he little brown bird fluttered over the dusty escarpment, holding in her beak a shred of red cloth. She hopped up on to the rotting thatch of the shelter and disappeared into an opening. A moment later she reappeared, bounced and flitted through the little alleyway. In a moment she was back again with another piece of cloth.

He watched the tiny bird in a bit of a haze; it had been weeks since he had seen another bird like it, and watching it he knew it was not his loyal Sidya. This bird seemed oblivious to people other than as anonymous sources of nest lining, though she showed the hardiness of wrens by her willingness to build a nest as winter was just barely ending. He stretched his neck to work out a crick and cursed the draughts that one of the sisters felt was necessary for pain. There was pain, but he would prefer to suffer and have his senses.

“Jael, what are you doing outside?”

“There’s a wren out here.” He replied almost dumbly, but continued despite disliking the whine in his own voice. “I would like some water and a walk.”

“You belong indoors.” Sister Isida looked irritated with him; she often did since he was not exactly an agreeable responsibility. Jael scratched at the rocky earth with his walking stick.

“You know that is not true. Now come with me, I want to walk.”

“You will do no such thing.”

“I’ve been feeling better.” He lied as he stood up, stretching as if to display his catlike build to the fullest effect. A few joints snapped in response to his boldness.

“Alright, but just around the sanctuary. You don’t belong out in the plaza.” She relented at last. “And no summoning spirits.”

“Anything else I don’t get to do? I am not dead yet.”

“I am just trying to help you.” She sounded hurt at his response. “You are a very dear man, but you can be unthankful at times.”

He walked along the circular path that used to mark the edge of a flower bed in better days. He closed his eyes and recalled the scent of heliotrope, chamomile and sage blended on a hot summer day. A good herb garden and admittedly in his younger days he had stolen freely from it. The monks had chased him off on a few occasions when he was discovered. Now there were a few blackened stems and a rime of frost clung to the stone border. He continued walking towards the northern edge of the yard where the stone walls had crumbled and the cliff fell away to a view of the dusty land beyond the temple.

He squinted and saw the distant mountains floating above a haze of the smoke and dust that still covered Ascalon. The Shiverpeaks, the mountains he had always loved above all other places. Certainly he had loved the forests and fields of Ascalon, but those cold beauties had always held him in awe. He leaned forward on his cane in deep longing; it was torment being in the shell of a body that time and the humor of Grenth had left him. Age had not been kind in twisting his joints or taking the sensation from his hands and feet. Yet his vision was still excellent, so that all the things he longed for were always clearly visible. He snorted to himself, what use was he?

“We should go back in…if I am cold, you must be freezing in just that old kirtle and cloak.”

“I don’t trouble about cold.”

“I do.” Isida said crisply. “You don’t need to prove you are tough. I know you are.”

“I want to go.” Jael said sullenly. “I want to go back to my home.”

“The journey would kill you.”

“I don’t like it here…I cannot see the mountains properly.”

“You gave some portion of your freedom up when you agreed to come here.”

“Isida…I am dying.”

“Yes. Come on, let’s go inside and I will get you some tea.”

“No poppy in the tea this time.”

“Yet you are shaking and I know you are in pain.”

“Pain is a sign of functionality.” Jael turned slowly and walked towards her, leaning heavily on the cane now. His numb feet felt like chunks of ice in their padded boots. Under his hand the staff contrived to feel as slippery as soap and he nearly fell before Isida could steady him. She put an arm over his back and hugged him gently.

“I’m sorry…it must seem cruel.”

“Grenth will have his little jokes.” Jael steadied himself and walked under his own power through the yard and past the well where a bevy of young initiates stared at him owl-eyed. He heard them speculate on what was wrong with him; monks hated things they could not cure. Jael smiled thinly at them as they entered the warmth of the refrectory. What parts of his limbs he could feel were cold, it was just he didn’t really care.

“So if I don’t put the poppy syrup in, will you at least take a little valerian and chamomile?” She asked sweetly. He gave her a jaundiced gaze in response; both herbs were calming and soothing. Keep the old man quiet until he has the courtesy to peg over in his sleep.

“Peppermint and if there is any left I want honey.”

“I will see if we have either left.”

He tried to capture the thread of thought that included the wren. He remembered now how young Dale had shown her aptitude by calling one to hand. That had been the morning he had known she was meant to be a student and not just an orphan to love and then set adrift in the world when she was grown. Jael smiled at himself. He had had one other female student and for the longest time had refused to have another one. Her name had been Lewithia and thinking of her he bowed his head. So beautiful that he could not help but call her his little flower.

Lewithia had died defending the north wall; her body had been mutilated and hung up by the charr to taunt the garrison. By chance he had come to the wall and recognized her armor but little else. The men were too afraid to exit the gate and take her down. Kouric remembered his rage and as he sat shivering he let it warm his blood again. He had gone alone and vented his fury and revenge upon the hapless charr. He had retrieved her body, little more than thin bones. He thought even those fragile bones had been beautiful and he had buried her in the forest near the shrine of Melandru.

Yet for weeks after that he could not remember her face, only the skull with its few strands of hair. Finally, after nights of being plagued by visions of her, he had left Ascalon and headed for the Temple of Ages. He would make an offering to Grenth to see her again as she had been, and erase the nightmares from his mind. In that day there had been no demons in the underworld, but the gates were kept by priests and the ghastly avatar of Grenth. To enter you had to profess a great need and that need had to be accepted by the avatar.

On his way to the Temple of Ages he had come into possession of an enchanted honeycomb from a mesmer in Ascalon and from a priest of Balthazar an arrowhead made of phoenix’s beak. The honeycomb would allow him to lie without fear of discovery and the arrowhead could return any soul from the underworld. He would ask her if she wished to return and he would defy the wishes of the gods and the law of nature.

He entered the underworld by lying about his intentions; if he had told them he intended to free a soul, he would have been refused. He had spent many days wandering the fractured and twisted dimension until at long last he found her wandering beside a dark stream. He had called out to his little flower and she had embraced him coldly. The sight of her face erased the memory of the skull and he felt at ease again. Yet he was a prideful man and at last after they had spoken for an hour, he showed her the arrowhead. It glowed eerily in the deeping light of the land of the dead, like a living heart.

She had gazed at it and in only moments agreed. As he had been instructed, he cut his palm and held her hand, the arrowhead clutched between. He felt their energies commingle for a few moments and as he watched color returned to her flesh. He heard her pure laughter again. Once she appeared whole again they fled through the labyrinth. They could see the gate ahead and sense the warm light of the sun when a shadowy figure rose before them. He stumbled then as the avatar of Grenth rebuked them.

To lie to a god or his chosen messenger is no small thing. That was what he learned that day. The avatar punished him to within an inch of death, but he was spared. He feared they would pitch Lewithia back into the underworld, but she was flesh. As he lay shattered and gasping on the earth he was still filled with hope when the avatar did not harm her.

“It is in the nature of restless spirits to want to live again. Lewithia Tenar, you may walk this earth again, but never again shall you lay eyes on Jael Blacktree. To each side the rift and ever apart, until the underworld unites all.” Abruptly she had disappeared. Jael tried to sit up but the avatar addressed him sternly. “You, you shall suffer for your hubris in coming here with a mouthful of honey and a sacred thing you do not understand.”

One of the priests had taken the arrowhead from him. He was helped to his feet and thrown outside the gates of the Temple of Ages. He remembered several days of lying hidden in some reeds recovering from the beating. Though he was saddened about never seeing Tewithia again, he was elated that somewhere she walked and perhaps his beautiful little flower still laughed.

He had returned home to Ascalon after a time, built his hilltop fastness up in the canyons north of the wall and took to a life of scouting for the king. He had a student most of the time and became well known for his bow making skills. It seemed that he had suffered no lasting harm from his adventures until some seven years ago when a certain chill had come to his limbs. He had gone to the monks at the temple, but none of them could discern, let alone cure what ailed him. After a few months he found a necromancer who sensed the hand of Grenth upon him. He was accursed, and once he knew this and told any holy person, all refused to help; to do so would be to illicit the anger of the god of the dead.

Slowly his body began to rebel against him. First he lost his coordination, then his speed and then the ability to walk in the last year. Now sensation was vanishing slowly like a receding tide from his limbs. Dale had come into his life during the first year of his accursed state. At the time he barely noticed it, but Dale even at age eight was sensitive and sometimes would put her little hand on him and ask him what was wrong. As she grew up Jael noticed that she took care of him in little ways; making sure his walking stick was near the bed every morning, keeping the moa birds watered or doing the more detailed work on the bows that made the money and kept the household fed.

Yet as the years passed and the curse grew in strength, he could not stand to see Dale become his servant. She showed great promise in everything he taught her; even when she was impatient or wandered off to play. Her very independence was a balm to him; she was afraid of so little, yet so loving that he never feared she would grow selfish. So he had contacted the little order at Serenity Temple and told them of his problems. They had agreed to take him in. In the meantime he found out that an old friend of his was in Ascalon. It was a simple matter to have Galyew take Dale to his oldest student. Kouric would know what to do, a very responsible fellow on the whole.

All of this he thought while Isida was away boiling water and compounding the herbs. The brewing was taking long enough that he imagined that poppy was going into it with a cunning flavor to disguise it. He stretched and felt fires of pain run along the tendons in his legs. Soon, if he did not get something for it, he would be completely crippled. He hated but needed the medicine. He finally saw her coming out of the kitchen.

“You look so pale.”

He took the tea and drank it eagerly, already giving up on his noble purpose of having a clear mind in he face of the burgeoning cramps in his muscles. He was thankful for the thinly masked poppy in the drink. It seemed to help immediately.

“Isida. Did I ever tell you about the very bad thing I did when I was younger?”

“Which one?”

“The one that caused the curse?”

“The fairytale about bringing your dead student back to life?”

“Yes...only it happened.” He finished the cup and reached a finger in to probe for a last drop of honey stuck in the bottom. He put the honey on the tip of his tongue; the flavor of foolishness. “Grenth’s servants put a curse on me…that is why you cannot help me that much. I was just wondering though…how do I get forgiveness for such a thing? After all, one of Grenth’s names is ‘The most merciful’. There must be something I can do….”