Jermain regarded his earthenware mug morosely. It was empty, but he wasn't really sure that he wanted to refill it. Getting drunk was seldom a good idea and he knew it. But that knowledge hadn't stopped him from appropriating a bottle of strong wine on his way to his rooms for the night. Even though it wasn't going to make the problems go away, the wine could at least provide him with the illusion that they weren't important.
But it hadn't. True, the day-to-day problems of life in the new Wizard-King's court had faded from his mind, but little good that did him when instead he was consumed by thoughts of the former Wizard-King.
He could remember the pain in excruciating detail, how it had felt to be betrayed. Jermain fiddled with his mug, turning it obsessively in his hands, round and round and round. But his thoughts could not be stopped and continued to torment him, reliving again and again the horror of discovering the truth about the King of Tar-Alem.
Carachel.
Thinking the name drove an arrow straight into his gut. Jermain winced away from the nearly physical pain and poured himself more wine. Too close, he'd let the man come entirely too close, and now it hurt. He'd thought he'd found a friend, someone who actually cared about him—dark eyes smiled at him in lamplight. "It's good to have you here, Jermain." Warmth inside as he smiled back—someone who was safe. Someone who would not betray him and send him away. True, Eltiron hadn't intended to betray him, but the result had been just the same as if he had: exile. Which led him to Carachel. Or rather, led the Wizard-King to seek him out, to offer him a place at the head of his army—to offer caring—
Jermain succeeded in stopping that thought before it went any further. Carachel had indeed offered warmth and affectionate friendship, which made his ultimate betrayal even worse. Jermain should never have trusted the man. His hand clenched around the mug. "Why?" he demanded of the empty room, not really sure what he was asking: why the betrayal? Why the pain? Why had he allowed himself to care? Why did he hurt so badly now... "Why?"
Jermain.
An icy chill slid down Jermain's spine and he straightened in his seat, looking around for the source of the sound. "Who spoke? Who's there?"
He looked around the room but could see no signs of an intruder. Not that it was likely someone could get in here, not with the door barred from the inside and the window likewise, but the sound had to have come from somewhere. Unless, of course, it was all in his head...
There was no sign of anything unusual. Jermain relaxed back into his chair again. A flicker of thought crossed his mind, a brief wish that Carachel was there to determine where the mysterious voice had come from. Nothing could have hidden from the wizard.
Jermain. I am here.
The voice was louder, although hollow and... spectral. Jermain swallowed hard. The back of his neck prickled and he turned slowly in his chair. On the wall above him, a shadow leaned towards him, reaching out. He shrank back against the table. The lamp was in the wrong place to be casting a shadow there, even if there had been anything to produce the shadow. The moving shadow. Jermain had faced countless battles, both mounted and afoot, and not felt even a fraction of the fear inspired by the shadow on the wall. "Who—what—" Words failed him.
"It's me," the voice whispered, somewhat louder and more substantial sounding. "Carachel."
"But you're dead!" Jermain squawked.
"Death is but a doorway." The shadow was more substantial now. It had resolved from an amorphous blob into a shape that resembled a man in a hooded robe. Two points of reddish light gleamed where eyes should have been. "Might I join you?"
The incongruity of the request struck Jermain as funny and he began laughing. The fear ebbed away, defeated by the sheer impossibility of the situation. "I don't believe this," he gasped. "I must have finally lost my mind."
"You have not." The shadow—spirit?—glided around the table and settled on the chair opposite Jermain, who, after one incredulous glance, fastened his eyes onto his mug. "Rather, you have finally opened your mind, allowing you to be more receptive to the world around you."
"Ridiculous," Jermain said to his mug. "Not only am I insane enough to imagine a ghost, but I'm making it say ludicrous things."
The shadow sighed. "Jermain. You are not imagining me, nor am I, strictly speaking, a ghost. Ghosts are completely dead. I am not."
"What?" Startled, Jermain glanced at the shadow, then quickly returned his gaze to his mug. This situation was rapidly becoming unbelievable, even to one who had consumed enough alcohol to make chatting with hallucinations possible. "You're dead. I saw you die."
...withered body, sucked dry of life and magic, cracks in the skin... no!
Jermain shoved the memory out of his mind with an effort. Better not to think about Carachel's death, and most especially not to think about Ranlyn, who had given his life to stop the black sorcerer.
"I am not completely dead. I am in another state, the details of which need not concern you."
"As though you had ever given me all the details," Jermain muttered. Flickers of memory taunted him, days spent by the side of a man who had saved him from the life of a wandering exile, moments of closeness and fragile peace, all overshadowed by the pain of betrayal. "Only the details that would keep me happy, keep me working to implement your vile plan all unaware..."
The shadow rustled, shifting and flickering. Then Carachel leaned forward. "Tell me, is it a terrible thing to wish the destruction of evil?"
"Perhaps not a terrible thing in itself, but the means with which you intended to pursue this goal..." Jermain allowed his words to trail off, still not looking at the spectral figure.
"I did only what I had to do."
"So you say. And yet, I did not see you fighting overhard to avoid doing damage to those who should have been your allies."
The figure rustled, with the appearance of a sigh. "I tried not to harm you—"
"It was not myself I spoke of," Jermain interrupted sharply, although he could feel his face heat. "You cannot deny that you intended to sacrifice your allies to assuage the hunger of the Matholych."
There was silence. Jermain waited.
"What was I to do?" Carachel said at last. "The Matholych was coming. It would lay waste to the Seven Kingdoms yet again. How else was I to fight it, but to use whatever means seemed necessary?"
"There must have been some other way."
"Perhaps." Carachel rustled again, shifting position. Jermain refused to look directly at him—it—whatever. "And perhaps there was not. I studied the problem for many years. The solution I chose, the only solution which presented itself, was the one which I implemented. Was it the right one? No, it was not. But I always had the best interests of the Kingdoms at heart."
"And does the end justify the means?" Jermain said softly, bitterly. "Does the destruction of people who trusted you seem unimportant next to the salvation of the Kingdoms?" Now he looked at Carachel, trying not to notice the way the spectral figure wavered in the lamplight. "Ask yourself this: would the people in the Seven Kingdoms welcome salvation, if they knew at what cost it came?"
"Cost!" Carachel made a sharp, bitter sound. "What do you know of cost? I told you before that I was not completely dead. That is part of the price I pay for my actions. They make me suffer, day after day, until I know completely the harm which my actions have wrought... I never intended to bring harm to anyone. I only wished to safeguard the land and the magic..."
"So you always said. But who are 'they'?"
"I am not allowed to tell you that."
"And can you then tell me why you are here?"
"That should be obvious, my friend," the specter said softly. Jermain flinched.
"Friend! A fine friend you proved. Even in death you managed to—" Jermain stopped himself before he said anything more. Carachel had no need to know how much damage he'd done. All in one moment Jermain had lost both Ranlyn and someone who had, in some ways, meant even more to him than his courageous best friend...
"And that is why I am here. Most of those whom I have wronged are dead now, and I have made my peace with them. I have seen, over and over have I seen, the great error in my ways and done what I could to make up for my failings. But there is one who is still alive, one to whom I caused the greatest harm of all, and I can not move on until I have at least attempted to make things right with you, Jermain."
Jermain's head spun. This was approaching dangerous territory. "What makes you think you can do that?" His voice was harsh, distorted. "And why me? Why not your wife?"
"Elsane knew all along ours was but a marriage of convenience."
"One in which she had no choice," Jermain snarled, suddenly furious. An ugly suspicion reared its head and he was powerless to stop it. Ever since he'd learned Carachel had compelled Elsane to marry him through use of a magic spell, he'd wondered if the source of his own liking for the man was equally unnatural. "Magic! Forcing people to act against their will, against their own best interests..."
"Peace," Carachel said, raising a shadowy arm. "I admit, I influenced Elsane through magical means. But the spell could not have worked against her will. And even under the influence of my spell, she was aware that our wedding was merely a stepping stone to power. She became disillusioned as the years wore on, but she once supported me."
"What? Can't work against... that was not my understanding of how the herrilseed functioned. I thought—never mind what I thought. You still used magic to influence someone's feelings, and might do it—" Jermain snapped his mouth shut, but it was too late.
"Is that what you think, Jermain?" The specter's voice was oddly gentle. "I never tried to influence you with magic. I wanted your willing cooperation, or not at all."
"Oh, that's a good one, Carachel," Jermain said bitterly. "You wanted me to give myself over to evil. Willingly, no less."
"Not to evil... never that."
"Next thing you'll be having me believe you hadn't turned to evil yourself. If you weren't trying to turn me to evil, then what exactly were you doing?"
"You may choose not to believe me, but I never saw my actions as evil until my death. Now I am aware... oh, how I am aware of the harm wrought by my actions." Carachel was silent for a moment. Jermain stole a glance at him. If a shadow could be said to be sad, this one was. "As for you... I did not seek to have you become evil. All I ever wanted was your willing presence at my side."
"And why was that, anyway? Any competent commander could have carried out your plans. You had no need of me."
"That's where you're wrong," Carachel said softly. "Perhaps at first any other could have done the job, like you said, but not once I'd met you. A friend, when I hadn't had one in so long I'd forgotten what true friendship meant..."
"True friends don't betray each other!" Jermain rasped, then buried his face in his mug, letting the strong and somewhat sweet liquid slide down his throat, hoping it would ease the knot inside.
"I never intended—"
"Enough with that!" Jermain slapped his mug down on the table and glared at the specter. "Whatever your intentions were, your actions drowned them out. You can claim good intent all you like, but the fact remains that you did betray—" Jermain's voice caught, and he swallowed hard. "—others. Me."
"Can you forgive me for this?" Carachel leaned forward. "I can see, now, the pain I caused you. Can you believe that I would never willingly bring you pain?"
"Why do you keep saying that?" Jermain's control was nearly gone. Between the wine and the spirit, he was completely off balance, nearly beyond caring what he said anymore. "You expect me to believe that, you who tore me into shreds with your betrayal?"
"Jermain," and he paused, rippling with a sigh. "I've come to realize many things, now that I'm dead."
Jermain winced. He'd not really forgotten, but somehow the fact that he was sitting in his room having a conversation with a dead man had become overshadowed by the content of that conversation.
"Some of them are things that would have been unacceptable in life," Carachel continued. "Now, I have an entirely different perspective on things. Not that it makes expressing myself any easier, mind, but I am aware of how little benefit it brings one to conceal emotion. And so here I am, to try and make amends for what I did to you, and to ensure that you know how devastated I was when I realized what I had done."
"Ha! I don't believe that for a minute!" Jermain lurched forward, hands on the table. "You were always so far above it all, didn't care a damn what happened to anyone so long as your precious magic was safeguarded. What could you possibly know of... of..." His anger ran out then, and he slumped forward. "You have no idea."
"I think I do have an idea," Carachel replied. "Always, through this tortured existence I have wrought by my actions, my mind and heart return to one person. Even when the spirits of those whom I destroyed are wreaking their vengeance upon me, only one person is in my mind and heart. Jermain, it is you I think of constantly, and you whom I must explain myself to. Seeing you here tonight I no longer hope for your forgiveness, but I must attempt to make you understand somehow."
"Understand what?" Jermain said slowly. Now that the anger was gone, he was more inclined to listen to what Carachel had to say.
"You trusted me before. Will you trust me again? I swear, by Those Who hold me bound in this half-life, that I will bring you no harm if you do this."
Jermain regarded the spirit warily. "What do you wish of me?"
"Only that you maintain an open mind and allow me to show you something."
Jermain did not answer immediately. Instead, he returned his gaze to his mug and tried to sort out his thoughts. Across from him, the specter remained silent, as though sensing Jermain's confusion. So many emotions had been storming through him in such a brief period of time... And now, he was supposed to lay aside his doubts and fears and trust Carachel. Or rather, trust the specter, the shade, the ghost of the man that had betrayed his trust utterly before. What was to make the man more trustworthy in death than he had been in life? And yet... perhaps it would be worth a little risk to find out the meaning of all the cryptic remarks and half-understood implications. What was the worst that could happen, anyway?
But his mind shied away from that question like a skittish horse. Obviously there was some kind of existence after death, and not necessarily a pleasant one. Jermain didn't want to think about enduring as a shadow, subject to the will of powerful, unknown beings. Powerful... Carachel had sworn by them. Perhaps, as they seemed interested in justice and making the black sorcerer pay for his actions, it would follow that Carachel truly could not harm him.
"Do what you will," Jermain said shortly. He hoped he hadn't made a supremely foolish choice.
Carachel reached out and touched his arm. Jermain flinched away from the cold prickling sensation. But then it wasn't cold any more, it was hot—no, cold— His skin shivered at the point of contact, but heat raced through his arm, spreading through his entire body. And then...
He could see forest, and a horse's neck, bay rather than the familiar black arch of Blackflame's neck. Then he spotted smoke curling through the trees and turned the horse towards it. He was conscious of a weary hope, that maybe this time he would find the traveler he sought, the exiled advisor who was probably the best choice to head his army. Lassond hadn't been particularly flattering in his reports of the man, but he hadn't been a king for fifteen years and more without learning how to see through jealousy. He couldn't understand why the man was proving so elusive. It was nearly as if he weren't there at all.
His horse lifted its head and whuffled, then stepped into a small clearing. A man stood there, hand on sword, looking far more wary than surprised. His cloak steamed over a bush near a small fire. The man himself appeared rather damp. Carachel found himself hoping this was the man he sought, Jermain Trevannon. There was something about the look of the man that suggested he could be trusted. And more, something deeper, a mere instinctive whisper that said "friend."
Is that how he saw me? Jermain wondered distantly. Then time shifted.
Jermain was arguing with him again, most persuasively. Carachel could feel himself yielding, despite the fact that he knew the danger of giving in. Jermain was no fool. If he looked at those texts and then the battle plan again, he'd be infinitely closer to realizing the truth. But Carachel was well past the point where his actions could be ruled entirely by logic. Even though he knew it was a mistake, he agreed to let Jermain study the dangerous manuscripts. He wondered if the man had any notion that Carachel couldn't deny him anything. Oh, why did it have to be this way? Years and years of struggling to prepare for the incursion of the Matholych and the death of all magic, all in solitude, with no true friend or confidante... And now he had one. He had a friend in this man like he'd never had before, although he took pains not to show the depth of his attachment. And this man, this friend, was going to come to hate him all too soon... all it would take was the discovery of the true plan. Whether Jermain put it all together himself, or even if he didn't realize until the actual battle, the result would be the same: repudiation. Jermain was a man of strong moral convictions and great integrity. He could not remain on good terms with someone who sought to achieve a goal by any means, fair or foul.
But the urgency wouldn't let up. Whether Jermain came to despise him or not, the Matholych was still coming. He hadn't given a lifetime to stopping the Matholych only to back down now because he didn't want to see condemnation in a certain pair of brown eyes.
But... Jermain struggled to think, to make himself heard over Carachel's memories. It was no use.
He stood there in the middle of the courtyard, hand on sword once again. But this time Jermain Trevannon was no scruffy, damp outcast, wary of all comers. No, this time he stood on his home ground, defiant and hurt, with that dreaded look of accusation in his eyes. Carachel had to stop, to just sit there on his horse for a long moment, while he wrestled with his recalcitrant emotions. Jermain continued to glare at him, offering no hope of forgiveness. Beside him were Ranlyn of the Hoven-Thalar and some woman in the dress of a mercenary guard captain, but they were of no importance. It was only Jermain that he cared for. He could feel himself faltering, the need for forgiveness stealing into his heart. Jermain had been his friend. He'd only left because Carachel had left him no other option.
But he'd still left. Carachel used that to bring his wayward emotions back under control. He deliberately dredged up the memory of wrenching agony as his spell —sent to bind his closest friend—backlashed against him, repelled by a powerful amulet around the traitor's—not really traitorous, better than even odds the man hadn't known what sort of medallion he wore—neck. Rage, pain, betrayal—an echo of what he'd done to Jermain, justice after a fashion—then waking to the ultimate betrayal. His serpent ring, focus for his magical power, was missing.
But it was still hard. Even though he managed to wall off his dangerous emotions and carry on as planned, he still regretted the necessity which had put Jermain and himself on opposite sides of conflict.
...and then he was nothing but a spirit, standing accused and found guilty all at once before a court of incredibly powerful Beings, Ones whose existence had long been suspected but never proven. and they found his actions reprehensible. worst of all, in their eyes, was the betrayal of an emotion they saw fit to name as love. and for his sins, he would pay, with suffering and torment not just equal to that which he had caused, but multiplied sevenfold to bring the lesson home... and through all the torment, through all the pain of realizing how blinded he had become and how far he had fallen into evil, there was the pain of realizing exactly what he had done to Jermain... and even worse than that was the moment when he realized, consciously and with every fiber of his being, just how deeply he and Jermain had cared for one another, caring which he had willingly destroyed by his actions...
It was too much. Jermain felt lost in the sea of emotion, battered by waves of despair alternating with disgust and self-loathing. Carachel's spirit had suffered beyond mortal measure, and the torment was tearing Jermain apart.
Enough.
A silvery-bright voice cut through the storm, and Jermain was abruptly back inside his own body again. Carachel cried out, nearly vanishing in a searing burst of blue-white light.
"No!" Jermain reached out, certain that the light meant harm to Carachel. "Don't—"
Abruptly the light vanished, leaving a somewhat depleted shadow behind. The specter slumped against the table, solid enough to look like a man leaning over with his head resting on his arms. "I'm sorry," Carachel said, his voice a mere harsh whisper. "I wasn't supposed to let you see—what happened to me."
"Carachel," Jermain said, then stopped and tried to gather his thoughts. "My friend. I had no idea."
"I know," the specter whispered. "I didn't want you to know, before. But now you see why I had to come to you, to make things clear..."
"I understand," Jermain said. "And I forgive you."
Thank you, Jermain, Carachel said, sounding fainter and farther off. He flickered and faded, thinning out like mist under a warm sun. More than I can say. Be well.
And then he was gone, leaving Jermain alone, contemplating his mug once again. But now his thoughts were filled with surprised wonder at what he had seen, and inside he finally felt a fragile peace.