The Broken Pieces by David Dalglish

into the earth itself. And then she heard him pray.
    “I’ve never healed anyone before,” Darius whispered. “And forgive me if I’m insane to do so now.”
    Valessa had felt the light from Darius’s blade burn her. She’d felt Cyric reach into the core of her being and try to rip it to shreds. This was beyond any of that pain, so strong her body felt paralyzed. Darius’s hands dipped into her, and amid her delirium she heard his gasp. The paralysis suddenly stopped, and with strength born of pain she flung herself onto her knees.
    Screaming, screaming, always screaming.
    The light on her back wasn’t leaving, even though Darius’s hands no longer touched her. It was growing, burning away everything. She beat against the dirt, and from her eyes fell tears that shimmered red like the blood of the sun.
    “Stop fighting it!” she heard Darius shout, as if from a different world.
    Fighting what? She didn’t know. Didn’t understand. Fight against the pain? It was killing her, consuming whatever darkness that was her. And he wanted her to let it? So be it. She fell onto her haunches, arms out at the sides, and shrieked out every shred of her misery and torment and anguish and abandonment that had consumed her since that terrible moment her god had demanded she take the life of a simple wayward paladin named Darius.
    And then, after what felt like an eternity, it was over. She collapsed onto her back. Afraid, she lifted shaking hands before her eyes. Her skin was pale as it always was, but she knew something was different. Something had changed. Sitting up, she forced away the false flesh, the afterimage of herself she superimposed across her vessel.
    Her hands were made of shadow like always before, but not quite. Swirling amid it was an equal tendril of white, shining like the light of Darius’s sword. All across her shadowed body snaked the tendrils, like two opposed serpents hopelessly entwined. And then it faded, and her hand was flesh once more. The pain she’d felt every moment of her existence was gone. Curling her knees to her chin, arms wrapped around them, she looked at Darius and wept. The tears ran down her face, and when they landed atop her knees, they alternated silver and blood.
    “What am I?” she asked, voice trembling. “Gods help me, what am I?”

 
     
     
    8

    J erico was just sitting down to eat his dinner when they came requesting his presence. The warmth of the fire before him was tempting, but the hard bread he held in hand was not, so he tossed it aside and stood.
    “Lead on,” he told the soldiers who’d summoned him. “Though I’d like to know why.”
    “We were not told.”
    Jerico shrugged his shoulders and followed as they wound through the increasingly large camp. They stayed on the road now, for the Castle of the Yellow Rose was growing steadily closer, and there seemed little point in hiding. What had been a small force now resembled an army, with bannermen slowly arriving with each day to pledge their men to Lord Arthur. Today had seen the largest group so far, three hundred or so, flying a yellow and black checkered flag. Jerico had a hunch that Lord Arthur wanted to introduce him, as he had when others joined. He was their mascot, their good luck charm. Everyone wanted to kiss his feet and touch his shield.
    The skies were dark, but a fire glowed within the great tent in the center of the camp. The guards let him pass without inspection, so in Jerico stepped, and was immediately welcomed.
    “Ah, now he shows,” said Arthur. Despite the gray in his hair, he looked more lively than when Jerico had first met him, trapped in his castle by his brother’s besieging army. Grabbing the paladin by the shoulder, he pulled him closer into the light of the fire. “Jerico, I’d like you to meet Kevin Maryll, one of my youngest and finest bannermen. Kevin, this is Jerico of the Citadel.”
    Kevin was indeed young, though still older than Jerico. He looked to be in his early