Table of contents for Themes of Eternity
Another one was carried in and laid to rest on one of the beds. I sighed, looking along the rows of figures lying sleeping in the semi-darkness. The two apprentices who had carried the body in looked apprehensively at me, and then quickly sidled out of the room while I checked on the newcomer.
He was an old man – of human descent, as they almost invariably are. The writing on the parchment scroll attached to his tunic was too dark to read, so I cast a simple fire spell to light up the room. Shadows and flickers fill the ward, hinting at creatures unknown, hiding in the aether. I barely paid any attention to them. After a year and a half of working under these conditions, you learn to set aside all the old wives’ tales. You had to. You’d go insane if you didn’t.
The old man – Arthur Prenderton – had fallen ill some time ago. He was nearly fourscore and eighteen years old, a ripe old age for a human. His only family was a poor woodcutter who lived on the outskirts of Morcraven Marsh. He could not afford to take care of his father any longer, and had sent him to White Stone for interning.
Interning. That’s what they called it. Interring might have been a better word. They were all but dead, these old people. No family who could take care of them, in frail health, hanging by a thread to a life they could not leave. When Lord Luxin had announced that he would open the coffers of White Stone to help aid those that had dependents, we did not expect such numbers to come pouring in.
The old. The sick. The crippled. All those who could not work, or support themselves in some way. Who were doomed to a life that was not worth living in an age of immortals. Those that would die, and then reappear again in the same condition that they were in before. There was no cure for old age – not even reincarnation. They died as old, they wandered the underworld as old, and they came back to the lands of the living as old as they left it.
So they were sent here, to Tarsengaard. We erected a magic aura over the wards, laced with healing and regenerative energies. It was not strong enough to nullify the effects of the curse, but it could keep the people here on this side of the border between life and death. Just enough. Just enough to stay alive.
At least we could save them the harrows of walking through the worlds beyond death.
This ward. The ward next to it. And the wards beyond that, above and below. The apprentices were already forced to share only one room between them, squeezed in like fish in a barrel. The Masters exerted themselves to maintain the spells and search for a remedy.
And we journeymen? We were forced to take care of those that could not take care of themselves. Over by the window, Arlene Loksbane waved a feeble hand, and I went over to her side. The Orchan lady was hungry again. I went over to the pot and got the gruel. Carefully, I spooned gruel from a bowl into her mouth. It was all we could afford to give her. This year’s harvest had not been good. The warehouses were empty, and there was only so much the Masters could do to make food.
Once Arlene was satisfied, I patted her bed down and emptied the remains back into the pot. Waste not, want not. Every scoop of gruel counted. The flickering shadows continued to follow me as I made the rounds, checking on each patient. Some were stirring fitfully, some were quietly weeping to themselves at the ingratitude of their offspring. Most of them just wanted to rest – forever, if they could.
I finished the rounds and sat back at my desk near the entrance. It was growing late. Dusk was drawing near. They would want to go to sleep soon. I extinguished the fire spell, and the room was enveloped in darkness. They liked it better that way. Light and life were growing too wearisome for them to handle.
I sat in the darkness alone, watching over the souls of those who could not die.
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