Breakfast with the Logrus, Left Behind: JurtIndex | Time Under Chaos | Game Logs | Breakfast with the Logrus, Left Behind: Jurt (Continued from Breakfast in Chaos: Amba, Helena, and Jurt) "One supposes that he has a point," Jurt offered as he watched his brother follow. "Makes one wonder how someone could hold both within himself." "Some of us have spent a hundred years trying to discover that," said Fiona. "But Mandor has the living experiment..." "There are times I fear that the implementation was wrong," Jurt admitted. "Have you..." He stops himself, and then with a lazy shrug, continues, "Were your hands involved in such an experiment?" Fiona smiled. "Many times," she said. "Although not quite on the scale that Dara conceived. And my own two...you might find it odd, but your brother and I were united in our determination that they should not be playthings for the Powers." Jurt grinned wryly. "I was actually referring to your hands themselves, and last night's bandages," he explained. The rings on her fingers flashed—as though warning him to say no more. Fiona's smile at him, however was gentle, even warm. "Ah yes," she said. "Well...you might say that I thought that...protection was needed. When I learned who had come to Chaos. What a very dangerous package your brother asked you to deliver." "Well, moreover, it's your daughter's fault we've dallied this long in fact," Jurt admitted. "She was caught off guard by her father's summons, so I conceded a few days for her to arrange things." "Amber may not hold the attraction for her that it does for the males of your house, Lord Jurt," said Fiona. "You wound me, Princess," he answered in mock hurt, clasping his hands to his chest. Suddenly she gave a little shiver and turned towards the chapel. "Helena..." she said, and her voice seemed half strangled in her throat. Jurt turned and looked, appraising the ominous structure, suppressing his own shiver. "Is there concern?" "Helena's in danger!" snapped Fiona. "Can't you feel it? That...surge of power?" She moved to push past him. "I need to go to her!" she said imperiously. Jurt interposed himself. "Lord Torren is there, Princess. Please? If he's correct, you might be endangering her more if you rush in." His concern was obvious in the flicker of fear that crossed his face. "What does he know?" she demanded furiously, and raised her right hand, pointing the face of the ring towards the door of the chapel. Then she gave a gasp. Despil was staggering out, his face pale and blood running from his nose, his lips...his eyes. Jurt turned and caught his brother, helping him to the ground gently. He still kept an eye on Fiona, expecting her to use the distraction to get by him. Jurt had never claimed to be a healer, but it didn't mean he was unaccustomed to injury. "Despil, what happened?" Fiona, though, was standing quite still, white-faced, as Despil tried to speak, shook his head, and fell to the ground. "She's safe," said Fiona—and she gave a strange little laugh. "Well, if you can call it safe to be in Suhuy's hands." She glanced down at Despil. "We should get him away from here. I didn't...mean this to happen." Jurt gathered up his brother in his arms. His look to Fiona was calculated. "Might we use the carriage? I will return him to Sawall ways and then send it back for your Lord and the others." Fiona hesitated again, and then nodded. "Torren will have no problem getting them home. And if he is with them, then they will all be safe." There was a slight curl to her lips as she said the last word—but then she turned to the wholly practical matter of rearranging furs within the carriage so that Despil might be set in there comfortably by his brother. She waited until Despil was settled and then asked, "Will you drive while I sit with him, or should we reverse those positions?" "I'll drive," Jurt answered, still pushing down his concern. They took to the skies, the handling of such animals coming back to Jurt quickly enough. He kept his focus on getting them to SawallWays as quickly as possible. The sky suddenly seemed sharp with ice as they flew onwards ... There was the strange fantasy Ways that Despil had set up for himself, or their father's home of SawallWays—a more substantial and respected Chaosian estate ... Where they were also likely to find Jurt and Despil's father. Jurt turned toward his father's home, more familiar as he was with it than Despil's and sure that he could find assistance there. There was a sudden swing in the back of the carriage and then Fiona's voice, calm and a little amused. "Your brother seems to object to your choice of destination. Indeed, he just made an attempt to leap from the carriage. I have managed to... dissuade him." There seemed to be an odd note in her voice—it might almost be laughter. The ice gave way to scintillating light, almost too bright to navigate, until one followed the eighth ray beneath the variegated clouds. The land was stark and harsh, in tones of red and tan. On the horizon he could make out his father's abode, the tall walls still bearing the thousands of scars from desert predator attacks. The fiercest desert winds were howling around them now, and the white furs that had protected them from the ice were now stained blood red from the dust that the winds had lifted high. Three times the carriage circled, while the wyverns crouched on the tall spires matched their howls to that of the wind, screeching with exultant fury, anchored into a maddened reality by the long sinuous tails that wrapped tightly around each individual spire. Watch fires flared along the battlements to signal their arrival—it was no surprise to Jurt that by the time he brought the carriage to land in the courtyard, he could discern the tall, ruined figure of his Sire—who had refused to shift away the cruel injuries gained in the Battle of Patternfall—the loss of an eye—which had been replaced by a black crystal, the loss of a hand—which had been replaced by a rock eagle's claw. Jurt dismounted quickly, no thought for his father directly. He gathered his brother into his arms and headed directly for the house. "Suhuy sent him back to us thus from the Chapel, mi'Lord," he explained as he carried him to a comfortable chaise, or at least what passed for comfortable in SawallWays. "He had accompanied Lord Torren Ishtar in pursuit of some mislaid dinner guests." Lord Sawall gazed down at his son, sprawled on the chaise lounge, and then lifted his ruined head to regards Fiona, seemingly ignoring Jurt. "Yet more insults against my House, Lady? What did you do to him?" "He got in my way," said Fiona, "although I did not mean to injure him." She frowned. "At least, not so badly." Jurt, leaning over his brother, was aware that Despil was twisting and turning in maddened shifts, fighting to escape some wickedly powerful sorcery. "Princess, I have not the skill for this," Jurt implored. "Can you repair what you've wrought?" "Perhaps," said Fiona shortly. She moved to where Jurt had placed Despil and knelt next to the chaise lounge. She laid both hands flat on his chest and pressed lightly. Jurt saw that her hands were bandaged once more. Despil flinched at her touch—and then his eyes opened very wide and he became still. Suddenly he jerked, as though an immense volt of electricity had shot through him—and then he lay still, his colour slowly returning to his cheeks, his breathing slowing to normal. "So," said Lord Sawall, "what wickedness is this?" He moved forward and grabbed Fiona's wrist, jerking her hand upwards. The bandage loosed—became like a scarf in the air floating around her hand—and the black ring she wore was revealed. "What's this?" snarled Lord Sawall. "Father, unhand the Princess," Jurt said standing. "She was protecting her daughter, your grand-daughter and none of us have the ability to determine how Despil was caught, most likely not even that sorcerous eye of yours." "House Ishtar are allies and I will not be party to incurring their wrath." "Don't you know what this is?" demanded Lord Sawall roughly. "She attacks my son with a spikard ... brings it into my very Ways—and you talk of allies...you urge restraint? I'll show you restraint!" He dragged Fiona with him across to the table—then with one broad hand pushed her forward to bend over it. She thrust out her hands, steadying herself, as though she needed the support—and Jurt might realise the huge drain on her resources that first attacking and then healing Despil represented, even with the help of the legendary spikards—the rings of great power which were much discussed but very rarely seen. Keeping one hand on her back, holding her firmly down, Jurt's father drew his sword, whispering sibilantly to the blade—which glowed with sudden fire. He raised it and swung...and Fiona shrieked, drawing the severed stump of her left wrist in towards her body, while Lord Sawall grabbed her other hand, clearly intent on severing that too. Jurt reacted instinctively, drawing his sword and raising it into Salmon Parting the Waterfall, a block that should stop the attack, if his father's ensorceled weapon doesn't just shatter the blade. "It matters not how Despil was attacked, Father, by who or how. He is healed." The weapons clashed...and Jurt's arm ached with the force of his block—but his sword was good and true, a gift from Merlin long ago in Chaos. It shivered by did not break—and Jurt found himself staring into his father's one good eye—now red with madness. "Would you...protect...that Amberite bitch...against your own blood?" he panted. Fiona had dropped to the floor, her mutilated arms still cradled against her body, but she was crawling to where her hand lay, the finger that wore the spikard twitching slightly. Jurt's brow creased in concentration as his feet slid into Cat Crossing the Ice, moving to put himself between both his father and Fiona and the spikard. "If you think that I'm protecting her, you're as mad as the other Houses claim, Father." "Princess, if you might focus on healing without the aid of your ring, I believe it might be best for us all," he explained. "While I have no desire to let Lord Sawall cause you further harm, I will not allow you to harm another of my House." His eyes are focused on his father and the glowing blade, but the words for the Amberite at his feet. "If you give me your word, I believe I can heal your hand, but time is of the essence." "Heal her!" spat Lord Sawall. "If you were truly my son, you'd take her other hand now!" Fiona gave a sharp cry, and collapse forward again. Behind her, Jurt could see where Despil had slowly risen to his feet. He was stretching out to where the mutilated hand lay, and his lips were silently moving. The fingers began to smolder. "If I was your son, I would've cut you down while you were occupied with your petty revenges," Jurt answered, impaling the hand on the tip of his sword, bringing the ring to him. He steeled his stomach to the stench of burnt flesh and regarded the ring, snapping off that finger with his free hand. "Everyone needs to settle down. Now." There was a second's frozen silence as everyone stared at Jurt, holding the bloody finger, the spikard still encircling it. "Put it down," said Despil slowly. "Brother—you don't know what wild magic you hold." "You're right, I don't," Jurt said with a shrug, but he didn't release the ring. A flick of his blade sent the charred remains of Fiona's dainty hand back to the ground, near her. Fiona mad a forward drive and drew the remains back towards herself. [Jurt] "And perhaps someone should tell me before I do something rash, but that can wait." "Father, your son lives," he locked gazes with Lord Sawall. "Cease this fruitless attack and let me aid the Princess. No matter what you think, Ishtar is too powerful for us to slight like this." Lord Sawall's single eye locked with his. The whirling madness was gone—in its place was hard, implacable anger. "Do as you choose," he said. "I shall protect the son that is loyal to me." He lifted his unmutilated hand—for one moment, it looked as though he might direct some blast against Jurt. But then he reached beyond him ... and suddenly Despil vanished. Another blink, and Lord Sawal was gone too. "Apparently the loss of depth perception keeps you from seeing further than yourself, Father," Jurt spat into the emptied air. There remained Jurt and Fiona—and Fiona had the stillness of someone whose attention was elsewhere. And then light in the stone of the ring that Jurt still held began to fail. Jurt knelt at her side, removing the finger from the ring. "Princess?" he called. "Fiona," he commanded her attention. "Give me the hand." "She gave her hand to me a long time ago," said a new voice from behind Jurt, "along with the rest of her. "And I claim it again now." It was Lord Torren speaking, his voice icy with anger. Fiona smiled and closed her eyes, her body seeming to relax. "What have you done to her?" demanded Torren. "Saved her, mi'lord," Jurt answered. "It seems Lord Sawall took offense at her perceived attack against my brother." He seemed bored by all this fuss and sheathed his sword, the ring now closed in his left hand. Torren approached—and then stopped, his nostrils flaring as he scented the rich bloodsmell that hung heavy about Fiona. "What have you done?" he said—and he lifted his head to stare straight at Jurt. It was said that Lord Torren, like Mandor, had been one of Suhuy's favourite pupils. And his gaze was now like a wind from polar regions, bearing down heavily on Jurt...an icy blast of power and fury. "Me? I've offered to help heal her, Ishtar," Jurt replied with a touch of annoyance in his tone from having to repeat himself. "If you would ask her, while I'm sure the pain was, and still is, horrible, I'm sure she's the strength of will to have observed the entire proceedings." He knelt at the injured princess's side, not touching her. "I will not take such liberties without your approval, Fiona." She looked up at him—and her eyes were strangely black as though the pupil had expanded and covered the green iris. "Do...it," she gasped. Torren's breath was sibilant. Jurt slipped his hand into his pocket, ignoring the thought that she had drawn the spikard into herself, and deposited the ring that had once sparkled with the same spectacular blackness. He paid no heed to Torren and focused on nothing more than Fiona, knowing he was leaving himself open to misplaced retribution. He took the severed hand at the wrist and the oozing wrist with his other, fitting them together as a sculptor might join two pieces of clay. In fact it was still very much how he envisioned the process. Jurt extended his own sense of self and form, in truth Order, to the flesh beneath his palms. Sweat beaded on his brow, from exertion, or concern, or perhaps just the heat of this sweltering courtyard in Sawallways. He knit bone and tissue, fiber and sinew, flesh and then skin as if healing his own wounds. Care was given to function not form, not at least yet. If skin covered the newly rejoined wrist, it was still red and puckered, the remaining fingers still blackened. Once he could encircle the wrist with but one hand, he focused on reattaching the finger that he himself had broken from it. Much simpler than the wrist, it took perhaps a quarter of the time, skin flowing over new pink tissue as his long fingers massaged the area, concerned for her range of motion. It was harder...harder than he thought. There was a sense that he was pushing against...something. Something with tremendous force and power that was fighting against him, every nerve, every sinew. He remembered what he had heard of the Pattern—how the walker had to fight through every veil. This was like that—every time he took a step forward, he was thrust back...every gain her made seemed won only by an effort that cost him dearly. She was crawling forward to be faced by more and more veils, more and more blows...until he seemed able to move now more than his fingertips...an infinitesimal crawl through time and space and power... When he finally found himself again and released the tightly knit Order that was Fiona, she still bore thin pink lines where the sculptor had made his repairs. He sat back and looked again to her eyes, hoping to find the green that had shared such conversation just the night before with him. Her eyes were closed—she seemed deeply asleep. Torren, he realised, had seated himself on a nearby chair, watching without interfering. "She'll rest," Jurt assured him. "If she's half as tired as I am, for a good while," he adds. "I suppose it's on me to explain then." Jurt looked around for some place for him to sit himself. Once situated, he began in the bored tone again, "Fiona made some sort of assault when she was concerned for Helena's safety, that it seems Suhuy turned on Despil or something. She and I brought him here for healing and Lord Sawall took offense to her attack and bearing objects of Power in his presence. "I wasn't quick enough stop him from taking the first hand when she was distracted after healing Despil, but I drew on my father to keep her other hand intact." Torren didn't answer. Instead, he rose and moved to where Fiona lay, her injured hand trailing on the floor. The fingers, it seemed, were still blackened. "I trust you plan to return soon to Amber," he said, bending and lifting Fiona in his arms. "For you have made enemies here today...and not just enemies for you..." Torren looked at him across Fiona's unconscious body. "Say nothing of this to Helena—and get her to Amber quickly. I have no wish to see her blasted as collateral damage in the war that must follow." Jurt nodded understanding and opened the door to Torren's coach. He watched quietly as they took to the sky again, shielding his eyes against the brightness. He stood in the courtyard to Sawallways and he was still Jurt Sawall. He ordered a wyvern brought for his use and in three strong strides it lept into the air. DespilWays wasn't safe, so IshtarWays, and finding the ladies would have to make due. continued in Points of Contact - Helena |
