Surrender to the Will of the Night - By Glen Cook Page 0,65

healing brothers say he’s slipping. They don’t understand why. He should be recovering. I thought you’d want to know.”

“Yes. Is it…? Do they think it could go fatal?”

“Very likely. And it might not be long.”

“Titus, I have to go.” He felt the sorrow rising. Another way the west had infected his soul. He had become a servant to his emotions.

Consent asked, “Can I tag along? Bechter has been a force in my life, too. Almost a father since I converted.”

Hecht was surprised. He had not noticed. But it could be. He did not pay close enough attention to the lives of those around him.

Madouc waited outside. He explained, “Now would be when a villain might think we were relaxing.”

Hecht took the point. “Of course. Lead on.”

The Patriarchals had complete control of the Palace of Kings. A hospital had been established there. It served the troops principally, but aided poor locals where it could, in the name of Bellicose. That paid dividends. Titus Consent kept in touch with the nuns and healing brothers, who were not shy about passing on useful information.

Redfearn Bechter was the sole tenant of a room featuring pallets for four. A healing priest sat with the old soldier, no longer trying to battle Bechter’s illness.

The room stank.

The Captain-General met the priest’s eye. Who shook his head sadly.

Bechter heard them enter. He cracked one eyelid, recognized the visitors. He struggled to lift himself.

The healing priest pushed him back.

Hecht knelt beside the old man. Took his hot, dry, fragile hand. Could think of nothing to say. He could remember only a sutra from The Written about finding love for one’s enemies. Redfearn Bechter was that most cruel of foes, a soldier of the Brotherhood of War. And the Sha-lug Else Tage, having transmogrified into the Patriarchal champion Piper Hecht, had grown to care for the man.

Bechter said nothing, either.

Hecht considered some banter about shirking, about hurrying up and getting back to work, but Bechter knew. The end was at hand. So the Captain-General said, “I have one last task for you, Sergeant. I want you to deliver a message when you stand before the Divine. Ask Him to show me His Design. Ask Him to still the turmoil in my heart by granting me a clear vision of His Will.”

Bechter did not speak. He could not. But he managed a slight inclination of his head. He had heard and would comply.

Hecht ignored his other duties till the end came. And that was not long delayed. The healing priest reported, “He was running on sheer willpower. He was determined not to pass over without making his farewells to those he loved.”

That idea startled Hecht. Redfearn Bechter had been the consummate Brotherhood warrior. He should have loved nothing but his own secret creed.

* * *

News of Bechter’s passing, and the circumstances thereof, swept through the army.

One uncalculated gesture won the Captain-General an even fiercer loyalty. None of the soldiers had ever heard of a high officer entrusting a trooper to carry a message to God Himself.

Hecht said little when he heard, other than to express bewilderment to Titus Consent.

Bechter’s latest assistant, Vladech Gerzina, onetime bodyguard, turned up asking for a minute of the Captain-General’s time. Hecht had no cause to refuse.

Gerzina carried a teakwood chest two feet long, fourteen inches wide, and nine inches deep, with an arching, hinged top. The old wood was almost black. The corners and edges of the chest were protected by fittings of brass. “Sergeant Bechter asked me to bring you his personal things, sir.”

Hecht could think of nothing appropriate to say. “Personal things?” Members of the Brotherhood were not supposed to accumulate personal things.

“Memorabilia, perhaps? Bechter was in his seventies. We think.” Gerzina was Brotherhood. He was not dismayed by Bechter’s bit of worldliness. “We all pick up souvenirs to remind us of key moments. Don’t we, sir?”

“Yes. I suppose.” Hecht still carried one small white pebble, twice the size of a chickpea, that had been in the load of the falcon he had discharged in Esther’s Wood. It connected him to the most critical moment of his life. No one else would know what that pebble meant.

Gerzina set the chest on a bench the lifeguards used when they kept watch on some dubious visitor. “I have to get back to work, sir. I’m behind because of the emotional distraction.”

“What’s in the box?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“It doesn’t appear to be locked.”

“It isn’t my place to look.”

Hecht considered the man closely for the first time.

Physically, Vladech