, how his flesh chafed, and finally, how he was again safe, immersed into darkness. He gasped, and felt the sudden inhalation fill his lungs. The fire was lessening now. His eyes flickered, and opened. For him, they opened for the first time.

Through blurred vision he could see her, in the chair close to him. He tried to raise his head, to see her fully, but he could not. He blinked slowly. It would come in time. He could see the chair in which he was slumped, and the manacles that chained his wrists and ankles. Under her cup on the table, he remembered. He had placed the key under her cup.

He could also see the chains that held Shiranee to her chair. He had placed the key to her bindings under his cup on the table. It was a detail very likely too minute to matter, but it was his way. More than once, he owed his life to such tiny precautions. His breathing was easy and methodical now, and the searing fire that had blazed within him was nearly gone, drowned as his awareness spread throughout his new body.

He lifted his head and looked about the room. The faint light of the coming dawn was all that had changed since he had last seen the room hours earlier. He could see the room much clearer now than he had through Shiranee's eyes, but then again, she was far older than this young man. Assured that all was well, he brought his gaze to rest upon Shiranee. He loved the old woman, as much as he could love any person. She was so young when he had found her, selling herself for a few coins a night. He remembered her fear when she first woke. The fear was always there. Fear, helplessness, hopelessness. But it all eased with time. Now, near the end, Shiranee was as content as she could possibly have been, had they never met. She had served him well, and given many good years. But, he mused, so much of the memory of those years would soon be gone. It was the way; the old would fade, replaced by the memories of his new host.

He could feel the coolness of the room now, and the realization of it sent a shiver through him. Carefully he inched forward, and slipped the key free from under Shiranee's cup. He could hear her shallow breathing, and he did not want her to awaken. At the least, he owed her a quiet death.

Once free of the chains, he filled Shiranee's cup. Both of them had ingested the wine and the toxin it contained. Enough toxin to induce a deep slumber, though not in sufficient quantity to cause death. While he had lived within Shiranee, he had prepared the wine and drank it willingly. The other, however, had no inkling of what the night would entail. Incapacitation of them both had been necessary for him to leave Shiranee and enter his new host.

Gingerly, he lifted Shiranee's head and carefully emptied the cup into the old woman's mouth. The deed done, he removed and inventoried his few belongings that he had brought upon Shiranee. His tomes were heavy to him, a sure sign that he was quite weak from the ordeal. It would be days, perhaps a week, before his strength was fully restored. Longer than that still before he could effectively again wield magic.

As he waited, he placed the cups, the wine bottle, and his belongings into his leather satchel. When Shiranee's breathing had ceased, he removed her manacles and stowed them away. Those who would inspect the inn room later in the day would find her. They would likely assume her old heart had grown too tired to live any longer, and he could not afford to leave any trace of his presence. The dogged persistence of the Vanguard guaranteed that his survival depended upon his wits and his ability to pass unnoticed.

Standing proved daunting, but with effort he brought himself unsteadily to his feet. With one hand against the wall, he trudged over to the mirror and looked into the polished metal. Terbret Warblade, a self-proclaimed career mercenary, "with no morals, and proud of it", stared back at him.

"I do not care for your name, your appearance, or your demeanor. Now it changes." He disapprovingly touched the short bristle that grew wild on his face. Once he was fully accustomed to his new body, the facial hair would be the first to go. "Too many years in a female host perhaps", he mused quietly, as his gazed into the reflection of his dark eyes. In those eyes he now remembered the lifetimes lived, the teachings learned, all the years devoted to studies both arcane and mundane. Soon the mercenary would awaken. And he should be honored that he had been chosen to serve as his new host. "Paijin Veth", he nodded as his memory cleared, "I am Paijin Veth of the Kurahka; a sage and wizard."