Chapter 50. Gratitude

hou normally started his mornings with a meditation on gratitude. It was something Dojin had taught him long ago, ironically, while he was the man’s prisoner. First he would think of the good people who had shown him compassion and thank the gods he was no longer walking the path of the damned. Then he would thank Shikai and her people for all that they had done to give him a chance to avoid eternal torment. Moving through time he would come at last to the present and thank his guild members and friends.

As he sat propped against the side of the wagon, he felt the raw ache of isolation. The collar was not unfamiliar to him, it was a typical remedy for disabling imprisoned magi. For a natural mentalist such as himself, it was painful to be cut off from the soothing mental chatter of his fellow human beings. Most of the time he let it wash over him like music and took comfort in the knowledge that he was never alone in the world. Without it he felt crippled and numb, adding to his despair. Worse than that, he could not reach out to Pendaran, and no doubt Pendaran must be convinced he was dead. The thought sickened him, especially in light of what he had learned about Threnody. It grieved him to think of Pendaran facing her alone. His apprentice desperately needed help and he could only pray that Ebony would be up to the task.

Zhou finished his silent meditation to the slow rocking of the cart. He had no clue what time it was and only assumed it was morning since they had stopped for a long time before that. The one called Angelo had belted the blankets around his arms and thighs so that they could sleep without fear of his escaping. Naturally he tested his bonds, quietly pulling and twisting the strong coils of cord around his wrists but they might as well have been chain. Now that the blankets were pinned in place, there was no chance of removing the blindfold. The only show of defiance he had made thus far was a sad attempt to run when he was released briefly to relieve himself.

Of course, where he would run with no clothes or shoes in the middle of winter had not occurred to him until after he had recovered from being bashed senseless by the angry man. The monk had healed him and he realized, after listening to the argument that followed, Angelo had curtailed him in panic, not anger. It was the final lesson in futility. His captors knew what they were doing and were frightened of the consequences of not succeeding. His chances of escaping were dismal to none.

Angelo was his primary obstacle. Zhou was convinced he could have talked Kalydri into releasing him but the man was impervious to manipulation. He heard her shift beside him, an unhappy sigh escaping her as she rummaged around. She alleviated her guilt by fussing over him, occasionally shifting cushions or pulling a blanket up beneath his chin to shield his throat from the cold. Considering he could hardly move, he was only mildly uncomfortable and tried not to think of the places that itched or ached.

“Are you thirsty, Bei? Would you like some dried fruit?”

Hunger was always the first thing to go when he was anxious. In truth, he was mildly nauseated and even water sounded unpleasant. But his head ached for lack of it and his lips felt dry and painful.

“Water, please,” he croaked, choking the tepid metallic tasting substance back until his stomach threatened to reject it. He thanked her and bowed his head once more. Time crawled by while wrapped in his private darkness.

“Where are we going?” he asked her, knowing Angelo would disapprove.

“I can’t talk about that,” she replied, “I’m sorry.”

“Is there anything we can talk about? I’m rather bored.”

She hesitated and he could sense some kind of exchange was happening between her and the man.

“Tell me about Crystal Palm,” she said, “My father spoke of your guild with reverence.”

Zhou hesitated. In his vulnerable state, he feared he would lose his frail grasp on his composure. He missed his friends and home more than anything. They meant safety and comfort. Every minute that he rocked and swayed in the cart he was being taken farther away from all that he loved and all that he had worked for. Perhaps only Pendaran would understand what it meant to lose what he had worked so hard to regain.

Yet somehow his voice emerged calm and quiet as he described the men and women he lead and how much he loved them for their strength and honor. He described their good works and how difficult it was at times to do what was right when it threatened those in power. Zhou described his old master and founder, how the man was fearless in his aims and had taken Zhou under his wing when many cried for his death.

He grew silent then, seeing Dojin across the years, younger and happier. Dojin’s idealism had never been blunted by reality and he believed the fallen could be recovered. He had made Zhou believe that as well.

“Tyrians wanted his death,” Angelo said after a time, speaking to the monk as if Zhou did not exist, “He killed a great number of them. Perhaps this is justice for what he did.”

“Every day that I wake up alive and not in Torment, I am grateful,” Zhou replied quietly, “If I could undo it, I would.”

Angelo laughed bitterly.

“Undo it only to have them all die in the Searing. Those I lost in the Guild War went to the Mists in honor. They chose to give their lives in defense of Ascalon. The Searing gives me no such comfort.”

“Ascalon was beautiful and I see the wound of her loss upon your people. I am sorry.”

“That’s enough talk for now,” Angelo said grimly, “Next thing I know I’ll be feeling sorry for you and I can ill afford that.”

He put his head back against the swaying wall of the cart, seeking the light of the sun through his closed eyes. Flashes of daylight and shadow told him he was in the forest. Breathing deep the fertile earthy odor of thawing loam Zhou remembered spring was only weeks away. Shikai would come back. She would find him. Only Torment could separate them forever. In this he took comfort.